A slightly supernatural story about my husband

About 13 years ago I got a tattoo. It was a little heart on my right wrist. From that moment, I fell in love with tattoos. If you had asked me a couple years back, I’d say I hated tattoos and people who had them. Then I realized that little voice in my head was not mine… it was my mom’s.

A while later, I decided to get a tattoo on my leg. So, I started to draw it. I drew an angel… it was a male angel with big wings and really long, straight, dark hair. It was no one I knew. I was just an angel. I felt protected by that powerful image, for some reason. But I was afraid to actually get it done, since it was sort of a realistic drawing and  it was really easy to mess it up. I lived in a small town with no really decent tattoo artists… so, no. I didn’t do it.

But  I  did give it to my friend Ana, who also loved it and wanted to get it done on her leg. She never did it, for the same reasons… but she is my witness that this story is true.

I had actually forgotten about this and never really connected the facts… but a couple days ago, Alanis Morissette posted on her facebook page “Happy Anniversary, angel husband”. And so it hit me.

Our words have power… and it seems like our drawings do too.

I might have called him with my wishes, it may be a crazy coincidence, but the fact is we found each othe years later (since he was probably 7 years old when I drew it)!

As a native american descendant and in his teens, that long haired boy looked exactly like my angel. How weird is that? And how much does this post need images to be a little more clear?

I’ll work on that. Promise.

Wouldn’t it be nice is magic was real, though?

Take care,


ps: How do you like my new main page at www.badubop.net? I’m trying to put a portfolio together, so, I haven’t had much time to think or blog. Terribly sorry about that.

Do I still exist?

A couple months ago I met a woman who had just lost her daughter. She wanted me to design her new laundry room.

We’ve scheduled an appointment and went to her house to take measures. Money wasn’t an issue. Space wasn’t an issue. Her issues were deeper.

The house was quiet and clean. It had large windows that opened into a beautiful garden. It was a beautiful beach house that also felt welcoming on those cold winter days. I loved it, and I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

At one point, I said something about the dogs. A big rottweiller and a small Terrier. Her exact words to me were: “That dog is all I have left of my daughter”.

I wanted to cry. I wanted it to not be true. That beautiful house, that sweet lady… the emptiness and the silence in every room.

Oddly enough, one of the first things that crossed my mind, as I pretended not to fight against my tears and played with the dogs was “I’m so glad my parents wouldn’t suffer this much if I died… because they’d still have my children, and they are the best part of me.”

I know where that feeling came from. Ever since they were born, it’s like I’m a little less here. My instagram pictures are all about them. They are all I talk about. They are all I care about. For a year, I didn’t exist at all anymore. I didn’t care about me, the way I looked or had enough sleep time to care or understand what I was feeling or IF I was feeling anything at all.

I was gonna go through surgery in May and my mom asked me if I had completed the documents saying who would have custody of them if I died. I yelled at her and she said with no emotion “But this is important!”.

People take dieting and plastic surgery the wrong way. Sometimes, it’s not about finding a pattern. Sometimes, it’s about finding yourself when you’re lost deep down inside a body and your soul feels way away from the surface of that skin. You can’t understand the world around you when you’re floating somewhere in a road with no directions back home. You need to see yourself in the mirror and understand that this is reality ’cause you can see yourself standing there. Sometimes, there’s a stranger looking at you and you don’t know in which parallel universe the actual you are. I needed to find me. I miss me and I didn’t know where I was.

But I’m finding myself again. I’m sleeping again. And I have my husband… who is not a fan of this blogging thing and might never read this. But he’s the only person sometimes who still loves me and sees me inside this zumbi body I don’t recognize. He worries if I’m stressed, or quiet or have a different look in my face. To him, I still exist. The old me. With my own issues, which are not diapers what need changing or healthy dinners. Just plain old selfish me. And I love him for it.

And my best friend. My children’s Godmother and guardian angel, who’ll listen to me for hours and never lose track of the details on my stories.

Thank you, guys… for sticking with me.