Baby Love.

I'm sitting on the floor watching you play with, of all things, the cheap black plastic holster from my cell phone. You turn it over on your chubby little hands, oblivious to the piles of toys and books that lay scattered around you. Every now and then you glance at me, hold out the holster, and say emphatically, "Dat! Datdatdat!" You don't actually give me the thing. You just wanted to show me something about it that I, in my two years of owning it, have obviously missed.

"Check it out, guys! This asshat still has a Blackberry! Lolz!"

I still remember coming to see you when you were all of two weeks old, all wrinkles and skinny limbs, weighing barely more than a whisper. Babysitting was a breeze. You fit perfectly in the crook of anyone's arm, and after a bottle, some rocking and a story, you slipped into dreamland.

Then you got bigger.

Today, you weigh about as much as a Christmas ham, and your arms and legs closely resemble stuffed sausages. Any attempt to "rock" you to sleep results in flailing chorizo limbs and indignant shrieking.

Sometimes you yell, too.

Frankly, you have ruined me, kid. Ruined. Lucy was supposed to be the one all crazy about babies. I've always proclaimed that it would be irresponsible of me to reproduce. What if I leave the kid at the grocery store? What if my kid turns into a douchebag with an emo haircut? Or worse? A vegetarian?

On second thought, maybe I'll just have my tubes tied.

Yet, as uninterested in kids as I previously was, I find myself cooing like a twit at your pictures (many of which I took. I'll be the first to admit it. You're too effing cute.), applauding your simplest achievements (Hey! Look at you not chewing the drywall!), and jumping at every available opportunity to babysit, even if it means sitting through an hour and a half of traffic to get there. I will (and have) driven on the 57 at a 5 mph crawl just to play hide and seek and read The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Don't worry though. I'm not that far off the deep end. There are certain cues that let me know that my biological clock is not yet ticking relentlessly, signaling the rotting of my ovaries.

1. You flipped over and sorta landed on your face once and in response, I laughed a little. You didn't hurt yourself, but you did cry a little bit. I felt bad but hey, that's what you get for not crawling, buddy.
2. While changing your diaper once, I was hit with the sudden urge to pee so badly that I picked you up off your changing table and put you in your crib with your diaper half on while I ran to the bathroom. I felt like a jerk hearing your confused wails because I obviously forgot a few crucial steps in the diaper changing process.
3. Hearing you cry sucks. Not because it hurts me that you are somehow suffering (which, considering the many people around you at all times, chances are you're not.), but because it's annoying.

And yet. There's a few things you learn when one of the most important people in your life is an infant.

1. A child's giggle is the most awesome sound on the planet.
2. Once in a while, we should all stop and just gaze at the trees.
3. Naps are awesome.
4. So are swings.
5. Fruit is way better than candy (Especially when you stuff it in your mouth squirrel-style).
6. Just keep singing.
7. Datdatdatdat, and nananananananana (As soon as Sean tells me what these mean, I shall translate).

Happy birthday, little dude. I couldn't love you more than if you were my own flesh and blood.
Now gimme some of that pretzel.

"NO."

Fightstarter Karaoke

People ask me why I still seek a career in law enforcement, despite unceremoniously being tossed out on my ass two years ago.

I was faced with the same question when I was trying to get into law enforcement in the first place, when I was fluffy (FATTYCAKES!) and I struggled with something so simple as scaling a 6-foot solid wall. I distinctly remember being in an aunt's kitchen not too long after I graduated from college, covered in bruises from one of my many failed attempts at a physical agility test. Her son Sam, my cousin, graduated the same day as I, same school, same major.

(Sidenote: At graduation, they had us form two lines and come up on either side of the stage to receive out diplomas. We were to give our card to the announcer and then walk across the stage. We did not plan this - we didn't know where the other was sitting - my name was announced, I walked across the stage, and from the other side, I heard the other announced call Sam's name directly after mine. It was pretty cool.)

Sam was apparently going through the same struggles, but because of injury, not any type of shortcoming. As I sat with my aunt telling her my woeful tales of bruising and walls, she leaned across the table and asked me, why do I kept doing it? Maybe something so difficult is best left alone, if all I seemed to be getting out of it was an impressive set of bruises and scars. While I appreciated her sympathy, she was essentially telling me to quit.

Some people are satisfied with just...being. They don't aspire to be great, they are content with mediocrity. And that's totally fine. But I've never been one of those people. I'm not happy with the status quo.

During my brief stint in the business world, my old boss once told me I had no head for business. And at first, I was highly insulted. How dare he imply that I'm actually not good at something! I'm good at ALL THE THINGS!

(Except swimming, being quiet, sitting still, being politically correct, video games, shopping, typing, putting on makeup, painting my nails, plucking my eyebrows, rollerblading, skateboarding, drawing, math, science, anything technological, remembering things, driving, washing lettuce, staying awake past 11 p.m., paying attention, watching a tv show for more than 3 episodes, talking, most activities requiring coordination...

But I digress.)

Now however, I choose to take it as a compliment. In truth, I have no interest in seeking advancement in any type of corporate setting. I am driven by a desire to be an instrument in doing something for others. I keep trying, I deal with the scars and bruises because the only contribution I made to law enforcement is a few months as a drone.

That's not enough.

And yes, I know, you have to start at the bottom and work your way up to the top. I get it. But most people start from the bottom and have no idea how to work their way up. A lot of people (myself included) use the phrase, "get your foot in the door". Which is a good idea...short term. What happens after the foot (and hopefully, the rest of you) is in the door? Do you stare forlornly up at the top of the pyramid and wonder how the hell to get there? Do you putter around, hoping you'll get noticed and get ahead that way? Or, once inside, do you take out the tools you came in with, and get to work?

I refuse to allow a few fights and some reports to be my only legacy as a public servant. I have a hard time telling people, "I am a former sheriff's deputy" because I only did so much. Does a year and a half as a jail deputy really count, in the long run? What did I really accomplish? I want my name to be synonymous with...something. Something more than a misspelled name on a Starbucks cup.

So, going back to my aunt's question: why do something that is causing you so much pain, so much suffering? Wouldn't it be easier to just give up?

In the words of the Dropkick Murphys.

You make the most of the hand you're dealt because a quitter never wins.

Wind is Just the Universe Farting on You.

12:02 a.m.

The wind howls outside my window, even though I’m trying to drown it out with songs about a girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

I’ve never liked the wind; it is my most detested type of weather, followed by high heat. I especially hate it at night. As a child, I had this irrational fear that the strongest, most ferocious gusts had the power to push the house off its very foundations. Windy nights meant no sleep. I’d wander the halls throughout the night, frequently peeking out the window to ensure myself that all was well. By the time I was a teenager, personal CD players were all the rage and I would play every CD I had in an effort to drown out the noise.

I used to justify my fear of the night winds by saying that I was concerned the fences would be torn down, which was a legitimate fear. Without fail, the Santa Anas would knock our fences down as if they were matchsticks. I became quite proficient with a hammer and nails before I learned to put makeup on.

A few years ago, our fences were replaced by chain link, impervious to even the worst gusts. Even so, windy nights still find me up late, alternating between hiding under blankets or prowling the halls like some sort of shivering ghost in pink sweatpants and an old grey t-shirt (oddly enough, my t-shirt has the words ‘small but mighty’ printed on it. Which, given the current inane cause of my sleeplessness, I find hilariously ironic).

Even at my last two apartments, where there were no fences to cause concern, the winds caused a chill that went deep into my very bones, the kind of chill no sweater, blanket, or even a Snuggie can ward away.

(Sidenote. I totally wish I had a Snuggie. I’d wear it backwards and run up and down the halls saying I was a wizard. Did I just make that information public? Shit. That’s what sleep deprivation does to you.)

Aside from the noise, I hate what the wind ­does. The idea that a force outside your control just gets to show up and throw your life into a state of upheaval, and you have no choice but to wait it out so you can put everything right again.

Thanks to those wonderful inventions we know as the Ipod and noise-cancelling headphones however; I can disregard the inevitable disorder for now.

Instead, four Brits are calling me Little Darlin and saying it’s all right.

For here comes the sun.

You Fight Well, Young Grasshoppa.

In August, my sister and I spent a Sunday afternoon in West Hollywood for a friend's birthday. After hanging out for a few hours, in which we observed bad dancing and Lucy put money in a man's panties, we headed back to the OC.

I was behind the wheel, and as we made our way down Santa Monica boulevard, we talked of little else besides men's panties and possible dinner options once we got back. Right as I turned onto the 101 onramp, we took on a hitchhiker.

His thumbs were really hard to see.

This little guy jumped on the windshield of my car and immediately hunkered down for the ride. As we made it further and further out of LA, he made it clear that he had no intention of getting off until we had reached his destination. Impressed, we named him Duke.

We had a few close calls, at one point I even wondered if he had died. Every now and then one of his legs would come off the windshield and flail helplessly in the wind, then Duke would clamp back down again and hold on. He was kind of a badass.

"A car would have paid for itself by now."

Once I got to our freeway exit, Duke began moving as he sensed the car slow down. He crawled up to the top of my car, and promptly jumped off and went on his way. He didn't even offer me gas money.

Asshole.

Parsimoniousness aside, I was impressed by little Duke's determination. He held on for dear life on the windshield of a car going more than 70 mph for an hour. Unfazed by a sliding grip, he managed to make it the whole drive, knowing exactly where he wanted to go and how he was going to get there.

Just one of the many signs I have encountered on the journey.

Dropping Weights.

When I was younger, and things were much simpler, I just didn't give a shit about anything. I worried about me, and nobody else (besides my family). I didn't even start pulling decent grades until high school, and not because anyone told me I was headed down the shitty path (though plenty of people did). I simply started doing the work because I figured colleges cared about grades, even if I didn't.

I always wanted to just...be. Especially in the last two years....from mid-2009 to November 2010 I basically existed within the confines if a deep, dark depression. There were days that were so bad I didn't have the strength to get out of bed, let alone feed myself anything more than a bowl of rice. If I was lucky enough to get a Netflix that day, I'd lie on the couch and escape into a world that didn't exist for a while. Anything to get away from the despair I felt in my own life. I didn't sleep, I began to hate my own bedroom because all I did at night was stare at the ceiling and wish for the refuge of sleep that never came. Some nights I dragged my blankets out into the living room and just lay on the couch, channel surfing until I found something dull enough to put me to sleep. Not only did I give a shit, but I carried it all around with me, like some sort of ugly piece of heavy jewelry, that rattled with every step, reminding me of its presence.

I hated the fact that I felt anything, because all that I felt SUCKED. I had no job and kept failing at finding one. No boyfriend (which I don't mourn, but I did then). I had barely enough money to pay the rent, and some months I scraped by purely by the grace of God. And worst of all, Raul, a 19-year old boy with hopes and dreams and deeper faith than anyone I knew, was dead. Nothing made sense.

One early morning over a year ago, after another night of lying in bed and weeping, I got up and turned on the TV. There was nothing on (in English, anyway), but I clicked on, hoping to find something with at least some kind of storyline. I finally stopped on one of the many Jesus channels, on some sort of sketch act that actually seemed amusing. The two actors went through several scenarios depicting ways that people accumulate baggage during their lifetimes, and that in order to be productive and functional and happy, one needed to drop all the baggage (illustrated by actual heavy bags one of the actors carried around) and move on. Their main point was that one did this with the help of God. I wished to be someone who could simply drop it all.

Almost by instinct, I walked to my dresser, where in a top drawer, hidden by knick knacks, I had a small, hand-painted, heart-shaped box. Inside was a pair of earrings, in my birthstone. Anthony gave them to me for my birthday. As I stood there and gazed at the little box in my hand, I realized that I felt nothing for the box, nor the original gifter. I immediately felt that I needed to get rid of the box and its contents as soon as possible, but I didn't want to throw them away, nor did I want to be so heartless as to pawn them. On impulse, I grabbed my car keys and drove to the best place I could think of: Anthony's mom's house.

(I know what you're thinking. I'm kind of insane for driving to my ex boyfriend's mom's house at 5 o'clock in the morning. I probably was and I don't question my mindset at that time. I wasn't well and I don't pretend that I was. And that's that.)

When I got there, I ran up to the porch and dropped the box in the mailbox on the porch. No note, no explanation for how or why they got there. I wasn't looking for drama or fanfare...I simply didn't want them anymore. I quickly ran back to my car and drove home. As I got back on the freeway questioning my sanity, I was overcome with a feeling of...weightlessness. Like I had just shed a 50 pound weight in the span of less than an hour. I couldn't quite figure it out. Was it truly insanity? Joy? Or simply sleep deprivation? No idea.

I got home, went back to my spot on the couch and laid down again. On my phone were a couple of messages from two friends; one old, and a new one that would change my life in ways I couldn't ever imagine (though I didn't know it at the time). They could wait. As I finally, finally drifted off to sleep, I drowsily smiled to myself as I realized what that feeling was.

It was the first inklings of freedom.

Warning: This might get preachy.

Who am I?

Someone very recently posed this question to me. I found myself unable to answer.

I can easily fire off a few defining characteristics.

-Family-oriented.
-God-fearing.
-Feisty.
-Educated.
-Female.
-Kitchen/Baking junkie.
-A daughter.
-A sister.
-A friend.

But who am I? No freaking clue.

Back when I was working, I was introduced as "a cop". But is that really all I want to be known as? If that were the case, I would have just folded myself up in my locker at the end of the day until it was time to go 10-8 again. I had a life outside of my job, outside of my uniform. Or so I thought.

After I lost my job, I felt like I had no purpose. Like I was just...there. I convinced myself that my life was on hold and that it once I was rehired everything would simply start over. "Ok, life sucks right now, but I'm going to get a new job and then everything will be right again".

In some ways, that is true. I never understood until now how vitally important a job is to the mental and emotional well-being of the psyche. The idea of going to bed because you to have something to go do in the morning. Getting off of work and getting to grumble and grouse about work even though, secretly, you love it.

Every time I tried for a new PD and failed, I was crushed. I saw each job possibility as that chance to press the restart button and if I couldn't, it was devastating. It got to the point where I stopped telling people about my next test dates, my next interview with such-and-such PD, because then I'd have to subsequently inform them that I had yet again let it slip through my fingers. I felt like I was letting everyone down. It's quite narcissistic when I think about it. Like everyone is going to base their hopes and dreams on whether or not I get a new job. It has taken me a while to realize that it wasn't their disappointment in me that I was seeing, but disappointment for me.

The only voice I was hearing say, "you are a failure" was my own.

I've always walked with a very quick gait. I've never been an 'ambler'. Even people much taller than me sometimes complain that I walk too fast and need to slow down. Part of the reason for this is simply that I'm shorter than everyone else, so I need to walk twice as fast to keep up. But another reason for this is that I have a goal to get to...I'm in a hurry and please move aside because come hell or high water I'm going to get to where I'm going, dammit. These last few years I've felt like I've been forced to slow down and go at a much slower pace. I can't say I've done so willingly. More like an imaginary hand is pushing me back by the forehead, and I'm mulishly plowing forward against it, only looking forward, and not stopping to look at what's around me right at that very moment. Push push push.

Today, I found a new store at the mall that sells nothing but 50's style clothing. Somewhat rockabilly, but a bit more authentic. Less skulls and tattoos, more full skirts, crinolines, even snoods. They had this incredible black velvet, curve-hugging dress with capped sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. It was the last one in stock. What the hell, I thought. I'll try it on.

The sales associates handed me a pair of leopard-print pumps for the full effect, and even my dad (who usually doesn't have much to say on the topic of women's clothing) insisted that I buy the dress. Then I looked at the price tag. $129.00. How could I, someone on unemployment, justifiably make such an extravagant purchase? Unthinkable.

Push push push.

I cringe when I think of what I've missed by just pushing against that hand on my forehead, while neglecting everything else. The relationships I let fall by the wayside. How many other opportunities did I ignore? Why didn't I take this extra time to improve on the guitar? Go to Oregon? Read more books? Take a random road trip by myself? Always, always, the excuse was: I can't afford to do it right now. When I have a job. When I have the money. For some of those chances I didn't see or take, it may be too late.

Push push push.

The question I'm asking myself now is, why was I always seeing that hand as an obstacle? Why did I see it as the block to what I felt was my destiny?

Why didn't I realize sooner that it was actually the hand of God?

Believers have this idea that God has a hand in everything. That God is gently guiding us through life's journey. A very calming, comforting imagery, no? Not so much with me. Like any parent, He has had to take a bit of a firmer approach with one of His more...uh...obstinate kids. In my case, God has been trying to get me to stop and see what's around me right now, rather than allow me to just charge unabashedly through life without stopping to check a few things out. He practically had to hit me with a frying pan to get me to apply to grad school. All those times I tried and didn't get the job, I didn't fail.

He was simply telling me, "Not yet. I have some other things for you to see first".

The journey continues to answer the initial "who am I?" question.

Oh, and I bought the dress. And it looks damn good.

Git off mah lawn, you young rapscallions.

Occasionally, I feel like a cantankerous, ornery old man. Not because I'm evil (shut up) or a man. But because all old men have that old battle wound that acts up every now and then.

However, those old men with battle wounds are BAMFs who got those wounds committing various acts of derring-do. They have that bad knee that acts up when it rains. The itchy trigger finger when they think of all them Nazis (pronounced, "Nazzies") they did in. Faded tattoos that rest on now wrinkled skin.

I'm not comparing myself, by any means. I am not, nor shall I ever be, at the same level of those men. I have never committed any wanton acts of bravery. I don't even have any tattoos. All I have is one scar. Obtained through very modest means.

(Actually, being as graceful as an epileptic rhino, I have many scars, but we won't talk about those. At least not today.)

I have a scar on my lower back, a few inches to the right of where a tramp stamp would go. A scar that, ever now and then for some inexplicable reason, will itch like CRAZY, despite the fact that it has long since healed.

How did I get such a scar, you ask?

Watch. And cover your ears.

All those people watching are seasoned CHP officers. I can easily say it was one of the worst 5 seconds of my life. Not so much because it's painful (though it is), but because even though you are completely aware of everything going on around you, you can't do a damn thing about it. I remember screaming (inside my head), "Stop screaming. Shut UP, dammit. They are going to make so much fun of you when this is over. Wuss. You suck."

When it was over, what you can't hear is me laughing hysterically as soon as the ride ended. It was funny, yes, but I was so full of adrenaline I couldn't help but giggle like a moron.

The alligator clamps were attached to a belt loop on my jeans and the top of my right shoe. Both clamps left blisters. The ones on my foot disappeared, the ones on my hip did not. Every now and then, it will itch. Especially when there's a lot of static in the air...