It was only a matter of time😂
via @agents_of_arrowverse
Here’s a #fbf of @brandonjrouth and our friend @nathanfillion to offset the old-school photos of my grandma I’m about to drop. She would have loved @therookieabc btw❤️
happy 1yr birthday to this picture♥️
happy 1yr birthday to this picture♥️
“Blessed Rebel Queen Carrie Fisher” archival giclée art print 12″x16″ by @lindsayvanekart
I love her✨
2/2
In high school, I dated a boy who called his abuela “abuelita”, and I asked my grandmother why we didn’t call her abuela/abuelita as well. “Oh no”, she replied. “When I hear ‘abuelita’, I think of the little viejitas knitting in a rocking chair, with the chin hairs así como, pfft *gestures a measurement* No way!” Even when she was officially “old”, she never saw herself that way. She always had young friends who introduced her to new things. Learning anything new was her favorite thing. “Never stop learning, mijita”.
I can’t believe she’s gone. It just doesn’t make sense to my brain. She overcame a terrible health scare six years ago where we almost lost her, but she fought back from the brink. And then she beat Covid. It’s been 6 weeks of hell, but we thought she would beat the secondary infection too. We cheered her on. But another encore was not to be. She finally made her final bow.
Cedars has access to music therapists for comfort care patients. A friend of mine spoke kindly of a harpist that played for her husband. Last night, we were grateful to meet Danny and his guitar. He asked what kind of music Grama liked, and to our surprise, was able to play the old school postwar Zenda Ballroom Chicano music my grandparents listened to when they were young. It lifted everyone’s spirits, and my grandma seemed to smile. My mom played Échame A Mí La Culpa by Amalia Mendoza on her phone, and everyone told stories and said prayers. It was beautiful and awful. Lovely and heartbreaking. There is a peace, but still anger at how we came to this moment.
She was able to be with her daughters and son when she passed. The rest of us said our goodbyes virtually. Tiny squares with floating heads waving at her through an iPad, saying we loved her. She was in the room when most of us took our first breaths, so it felt right to be able to honor her and be present when she took her last.
I don’t know how to end this post. I love my grama. I’m angry. She should still be here. Wear a mask.
2/2
In high school, I dated a boy who called his abuela “abuelita”, and I asked my grandmother why we didn’t call her abuela/abuelita as well. “Oh no”, she replied. “When I hear ‘abuelita’, I think of the little viejitas knitting in a rocking chair, with the chin hairs así como, pfft *gestures a measurement* No way!” Even when she was officially “old”, she never saw herself that way. She always had young friends who introduced her to new things. Learning anything new was her favorite thing. “Never stop learning, mijita”.
I can’t believe she’s gone. It just doesn’t make sense to my brain. She overcame a terrible health scare six years ago where we almost lost her, but she fought back from the brink. And then she beat Covid. It’s been 6 weeks of hell, but we thought she would beat the secondary infection too. We cheered her on. But another encore was not to be. She finally made her final bow.
Cedars has access to music therapists for comfort care patients. A friend of mine spoke kindly of a harpist that played for her husband. Last night, we were grateful to meet Danny and his guitar. He asked what kind of music Grama liked, and to our surprise, was able to play the old school postwar Zenda Ballroom Chicano music my grandparents listened to when they were young. It lifted everyone’s spirits, and my grandma seemed to smile. My mom played Échame A Mí La Culpa by Amalia Mendoza on her phone, and everyone told stories and said prayers. It was beautiful and awful. Lovely and heartbreaking. There is a peace, but still anger at how we came to this moment.
She was able to be with her daughters and son when she passed. The rest of us said our goodbyes virtually. Tiny squares with floating heads waving at her through an iPad, saying we loved her. She was in the room when most of us took our first breaths, so it felt right to be able to honor her and be present when she took her last.
I don’t know how to end this post. I love my grama. I’m angry. She should still be here. Wear a mask.
2/2
In high school, I dated a boy who called his abuela “abuelita”, and I asked my grandmother why we didn’t call her abuela/abuelita as well. “Oh no”, she replied. “When I hear ‘abuelita’, I think of the little viejitas knitting in a rocking chair, with the chin hairs así como, pfft *gestures a measurement* No way!” Even when she was officially “old”, she never saw herself that way. She always had young friends who introduced her to new things. Learning anything new was her favorite thing. “Never stop learning, mijita”.
I can’t believe she’s gone. It just doesn’t make sense to my brain. She overcame a terrible health scare six years ago where we almost lost her, but she fought back from the brink. And then she beat Covid. It’s been 6 weeks of hell, but we thought she would beat the secondary infection too. We cheered her on. But another encore was not to be. She finally made her final bow.
Cedars has access to music therapists for comfort care patients. A friend of mine spoke kindly of a harpist that played for her husband. Last night, we were grateful to meet Danny and his guitar. He asked what kind of music Grama liked, and to our surprise, was able to play the old school postwar Zenda Ballroom Chicano music my grandparents listened to when they were young. It lifted everyone’s spirits, and my grandma seemed to smile. My mom played Échame A Mí La Culpa by Amalia Mendoza on her phone, and everyone told stories and said prayers. It was beautiful and awful. Lovely and heartbreaking. There is a peace, but still anger at how we came to this moment.
She was able to be with her daughters and son when she passed. The rest of us said our goodbyes virtually. Tiny squares with floating heads waving at her through an iPad, saying we loved her. She was in the room when most of us took our first breaths, so it felt right to be able to honor her and be present when she took her last.
I don’t know how to end this post. I love my grama. I’m angry. She should still be here. Wear a mask.
2/2
In high school, I dated a boy who called his abuela “abuelita”, and I asked my grandmother why we didn’t call her abuela/abuelita as well. “Oh no”, she replied. “When I hear ‘abuelita’, I think of the little viejitas knitting in a rocking chair, with the chin hairs así como, pfft *gestures a measurement* No way!” Even when she was officially “old”, she never saw herself that way. She always had young friends who introduced her to new things. Learning anything new was her favorite thing. “Never stop learning, mijita”.
I can’t believe she’s gone. It just doesn’t make sense to my brain. She overcame a terrible health scare six years ago where we almost lost her, but she fought back from the brink. And then she beat Covid. It’s been 6 weeks of hell, but we thought she would beat the secondary infection too. We cheered her on. But another encore was not to be. She finally made her final bow.
Cedars has access to music therapists for comfort care patients. A friend of mine spoke kindly of a harpist that played for her husband. Last night, we were grateful to meet Danny and his guitar. He asked what kind of music Grama liked, and to our surprise, was able to play the old school postwar Zenda Ballroom Chicano music my grandparents listened to when they were young. It lifted everyone’s spirits, and my grandma seemed to smile. My mom played Échame A Mí La Culpa by Amalia Mendoza on her phone, and everyone told stories and said prayers. It was beautiful and awful. Lovely and heartbreaking. There is a peace, but still anger at how we came to this moment.
She was able to be with her daughters and son when she passed. The rest of us said our goodbyes virtually. Tiny squares with floating heads waving at her through an iPad, saying we loved her. She was in the room when most of us took our first breaths, so it felt right to be able to honor her and be present when she took her last.
I don’t know how to end this post. I love my grama. I’m angry. She should still be here. Wear a mask.
Found this on my phone from S14💙
It doesn’t rain in heaven! #ThankYouSupernatural
#spnfamily
Frances Aragon
June 4, 1929 – February 10, 2021
My grandmother was a force of nature, and a woman ahead of her time. Born near Albuquerque, NM, she survived the chaotic turbulence of an alcoholic parent, and the terrors of a Catholic-run Native American boarding school, to eventually move to Los Angeles, where she kicked down every obstacle to make a beautiful life for herself and her family in El Sereno. She had a huge personality; outgoing, yet intensely private, though I don’t think she’d object to me letting you know a few things:
Fran Aragon rose through the ranks of Avon to become a district manager, covering Silver Lake, Highland Park, Echo Park, and Downtown LA. She consistently defied expectations by posting in the top 1% of sales, earning trips to London and Paris with her girls. Later, when a newly appointed superior tried to end her winning streak by cutting her district in half, she redoubled her efforts and STILL hit that top 1% sales mark. She was always impeccably dressed in brightly colored and tailored skirt or pantsuits, with hair and nails looking “sharp”. Her skin care regimen was strict, and I still follow her instructions: don’t smoke, drink water, gentle cleanser to wipe off the day, but don’t rub, apply moisturizer or oils in an upward motion, don’t forget the neck, and NEVER. EVER. GO TO BED WITH YOUR MAKEUP ON.
My grandma was an absolute spitfire. She had high expectations of herself, her children and grandchildren, and took exactly zero shit from anyone. Fran Aragon could curse a fool out so thoroughly in both english and spanish that a grown man would end up crying for his mama. You did not mess with her. You did not even think about messing with her, because she could hear your thoughts.
She was small, but to me, she always seemed 6 feet tall. Fiercely protective of her family, she would always pray and light a candle for us when we needed it, but if someone really did us dirty, she’d just wink and say, “don’t worry mijita, I cursed them”, and make the smack smack dusting-off gesture with both her hands. I don’t really believe in curses, but after observing her for a lifetime, I don’t *not* believe.
1/2
Frances Aragon
June 4, 1929 – February 10, 2021
My grandmother was a force of nature, and a woman ahead of her time. Born near Albuquerque, NM, she survived the chaotic turbulence of an alcoholic parent, and the terrors of a Catholic-run Native American boarding school, to eventually move to Los Angeles, where she kicked down every obstacle to make a beautiful life for herself and her family in El Sereno. She had a huge personality; outgoing, yet intensely private, though I don’t think she’d object to me letting you know a few things:
Fran Aragon rose through the ranks of Avon to become a district manager, covering Silver Lake, Highland Park, Echo Park, and Downtown LA. She consistently defied expectations by posting in the top 1% of sales, earning trips to London and Paris with her girls. Later, when a newly appointed superior tried to end her winning streak by cutting her district in half, she redoubled her efforts and STILL hit that top 1% sales mark. She was always impeccably dressed in brightly colored and tailored skirt or pantsuits, with hair and nails looking “sharp”. Her skin care regimen was strict, and I still follow her instructions: don’t smoke, drink water, gentle cleanser to wipe off the day, but don’t rub, apply moisturizer or oils in an upward motion, don’t forget the neck, and NEVER. EVER. GO TO BED WITH YOUR MAKEUP ON.
My grandma was an absolute spitfire. She had high expectations of herself, her children and grandchildren, and took exactly zero shit from anyone. Fran Aragon could curse a fool out so thoroughly in both english and spanish that a grown man would end up crying for his mama. You did not mess with her. You did not even think about messing with her, because she could hear your thoughts.
She was small, but to me, she always seemed 6 feet tall. Fiercely protective of her family, she would always pray and light a candle for us when we needed it, but if someone really did us dirty, she’d just wink and say, “don’t worry mijita, I cursed them”, and make the smack smack dusting-off gesture with both her hands. I don’t really believe in curses, but after observing her for a lifetime, I don’t *not* believe.
1/2
Frances Aragon
June 4, 1929 – February 10, 2021
My grandmother was a force of nature, and a woman ahead of her time. Born near Albuquerque, NM, she survived the chaotic turbulence of an alcoholic parent, and the terrors of a Catholic-run Native American boarding school, to eventually move to Los Angeles, where she kicked down every obstacle to make a beautiful life for herself and her family in El Sereno. She had a huge personality; outgoing, yet intensely private, though I don’t think she’d object to me letting you know a few things:
Fran Aragon rose through the ranks of Avon to become a district manager, covering Silver Lake, Highland Park, Echo Park, and Downtown LA. She consistently defied expectations by posting in the top 1% of sales, earning trips to London and Paris with her girls. Later, when a newly appointed superior tried to end her winning streak by cutting her district in half, she redoubled her efforts and STILL hit that top 1% sales mark. She was always impeccably dressed in brightly colored and tailored skirt or pantsuits, with hair and nails looking “sharp”. Her skin care regimen was strict, and I still follow her instructions: don’t smoke, drink water, gentle cleanser to wipe off the day, but don’t rub, apply moisturizer or oils in an upward motion, don’t forget the neck, and NEVER. EVER. GO TO BED WITH YOUR MAKEUP ON.
My grandma was an absolute spitfire. She had high expectations of herself, her children and grandchildren, and took exactly zero shit from anyone. Fran Aragon could curse a fool out so thoroughly in both english and spanish that a grown man would end up crying for his mama. You did not mess with her. You did not even think about messing with her, because she could hear your thoughts.
She was small, but to me, she always seemed 6 feet tall. Fiercely protective of her family, she would always pray and light a candle for us when we needed it, but if someone really did us dirty, she’d just wink and say, “don’t worry mijita, I cursed them”, and make the smack smack dusting-off gesture with both her hands. I don’t really believe in curses, but after observing her for a lifetime, I don’t *not* believe.
1/2
An icon🌟
An icon🌟
An icon🌟
An icon🌟
An icon🌟
An icon🌟
♥️
#repost @brenebrown
Thank you to my fantastically creative friend @bradysmithhere for gifting Leo with an advanced copy of Random Acts of Drawness! The Super-Awesome Activity Sketchbook ✏️ 🎨 It’s perfect and weird and he absolutely loves it 🙂
(the prompt on pg. 17 was: draw an octopus having tea with the Queen😂 👑 ☕️ 🐙 )
Thank you to my fantastically creative friend @bradysmithhere for gifting Leo with an advanced copy of Random Acts of Drawness! The Super-Awesome Activity Sketchbook ✏️ 🎨 It’s perfect and weird and he absolutely loves it 🙂
(the prompt on pg. 17 was: draw an octopus having tea with the Queen😂 👑 ☕️ 🐙 )
Thank you to my fantastically creative friend @bradysmithhere for gifting Leo with an advanced copy of Random Acts of Drawness! The Super-Awesome Activity Sketchbook ✏️ 🎨 It’s perfect and weird and he absolutely loves it 🙂
(the prompt on pg. 17 was: draw an octopus having tea with the Queen😂 👑 ☕️ 🐙 )
Thank you to my fantastically creative friend @bradysmithhere for gifting Leo with an advanced copy of Random Acts of Drawness! The Super-Awesome Activity Sketchbook ✏️ 🎨 It’s perfect and weird and he absolutely loves it 🙂
(the prompt on pg. 17 was: draw an octopus having tea with the Queen😂 👑 ☕️ 🐙 )
