I am convinced that there must be something genetically wrong with me. One would think that considering that I hate the cold and that I am in fact a Dominican, that I would handle the heat better than I do. But no! I am pretty sure that if I don’t die of a heat stroke one of these days, I’ll get that thing that you get when you drink too much water that also kills you. Ugh!
But I’ll manage somehow. I will survive!
So I was reading Heidi’s blog just now, and her latest post seemed to fitting to what I was going to write about that I would like you to go check it out (assuming of course that you can read Spanish). It is about emotional intelligence.
According to Wikipedia, the expression emotional intelligence or EI indicates a kind of intelligence or skill that involves the ability to perceive, assess and positively influence one's own and other people's emotions.
Notice how you emotional intelligence has nothing to do with intelligence as we know it.
There are a lot of people in my life who if they were blessed with the gift of a high IQ, or above average book smarts, they have the EI of tomato sauce and that’s saying A LOT. If I had a quarter for every time that any of these people inadvertently hurt someone due to their emotional retardedness, let’s just say that right now I’d probably be blogging from a yacht in the Mediterranean!
Look at my biological father for example.
I don’t like to write about him, or even think about him for that matter. I don't even have a picture of him anywhere because I truly hope that if I don’t think about him I can erase his existance from my being. Somewhat stupid line of reasoning, I know, but it helps me get through life unscathed.
The last time I saw my father was back in September- the day after my birthday. Because I was in town, as per my 13 year old half-sister's request, I showed up at their doorstep for the sole purpose of giving HER a hug. He, of course, thought this visit was about him. It’s always about him.
I made up an excuse to leave. Like I’ve said before, I have no patience for bullshit.
Since then, I haven’t received an email from him, let alone a phone call. That never worried me though because you can’t miss what you’ve never had. I figured that the way our relationship worked (which was always basically US going to see HIM, always at his house, never in a public place) was okay. Enough to give anyone an "other woman complex".
That was until he entered my turf.
Daddy dearest has been in New York for two weeks now. I haven’t even received a phone call (not that he's ever called), let alone a visit (apt. #5/ 0 visits). For all he knows I live in a cardboard box on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral but I can imagine how during his Holiday he can’t be bothered with such trivial things.
Oh yeah! This coming from the man who just in May thought that taking a trip to London to see his son graduate college would be too costly. Call me crazy but 4 days in London and 2 weeks in New York cost about the same…
My father is an intellectual genious with the sensitivity of a soccer ball.
In some level I was always hopeful that things would change. I thought that he could try to be the father other men were to us, even if to lighten the load on his conscience. Better late than never, right? But I was wrong. Oh so wrong!
I think it’s time to pretend he doesn’t exist so that this stuff will stop affecting me. At the end of the day, we are better off than he is: Ivan, Gus and I have each other and an alternative family people would kill for, yet all he has is a family he got stuck with and one out of 4.