Apple Pies and the Marketing Guru

     There's this homeless man that hangs out at the end of a McDonald's drive-thru that I frequent. Lucky for him management has no idea he's camped out in this handout hotspot because let me tell you he makes a killing. Just today, from the 3 cars before me, I saw him receive a hamburger and fries, a soft drink and some cash. When it was my turn to pick up my food, I added a couple of apple pies to my order and handed the homeless dude his dessert. Just like that, he had a full meal - not necessarily a healthy one, but a meal nonetheless. It was definitely a nice gesture on all our parts, and I'm sure the donations didn't end with me.
     Initially, I wasn't going to write about it. As I drove away, I thought about posting the charitable charade on Facebook, letting my friends and family in on my good deed and at the very least entertaining the public with the irony of a marketing guru garbed in, well...garbage. I was going to, but, out of embarrassment, I refrained.
     I refrained because I remembered reading a post on my Facebook feed a couple of weeks ago by a guy I've never met. Apparently this guy's Facebook feed was so heavily congested with charitable acts that he had had enough with posts about good deeds. He didn't come out and explicitly say this, but it's the only situation I see compelling him to talk so disparagingly of how THIS person gave a homeless guy some money, or how THAT person did something nice for another.
     Had he presented his case more rationally and with less f-bombs, I'm guessing the moral to his post would have been that if you do something out of the goodness of your heart then you shouldn't broadcast it to the world and look to social media for affirmation. It makes sense, I mean, does a good deed really count as a good deed if you only do it for the recognition?
     A few hours later, sitting in class, I was about 15 minutes into a thumb-numbing, scrolling session on Facebook when I realized I had just casually skimmed past a video of a girl sexily strolling through Central Park clad only in body paint, an ISIS beheading, about half a dozen memes ridiculing Donald Trump (and pretty much every other presidential candidate), and a couple of videos showing police brutality and racism in America. All this and I didn't bat an eye. I just mentally consumed it along with the ubiquitous video recipes and outrageous pranks. I, like my thumb, had grown numb to the negativity.
     Don't get me wrong, I think any functioning member of society can see this for what it is and just go on with their lives. It's not as if we become so desensitized that our personal relationships and well-being begin to suffer (or maybe they do, but we'll leave that for another post).
     On a grander scale, social media is so much more than the people and their posts. It's an escape from everyday life. It's the humor that medicates the monotony of our jobs, or the heartfelt story that incites human emotion. Sometimes its a clothesline upon which we air out our dirty laundry in attempts at keeping society honest. Other times its the spotlight we share for accomplishments that unite us as a country. It's a contagion of every trend imaginable and an intimate look at the social genome of a population. It's more than just bad and its more than just good. Its us.
     So naturally, I revisited the apple pies I gave the homeless man and I decided to share my random act of kindness, because maybe it will inspire you to do something kind. And if you don't like it, then don't "like" it. But if you do, then pass on the kindness. Or don't. Do whatever you want. Just don't be afraid to talk about it. Because, I can tell you with confidence, nobody is afraid to talk about anything these days.

Darcy, party of 34

I'm not sure if it's the Hispanic predisposition to celebrate even the most unlikely of events, or just his way of letting us know that we're not as good company as we once were, but recently my son opened our dinners up to around 30 or so of his closest friends: a group of toys he simply calls "a party." It's made eating out something of a spectacle.

On the plus side, the servers find the figurine-filled fiesta entertaining, and the ensuing icebreakers usually land us extra good service or a free dessert. And for my ravenous rascals, free food is always welcomed. 

They take after their mother.

To be fair, I'm no different. I was just the one with the charged phone. 

Oddly enough, these parties aren't only reserved for the dinner table; they're all over the place and thrown with no specific purpose. Yes, most of them are hosted in honor of Cristina getting home from work - which, depending on the amount of chaos created under dad's rule, can't be celebrated enough - but I've seen him gather the troops together for no good reason at all. 

I guess, that's where I'm mistaken, though. Maybe that's where I lack imagination. What I see motionless and taking up space, he imagines as full of life and purpose. I simply see "a party" and he sees a warm welcome to a special someone that deserves more than just a hug and kiss; or an audience large enough to witness all the fun we have during dinnertime; or a collection of memories of all the times mom and dad rewarded him with an addition to the party. 

I think my favorite parties are the ones he puts together just before bedtime. They're the ones he works hardest on, pleading with me every five minutes for another five minutes to add the finishing touches. I eventually draw the line and then he's off to bed. That's when I stay behind to admire his masterpiece. 

These are my favorite parties - the ones where everyone else is asleep. These are the parties that are just for me. 

Lazy Sundays

On any given weekend, you'll find either Cristina or I working, or our entire little family spending the day out and about with our parents. Today, however, we did absolutely nothing and I was reminded of just how rehabilitative a lazy Sunday can be.

We're not quite sure if it was sickness induced laziness, or another disorder that presents with bouts of napping, pantry raiding and Netflix binge watching, but treating the first day of Spring as if it were a city-wide snow day might not be a bad family tradition to start.

I can't say everyone in the apartment was as unproductive as Cristina and I, though. Darc decided to help Millie overcome her fear of using her own two feet and from the looks of it, my role as giant robot controlled by the flick of grimy, chocolate covered fingers might be coming to an end.

Growing up, I remember Sundays being reserved for laundry, the occasional trip to the grocery store and pretty much anything else my stay-at-home mom needed done to get 3 brats and my dad through the week stress-free. Even now, I don't recall wearing a wrinkled pair of jeans (I was the dork with the crease down the front of the pants) or not having either a nutritiously packed lunch, or money to buy the exact opposite - at the time, I was convinced cheese fries and pizza was a food group. 

After seeing how cathartic doing nothing can be, we'll definitely be doing this more often. And just so my kids don't grow up oblivious to the importance of good hygiene and preparation, we might do a load of laundry or bake some cookies and call it "meal prep."

The Tightrope Walker

In the Circus of Adulthood, it's the first act and I'm a tight rope walker overlooking a net-less fall, equipped only with a balancing rod that's tempered with selfishness and selflessness. This is what being a husband, a dad and an individual is to me.

It's what turns finding an ideal career into a never ending game of Yahtzee where I'm rolling for the perfect combination of security, monetary compensation and creative freedom. I'm probably looking at it all wrong, though. 

Maybe there's more to "Doing what you love and letting the rest follow" than its flashy font on memes all over Instagram would suggest.

Maybe passion should be my driving for force in the search for the right job.

Afterall, nobody promises Andy Truett a certain number of closed homes in a month, or Pablo Magdaleno a fixed number of brokered insurance policies, yet these two are extremely successful individuals that are lauded for their passion in the workplace - Andy, the past two years with Best Realtor in El Paso, and Pablo with several New York Life accolades. Another thing they both have in common: exceptionally sized salaries.  

Really, it's the perfect litmus test for job satisfaction. Without passion, there's no way to maintain an exemplary level of performance that promotes both fiscal and personal growth, and who isn't satisfied when both you and your wallet are growing.

I'm near the end of the line on this act and it's not as bad as I thought it was going to be. Graduation is right around the corner, I have my Realtor's license, and this blog has opened my mind up to the possibility of writing for a living.

Whatever my family and I decide on, it will be in favor of passion.

Ghosts and Things

     You know that fly that knows exactly how to get under your skin? I'm talking about the one that, despite it being the size of a pea and mostly irrelevant in life, manages to amplify the sound of the beating of its wings by 10,000% by perfectly positioning itself against a single venetian blind - whose acoustical inclination is to echo directly into your ear canal - because, well, he thought you could use the second alarm. That fly, he wasn't here today, but cookie monster was...at the bottom of a giant toy chest pressed up against one of Emilia's light-up toys, which, in all fairness, was putting on a seizure-inducing laser light show equally as jarring visually to my groggy eyes as hearing Darc's cookie monster whimper his final words, " Meee loooove coooookiees" was to my ears. Apparently nobody warned him of Diabetes. 
     Lately, disturbing stuff like this has been happening more frequently at our apartment - a hotwheel, strategically placed bedside awaiting the vulnerability of my fragile feet; an incoherent, possibly satanic, hieroglyphic scribbled violently in orange crayon not more than 2 feet high on the bathroom wall; piles of crumbs - ones that rival those made by Chris Christie when eating, well, pretty much anything - that create Saharan sand dunes of our quaint, recently cleaned couches. 
     Normally, I'd chalk it up to having kids, I mean, who wouldn't, but my mom assured me that my kids can do no wrong. So that leaves only one other explanation: a Poltergeist. 
     I'll be honest with you, though, I'm not as freaked out about it as I thought I would be. I mean, if grimy little hand prints on the TV and half-finished water bottles are the best thing this ghost has got, then bring it on. In fact, I hope it never leaves or gets older and changes its habits. I hope it stays this way forever. 

Treehouses

     I’m not much of a daredevil when it comes to making big decisions; in fact, in the biopic of my life, I’m probably played by Ben Stiller’s character in Along Came Polly – I’m just not a big risk taker. It wasn’t always that way, though. When I was 18, I left home for college and spent four years in a little, big city with quick access to bigger, livelier cities like Austin and Dallas. It was a risky move for a sheltered, Hispanic kid, but it was fun, and despite the adversity that any Hispanic person faces when diving head first into places that aren’t as racially welcoming as El Paso, I still saw myself living anywhere but El Paso. Moving just wasn’t a big deal.

     Now at 29 and back in my hometown, however, I don’t think I would ever make the same kind of move. Sure, I have a family now and relocating them to a different city would be equally daunting and uneasy for all of us, but it’s not fear and inconvenience that keeps us from leaving El Paso. I believe, as I’m sure most of you do, that Home is where the Heart is, and so moving my little family, along with all the love in our Hearts we have for each other, would bring meaning to our new abode…our new Home. But what that beautiful old adage fails to mention is how many Hearts are really involved in the making of a Home.

    

     When I left for Waco, at the age of 18, I didn’t realize just how many people were affected by me leaving. But now, approaching thirty, my idea of Home is alot different. My Home is more like a treehouse, with roots digging deep into the cultural soil of El Paso and intertwining with the roots of other families’ treehouses – my parents’, Cristina’s parents’, our siblings’, our friends’, the list goes on. Moving then becomes something more than just relocating, it’s unearthing those roots, exposing those delicate relationships and stressing them, sometimes to the brink of extinction. We move and the strong roots – the real strong ties (moms, dads, brothers, sisters) – resist the stress, but the weaker ones – the more superficial ties (some friendships, acquaintances) – snap. The strong ones grow again and the weak ones die out, but every relationship feels the heartache.

     

     We decided to stay here not because of fear of the unknown, or because it’s convenient to call on family members to babysit, but because the look on our kids’ faces when my mom stops by for a random Krispy Kreme visit, or when Cristina’s mom pops in with a pot of albondigas, is priceless. Because life is short and our time is precious, and most of our time has been spent building these relationships, and growing these roots, and waiting to enjoy the fruits of that work. Because nobody is here forever and we hate regrets.

     

     This is why we chose El Paso. Everyone has their own idea of what Home is, but wherever you end up, make sure you remind your loved ones just how loved they really are. 

Dos Gordos

Round II

Apparently our immune systems were no match for two toddlers with runny noses. As we sit here in the waiting area, we can't help but be thankful for our support system back home making sure our babies are safe and sound while Mom and Dad plead with the doctor to drug us back to life. As a nurse, I know I'll probably just leave here with a prescription for Tylenol, but as a sick mom, I'm hopeful, that by some miraculous act, blood-letting is now a safe practice because my head is about to explode! Okay, enough for now, I'm starting to sound delusional. 

Oreos and Cable TV

     This past weekend was eventful for more than just Cristina and I, and despite us successfully nursing our children back to health, I’m pleased to say that’s not the most exciting thing I have to tell you.

I’m going to be my brother’s Best Man!

Congratulations, Sly and Monica!

     That’s my little brother, Sly. Watching them grow together these past few months, I’m reminded of how quickly love escalates things. It was not even 7 years ago that Cristina and I started dating and a year after that making room for a family. Now, we’re four strong with one more on the way. Love has a funny way of getting what it wants (that or we should really think about getting cable).

     In retrospect, I think I first noticed that my brother was head over heels for Monica when he gave up chewing tobacco. For six years, he dipped tobacco like it was an Oreo and he was a chubby little boy with a sweet tooth. I apologize for forever ruining Oreos for you, but I want you to know just how hard it was for us to get him to stop. Then Monica came along and poof, no more tobacco. She claims to have nothing to do with it, but I know she did. I know the true power of the…love.

     Although I would have enjoyed for my brother to extend his Best Man invitation to me in some sort of elaborate unveiling party involving a Man Box filled with manly things, I’m proud that he saved all the pomp for his fiancé in asking for her hand in marriage. Rumor has him humbly kneeling before her, affront her entire family in a dramatically staged, impromptu mass where choir bells chimed to the tempo of her gentle tears pattering against the marble as she managed a faint “yes”. Or maybe it was just him kneeling before her and her son asking them to be a part of his life forever. Either way, I’m happy for them. They make a great family, and if you ask me, it’s about time Cristina and I threw in the towel and handed the reins of growing the family tree over to someone else.

Late night Taco Run

  

     It’s funny how of all the little things that remind me I’m a dad – a smelly diaper, a dirty, little finger meddling in my ketchup, a voice from across the apartment yelling, “Dad, come wipe me, I’m done pooping” – nothing makes me feel more like a parent than when my kids are sick. It’s like these tiny little wrecking ball, energizer bunny babies that are normally brimming with curiosity are all of a sudden reduced to helpless little blobs of glum and droopy eyes, and you’re the only one they trust enough to nurse them back to heathenry…I mean health.

     Our little sullen savages landed us a trip to the urgent care center last night, and with Cristina sporting a 27 week baby bump, it was Dad-Bod to the rescue, nestling Millie before the barrage of X-rays and breathing treatments, and holding Darc after his tablet died and the boredom, compounded by his chest congestion and throat pain, drove him to body aches and a theatrical performance I’d say could rival that of Daniel Day-Lewis (he gets that from my side of the family). At the end of it all, we got what we went for: peace of mind and a pair of antibiotics that kept both Gramma, MDs out of our hair (thanks for all that you do grammas!).

     The trip home after a hospital visit is always the part I look forward to, not that there have been many, fortunately. But, usually by this time the kids are medicated and fast asleep on the road to recovery, and Cristina and I are a little less stressed. Not so completely destressed to avoid the drive-thru at Taco Cabana, of course. It was late but we figured it was just what the doctor ordered. RX: 2 Egg and bean breakfast tacos to go.

Slower is Better

     My fondest memories of being a kid are 90s themed and devoid of all responsibility, set to a time when Blockbuster and board games were laying the groundwork for anything but “Netflix and chill”, and a boloney sandwich and Caprisun didn’t come with a disclaimer from the surgeon general. Figuratively, a time winding down at a fraction of the speed it is now; and literally, a time when I didn’t have to specify whether I meant things literally or figuratively. Sure, time is relative and things never seem as languid as when seen through the eyes of an impatient adolescent, but even Einstein couldn’t have predicted the pace that our technology driven era would propel us to. Time is just flying by so damn fast and I hate that I can’t stop it. It’s foolish, I know, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t try to challenge the inevitable, just ask my wife. So, in efforts to slow down time, I’m starting this blog. For me at least, the more significant I make something, the longer it lasts, so what better way to draw out time than to archive my life and display it for the whole world to see.

     And before you start to wonder why anyone would dare to entertain the delusion of distorting time, other than the obvious nefarious reasons of course, just take a look at this family picture of mine and admire my four beautiful reasons. And despite my dashing good looks, I'm not inluding myself as one of the four...we're expecting baby Dex in May. I hope you stick around for more!

FYI: The pic was taken earlier this year on my 29th birthday and since then the beard has grown burlier, Cristina's baby bump more pronounced, and the kids more adorable. I'm really bad about taking pictures so I've recruited the help of my wife, so lookout for posts and pics from her as well.