tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59371226224895098412024-03-13T09:35:55.166-07:00Amy (Un)CensoredWarning: May contain adult language, violence and nudity. No...forget nudity. I need to lose 20 pounds first.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.comBlogger128125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-9254467397313168232021-09-07T16:43:00.013-07:002021-09-08T18:32:23.286-07:00PreservedMason jars saved my life today. The thought of my children being tortured with
the question of why I offed myself after buying two cases of Mason jars with the
obvious plan of preserving some vegetable or another, gave me pause. So, with
twenty-four empty glass jars rattling around in the back of my Mini Cooper, I
drove back to work with a knot in my stomach and the urge to pull over and cry
the tears that sat in my eyes, stubbornly refusing to give me the
satisfaction of having visible proof of my emotional pain. <div><br /></div><div>Fifty three years of life on this planet have culminated in this moment of not quite what I’d call, “despair,”
but, rather a substantial dislike of being alive. Systems are breaking down,
weight is going up, Fatigue is a constant companion, and Joy has flipped me the
bird and taken off for sunnier pastures. Infidelity visited a few years ago, and
wrecked everything in sight, leaving Confidence and Trust broken and whimpering
amidst the ruins of Love. For five years, I’ve wandered around the remains
picking up pieces only to toss them aside again, no longer knowing how they fit
together. The ghosts of the past whisper with increasing persistence “<i>you promised
yourself you’d never let anyone do this to you again, and yet here you are, you
old, broken, fool.” </i></div><div><br /></div><div>Each passing day the frustration, the irritation, and the
aggravation with Life grows. How can I be 53 years old and not know who I am or
where I’m going? How did my belly turn into an oddly stretched out, pinkish bowl
of pudding that has to be folded in to the waistband of my irritating,
Incredible Shrinking Pants? How did I end up in yet another relationship that
has left me hating the woman in the mirror because she bears an uncanny resemblance
to the girl whose father convinced her she was worthless and unlovable? After all
this time…how in the HELL have I not learned that love songs were never about
<i>me?! </i></div><div><br /></div><div>The morbid yet somewhat humorous thought occurs to me that most people
would be rather shocked at me being taken out by Me. “She was always laughing!”
“She was so outgoing and funny!” Maybe I’d also become “loved by everyone,” “so
incredibly talented,” and, “the rock of her family.” Doubtful. But, maybe. Death
makes dull people suddenly quite interesting and amazing. “Wickedly, witty she
was, that Amy!” </div><div><br /></div><div>Inappropriate thoughts aside, the questions surrounding the
darkness in me remain. WHY am I so unhappy, and WHAT exactly do I do to “fix”
it? Is it the circumstances of my life that I find depressing, and what part
have I played in creating those circumstances? Will flipping the table over,
kicking the door shut behind me, and calling it quits fix anything, or just
create more misery? Do I have the strength and the willpower to make necessary
changes if I conclude that changes are indeed necessary? Am I okay enough with
Me to start over, or have I spent too much of my
life loathing myself instead of loving myself to ever be at peace? Can what’s broken in
my house be repaired? Do I want it to be, or am I just picking
through the debris to find the keepsakes before packing up and seeking shelter
elsewhere? What if all houses can be broken? What if what I build again with
painstaking care to make it impenetrable, sturdy, and strong, turns out to be
just another shack made of straw? What if? What if…</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>“Here lies Amy. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Wickedly funny, and the greatest juggler to ever live. </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Beloved by name, but felt loved by none.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>She wished to live in a fortress, but in the end, only had enough bricks to surround her heart.”</i></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOv3jVwTETJl87SOgwvpE7xyX4qHUQl1Ds0HjDTtiSV2BHyYNaOx1ysQrugEmtDs5yyUhwxgL1XiLCDoYBQsEV7UErj9clkNdCcgvIMuCIxaLyLpwNnLEhvZTxpCxKXqDG6oQ3i95J4l0/s720/jars.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOv3jVwTETJl87SOgwvpE7xyX4qHUQl1Ds0HjDTtiSV2BHyYNaOx1ysQrugEmtDs5yyUhwxgL1XiLCDoYBQsEV7UErj9clkNdCcgvIMuCIxaLyLpwNnLEhvZTxpCxKXqDG6oQ3i95J4l0/s320/jars.jpeg" width="320" /></a>
</div>
</div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-63684193725731299652018-05-09T12:29:00.000-07:002018-05-09T12:29:34.657-07:00For What It's Worth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqEVZ4ohmJByCTyfq9Tcm1B6NEm1Txn1poASM9vcBjto5LUCztjecO6-R-P7yTRwGwx-G5ftvCxp4jdZ_7cc4VvFYE6K-XynBkpcXl9-vZ63LGy_ZPDAe8h-tYU0NmpQuWaDK2hX-WnMI/s1600/Peace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYqEVZ4ohmJByCTyfq9Tcm1B6NEm1Txn1poASM9vcBjto5LUCztjecO6-R-P7yTRwGwx-G5ftvCxp4jdZ_7cc4VvFYE6K-XynBkpcXl9-vZ63LGy_ZPDAe8h-tYU0NmpQuWaDK2hX-WnMI/s320/Peace.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I was born into chaos. Try as I might to rid myself of the
ever present restlessness that is the result of being birthed into a world of
protesting, violence, unrest, war, and resistance, it simmers…and occasionally
boils, within me. It’s very possible that I arrived on this planet with my fist
in the air, wailing and protesting from my very first moments. The status quo
has never been acceptable or comfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When things become too safe, too solid, too seemingly settled, I become
uneasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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1968 was not only the year I was born, it was a pivotal time
in American history. Women’s rights, civil rights, Vietnam, the race to the
Moon…the world was spinning fast, and everyone was trying to hang on. The
images from that time helped form me. I remember clearly my mother and
grandmother talking on the telephone about Nixon and Watergate. The news
contained images of protests, of rocket ships, and of war. It was both
terrifying and exciting. I had no real understanding of what was going on, or
the impact such things would have upon my future, but I was moved by what I saw
and heard, and I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">felt </i>what was
happening. I grew up wanting to change the world, wanting to advocate for the
underdog, and willing to challenge authority.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Almost fifty years after that first, infantile,
screaming, protest against being unceremoniously delivered into the hands of
the crazy people I would soon call, “mom and dad”, the world seems no less
chaotic. In fact, there are days I feel as if I’m holding my breath waiting
for…something. Some undefined, unnamed, terrible and final something. Choosing
what to protest is a daunting task. Women’s reproductive rights remain under
attack, while those same women go to work every day and earn less than their
male counterparts. Civil rights are still being debated while young black men
die in the streets at the hands of those who are tasked with protecting them. Heterosexuals
marry and divorce, while homosexuals are denied the rights to do the same. The
War That Never Should Have Been rages on in the Middle East, while fatigued
soldiers come home to America…land of the free, and home of the brave, only to
find they cannot get proper medical care, support their families, or find a way
to move past the horrors of war. Young people who have only known America as
their home, and who go to school, go to work, pay taxes and contribute to the
country they love, live gripped in fear that they may have to leave their homes
and be separated from their families. Muslims walk in their communities only to
hear ethnic slurs and live with the words “Muslim ban” ringing in their ears
because the president of the United States has determined they and their
families are dangerous, and thus unwelcome. Jewish cemeteries have been
vandalized, adding insult to such deep, horrific, inhumane, injury. And, the
ragged beat goes on, and on, and on. <br />
<br />
Our politicians bow to the Almighty Dollar, and not to those they were elected
to represent. Our Constitution takes a daily beating and seems to be weakening
under the constant attacks. The Electoral College that was meant to prevent the
election of a populist candidate, an unqualified candidate, or a tyrant, failed
the nation and we have all three rolled into one bloated, orange, uninformed,
lying, man-child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our government will not
save us. We’ve neglected it for too long. Ignorantly, we have assumed it would
work the way it’s supposed to work, and we’ve sat back and let it become
dysfunctional, unchecked, and unaccountable. Chaos. I was born into it and it
resonates deep within me. It moves me to say something, and to do something.
Right now, it feels like I’m screaming into the wind, but nonetheless, I will
scream until I’m hoarse. The peace signs that dangle from the rear view mirror
of my hybrid hippie car will continue to jingle as I drive, and the silver
peace sign on my bumper will shine when the sun hits it, and cause a few people
who get hit by the glare to mumble, “damn hippie,” under their breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Human Rights Campaign sticker next to the
peace sign will piss a few people off, but it also makes a few people shoot me
a peace sign while driving next to me. And, the Wonder Woman sticker is merely
a reminder that femininity doesn’t mean weakness, it exemplifies strength, and
that I am capable of not only living through chaos, but of thriving in spite of
it. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<!--[endif]--></span><!--EndFragment--><br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-51349098466892546262015-11-30T22:33:00.000-08:002016-11-01T13:25:20.504-07:00Lunacy<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr8JGEIYMn9Le8C66rr1rS2jCYva_4idYZ-9SQPO7lLqrDPFvyu-Hv013cgAmR4XrxrJWA3oidbZllSpu5ZfmtT56Q78b0x4XedvzRGINAf9cdBw94CevXYmF4e5wQkg1d9LP7Mq0idK7Y/s1600/Moonlight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr8JGEIYMn9Le8C66rr1rS2jCYva_4idYZ-9SQPO7lLqrDPFvyu-Hv013cgAmR4XrxrJWA3oidbZllSpu5ZfmtT56Q78b0x4XedvzRGINAf9cdBw94CevXYmF4e5wQkg1d9LP7Mq0idK7Y/s200/Moonlight.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
I used to dance with the moon. The brilliant, glittering darkness was my gown, and I wore slippers of perpetual vibrance and youth, (or so I was convinced.) When sleep arrived, it was the heavy slumber of exhaustion, and I delighted in it. My finest hours were lived in the spaces filled by Night; music, dancing, laughter, and nefarious deeds that would have never been carried out in the harsh light of day. Sleep was my companion, and I was faithful to her out of necessity, and truly thought she loved me as I did her. </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A millennium has passed, in hours at least, and Night has lost her shimmering beauty. She has become bitter (or, have I?) and she taunts me now. She and Sleep have become friendly, and they conspire against me, even though I call out to them longingly. I beg for their old, familiar embrace, but they do not answer my pleas. My once beautiful slippers are threadbare, and I mourn their loss, and despise them for deceiving me. Daylight has too few qualities I desire in a companion, so what am I left with, then? Memories of dear old friends, resilient soles (and, soul), a tired old gown that no longer fits, and an aching desire to not only wear it again, but to sparkle.</div>
Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-83110819684520480652015-04-28T18:49:00.000-07:002016-11-01T13:29:42.789-07:00Shamanized<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbw74mQ0atzX7MPnC71vIfWxK9jJYRRthXGF-wwxsdm8qCxpt5pIkNR2cSCtmYz6qX_h-Ojbf3bQBF9pUVZVdEkAwAg2_XwGmE-UDh2Qkq-vhn3AK5hpzjEsKdCJ8ShdDo4krm5AdqUms_/s1600/Reflecting+pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbw74mQ0atzX7MPnC71vIfWxK9jJYRRthXGF-wwxsdm8qCxpt5pIkNR2cSCtmYz6qX_h-Ojbf3bQBF9pUVZVdEkAwAg2_XwGmE-UDh2Qkq-vhn3AK5hpzjEsKdCJ8ShdDo4krm5AdqUms_/s1600/Reflecting+pond.jpg" width="240" /></a>Frequently, I'm asked to blog again. Frequently, I tell those who ask, that I simply don't have the time. Life in my 40's has become vastly more complicated and difficult than I ever imagined. So much for the glory of adulthood.<br />
<br />
This past weekend, I spent a fast and furious 48 hours in Washington, DC. The trip was made on a whim. A snap decision. A half dozen times between booking the flight and taking off, the voices in my head battled it out. "What are you DOING?! This isn't you!" "Oh, hush. This will be fun! Loosen up and see what's out there." So...I went. I saw things that inspired, awed, and moved me. I did things, like meeting an old friend from the blog, in person. Actually face to face! It was marvelous.<br />
<br />
While in DC, this old, new friend from the blog, shamanized me. That's right. She worked some sort of voodoo magic. I allowed myself to do something new, something bold, something totally not me, and I let the world in. What happens, happens. What happened, was "epic," as she put it. Energy was put in motion, pain moved out, peace moved in. Breath started fast and anxious, and ended up slow, and relaxed. Calm. Peace. Love.<br />
<br />
Whether it was my friend the Shaman, the city, the monuments, the Reiki ...I was repaired. At least briefly.<br />
<br />
I arrived back in Texas to news that Baltimore is on fire. Literally and figuratively. The world needs shamanized. We...the collective WE, need to let love in. We need to feel the pain, convert it to energy, let it go, find peace, and move forward.<br />
<br />
Don't talk. Just listen. Not to others, and what they want you to hear and believe, but to your inner voice. The voice has the answer.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-17707866822793370142012-04-29T22:44:00.001-07:002019-02-28T11:58:15.392-08:00Tuesday Night Lights<br />
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You know
that book, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff?” As I was mopping up my flooded
upstairs bathroom and downstairs laundry room yesterday, I was evaluating
whether or not being a temporary single parent, while single-handedly cleaning,
purging and organizing for a cross-country move and handling every single bill,
errand, kidtastrophe and bit of minutia, qualifies as “small stuff.” Stuffing a massive load of soaking wet towels
and rugs into the washer, as water dripped from the ceiling onto my head, I
determined that yes…this was small stuff. But, I forewent the polite admonition
to not, “sweat it,” and just said, “fuck it.” </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX38pMQ-nHnw29P7f7atRq1kN_E6FDAHPflBr6ry-bRjz7QPDHzbgX9O6hapLOEqsZlvYRf1IRJdHlj7OfQHvq9L4lAPzxm2NdTlYNsA_-2sktfXEaKEEBlEm73IFqXhxNGTYTMTQtIoCr/s1600/stadium+lights.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX38pMQ-nHnw29P7f7atRq1kN_E6FDAHPflBr6ry-bRjz7QPDHzbgX9O6hapLOEqsZlvYRf1IRJdHlj7OfQHvq9L4lAPzxm2NdTlYNsA_-2sktfXEaKEEBlEm73IFqXhxNGTYTMTQtIoCr/s320/stadium+lights.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></div>
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“Don’t sweat
the small stuff,” is more of an admonition, isn’t it? “Fuck it,” is just the
decision to not to let the small stuff suck you into the mind-numbing vortex of
bullshit that constitutes a day in the life of the average American house frau.
So, I sopped up the mess…ceiling still dripping, and headed out to retrieve The
Duchess from school. Thus far, my Tuesday had been a comedy of errors created,
I’m quite certain, by the mind of a distracted, overworked, underpaid and
unappreciated, Me. Too many things to
do, too many interruptions, too much on my mind, not enough sleep and not
enough help. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Duchess
and I arrived back at the house, completed her daily 30 or 40 minutes of
homework and I poured myself a glass of wine.
From a box. Don’t judge me. </div>
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<br /></div>
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As I was standing
there in my kitchen, experiencing a wee bit of the blues, it suddenly occurred to
me: “It’s Tuesday!” I picked up my phone and sent a text: “I made red sauce,
salsa and dessert.” Within minutes, a
text back: “I’ll be over in 10 with tamales.” Oh, yeah. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7wEHDfFc5AdNqpPzJLGj6cZzqwiuXOTxuZEd_YRDhETnxvM9_O6f-xAcHAZemivutczvlGu67PcasxSNUKYcsHD4mOD4uVz1SLkALMxHxicNown071WMEVzLG4794UJ_SyW_lqrOSNlk/s1600/Amy+and+Carmen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7wEHDfFc5AdNqpPzJLGj6cZzqwiuXOTxuZEd_YRDhETnxvM9_O6f-xAcHAZemivutczvlGu67PcasxSNUKYcsHD4mOD4uVz1SLkALMxHxicNown071WMEVzLG4794UJ_SyW_lqrOSNlk/s320/Amy+and+Carmen.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You don't even want to know...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For the past
several months, my neighbor, Carmen, has come over on Tuesday nights to eat,
drink and commiserate. Tuesday nights are her Fridays, so she can stay up late,
eat, drink and be merry without having to get up at 4:00 a.m. for work. On Tuesday
nights, my house lights up like a stadium. The food is abundant, the
cocktails flow, and Carmen and I talk and laugh and gossip until standing up is
no longer an option. Usually, at least a couple of her kids come over and eat,
talk and laugh until it’s time for them to go home and get ready for school the
next day. Most Tuesday nights, her husband gets off work and comes over about
9:30 and we warm up dinner, make him a Shirley Temple or two and yenta it up
for another hour or so. Two families, blended into a lovely, cross-cultural oneness,
held together by food, laughter and love. Bliss.<br />
<br />
At the end of the night,
Carmen weaves her way down the sidewalk, two doors down. I do a quick clean
up of the kitchen, head up the stairs and take my final cocktail of the night,
which consists of two Ibuprofen, water, and a significantly lighter spirit. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
You see,
Carmen and I have somehow, unknowingly and unintentionally, created a
tradition. It’s not just that I have a neighbor who comes over every week to
hang out. No. It’s more than that. Over the past four years, we’ve developed a
friendship…that has turned into a sisterhood… that I have come to count
on. When Carmen and I are together, the
world just fades to black and nothing exists outside of my lit up kitchen and
those precious Tuesday night hours.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
It was only a year ago that I realized that Carmen is one month older than my
youngest sister. The realization floored me and made me sit there on my bar
stool with my mouth hanging open trying to process that fact. If you’ve read my
blog, you know my past feelings about my younger sister. Hapless, helpless,
unfocused, immature, irresponsible, etc.etc. etc. I’d always considered Carmen my absolute peer
and equal. She’s been with her husband since high school, had three children,
two of which are very close in age to two of my own, keeps an immaculate house,
works full time and despite having had tremendous obstacles to overcome in her
life, is a happy, well-adjusted, fun-loving, responsible wife, mother and
citizen. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Carmen is
the very epitome of the American Dream. Her parents were immigrants from Mexico
and she is a first generation U.S. citizen. She became pregnant at sixteen and worked her
little buns off to go to school, work and provide for her son. Her boyfriend
was killed when their son was an infant and yet she persevered and worked to
create a stable home life. Like me, she has daddy drama and struggles with the
emotions of loving her father yet despising his actions. Her family gatherings
with her mother and six siblings are boisterous and loving. They fight, they
cry, they love and they make up. By watching them, I have learned what “family”
is capable of being. When they invite me to family affairs, I feel strangely
different, yet familiar. Not fluent in the least in their native Mexican-Spanish, I understand
little of what they say when they speak to each other. But, Carmen and her
sisters are always quick to turn to me and translate what’s going on and
include me in the conversation. I have learned much about love, family,
forgiveness and perseverance. For that, I am truly grateful. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Last night,
Carmen helped wash the dishes and put away the remnants of dinner and dessert.
As always, I walked her to the door and she kissed my cheek and thanked me as I
locked the door behind her. In the process of wiping down the counter tops and
readying things for the morning, it hit me like a bolt of lightning. In just over a month, I would be in Texas and
Tuesday nights would be, well…just Tuesdays. No Carmen, no swarm of kids asking what their
adopted, “tia” made for dessert, no gossip and no house with every light
blazing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The thought
of no Tuesday night lights and no Carmen, makes my heart heavy. As happy as I
am to be moving back to the city I consider, “home,” I’m so very sad to be
leaving my Carmen. In the past forty-three years of my life, I’ve moved
somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty times, but for the first time, I feel
as though I’m leaving behind a little piece of my heart. Family is consistent.
They are “there,” no matter where you are. Middle Sister and I live on opposite
sides of the country, but still speak and e-mail and text several times a month. With a
friend though, you have to wonder...will this be it? Will moving away mean the
loss of the closeness between the two of us? </div>
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<br /></div>
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Carmen has
taken to referring to me as her, “guera,” which loosely translates as, “blonde
girl,” in Mexican lingo. For hysterical
reasons I won’t go in to, I refer to her as my, “bandita.” It only occasionally
occurs to us what we must appear like to others when we’re together, but
neither of us cares. As far as we’re concerned, we are just two of the best of
friends, laughing ourselves silly every time we’re within six feet of each
other. La Guera y La Bandita. Amigas para siempre.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As I’ve
written before, “home” isn’t necessarily a place; it’s who is waiting for you
behind the door when you arrive. My new home in Dallas may not have all of the
lights lit up on Tuesday nights, but I need my bandita to know that no matter
where I am, she will always have a home, a friend, a sister and a partner in crime. Hours
and miles may come between us, but the bright Tuesday night lights will burn on
in my heart. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnFXpmaFhPBwxQceTho2wzX4B33SuhduMl29e6GZg9OWyGBP37Dc29u4q-kk3IRc_mmpcpagdpCKd1_W736anphHmQL_CQHTgq7chCUZMdtD5THZT42UeUlGZKEYxcC39ZN5FGQR9rxn9j/s1600/Amy+and+Carmen+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnFXpmaFhPBwxQceTho2wzX4B33SuhduMl29e6GZg9OWyGBP37Dc29u4q-kk3IRc_mmpcpagdpCKd1_W736anphHmQL_CQHTgq7chCUZMdtD5THZT42UeUlGZKEYxcC39ZN5FGQR9rxn9j/s320/Amy+and+Carmen+1.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Bandita y La Guera</td></tr>
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Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-80844749486488825512012-02-22T20:04:00.001-08:002012-02-23T20:20:07.962-08:00Yesterday<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterday, I am clueless as to how my car ended up parked neatly in the garage or how The Duchess got a bath, got her hair braided neatly, and tucked into bed by 8:30 sharp. I think I slipped into a mini-coma and functioned merely out of habit and some built-in Mommy GPS. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I vaguely remember taking The Duchess to school while wearing camo pants, a sweatshirt that didn’t match, my eyeglasses and a clip in my unkempt hair. I may have had Monday night’s martinis oozing from my pores to boot. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My car must have driven me home from the school because I woke up in my bed three hours later feeling no better than I did three hours before. The dog had planted herself firmly next to my disgusting, un-showered corpse and shot me a look that said, “Really? Three hours? I’ve had to pee for the last two.” <br />
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My inner fat chick arm wrestled the part of me that wanted to climb back up the stairs and throw myself on the bed again, so I made a turkey sandwich, ate a giant handful of cheese balls and polished off a Skinny Cow ice cream sandwich. Honestly, I have no idea what I did up until the time my cell phone rang and I answered only to hear Snotty on the other end begging for a ride home from school because she had cramps. <br />
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Somehow I managed to pick Snotty up, listen to the one hundred and ten exclamations of, “I’m gonna die…I know I’m gonna die,” retrieve The Duchess from school, return home and help with homework.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At some point I recall having the desire to eat but no desire whatsoever to actually conjure up food. It took about ten minutes of my inner fat girl yelling at my inner lazy ass before I grabbed the car keys and hit the drive-through lane at Kentucky Fried Chicken. If you haven’t had Kentucky Fried Chicken in awhile, just a word of advice: let your inner lazy ass talk your inner fat chick out of getting some. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The rest of the evening is a messy blur of baths, dogs, teeth brushing, etc. etc. Truthfully, I barely remember putting The Duchess to bed. <br />
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This morning when the alarm on my cell phone sounded, I had the overwhelming urge to throw it through the window and fake an illness so horrific that it would give me an excuse to not have to take The Duchess to school for the rest of the week. Mr. Right was out of state on business though, so I’d only be shooting myself in my own damn size 8 ½. Up and at ‘em, Warrior Mommy. <br />
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By sheer willpower and the strong desire to not let my sweet daughter see her mother once again taxi her to school looking like a B movie zombie, I dragged my bloated arse off the bed and actually managed to put on a little eye makeup and clothes that matched. Kind of.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve spent the better part of the day trying with all my might to be productive and to, “snap out of it,” but Middle Sister’s phone call Monday night is still rattling around in my brain box and I’ve yet to be able to rid myself of the shrapnel caused by the explosion that reverberated through my skull when Sister said, “Dad is going back to jail.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No child, no matter the age of that child, should ever have to hear those words once, much less twice. But, as they say, “shit happens.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It took the thirteen years my father served in prison, plus another eight or nine for me to work through all of the shit-that-happened. I had to come up with truthful, yet not completely accurate answers to questions such as, “where does your dad live,” and, “what does your father do for a living?” Sure, I tried the truth a few times, but quickly learned that for some strange reason, having a father who’s in the clink for murdering his girlfriend isn’t the most acceptable fodder for small talk at cocktail parties. Who would have thought that people would judge ME for the sins of my father?! People are odd, no? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
After thirteen years of collect calls from prison and censored letters that my eyes only got to see second hand after a prison guard's…after thirteen years of declared repentance and promises of becoming the father he’d never been, he was returned to society and back to the Land of Stainless Steel Utensils. I braced myself for the impending tsunami of love and affection that was soon to wash upon the shores of my childish and broken heart. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The tsunami never arrived. Nor did a wave, a ripple or a droplet quench my thirsting heart. I reached out. I called, wrote letters and sent items for which he’d asked. Still…not even a speck of humidity. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When my Gram passed away, Mr. Right and I traveled to Illinois to attend her funeral. For the first time in twenty years, I was going to see my father. I have no idea what I expected, but whatever it was, I didn’t get it. As we left my Gram’s house two days later, I turned and watched the shape of my father growing smaller in the background. It was then that I knew that the father-sized shape in my heart would never be filled and that it was time to start letting go. <br />
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It’s a strange thing it is. I thought I’d done a pretty swell job of filling in that void in my heart. I’d accepted things as they were and moved forward. Nice and neat was the package I’d tied a string around and tucked far back into the corner of my ticker. <br />
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With one click of a button, with one uttered, “hello, Sister,” with one blink of an eye and one nervously delivered sentence, I shattered once again. </span><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This time…oh, this time…he’s learned his lesson. THIS time, he’ll never touch a gun or a drink again. No one was hurt this time and it was all just a big silly ordeal, but for sure…he’s learned his lesson this time. <br />
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Today I’ve thought about what I would say to him if I saw him. I’ve come to the conclusion that I probably wouldn’t say anything. Not because I have nothing to say and not because there aren’t things I want him to hear, but because he wouldn’t hear them. He's incapable. My words wouldn’t change a thing. <br />
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Middle Sister keeps hanging on. She clings by the tips of her fingernails to the precipice of the deep empty canyon of Fatherly Love. She explained to me her yearning to be a better human being than my father and her feeling is that if she continues to hold on and remain a part of his life, she will have done better than he did with his father. She still desperately hopes that one day he will give her heart what it has so desperately needed since the beginning of her memory. I understand her need and her desire, really I do. It just hurts my heart to know her longing.<br />
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My path will be different from Middle Sister’s. I will choose, rightly or wrongly, to continue healing until nothing remains but a daddy shaped scar. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Scars have a certain beauty, I think. When I look in the mirror at the Frankenstein-ish scar left on my clavicle from the two surgeries after my car accident, I am vividly reminded of my own frailty. But, sometimes…when my shoulder is really hurting me, I reach up and run my fingers over the uneven scar tissue and smile, because it is proof positive that I also have the ability to heal and to overcome more pain than I thought I could bear. </span></span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-37620059799029623212011-10-12T21:38:00.001-07:002012-02-23T16:11:18.202-08:00Finding Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKw1gZd9_m5ejL6NmxZbCWz5Ac-_ePuEkUaOV1UPmDWqcnyFMw1HXhQjPfNf0yXIh-1_qUUylDyjU4lY-ZzGiPblioBD8r_CVtzJdZqrq5PhW65l4hD3U6rsEK12jGaACJ-UapjecqgKt/s1600/Alex%2527s+Home.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKw1gZd9_m5ejL6NmxZbCWz5Ac-_ePuEkUaOV1UPmDWqcnyFMw1HXhQjPfNf0yXIh-1_qUUylDyjU4lY-ZzGiPblioBD8r_CVtzJdZqrq5PhW65l4hD3U6rsEK12jGaACJ-UapjecqgKt/s320/Alex%2527s+Home.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Growing up, my home life was much like living in a circus whose performers had recently escaped from the local asylum so, the subject of Home has always been a touchy one for me. What is it about Home that stirs within our hearts such emotion, such happiness, such bitterness and such angst? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In my 20’s, day after endless day was spent being wretchedly and miserably partnered to a wretched and miserable mate, and I often found myself longing for Home. After the initial trickle of tears would begin, the realization would hit me that I had no home to which I could go. This thought would completely break the dam, and all hell would break loose in the desolate cavern that was my heart. Where was Home?!? What was Home?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">For a while during my childhood, Home was a place. Home sat at the edge of hundreds of acres of corn in Southern Illinois and was warmed only by a pot-bellied stove in the winter and cooled by open doors and screen-free windows during the summer. Home was the place I left every summer morning as soon as the sun lifted its fiery red head and to where I returned when it dropped its lazy round bottom below the horizon every evening. Home was where I ran barefoot, wild and free through fields of corn. It was where my sisters and I skated on frozen creeks in the winter, pretending we were beautiful ice skaters, despite the fact that our “skates” were Wonder Bread wrappers secured with rubber bands to hand-me-down tennis shoes. It was where my mother made bath soap in a churn in the front yard and where we ate watermelon while sitting on the tailgate of my father’s battered truck. Home was this place…this ancient, run-down, dilapidated, beautiful place. And, as it turns out, this house was the last place I would ever truly feel at home…until now.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After moving from that old house when I was the ripe old age of eight, life became much more treacherous. Home became a place to lay my head at night, a place from which to flee during the day, and at night a place I feared to return. Details aren’t necessary to tell my tale. You’ve most likely experienced very similar bumps and bruises to body and brain, dysfunctions and malfunctions, loss of innocence and hard-earned gains in character. What I will tell you…and don’t act shocked…is that life is hard. So difficult at times, in fact, that our brain boxes often seek refuge and sometimes in the most unlikely places. In retrospect, I look back on moments in my life and wonder, “Why in the bloody hell did I ever want to go home?!” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Now that I’m in my 40’s, happily partnered and the recipient of large doses of expensive therapy, I can sit back with relative ease and survey my past. I see much more humor in it now. The harsh lines have softened and memories are seen through the hazy filter of time. My family has become what I refer to as a, “family by choice” and Home is an ever so lovely stained glass window made of places, people and feelings. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In talking to my friends and family over the years about what Home means to them, I’ve heard varied responses. A friend of mine grew up in the same house her entire life and, to this day still goes home with her husband to that same house. She says she gets excited that she’s almost Home as soon as the highway signs over I-35 say, “Oklahoma City.” Getting through Oklahoma City means she’s only about an hour away from her old house and the landmarks become familiar. Those signs tell her that Mama isn’t far away and, as she put it to me, “Home is where Mama is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My sister says that Home is where she’s created a history, formed relationships, become familiar with an area and has made memories. “Given enough time,” she says, “Anywhere can feel like Home.” Indeed, when you walk into her house, no matter if she’s lived there for ten years or a month, her shelves contain the same old familiar and comfortable books and treasures. She carries with her those tangible memories that make her feel at home.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My friend J.T., (and former Sadie Hawkins Dance partner, whether he remembers it or not!) says that because his family lived in several houses during his childhood, Home has become something all together different than merely a place. Home is when he’s with friends and family and the conversation turns to, “Do you remember when…?” “That,” he says, is when he’s “home.” Shared memories and shared pasts sometimes have sturdier walls than even the best built houses. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My cousin’s mother passed away last November, and she no longer feels a connection to “home.” Her sister attempts family get-togethers, but the sense of belonging remains lost to her. She has yet to be able to find her way home again, but I know she will because she commented to me, “home right now, is where my sister is.” Home still exists for her but her heart remains much too broken to accept that Home will be different now. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My sister-in-law grew up in a crowded, loud and chaotic household (Actually, several crowded, loud and chaotic households). She now feels that, Home is where there is “peace, quiet and comfort.” I’m fairly positive that she would be perfectly at home if her favorite comfy chair suddenly took flight and landed in the middle of a jungle, so long as the Natives left her to her iPad (and chanted <i>very</i> quietly). Home for her, is being where there is literal peace and quiet. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Across the country in D.C., I have a soulful and beautiful friend who feels at home when she’s in the kitchen cooking for her closest friends and family. She’s a kindred spirit, she is! Home is not where she was raised, but who walks through her doors, eats her food, and who makes her laugh until she forgets that any variation of Home ever existed outside of her chalet walls. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then…there’s my sweet friend I’ve known since high school whose longing for home is deep and intense right now. Her parents are fading, and her extended family is in emotional shambles. Mere photographs of her childhood home bring tears to her eyes, and even traumatic memories are all but forgotten to make room in her heart to remember Home as she needs it to be remembered. Although tragedy, pain, and misery happened within those walls, “Home,” is still that old house on Walnut Street where she felt safe and where there was a sanctuary from town gossip and judgmental peers. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In all of these stories, there are differences but, even so, the similarities remain. “Home,” it seems, is indeed, “where the heart is.” Broken hearts feel homeless even among the familiar faces of family. Gypsy feet may wander hither and yon, but always feel at home when planted firmly next to an old friend’s while swapping tales of yesteryear. Highway signs that lead us down well worn roads to houses we know our way around by heart, don’t tell us what really makes that house a home. What makes it “home” is who is behind the door waiting with open arms when we arrive.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Looking back on those times when I wondered why I ever wanted to go home again, I now understand what it was that I really wanted. It wasn’t the chaos, the shabby house, or the emotionally absent parents. What I wanted was comfort and the feeling that I belonged somewhere. Now that I’m grown with a family of my own, and I’ve had plenty of time to sort through the tattered old memories which comprise the scrapbook of my life, it is clear to me that I <i>am </i>home. I’m home because I’m loved, and because I stay in touch with old friends with whom I share a home town and a heart-shaped box of memories. I am home because I have a sister whom I love, who loves me and who knows all of my secrets and keeps them safe. I am home because when I cook for my friends and family, we eat and laugh and share our souls with each other. Home is in my heart, and it abides there, wherever the road may take me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">They say you can’t go home again, but I’ll let you in on a secret: You can. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>As written by Amy Colclasure Warner for the inaugural edition of Hom~o Magazine, published October 2011.<a href="http://www.hom-o.com/">http://www.hom-o.com/</a></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"> <i>All rights reserved. Content may not be duplicated. Artwork by Alex R. Warner. </i></span></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-62617878657937348042011-08-22T06:00:00.000-07:002013-03-07T20:14:02.809-08:00Dusk Dame<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Uh7KTIupRnNygDFj06bjqstqpOGzO5T9mjEK2uOQtXVYFyXzUHXjHbBE4Qu2Un1l6sL_kB18pnTGenNYxHK2ckdqFh4x4QlStW96_QZD-hAeWhPQ-Pxg8ZVH01f1ToHnVtu_qRvgOc0f/s1600/cowboy-sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Uh7KTIupRnNygDFj06bjqstqpOGzO5T9mjEK2uOQtXVYFyXzUHXjHbBE4Qu2Un1l6sL_kB18pnTGenNYxHK2ckdqFh4x4QlStW96_QZD-hAeWhPQ-Pxg8ZVH01f1ToHnVtu_qRvgOc0f/s320/cowboy-sunset.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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It is after the sun has set that I feel most like Me.</div>
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If I were a cowboy in one of those old-time Western movies </div>
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and they asked me to ride off into the sunset,</div>
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that's when the <i>real</i> fun would begin.</div>
Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-17682109194219943792011-08-15T06:00:00.000-07:002013-03-07T20:14:33.890-08:00Final Waltz<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZFxU53RljuLbr8nqhjbtJBvU-J3iOHe10f_CyaxhlYkNVrrWouA7lHUdm10yTqgCPKdqxN4eHFjj7P_cmQiFz2ci9KRpWr-7k8SfZp8U-B0D62Y2jyNQh2sP8HDWgpU0JOgtjBEd3U1-B/s1600/Old+love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZFxU53RljuLbr8nqhjbtJBvU-J3iOHe10f_CyaxhlYkNVrrWouA7lHUdm10yTqgCPKdqxN4eHFjj7P_cmQiFz2ci9KRpWr-7k8SfZp8U-B0D62Y2jyNQh2sP8HDWgpU0JOgtjBEd3U1-B/s320/Old+love.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Reaching for his hand she laughed and said,</div>
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"Dancing with you is so much fun.</div>
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I want to go on but, I'm ever so tired."</div>
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He smiled and pressed his lips against her ear</div>
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and said, "My love, I've never been able to keep up with you." </div>
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She blew him a kiss and leading as usual,</div>
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let her hand slip from his and gently</div>
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waltzed away.</div>
Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-57921772325839386942011-08-09T22:08:00.000-07:002016-11-01T13:35:16.988-07:00Musterion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihsX6yX-I-oOnBm_ulW2_gXPf2LATzStZm_Gy2uQuZmXAf3DIlkSDt3efAc8BnMZnCxzXT186AIrC9RP0DdYKQjFoWCMbvOwvGDAtiHUYGmcDeonjZ61KyeeuhU4IOXzzzQ5LrekWwx2_4/s1600/Night+sky+and+moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihsX6yX-I-oOnBm_ulW2_gXPf2LATzStZm_Gy2uQuZmXAf3DIlkSDt3efAc8BnMZnCxzXT186AIrC9RP0DdYKQjFoWCMbvOwvGDAtiHUYGmcDeonjZ61KyeeuhU4IOXzzzQ5LrekWwx2_4/s1600/Night+sky+and+moon.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Only after the moon came out<br />
and the stars began their evening dance </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
did she reveal her true identity.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oh...what beauty and mystery the moonlight revealed! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And when the sun rose, so no one would be the wiser,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
she once again donned her daytime disguise</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
of an apron and sensible shoes.</div>
Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-42982501124535700952011-07-13T16:00:00.000-07:002011-07-23T15:56:20.452-07:00A Sparrow Through My Heart<div class="MsoNormal">With one quick swipe of the broom, my heart set itself up to be broken. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Preoccupied with my thoughts, I ran my broom under the grill on the back porch and out bounced a little Sparrow nestling. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the little gray fur ball and quickly ran to scoop it up in my hands. He appeared perfect and healthy. My heart raced but over the thumping, I heard the chatter going on above me. Still cupping the tiny bird, I looked to see where the racket was coming from and saw a sparrow sitting high on the window ledge of the house next door. She was responding to every chirp of the baby I held gently in my hands. I didn’t know what to do. Did I put the baby down and just let Nature take its course or should I intervene and try to help mother and child reunite? In the blink of an eye, my heart trumped my head and off I went to research how to care for a Sparrow nestling. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiu5pkFYmAD5JuHJyVUYlHkXLL17UkM_cvlE769C_0Gq1FZeTBMsGNJjQD9jE3om-yoq2CiVq1ekRP6qW9w6IFrIY6q7luw12DpWxTK6f5wMf5onVhRk-cEpl1pjklHHB7h4SacIdmoeVN/s1600/Baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiu5pkFYmAD5JuHJyVUYlHkXLL17UkM_cvlE769C_0Gq1FZeTBMsGNJjQD9jE3om-yoq2CiVq1ekRP6qW9w6IFrIY6q7luw12DpWxTK6f5wMf5onVhRk-cEpl1pjklHHB7h4SacIdmoeVN/s320/Baby.jpg" width="173" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Baby...just minutes after I found him.</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Most of the day that first day was spent looking out the window into my back yard. With awe, I watched Momma fly in and out of the yard to tend to Baby. According to the research I’d quickly conducted, baby nestling Sparrows who are just about ready to fly, spend a few days on the ground while their mothers continue to feed them and care for them until they’re strong enough to spread their wings and soar. So, with great curiosity and a mother’s heart full of hope for this tiny creature’s success, I watched. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At night, I put Baby in an old mesh butterfly “house” that The Duchess often used to cage various ladybugs and caterpillars. A nice cozy nest was made for him and I sprinkled some hardboiled egg bits with water and put them in for a nightly snack should Baby get hungry. Each morning, Mr. Right would unzip the little door to the house and out would come Baby. His favorite spot was in the shade underneath our sprinkler that looks like a miniature farm tractor and he would usually bounce right over to sit and wait for Momma. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My almost daily tanning sessions in the back yard were forsaken so that Baby and Momma could carry out their business, but I didn’t mind. “There will be time for soaking up the rays once Baby learns to fly,” I thought to myself. Watering the lawn became a manual chore instead of an automated one and I kept all backyard activities to the bare minimum. My puppy, Ellie, was kept on close watch and I’d only take her out to do her necessary business and then scoot her right back in. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the third day of Operation Baby Watch, the sun was so hot that I rigged my tanning chair over the top of the sprinkler where Baby hung out and put a beach towel over the top so that a nice big patch of shade was created. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Day Four saw the clouds move in and I breathed a sigh of relief that the Sparrow family that now occupied my yard on a daily basis wouldn’t be as parched as the day before. Day Four also marked the day a Sparrow went through my heart.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I prepared to leave for an appointment and went about the normal tasks of readying The Duchess and myself to leave the house, I called Ellie out to the backyard for a final bit of business before we left. The Duchess followed behind and I told her to keep a close watch on Baby who had made his daily flutter over to the shady patch against the far fence. As Ellie finished up and ran to stand beside me on the porch, I looked at the birdbath and decided to fill it before I left. Retrieving the hose, I stood and let the water run from it for a few seconds so that it wouldn’t be so hot when I filled the bowl. As I turned around, a flash of motion caught my eye. Turning to look, I saw Ellie with her nose to the ground just to the side of the porch. That’s when it happened. In one instant my brain perceived the listless little gray ball on the ground and in the other half of that instant, I found myself in the grass on my knees, sobbing like a lost child. My attention had been diverted for mere seconds, but that was all it had taken for my Ellie to snap up Baby and break his neck. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bundling Baby up in my hands, I took him inside and, sobbing uncontrollably, found one of my old clean t-shirts and placed his little perfect body inside of it. Now running almost late for my appointment, a shoebox seemed the safest resting place until I could decide what to do. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two hours later as I headed home, The Duchess just couldn’t take the events of the day anymore and fell asleep. I, on the other hand, took the opportunity of a 45-minute car ride and a sleeping child…to cry. I had failed miserably to keep that sweet and perfect little creature alive and it made me so incredibly sad. Had I not seen with my own eyes the care that Momma took with Baby, maybe I wouldn’t have wept so hard for her loss. But, there I sat in my car, crying as I hadn’t cried in years, for both of our losses. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That evening, we dug a hole by the back porch just a couple of feet from where Baby had sat under the tractor sprinkler for those four days. The Duchess and I placed roses inside the box where Baby rested and The Duchess added a folded picture she’d drawn, on which she had written, “I love you, Baby.” We placed the box in the hole and sprinkled a little dirt on top of it before lowering the rosebush with little pink baby rosebuds on it that I’d purchased for this occasion on my way home earlier. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AMNfyCEvcCcA14orS8nqyjGRicAgk3cXRvg1q4sW7wkI6WBJLf0JIhTgKBoSwhM9JrjMIHAtkT2IPzrfpBdgAtO-nELYRqV5nYo7U8X4Lav55xinY23ZXUBnDiZ4WhK8IWdhFOSWJQkU/s1600/Baby+rosebush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AMNfyCEvcCcA14orS8nqyjGRicAgk3cXRvg1q4sW7wkI6WBJLf0JIhTgKBoSwhM9JrjMIHAtkT2IPzrfpBdgAtO-nELYRqV5nYo7U8X4Lav55xinY23ZXUBnDiZ4WhK8IWdhFOSWJQkU/s320/Baby+rosebush.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What exactly made such an impact on me about this experience I’m still not quite sure. I’ve boo hooed less at funerals for humans, for crying out loud. But, what I do know is that the eighty dollars I spent at the bird store the next day, buying feeders and seed made me happy. Happy, because now as I watch out my back window every day I see the Sparrows. I see them and I get to convince myself that they know that I tried and that the birdbaths and feeders are my lame attempt at an apology. </div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-82727811597925919102011-05-23T16:36:00.000-07:002013-03-07T20:35:00.874-08:00Testing...testing...1...2...3...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYaDTMaL-w0BuLtKJtjQiKpmxB0VYAmnJhtEdKjwRyEXrs1EIfkdvM4kEXaDjV8zeZ4x7ZSJw-eY8wGHxG9OjiHhL_xWiFHKhxbe-yV9UrkKk569FAVb_53LcEP56JjJbhcq9JHE4d073/s1600/Blog+Microphone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYaDTMaL-w0BuLtKJtjQiKpmxB0VYAmnJhtEdKjwRyEXrs1EIfkdvM4kEXaDjV8zeZ4x7ZSJw-eY8wGHxG9OjiHhL_xWiFHKhxbe-yV9UrkKk569FAVb_53LcEP56JjJbhcq9JHE4d073/s200/Blog+Microphone.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
Hello? Does this thing still work? I'm hoping the dust that's piled up around here over the past few months hasn't ruined my keyboard.<br />
<br />
Middle Sister called me last week to ask why I wasn't blogging anymore. After giving her every excuse I could think of, I hung up, went to my closet and found my big girl panties. They still fit. So...here I am.<br />
<br />
Big girl panties are prone to be uncomfortable at times, but I suppose that comes with the territory.<br />
<br />
It's time to pick up my blogophone and get back to business. I hope you have been well, Dear Friends.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-27851899338945531132010-08-02T22:07:00.000-07:002011-07-24T11:43:23.180-07:00And In Case You Were Wondering, The Shrubs Look Fabulous<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzAeb4xFKHimMWa2WqR1C5s3PezCqRm8z6CCKMCvEdhSC5um-4oA3fKN2eNZE4-e8RkSxx94Mg5pQp6YqNkcOkBArsprg1hUQgNsSpkOsSxngeCmBmLQTaQQiYlRK-xof1jUb2_sk708PD/s1600/Happy+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzAeb4xFKHimMWa2WqR1C5s3PezCqRm8z6CCKMCvEdhSC5um-4oA3fKN2eNZE4-e8RkSxx94Mg5pQp6YqNkcOkBArsprg1hUQgNsSpkOsSxngeCmBmLQTaQQiYlRK-xof1jUb2_sk708PD/s200/Happy+sign.jpg" width="173" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Today, I couldn’t find Happy.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">I peered inside the cookie box and for a fleeting moment thought I saw her there, but it wasn’t her at all. It was merely Hurt and Sadness wearing a disguise of chocolate chips. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">So, I looked somewhere else. “Happy? Where are you?!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">I went into my office and sat down at the computer hoping to find her there, but all I found were the names and pictures of a few dozen fellow travelers in search of Happy, too. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">So, off to the store I went hoping that Happy had made her way there and that I could bring her home with me. But, no matter how many aisles I walked down or how many thingamabobs I put into my shopping cart, Happy never appeared. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Back at home, Happy not only seemed to be completely avoiding me, but now Sadness and Hurt were nagging at me to join them in their game. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Grabbing the garden shears, I headed to the front yard. Maybe if I did something productive and useful, Happy would just naturally want to come and join me. (I’ve heard rumors that Happy just can’t stay away from Usefulness and Productivity!)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">As sweat beads poured down my face, tears joined them as Sadness and Hurt laughed at my silliness in thinking that Happy would reveal herself today. Sitting in the rocks in between the freshly manicured foliage, I tried to just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i> Happy into appearing. Minutes passed…no Happy.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">Tonight, having told Sadness and Hurt to go on their miserable way, I will go to sleep hoping that with the return of the morning sun, Happy will find her way home.</div></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-71290062510613441572010-07-20T21:32:00.000-07:002010-07-20T21:32:41.088-07:00What If...Yes...I've been absent. Three vacations in two months, kids out of school for the summer, out of town guests and of course, the periodic occurrence of my brain cells taking an announced and unwelcome sabbatical.<br />
<br />
The following article is one I'm going to post word for word as it was written, simply because the author said what he said better than I could ever possibly articulate it. I'm putting it in front of you if you care to read it (and I hope you do), for the purpose of jarring your own brain box into possibly looking at things from a different angle than you might currently. <br />
<br />
If after reading it, you decide that I'm merely a bleeding heart liberal and an apologist, well...there's no hope for you and me. Sorry, Mate.<br />
<br />
The actual title of the article is, <em>Imagine: Protest, Insurgency and the Workings of White Privilege</em>. However, it has earned a "street" name and I quite like it: <em>What if the Tea Party Was Black?</em><br />
<br />
Here you go. Read on....<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine: Protest, Insurgency and the Workings of White Privilege.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By Tim Wise</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">April 20, 2010</span></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let’s play a game, shall we? The name of the game is called “Imagine.” The way it’s played is simple: we’ll envision recent happenings in the news, but then change them up a bit. Instead of envisioning white people as the main actors in the scenes we’ll conjure—the ones who are driving the action—we’ll envision black folks or other people of color instead. The object of the game is to imagine the public reaction to the events or incidents, if the main actors were of color, rather than white. Whoever gains the most insight into the workings of race in America, at the end of the game, wins.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So let’s begin.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine that hundreds of black protesters were to descend upon Washington DC and Northern Virginia, just a few miles from the Capitol and White House, armed with AK-47s, assorted handguns, and ammunition. And imagine that some of these protesters—the black protesters--spoke of the need for political revolution, and possibly even armed conflict in the event that laws they didn’t like were enforced by the government? Would these protesters--these black protesters with guns--be seen as brave defenders of the Second Amendment, or would they be viewed by most whites as a danger to the republic? What if they were Arab-Americans? Because, after all, that's what happened recently when white gun enthusiasts descended upon the nation's capital, arms in hand, and verbally announced their readiness to make war on the country's political leaders if the need arose.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTkuaWyx9BaQxiC5zuTE81iLTWWa9ftzbaWfIE7nlSn0dEyzFk3oqWUh_sjuFw8PYmuA2PS-2Vx8bzoSHNfY8HcaS77m9HFcDD_T60Dka2VAdKPTMOtU-pCtX3XJsYe6o_oDT4TU6bA6QR/s1600/Tyranny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTkuaWyx9BaQxiC5zuTE81iLTWWa9ftzbaWfIE7nlSn0dEyzFk3oqWUh_sjuFw8PYmuA2PS-2Vx8bzoSHNfY8HcaS77m9HFcDD_T60Dka2VAdKPTMOtU-pCtX3XJsYe6o_oDT4TU6bA6QR/s320/Tyranny.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine that white members of Congress, while walking to work, were surrounded by thousands of angry black people, one of whom proceeded to spit on one of those congressmen for not voting the way the black demonstrators desired. Would the protesters be seen as merely patriotic Americans voicing their opinions, or as an angry, potentially violent, and even insurrectionary mob? After all, this is what white Tea Party protesters did recently in Washington.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine that a black rap artist were to say, in reference to a white politician and presidential candidate: "He's a piece of shit and I told him to suck on my machine gun." And what would happen to any prominent liberal commentator who then, when asked about that statement, replied that the rapper was a friend and that he (the commentator) would not disavow or even criticize him for his remarks. Because that’s what rocker Ted Nugent said in 2007 about Barack Obama, and that's how Sean Hannity responded to Nugent's remarks when he was asked about them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine that a prominent mainstream black political commentator had long employed an overt bigot as Executive Director of his organization, and that this bigot regularly participated in black separatist conferences, and once assaulted a white person while calling them by a racial slur. When that prominent black commentator and his sister--who also works for the organization--defended the bigot as a good guy who was misunderstood and “going through a tough time in his life” would anyone accept their excuse-making? Would that commentator still have a place on a mainstream network? Because that’s what happened in the real world, when Pat Buchanan employed as Executive Director of his group, America's Cause, a blatant racist who did all these things, or at least their white equivalents: attending white separatist conferences and attacking a black woman while calling her the n-word.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimoiARTKnM9czndTsQmHzU6TMvFKRTFIzvA3u7syVqWkE9XQSiPj5-LC89mN1ZEK2TBEvY8MM0EZ4iWmiO2e9GdThwmEbF8ZiUXB9b-5Lt2A2CDM2ZBFBqJCgDYQp6Khv0Ba3vXDf7ZuGg/s1600/teabaggers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimoiARTKnM9czndTsQmHzU6TMvFKRTFIzvA3u7syVqWkE9XQSiPj5-LC89mN1ZEK2TBEvY8MM0EZ4iWmiO2e9GdThwmEbF8ZiUXB9b-5Lt2A2CDM2ZBFBqJCgDYQp6Khv0Ba3vXDf7ZuGg/s320/teabaggers.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine that a black radio host were to suggest that the only way to get promoted in the administration of a white president is by “hating black people,” or that a prominent white person had only endorsed a white presidential candidate as an act of racial bonding, or blamed a white president for a fight on a school bus in which a black kid was jumped by two white kids, or said that he wouldn’t want to kill all conservatives, but rather, would like to leave just enough--“living fossils” as he called them--“so we will never forget what these people stood for.” After all, these are things that Rush Limbaugh has said, about Barack Obama’s administration, Colin Powell’s endorsement of Barack Obama, a fight on a school bus in Belleville, Illinois in which two black kids beat up a white kid, and about liberals, generally.*</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine that a black pastor, formerly a member of the U.S. military, were to declare, as part of his opposition to a white president’s policies, that he was ready to “suit up, get my gun, go to Washington, and do what they trained me to do.” This is, after all, what Pastor Stan Craig said recently at a Tea Party rally in Greenville, South Carolina.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine a black radio talk show host gleefully predicting a revolution by people of color if the government continues to be dominated by the rich white men who have been “destroying” the country, or if said radio personality were to call Christians or Jews non-humans, or say that when it came to conservatives, the best solution would be to “hang ‘em high.” And what would happen to any congressional representative who praised that commentator for “speaking common sense” and likened his hate talk to “American values?” After all, those are among the things said by radio host and best-selling author Michael Savage, predicting white revolution in the face of multiculturalism, or said by Savage about Muslims and liberals, respectively. And it was Congressman Culbertson, from Texas, who praised Savage in that way, despite his hateful rhetoric.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2kUU0CLWrUSN3hoTlMS7_f8Fp06QLJs1Bxy5cu3ycOCvJ-FbhmT2iaQVFyuIVBSGQljUo0zALrO9UXWYGIjyjym-Med8CIRdSm9gbS23zmmPk26sbT3z_ScRF5OMfWbGNoYfQ52oprm6/s1600/White+Slavery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2kUU0CLWrUSN3hoTlMS7_f8Fp06QLJs1Bxy5cu3ycOCvJ-FbhmT2iaQVFyuIVBSGQljUo0zALrO9UXWYGIjyjym-Med8CIRdSm9gbS23zmmPk26sbT3z_ScRF5OMfWbGNoYfQ52oprm6/s320/White+Slavery.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine a black political commentator suggesting that the only thing the guy who flew his plane into the Austin, Texas IRS building did wrong was not blowing up Fox News instead. This is, after all, what Anne Coulter said about Tim McVeigh, when she noted that his only mistake was not blowing up the New York Times.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine that a popular black liberal website posted comments about the daughter of a white president, calling her “typical redneck trash,” or a “whore” whose mother entertains her by “making monkey sounds.” After all that’s comparable to what conservatives posted about Malia Obama on freerepublic.com last year, when they referred to her as “ghetto trash.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine that black protesters at a large political rally were walking around with signs calling for the lynching of their congressional enemies. Because that’s what white conservatives did last year, in reference to Democratic party leaders in Congress.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In other words, imagine that even one-third of the anger and vitriol currently being hurled at President Obama, by folks who are almost exclusively white, were being aimed, instead, at a white president, by people of color. How many whites viewing the anger, the hatred, the contempt for that white president would then wax eloquent about free speech, and the glories of democracy? And how many would be calling for further crackdowns on thuggish behavior, and investigations into the radical agendas of those same people of color? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To ask any of these questions is to answer them. Protest is only seen as fundamentally American when those who have long had the luxury of seeing themselves as prototypically American engage in it. When the dangerous and dark “other” does so, however, it isn’t viewed as normal or natural, let alone patriotic. Which is why Rush Limbaugh could say, this past week, that the Tea Parties are the first time since the Civil War that ordinary, common Americans stood up for their rights: a statement that erases the normalcy and “American-ness” of blacks in the civil rights struggle, not to mention women in the fight for suffrage and equality, working people in the fight for better working conditions, and LGBT folks as they struggle to be treated as full and equal human beings.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And this, my friends, is what white privilege is all about. The ability to threaten others, to engage in violent and incendiary rhetoric without consequence, to be viewed as patriotic and normal no matter what you do, and never to be feared and despised as people of color would be, if they tried to get away with half the shit we do, on a daily basis.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Game Over.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">*(Denver Post December 29, 1995)</span><br />
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</div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-19296765413813944452010-05-21T14:50:00.000-07:002010-05-21T14:56:07.416-07:00Reasons Why I Don't Sleep OR Why My Pseudonym is "Bitchy"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyhsRyUX_d-vRhSS0HK6lVXauNj0-Xk0xg8wXkaUlOTChTy0jTRbXLaJUcoD4cdrHsWQ76k2Sb33gHQ3lNgRv9MXEGDtxm-PRCCsEwcyn9_oko2qMheYAW75GL603JIXDsf2bDtgZk1Y3q/s1600/alarm_clock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gu="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyhsRyUX_d-vRhSS0HK6lVXauNj0-Xk0xg8wXkaUlOTChTy0jTRbXLaJUcoD4cdrHsWQ76k2Sb33gHQ3lNgRv9MXEGDtxm-PRCCsEwcyn9_oko2qMheYAW75GL603JIXDsf2bDtgZk1Y3q/s320/alarm_clock.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">1. The $2,000 water softener unit that sits in the garage and underneath my room, sounds like a Boeing 747 when it decides to do its thing. I am clueless as to what it's thing is, but it jolts me awake at 2:00 a.m. and causes the hair on my arms to stand on end and makes my extremities feel like every nerve ending in them is standing at attention. (Is this what an adrenaline rush feels like?! Who knew?!)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">2. The growling puppy who thinks she's protecting me from a Boeing 747 crashing through the bedroom and then proudly determines that her ten pounds of growling, fluffy, fury has diverted a catastrophe, decides she now has to go outside and tinkle.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">3. Darth Vader who awakens slightly when the puppy and I return to the bed and groggily decides that he no longer needs the Vader sleep mask which keeps him from snoring like a coal powered freight train and then proceeds to snore like a coal powered freight train. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">4. The uneasy (and paranoid) feeling that the reason the puppy is not going back to sleep and is standing en <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">pointe</span> on the edge of the bed is because bad Ninjas have invaded my home and the noise in the garage wasn't the $2,000 Boeing 747 water softening unit at all, but the sound of my flat screen t.v. being <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Ninja'd</span> out the door and into a windowless, unmarked van. (Sleep deprivation is used as a form of TORTURE you know.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">5. The oh so detailed dreams about my <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Bloggy</span> Friend in Germany in which I visit her and she takes me on a walk through a war zone, only to return to her countryside home where we cook in the kitchen with her two sisters and I finally meet her husband who is wearing overalls and making applesauce ("You like cinnamon in yours, right?) She offers me pink homemade candy coated pretzels and inquires about my net worth. (Forgive me, Angela...I'm delirious.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">6. The banging and slamming of doors and closets as Snotty prepares herself for her 8th grade promotion ceremony. I roll over and look at the alarm which I've set for 6:15 a.m. The clock tells me it is 5:45 a.m. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">7. The sound of the screaming in my own head. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">8. The sound of my own voice, very much NOT in my own head this time, saying, "SCREW IT!"</div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-8813844750702530332010-05-17T00:01:00.000-07:002010-05-17T00:01:02.110-07:00On a Day Like Today - May 13, 2010<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrpailyVhdF6v9I_XviGWp3p0GUNeeIYBFJygNCaDNNSdlJKdwIMWZ7MKlMCpXchXdbB3tZp7R8CJ5-sVvJWmfcl18iyvADdMiy112UrEmh8dSul_lfqSb4R5D35v2p26tTgJx2M-HAUC/s1600/dog+bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrpailyVhdF6v9I_XviGWp3p0GUNeeIYBFJygNCaDNNSdlJKdwIMWZ7MKlMCpXchXdbB3tZp7R8CJ5-sVvJWmfcl18iyvADdMiy112UrEmh8dSul_lfqSb4R5D35v2p26tTgJx2M-HAUC/s320/dog+bed.jpg" wt="true" /></a></div>If I thought that standing in a pool of someone else's urine was a lousy way to begin a day, I was wrong. Yesterday morning as I stood over the toilet with plunger in hand, ankle deep in urine and toilet tissue, I said to myself, "Self...this HAS to be one of the worst ways EVER to start a day." <br />
<br />
What in the hell do I know?<br />
<br />
As my eyes tried to fight their way open this morning, The Duchess leaned over the edge of my bed and said, "Mommy? I am NOT happy today." <br />
<br />
Oy.<br />
<br />
Upon inquiry, I was informed that although the Countdown to Disneyland calendar I'd so craftily constructed for her was "very nice," she just could NOT wait any longer to go. There was more than a bit of whining as I gave my speech about time, and waiting and choosing to be happy, blah, blah, blah. <br />
<br />
We made our way downstairs and as I stood at the kitchen sink re-filling my water bottle to put in the freezer for a quick cool down, The Duchess looked at me and said, "You're going to get germs." Lovely. Here I am trying to save the planet by using a recycled water bottle and I'm getting blowback. *sigh*<br />
<br />
As I opened the freezer door, the words, "Oh, shit," involuntarily escaped my lips. Being the thoughtful mommy that I am, I'd come home yesterday from the store and stashed a bottle of sparkling apple juice in the freezer so that The Duchess could share a glass of "fancy special drink" with her daddy over dinner. This is one of her very favorite things to do and I needed to get that juice cooled down, STAT! <br />
<br />
In one catastrophic instant, Thoughtful Mommy was turned into Moronic Mommy as I opened the freezer and stared slack jawed at the apple slush and glass massacre inside.<br />
<br />
Damn, damn, DAMN! <br />
<br />
As I pulled out each shelf and bin with care and ease, green glass and frozen juice went everywhere. The Duchess kindly offered instruction from her perch on the kitchen counter. The dog discovered that she loved frozen apple juice, the bird discovered that landing on my head while I'm pissed off and standing in apple juice is NOT a good idea and I learned that little invisible shards of glass do not feel very pleasant when impaled in one's hand. Oh...I also learned that I hate...nay...DESPISE that damn alarm on my freezer door that beeps incessantly when the door has been open for more than thirty seconds. <br />
<br />
After the freezer was reassembled, the floor mopped, the counters cleaned and the juice filled towels washed, I settled down with my morning cup of hot chocolate. <br />
<br />
"MOM!" <br />
<br />
Crap.<br />
<br />
Apparently the Blu-ray player wasn't cooperating with The Duchess and needed a good talking to by Mom. As I fiddled with the thing and seemed to be getting nowhere, The Duchess sighed heavily and walked into the office and speed dialed Daddy for back up. <br />
<br />
So now I'm talking on the phone with Daddy, a.k.a. Technical Genius, and trying to figure out which of the four remotes operate the Blu-ray player. The Duchess is yapping in my ear and has decided that she's over the Disneyland debacle and is now "nervous about starting school." I can HEAR Alvin & the Chipmunks playing in the DVD player, but I can't SEE them. The Duchess is lamenting about school, the dog is barking, and the Technical Genius is now trying to tell me about a conversation he had on the phone with his grandfather this morning. <br />
<br />
Mr. Right: I got a call from Grampy this morning!<br />
<br />
Me: (Holding the phone between my neck and my ear while trying to press buttons on all of the remotes to see what works) Really?<br />
<br />
Mr. Right: Yeah. He's in Arizona and wants to know if we can come see him.<br />
<br />
Me: (Shaking the remotes one by one in the direction of the television) Of course we can.<br />
<br />
Mr. Right: Grampy said he was at Brand X Convenience Store in Texas and ran into a lady named Linda who knows me. Said she did work for me in Texas and Arizona and that we're friends. That either has to be Linda Y. or Linda Z!<br />
<br />
Me: Wow! Neat. What in the HELL are you doing with your phone?! It sounds like you're rubbing it against your butt!!<br />
<br />
Mr. Right: (Getting the idea that I'm irritated as hell) It's windy out here. Oh...okay...I'll talk to you later. Bye.<br />
<br />
As I hung the phone up, the wailing began.<br />
<br />
"I TOLD you I wanted to talk to Daddy when you were done!!" AAAGGGHHHH!!!<br />
<br />
And that's when it hit me. I OWE this child. <br />
<br />
Standing there with remotes in hand, Alvin & the Chipmunks screaming in my ear and The Duchess crying, I flashed back to last night. I'd become consumed with what I was doing in my office and had lost track of time. When I looked at the clock it was 10:30 and I hadn't put The Duchess to bed. As I scooted my chair away from the desk, my eye caught sight of The Duchess. Under my desk. Curled up with her puppy in the dog bed. Asleep. You see? I OWE her. She deserves some patience and understanding, because she has a disaster for a mommy sometimes. <br />
<br />
The phone has just jingled and it's Snotty. She needs lunch money before 1:25. It is currently 11:48 and I'm still in my jammies and covered in apple juice. So, off I go to the showers. As I'm tearing out of the garage on my way to the school, will you please keep your fingers crossed for me that I actually remember to take Snotty's lunch money <em>with</em> me? I'm having one of those days. You know the kind...<em>don't </em>you? *grin*Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-20704754627818265262010-05-12T00:01:00.000-07:002010-05-12T00:01:03.701-07:00Una Mas Cerveza, Por Favor<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwHUrmKW-e6AN9Zy5Mgei8t0phyphenhyphenfRc6p_mquXjDBH61J1QYbJZHrxeG6QaIL8tROCOSshSgmPXSYAd8JNz35eg1gvp7LEHhujnu-e78hTo3UQuDxxW6HpNt9K7HpzUmczhiGXZ7c-TFnKr/s1600/P4242048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwHUrmKW-e6AN9Zy5Mgei8t0phyphenhyphenfRc6p_mquXjDBH61J1QYbJZHrxeG6QaIL8tROCOSshSgmPXSYAd8JNz35eg1gvp7LEHhujnu-e78hTo3UQuDxxW6HpNt9K7HpzUmczhiGXZ7c-TFnKr/s320/P4242048.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">These words can only lead to trouble. And, bloat. </div><br />
Cabo San Lucas. Home of...hell if I know, but what a place! The cerveza flowed freely, Pesos were the name of the game and the cost of taxi rides to the exact same place every day, changed...every day.<br />
<br />
I missed Sammy Hagar by ONE day. Son of a bitch. <br />
<br />
My innards are now completely acclimated to Mexican fare and I can NOT stop eating food that lights me on fire. I did, however, cease injesting the grilled serrano peppers served as a side at nearly every taco stand. After three days of living with blisters and sores all over the inside of my mouth, I determined that I should forgo those little devils for the rest of the trip. It was a necessary sacrifice. My mouth was in full revolt.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">With sores fading but still present, I spent an entire day on Lover's Beach in the sun. My hair turned a lovely, more pale shade of yellow, my already tanned skin turned a deep shade of brownish red, and...my lips and eyes got sunburned. The next morning I looked like a blonde Mexican who'd been in a bar fight. My lower lip had doubled in size and my eyes were practically swollen shut.</div><br />
As a cure, I flung myself in a beach chair, in the sun...for six hours. It's quite possible the sun had damaged my brain.<br />
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</div>In all likelihood, I singlehandedly consumed five pounds of guacamole. Of the five nights I was in Cabo, I ate dinner exactly one night. The rest of the time my meals consisted of splitting gaucamole and various appetizers between the five of us...and beer. Ahhhh....Mexico.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The second day we were in Mexico, we went to the local Mega store. It's a cross between a grocery store and a Wal-Mart, but with antiquated cash registers, no A/C and unrecognizable food. It was an adventure attempting to find things we recognized and were agreeable to consuming. We searched for lunch meat...specifically turkey...and had almost given up after looking at clump after clump of Spam-like loaves of processed "meat." It was all identical in color and shape. *gag* As we were walking away from the deli, I spotted a familiar name. Oscar Mayer. All hail, Oscar Mayer!! We did a little dance right there in the middle of the store, high fiving one another for finding meat that actually appeared to have come from an actual turkey.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU0w0vzpZLj9ZtpRMRaU_FAXxKK9iq4E9tS5PZAhEP8JBHZ_6_jKmo0fk-yWIFUHrcyDFkTJf9Ix3PBywON_gsJDujt8vvJzuxwfQuwBXRjLF9gxzlSKjwsgz9yBKDMb03mTwNWDLcHtZJ/s1600/P4211899.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU0w0vzpZLj9ZtpRMRaU_FAXxKK9iq4E9tS5PZAhEP8JBHZ_6_jKmo0fk-yWIFUHrcyDFkTJf9Ix3PBywON_gsJDujt8vvJzuxwfQuwBXRjLF9gxzlSKjwsgz9yBKDMb03mTwNWDLcHtZJ/s320/P4211899.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After about an hour, we loaded our wagon (yes...an actual wagon) with the following:</div><ul><li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Coconut rum</li>
<li>Mango juice</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Sprite</li>
<li>Frozen strawberry daquiri mix</li>
<li>Bananas</li>
<li>Avocados (More guacamole, please!)</li>
<li>Cilantro (Sad, sad looking cilantro)</li>
<li>Tomatoes (Sad...SAD looking tomatoes)</li>
<li>Onion</li>
<li>Lime</li>
<li>Tortilla chips</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Turkey (2 packs!)</li>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Wonder wheat bread (did you know that Wonder made wheat bread?!)</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Kraft (YES!) Manchego cheese slices (who knew?!)</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">2 six-packs of Corona</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">2 six-packs of Pacifico</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">1 box of granola bars</li>
<li>Six diet Cokes (not a damn diet Dr. Pepper in the whole flippin' place)</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">1 chubby little round of Gouda cheese AND</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">a box of Garden Vegetable crackers</li>
</ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLFr5GSPioJ1cuSAjaE746ouClo1hWjWs9Gxr5doiwwSRXJOxtP2bju9Ev8DW7mfMVgD9aVuFt-SbrGTCWwC0SMmWhXjxgBR-1sjHVSqPNpqWmkeWywgdVXxc0skz_uIMeXjBN-9ZD4tX/s1600/P4211902.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXLFr5GSPioJ1cuSAjaE746ouClo1hWjWs9Gxr5doiwwSRXJOxtP2bju9Ev8DW7mfMVgD9aVuFt-SbrGTCWwC0SMmWhXjxgBR-1sjHVSqPNpqWmkeWywgdVXxc0skz_uIMeXjBN-9ZD4tX/s320/P4211902.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Rock and roll!!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We grabbed a beer, hit the pool and proceeded to work on our itinerary for the week. It went a little something like this:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><ol><li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Wake up</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Go to pool (with beer)</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Stay at pool until sun goes over the top of the condo and begins to disappear</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Go up to condo and grab a beer</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Take a shower and get dolled up</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Grab a beer</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Take a taxi somewhere, haggle with the driver over the price and over pay unintentionally</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Say we're going to eat dinner, but end up sharing appetizers and drinking beer</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Talk loud, talk dirty, use bad language and behave altogether like a bunch of 40-something women turned loose in Mexico</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Order more beer</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Find a place to dance to music not played by a mariachi band and shut the place down</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Hail a taxi, swear at the driver in piss poor Spanish because the cab ride for some reason has now increased by 100 Pesos. </li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Arrive at condo and unintentionally over pay the driver</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Sleep. To hell with the sand in the sheets.</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Wake up and start all over again.</li>
</ol><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Now that, my friends...is a vacation. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPcolMod2k_j8dtn_o7Fm6jlqZYNZviSkKW80U9ivEmomuEcuoYkMVcGZUCBMFKR1a7L6XRpg_ubJtJfeRIBRyzLS8Ztvgt-CR3ekz4bZ1HUUmnGl2HChrD2IwA2ij5zYA3YpVbxniQXXY/s1600/P4211918.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPcolMod2k_j8dtn_o7Fm6jlqZYNZviSkKW80U9ivEmomuEcuoYkMVcGZUCBMFKR1a7L6XRpg_ubJtJfeRIBRyzLS8Ztvgt-CR3ekz4bZ1HUUmnGl2HChrD2IwA2ij5zYA3YpVbxniQXXY/s320/P4211918.JPG" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-29110382049551034702010-05-07T00:01:00.000-07:002010-05-07T00:01:03.161-07:00Why I Fell Off The Blog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMnmTi6d8vbms1lNj7TAiNIVSjBDfU8pin3d61ECk5FJ6dGY98C6mnb_WC_aPipVNravW-53xFpP-qVciXJRoQ2szrEU6lpLm4D-IciYrHehdWvVovmyUcIvkOeHVqe9Raa4PnqSAK1h8/s1600/Falling+off+log.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhMnmTi6d8vbms1lNj7TAiNIVSjBDfU8pin3d61ECk5FJ6dGY98C6mnb_WC_aPipVNravW-53xFpP-qVciXJRoQ2szrEU6lpLm4D-IciYrHehdWvVovmyUcIvkOeHVqe9Raa4PnqSAK1h8/s320/Falling+off+log.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">It's my mother's fault. </div><br />
Actually, it's my own damn fault for allowing my mother to screw with my head again, but I get a wee bit of glee trying to pin it on Mommy Dearest. I sometimes live in the Land of Delusion. It's not such a bad place but I only like to visit every now and then, as it's never very sunny there.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo...it went down like this:<br />
<br />
A few days after writing the blog, "A Letter To My Sister," I was coming out of the semi-annual appointment to have my sparkly whites cleaned and rotated. As I was fastening my seatbelt, I looked down at my phone and noticed that Middle Sister had left a message. As is my modus operandi, instead of listening to the message, I just picked up the phone and dialed her number. <br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> Hey, Middle Sister! I just saw that you called. I was in the dentist's office. What's up?<br />
<br />
<strong>Middle Sister:</strong> The. Shit. Has. Hit. The. Fan. <br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> What? What's going on? <br />
<br />
<strong>Middle Sister:</strong> Are you sitting down?<br />
<br />
Oy.<br />
<br />
I shan't go into all of the gory details because, quite frankly, I still don't know them all and don't care to. The long and the short of it is that our estranged older sister (Let's call her, Crazy, shall we?) who has wanted nothing to do with our family for decades and who tries to pretend we don't exist and who most likely tells all of her friends that she's an only child who was adopted by elderly philanthropists who kicked the bucket shortly after her adoption... read my blog. She then, with all of the self righteous indignation she could muster, (which is a shit load by the way, as she is well practiced) called my estranged father to attempt to obtain a phone number for Little Sister, whom, by my best guess hadn't heard from Crazy in about fifteen years. <br />
<br />
Reflecting back, I'd received a phone call from my father about a week before but hadn't picked up due to not having enough brain power at that particular moment to deal with that particular piece of history.<br />
<br />
Apparently, after not reaching me, our pater familias (who by the way hadn't attempted contact with me in over two years) called Middle Sister and asked for Little Sister's phone number, which he promptly passed on to Crazy.<br />
<br />
Whew! You still with me here?<br />
<br />
Crazy then jumped on her white high horse and rode from New Mexico to Oklahoma to blaze in and save the day. She convinced Little Sister that she needed a new beginning (which had been offered to her on numerous occassions by numerous people) and then proceeded to pack Little Sister's shit, load it into a U-Haul and ride off into the sunset.<br />
<br />
Well, Bessie bar the door. My mama's baby done up and left her. <br />
<br />
So, for the first time since my car wreck in December of 2007, Mommy Dearest called me.<br />
<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: Hello?<br />
<br />
<strong>Mommy Dearest:</strong> Hello, Amy. I know it's been a long time since I've called and that I don't talk to you very often, but (chuckling uncomfortably) I guess there's a reason for that. <br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> I suppose there is.<br />
<br />
And it all went to hell from there.<br />
<br />
She then proceed to alternately berate me for "betraying" Little Sister by penning such a horrible letter and posting it on my blog, and make statements such as, "Well, I guess something good has come out of it because Little Sister has a place to live and is being taken care of." <br />
<br />
Ultimately, I was condemded for my wicked, wicked betrayal, no matter the good she percieved it may have wrought. I reverted right back into the berated child with no self confidence and no voice.<br />
<br />
As she repeated the word, "betrayal" for the upteenth time, Grown Up Amy finally had enough. I stopped Mommy Dearest mid lecture and said, "I'm not keeping your secrets any more. These were <em>my</em> thoughts that I put into writing and put on <em>my </em>blog.I spoke <em>my</em> truth. I didn't use Little Sister's name and I used a picture that was twenty years old. The only reason you even know about it is because Crazy stalks my blog for some insane reason. I have no room left in my life for this chaos." <br />
<br />
And that's that. <br />
<br />
I've spent the past couple of months trying to mentally regroup. I had to figure out exactly what it was that made me want to find a cave and do nothing but sleep and talk to bats. The desire to write was zapped from me instantly after that call. Bats seemed like a reasonable alternative to family.<br />
<br />
It's all been sorted and re-sorted and compartmentalized. I allowed myself to momentarily lose the voice I've worked so hard at trying to tune and that just pissed me off. I also allowed criticism of something I wrote to affect my <em>desire</em> to write. Tsk, tsk.<br />
<br />
Almost daily for two months I thought about subjects about which to write and then summarily dismissed each of them. Nothing seemed to fit, nothing seemed to flow. By the time I finally sat down to write, my brain cells seemed to have forgotten the routine. In the middle of all of this re-grouping, I'd been asked to do some freelance work and I spent a few hours hacking away at some content for a legal website. I submitted my writing and to date, have not heard back from them. My confidence in Self, is battered a bit. Okay. It's smashed into a billion bits. Damn lawyers.<br />
<br />
To say "I'm back," might be pushing it a little. I <em>want</em> to be back. I <em>want</em> to write. It's what I truly enjoy doing. I never intended for people to read what I wrote, but have been so thrilled that people <em>have</em> read my ramblings and that they have reached out and commiserated and shared their stories with me. It has been so enlightening to hear so many common voices from seemingly vastly different people and it has strengthened my faith in humanity. So, stroke by stroke, I will regain my voice <span style="font-size: large;">and I will sound my barbaric</span> <strong><span style="font-size: x-large;">YAWP</span></strong> <span style="font-size: large;">over the rooftops of the world!!</span> Or maybe just over the Land of Blog. But, you get my drift.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-87323878959691483972010-05-04T22:19:00.000-07:002010-05-04T22:20:24.594-07:00Beatle Wisdom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0yo7oAwZOlWbp2urs-UPIu6A2dxLyI1fDB6URj6siGmYfGOAWVTrIaVdVJkJnamuFIeI0Qqbub5e3mjBMKRVdobr2frgV5jR-rvnJGtJ4tLvSy_lIWl0mjd834NEbzLPUuAhRVCk-0KCl/s1600/Beetle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0yo7oAwZOlWbp2urs-UPIu6A2dxLyI1fDB6URj6siGmYfGOAWVTrIaVdVJkJnamuFIeI0Qqbub5e3mjBMKRVdobr2frgV5jR-rvnJGtJ4tLvSy_lIWl0mjd834NEbzLPUuAhRVCk-0KCl/s320/Beetle.jpg" tt="true" /></a></div>Ad nauseam, I have heard variations on the quote, "Everything happens for a reason." I call bullshit. What logical and rational basis is there for that load of horse puckey?<br />
<br />
Nothing happens for a reason. Things just happen. Some events we are able to control or direct, or at best, alter the outcome. Other things...many things...most things, just <em>are</em>. <br />
<br />
I've been watching and listening for years now and I've developed what I'm sure is not an original theory. It is my belief that the major source of unhappiness/depression/anxiety...label it what you will, is due to the unwavering and ignorant belief that everything does indeed happen for a reason. We spend our lives analyzing the events that are the daily stuff of living, turning over the "what ifs" and "if onlys" until our brains can no longer process it all. <br />
<br />
As human beings, we seem to be wired to immediately attempt to explain things we don't understand, even at the risk of irrational thinking. Throughout history, humanity has conjured up gods of the earth, sea, underworld, heavens, etc. in order to explain the unexplainable. Modern day religions conjure up gods who are supposed to personally care and watch over each and every being on the planet, while all over the Earth each day, thousands die heinous deaths from starvation, torture, natural disasters and disease. <br />
<br />
For most of the "big" stuff...like earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, tornadoes and other natural disasters, scientists have pretty much figured it out. Scientists know why they happen, how they happen and can predict with some accuracy, when they might happen. But...they can't control them. Natural disasters just <em>are. </em><br />
<br />
Science has also advanced so dramatically over the years that doctors can, with astounding accuracy, determine what ails you and remedy that ailment. Bones can be replaced with metal, hearts can be repaired using animal organs and fetuses can be operated on while still attached to the womb. It's not perfect, but they pretty much have this figured out as well. Doctors sometimes fail and cannot save every life, and they've not yet figured out how to halt the aging process so that we can live forever, but we must accept that death is a part of life. Death just <em>is.</em><br />
<br />
When I was in a car accident a couple of years ago, the physical result was a shattered collarbone and a fractured hip. I spent weeks and months in pain and was a horrible beast because I wanted to be "whole" again. After the pain medications and the anti-inflammatories were no longer a part of my daily life, my brain had a chance to review things a bit. What it concluded was this: I was no longer "whole" and would <em>never</em> be. There was a choice to be made. I could be a beast and whine and moan, despairing for the loss of my perfectly functioning skeletal system, or I could accept that my accident just <em>was</em>. Could I have done things differently? Maybe. Could I have changed the outcome? Maybe. I don't know the answers to those questions and never will. What I do know, without a doubt, is that this and every other negative occurrence in my life is simply a part of life. <br />
<br />
Over the course of our evolution as human beings, we have un-learned our natural coping skills. We have advanced so far technologically and have had so many things made easier for us, that we <em>expect</em> ease. In essence, we have <em>de</em>-volved. Coping skills keep us functioning, happy and emotionally healthy. Without these skills, we languish in despair and hopelessness, waiting for someone to drop in and solve our problems for us and to make our lives easier. <br />
<br />
Life <em>isn't</em> easy. It also isn't half as bad for most of us as we make it out to be. In most developed countries, life for the majority of people doesn't "suck" or even come close. There are far too many creature comforts, too much food, too much of everything for us to want for much. What makes our lives "suck" is our own self-indulgence, self-pity and inability to accept and understand that shit happens. <br />
<br />
True happiness comes when you <em>finally</em>, really and truly understand the "shit happens," concept. Sometimes, yes, it's really bad shit. However, no matter how bad it is, we always have a choice. We can either choose to roll around and wallow in said shit, or we can trudge out of it, wipe off our boots and get on with it. <br />
<br />
Yes...this is slightly over simplifying things. I understand fully that sometimes we need professional intervention, time and self awareness to "get on with it," but that's all a part of reaching an understanding that we <em>do</em> need to get on with it and seeking out appropriate resources to aid us in that process.<br />
<br />
My happiness comes from the knowledge that life is a series of peaks and valleys and that although the valleys may sometimes seem vast and deep, if I pedal my ass off, there will most certainly be revealed a delightful and breathtaking peak. My happiness also comes from eliminating those people from my life who refuse to acknowledge the peaks. I have no room for those who are standing atop a beautiful mountain and are constantly looking down and whining, "But...look at that <strong><em>VALLEY</em></strong>!" <br />
<br />
The inevitable stage of my life has come where I realize that those old people weren't full of shit when they told me that, "life is short." You bet your ass it is. Much too short to blame, whine, kvetch, wallow and lament.<br />
<br />
If you need to talk about things to sort them all out, I'm all ears. If you want to use those things as an excuse not to make progress in your life or to be happy, don't let the door hit you on the way out.<br />
<br />
Life can be a real bitch sometimes, but it can also be the most joyous and amazing experience. It's not an all or nothing proposition, this life. We get the good with the bad. Once we learn to just let things <em>be</em>, the good just seems to get better and better.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>speaking words of wisdom, let it be. </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me, </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>speaking words of wisdom, let it be. </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be. </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Whisper words of wisdom, let it be. </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree, </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>there will be an answer, let it be. </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>For though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see, </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>there will be an answer, let it be. </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Let it be, let it be, ..... </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light, that shines on me, </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>shine until tomorrow, let it be. </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>I wake up to the sound of music, mother Mary comes to me, </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>speaking words of wisdom, let it be. </strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Let it be, let it be, ..... </strong></div><br />
<br />
<em>(When Paul McCartney of the Beatles was experiencing an anxious and trying time in his life, he had a dream in which his mother, Mary McCartney, came to him and told him to just let things "be." He in turn, sat down and penned the classic, "Let it Be." Wise woman, that Mary. And...good son, that Paul.)</em><br />
<br />
P.S. Yes, I'm aware the beetle in the photo was not one of the Beatles. But he is a cute little fellow, isn't he? Sitting there all Zen-like...just letting it be.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-50705913823919670262010-04-09T12:17:00.000-07:002010-04-09T12:17:36.635-07:00The Hoosegow Blues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizzkDYWEID7ybCIKxg6DIXsfBOtg32D0EwIyNzM2370CQxBXbdbrkdc-StYs9fPXbkC3xcnfuKFrxinQ-NGXIlrQLvTSJTVlgYziIVQsgvMgRnDg55YW0j0jiKLl0-suPVWrQnCp2WbfEe/s1600/Shackles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizzkDYWEID7ybCIKxg6DIXsfBOtg32D0EwIyNzM2370CQxBXbdbrkdc-StYs9fPXbkC3xcnfuKFrxinQ-NGXIlrQLvTSJTVlgYziIVQsgvMgRnDg55YW0j0jiKLl0-suPVWrQnCp2WbfEe/s200/Shackles.jpg" width="168" wt="true" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">Oftentimes and against my will, the sleepy little neurons lollygagging around in my head wake up and start poking around in piles of old and long forgotten files. When they’ve found one they feel is of interest, they fling it with abandon into the inbox of my brain. The hateful little bastards have a nasty habit of doing this when I least expect it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A few days ago, Mr. Right and I were in the car on our way to a hotel we’d booked for our anniversary weekend. I was gazing out of the window watching the cars go by when suddenly and without warning, those dastardly neurons slam dunked a file into my inbox.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">N96154. What? What’s this? Wait...yes… I know this.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">There I was, on the way to spending an enjoyable weekend with my husband, and those evil little beasts who reside in my head go and find the old file containing my father’s prison number. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You’re nasty little devils, you are. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My father was in prison for thirteen years and has been out for eight. For thirteen years I wrote that number on every piece of mail I sent to him. In the past eight years I’ve spoken to him maybe six times, and yet my brain steadfastly refuses to purge those old files. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Thirteen years of old files. Thirteen precious years. Years I spent giving birth to, and raising the grandchildren he’s never met. Thirteen years of carrying around fear, remorse, guilt and shame over a burden that was not mine to bear. Thirteen years of writing letters, taking collect calls and hoping, hoping, hoping that those words about how changed and sorry he was were true, only to find out during the next eight that he wasn’t changed at all. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m very well aware that it was my father who spent thirteen years behind bars. But sometimes…sometimes…it feels like I’m the one doing time.</div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-90646856705559406742010-01-26T15:47:00.001-08:002012-02-23T16:38:54.330-08:00Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTh_eZHHs28dhneZ-SHWVpSheydF7uC5ZQOMnefAWtjnqjjf0vv-XmY07NVemUOrXrtkt5IM04tOq6gWlVIb4MEyc9Cv970p6_ITvNcJQrVDo3jSGCi4IFXvoJVX8-Ne_i-Clez4iIqK5R/s1600-h/FingersCrossed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" mt="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTh_eZHHs28dhneZ-SHWVpSheydF7uC5ZQOMnefAWtjnqjjf0vv-XmY07NVemUOrXrtkt5IM04tOq6gWlVIb4MEyc9Cv970p6_ITvNcJQrVDo3jSGCi4IFXvoJVX8-Ne_i-Clez4iIqK5R/s320/FingersCrossed.jpg" /></a></div>To borrow a phrase, "Bad choices make for great stories". 2009 must have been a stellar year for me in choice making because I have no good stories. Or, maybe 2009 was the year my mind finally began to fail and I just can't remember a damned thing. Either way, here I sit, twenty-six days into 2010 and all I can think of is how this so called, "New Year," feels suspiciously very much like the old one. *<em>sigh</em>*<br />
<br />
2009 really stunk it up for most of the world in general and not a day went by that the headlines weren't filled with gloom and doom. The national unemployment rate was the highest since the Great Depression. Our country's families spent yet another year losing its daughters and sons in wars no one quite seems to understand. Banks that were "too big to fail" took billions of dollars from taxpayers in order to avoid "economic collapse" as we all stood by with empty pockets, watched them hand out multi-million dollar bonuses to each other and...watched our economy collapse. The stock market dipped and rose wildly while many of us watched our retirement plans and our homes lose half their value. The hope we so wildly clung to at the beginning of the year faded to a dull gray as the months of war between the Left and the Right raged on, oblivious to the ever-worsening plight of "We the People." <br />
<br />
If I didn't regularly pay someone $85 to color my hair the shade of Denial, I'm sure I would have noticed that it all turned gray in 2009. It was a year of worrying, fretting, wringing my hands and trying to comprehend the unbelievable display of greedy, hateful, intolerant, dogmatic, partisan and downright ridiculous behavior of our nation's citizens.<br />
<br />
It was a year during which millions of those who proclaimed themselves "Christians," donated a mind-blowing amount of money and worked tirelessly to squash a proposition which would have allowed millions of other Americans the right to marry the ones they loved. It was a year in which racism awoke from hibernation, rose up, and reared its ugly sleepy head to let the world know that it was indeed alive and well. It was a year which left our nation divided against itself, and a year which left many of us in fear that our nation could not stand. <br />
<br />
2009 was also a year that saw Mr. Right holding firmly to his job. Yes, his wages were frozen and cutbacks were made, but he had a job to go to every day and brought home a paycheck without fail. Our health benefits stayed intact and his annual bonus survived the crisis. It was a year during which the cost of everything went up from groceries to credit card interest rates, but with a snip and a clip or three to the budget, we made it through just fine. It was a year we all stayed healthy minus a couple of mild cases of Swine Flu and some sneezes and wheezes here and there. It was a year in which we determined to bloom where we'd been planted and began the journey of discovering friends and making a life in this forsaken hellhole of a desert. (Okay, I admit it...I'm still working through the whole, "I hate Arizona," issue. Give me a break.) All in all, boring and mundane as it was, 2009 was a year we made it through relatively unscathed.<br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">On the eve of 2010, I was gently nudged awake by Mr. Right who proceeded to plant a kiss on my lips and say, "Happy New Year!" And, that was that. (Try not to envy our wild and crazy life.)</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The dawn of 2010 brought with it no fanfare, no bright and happy headlines and no new glimmer in the air that the winds of change might shortly begin to blow. No, it brought with it merely the rising of our same old warm and wonderful sun and later that evening, the remainder of a blue moon that looked familiar, peaceful and reassuring. In the following days as I heard the repeated refrains of, "Happy New Year," I smiled a little smile and whispered, "I hope...I hope...I hope." </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-18141653304244336312009-12-26T08:14:00.000-08:002009-12-26T08:14:28.660-08:00And The Myth Goes On...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn_gXeR4P1ANsqPHRWFgI1t22YOKADqNxdUDaMn5bi1zqRsWH02bPsh6P7SP4TQuUdZTPk0-QZgKUKZbdJzJ224iSWJFot3R0AnarVcrorF3uUzWAEd2gjtKLv4t8HCgzLpX9ActXYOLK6/s1600-h/Christmas+Morning+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn_gXeR4P1ANsqPHRWFgI1t22YOKADqNxdUDaMn5bi1zqRsWH02bPsh6P7SP4TQuUdZTPk0-QZgKUKZbdJzJ224iSWJFot3R0AnarVcrorF3uUzWAEd2gjtKLv4t8HCgzLpX9ActXYOLK6/s320/Christmas+Morning+3.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
Seeing as how I don't believe in fairytales of any sort, I've already told The Duchess that Santa is a bunch of hooey. Of course, I put it to her in more p.c. terms than that, but the message was clear. <br />
<br />
Poor sweet girl. For the past month her head has been filled with Christmas movies on television, all of which feature Santa and or Mrs. Santa, pictures of chubby elves peering off every advertisement and songs about Jolly Old St. Nick being piped over the Muzak system in every store. She just can't quite reconcile what I've told her with the reality of seeing the fat bearded man at the mall holding children on his lap and looking quite obviously like Santa. She knows I've never lied to her, but she SEES him with her own eyes for hell's sake! <br />
<br />
So I continue to play along and label her Christmas gifts with tags that read, "To: The Duchess, From: Santa." Rudolph gives her gifts, as well as Buddy the Elf and Vixen and Mrs. Claus are very generous as well. <br />
<br />
As is tradition in our house on Christmas morning, Daddy reads the tag and hands the gift to the appropriate beaming recipient.<br />
<br />
Daddy: "To The Duchess from Mrs. Claus!"<br />
The Duchess: *squeal!*<br />
Daddy: "To The Duchess from Donner!"<br />
The Duchess: "Oh my gosh!" *squeal!*<br />
Daddy: "To The Duchess from Buddy the Elf!"<br />
The Duchess: "Buddy?!" *squeal<br />
<br />
So on Christmas morning as The Duchess was nearing the end of unwrapping the ginormous pile of gifts bestowed upon her by various reindeer, elves and members of the Claus family, she looked at me and said, "Mommy...now go get the presents that you and Daddy got me!" <br />
<br />
Mmmm hmmm. Those damn fairytales will screw you over every time.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-31493085590117649332009-12-17T09:49:00.000-08:002009-12-17T09:49:52.074-08:00A Letter To My Sister<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIeSO3Xq__thSzm-7kc-KpFVH5epnuD5l52imSsYEe5ihryKxkN4HL4I6ObRrVeOq_ilkHBtQ4myw2r_WPeBIHHyfJ22DPK7iVuGPcG73mYeA-Y6ZaC_zeKcKpj9wud2ajEHI0LoFTyZDn/s1600-h/Summer040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIeSO3Xq__thSzm-7kc-KpFVH5epnuD5l52imSsYEe5ihryKxkN4HL4I6ObRrVeOq_ilkHBtQ4myw2r_WPeBIHHyfJ22DPK7iVuGPcG73mYeA-Y6ZaC_zeKcKpj9wud2ajEHI0LoFTyZDn/s320/Summer040.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Dear Little Sister,<br />
<br />
Middle Sister has recently informed me of your latest drama. Once again, you have no job, no money, no food and are spending your days in your pajamas waiting for the eviction notice you know is inevitable. <br />
<br />
Instead of being actively engaged in the pursuit of employment and housing, you are schlepping around your apartment complaining of feeling sick. No surprise. That's what happens when your body isn't getting the drugs it's used to ingesting. Such is the sorry state of a junkie.<br />
<br />
You told Niece that your family hates you and that they are too judgmental. Only one of those accusations is correct. I don't hate you, but I most certainly have passed judgment on you. Your actions over the past several years have been pathetic and despicable. There has been much to judge.<br />
<br />
For many years, Little Sister, you have been an addict. Because it is the nature of addiction, you have lied to everyone around you including those who loved you most. You have not only been a user of drugs, but a user of people. You will always be able to find drugs, Little Sister, but you will not always be able to find people who are willing to help you. Eventually they grow tired of giving you money, being lied to, listening to excuses and bailing you out of disaster after self-created disaster. They grow weary in their hearts of watching you self-destruct despite their many attempts at helping you.<br />
<br />
When you stole prescription drugs from my home, it was the last straw for me. My husband and I had opened our home to you and offered you a new start. You had assured me that you were ready to begin a new drug free chapter in your life and I believed you. Within days, you repaid us for our offers of a place to live and help finding a job by stealing from us. After years of watching you make poor choice after poor choice and seeing the trail of burned bridges and human destruction you'd left behind, I was finished.<br />
<br />
Our mother wouldn't, or wasn't able to turn you away. As she repeatedly gave you shelter both physically and emotionally, you used and abused her at every turn. She was the one person in your life who wasn't willing to give up just yet and you did nothing but take advantage of her and abuse her motherly compassion.<br />
<br />
You certainly knew how to work the system, I'll give you that. Not only do I not understand the mind of an addict, I don't understand how a person can manipulate and connive with such ease. How did you escape going to jail when you were caught red-handed writing prescriptions for yourself on a prescription pad from the doctor for whom you worked? He'd given you the ultimatum of rehab or jail and you spent one hour at rehab. How many times have you evaded rehab now? Five...six? It's been too difficult to keep track. <br />
<br />
While you were a minor, Mother had the chance to help you, but you did a fabulous job of convincing her that you didn't belong in that awful place with those messed up people and that you weren't one of them. She didn't have the fortitude to keep you in rehab long enough for them to help you and now it's too late. You are a thirty-four year old woman who is penniless, homeless and friendless. No one can force you to get help now. No one can make you clean up. Unfortunately, you have pissed away every opportunity you've ever been given and spit in every helping hand offered you.<br />
<br />
You have done things I cannot imagine. They are the things I see on television shows and movies that turn my stomach. They are the degrading and pathetic acts of miserable junkies who live only to score their next fix. You have never once that I've known of, accepted responsibility for your actions. It's always been someone else's fault. Someone else made you do it. Someone else, someone else. Never you. <br />
<br />
So yes, Little Sister, I judge you. I know where you come from and I know the opportunities you've been given and then thrown away. I know firsthand that your childhood was far from ideal, but it's bullshit to keep using that as an excuse. There comes a point when you must realize that you are no longer subject to the whim and will of your abusers and that you have choices to be made about which direction to take in life. You have chosen not to move forward. You are not even stagnant. You are humanity in decay.<br />
<br />
There are pictures of you from your childhood that are heartbreaking to look at now; pictures of a sweet, cherubic and devilish child, full to the brim with loving adulation from her parents. Do you remember your first words? They weren't the typical first words of a child. They were, "I pitty." Translated as, "I'm pretty." You must have heard, "You're so pretty," a thousand times a day for the first few years of your life. Dad was in love with you and Mom referred to you as her "Miracle Baby." Sure, as was typical of Dad, once you hit puberty, he emotionally abandoned you as he did the rest of us, but you had a fierce and loyal ally and guardian in our mother. That is something that the rest of us grew up without. I consider you having had an advantage over us. <br />
<br />
Regardless...whatever the perceived issues were that inspired you to make the brilliant decision not to finish high school, right down to the decision that ingesting drugs would be a swell idea, are not ones that the rest of us didn't have or that the rest of the world hasn't had and worse. The difference is that you had so many opportunities to right yourself and didn't take them. You had a mother who would do anything in the world for you and you abused her. Middle Sister has given you thousands of dollars over the years and attempted to be a confidant and friend and you have repeatedly taken advantage of her good heart and compassion. I have paid bills for you, given you places to live and helped you find jobs. In return, you have lied to me, stolen from me and abused my trust.<br />
<br />
I have the odd and (to my husband) disconcerting ability to be able to break things down and compartmentalize them. I know that you are my sister and I have compassion for you, but I also know that you're an addict and I cannot knowingly expose my family to your lifestyle. Being "family" is not an automatic pass to use and abuse people simply because you share the same DNA. <br />
<br />
Every now and then, those compartments break down a little and I have momentary flashes of fear. I fear hearing the phone ring one day and picking it up to hear Middle Sister's voice on the phone telling me that you are gone. Not the "gone" you are now, but the real and terrifying final version. When I think about it, I want to take you by your emaciated shoulders and shake you and tell you how selfish you are and and how your choices have affected us and that if you die, it will be the end of so many things.<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It will be the end of a life so full of potential. It will be the end of a sweet, funny and bubbly girl who had a world of possibilities at her feet. It will be the end of The Colclasure Sisters. As scattered and tattered as we may be, we are a group united by secrets, fears, laughter, shared memories and love. It will be the end of our mother as we know her because since the day you were born, you have been perfect and flawless in her eyes. <br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It makes me angry and sad to think about because I know that if you die, a little piece of me dies with you. I don't hate you, Little Sister, but I don't know who you are anymore to love you either. Maybe the real Little Sister is still inside of you somewhere, or maybe she has already left in order to save herself. In either case, I miss the girl who walks like me, laughs like me and who was always a willing party in my wicked and warped sense of humor. <br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>I would be forever grateful to have her back.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
<br />
Amy<br />
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</div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-82388094760871616382009-12-16T21:02:00.000-08:002009-12-17T09:12:32.160-08:00What I Should Have Said...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPhrUmiplDqn5ULX81K23IjN7ktNdiYfWQk8aK0VGsUKQh7CbuPFKmNNYYYJhddd0MZ4RDiSqk1481V1HDN_madBsJSjhT-eal4FGIKvBxJspvPYwVhqOafy-FYaoQPzDxJJWdjA18B4U5/s1600-h/telephoneangry-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPhrUmiplDqn5ULX81K23IjN7ktNdiYfWQk8aK0VGsUKQh7CbuPFKmNNYYYJhddd0MZ4RDiSqk1481V1HDN_madBsJSjhT-eal4FGIKvBxJspvPYwVhqOafy-FYaoQPzDxJJWdjA18B4U5/s320/telephoneangry-1.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>This past Saturday morning as I was cleaning my kitchen after a lovely breakfast with my family, you interrupted my bliss with a phone call. "Riiiinngggg.....riiiiinnngggggggg!!!! Hello. This is Mr. Non English Speaking Asshole from A-Holes R Us Collection Agency and we'd like to speak to M.C. please." <br />
<br />
Shock was apparent in my voice as I almost squawked, "How did you get this number for HER?!" I barely listened as you explained quickly that you got your information from "several different sources" and that you would remove our home phone number from your call list. <br />
<br />
The second I let the handset drop back into its resting place, an overly loud, "SHIT" uncontrollably escaped my lips. I'd allowed myself to lose my composure and had let an opportunity slip right through my fingers. <br />
<br />
So, here goes. This is what I SHOULD have said to you while I had you on the line.<br />
<br />
"Are you fucking KIDDING me?! You're calling MY house NINE years after my husband divorced this woman?! You're interrupting the morning with my family so that you can try to collect a bill from a woman who hasn't EVER had this phone number and who has NEVER lived in this house?! Have you ever heard of the fucking INTERNET?! Try typing her name into Google and you'll find out where she works. Open up Smartpages.com and type in her name and you'll find her address and phone number. Take a quick peek at her credit report (which you friggin' have access to, you a-holes) and you'll get just about any piece of information you need. But noooooo. You track US down several states away in our new home and call US on a Saturday morning to try to collect a debt from HER. UnfreakinBELIEVABLE. <br />
<br />
And, oh. Remember when I had my car accident two years ago and had just come home from the emergency room in an immobilizer and was loaded on painkillers and you rang our doorbell at 2:00 a.m. to repossess HER car? Yeah...you remember. You rang the doorbell on my ten month old home that my husband and I had just built, in order to repossess a car that we had never owned and knew nothing about that was registered in HER name. Sure. I know how you got our address. Her name was listed as a former owner on the car I'd just wrecked. Did you hear that? FORMER FUCKING OWNER! If she'd FORMERLY held joint title on the car, but no longer did, why in the hell would she be at the current address listed on the title?! <br />
<br />
You people are not only assholes, you're moronic idiots who have no grasp of common sense and who don't even possess the intellectual ability to use the simplest forms of modern technology. In less than five minutes, I located several of her former employers, found out where she currently works, where she lives and what her phone number is. I also found that she's on Match.com and on Facebook, both of which list her location and other personal information. <br />
<br />
We've paid all of her bills we're going to pay. Nine years and almost $40,000 later, we are free from any financial obligation ever tied to her. We've endured nine years of letters in our mailbox addressed to her and nine years of phone calls from collection agencies trying to track her down. We made it through the financial shit storm SHE walked away from by filing bankruptcy. We paid debts that weren't ours to pay and at times we were almost crushed by the burden of it. We not only survived those years, we came out on the other side and have thrived in spite of it. <br />
<br />
So, Mr. Collection Agency, if you ever call us again, I'm going to be much more coherent and I'm going to tell you EXACTLY how to find her, including drawing you a fucking picture if I have to. <br />
<br />
Have a lovely day, and...fuck you."Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5937122622489509841.post-60908688353035251742009-12-02T13:14:00.000-08:002011-06-24T22:49:11.594-07:00You Are Beautiful Like a Rainbow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRSG8SsX0_cCOpAtFRUUuiVRvZEGVJPqzEEdN59vph7YNxTzv-icO35CfhCoU0nW1JodmIPFJfA057aUyZeX4Aki3jL3EgsGFelnXdVAkfjAjtxfayh-2LDeSpra3uKhG6OtzkRuDvMiRD/s1600-h/Rainbow+heart.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410756496436974834" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRSG8SsX0_cCOpAtFRUUuiVRvZEGVJPqzEEdN59vph7YNxTzv-icO35CfhCoU0nW1JodmIPFJfA057aUyZeX4Aki3jL3EgsGFelnXdVAkfjAjtxfayh-2LDeSpra3uKhG6OtzkRuDvMiRD/s400/Rainbow+heart.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<div><div>There is a debt of gratitude I owe. To Mark, Denise, Kyle, Jeffrey, Brian and Eli, I thank you.<br />
<br />
You were among the very first who allowed me into your lives and who opened my eyes, mind and heart. You showed me without even knowing it, what I had somehow always known; that “gay” and “lesbian,” are just labels, not definitions.<br />
<br />
In your homes, I have seen your family pictures hanging from the walls and they remind me of the pictures strewn around my home. “We are all brothers and sisters,” those pictures whisper.<br />
<br />
You have shown me wit, intelligence, humor, compassion, friendship and generosity beyond measure. Together, we have laughed, cried and behaved sillier than adults probably should. You have literally doctored my family and I with compassion and diligence and you have visited me in the hospital when I was scared and in need of a comforting hand. You have defended me when I was incapable of defending myself and I am forever grateful.<br />
<br />
We have remodeled bathrooms together, danced together, cooked for each other and shared the most intimate contents of our hearts. You have taught me more than you will ever know.<br />
<br />
What you have taught me in part, is that being “gay” or “lesbian” is no different from being “French” or “American.” Those labels give one only a minute bit of insight into who a person actually is. They absolutely do not define you. What you have taught me, is that by keeping my heart and my mind open, the world suddenly becomes a much larger place filled with possibilities for creating friends and adding to my family.<br />
<br />
Because of you, I now have so many other beautiful men and women in my life who make me smile and touch my heart. Without these dear and darling humans, my life would be such a drab and boring place to live. They have welcomed me into their homes and hearts with open arms and I just cannot thank them enough. I hope we have many, many more wonderful times together.<br />
<br />
Your true colors shine through and I wish the world could see your light for what it is. My heart breaks for the injustices that stifle you and which attempt to deny you the pursuit of happiness. Please know that I stand with you, hand in hand, in your quest for equality.<br />
<br />
To Kyle and Jeffery: I love you as though you’re brothers from another mother. I take pride in your successes and anguish over your losses and stumbles. I will always be here to hold your hands and go through it all with you, if you will allow me that privilege.<br />
<br />
To Eli: There are things about you I will never forget. I ache that you are ill and that your time on the planet has been far too short. I hold in my heart funny and beautiful memories of a funny and beautiful man.<br />
<br />
To Brian: Your generosity and warmth is amazing. You are kind and loving and thoughtful beyond reason. I’m so glad to call you “friend” and so happy that you are a good and loving partner to my Jeffrey.<br />
<br />
To Mark and Denise: You two define “family” in such a beautiful way. Even through the exasperation and frustration I know has been felt at times you always know at the end of the day that you love each other without question. You have pulled together in extraordinary ways to care for your parents with love, humor and compassion. You are both wonderful and talented human beings whom I admire greatly.<br />
<br />
So lovely people...thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You have added color, joy, love and humor to my life and have taught me invaluable lessons. I love you all. </div></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10158546369146047030noreply@blogger.com13