Amy (Un)Censored

Finding Home

2011-10-12T21:38:00.000-07:00

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?

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?

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.

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?!”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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 very quietly). Home for her, is being where there is literal peace and quiet.

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.

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.

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.

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 am 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.

They say you can’t go home again, but I’ll let you in on a secret: You can.

As written by Amy Colclasure Warner for the inaugural edition of Hom~o Magazine, published October 2011.http://www.hom-o.com/ All rights reserved. Content may not be duplicated. Artwork by Alex R. Warner.

Dusk Dame

2011-08-22T06:00:00.000-07:00

It is after the sun has set that I feel most like Me.

If I were a cowboy in one of those old-time Western movies

and they asked me to ride off into the sunset,

that's where the real fun would begin.

Final Waltz

2011-08-15T06:00:00.000-07:00

Reaching for his hand she laughed and said,

"Dancing with you is so much fun.

I want to go on but, I'm ever so tired."

He smiled and pressed his lips against her ear

and said, "My love, I've never been able to keep up with you."

She blew him a kiss and leading as usual,

she let her hand slip from his and gently

waltzed away.

Musterion

2011-08-09T22:08:00.000-07:00

Only after the moon came out and the stars began their evening dance

did she reveal her true identity.

Oh...what beauty and mystery the moonlight revealed!

And when the sun rose, so no one would be the wiser,

she once again donned her daytime disguise

of an apron and sensible shoes.

A Sparrow Through My Heart

2011-07-13T16:00:00.000-07:00

With one quick swipe of the broom, my heart set itself up to be broken.

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.

Baby...just minutes after I found him.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Testing...testing...1...2...3...

2011-05-23T16:36:00.000-07:00

Hello? Does this thing still work? I'm hoping that the dust that's piled up around here over the past few months hasn't ruined my keyboard.

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.

Big girl panties are prone to be uncomfortable at times, but I suppose that comes with the territory.

It's time to pick up my blogophone and get back to business. I hope you have been well, Dear Friends.

And In Case You Were Wondering, The Shrubs Look Fabulous

2010-08-02T22:07:00.000-07:00

Today, I couldn’t find Happy.

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.

So, I looked somewhere else. “Happy? Where are you?!”

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.

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.

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.

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!)

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 will Happy into appearing. Minutes passed…no Happy.

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.

What If...

2010-07-20T21:32:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

The actual title of the article is, Imagine: Protest, Insurgency and the Workings of White Privilege. However, it has earned a "street" name and I quite like it: What if the Tea Party Was Black?

Here you go. Read on....

Imagine: Protest, Insurgency and the Workings of White Privilege.

By Tim Wise

April 20, 2010

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.

So let’s begin.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.*

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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?

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.

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.
Game Over.

*(Denver Post December 29, 1995)

Reasons Why I Don't Sleep OR Why My Pseudonym is "Bitchy"

2010-05-21T14:50:00.000-07:00

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?!)

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.

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.

4. The uneasy (and paranoid) feeling that the reason the puppy is not going back to sleep and is standing en pointe 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 Ninja'd out the door and into a windowless, unmarked van. (Sleep deprivation is used as a form of TORTURE you know.)

5. The oh so detailed dreams about my Bloggy 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.)

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.

7. The sound of the screaming in my own head.

8. The sound of my own voice, very much NOT in my own head this time, saying, "SCREW IT!"

On a Day Like Today - May 13, 2010

2010-05-17T00:01:00.000-07:00

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."

What in the hell do I know?

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."

Oy.

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.

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*

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!

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.

Damn, damn, DAMN!

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.

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.

"MOM!"

Crap.

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.

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.

Mr. Right: I got a call from Grampy this morning!

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?

Mr. Right: Yeah. He's in Arizona and wants to know if we can come see him.

Me: (Shaking the remotes one by one in the direction of the television) Of course we can.

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!

Me: Wow! Neat. What in the HELL are you doing with your phone?! It sounds like you're rubbing it against your butt!!

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.

As I hung the phone up, the wailing began.

"I TOLD you I wanted to talk to Daddy when you were done!!" AAAGGGHHHH!!!

And that's when it hit me. I OWE this child.

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.

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 with me? I'm having one of those days. You know the kind...don't you? *grin*

Una Mas Cerveza, Por Favor

2010-05-12T00:01:00.000-07:00

These words can only lead to trouble. And, bloat.

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.

I missed Sammy Hagar by ONE day. Son of a bitch.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

After about an hour, we loaded our wagon (yes...an actual wagon) with the following:

Coconut rum
Mango juice
Sprite
Frozen strawberry daquiri mix
Bananas
Avocados (More guacamole, please!)
Cilantro (Sad, sad looking cilantro)
Tomatoes (Sad...SAD looking tomatoes)
Onion
Lime
Tortilla chips
Turkey (2 packs!)

Wonder wheat bread (did you know that Wonder made wheat bread?!)
Kraft (YES!) Manchego cheese slices (who knew?!)
2 six-packs of Corona
2 six-packs of Pacifico
1 box of granola bars
Six diet Cokes (not a damn diet Dr. Pepper in the whole flippin' place)
1 chubby little round of Gouda cheese AND
a box of Garden Vegetable crackers

Rock and roll!!

We grabbed a beer, hit the pool and proceeded to work on our itinerary for the week. It went a little something like this:

Wake up
Go to pool (with beer)
Stay at pool until sun goes over the top of the condo and begins to disappear
Go up to condo and grab a beer
Take a shower and get dolled up
Grab a beer
Take a taxi somewhere, haggle with the driver over the price and over pay unintentionally
Say we're going to eat dinner, but end up sharing appetizers and drinking beer
Talk loud, talk dirty, use bad language and behave altogether like a bunch of 40-something women turned loose in Mexico
Order more beer
Find a place to dance to music not played by a mariachi band and shut the place down
Hail a taxi, swear at the driver in piss poor Spanish because the cab ride for some reason has now increased by 100 Pesos.
Arrive at condo and unintentionally over pay the driver
Sleep. To hell with the sand in the sheets.
Wake up and start all over again.

Now that, my friends...is a vacation.

Why I Fell Off The Blog

2010-05-07T00:01:00.000-07:00

It's my mother's fault.

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.

Anyhoo...it went down like this:

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.

Me: Hey, Middle Sister! I just saw that you called. I was in the dentist's office. What's up?

Middle Sister: The. Shit. Has. Hit. The. Fan.

Me: What? What's going on?

Middle Sister: Are you sitting down?

Oy.

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.

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.

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.

Whew! You still with me here?

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.

Well, Bessie bar the door. My mama's baby done up and left her.

So, for the first time since my car wreck in December of 2007, Mommy Dearest called me.

Me: Hello?

Mommy Dearest: 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.

Me: I suppose there is.

And it all went to hell from there.

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."

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.

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 my thoughts that I put into writing and put on my blog.I spoke my 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."

And that's that.

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.

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 desire to write. Tsk, tsk.

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.

To say "I'm back," might be pushing it a little. I want to be back. I want 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 have 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 and I will sound my barbaric YAWP over the rooftops of the world!! Or maybe just over the Land of Blog. But, you get my drift.

Beatle Wisdom

2010-05-04T22:19:00.000-07:00

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?

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 are.

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.

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.

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 are.

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 is.

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 never 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 was. 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.

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 expect ease. In essence, we have de-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.

Life isn't 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.

True happiness comes when you finally, 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.

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 do need to get on with it and seeking out appropriate resources to aid us in that process.

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 VALLEY!"

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.

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.

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 be, the good just seems to get better and better.

When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me,

speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me,

speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.

Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree,

there will be an answer, let it be.

For though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see,

there will be an answer, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, .....

And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light, that shines on me,

shine until tomorrow, let it be.

I wake up to the sound of music, mother Mary comes to me,

speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, .....

(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.)

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.

The Hoosegow Blues

2010-04-09T12:17:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

N96154. What? What’s this? Wait...yes… I know this.

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.

You’re nasty little devils, you are.

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.

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.

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.

Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue

2010-01-26T15:47:00.000-08:00

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. *sigh*

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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."

And The Myth Goes On...

2009-12-26T08:14:00.000-08:00

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.

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!

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.

As is tradition in our house on Christmas morning, Daddy reads the tag and hands the gift to the appropriate beaming recipient.

Daddy: "To The Duchess from Mrs. Claus!"
The Duchess: *squeal!*
Daddy: "To The Duchess from Donner!"
The Duchess: "Oh my gosh!" *squeal!*
Daddy: "To The Duchess from Buddy the Elf!"
The Duchess: "Buddy?!" *squeal

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!"

Mmmm hmmm. Those damn fairytales will screw you over every time.

A Letter To My Sister

2009-12-17T09:49:00.000-08:00

Dear Little Sister,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I would be forever grateful to have her back.

Love,

Amy

What I Should Have Said...

2009-12-16T21:02:00.000-08:00

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."

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.

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.

So, here goes. This is what I SHOULD have said to you while I had you on the line.

"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.

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?!

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.

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.

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.

Have a lovely day, and...fuck you."

You Are Beautiful Like a Rainbow

2009-12-02T13:14:00.000-08:00

There is a debt of gratitude I owe. To Mark, Denise, Kyle, Jeffrey, Brian and Eli, I thank you.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It's A Ruff Life

2009-10-29T13:07:00.000-07:00

Thanks, Aunt Juicebox. Your poke roused me out of my mental slumber and has resulted in lighting a tiny little flame under my ass. Not a big flame yet, but maybe by sitting here and attempting to rattle the box that is my brain, I'll find that a little mental exercise will stoke the fires and get me up and at it again.

Quite frankly, I haven't felt like I've had much to say. There is a tremendous amount of riff-raff bloating my brain cells, don't get me wrong. It's just nothing I feel is useful or worthwhile or worthy of putting pen to paper as they say. So many of you are hysterical, witty, wise, kind, compassionate and downright genius that I've been feeling quite sub-par as of late. On top of that steaming pile of unworthiness, I still haven't shaken the autumn blues. I'm not quite sure it's even the blues anymore. It seems to be a mish-mash of self-loathing, a dash of depression, a big ol' heapin' helpin' of self pity and an entire truck load of dismay and disillusion at the state of our country and our world.

Ready to off yourself yet? Or maybe just push me off a bridge? Well, then. Here's a little happy for you and and attempt at reminding myself why things don't entirely suck.

I got a new puppy! She's an adorable little mutt. She's 1/3 Bichon Frise, 1/3 Yorkie and 1/3 Dachsund. Here. Look.

Doesn't she look like a little teddy bear? Her name is Ellie Mae. Remember the t.v. show, The Beverly Hillbillies? Ellie Mae was Jed's daughter and she just LOVED "critters." When I saw my little puppy for the first time I thought, "Oh my hell! What a cute critter." So, there you go. I'm working on getting her completely potty trained and she has completely and thoroughly altered my daily schedule. She also has the stinkiest farts of any animal on the planet. This fact is almost negated by the fact that she is also the sweetest, most loving little animal I've ever known. Almost.

Oink

2009-10-13T19:56:00.000-07:00

Did you miss me while I was away? Liar. You didn't write, you didn't call....but who could blame you? I was a walking pile of goopy, germy, rasping, oozing, contagious homo sapien. Yes, it's true. It got me. The Swine Flu.

For the past several days (Weeks perhaps? Who knows?), The Duchess and I have been like mommy and baby bat, holed up in our cave. We've built mountains out of wadded up tissues, sweat through fevers, become so dehydrated our lips cracked and coughed so hard our ribs are bruised.

Fingers crossed...I think we've survived the worst of it.

The Duchess lost two pounds and I managed to somehow gain two. What the hell?! (This once again goes to prove that my body hates me and is maliciously plotting against me.)

I think I'm back. To be perfectly honest, I just looked at how busy you've all been over the past several days and I have no freaking idea how I'm EVER going to get caught up with my reading! Can you all just send me a brief summary of what you've written about so that I can peruse it at my leisure? No? Damn it. I see how you are.

The sneezes are still exploding out of me too frequently to make for a happy and cootie free keyboard, but I'm hoping that another twenty four hours will clear up that nastiness and I'll be back to my old self again. Hm. I wonder how long I'd have to wait to come back as someone else? Possibly someone more humorous and with a better attitude. I don't know if I can wait that long. See you soon.

Would You Prefer A Black One With White Stripes or a White One With Black Stripes?

2009-09-28T23:23:00.000-07:00

I decided to have a look at Craigslist tonight because there's always something interesting or funny or completely inappropriate to be found. I'm so glad I did.

After clicking on the ad, I laughed so hard I could barely breathe. I sat there with tears in the corners of my eyes trying to read the ad to Mr. Right, but I was laughing so hard I couldn't speak.

I'm seriously contemplating responding to the author of this ad to let him know he made my day. For a few inexplicably hysterical moments, my blues morphed into a rainbow. One painted by clowns. Drunk clowns with no thumbs.

If you don't find it funny, please don't tell me or I'll have to seriously reconsider our relationship.

Date: 2009-09-28, 8:46PM MST

i am looking to buy a trained zebra.
if not a baby zebra so i can train it myself.
i love zebras and i would love one as a pet
pleasse let me know if you or anyone you know has a zebra for sale
i would gladly appreciate it.
thanks in advance.

Location: queen creek
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 1397499527

The Not So Equanimous Equinox

2009-09-25T10:11:00.000-07:00

It has been no secret the extent to which I am enamored with autumn. There isn't a single thing about it that I don't adore. My love for this time of year probably oozes out of my pores and I couldn't hide it if I wanted to.

Fall also carries with it a dirty little secret. For twenty-one years, this secret has held me in its clutches and it shakes me, rattles my brain, and thrusts me viciously into a deep dark hole for a few weeks at the onset of every autumn. I am always aware of its approach and of its presence, but I seem to be helpless against the tentacles that lash out at me and which inevitably seize me in their grip, temporarily paralyzing my joy.

It was Halloween night, 1988. I was five months pregnant with my first child and living in a
studio apartment in Colorado Springs, Colorado. I knew exactly one person in town and my then husband, who was in the Army, had just left for California on a month-long training exercise. Having only recently turned twenty, I felt deeply alone and more than a little depressed that my beloved Halloween was being spent sitting in an apartment desperately hoping that trick-or-treaters would be on enough of a sugar high to hike it up three flights of stairs to come visit me and my massive bowl of candy. No such luck.

I'd almost given up all hope of having any little devilish costumed visitors when there was a knock at my door. My heart raced a little as I jumped up and grabbed the bowl of candy. I opened the door and there stood my uncle. I was confused. I'd seen this particular uncle a total of maybe six times in my life and now there he stood. I smiled a bewildered smile and invited him in. My head was swirling. This uncle had a reputation in my family of being kind of jokester and as a kid, I'd always liked him. So, although a bit befuddled by his sudden presence, I was happy to see him.

We sat for a few minutes discussing what his kids were dressed as for Halloween and I think the weather was mentioned. I don't really recall what was said because I had a constant voice in my head that kept saying, "What is he doing here? What is he doing here?!" The answer came almost immediately.

My uncle looked at me and with the casual tone usually reserved for inquiring of someone as to how they're feeling or how they're enjoying the unusually mild weather, and said, "Your mom called and thought that I needed to come over to be with you so that you'd have family here." I thought, "That's odd. Mom knows that my husband just left for a month and that I'm lonely, but I don't think I'm so distraught that I need a long lost uncle to come sit with me." And then...he said it. "Your dad killed his girlfriend and is in jail." I sat there stunned. Then, slowly I smiled. This was a joke. My prankster uncle was playing a joke on me. I think I said something like, "What?" And, I said it with a smile on my face.

My uncle never took his eyes off me and said, "Your dad shot his girlfriend. He's in jail and your mom thought that I needed to come over and be with you when you found out." I knew he was serious. I don't remember anything else. Somehow, over the course of the next couple of days, I managed book a flight to Oklahoma. I'd never done that before and don't remember making all of the calls to talk to the airlines and to my mom and sisters to arrange to stay with them for a month.

The month of November was spent with my family and from what I can remember; we barely spoke of Dad and what had happened. My mother didn't speak of him because just a couple of months before, she and my youngest sister had fled Illinois where they and my dad were living. Life had become unbearable and my mom had discovered that my dad was drinking...again and was having affairs...again, so my mom had loaded up the car and taken my sister and high-tailed it out of there. Needless to say, she wasn't in the frame of mind to be discussing my dad.

At some point while I was in Oklahoma, my mom received a call from the people who owned the trailer that my parents had lived in while in Illinois. My dad was a horse trainer and moved twice a year between Oklahoma and Illinois with the racing season. The couple who owned the horses he trained had provided a small mobile home that could be transported back and forth twice a year. The trailer was from where my mother had fled, and in which, my father had committed murder.

According to the owners, the police had released the trailer after having gathered all of their evidence and they had brought it from Illinois, back to Oklahoma. They were now calling to see if my mother wanted to sort through it and take any of her belongings before they had the trailer destroyed.

To this day, I have no idea why my mother went to that trailer. But, go she did. And...she took me with her.

Had the handprints on the walls been smaller, they would have looked not altogether unlike those first finger paintings that children make by dipping their hands in paint and pressing them onto paper. But, these handprints weren't small. They were exactly the size of my father's. And, instead of the bright primary colors of children's paintings, these handprints were brown. The color of brown that only exists after blood dries.

The handprints traveled, in reverse, through the kitchen into the bathroom and up the tiny set of stairs into the bedroom. We followed. I wish we wouldn't have. As we walked into the little bedroom, we walked smack dab into the scene of the crime. I've never seen anything like it and hope to never see anything remotely similar again. The human body produces an immense amount of blood and shooting someone in the head with a shotgun has a way of quickly and violently dispersing that blood.

As I turned around to head back down the stairs, the handprints on the wall were now facing the correct direction.

My mother picked through the closets and cabinets and filled up a small box with belongings to take away with her. We stopped by the horse barn on the way to the car and my mother stood and cried and patted the horses. She couldn't and wouldn't allow herself to cry for my dad and for all that had been lost, but she sure as hell could cry for those beautiful beasts that she loved. She knew that she'd never see them or my dad again, but those lovely animals had never hurt or betrayed her. This was her goodbye.

My goodbye was still far off in the future. My father was sentenced to twenty-six years in prison. He spent thirteen of those years behind bars and I spent those thirteen years writing faithfully, accepting collect phone calls so that I could spend a few uneasy moments every month or so speaking to my father, and sent small amounts of money when I was able. I ordered books that my dad wanted to read and had them shipped to the prison and acted as his receiving agent for packages containing book and letters he sent out of the prison when they would make him thin out his possessions.

Strangely enough, my goodbye came after his release from prison. It was in autumn. That's a different story though.

People who know me well and know my story, have asked me how I can still love autumn. How can I not? If anything, I appreciate it more and really relish each little lovely thing about it. I have not managed to escape the psychological impact of what happened in my family, but find it only mere coincidence that it occurred in the Fall. If it had happened in the winter, it would be unbearable because winter depresses me anyway. Spring or Summer...who knows? I suppose there's always something with which you can associate an event. I have two daughters with birthdays in the spring and my birthday is in the summer, so no matter when a tragedy occurs, there's always something there to remind us, isn't there?

So, Dear Friends, if I've not been commenting on your posts and you haven't seen me around The Land of Blog much lately, now you know why. Some years hit me particularly hard for some reason and this year really knocked me for a loop. But, I feel the upward movement of my soul as it struggles to break free and I am waiting with hopeful anticipation that very soon, my days will be spent not in some quiet secret mourning, but in joyous celebration of living.

Orange You Glad It Wasn't You?

2009-09-14T01:44:00.001-07:00

CRAP. It's now officially the 15th of September. Half the month is already gone and much to my shame, I've only managed to post one blog.

Once again, I've allowed myself to get caught up in the news (if you can call it that) and let my bloomers get in a twist. What is WRONG with me?! I have a self-imposed rule of not engaging in debates with others about politics or religion and I have broken that rule on several occasions during the past couple of weeks. I'm here here to tell you that I've had a very stern conversation with Me and may have even kicked my own ass a few times. I have promised Me to knock it off and get back to doing what Mr. Right always tells me to do. "Just hush up and sit there and look pretty." (I'm going to really catch some shiznit for that one.)

The tizzy I've been in has had me so mind-numbingly befuddled that I forgot to tell you about The Great Hair Incident. This one goes down on the books as one of the greats. Or...the worsts. However you want to look at it.

In an effort to begin my 41st year looking and feeling like the cougar that is Me, I decided to get all of the hairs on my head, colored, clipped and coiffed. Ooh la la. The hair gal I'd been using and whose work I really dug, up and moved shop to some hell hole out in the desert that required directions like, "Turn off the pavement onto the two-lane dirt road..." Uh uh. So, I made an appointment at a kind of upper end-ish chain salon that I'd been to before and, from which, had walked out with really kick ass hair.

I arrived at my appointment with The Duchess in tow. I was going to be there less than an hour and the Duchess l-o-v-e-s to go to hair salons, nail salons, shoe stores...anywhere there's girly stuff. She's an angel that way. Behaves marvelously. So, off I went, explaining to my stylist exactly what I wanted. Ms. Thing who was all of 21, smiled and said, "Do you want your roots done? The gray is starting to really show through." Well, hell. I debated for a minute or two while studying my roots and then, of course, opted for some color to be slapped on my head.

Ms.Thing proceeded to squeeze a bottle full of chemicals into my hair that smelled like it could peel paint off a barn. She massaged it into my head, patted it ever so sweetly, then...left. Apparently, she'd double booked herself and had another client to tend to. This did not bode well. As I read a magazine and listened to The Duchess make up hundreds of nonsensical knock knock jokes at which I pretended to laugh hilariously, I watched the clock's hands almost seem to go backwards. Ms. Thing finally came over and checked on me and said, "Five more minutes." She went back to her other client and came back in thirty minutes. I'd been there an hour and a half and, over an hour of that time, I'd been sitting with smelly goo in my hair.

By the time Ms. Thing came to rinse out my hair, my scalp was itching and burning a bit. The Duchess followed me over to the sink and as my hair was being rinsed out, she kept saying things like, "Oh, Mommy! Your hair is so pretty" and, "Mommy, your hair matches my shorts!" Her shorts were pink. Oh, shit.

Back in the chair, the towel came off and sure as shootin', Mommy's hair was pink. Damn. Ms. Thing made quite a production about asking me if my "hair pulled red." What?! I guess that's beauty school speak for, "Does your hair naturally have red in it ma'am?" Deciding loudly that, "This just won't do, " she proceeded to squeeze another bottle of goo into my hair. Thirty minutes later, she returned from her other client to check my head which was now whimpering and whining a bit. (Or, maybe that was me.)

Off to the sink we went for another rinse. The Duchess leaned over the chair next to me and said, "Mommy...your hair looks like the sun!" In my head, I was dropping the f-bomb like a sailor on shore leave.

Back to the chair with the towel off and now...Mommy's hair did indeed look like the sun. The kind of sun you see in picture books about the Old West where a cowboy and his horse are headed into the sunset and there's a lovely tangerine glow blazing over the horizon.

By now, I'd spent 2 1/2 hours in the chair. My stomach was growling and I was nervous that the Duchess would soon be growing restless. Quite frankly, between the hunger pangs, worrying about The Duchess and the ever increasing feeling that my scalp was going to spontaneously combust, I was a bit of a wreck. My foot began tapping incessantly and I couldn't seem to control it. Not only was I having minor heart palpitations about the state of my hair, I couldn't keep my eyes off of the poor girl who was Ms. Thing's other victim. She'd been sitting in a full-on foil hair do under a dryer for about an hour now. I had visions of us clinging to each other and crying as we sat in our jail cell together for the beating death of one, Ms. Thing: beauty school dropout.

I picked up my cell phone and called Mr. Right and asked him to high tail it in my direction the very second he could leave work. And, because he is indeed Mr. Right, he assured me that he would wrap things up a.s.a.p and come to the rescue of his fair tangerine-haired maiden.

After consulting a couple of other stylists, Ms. Thing informed me that she was going to put a "toner" on my hair. She also informed me that because she had totally crapped up my hair (not what she said, but what I was thinking), she would only charge me for the cut and not the color. I looked at the clock. Three hours into this and I hadn't even had my hair cut yet.

"Toner" in place, I sat and waited. Again. Then, back to rinse. Still orange. Another toner. Better, but still resembling the glow emitted from a Napalm drop in those Vietnam movies.

By this time, Mr. Right had arrived to rescue The Duchess and take her for drink. (She was treated to a Sprite although I think she much more deserved a vodka tonic for all she'd been put through.) Ms. Thing was hovering over me asking if the color was okay so of course I lied and told her it was. I'd been there for three and a half hours for hell's sake. It was time for a cut.

She snipped, clipped, thinned, textured and every other verb they learn in beauty school and then proceeded to blow out my hair. By this time, I almost literally couldn't see straight from all of the chemicals affecting my contacts. My head felt like it had been tenderized with one of those primitive meat mallets and my stomach was in complete revolt. I forced a smile, paid my bill and got the hell out of there.

Mr. Right convinced me not to touch my hair until the next morning. "Let it rest," he said. I have no idea what that meant. But, I let it rest.

The next morning, I showered and washed my hair. It still reeked and my head still hurt. I exited the shower, towel-dried my hair and began to style it. It didn't work. One side flipped under perfectly and the other side went in three different directions. And...it still glowed orange. Finally, I turned and held a small mirror up to check the back of my head and noticed for the first time that I had a huge, almost black patch of hair, right at the back of my head. Ms. Thing had colored the underside of my hair in back, four shades darker than my normal hair color which was now twenty shades darker than my current day-glo tangerine blond. I'm somewhat embarrassed to tell you that I looked like a hooker.

I cried. Then I called Mr. Right and cried. Then I called the salon manager and cried.

Long story short, (HA!!! My loquaciousness cannot be stifled!) a lovely stylist named Elizabeth, managed to do a decent job of removing the orange and patching up the horrifically unbalanced layers in my hair and didn't charge me a thing. I tipped her twenty bucks for her time and for managing to not make my hair fall out.

My hair turned out so light that my roots started showing almost immediately. And, I still had the black patch in back. So, this past Saturday morning, I'd had enough. I reached up to the top shelf in the closet and pulled down the box of "Champagne Blond" hair color. (Preference by L'Oreal, because I'm worth it, dammit.) Mr. Right almost stroked out. "What are you DOING?! Your hair is going to fall OUT!" I was willing to take my chances.

Twenty-five minutes later, a rinse and a blow dry and ta-da!! Hair that no self-respecting hooker would be caught dead with. It looked damn normal. Unfortunately, I have no skill in cutting hair, so I haven't been able to rectify the lousy cut. I have, however, been seriously contemplating cutting it all off and starting over. I look great with short hair, but Mr. Right has been exercising his Constitutional right to peaceful protest.

I shall take Mr. Right's wishes into consideration, carefully weigh my feelings about growing my hair out all over again (it's an excruciatingly long process), consider all of my options, then go get my hair cut like Halle Berry's. Uh...yeah. I wanna look like this:

A haircut will accomplish that, right? Right....

The Great Escape

2009-09-06T22:29:00.000-07:00

The dreams came with relative frequency. At least that's the way my memory tells it. They were the fitful dreams that came in the night and only disappeared when the sun came up over the horizon. You know the ones. The ones that are so real you can feel the blood pumping through your veins and your legs burning from the exhaustion of running all night long. The ones that seem to last as long as the curtain of night is drawn and the ones that keep visiting you no matter how many times you wake up drenched in your own sweat trying desperately to close the door on them. Yes...those dreams.

From the time of my earliest memories and well into my twenties, the dreams maintained a fairly constant theme. I would hear my parents running and as they ran, they would scream for help. Panicked, I would chase after them, only catching glimpses of them now and again. We were always running through dense foliage. Most often, I remember running through what I perceived as a jungle full of thick hanging vines and having to jump over fallen trees while trying to avoid being snagged by the tangled undergrowth. Although I can't tell you what it looked like, there was always some sort of giant beast chasing us. Almost always, at some point during the panic of trying to catch my parents, I would come upon a trap in which they had been ensnared. The traps were not unlike those rigged by the castaways on Gilligan's Island where a hole has been covered with thicket, just waiting for an unsuspecting native. Sometimes the traps were nets that swooped my parents up and suspended them from the trees. Then, of course, there was the quick sand. Again, just like the Gilligan's Island variety.

I would reach my trapped parents and they would be yelling for me to help them. Knowing that The Beast was not far behind, I would stretch out my hand to reach them and to disentangle them, but then, the beast would be upon us and I would run.

There wasn't much variation from dream to dream. Always running, always the unseen beast chasing, always panic and always the overwhelming feeling of impending doom. And, never ever, could I save my parents.

Of course, it doesn't take an immense amount of brilliance to analyze those dreams. That terrible and frightening unseen beast did eventually catch my parents and it ate them alive.

I had dreams into my early thirties about The Beast chasing only me. At some point, after years of extremely hard work on Self, some really great therapy and the shot of confidence that was gained from finally trashing the garbage that was my marriage, I dreamed The Dream one night. Having tired of running, I turned around and faced The Beast. I don't remember what I said exactly, but I remember screaming at that beast until he turned and disappeared into the thicket. I've not had the dream since.

I understand it all now and I've processed it. Occasionally I think about it and feel a little sad. Some of the sadness is for my parents, but most of it is for Little Me. I had no idea what all of those dreams meant, only how they made me feel. And, how they made me feel...was afraid.

Try as I might, I can't quite pin down the exact number of years I lived with a packed suitcase under my bed. I know it was at least two. I now refer to them as the Hobo Years because I'd seen a picture in a storybook of a man who hopped trains, carrying a stick with a red bandanna tied to the end. The purpose of the bandanna was to hold his lunch and he carried it over his shoulder as he walked along the tracks. I thought this was a brilliant idea, so in my suitcase I'd prepared quite a lovely stick and bandanna lunch sack. Also contained in the suitcase were my two favorite stuffed animals, a change of clothes with extra socks and underwear, a notebook and pen so that I could write home and a book. The book would get rotated day to day or week to week depending on what I was currently reading. If I had to flee my home at a moment's notice, I certainly didn't want to miss out on how my book ended.

The suitcase was kept under my bed at arms length. Every night when I got into bed, I ran through the drill of closing my eyes and pretending that I heard an intruder. I would grab my glasses that I kept directly next to my pillow, throw them on and reach my arm under the bed to grasp the handle of the suitcase. I would make slight adjustments to the position of the suitcase and re-run the drill until I was satisfied that should an intruder come into the house, I and all of my most important possessions, could make it out of the door in mere seconds.

My memory doesn't recall if my parents even knew about the existence of my escape case. I vaguely remember a sister or two rolling her eyes at me and referring to me in derogatory terms usually reserved for the mentally handicapped. I didn't care. I was going to be damn well ready for the day that I needed to run. If anyone was left in my house after I'd high-tailed it out of there, they could look forward to a lovely handwritten note from yours truly.

When I was eight years old, my family moved from Illinois to Oklahoma. For some reason, having my suitcase under the bed within arms reach just didn't cut it anymore. I decided that if an intruder came that he would most likely come into the bedrooms first and murder all of us where we slept. The only solution I could think of to avoid being chopped up while I slumbered, was to sleep under the bed with my suitcase. That way, the murderous intruder would make his way through the house sawing up everyone in his path without ever detecting me. Once he was satisfied with his cruel handiwork and moved on to his next unsuspecting victims, I would be free to grab my suitcase and get the hell out of that house of horrors.

The more I ran this scenario through my head, the clearer it became that I was not doing enough to ensure that the vicious killer who was certain to arrive at our house any night didn’t detect me. So, I began to conceal myself even better by packing myself under my bed with every stuffed animal I owned. My nightly drills now consisted of getting nice and comfy under my bed, checking the position of my suitcase and glasses, packing myself in with stuffed animals and adjusting them and re-adjusting them until I was satisfied that if someone looked under my bed, they would just assume that some lunatic was maintaining a gigantic stuffed zoo for dust bunnies.

Specifically when the Hobo Years ended, I do not know. Eventually, I began sleeping on top of my bed again and my suitcase was checked less frequently and then never. My fears remained, but I managed to deal with them and my behaviors altered as I developed new coping skills to deal with the residents of the asylum I called home.

I cannot say that there have been no residual effects from being chased by The Beast, because that would be untrue. I still have little quirks and habits that make me feel safe, like sleeping with the blankets completely up around my neck no matter how warm it is outside, or making sure that I don't fall asleep with my foot hanging over the side of the bed. But, for the most part...I've escaped. And, though I worry too much about things I shouldn't, I know that I am finally free.

Pardon Me While I Stand On My Soapbox

2009-08-31T23:15:00.000-07:00

Politics and religion make lousy bedfellows. Has someone said that before? Ah, yes. But, the phrase was "strange bedfellows." I'm going to go with "lousy." Either way, it deserves to be said again...and again...until enough people open their eyes to the reality that politics and religion should not be in bed together at all.

If you're not already brain dead from listening to or reading about the insanity that seems to have stricken a multitude of citizens in this country, spare a few cells won't you?

A couple of weeks ago here in Phoenix, President Obama took a break from his family vacation to hold a town hall meeting on the subject of national health care. Within minutes, live coverage of the event was being broadcast to media outlets all over the country. The images were shocking. Camera crews were capturing video of several people outside of the event who were carrying firearms. Some of these firearms were large semi-automatic weapons.

Sure, I'd seen the coverage of the lone gunman at another town hall meeting in another state who calmly held his sign carrying the quote about watering the tree of Liberty and toting a firearm strapped to his side. Although frightening, he had a license to carry the gun and was behaving in a non-threatening manner and making no threats other than the one implied by his sign. It was directed at no one in particular (although we know to whom it was directed) and he didn't behave in an aggressive fashion. I completely disagreed that he should be wearing a firearm at or near an event where our nation's leader was speaking, but apparently the CIA knows their stuff and seemed to have it all under control.

But, to see images of multiple people wearing firearms standing outside a venue where our President was speaking, was astounding to me. (I wonder how these fine, upstanding Americans would have reacted had people dressed in Muslim garb toting licensed weapons shown up to protest?) And, these images were being recorded just miles from my home. These are the people among whom I live. And worse.

After some investigating by people who had an interest in knowing who these gun slinging folks were, it was determined that at least one of those fellows was the parishoner of a church in Tempe, AZ, called Faithful Word Baptist Church. The pastor of FWBC is Steven Anderson, who it turns out, is a self-proclaimed pastor who actually has no credentials whatsoever, except what his church's website states as an ability to "recite from memory, over 100 passages from the Bible. " Steven Anderson is crazy.

Steven Anderson is crazy because he has allowed religious fervor to poison his mind. Steven Anderson is crazy because the day before our President spoke at that town hall meeting in Phoenix, he stood before a congregation and gave a sermon he titled, "Why I HATE Barack Obama." He stood before his congregation and quoted passages from the Bible (from memory, no doubt) to support him in his belief that the President is evil and should be killed. He passionately and with conviction, laid out the reasoning behind wishing death to the President. He rationalized why Mrs. Obama should be husband less and why Sascha and Melia should be fatherless, and he used the Bible to back him up.

So, the next day...filled with the impassioned words of his pastor's sermon still ringing in his ears, Mr. Gunslinger shows up at the President's town hall meeting in Phoenix with a semi-automatic weapon slung over his shoulder.

Many a debate between myself and others has been engaged in on the topic of gun control. I'm a lover, not a fighter and I'm all about peaceful protest and making love, not war. I know there are many people in our country who think they need/deserve/have the right...whatever...to pack heat. I disagree. Our forefathers believed in arming citizens for the purpose of forming militias in order to guard against foreign insurgents. The "right to bear arms," or to possess them, has become inseparable in our nation's mind, with the right to form a militia.

Add into this mix, a big heapin' handful of religious zeal and fervor, and you've got yourself...well...Iraq. That's right people. We're not any better. We're not "the greatest country on Earth." WE are the same as THEY. Yes, THEY. Those "crazy" people who believe in jihad. You know the ones. The ones who can't separate their religious zeal from their political agenda? WE who try to export "democracy" to other nations whether they ask for it or not. WE who could care less about the horrific genocide occurring in other lands, but who will rip your heads off and blow you to bits if you dare mess with our fucking oil supply?

Don't nay say me. When your religion becomes your foreign policy, you're in for some real trouble, my friends. And now, it appears that religion has become our internal national policy. The "far right" who constantly yammers on about hoping that our president fails and who call him a racist and a socialist and compare him to Hitler...ask them how many of them are also devoutly religious. I don't have to poll them, because it's already been done. The overwhelming majority of those who hope to see our president fail...or worse...also proclaim to be religious.

By no means am I saying that only religious people are fanatical and it's only religious people who wish our president ill will. What I AM saying, is that religion brings with it, by its very nature, the possibility...and raises the probability of fanaticism.

I realize I run the risk of alienating some people. So be it. I cannot and will not continue to sit idly by and watch the crazies take over my country. Mr. Right will not hear of me joining the group that will be picketing Mr. Anderson's church next Sunday, so I am peacefully protesting via my blog.

And, just to offer a bit of contrast to the hateful and venomous words of the "Christian" in the video, here are some words written by a fellow political liberal and atheist. (You know...the people the religious right think are the crazies.)

Imagine there's no heaven, it's easy if you try

No hell below us, above us only sky

Imagine all the people, living for today...

Imagine there's no countries, it isn't hard to do

Nothing to kill or die for, and no religion too

Imagine all the people, living life in peace...

You may say I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only one

I hope someday you'll join us

And the world will be as one.

Imagine no possessions, I wonder if you can

No need for greed or hunger, a brotherhood of man

Imagine all the people, sharing all the world...

You may say I'm a dreamer,

But I'm not the only one

I hope someday you'll join us, and the world will live as one.

I'm Not Old...Just Older

2009-08-24T15:38:00.000-07:00

Sunday is the 30th day of August, which means that forty-one years ago on that date, an incredibly adorable and deliciously sweet chunk of a baby girl came howling into existence on this 3rd rock from the Sun. This is a picture of that little girl a few months after she'd unpacked her rattle and booties and settled in and adjusted to her new surroundings a bit.

This is that girl today at 41.

I use the word "girl" because it's still very much the way I feel. Not that I don't experience moments when I feel womanly, because I most certainly do. I know that I'm an adult and for the most part, behave as such. But, the vision of Me that I hold in my mind's eye is one of a girl. I am still the girl who sometimes laughs too loudly and occasionally snorts when trying to stifle it. I am still the girl who dances with abandon (while sucking in my womanly tummy) and who still seems to be able to "shake it all night long."

Aging isn't scary to me. Growing old is.

Yes, I notice some subtle signs that I am older, but they don't make me feel old. If anything has contributed to the feeling of being a bit broken down in the past couple of years, it's the fact that I was actually broken in a few places after my accident. But, I know the popping in my hip that sounds like a ratchet is due to it having been fractured, and I know that my arm and shoulder sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies freshly doused with milk because it has been shattered and mended and re-mended. Yes, I use deep wrinkle cream between my eyes and across my forehead with the hope that it will somehow magically diminsh the lines that have appeared there, but I also don't regret those lines.

Forty-one feels like a favorite pair of broken-in Levis on a crisp autumn morning. In these jeans I am comfortable and confident, and although sometimes I think maybe I'd like to have a new pair, I know that those new jeans could never compare to my good old broken-in pair . In them I still feel sexy and cool, not insecure and fearful like the girl who used to wear them when they were new. I've been wearing these old jeans for awhile now, and I like who I've become in them.

I know that my skin will age and that the wrinkles will deepen and that the snaps, crackles and pops will increase until I sound like a one-woman band, but that's okay. It's not going to keep me from laughing and dancing and acting a bit too young for my age for as long as I possibly can. Because in the words of the great Jon Bon Jovi, "It's my life and it's now or never, 'cause I ain't gonna live forever."

Right on, Jon. Right on.

The Original Transformers

2009-08-20T07:49:00.000-07:00

With a wee bit of hesitation, I'm hiking up my skirt and jumping on the Meme Wagon.

While going through the frustrating nightly ritual of attempting to drop off to sleep, my noggin swirled with thoughts about the last blog I'd read. Bloggy Friend, Reya , wrote a lovely post about a transformative moment in her life. It was one to which I could completely relate as I'd had a very similar experience in my childhood. But, every time I thought of a moment that I felt had transformed me, the naysayer that always resides on my shoulder shot it down as being too boring or not really transformative enough.

In putting my thinker to work on determining which moments in my life had truly transformed me, I quickly realized that books were a recurring theme. I have books on the shelf in my office that have my handwriting inside the front and back flaps. As I read some of those books, epiphanies would zing about me like little lightening bugs and I would hurriedly catch them and scribble them down before they escaped my grasp. Occasionally, I will pull those books off the shelf and open them and read those thoughts which I felt so inclined to record at the time. Most of them still resonate and I am reminded of the lessons learned at those times in my life.

So, after thinking and thinking and straining more than just a bit to come up with a moment which transformed me, I must tell you that I couldn't do it. All I could think was that my life has been a never ending series of moments which have transformed and changed me into the human I am today.

In an effort to be true to the Meme, I will go back to the beginning and tell you what I feel was the genesis of all transformation in my life.

In the beginning...there were books. Books I could not read.

My parents and teachers thought that I was learning disabled as a child. I was made to sit at the front of the class because it was the only way for the teacher to try to hold my attention as I was always looking down at my desk, or staring off in the distance, lost in my own world. I wrote with my face almost touching the paper and couldn't write, read or spell up to grade level.

One day, when I was about six, my mother and sisters and I were all in the bathroom at our house. My mother dropped something on the floor and asked if I would pick it up. I searched and searched and told her that I couldn't find it. Slightly perturbed, she exclaimed, "It's right there!" I got down on my hands and knees and searched and still I couldn't find it. My mother looked at me and said incredulously, "You can't see it?!" When I responded that I couldn't, it hit her like a brick. Her daughter couldn't see.

An eye appointment was scheduled, a trip was made and glasses were ordered. I remember my mother crying in the optometrist's office when she realized that I couldn't even read the big "E" at the top of the eye chart. I'm sure that countless memories of her chastising me to "pay attention" ran through her mind and made her ashamed.

The day arrived to make the trip back into town to pick up my glasses. After they'd been properly fit to my face, we headed back home. From the back seat of the car I stared in amazement at the world around me. I shouted to my mother, "What are those?!" She couldn't figure out what I was talking about. "Those green things! What are they?!" It took her a moment or two to realize that I was seeing the individual leaves on the trees as we passed by them. It was the first time in my life that I was actually seeing each leaf instead of a fuzzy green blur stuck on top of of fuzzy brown trunk.

From that moment forward, I became an excellent reader, practiced penmanship constantly and won more than a few spelling bees in school. I excelled in my studies and became a chatterbox who always made good grades, but whose teachers wrote, "Talks too much in class," or something of that nature, at the bottom of my report card.

It seemed I couldn't get enough of books. I spent countless hours of my childhood reading under trees, on my bed, in cemeteries, in the car or on a mound of grass in the middle of a stream. When my family finally moved into town for the first time when I was about eleven, I had a library at my disposal. Katie bar the door! I helped Nancy Drew solve every mystery that ever came her way, knew every single move that Laura Ingalls Wilder ever made and went on exciting and wonderful adventures with Heidi, Anne of Green Gables, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.

As I grew, I began to question and wonder about the world a bit more and that, coupled with my rebellious streak, led me to begin reading books that had been banned by schools or libraries. I wrote a letter in protest to the local paper when I found that my beloved Tom Sawyer had been pulled from the shelves. I read Vonnegut, Salinger, Golding, Faulkner, Tolstoy and Trumbow.

After marrying at the ripe old age of eighteen and having my first child at twenty, my misery was palpable and I began to search books in the quest for answers as to why I was so unhappy. The religion in which I'd been raised wasn't providing any answers, only raising more questions, so I poured through books on world religions and philosophies. The first time I read Siddhartha, was most certainly a moment which transformed me.

Life moved forward, dragging me with it and still I searched. Books led me to finally seek out a Buddhist therapist who led me to believe enough in myself to end a disastrous, painful and damaging marriage. I had fought and struggled and inflicted pain both to myself and those around me and I had endured more pain than I felt I could bear.

As I stepped tenuously out into life as a single parent, I continued to read and it was during this time that epiphanies struck me with startling frequency. It was as though I'd been walking in darkness my entire life and suddenly, someone was pulling up the shades and throwing the windows open to let in the sun.

At this point in my life, I have found my path to peaceful and joyful living. My reading now consists mostly of books about history, government, politics and biographies of those who have gone before. I break it up now and again with a novel or writing by someone I find humorous enough to make me laugh and remember that the world is not always the frightening place I read about every day in the news.

My books keep me informed, they educate, enlighten and remind me to keep questioning and always learning. Through the written word of those brilliant and beautiful minds who saw fit to put pen to paper, I have indeed been transformed.

Update

2009-08-18T10:25:00.000-07:00

Apparently, I went about my experiment all wrong. Silly me.

After reading my blog, Mr. Right took out the bathroom trash. Oh, quit rubbing your eyes in disbelief. Yes, it did pile up to near overflowing, but he did it. He really did it!

So, look forward to future blogs about how to get Mr. Right to find the laundry room, where the switch is on the electric broom, the fine art of vacuuming and the joy of scrubbing toilets.

Cleaning Day

2009-08-10T18:22:00.000-07:00

It's quite possible that I have Multiple Personality Disorder. Wouldn't that just be a kick in the pants? It might go far in explaining why some days I feel like bona fide altruistic Polly Anna who can barely restrain herself from hugging strangers, and other days, feel like I want to beat the ever living crap out of every other person I meet. Crazy much?

So, Mr. Right fixed my "t" (unfortunately, that's not a filthy euphemism for anything) and, now that I have a perfectly functional "t" I have no desire to write a damn thing. I'm in a funk. A slump. A funky slump.

We've been through this before folks, so you know what's next. It's time to sweep the corners, brush out the cobwebs and shake the rugs. The old brain box is due for a cleaning. So, in no particular order, let the freak show begin.

*I wonder if beautiful people know that they're beautiful? They must, right? How can you have two fabulously sparkling rows of teeth in your face, a copious mane of perfect hair, the chiseled cheekbones of a supermodel, the lithe body of a young Greek goddess and look in the mirror without saying to yourself, "Hello there, you stunning creature?" Bless their perfect hearts, but sometimes I wish they'd all break out into horrible disfiguring rashes. Just sometimes. Now is one of those times.

*Once upon a time, I worked at a mortgage company far far away. During slow times, my young co-workers and I (They were young. I was not) used to look at the clock and count the minutes down until lunchtime. After lunch, we'd count the minutes down until the end of the day. One day, Young Co-Worker Chad, at several decibels higher than his normal speaking voice exclaimed, "OH MY GOD!" We all turned to stare at him like the lunatic we presumed he'd quite suddenly been turned into. Gently, so as not to startle him with loud noises, we asked, "What?!" He said, "Don't you see what we're doing?! We're committing suicide?!" Young Co-Worker Chad went on to expound upon his epiphany. "By wishing for time to pass more quickly than it does, we're wishing our lives away! How many days of our lives do we wish away waiting for something in the future to happen? We're slowly committing suicide!" That was ten years ago and Young Co-Worker Chad's words still ring in my ears. I think of them every time I find myself saying, "I wish it would hurry up and...." Deep, Young Co-Worker Chad. Real deep.

*I'm a horrible scientist. Repeatedly, I've attempted to conduct an experiment and repeatedly, I've failed at seeing the experiment through to its end. The experiment goes as follows: I allow Mr. Right's bathroom trash can to become completely full. I wait. As the trash begins to fall onto the floor, I pick it up and squash it all down into said trash can, thereby creating more space than was there previously. I wait. As the trash can reaches maximum capacity, debris begins once again falling to the floor. I wait. Debris begins to pile up around the overflowing trash can. Q-tips are now bouncing off the pile and landing in various locations around the trash can. Some bounce up and land on the edge of the bathtub. I wait. No I don't. I empty the trash can. I have yet to discover the exact quantity of piled up garbage lying in the floor that is required to motivate Mr. Right to actually empty the trash. I suck at science.

*As we've previously discussed, (actually I've just ranted and raved and you've ever so politely and patiently listened) reading the news makes me crazy. Lately, what's really making me crazy is the fact that there's not much news actually being reported. Our president isn't really a U.S. citizen?! Oh, my! *gasp* It's nauseating to read about these ignorant and uninformed people running around and screaming that the sky is falling. It's even more nauseating that their screams are being reported as actual news. What would be real news is this: A Republican and a Democrat would hop on an airplane and fly to France. They would meet with the French authorities in charge of that country's health care system and they would gather every shred of information available from those people and jump a flight back to the U.S. Then they would tailor a health care plan for our nation based on their findings and present a bipartisan bill to the Senate. And, what would really be news would be if our senators and congressmen and representatives...you know...our elected public servants would lay aside their greed and gluttony and quest for power long enough to pass that bill into law because it would be for the greater good of the citizens who elected them into office. Now, that would be news worth reading.

*I've put The Duchess on a waiting list for a charter school. The more I learn about these schools, the more I like them. I pulled the philosophy of our local charter school off of their website. It goes like this:

"Our philosophy is to:

*Train the intellect
*Teach skills
*Instill a sense of pride in and respect for self, others, and country
*Equip students with the necessary skills to become decision makers and problem solvers
*Prepare students for the world outside by challenging them to compete for achievement of standards in the classroom
*Develop an atmosphere of tolerance and acceptance of all students regardless of physical appearance and culture"

What?! A school that actually focuses on the intellect and on teaching children to make decisions and solve problems?! And, on top of that...a school that teaches tolerance and acceptance?! It can't be, you say! In America?! We don't value intellect, we value football! (Just look at teachers' salaries vs. NFL players' salaries) We don't value tolerance, we breed intolerance! (Just ask African Americans, women, homosexuals and a myriad of other American citizens who have had to fight for their basic civil rights) Well, that's what I said too, but I'm hearing otherwise. I adamantly refuse to put my child in a school that has a religious based philosophy and public schools are increasingly giving me cause for great concern. So, we'll sit on the list and wait. And, hope. Hope that there is still an avenue in this country that can be taken which will lead to a truly good education in an environment where intellect is valued, tolerance is expected and achievement is based on academic success and not athletic prowess.

*I just found out that my niece is baking a girl muffin. Delighted is what I am. Mr. Right's side of the family is short on girls and needs substantially more estrogen in order to achieve proper balance. Today's discovery of the gender of The Muffin has triggered my shopping gene (yes, all chicks have one) and I have the desire to leap off my chair this very second and hit the streets with wallet in hand. I shall restrain myself (somewhat) and try very much to not go overboard. I actually believe I have an Overboard Gene, so this will be a challenge. I find it completely unfair that Niece lives in Texas and I live in Arizona. *sigh* I'm hoping that as The Muffin grows, that she will look forward to the little boxes and envelopes postmarked "Arizona" that arrive in her mailbox. I hope that Niece will explain to her that, yes, Aunt Amy is a wee bit "off", but that she loves her and wishes she was able to spend time with her. And, I hope that when I do see The Muffin, that she will give me little fist bumps or flash me a tiny "peace" sign so that I will know that she knows, I'll always have her back.

Okay. Maybe this has helped. We'll see. Grumpy and Snotty have arrived home from school and my peace has been shattered and chaos abounds. I hope to be back in the game, as they say, and back to my Bloggy self again.

As always, thanks for listening. You're truly dears, you are.

Irate, Irritable and Uptight all have a "t."

2009-08-04T09:55:00.000-07:00

Blogging has come to a screeching halt. The "T" on my keyboard is sticking. Every time I go to strike it, I have to hit it at least twice and occasionally have to jab at it. Attempts to remedy the problem have failed miserably.

As I have been going through the excruciatingly painful process of typing this, another key has completely fallen off. It's the one that perches directly under the period key. So not only can I not type a "t" when I want, but every time I go to add a period, the wobbly key underneath lodges itself under the period thereby preventing me from ending a sentence.

I may have a heart attack.

There is another laptop I can use, but it's older, more cumbersome and doesn't have all of my files loaded on it. Apparently, I'm going to be forced back into the Dark Ages and use that four year old dinosaur. (That's kind of sad isn't it? Four years old and you're already thought of as having aged out of the game. Poor Computersaurus.)

Let me get this figured out. It will require a bit of foot stomping, a lot of whining, more than likely some cash and a whole bucket load of whimpering.

But, as always, I will overcome. Maybe. *sniffle*

100 Bloggity Blogs on The Wall

2009-07-29T01:40:00.000-07:00

This, Dear Friends, is my 100th post.

I suppose it's a milestone of sorts. Of what, I'm not sure. Maybe it just means I've stuck to something for awhile or maybe it's just a number to which significance often seems to be bestowed.

No matter. With regard to blogging, I think I'm kind of proud of this number. When I began this blog, I had no idea in what direction I was going. The simplest explanation is that I merely wanted a place where I could write down some thoughts, vent a little, rant a lot and just have a bucket in which to dump some of the thoughts that seem to always be taking up room in my brain and mucking up the old gray matter.

The determination was made early on that I wouldn't write every day unless I had something to say that I felt was worth writing. I also didn't want blogging to be about my children all of the time, or to be a journal of every mundane daily event. More than anything, I wanted it to reflect who I was at that particular moment and to act as a ruler of sorts, for measuring my personal evolution.

As I look back, I see that my writing styles have altered from time to time and that very often, my mood has changed. (Go figure!) Sometimes I'm a bit embarrassed, and other times I laugh at myself and think what a goon I am. Mostly, I see that I am indeed an evolving human being and that I'm happy with the direction in which I'm traveling.

One of the amazing things that has happened along the way of my journey through The Land of Blog, is that I have been introduced to some truly wonderful people. Many of them merely make me laugh, and that is a gift in itself. Others have shown me to view things from a perspective other than my own, and for that I am grateful. There are those who have told me that I am courageous and are always encouraging me to speak and to let my voice be heard. How can I repay that?! And some of these same people and more, have inspired me to not just hope for change in the world, but to be the change.

So, this 100th post, Dear Friends, is dedicated to you. I dedicate it to you because your words of encouragement strengthen me. Your expressions of friendship bring joy to me. Your humor lightens my spirit and deepens the lines around my mouth which give me character...right?! Your unbelievable generosity amazes me and your loving hearts and kindness inspires me.

Angie: You astound me. A book a day. I know you're hoping that someday you'll be famous for it, but I'm betting you're going to be famous for the world's first gluten free, sugar free, peanut free and chocolate free, peanut butter cup.

Inga: What can I say? I'd follow you anywhere. The gifts you give to me, I cannot fully express. I love you, Sister.

Tessa: You are nothing short of magical. You're beautiful and talented and generous beyond imagination.

David: Nothing more to say than two words: Writer Extraordinaire

Dawn: You make me laugh and say, "Oh boy! I can relate!" And, your witchy wares and devilish doo-dads make me just plain happy.

Cubil: Your point of view is always interesting and sometimes different than my own. You help me expand my horizons.

Karie: Keeping up to speed with what's going on with one of my favorite people is a joy. I'm so glad you invited me in.

Fragrant Liar: Still clueless as to why I don't know your real name. Probably because you're afraid I'll stalk you. Regardless, your sass and your wit remind me so much of myself, how could I not love you?

Angela: From across the ocean, you encourage, teach and amaze me. Your open heart, generosity and zest for life prompt me to keep searching for ways to become a better Me.

Hutchins: Your writing makes me laugh and also touches me deeply. Reading about you and your beautiful family further and firmly convinces me that we are standing on the right side of the battlefield where the fight for equality rages on.

Andrea: I can almost always relate to what you're saying and enjoy so much hearing your point of view. And, by the way...where in the hell have you been?! I miss you. Come back.

Cynthia: As one of my newer Bloggy Friends, I so appreciate your encouragement to keep writing and I'm always interested in what you have to say.

Lee: Still trying to figure you out a bit. Sometimes I think by your writing that you're in your 20's and at other times, I think by the way you go on, that you must be much closer to my age. Er...you know...30's. *ahem* It matters not, but I do enjoy your daily grind. Oftentimes your intellect soars so far above mine, that my eyes haze over for a minute or two. Dumb it down, will ya?

Tonjia: Yours is another viewpoint which, like a pendulum, swings wildly between one I can relate to and one from which I try to learn.

Rosaria: The story of your coming to America is so wonderful and then to go on and dedicate your life to the often thankless job of teaching, well...wow. Having your perspective and wisdom interjected is something much appreciated.

Dangerous Pages: I've had a pin for ages that reads, "I read banned books." When I landed on your blog, I was smitten.

Reya: You're the cool aunt I never had. The way in which you view the world around you is so interesting and your photographs? Amazing. Your perspective is one that teaches me.

Dr. Maithri: Also a new friend, but one who I'm so honored to have. To me, you are beautiful in every way and your light shines so brightly that it has reached me from across the sea.Your work is awe inspiring and I am so grateful that human beings like you exist.

Laggin: A woman who claims to live in a three-ring circus, but yet seems to do so with grace and heart. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Vodka Mom: You're brassy and sassy and often times trashy. What's not to love? You also write with honesty and heart and I dig that.

WWHM: I don't know who you are, but I know you make me laugh until I cry. Sometimes, you also make me want to throw up a little, but in a good way. And, thankfully (or not?) you'll never run out of material.

So, there you have it. You are the people who I read and attempt to keep up with. A million thanks for your comments and support and for continuing to help me exand my mind and heart.

And to those of you who comment on my blog, but who I'm not following yet...thank you so much. I wish I had another 24 hours in each day to read everything you write. I've just dropped a few bloggers who haven't posted in months so I'll be stalking you in no time.

And, to those of you who read but never comment, well...I know who you are. (Technology is grand...at least when it's working for you and not against you!) You must have your reasons for standing in the corner at the party and drinking alone, so I won't press the issue by asking you to join in the fun. (But, please... do use a coaster.)

Crash, Boom, Bam!

2009-07-29T00:45:00.000-07:00

In the short span of time that I've been wandering through The Land of Blog, I've read several posts on the subject of blogging itself. One of my favorite Bloggy Friends, Reya, recently wrote a post about how blogging has created families of a sort.

It's an interesting concept and if you've been actively blogging for awhile, you've begun to see how we travel in packs or cliques. We log on to a blog that we find interesting, only to find that someone we know from The Land of Blog is already following that blogger!

Although I have Bloggy Friends in Africa, Germany, England and other wonderful and interesting places, the blogging phenomenon seems to have proven the notion that it really is a small world.

Today I noticed that I had written a total of 98 posts thus far along my journey into the Land of Blog. I thought to myself, "Self...that's pretty cool. But, I wonder how long it will be until someone I know in "real" life, "meets" someone I know only from blogging?"

Well, kiss my grits and slap me silly, but it happened today. Today! I was completely flabbergasted and without words of any kind for a minute or so. Of course, I'm sure some sort of sound came out of me seeing as how my mouth was hanging open like an airplane hangar.

I logged on to my mother-in-law's blog and was scrolling through the comments and there it was. Fragrant Liar. I couldn't believe it. How did this happen?! The universe has tilted and worlds have collided!

At first I felt shocked. Then I felt confused. What the....?! Now I just feel weird. What's this? What's going on here, what's happening?!

My finely delineated and compartmentalized world has had the ink of its Sharpie perfect borders smudged and smeared and there are no longer Family Blogs and Bloggy Friend blogs. Holy hell.

You see, I draw mental lines around things. This is here and that is there and everything has a place. Nice, neat and psychotic, no?

I can see you there, sitting smugly behind your computer screen thinking, "This one's a freak, she is. Why does this have her so bamboozled?" (Wipe that judgemental smirk off your face, will you? It's SO unbecoming.)

This one's going to take some working out. I may have to call a therapist. (Nooooo...I am not already in therapy, thank you very much. What are you implying?!)

*Sigh*

The Long Non-Winding Road - Part II

2009-07-23T17:13:00.000-07:00

In an effort to stave off the mind numbing boredom that threatened to bore through our brain boxes, Mr. Right and I decided to play our own version of Password. I took to it with zeal, whispering into my hand each time it was my turn, "The password is..." and then whipping off brilliant clues to Mr. Right. We occupied about two hours of the sixteen hour drive with this and both decided that not only are we superior clue givers, but astonishingly proficient guessers as well. We're humble like that.

At one point during our game, Snotty decided to make up a little game as well and set about attempting to teach The Duchess how to play 20 Questions. Snotty explained to The Duchess that she should think of a word and then whisper it to Mom. Then Snotty would try to guess what the word was by asking questions. "No problem!" squealed The Duchess and then excitedly thought of her first word and whispered it to me. The word was "truck." It was nothing short of hilarious to listen to The Duchess respond to the questions Snotty was asking in order to guess the secret word.

This went on for several minutes and then...it happened. The Duchess leaned forward and whispered, "Mom...the word is penis!" I looked at Mr. Right and started laughing. Of course, that set The Duchess off and she looked over at Snotty who had her ears covered so that she wouldn't hear the secret word and squealed delightedly, "It's PENIS!" This revelation prompted Snotty to start laughing and now that the four of us were laughing loudly enough to drown out Grumpy's Ipod, he pulled out his earphones and inquired what the deal was. The Duchess, in her best sing-song 4 year old voice, sang out loud and proud, "Penis, penis, penis!!"

To passers-by, we must have looked a sight. Four road weary people surrounded by luggage, rolling down the road laughing hysterically with tears streaming down our faces, and one incredibly delighted four year old waving her green apple Blo-Pop in the air while screaming the word penis.

I'm pretty sure I've lost yet another Mother of the Year nomination, but what the hell. Who needs a trophy when you can have a memory like that?

Eulogy

2009-07-21T01:19:00.000-07:00

His name was Lyle Jacob Colclasure, but everyone called him Jake. I never called him that of course. He was just "Pa" to me. Five foot nothing and hair like white silk. My father, Jake's son, used to talk about how harsh Pa was when my father was growing up. I never knew him that way. To me, he embodied all that a grandfather should. Warmth, love, humor, affection...this was the Pa I knew.

Going to Pa's house almost always meant homemade ice-cream and turns swaying on the hammock. Hummingbirds stayed well-fed in the feeders he and Gram put out and I remember vividly, sitting on the front porch at Pa's drinking Gram's homemade lemonade and listening to the buzz of the hummingbirds. Such was life at Pa's place.

I was in my thirties when Pa first saw an ATM machine. My sister and I were going to take him and Gram to lunch and we pulled up to an ATM to withdraw some money. Pa was confused. "Well, where's the money come from?!" Pa had only dealt with the teller, whom he knew by name, in the bank of the little remote rural town where he spent the latter part of his life.

My grandfather had been a professional jockey in his younger days and therefore was diminutive in stature. I loved how small he was. He was the perfect kid-sized grandpa. He was big enough, however, to hold me down and tickle my feet until I laughed so hard I cried.

My Pa taught me how to tie my shoelaces.

Pa also taught me, without words, what love looks like. He and my Gram finished each other's sentences and she knew exactly what he was pointing to at the dinner table and would pass it to him without a word being spoken between them. They spent over fifty years loving each other.

Pa developed Alzheimer's a year or two before Gram passed away. Alzheimer's is a vicious and vile beast that brutally robs both the victims and those they love. When Gram could no longer care for Pa on her own, he was moved to a nursing home. I think it's what did Gram in.

At Gram's funeral, Pa seemed very lucid. He stood over Gram and cried and spoke softly to her. At the cemetery, as they lowered her casket into the ground, he cried and touched her casket and said, "Goodbye, Sweet Mama." He knew she was gone, and that was about the end of him. His mind faded fast, but his tiny body refused to quit.

Last week, Pa began refusing food and water. We knew it was only days before he would leave us. On July 19th, at 4:12 a.m., Jake's body had finally had enough.

His death marks the end of an era in my life. The Era of Grandparents. He was the last and I'm trying to adjust my brain to the reality that I am without grandparents.

The adjusting process has been going on for a while now. As Nancy Reagan once said, Alzheimer's is, "the long, long goodbye."

I didn't know Jake the man, really. I only knew Pa. And, the Pa I knew had a life worth celebrating. He and my Grandmother left us beautiful warm memories and the knowledge that we were loved. I couldn't ask for a more wonderful inheritance.

My grandfather's funeral is today. If I had just one more chance to be with him, I would ask him to to turn the crank on the old ice-cream machine one last time while I sat on the quilt that covered the bucket. I would tell him how much I loved him and how the memories that he and Gram made for me are the most cherished of my childhood. I would reach out to him, fold my arms around him, kiss that beautiful old leathery cheek of his and whisper goodbye.

The Long Non-Winding Road - Part I

2009-07-19T21:48:00.001-07:00

When I look at my GPS and it says, "Next turn is in 524 miles," my limited Yiddish vocabulary comes in handy. Oy vey.

If you've never made the drive between Arizona and Texas...don't. Get your tokhes to the nearest airport and let the captain do all of the work for you. It's seriously, and literally, a pain in the ass to drive it.

The route went like this: 1.) Phoenix, AZ to Dallas, TX 2.) Dallas, TX to Grapevine, TX 3.) Grapevine, TX to Plano, TX 4.) Plano, TX to Stillwater, OK 5.) Stillwater, OK to...well hell. Even I'm bored to tears with this. To summarize, during the ten-day trip through four states, we logged fifty-two hours on our asses in the car. Fifty-freaking-two. Nebekhdik!

I made a solemn pledge to myself that I would, under no circumstances, gain weight on this trip. Please...tell me what in the hell I was thinking. Fifty-two hours of sitting on my arse eating fast food for ten days, does not a skinny girl make. I gained four pounds. The muffin top has exploded right off the muffin and has revealed the lard filled pastry that is me.

The trip started on a high note. In my determination to not swell up like a show pig, I'd packed some apples in the ice chest. A couple of hours into the drive, I retrieved an apple and smugly crunched it while mentally patting myself on the back for my stunning display of health consciousness. That would be the last healthy morsel to pass my lips for the next ten days.

One morning I had cold buffalo wings for breakfast. The next, I inhaled kolaches and donuts. Across four states, Chinese fare was devoured as were hamburgers, empanadas, trout butter, pizza, salumi, french fries, pancakes, coconut M&Ms, tacos, cheesecake and banana pudding. And, don't even get me started on how many vodka laced drinks I poured down my pipe. Let's just say that I drank enough to inspire my friend Kyle to name a drink a drink after me. That's right. Next time you're out, ask for a Malibu Amy.

To be continued...

This Land is My Land

2009-07-05T18:49:00.000-07:00

Independence Day has come and gone and the smell of gun powder has dissipated in the wind that swept over the purple mountains majesty and across the fruited plains.

As my family and I made preparations to celebrate the 4th, the slight, hot wind that was sweeping through the desert carried refrains of "God bless America." I heard it everywhere and listened as a choir of voices, not heard so loudly since the presidential campaign, screeched wildly, "We are one nation, under God!"

The craft store chain, Hobby Lobby, carried a full one-page ad in a local paper. It was a scroll meant to look like the Constitution and on it were several quotes from many of our founding fathers and framers of the Constitution and of The Declaration of Independence. By reading these short quotes, one would most certainly say, "Why, yes! We ARE one nation under God!" But, as I read each of those quotes, I became increasingly angry.

Several of the quotes in that advertisement were said by some of our founding fathers who were self-proclaimed Deists and Secularists. I know those quotes because I have read not only the founding documents of this country, but biographies, autobiographies and books of letters written by or about these men. You can take words out of context or take small excerpts from public speeches and come up with just about anything you want to in order to make an argument that someone is in agreement with you. But, history is history and I'm quite fed up with those who seek to revise it to suit their own self-indulgent purposes.

I am not a person who believes everything she is told. I do not believe just because my parents told me I should believe. I do not believe because the majority tells me I should believe. I do not believe because a trusted news anchor tells me I should believe. My beliefs are based on research and study and on common sense and discernment. Although not an expert in history, I have read and studied enough about it to know certain truths. When I read a letter written in the hand of our 27th president, William H. Taft that says: "I do not believe in the divinity of Christ, and there are many other of the postulates of the orthodox creed to which I cannot subscribe," I know from this letter and others that he wrote, that he was a Deist, not a Christian.
Thomas Paine was probably one of the most outspoken of our founding fathers. He made few bones about the fact that he was most definitely not a Christian. There is an immense amount of documentation on the subject, the bulk of which comes from his own writings. "The Christian system of religion is an outrage on common sense." Sound like a Christian to you?

Benjamin Franklin: "I have found Christian dogma unintelligible. Early in life I absented myself from Christian assemblies."

This country, very contrary to the current clamoring and hollering about it, was not founded as a Christian nation. In fact, if you'd care to pick up some books written by our founding fathers, you'll find quite the opposite.

The framers of our great Constitution took great pains to draft a document which made clear that there was to be a wall that separated "church and state." They were adamant that our country was to be governed free from religious influence. The proof of this is in the documents themselves. The Constitution contains not one single word about Christianity, the Bible or Jesus Christ. Nor does it contain any reference to the United States being founded on Christianity or Christian principles. The Ten Commandments are mentioned exactly zero times. The Preamble contains the phrase, "...they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights," and is the one and only reference with any sort of possible religious undertone. In writings of the men who wrote these words, it is made clear that the reference was to the Deist creator and not the God of Christianity.

In 1797 the United States ratified the Treaty of Tripoli. The treaty was negotiated by George Washington and signed by John Adams, his successor. In the treaty, it was declared that, "The government of the United States is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian Religion." The treaty was read aloud before Congress and was unanimously approved.

Those who seek to revise history will loudly proclaim that our currency is printed with, "In God We Trust." Yes. It is. Those words were added in 1956, 180 years after the founding of our nation. And, what of our Pledge of Allegiance which states, "One nation, under God?" The phrase, "Under God" was added in 1954.

George Bush Sr. was once asked by a reporter about how he planned on getting the atheist vote. There was a brief exchange and this is part of what was said:*

Bush: No, I don't know that atheists should be considered as citizens, nor should they be considered patriots. This is one nation under God.
Reporter: (somewhat taken aback): Do you support as a sound constitutional principle the separation of state and church?
Bush: Yes, I support the separation of church and state. I'm just not very high on atheists.

I am an atheist. I also consider myself a patriot. I am not the kind of gun-toting, flag waving, "you're either with us or against us," proclaiming American who we've all been told are the "real Americans." But, I am most certainly a proud, law abiding citizen who has such love of country that I'm willing to yell and scream and fight and vote for it to return to its origins. It's origins are plain and clear. They are pure and not open for interpretation. They hold a promise for each and every legal citizen of this country.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness."

The same group of Americans who have tried to hijack patriotism and who are trying to revise our history to make it conform to their own belief systems seem to also be the same group who constantly and consistently attempt to deny the inalienable rights of those citizens who do not subscribe to the same dogma as they do. These Americans have never learned, or forgotten or just flat out refuse to accept that our brilliant founding fathers believed in not only freedom OF religion, but freedom FROM religion and that they steadfastly believed that our country should and must be governed free from religious influence.

I am an atheist and I am a patriot. This is my country too.

*Some have disputed that this exchange took place. I have read the chain of correspondence between the American Atheists and the White House regarding this exchange. The correspondence consists of eleven pages and is stored in the Bush Library in Texas and available to the public upon inquiry. Although Mr. Bush's White House counsel does not directly confirm the exchange, he also does not deny it. The video of this exchange seems to have disappeared.

Rambling in Reverse

2009-06-29T13:55:00.000-07:00

Monday:

Today, my dentist stuck a giant syringe in my mouth and wiggled and poked until my eyes watered. I may have whimpered once or twice. When he removed the instrument of evil from my mouth, he sweetly asked, "Are you alright?" Wiping away tears, I muttered, "That really hurt, but I was very brave." For some reason, he found this funny.

For the next fifteen minutes or so, he used whirly things that made screechy noises and one gadget that vibrated my head so bad I thought my earrings were going to fall out. Apparently, this teeny tiny cavity was in between my two back upper molars on my left side. Apparently, it was one tough son of a bitch to get to. At one point I had three hands, three tubey things, a cotton swab and some sort of Medieval clamp in my mouth. None of the hands were mine, as my two were on my lap trying valiantly not to flip my dentist the bird.

With torture complete, my numb face and I headed to the front desk to check out. As I handed the office manager my debit card and paid the $94 fee charged for their proprietary brand of pain, I stupidly said, "Thank you," and grinned at her with half my face.

As the pain medication is wearing off, I'm finding that my jaw aches. What a bonus!

Sunday:

Last night, Mr. Right and I decided to go see the big moneymaker at the theater and contribute another $19 to its bottom line. Yes, we saw The Hangover. It was crude, rude, foul, rank and absolutely hilarious. I typically don't care much for what I refer to as "boy humor," but I have to tell you, I laughed from beginning to end, virtually non-stop. And, when I say I laughed, I mean I guffawed, bellowed and snorted. I'm sure it was quite lovely to behold.

The only thing that tainted the experience for me was the couple sitting next to me. They must have been in their early twenties. (Since turning 40, anyone under about 25 looks like an ankle biter to me, so I'm probably not the best judge of age.) Anyway, these two had either just been recently released from separate prisons or just had their chastity belts removed because they were practically making babies right next to me. Don't get me wrong. I'm neither a prude or anti-young love, but jeez-o-pete. He would occasionally, and loudly, repeat a line that was just said in the movie, laugh and ask the object of his lust if she'd heard that. (As in, "DID YOU HEAR THAT?!") She, on the other hand, appeared to be bored out of her skull with the movie, but perfectly enthralled by the fact that the arm of her chair raised up so that she could actually lay in her man's lap. I eventually had to position myself in such a way as to make them no longer appear in my peripheral vision. *Bleh*

As we were leaving the theatre parking lot, we saw this sign:

This made me break out into serious giggling. Caution indeed!! If only they'd posted this sign inside the theatre, I could have been better prepared!

Saturday:

Snotty and Grumpy arrived home from their month in Colorado. *Sigh* We'd no sooner set foot inside the front door when the calls started coming in from their friends. We let them spend about an hour "hanging out" and then called it quits for the rest of they day. We'd not seem them for a month and here they were wanting to immediately dump us for their pals. Rotten, they are.

I prepared one of their favorite meals and as we ate dinner, we let the hammer fall. We'd made a deal with them in December when we'd finally broken down and purchased cell phones for them. The deal was that they had to keep their grades up to A's and B's as they currently were or their phones would be taken away. From December until the end of school, we fought tooth and nail with them over their declining grades and had to take their phones away several times until they pulled grades back up. When we received final grades in the mail after Snotty and Grumpy left for Colorado, it was not good news. Mr. Right and I decided to let them keep their phones while they were away, but agreed that we'd have to hold up our end of the deal as soon as they returned home. Oh, boy. I'm sure that we will be the subject of their reports in school if asked to write about evil dictators or homeland terrorists.

Friday:

I decided not to cook dinner because I was seriously jonesing for the Greek salad at My Big Fat Greek Restaurant, so off we went.

As our waitress approached us, I noted that she was probably a solid 6 feet tall and possibly around 210 lbs. or so. She had long wavy blonde hair and was what I would call "cute." As she stood at our table and opened her mouth to speak, it took all of my will power not to jerk my head to look at her and stare in shock. She had the voice of a four year old. I'm not kidding. One of those squeaky, baby-like, itty bitty voices. On the inside, I was in full on hysterics.

She asked what I'd like to drink and when I said, "Ice tea, please," she squeaked, "Thank you," and then...she curtsied. Yep. One foot behind the other and a bow. It was a mini-curtsy, but a curtsy nonetheless. Hmmm. I waited while Mr. Right ordered and when he was finished, "Thank you," and a mini-curtsy. For the duration of our meal, no matter if we asked for extra napkins, more pita, or for her to do a little jig, we received a "Thank you" and a mini-curtsy. When she brought us our ticket at the end of dinner, she'd circled her name on the "Your Server Was...." line. Her name, as it turned out, was "Stacey." Oh...I'm sorry. That's St♥cey. Mmm hmmm. With a heart. And, to top it off, she wrote, "Thank You!" on the ticket and turned the dot of the exclamation point into a heart. Then she drew a heart around the Thank You. If she hadn't been such a damn good waitress, I would have punched her in the snout.

So, there it is. My weekend in reverse. I would put it in the proper sequence for you, but this is the way I thought it and now I'm too lazy to turn it all around. It's 110 outside and even though I'm inside, the heat just seems to suck all motivation and ambition right out of me. You certainly are dears to put up with it all.

Remembering The Man In The Mirror

2009-06-25T20:50:00.000-07:00

Some of you Dear Friends, will not care for this blog, and that's okay. I'm writing it more for myself and for those other children of the 80's who grew up listening and dancing to the music of Michael Jackson.

True, yes...he was a member of the incredibly famous Jackson Five in the 70's, but he reached iconic status in the 80's.

Some of you may not be able to look past his life as it was played out in the media all around the world for the last several years. Some of you may not have liked his music. Some of you may think he was a "freak" and have no use for him at all.

I can honestly say that despite all of the hoopla that surrounded his somewhat bizarre behavior at times, I will remember him as he was when he was at his very best. I cannot remember him as he was at his worst because that would be remembering that he was a damaged and lonely human being who desperately sought approval and affection and who sadly, never felt truly loved. I'll remember him at his best because that is when his talent ruled the world.

In high school, I never quite felt like I fit into any clique. I mostly felt awkward and goofy and out of place. There were though, a few times when I felt a part of the group. One of those times was made possible by Michael Jackson.

When the video for Thriller was released, my family only owned a black and white t.v. and we had no cable. Imagine that. A teenager in the 80's and no MTV. My parents should have been arrested for abuse. Anyway, the school library had a television and I remember when the video for Thriller came out, the librarian turned on the t.v. so that those of us who were "studying" in the library could watch it. We all gathered around the t.v. and as students passed by the library windows and saw the crowd gathering, they came in to see what was going on and the crowd grew. There must have been thirty or so of us standing around watching that screen in complete silence and awe. I remember looking around at my fellow classmates and thinking that I was a part of something. History. Music. I could feel it in the hair that was standing up on my arms.

I suppose that each generation has a King. My generation, the children of the 80's, had Michael Jackson. He was the King of Pop. His body of work contains hundreds upon hundreds of songs, legendary music videos such as Thriller, Beat It and Billie Jean, The Moonwalk (Oh, yeah. Don't tell me you haven't tried it!) and more crotch grabbing, lip biting, glove wearing dance moves than you can shake a stick at.

And, speaking of The Moonwalk, I once had it perfected. Yes, I was that geeky. I'll give you a tip: Don't wear your Nikes to Moonwalk. Wear ballet flats. "Real" ballet flats like we wore in the 80's. You'll slide like you're on glass.

I don't know if anyone knows what went awry in the mind and heart of Michael Jackson. We must assume, even with only elementary knowledge of psychology, that he suffered greatly at times. We've all heard those who claimed to have been in his inner circle say that he was a gentle, loving, compassionate and childlike man. It's difficult to reconcile that with what we saw played out in the media, so I'm not going to try.

What I will remember is the legacy he leaves behind. I'll remember the music he gave us that was sheer fun and that made us open our sun roofs and crank up the stereo while we were cruising Main Street. I'll also remember the music he made in an attempt to make us open our minds and see beyond race and gender and social class. I'll remember him as that soft spoken and shy King of Pop with the glittery glove and moves that would make Elvis blush.

I will remember.

(D)eoxyribo(N)ucleic (A)cid

2009-06-19T17:21:00.001-07:00

Tuesday evening we took The Duchess to see her very first live musical production of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

She selected on one of her favorite dresses, lacy socks, a pair of her sassiest shoes, made sure her hair was properly sprayed into place and off we went to the theater.

While we waited for Mr. Right to pick the tickets up from will-call, I told the Duchess to go pose in front of the poster for the play. This is what I got:

Honestly...I don't know where she gets this stuff.

What Happened in Vegas...

2009-06-15T23:25:00.001-07:00

It all began on Thursday as a little trip to Utah because Mr. Right wanted to show the Duchess and I where he spent part of his childhood and so he could visit the cemetery where his father is buried.

I was not super jazzed to be going. The lack of jazziness was due primarily to the fact that I loathe car trips. My limit in the car is about four hours. Anything past that and my ass begins to go numb and my brain follows shortly thereafter.

The drive was long, but as we left Arizona and headed into Utah, it became beautiful as well. It was fantastic to see a green world again and to see water running along side the road that wasn't being pumped into concrete canals like it is here in the desert. Ahhh...water.

Mt. Tipanogos, Utah Valley

In Utah, we stayed with an old friend of Mr. Right's and had a nice time driving around visiting old childhood haunts and talking. I did not, however, enjoy sleeping on the Aerobed and being high centered all night which resulted in waking up with a sore back and with my bum shoulder aching. I had to self medicate with Ibuprofen and beer. No liquor within miles. Utah. What a crock.

Saturday night we decided that it might be fun to take a different route home and drive through Las Vegas and spend the night. So, being the Internet savvy gal that I am, I quickly and quite efficiently, booked a room online at Planet Hollywood for Sunday night. Shazam.

We rolled out of Provo on Sunday around noon and headed to the cemetery a few miles outside of town.

I don't know about Mr. Right, but I got a little emotional at the cemetery. This particular cemetery is located smack dab in the middle of Nowhere and contains maybe 200 grave sites. As we pulled up to the site where Mr. Right's father is buried, we realized that there was no marker there. This made me incredibly sad for Mr. Right. He'd come prepared with a letter he'd written with the intention of leaving it there for his father. There was no place to put it.

I left Mr. Right alone with his letter and walked around the cemetery with The Duchess. When I saw that Mr. Right had concluded his business, we walked over and I saw that he had found a stone and had placed his letter under it in the space a headstone should have been. The Duchess had picked some Dandelions for me and I walked over and tucked their stems under the stone with the letter. The whole thing made me want to put Mr. Right on my lap and rock him and hold him tight.

With Utah behind us, we headed into Nevada and set the GPS for Planet Hollywood.

View from the pool at Planet Hollywood

Arriving in the lobby with luggage in tow, we waited...and waited...and waited, to check in. Upon presenting our online reservation to the person behind the counter, we were told that it was ever so lovely that we had a reservation, but that it was for NEXT weekend. What?! Oh, shit.

My "Great Rate!" room which I'd so efficiently booked on Travelocity quickly became the "Rate From Hell." Apparently, the hotel was quite full and they only had the swankier rooms available. Swanky will break the bank, people. Yes, we could have hauled ass out of there, but we'd committed to have fun, dammit, and fun we would have. Or not.

The room was great, yes, and we were having a jolly good time bouncing around on the beds, but it soon became apparent by the bellowing in our stomachs, that it was time to forage for food.

The "Strip" was packed. Throngs of sweaty people in ghastly clothing, walking through millions of pieces of business card sized pornography (hide your eyes, Duchess!) and so much trash that my inner clean freak began to actually freak. In order to just "Let's get somewhere dammit and eat," we decided to take advantage of the coupon for dinner that had been thrust into our hands by a scantily clad person of dubious gender while we were waiting for the "walk" sign to give us the go ahead.

So, off to the Hawaiian Tropic Zone we went. I'll give you the condensed version of dinner: Fajitas x 2. One kids meal. 2 cocktails. Two sodas. One coupon for "Free entree with purchase of entree." Ninety six dollars. Yes. You read that correctly. $96.00. With a coupon. The food was below average and my $13 cocktail was served in a plastic cup. Classy.

This is what a $13 cocktail looks like

After clutching my chest and doing my best impersonation of Red Foxx on Sanford & Son, we paid the bill and headed to M&M World to appease The Duchess. We'd promised her a swim in the pool, but the hour it took us to check in had burned up our pool time. So, we bribed her with chocolate.

We blazed through four stories of every imaginable M&M related item in about 15 minutes flat, scooping up an M&M dispenser, hand held fan, mini set of binoculars, drinking cup with silly straw and a giant bag of multi-colored M&Ms personally selected by The Duchess from the massive Wall-O-M&Ms on the second floor. At the register, the dude behind the counter happily informed us that we'd spent enough money to qualify for a free candy dispenser for only five dollars. "How much did we spend" we asked? With chocolaty breath he bubbled, "$71.00!"

Sweet mother of all that is holy. How much can fucking M&Ms cost?! Apparently, in Vegas, they cost $12.95 a pound. So, we threw in the other dispenser for $5.00. What the hell.

As we tumbled into our swanky beds that night, my brain kept running through the receipts of the day and I must tell you, my brain was having a panic attack. After convincing Brain to settle down and chill out, I cozied up under the blankets and began drifting off into the Land of....SLAM! *Giggle, giggle, hiccup, moo, giggle, snort*

Yes, Dear Friends. Our next door neighbors had arrived. They'd just come from a wedding and it was midnight. The party was on.

For the next four hours, I listened to a full on version of the, We're in Vegas, We're Drunk off our Asses, and We are the Most Fabulous and Funny People on the Planet Show. I've never heard so many people crack themselves up so damn loudly before in my life. (Except me that one time at IHOP, but no one was trying to sleep ten feet away. I assume the kitchen staff was awake because I got my Big Country Breakfast in no time flat.)

At about 3:00 a.m. Mr. Right called security. At about 4:00 a.m. Mr. Right called security. At about 9:30 a.m. I woke up and swore revenge on the bridesmaid cows next door and on Planet Hollywood.

Breakfast: Delicious. I had eggs & bacon, Mr. Right had French toast, The Duchess had the short stack of pancakes and we made it out of there for a mere $61.00. Holy shit. "Hold on, Elizabeth! I'm comin'!"

As I was rubbing my temples and repeating under my breath, "Holy shit, I hate Vegas, holy shit," I looked up and saw a familiar face. I did a double take and jumped half way out of my seat. It was Holly Madison. No, not Dolly Madison, the cupcake girl, Holly Madison. You know, Hugh Hefner's ex-girlfriend and star of the Girls Next Door?! Oh, c'mon! That show was one of my dirty little secrets that I was a wee bit ashamed of admitting that I loved. I recorded every episode. Don't judge me.

The lovely Holly Madison

(It turns out she was at Planet Hollywood preparing for her role in the new show, Peepshow, beginning next week.)

Anyway, the Holly sighting redeemed Vegas for me momentarily. She walked three feet in front of me wearing her signature tube socks and shorts and little pink velour hoodie. She had no makeup on and was accompanied by her little doggy on a leash. She headed straight into Starbucks and once she had coffee in hand (a Venti), she cruised right back by me as I was still recovering from a seizure that consisted of me bouncing up and down in my seat and grinning from ear to ear saying, "Oh my god!! I can't believe I just saw Holly Madison! Oh my god!"

Oh...and we temporarily stole the Blackberry of one of the over sized bridesmaid heifers from the party next door. That made me feel a little better as well. We'd found it under the newspaper next to our door that morning (and next to the three giant boxes of empty booze bottles) and decided to just hold onto it for a bit. When we checked out at 1 o'clock that afternoon, we took it to the concierge and dropped it off without saying anything except, "We found this in the hall."

Take that, Bitches. (Okay, okay...I know it was lame, but it's all we had. When you're exhausted grumpy and bitter, you take what you can get.)

I've been to Vegas four times now and all four times I have found myself wondering what in the hell all of the fuss is about. Overall, I've found the service to be rather crappy, the food WAY overpriced and sub-par, the town itself rather stinky and dirty, the public smoking disturbing and nauseating (I had to eat my $20 scrambled eggs while inhaling second hand smoke thanks to the asshole sitting at the next table) and the overwhelming disregard for manners and complete loss of self control, quite off-putting.

I'll take a beach on St. Thomas over Vegas any day of the week. Give me a bikini, a few glasses of Rum Punch and some Calypso music and you've got yourself a party. And what happens there, well...I promise I won't tell.

Coki Beach on St. Thomas. Ahhhh....Paradise.

Apparently, I DO Have a Smoking Section

2009-06-08T21:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it occurs to me that I just may be abnormal. I know, I know. You're wide-eyed and holding the sides of your head in disbelief and proclaiming, "YOU?! No freakin' way!"

Despite your passionate cries of protest, I say to you...I am. Or, maybe not. Maybe you're all as freaky as I am but not quite as shameless about splashing your oddities all over the World Wide Web for all to see.

So, here's something I've never divulged, and I must say, I'm a wee bit hesitant. (Actually, I just told Mr. Right about this two minutes ago and his response was, "What?! *laughter* "You're a freak!")

Up to this point in my blogging, you may have found a few things here and there that made you laugh and say to yourself, "Oh, yeah...I can relate." But, try this one on for size.

Often times when I'm anxious or stressed about some upcoming situation I have to deal with, I pre-create the situation in my head so that I can plan out all of the possible scenarios that may occur. In my brain's eye view, I see myself going through the actions and conversations associated with the event. As my mind is racing through all of the possible outcomes, I see Me, there in my mind, and...I'm smoking a cigarette.

I've never smoked a day in my life. Not even half a day. The thought of sucking on a tar-filled cancer stick makes me want to gag. Yet, there I am in all my daydream glory, smokin' up a storm.

What is up with that?!

(Remember that voice inside my head that was screaming at me to shut up in the DMV? I think she's taken up smoking. That is one uptight bitch.)

Portrait of an American Family

2009-06-04T17:21:00.001-07:00

Have you stopped laughing at the picture yet? Okay. I'll wait.

I can't believe you're still laughing! How very insensitive of you.

Okay. I'll admit it. When I came across this photo in my picture box yesterday, my first impulse was to physically cringe and my second was to giggle. I just sat and looked at it and wondered if I submitted this to a Most Hideous Family Photos of All Time contest, if it would win first place. I think it might.

Let me set the scene for you.

Picture it. 1976. The Bicentennial of our country. If I recall correctly, my Granny found those lovely red white and blue vests at a yard sale and thought just how very perfect they would look on her precious grandchildren. Of all of her thousands of downright lovely qualities, my Granny possessed not one single ounce of fashion sense.

When Granny presented the oh so very patriotic vests to my mother, it was decided between the two of them, now that we all had matching clothes, it would be just a swell time to have a family portrait taken. And here's a sad little fact for you Dear Friends: this was the first and only family portrait we ever took. This one. Doesn't that just beat it all to hell?

Shortly before this photograph was taken, my father had broken his leg while working at a saw mill. He'd been out of work for several weeks and had put on a few pounds laying around the house. He looks a wee bit bloated. And, how about that snazzy checkered shirt with the giant collar? I can only assume it was fashioned from a tablecloth ripped off from the local pizzaria. (And, see how very happy Dear Old Dad looks in the bosom of his family?)

As you can see, my mother had a relatively young baby and was still toting around some excess baggage. I have no explanation whatsoever for her hairdo. I can only apologize to you for the damage to the ozone layer that must have occurred from the massive CFL emission put off by the three cans of Aquanet it took to get her hair like that.

My sister, Inga, is to the left of my father. We always wore hand-me-downs so I have to assume that the reason her pants appear to be swallowing her alive is because they recently belonged to our sister, Tonjia, who is three years older than she is. I must say though...Inga sure looks happy. I wonder what she just got away with by blaming it on me?

Tonjia is directly behind Inga. She must have just been hitting puberty, poor thing. I don't recall her hair ever looking like this, but then again, I was busy sliding down barn roofs and eating blackberries and running through cornfields. While I was actively engaged in those extremely important activities, Tonjia was most likely camped out in her room or under a tree reading a book or writing poetry and trying to avoid her family altogether. (You know how I write really bad poetry? Tonjia writes really good poetry.)

Teal is next to Tonjia and let me just say, "wow." Look at that hair. She must have been getting ready for roller derby tryouts or something. Apparently, a large portion of our family's budget was designated for hairspray. This is also the same facial expression Teal wears in every photograph taken of her. Never a real smile. Weird. She has some of the best teeth in the family, too. If I had teeth like her, I'd be smiling like a goon every time someone whipped out a camera. Teal is pretty much the very definition of "introvert," though. I have some seriously strange stories about that one, I do.

My little sister, Summer, is on my father's lap. She was just a few months old and in the larger version of this picture, you can actually see drool running out of the corner of her mouth. Summer was the "oops" baby and happened along six years after I'd asked my mother if she was ever going to have any more babies. To this she responded with a hearty laugh, "No, honey. You're the last one." Then, not only did my mother have the audacity to get accidentally pregnant, but the circumstances under which Summer was concieved, led my mother to proclaim her as a "miracle baby." In my mind, I might as well have right then and there, put all of my worldly possessions in a bandana, tied it to a stick and hopped the local train to wherever it was bound. (My mother forgets my name if Summer and I are in the same room together. "Ann...Amber....Alice?")

I saved the best for last. I am the incredibly adorable child on the right who is missing several teeth. Damn, I was cute. I remember this year of my life mostly because I lost four teeth at very near the same time and was rendered incapable of eating corn on the cob. When my Granny would offer to cut the corn off the cob for me, I would cry because, "It's just not the same!" Those of you who have eaten home grown corn right from the fields of Southern Illinois, you know what I'm talkin' about.

So, there we are in all our glory. A poor, snaggle-toothed, baggy pants wearin', table cloth shirt havin' family, which includes a closet roller derby queen and an undiscovered poet.

I look at all of those faces and have so many mixed emotions. It's difficult to comprehend that thirty-three years have passed since this photo was taken. Thirty-three years, countless heartbreak, eleven children, divorce, marriage, prison time, bitterness, forgiveness, acceptance and love.

There is a sweetness in some of those faces and an innocence not yet shattered. I love those faces, and occasionally, I shed a few tears for them.

Happy Birthday, Dear Inga...Happy Birthday to You

2009-06-04T15:30:00.000-07:00

Next week is my sister's birthday. She is two years older than I am, but has recently taken to telling people that she's two years younger. When I was in Oklahoma visiting her a few weeks ago, someone asked the question we're always asked when we're together: "Are you two sisters?!" Without skipping a beat and with a shocked expression, I replied, "No. She's my mother!" I thought she was going to stroke out right there in the middle of the V.F.W.

Inga and I are close, in terms of our family. We've had periods in our lives where we've had large gaps of time between communications due to distance and circumstance, but as we've grown older, I think we've decided that we like each other as people and we've become friends. For the past decade at least, we've built a nice, loving and comfortable sister-friendship.

When we were kids, Inga and I were probably each other's best friend. Since we were only two years apart, we were the closest in age of all of our sisters and that made for easy companionship. Because she was older though, she always had that trump card up her sleeve. I was her test subject for many things and I usually ended up either wounded or in trouble because she always made me do everything first. Smart girl, that one.

Me? Not so smart because I always fell for it. I knew I was her guinea pig, but I also wanted to please her, so I always charged ahead (usually after much bickering and bargaining) and tried out the tire swing (which broke with me in it, mid swing), slid down the barn roof (who knew it was rusty and had nails sticking out of it?!), and jumped off the roof with an open umbrella in hand to see if I would float to the ground like Mary Poppins. (I didn't.)

My parents always used to call me the "record keeper" of the family. Not only do I write everything down, but I have an uncanny ability to remember almost everything.

If I am the memory for my family, Inga has been the thread that has tried to keep us all bound together. That thread has been stretched and pulled and has broken many times, yet she persists.

I am grateful for my sister. She is a gift in my life. I often times think that she carries around burdens that are not hers to carry, but how can I convince her to do otherwise? It is who she is.

On her birthday, I wish for her happiness of the greatest sort. The kind of happiness that makes her walk around with a smile on her face for no reason at all and the kind that makes her heart feel like it's floating out of her chest. She deserves that and more.

Happy birthday, Sister. I love you.

Get Off of That Camel and Step Away From The Twinkie!

2009-06-02T23:00:00.000-07:00

The squishy gray matter which resides inside my somewhat battered skull is at it again. My damn Creativity Switch has been turned to the "OFF" position and for the past few days, all I have floating between my ears is a bucket load of random nothingness and an uncomfortable quantity of vitriol little spiders creeping around in there and mucking up the mix.

My first impulse to begin the purge of the dastardly duo of Acid and Arachnid, was to make a list of things that utterly and completely irritate the living hell out of me, but upon second thought, abandoned that idea in lieu of making a list of things that utterly and completely irritate the living hell out of me whilst throwing in a few things that I might actually find cheerful and lovely or possessing some positive quality. This tactic, I think, might avoid the probability that a person would read this post and immediately assume that I am a wretched, wicked and altogether miserable old cow.

*Why does it bother me so much that so many women define themselves by what their uterus has accomplished? Yes, I am a mother, but that's not so very singular or unique is it? It is merely one of the many things that makes up who I am, and quite frankly, it's one of the least interesting. To the question, "Tell me a little about yourself," many women I know would answer, "Well, I have (fill in # of nose pickers here) children...." To that same question, I would answer something along the lines of, "I love to write and write bad poetry very well, I love to cook and love to eat even more, I can tell the difference...blindfolded, between good vodka and really good vodka and I love books like bears like honey." That goes a bit more into who I am instead of what my reproductive system has done. (Mr. Right believes that this makes me slightly "not normal." Thankfully, he likes his women a bit freaky.)

*I've discovered that I'm tired, nay, exhausted with attempting to maintain relationships with people I feel I'm supposed to like and with whom I have felt an obligation to keep up the appearance of a relationship, but which bring me no joy and which actually cause me to frequently grit my teeth and bash my innocent and unsuspecting palm upside my forehead. So, for the time being, until I decide otherwise, (I am a girl in flux and progress you know) I'm done. I just must get on with things and expend my limited mental energy on moving onward and upward.

*I know that there's going to be an entire horde of individuals lighting their torches and grabbing their cans of aerosol glue when I say this, but...I hate scrapbooking. Scrapbooking is something I know I'm supposed to like doing, but despise completely. I tried it once and much to my horror, discovered that it took me about an hour of my time and $5 or more of real live, hard earned American dollars to complete each page. Oh my hell. Everytime I see a scrapbook full of pictures at someones house, all my brain can do is scream, "Do you have any idea what you could have accomplished with all of that time and money?!" Thankfully, no one can actually hear my brain screaming because I'd most likely be thrown out of the homes of most of the people I know. (The dislike of scrapbooking aside, a brain screaming would be very, very disconcerting and worthy on it's own merit of being tossed out of someone's house.)

*Did you know that the top two causes of death in this country are illnesses related to the use of tobacco and illnesses related to obesity? Most of the deaths in these categories are completely preventable. I've never been addicted to tobacco, (Swearing is my only real vice and thus far I've not had any medical side affects) but there are people in my life with whom I'm close who struggle with the addiction. More than anything, it makes me sad because I want these people not only to be around for many many years, but to be healthy for those years. I'm that selfish. I want my loved ones to be active and healthy old people with me. Dismount that camel, damn you!!

*Did you know that I used to be a fatty? Yep. A bona fide, medically obese person. I'm 5'4" and at my peak (or rather, the deepest valley of my life) I weighed around 175 pounds. I was quite the roly-poly. I also couldn't fit down the slide with my kids at the park, run, find clothes that looked attractive on me, dance (which I love) or experience a single day where I didn't spend at least part of the day loathing myself. I wasn't healthy physically or emotionally, and yes...they do go hand in hand. The mind and body work in harmony and when one is out of balance, the other is out of whack. Food can be seriously addictive, I know. But, that Twinkie can KILL you. Not only can it do you in, but it can rip your family apart and leave your children parent less and your partner without companionship. (And, probable early death aside, what is your family missing out on in the meantime?) Love yourself more than you love Twinkies. And if you can't love yourself enough to begin the work it takes to lose the weight, love your family enough.

*Have I listed anything lovely yet?! Well, hell. (See...I warned you about those spiders.)

*Okay. Here's one. The Duchess is very vocal about her love for me and never misses an opportunity to tell me how much she loves me. She makes up all sorts of things like, "I love you to the moon" or "I love you 90, 60, 80 percent!" Today, she came up to me and wrapped her arms around my legs and said, "Mom...I love you more than clams." *sniffle* Clams. Now that's love.

This blog sucks on the level of mind blowing suckiness, and I apologize. I've been reading the news again which is a horrific error in judgement on my part and I've been walking around in the dense fog of gloom and doom. (Why aren't my peace sign flip flops, earrings, ankle bracelets and t-shirts getting the message across to the world?!)

If you stayed with this 'til the end and endured the preachiness, the bitchiness and the craziness, bless your little heart. I promise, I'll stop reading the news and I'll continue the search for those brain cells. They're bound to turn up somewhere...right?

Heart and Soles

2009-05-27T15:57:00.000-07:00

Jessica Simpson may be a complete no talent hack and the Queen of all Bimbos, but she sure as hell knows how to make a kick ass shoe. These are my most recent splurge and I love them. Love them! They create the illusion that my size 8 1/2 ski is almost dainty, and they are amazingly comfortable for a heel that keeps my foot at an almost 180 degree angle. Cracka-lackin'!

And, ladies...there's nothing quite like a four inch heel to make your legs look, well...four inches longer. Sure your husband loves those ballet flats on you, (right....) but he probably wouldn't kick you to the curb if you showed up in these.

Pater Familias

2009-05-21T14:23:00.000-07:00

Because my Mother’s Day post was a wee bit glum, I decided not to wait for Father’s Day to post the poem I wrote about my father. I’ll let Mr. Right bask in the glory that is his on Father’s Day. That is as it should be.

I’ve just returned home from spending a few days in Oklahoma where I grew up. I stayed with my sister and attended my niece’s high school graduation which I’ll maybe write about later, but right now my brain is in low gear and can’t seem to get up any speed.

The last day at my sister’s house was spent sitting on the back porch drinking, talking, laughing and occasionally letting a tear or two escape our eyes. We brushed off a lot of old memories and turned them over and gave them a look see to see if they were worth keeping. I reminded her of childhood things she’d long forgotten and she shared some of her memories of our grandparents that she’d made in her adult life of which I’d not been a part. Sitting on her back porch that day, my sister and I wove together a rag tag Quilt of Remembrance.

Being children who grew up quite often feeling as though we’d lost the Parent Lottery, the subject of our mother and father made it into the conversation with some frequency. We discussed how we lived a large part of our lives learning how to avoid our father’s fury, which basically, boiled down to avoiding him altogether.

In previous posts, I’ve introduced you a bit to my mother. Allow me to introduce my father.

The Cowboy

In the distance he stands, thumb hooked inside the pocket of faded Levis, hip cocked.

His head is tilted under an expensive but weathered Stetson, and his neck, native red,
shows above the collar of his long sleeved western shirt.

His eyes are squinted against the scorching sun and he seems
oblivious to the heat. The rope is held in his free hand, hanging by his side naturally, as if it were an extension of his own arm.

He possesses the soul of a cowboy, the heart of a horse,
and the patience of a rattlesnake.

Weathered and worn, occasionally beaten,
but always fighting, and never admitting defeat.

He is proud to a fault, quick to judge, and sparing with compliments.

In his eyes there is admiration for the horses he loves and controls.
For his children, his eyes are flashes of lightening threatening to strike;
his boots like thunder on the sidewalk, warning of the coming storm.

I know this man, this man’s man, a charmer of horses and women.
A part of him lives in me.

I can sometimes hear the thunder roll and the hair raises on my neck waiting for the lightening to strike.

I have felt the force of his powerful hands and have lived through storms that left me wounded and afraid.

I know him.
I love him.
He is my father.

This was written in June of 1999 when I was thirty years old. At the time, my father was serving the tenth year of a fourteen year prison sentence. I had three children, none of whom he'd ever met and I was in therapy, attempting to save myself and a failing marriage. I was also still in regular contact with my father via collect calls from the prison and handwritten letters back and forth.

Today, ten years later, my children have still not met their grandfather. My marriage was not saved, but I was, and I no longer have contact with my father.

What I feel for him is something akin to the feelings one might have when seeing an animal alongside the road that has been hit by a car but is still alive and suffering. It's not love, but rather a desire to not see another living thing exist in misery. Or, maybe it is love but my mind can't acknowledge it because my body and my heart are still too scarred from his hands and words to comprehend that I might still be capable of such feelings for him.

I'm not sure what it is, but I am sure of this: I never knew my father and I never will. The loss has been overwhelmingly great at times and I have sorrowfully mourned what never was. I also know that it will never be and I have come to accept that. Life is good and full and I have filled it with family that is partially DNA and partially just Love. The father sized hole in me no longer exists. The scars he left, I carefully tend and treat with the gentleness they deserve.

Greeks and Lizards and Love, Oh My! (An Exercise in Finding Clarity)

2009-05-06T16:23:00.000-07:00

A recent photo of me, sunning on the back porch.

Befuddled and with muddled brains in my box is what I've been the past few days. I hear it's going around. Such a nasty little virus it is. No clarity of thought, no focus. Nada, zilch, the big fat zero.

My only thought right now is that I should sit and begin writing. I've done this before and it helps. (It helps me, not you. You get the choice of saying, "What a load of crap this is!" and moving along to the next blog to find one worthy of your time and attention. But, me...well...I'm stuck with this fogged up piece of gray gelatin now aren't I?)

So, in an attempt at untangling my little ball of brains, here we go.

*The Greeks have four words for love. Did you know this? Eros, Storge, Philia and Agape. They break it down so there's no mistaking what it means when someone says, "I love you." Now how bleeding helpful would THAT be when you're a single trout and trying to land yourself a proper fish?! I'm seriously digging the fact that the Greeks can tell you whether or not they merely feel some sort of affection for you and desire that you not be plowed under by an 18-wheeler, or if they feel so affectionate towards you that they want to throw you to the ground and do unspeakable things to you in the name of romantic passion. They also have a word for the type of love that family members often share. (Possibly not some Arkansas or West Virginia families who name their children Billy Bob and Jethro and mate with their cousins, but you know...normal families.)

I began thinking about this because the word "love" gets thrown around in the most wretched way and it kind of depresses me a bit. My very least favorite is when someone whom I know hasn't acquainted themselves with me well enough to have even formed an opinion of whether or not they like me, tells me that they love me. It's often in the context of them feeling for some reason, an obligation to tell me. Another thing that irritates me is when someone so overuses the phrase that it becomes meaningless. If you "love" everyone and everything, then tell me that you love me, I feel that I can only conclude I am on the same par with your diamond ring, the bread you bought at the bakery this morning, your new red coat, the movie you saw at the theater last night and very probably the new face cream you just purchased because it makes your look so very young and firm-ish.

We need more words. We need to barge in and pillage some more vocabulary words from those lovely people who really know how to make killer souvlaki and who know how to properly say those precious three little words.

*The area of Arizona in which I live (the barren desert part) was not meant for human habitation. This I firmly and fervently believe and to which I will testify. Bring me before a judge and I'll place my hand on the Good Book (You know the one..."101 Things You Can Make With Vodka?") and swear on my life to the fact that where there is no naturally occurring water, there is no naturally occurring human life.

I have dehydrated bits and pieces on my personage that I didn't know could dehydrate. The inside of my nostrils have chronic sores. My head has begun to break out in dry patches, forcing me to purchase and use shampoo that costs $15 a bottle. Holy shit. My hair is dry, my lips are dry, my skin is dry. There is no need here to buy such things as dehydrated fruit. Want a tasty little banana chip? Slice one up and throw it on a plate and wait a couple of days. Bam! Banana chips. When we moved in to our new home, we purchased the Mega Super Duper Kick Ass Water Softener and Filtration Thingy. I cannot in my wildest imaginations, comprehend what I would look like without soft water coming out of the faucets, because with two thousand dollars worth of softened and filtered water tumbling over my body every day, I resemble a human sized lizard. I'm going through gallons of lotion. Stock tip: Invest heavily in Johnson & Johnson. Their stock should be going up....

*It just occurred to me that I've told some of you that I love you. Let me clarify. I Philia you. Sounds cool, huh? Kind of like the American version of "I feel ya, "meaning, "Hey, man. I totally get where you're comin' from, Bro and...I like you, dig it?" (Shut up. I know I have no street cred.) The American, "I feel ya" (or "you" if you're super Caucasian) actually comes close to conveying the sentiment of the Greek, philia, which is a brotherly type of love. Not brotherly as in your actual brother, but in a brotherhood of mankind sort of way. It means you feel a sort of kinship with someone. That's how I feel about my Bloggy Friends. Kinship. Philia.

*I have not been the person I wish myself to be and have not been true to Self. I have not used my voice at times because feared I would damage already fragile bonds and tenuous relationships. I have not been Me in certain situations because by the very nature of being Me, I thought that acceptance might not come from certain people. Recently, I had the occasion to be Me. To express how I feel and what I believe. The circumstance arose by being confronted with an issue I very strongly disagreed with and I had a choice to stay silent or speak up. As I rolled the choice around in my head, I heard a voice and it was saying very confidently, "Be courageous!" So, I was. Some might not think it was a very big deal and of little importance. Some might, and have already, blown it up into proportions far greater than it deserved.

I realize you have no idea what I'm talking about and maybe I'll tell you sometime. The point of telling you what I have, is that this Land of Blog has taken me places I never dreamed I'd go. That voice inside my head was one of a woman I've never heard speak, but with whom I communicate regularly via our blogs and e-mail. She tells me she loves me and that she is my friend and I believe her. She teaches children English and many other things, most certainly not the least of which, is to "Be Courageous!"

It's amazing what can happen when you reach out into the universe and become willing to touch and be touched by people who think differently, speak differently, eat differently, love differently and pray differently than that which is familiar to you. So much can be learned when you're willing to listen and when you truly try to understand.

To my dear Bloggy Friend who taught me from across the ocean to not be afraid to use my voice and to practice courage, I truly do love you.

And to the rest of you, if you've made it this far, as always...many, many thanks. Getting to know you through the comments you leave and the blogs you write has been, and continues to be a great pleasure. In other words, "I feel ya."

The Disappearance of Grace

2009-05-04T08:45:00.000-07:00

Where she went or exactly how she came to leave us is a mystery. One minute she was there. Kind, friendly and thoughtful...Miss Social Grace. Seemingly in the next minute an obvious and conspicuous void remained where her presence once dwelt.

There are some theories surrounding her disappearance and I must admit, I believe a few of them are on to something, but regardless of how she came to be missing, I mourn her loss.

Friday, I went to my favorite nail salon to treat myself to a long overdue pedicure. Across the aisle from my chair sat an abundantly fed woman whom I would guess to be in her late 50's and who was talking on her cell phone. She looked at me as I sat down and I smiled and settled into my chair.

I absolutely don't mind if a person speaks on their phone in public so long as they keep their conversation brief and their voice at a level which would indicate that they are indeed on a private call. This woman did neither. As I sat reading my magazine and occasionally making polite conversation with my technician, Ms. Well Fed sat with her plump paws being preened, making phone call after phone call and speaking loudly enough for everyone in a twelve foot radius to determine that she was planning a congratulatory trip to Disneyland for her grandson. In the process thereof she placed calls to her daughter, her grandson, her travel agent, her husband and a friend or two with whom she just wanted to chat.

Occasionally I would glance in her direction to see if I could catch her eye. I planned on giving her my best, "Looky here! You're in a public place and you're behaving shamefully" look. It never happened though. Ms. Well Fed was utterly oblivious to the fact that she was occupying space in a public place. She was in her own little world, happily taking care of her personal business for all to hear.

At one point, I heard her make a noise indicating displeasure. I looked up to see what was causing this lovely woman's dismay and saw her looking in shocked disgust at her phone. She called the owner of the salon over and this is what she said: "Dear...I'm SO sorry to have to ask, but my phone has just died. Could I borrow yours for just a moment?"

You could have pushed me out of my chair with your pinkie. I'm quite sure my mouth was hanging slack in wonderment at this point and my eyes had doubled in size in sheer amazement at the gall of this woman.

I watched the scene play out. The salon owner begrudgingly made a choice between her own personal cell and her business phone. She asked Ms. Well Fed if the call would be short and being assured that it would, opted for surrendering her cordless business phone. Ms. Well Fed gushingly said, "Oh thank you dear, thank you! I'll be sure to make it short, I swear."

Place your bets now for what happened next. Go ahead. I'll wait.

For those of you who bet on Ms. Well Fed living up to her word, you lose. For those of you who counted on that puffed up self important and amazingly rude bird to sit on the phone for 12 minutes, tying up a business line while making an ever so important call to her daughter to tell her how very proud she was of her little grandson for graduating from kindergarten...yes, kindergarten, (and who exactly can't accomplish that?!) congratulations!

After bidding a fond and three minute adieu to her daughter, she handed the phone back to the owner and asked, "How long until my nails are done? I have an appointment I must get to across town and this is taking so long!"

No, Dear Friends. I'm not yanking your chain, blowing smoke up your knickers or f*****g kidding you.

I looked around and sure enough. Miss Social Grace was nowhere to be found.

These situations and so many more are ones I witness every day. Human beings lacking in even the basic social etiquette and behaving rudely towards one another. Not a sincere "thank you" to be heard, a door to be held, nor an offer of a helping hand. And in this brilliant age of technology, for which I am grateful mind you, we as a species seem to have taken an even greater leap away from Grace.

You see, Miss Social Grace is who kept us all connected. She encouraged us to smile as we passed each other, hold doors open, lend a hand when one was needed, say "thank-you" for even the smallest of deeds and to use basic common courtesy when sharing space with others. She made us feel good about our fellow man by her presence because she allowed us to see that there was innate goodness in each of us.

A great many of us live in neighborhoods where neighborliness is a thing of the past. We live in a time when technology has trumped manners and we find ourselves holding conversations with people who are texting someone else or replying to people we think are speaking to us but are actually conversing with someone to whom they have plugged into the little blinking blue light in their ear. (This has caused me embarrassment more than once, I assure you! Tall Handsome guy in Target, looking straight at me: "Hi!" Me: "Hi!" Tall Handsome guy gives me quizzical look and as he passes by me, I see the blinking blue light in his ear. Oy. Immediate thought: I'm an idiot. Second thought: I want to kick Tall Handsome guy's ass for causing me to feel like an idiot.)

Have you ever heard the quote by Gandhi, "Be the change you want to see in the world?" If I'm not mistaken, it was the mantra of Miss Social Grace and it's one of mine as well. (Another one is "Be a clown, be a clown, be a clown" but that doesn't really apply here.)

If you happen to see a lovely well dressed lady walking by with a sad and wistful smile on her face, it just may be Miss Social Grace. Do me a favor will you? Please tell her that I remember her fondly and... "thank you."

Dearest Mommy...

2009-04-29T17:48:00.000-07:00

Those of you who have read my blog since its beginning and those of you who actually know me, have probably gleaned by now that my relationship with my mother most likely has not been the inspiration for the writers of the flowery and saccharine Mother's Day cards that rest so peacefully in their little slots at Hallmark.

For so much of my youth I thought my mother a martyr. As an adult, I know that at times she was. What I also know is that my mother was human and as such, made mistakes... sometimes colossal ones, and that much of the time in her effort to preserve "Self," left her offspring fending for their own emotional lives.

There were times in our household when we came under physical assault and often there were visible wounds left in the aftermath which we dutifully hid away from the rest of the world with pants and shirtsleeves. These times I remember vividly and even as an adult have found myself waking from dreams of them with tears soggying up my poor innocent pillow.

It is the space between those violent bursts though, where lies the real fodder for the therapists and psychoanalysts!

Our father was a fairly consistent verbal abuser and we could trust that and rely upon it. The physical abuse happened mostly in a flash of rage without much warning which would allow us to duck or run. We knew mostly where we stood with Dear Old Dad. But Mother...she was a different story altogether.

I shan't go into it all, for the stories are not the point. (Maybe I'll go into those when I'm thinking you need a good shot of misery because your life has just been going along too swimmingly for you to bear and you need brought down a bit so you can realize that life really can be a bunch of muckity muck.)

The gist of this entire tale is that in my mind, our mother abandoned us when we needed her most. The young innocents she brought into the world were forced to sit in the nest unprotected while the predators prowled and the storms raged about.

I've forgiven her for it, really I have. But my definition of forgiveness may not be the same as yours. In fact, it's probably not. My philosophy about forgiveness is pretty much, "Well, now...you've gone and really mucked things up haven't you? I understand the reasons and even if I don't, well, it is what it is. But see here, I shan't be inviting you to do it all over again you understand?"

Things might have been a bit different had there been efforts on Dearest Mommy's part to uplift, heal, nurture or love me as I grew into adulthood, but from where I stood, she only ever gave me what she was willing to give, possibly only what she was able to give, and that was not enough. I wanted and needed compassion, acceptance and unconditional love. So, I found those things in Mr. Right and in my children and in those few people who are not related to me by any close DNA match, but who are most definately my family.

Have you ever seen the movie, To Wong Foo.. Thanks For Everything. Love, Julie Newmar? It's one of my favorites. I don't mean to be a spoiler, but near the end of the movie, Patrick Swayze's character has an opportunity to confront his disapproving parents to whom he has always given in and by whom he has allowed himself to be criticized. He very emotionally, in all of his drag queen glory, looks at them and says, "Your approval is no longer desired, or required." And, he meant it.

So do I.

Don't get me wrong. The absence of feeling the necessity of acceptance and approval from my materfamilias does not mean I don't love her, because I do. It isn't however, the lovey, touchy, squeezy, "Ooooh...my mum's my bestest friend ever" sort of stuff. It's more along the lines of "Here's yer comical Mother's Day card because I'm masking my painful childhood memories behind this bit of paper depicting a happy little cartoon weiner with appendages and googly eyes," kind of love.

As a rather glum tip of my hat to that one measly overly-commercialized day reserved each year to acknowledge our mothers, I offer you this poem-ish sort of letter I wrote to my own Dearest Mommy. I don't think I'll be writing for Hallmark anytime soon. (No matter what Aunt H. says!)

(Oh...circa 2000. A year before the divorce. I was heavily pondering all of my relationships apparently.)

Dear Mom,

Compassion is defined as a deep awareness of the suffering of another

coupled with the desire to relieve it.

I have suffered in my life.

I have experienced pain that I have inflicted upon myself and have endured pain at the hands of those who were supposed to care for me and protect me.

My pain is both of my own creation and inherited from those who came before me.

Have compassion for me.

Love has been described as a deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection toward a person arising from kinship, or, and underlying oneness.

We are different in many ways.

We have different ideas, different political and religious beliefs and our philosophies on various subjects don’t often agree. But, we have a oneness and are bound together by the universal threads of humanity and by the fate of DNA.

Love me.

Acceptance has many definitions, all with an underlying meaning: "To receive, especially with gladness…to believe in… to understand." I am learning to accept myself and to understand that my flaws and imperfections make me human. I am learning that we are all unique and that there is beauty in the individuality that separates us. I have also come to understand that we are all a part of the web of life united by the sameness of humanity;

all struggling, living, dying, crying, laughing, and suffering.

Accept me.

Love,

Amy

Belle of the Ballroom

2009-04-28T12:45:00.000-07:00

Many years ago in a lifetime far far away, I was employed as an apartment manager for an apartment building directly next to campus at Oklahoma State University. Every year during the summer before school was to resume, the university held what was called a Renter's Fair. At this event, apartment complexes from all over town gathered and set up booths in the Student Union Ballroom for the purpose of distributing brochures and information about their respective rentals, to incoming students. An Apartmentpalooza of sorts.

The management company by which I was employed selected three apartment managers from the staff to represent their various buildings for rent. Being one of the three selected, I gussied myself up for the event in nylons, a long navy blue skirt, white & navy blue blouse and sassy navy pumps. I was looking mighty fine, I was.

I arrived at the Student Union Ballroom which now contained a hundred or so tables around its perimeter, and found my spot. Next to me at our table was a tall pretty girl named Shannon who I'd met before but didn't know well, and who managed a premier property that our company managed. We chatted throughout they day as we handed out information to hundreds upon hundreds of students.

About half-way through the day, I decided that a trip to the ladies room was in order and walked down the long corridor where it was located. Having properly taken care of business, I checked my hair in the mirror, applied some lip gloss, and decided to go back to the ballroom to retrieve my hairbrush so that I could touch up my coif.

So, back down that long corridor to the ballroom I went, passing students and smiling all the way.

I arrived at my table in the ballroom and turned by back to the center of the room and leaned over in order to access my purse where my brush was contained. From my left, I heard Shannon quietly say, "Amy..." I was quite intent on digging through my bag when I heard her say more loudly, "Amy!" A bit agitated now because I was having difficulty locating my hairbrush, I looked over and furrowed my brow and said, "What?!" She paused for a moment and then said, "Nothing."

It was at that moment, I felt the breeze. It was also at that very moment, I heard the giggling. As I raised myself to an upright position, I became acutely aware of the reason for the breeze...and the giggling.

The entire back of my skirt was tucked into the top of my pantyhose.

Yes, Friends. I had navigated the entire corridor of the O.S.U. Student Union Ballroom with my skirt gathered up into my knickers and then unknowingly pushed the limits of public decency by turning my derriere to the center of the room and leaning over at the waist so that my full moon could not help be viewed by the entirety of students gathered there and possibly even some sharp eyed astronauts that might have been happening by in their little shuttle.

I was, of course, completely mortified and looking to place blame for this shameful behavior on anyone but myself. In my most quiet scream, I inquired of Shannon, "Why didn't you tell me?! She looked right back and said, "I tried, but you were being bitchy so I thought I'd let you figure it out for yourself."

Well, alright then.

The worst part of this humiliating fiasco was that our company required us to go back to our apartments after the fair so that we would be available to speak with and hopefully rent to, all of the students who had gathered information and were interested in our apartments. I rushed home and changed clothes hoping that I might be unrecognizable to anyone who had witnessed the rising of the full moon earlier in the day.

Alas, 'twas not so.

I responded to many inquiries that day, some about the apartments I had for rent, but all of which began with, "Hey....were you the lady at the Student Union who flashed the ballroom?!"

Footnote: Shannon and I became best friends and remained so. To this day, she is still the person in my life who will tell me like it is and respond honestly when I ask, "Does my ass look fat in these pants?" I love that bitch.

I ♥ TV Land

2009-04-27T20:59:00.000-07:00

My cutesy wutesy sweet baby cakes cockatiel, Darwin, is learning to whistle the theme song from the Andy Griffith Show and I must tell you, I'm much more thrilled than is proper. I find myself telling relative strangers about this astounding aviary feat with an excited voice and possibly a bit of giddy hopping around.

Since realizing that it is actually the tune he's whistling, I've been madly encouraging it by playing the song over and over on the computer. I can tell he really gets a kick out of it. He does. He's also figured out that if I'm out of the room and he starts whistling it, that I'll come blazing down the stairs to stand in front of him and "ooh" and "ahhh" and tell him what a pretty bird he is and what a good sweet boy his mommy thinks her Little Chicken is.

Have I ever told you that I sometimes channel Barney Fife? Mr. Right fancies bringing it to my attention when I do, although it's something seemingly out of my control. Barney was always my favorite even though I wished Andy could be my dad and that Opie could be my cute little red-headed brother. Andy took life a little too seriously, but Barney...he was always up for a good time.

I have have only had two celebrity sightings that I can recall. One of which was in a fancy schmancy restaurant in Dallas where I was standing with Mr. Right while waiting to be seated. I sensed someone standing next to me, but paid no mind until Mr. Right ventriloquized through his teeth and said, "Yook to yur yeft." I gave him my best furrowed brow look that said, "Are you completely senile?" Now that he had my attention, he gave me the international symbol for "look behind you" which is basically a crazy eyed, crooked mouthed head jerk upwards. Ever so subtly, I turned and encountered a pair of legs in pin striped pants. As my eyes traveled about four more feet upwards, they landed upon the face of Steve Harvey. That's it. Then he was whisked off to a private room, never to be seen by me again.

My other encounter was my favorite for a couple of reasons. The first being that this was a guy I really liked and the second being that I actually had a verbal exchange with him.

It went down in 1987 at the Collinsville Hilton Inn just across the river from the St. Louis airport. I was working as a front desk clerk and growing weary of my sassy little bow tie and starched skirt at the end of my shift. I was getting ready to run my nightly reports when I heard a man say, very shyly and subdued, "Excuse me." I looked up with my permanent Hilton Happy Face and looked dead straight into the eyes of Gilligan. That's right. Bob Denver. (No...not John Denver...Bob Denver. John Denver had a bowl haircut, glasses and sang Rocky Mountain High. Bob Denver slept in the top bunk above the Skipper and ruined every plan ever concocted by the Professor to get off the island.)

I looked at Mr. Denver and gracefully blurted out, "Oh my god!! You're Gilligan!" What could have got me a scowl and a poke in the eye, actually resulted in my getting a huge smile and a very polite, "Yes! Thank you. Most people don't recognize me these days." He was kind enough to give me his autograph (actually he just signed his check in sheet) which I saved, and then regrettably lost during the transient and gypsy like fourteen year phase called my first marriage.

When my oldest two children were young and we would take car trips, they would as children often do, become restless and beast like. At these moments, I would say, "Would you like me to tell you a story?" And no matter what their response, I would tell them a story. In my best Mystery Theatre voice I would begin. "Just sit right back and you'll hear the tale...the tale of a fateful trip, that started from this tropic port, aboard this tiny ship...."

Then, when in protest they would shout, "That's not a story, tell us a real story" I would say, "Okay, okay. Sit back and relax because this one is just going to kill you." I would then use my best Story Lady at the Library voice and begin. "Listen to a story 'bout a man named Jed. A poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed. Then, one day...he was shootin' at some food and up from the ground came a bubblin' crude. Oil that is. Black gold. Texas tea...."

I loved the Beverly Hillbillies because Granny reminded me of my own Granny Hazel. She was full of spit and vinegar and was like a tiny stick of dynamite. I also loved that the Clampetts were completely without knowledge of anything modern day or contemporary and thought that the pockets on the pool table were places to put their silverware and napkins. To this day, I still occasionally refer to doing math as "cypherin" and refer to my over sized cereal bowls as, "Jethro Bodine" sized.

All of my television watching experiences were in black and white. The aforementioned programs all began in black and white, but even after they were filmed in technicolor, I saw them in black and white. Sentimental philosophising, you say? No. My parents never once owned a color t.v. until I moved out of the house when I was seventeen. I moved out of the house in 1986. (Or more accurately, the household moved away from me, but that's an entirely different story.)

Television lost it's allure for me for many years after finding out that all of the shows were in color but I was still seeing them in black and white. It became my preference to spend my time outdoors where the real technicolor was or in the house behind a chair playing telephone operator with my sister, Inga, using the Sears catalog as the phone book. I was so out of touch with TV Land in fact, that when I moved for the first time from the country and in to town when I was eleven or so, I almost gave my middle school Speech and Drama teacher a heart attack.

Mrs. Bondurant was her name and she'd developed this evil plot to destroy me. Quite hateful of her I must say, because this was literally my first day of class in this new school and here she was trying to do me in.

The exercise involved the class breaking into four or five groups and picking a piece of paper out of a hat. Each paper had the name of a television program on it and each group was to concoct a little skit and act it out as the characters from that program would.

My group chose first and I stared in horror at the paper. I was utterly clueless as to what the program was. I quietly said, "Umm...my mom doesn't let me watch that show." My fellow classmates looked at me with pity and politely drew another slip. Again...horror. Clueless again. I made up a silly excuse and they now, a bit disgruntled, plucked out another slip. (Well now, what was I to do? Who in the hell were the Munsters and how was I going to pull this one off?)

I'd never seen a single program that was on those slips in the hat. I've since made up for it and live out my viewing life in TV Land primarily in re-runs. I've now seen the Munsters (which I could have lived without) and just about every other show ever made. I'm nocturnal and the people who program t.v. must have discovered that animals such as myself love old re-runs because that's what plays in the late night hours.

There are a few shows that I can say with relative certainty, I've seen every episode. I'm a bonafide connoisseur of M*A*S*H, an avid Cheers fan, a lover of Frasier, a devotee of Will & Grace and the youngest Golden Girl.

To you, Maude...Dorothy...Bea, I thank you for your contribution to TV Land. You brought laughter to millions, including me. I'll never forget that "cuter than" rhymes with "intra uterine" or that cheesecake is the best cure for just about anything. You will be missed.

So, does anyone have the theme song to The Brady Bunch done up all whistley like? I can't go having my Little Chicken being a one trick pony.

Underneath It All

2009-04-21T16:46:00.000-07:00

Some people (and I shan't go shouting out names) have the impression that I'm pessimistic, unhappy and altogether fraught with terminal angst. It is my desire, nay...my duty, to dispel this horrible and vicious rumor!

Here's the problem. And, to be perfectly honest, it's not a lick of a problem for me. It's only a problem for those who don't know me or understand "where I'm coming from." (Yes, that was below mediocre grammar, but I'm taking artistic license here. My 12th grade English teacher told me that it's perfectly acceptable, so bite me.) The problem is, that I actually entertain myself by being bitchy and or melodramatic. I'm kind of a self-contained, one woman acting troupe, and all of the actors are Me!

Maybe it's because my parents never bought toys for me, thereby forcing me into either laying around listlessly conjuring up menacing ways to seek revenge upon them, or into developing my own obscenely saucy and clever little world where I was the star.

Or, maybe it's because my childhood was riddled with events too overwhelming and unhappy for my teeny undeveloped brainbox to process so I learned to use humor as the train on which I would eventually ride out of Crazy Town.

Whatever the reasons, I yam what I yam, and I yam at the very core of Me, a happy, if not slightly goofy (possibly very more than slightly), bit of a girl. I say girl, because I've not quite grown up and into my age as of yet. At least not the real Me.

My alter ego is quite the serious minded and terribly organized multi-tasker who keeps her house as tidy as a pin, her children neat, clean, fed, hugged and kissed, her husband patted on the head, loved, seduced and the bills paid and everything running like a well-oiled piece of domestic machinery. My alter ego is all woman, she is!

But underneath those womanly knickers, there's a cute little pink & white polka dot pair (no...I don't really wear two pairs of knickers, Silly Reader...) emblazoned across the bum with, "I ♥ Geeks." And yes, my knickers really do say that, so you see? You can tell who I really am by taking a peek at my unmentionables.

And where pessimism is concerned, I don't consider myself as such. I do have the habit (and a clever one at that, I think), of always preparing for the worst. My philosophy is that if I've prepared myself for the world to explode in a giant blast of some sort and it ends up only letting out a slight burp, then, woo-hoo! In the event that it actually does end, well then now...I'm prepared, aren't I?! I consider myself to be optimistic about the prospect of the possibly horrible inevitable. But trust me, if the world does come to an end and you've been flitting around like a jolly little Polly Anna, it's my door you'll want to come banging at. My cupboards are fully stocked with enough toilet tissue and canned goods to keep a small army happily clean on their undersides and properly full in their bellies for quite some time.

Let's assess for a moment. Have I covered everything? Oops. No. The notion that I might be unhappy hasn't been dealt with yet. Right-o.

I am not unhappy, although I'm not always happy. Get it? I can't very well walk around with a grin plastered to my face now can I? That would just be a flat out filthy lie! The point is, that I make a conscious choice to be happy and even when unhappy things happen, it doesn't diminish my ultimate joy which lies at the core of Me. Yes, I may bitch and moan and behave in a most melodramatic fashion, but again...it's mostly for my own entertainment. I soon get over it and laugh at myself and think, "Silly Girl! That behavior was quite unbecoming. Now shape up and get on with things!" And I do.

Terminal angst. Let's get to that one. Utterly and irrefutably not Me.

Flashback eight years or so and it was my photograph there beside the words, Terminal Angst, in Mr. Webster's dictionary. Life was a wretched wreck and the Humor Train had been long since abandoned and an entirely different train had taken me straight back to Crazy Town. Flashfoward a few years, and it's a different life completely. Almost as though I'd stepped into someone else's beautiful silky slippers, unbeknownst to them, and assumed their enchanted identity. Amazing what a year or so with a Buddhist therapist, a divorce, some serious chutzpah and the right partner can do!

There. I think we've covered it all.

In my February blog titled, Getting to Know Me, I listed out several things that I thought might help one, well...get to know me. You will quickly surmise when perusing this list that, "This lady is a right nut job," but I suppose there's a lot you wouldn't know about me after reading that list as well.

It can be difficult, when reading one's blog, to determine what the true nature of that person is. After all, the computer screen behind which we all sit and type is a most excellent disguise.

So, here I am in all my glory for you to have a look at and spin around and take a gander at my knickers.

Ta-da!!

A Letter to My Daughter

2009-04-19T22:49:00.000-07:00

Dear Snotty,

Friday was your 13th birthday party. It should have been an occasion for much happiness, but instead, I spent the evening fighting back tears and then completely losing the battle and giving in to them.

Every year for the past three years or so, you have complained about the ideas I've had for your birthday parties. But, always after much ado, we come to an agreement and in the end, I manage to pull off a smashing affair.

So, this year I braced myself again for the storm and it swept in as usual, battering me and threatening to do me in. You wanted to take six friends to the mall and go shopping, eat dinner and then spend the night terrorizing a hotel room. (Where DO you come up with these ideas?!) I suggested something more low-key, like a party at our house. At the very mention of it, you went into whiny crying mode and sat on the couch with tears and mucus streaming down your face. A bit of overkill on your part, don't you think?

I explained to you that I'm fairly certain that none of your friends were expecting the grand hoopla you were envisioning, due to the fact that their parties which you attended, didn't even so much as include an actual invitation inviting you. Nor did they involve going anywhere, doing anything and only once included an actual cake!

So, we sat and planned together and came to the decision that you could invite five friends to come over after school. We would eat pizza, go see a movie at the theater, come home and decorate birthday cupcakes, and make ice cream sundaes with the works. To top off the evening, they could all sleep over.

Last Sunday evening, I stayed up late filling out detailed invitations for you to give out at school on Monday. Bedazzled invitations. Really cute ones that cost $2 each. Invitations in which I asked parents to please R.S.V.P. so that I could plan accordingly for food, movie tickets and travel. Invitations to which not one single parent bothered responding.

So, unbeknownst to you, I spent the week travelling from store to store hunting down the lime green and dark purple decorations you'd requested. The Duchess and I burned through a tank of gas going to hobby stores, party stores, malls and grocery stores shopping for the things I thought would make your party fun and memorable for you.

By the time you and your friends piled through the door after school on Friday, I'd already spent six hours of the day cleaning, baking, shopping and decorating.

As you stood with your friends in the kitchen, you asked if I could take Monica home before the movie. I was quizzical.

Monica? Why isn't Monica going to the movie with us? Oh...wait. I hadn't filled out an invitation for Monica. Monica was being sprung on me. So, now on top of having five teenagers in my care whose parents didn't bother taking sixty seconds out of their busy schedules to pick up the phone to call me and say, "Yes! My daughter can come and thank you for inviting her", I had a surprise and unplanned for sixth guest. No biggie. I know how to fly by the seat of my pants.

So, I smiled and sweetly asked if Monica had permission to go to the movie because if so, we'd love to have her come along. In response, you turned on your heels and headed up the stairs with your posse.

I stood in the kitchen for a moment. I wondered if you'd noticed the green and purple balloons everywhere, or all of the ribbons I'd curled, or the special cupcake stand I'd purchased especially for the occasion. I wondered if you'd noticed that I'd divided the kitchen into stations. One for cupcake decorating, one for ice cream sundae assembly and one for snacks and drinks. I wondered if you had one inkling of how many hours and dollars you'd just turned your back on.

Pizza arrived and you ate without a word to me. Your friends thanked me as they ate and they seemed to be having fun.

We piled into the car to go to the movie and when we arrived, as you'd requested, Mr. Right, The Duchess and I sat nowhere near you and your friends. Earlier in the week you'd insisted that The Duchess not even be allowed to go because you thought she'd beg to sit with you and your friends and ruin your night.

While I was at the snack stand purchasing drinks for we outcasts, your friends came up short on funds to make their purchases. So, I swooped in and bought them a giant tub of popcorn and drinks for all of you to share. They thanked me profusely and went happily back to their seats.

As I chauffeured you all home, I was never spoken to and grew weary of all of the whispering behind me, so I cranked up the radio a bit and entertained myself with some tunes.

Upon arrival at the house, you decided that it was time to decorate cupcakes. A few minutes in, I asked if anyone was ready for sundaes and a couple of your friends said that they were, so I started dishing out ice-cream. You got out of your chair and walked over to the sink where I was and said, "We're going to do sundaes in a few minutes. You can go."

A week's worth of running around, a bucket load of money spent, a day entirely devoted to making sure that things were just perfect for you...and I was being dismissed.

I'll admit that my middle aged hormones have not been completely behaving for the past couple of days, but I don't know if I can totally hold them accountable for the tears that welled up in my eyes.

When it was time for you to open your gifts and I was allowed back to take pictures, The Duchess excitedly asked you to open her gift. She'd picked it our herself, personally written and drawn on the card she'd picked for you, strong armed me that morning into buying a Sponge Bob Square Pants balloon to attach to it and now she was beside herself with anticipation. She ran over to stand by you so that as you opened your card she could show you how the bottom of it folded open and turned into a 3-D flowerpot and how the top of it looked like flowers. She told you excitedly of how she'd picked it out herself.

As you pulled the necklaces she'd picked for you out of their paper, you made a mumbled comment about them being nice and, "thank you." The Duchess walked around the table, climbed back up on her chair and said, "I thought maybe you would like me if I got them for you."

I actually had to put down my camera and hold on to the counter. My heart was breaking inside my chest. I looked at you and said, "Isn't that sweet? Do you have anything to say to your sister?" You just looked at me and said in your best Snotty voice, "I said thank you!"

And the tears won.

When you and your friends went to your room after you opened your presents, I spent an hour or so in the kitchen putting things away and cleaning. I calculated in my head the hours and money spent on your day. I thought about how terrible a parent I must be to deserve being ignored, unappreciated and dismissed. I thought about how it seems that no matter what I do, it never seems to be good enough for you.

By the time I'd tucked The Duchess into bed and told you and your friends for the last time that it was after midnight, "quiet down," my heart was heavy, my eyes were wet, and my head hurt.

I know that you are a teenager and that there are a million hormones racing through you and that you probably down deep inside somewhere resent me for divorcing your dad when you were five and that you think I'm a complete dork. I know these things, but it doesn't help much.

Sometimes the human being that is me, aches and cries over your rotten behavior. Sometimes the Mom that can be kicked around and abused gets cracks in her exterior and becomes susceptible to pain and heartache. Sometimes it is difficult to remember that the insolent teenager in front of me was once the sweet little girl who wanted nothing more to sit on her mother's lap and snuggle up and read a book.

So, happy birthday, Snotty. Behind that clumpy mascara and the name brand shirts you insist on having, I know who is really there. And I wish that little girl, much much happiness.

Love,

Mom

Love From the Land of Blog

2009-04-18T00:08:00.000-07:00

Tonight has been not so very grand as I would have liked. I'll tell you about it soon.

It's after midnight and I came down to my office downstairs to shut down the computer. (I'm lying my filthy arse off. I came down because I'm hopelessly and shamelessly addicted to blogging.) Anyway, when I opened my blog and was wiping away the embarrassing streaky stains of mascara from my cheeks, I noticed that there was a note from my Bloggy Friend, Andrea.

This is what it said:

" Now, I would like to recognize a woman who I think is absolutely entertaining, witty, and a great storyteller. I look forward to stopping by Amy (Uncensored) everyday and I think she deserves this award. So, Amy, this one's for you!"

And then she proceeded to bestow upon me, my first and only bloggy award. Take a look see for yourself then if you don't believe it!

True confession here...my stinking self pity flitted right out of my little brain and my heart suddenly became bucket loads lighter.

So thank you, Andrea. You truly made my day. (It's 12:09 a.m. here, so I'm not kidding...my entire day will be ever so much lovelier because of your random act of kindness.)

That Andrea, she's a keeper that one. Stop by and see her at http://myrocketscience.blogspot.com/

Stop, or I'll...Put my Car in Drive!

2009-04-15T10:00:00.000-07:00

There are times when my brainbox verges on exploding into zillions of tiny pieces. One such moment came last Saturday evening on a ride home in the car with Mr. Right.

I let myself in for things. I really do. I sometimes long to be one of those wives who keeps conversation to a minimum and who just bustles around happily letting her man do the thinking, oblivious to the fact that her skull actually contains a bit of gray matter of its own.

But, alas...I'm not one of those women. *Sigh*

So as usual, when there is a bit of silence between us in the car, I ask Mr. Right if he's heard or read any of the latest news. (I ask out of politeness because Mr. Right doesn't read anything if it's not related to school or work. This being said, Mr. Right still seems to know most everything about anything and challenges me at every turn.)

Earlier in the day I'd read a news story regarding the absolutely frightening rash of mass murders that have occurred in the past couple of months. The headline of this article, which was expounded on within the text, was something along the lines of, "Killers All Had Licenses to Carry Guns."

Mr. Right and I have had a few brief conversations about guns and the issue of gun control in the past and we are on utterly different planets with regard to the issue. Just to be clear, I take the position that fewer weapons in the hands of fewer people would make the world ever so much lovelier. Mr. Right takes the position that every human being has the right to be armed and dangerous.

So, why you ask, did I bring up the latest headline on that fateful Saturday drive? My only defense is temporary insanity. I'm going with the Twinkie Defense.

Anyway, it went something like this:

Me: "So did you read where all of those mass murderers had legal licenses to carry their guns?"

Mr. Right: "Hm. So?"

Me: "Well, obviously that says something about our current protocol for obtaining guns. It's seriously flawed."

Mr. Right: "You can't tell if a person is crazy when they go to get a gun permit."

Me: "Exactly. That's why we need a better system."

Mr. Right: "If you had your way, no one would have guns. The fact of the matter is, if you take guns away, people who want to kill will find other ways to do it."

Me: "That's a chance I'm willing to take."

Mr. Right: "Taking guns away isn't going to change people who want to kill. They'll just do something like use their car as a weapon."

Wait...did you read that right? Yes. You did. He actually said that people would use their cars as weapons. This is where my brain began to reel.

Me: "WHAT?! You mean to tell me that you actually believe that a guy who opens fire in a school and kills thirteen people, if not given access to a weapon, is going to drive his CAR into the school and run over thirteen people?!"

Mr. Right: "Yeah."

Before I continue, let me explain something to you. This kind of nonsense makes me lose all control over the ability to control the octave in which I speak. It also prompts a dialogue to begin running in the background of my brain. A little voice starts saying things like, "Oh my god! He's actually insane! I've married a loon! He's crazy! Oh my gosh...maybe I'm crazy! No! I'm not crazy, he's crazy!" This voice can be quite distracting whilst I'm persevering in making my point, it can.

Me: (At several octaves higher) "That's one of the stupidest things I've ever heard! That ranks right up their with your buddy W telling me that we shouldn't allow homosexuals the right to get married because the next thing you know, people will be marrying goats."

Okay, yes. W really said that. In W's mind, if two gay people who are in love and committed to each other enter into legal marriage, then the natural progression is that people will attempt to legally marry their farm animals. Makes perfect sense, doesn't it?

Yes. If you're INSANE!

By this time, Mr. Right had dug in his heels and, as usual, would not admit that he was stretching ridiculousness to it's capacity. I accused him of playing Devil's Advocate, which he does quite often, and to which he will never admit.

As we pulled into our driveway, I was yelling things like, "I REFUSE TO SPEAK TO YOU WHEN YOU'RE BEING STUPID!" and "I'D REALLY LIKE TO SEE SOMEONE HOLD UP A CONVENIENCE STORE AT CARPOINT!" Loverly.

I must learn to keep my mouth shut. It would drastically curb the recurrence of events such as this, would most certainly stifle the urge to get in my car and take out a herd of goats and very probably keep that little voice inside my head from yammering so loudly that I'm forced to yell over it to be heard.

Oh. Yes. I'm the only one who hears that voice, right? Sorry then.

The Easter Bunny Sucks and Santa is Dead

2009-04-13T10:30:00.001-07:00

Yesterday morning, The Duchess woke me up two hours early in order to announce that the Easter Bunny had indeed arrived. Well, fancy that.

As she tore down the stairs to retrieve her basket from its place on the hearth, I used the time to close my eyes and hope for some kind of sleep miracle that would cause me to instantly fall into a deep slumber from which I could not be awakened until I was properly rested. And by rested, I mean sometime next week.

You see, the Easter Bunny put lots of effort into going to the bank to get $5 bills to stuff into brightly colored plastic eggs for Grumpy and Snotty, the drugstore to purchase makeup suitable for The Duchess, to Super Target for candy for all of the little wretches and to approximately six other retail stores in order to completely overdo the entire consumer driven Easter story to which we Heathens subscribe. This was, of course, on top of all of the other duties the Easter Bunny normally has. When not being the Bunny, he is scrubbing toilets, running errands, vacuuming and chasing around after a very flouncy bouncy four year old.

Needless to say, by the time Easter morning rolled around, the Bunny was tuckered out. Although tired, the Bunny was also proud of a job well done and was awaiting the ebullient shouts of glee soon to be bellowed forth by the three recipients of the overflowing baskets.

What came next, rocked the Bunny to his very core and will forever change his little sugar coated bunny heart. What came next, was the sound of The Duchess.....crying.

As I sat with camera in hand to catch this special moment in the life of The Duchess, she pointed to Snotty's basket and inquired, "Who's basket is that?" When I told her it was Snotty's she burst into tears.

Me: "What's the matter?!"

The Duchess: (pointing to Snotty's basket) "I want that bunny!"

Me: "THAT bunny?! That's a tiny little bunny. Look at your bunny. It's big and has a pretty dress and hat on! The Easter Bunny picked it out especially for you!"

The Duchess: (with tears in her eyes) "My bunny is the very ugliest bunny EVER!"

Well, Damn. The Easter Bunny really stunk it up this time.

In the ensuing brouhaha which basically involved me attempting to convince The Duchess that her bunny was the most beautiful rabbit ever produced in a sweatshop by underpaid workers in Taiwan, and her crying and coveting her sister's $3.99 stuffed bunny, Snotty showed up and took one look at her basket and said to The Duchess, "I don't want my rabbit. You can have it."

Sure, I could have been pissed that twice in the same five minute period, both of my daughters had completely insulted my ability to select appropriate stuffed animals for them, but instead I chose to see the silver lining. The Duchess wasn't stuck with the very ugliest bunny ever. Tragedy averted. Thanks, Snotty.

Later in the evening as I was putting dinner dishes away, The Duchess asked me, "Mommy, is the Easter Bunny for real?" Without skipping a beat, I said, "No. Mommy is the Easter Bunny and Mommy is Santa Clause too."

The Duchess: "Oh."

And that's that.

The Duchess in her Easter regalia, after the tragedy had been averted

Choosing Joy

2009-04-07T12:31:00.000-07:00

The end of my Age of Innocence - 1979

When asked about my childhood, my first impulse is to declare it as "dysfunctional" or "unhappy."

It cannot be denied that my upbringing was less than ideal. It was at times physically abusive, most all of the time emotionally abusive, and all of the time impoverished not only in a financial sense, but also in the sense that there was seemingly never enough love and affection to go around.

In keeping with my resolve at the beginning of the year to reclaim my Joy, I decided to take a broom and give the corners of my mind a good brisk sweeping. In doing so, I've discovered that although there are many unhappy and damaging memories from my childhood, there are also some jewels strewn among the debris.

*When I was not yet in school and was the only child at home during the day with my mother, I remember her making homemade bread. My favorite memories of this are of her braiding the bread, which I thought was just beautiful, and of her giving me my own little piece of dough so that I could bake my own loaf. I love the smell of homemade bread to this day.

*One of my earliest memories is of tasting baby aspirin. You know, the little orange Bayer ones? I think I probably faked being sick a hundred times just so I could get those little orange bits of delight.

*My Gram Colclasure made the best homemade ice-cream in the world in my opinion and I always got to sit on the bucket while Pa churned it. As payment, I would get the first scoop of ice-cream. I will take the taste of Gram's banana ice-cream with me to the grave.

*My Gram also taught me about hunting 4-leaf clovers. In southern Illinois, there is no shortage of clover and I spent hours on her farm in quest of the ever elusive 4-leafer. Anytime I spy a clover patch, I always get down to look...just in case.

*My Pa and my father were both professional jockeys. My father became a trainer after he couldn't ride professionally anymore and so for the better part of my life I grew up on racetracks and horse ranches. I learned not only a great deal of respect for those beautiful animals, but a true love for them as well. I still can't enter a horse barn without inhaling deeply and taking in their warm and lovely smell.

*One of the delightful things about having parents that were too preoccupied with their own lives to pay attention to what you were doing, was being able to run wild from morning 'til night. We always lived out in the country and our entertainment was the rowdy and rough play of little country bumpkins running along the train tracks, digging clay out of the cliffs by the stream so that we could make tiny pots and dry them in the sun, climbing on barn roofs, climbing up trees and running barefoot through acres and acres of seemingly giant rows of corn stalks. Sometimes I still miss the feeling of damp dirt between my toes.

*In southern Illinois, there is also no shortage of blackberries. They grow wild and we had vast patches of them in the woods down the road from our house. Buckets in tow, we'd spend the day picking and eating, eating and picking. Inevitably, we'd all end up with chiggers all over our bodies and spend a couple of miserable days trying to rid ourselves of them with every hideous home remedy my Granny Hazel had in her book of magic potions. The reward was homemade blackberry jam. There's nothing quite like it.

*My Granny Hazel was a world class pack rat. Every nook and cranny of her house was stuffed full of This and That. When she ran out of room in her house, she managed to fill an Airstream trailer in her back yard with more of This, and even more of That. The really great thing about this from the standpoint of a kid, is that you could build a slammin' Halloween costume at Granny's house in no time flat. She had hats and wigs, scarfs and coats, shoes and fishnet stockings, make-up, gloves and any other wondrous thing that you could possibly want or need. During the time that my family lived in close proximity to my Granny, my sister and I would win or place in our school's Halloween parade every year. It made Granny so proud when I brought her my first place prize of a shark tooth necklace. After that, she'd try to outdo herself every year.

*My Granny Hazel also had a big wooden bridge that crossed a giant deep ditch in her yard. My sister and I played Billy Goat's Gruff every time we visited Granny. It was the most fun and sometimes a little scary! Years later when I was much older, I went to visit Granny and asked her where that giant ditch was with the big bridge over it. I'd looked in the yard and didn't see it. She said, "Well, it's right out there, right where you left it!" When we went to look together, I saw it. It was a rinky dinky little ditch with a tiny little bridge over it. It had seemed so big and mysterious and wonderful to a seven year old. I'm so glad I had visited my Granny because it was the last time I ever saw her alive. But, I wish I'd never seen that ditch. I liked it just the way it was in my seven year old memory.

*When my family moved from Illinois to Oklahoma, we moved to a horse ranch and the ranch owner just happened to have two sons who were the ages of my sister and I. Instant friends! We had so much fun on that ranch. We learned how to build intricate mazes out of hay bales in the hay barn and at the end of those mazes were secret forts where we could hide away from the adult world. And, who said painting fences isn't fun?! Four kids, paint brushes and gallons of white paint on a hot summer day? It's a sure recipe for loads of fun, four really white kids, and poorly painted fences. At the end of those days though, fishing off the dock and ending up in the pond to cool off was a treat. This was also where I learned the difference between a good persimmon and a bad one (still makes me pucker just thinking about it), how to drive a riding lawnmower and the joy of spinning cats in buckets on a hot-walker. (If you don't know what I'm talking about in that last part, I'd be happy to tell you, but if you're a cat lover you might not want to ask.)

The days on that farm in Oklahoma were the last of my happy memories of childhood. I was growing up and life for my parents was on a downhill slide for the next several years until it all ended horribly with reverberating consequences that ripple through us all still.

I actually have more happy things on my list, but I won't bore you with them all. I'm glad I made the list and I'm glad that they took up an entire page. It's not possible to weigh them against all of the bad memories and see if there is a weird sort of balance there, because there isn't. It's almost as though the good memories and the bad memories are two separate movies that I have running through my head.

If I look at it like that, I can choose to replay the one I like the most and let the other just slowly disintegrate until there is nothing left but a wee bit of something that I can stick in my pocket and pat gently now and again.

"A childhood is what anyone wants to remember of it."

Carol Shields

Two is the Lonliest Number

2009-04-06T10:23:00.000-07:00

One night after closing down the Grapevine bar in Dallas, Mr. Right and I, along with our friends, Kyle, Eli, Jeff and Brian, hit the IHOP for some post-partying grub. We all piled into a giant booth and checked out the menus for the biggest baddest artery clogging breakfasts we could find. It's just what you do after downing gallons of frozen peach Bellinis and shaking your groove thing.

So, there we sat looking at the menus and something astonishing caught my eye. Right there on the menu in a national chain restaurant, was a typo! I looked up and said, "Oh my gosh! They spelled "two" wrong!" As everyone looked at their menu and tried to find the error, my eye caught the same error in another place...then another! "Oh my gosh!" I said. "They misspelled "two" everywhere!" Eli leaned in and said, "Where?!" I pointed to the menu and said, "See? Right there!" Eli looked and paused for a minute. "They did! Oh my gosh!" Mr. Right looked at us quizzically and said, "Where?!" I said, "Everywhere! They spelled "two" wrong everywhere! Look! They spelled it T-W-O...!"

In my head, I was reading the word "two" as though it were pronounced twoh. I blame the peach Bellinis. Anyway, the second I said it, I knew. All the boys looked at me and erupted into raucous laughter.

Jeff, who laughs like The Count from Sesame Street couldn't contain himself. Tears ran down his face and he was leaning out of his chair holding his stomach. I punched Eli in the arm because he was now in hysterics and he was the one who thought "two" was spelled wrong too! Kyle was squealing and banging on the table as Mr. Right sat and looked at me with that look. By this time, I was laughing so hard at Jeff laughing that I went into Silent Laughter Mode. I had tears running down my face and was holding my stomach, but no sound was coming out of my mouth.

We must have looked like a bunch of fools. But, we didn't care. It was one of those moments where there was no one else in the world but us. Six friends in a pancake house, laughing until they cried.

To this day, every time one of them calls me and tells me that they went out to eat, they tell me that they had twoh of something.

I love you guys, and....I miss you so much.

Raising Hell in Arizona

2009-03-30T23:52:00.001-07:00

So, here's the way it went down.

When we moved from Texas to Arizona our new house wasn't finished yet, so we rented a place in an adjacent town. Since we officially live in The Middle of Nowhere, our new house also happened to be in a completely different county than where we were renting.

After doing my normal studious research, I discovered that I was no longer in the land of no state taxes and cheap registration. Oh, no. The move from Texas meant that registering my Expedition was no longer going to be $68. According to the great state of Arizona, by moving here, I was obligated to bend over, grab my ankles and...write a check to them for $537.

Upon learning this, I made the executive decision to let my registration expire. It made no logical sense to register my car in one county and then two months later move into my new house in another county and pay again to register my vehicle. Besides, we were moving to the new house in July and my driver's license expired in August on my birthday, so why not just take care of everything in one miserable trip to the DMV, right? Right.

If you don't know this about me already, I am nothing if not organized. I am a researcher, a list maker and I use Excel spreadsheets to help me plot Thanksgiving dinner. So, in preparation for acquiring my new Arizona driver's license, I logged on to the Arizona Department of Transportation's website and researched what I would need. Always be prepared. That's my motto.

I read every last word on that website, double checked the "Required Documents" list, the "Acceptable Forms of Identification" list and the "What New Residents Need to Know About Getting a New Arizona License" list. I opened my file drawers, retrieved the appropriate information and made myself a lovely little folder labeled, "Driver's License Documents." Ah. Nothing like the satisfaction of being organized and prepared.

Mr. Right had been informed that when he could spare the time away from work to call me, and I would meet him at the DMV with our paperwork. When the call came, I grabbed my nifty little folder, strapped The Duchess in the car and made the thirty minute drive to the DMV.

Upon arrival, Mr. Right informed me that he would stay outside and take care of getting the car inspected and registered if I would go in and take a number and work on getting my driver's license. No problem, said I!

I entered the half full lobby, took a number and waited. Surprisingly, the line went relatively quickly for a red tape choked agency run by government lackeys, and soon it was my turn. I approached the desk and stated my mission. I was told by Ms. Worthless behind the desk that I needed two forms of I.D. and to surrender my out of state license. I happily obliged. And then it happened.

Ms. Worthless looked up at me and said, "Oh. You're from Texas." "Yesssss...." I replied?

Ms. Worthless: "Well then, you're going to need another form of I.D."

Me: "Because I'm from Texas?!!"

Ms. Worthless: "Yes."

Me: "What do you have against Texas?!"

Ms. Worthless: "Texas doesn't verify citizenship and Arizona does. We have to have another form of I.D. to verify that you're a citizen."

Me: (Speechless...for a minute) "I read your entire website and it doesn't say anywhere that if I'm from Texas I need to provide another form of I.D.!"

Ms. Worthless: (As she picks up a form from her desk and pushes it towards me) "It says it right here on this form."

Me: (Looking at the suddenly produced form) "But this form is HERE. I would have to come HERE to find out that I needed another form of I.D. and then I would have to leave HERE to go get another form of I.D. and bring it back HERE and HERE is thirty minutes away from my house!"

Ms. Worthless:"I'm sorry Ma'am, but we're going to have to have another form of I.D. We're going to need your birth certificate."

This is where I ever so logically explained that in order to get the passport that was under her face, I had to prove citizenship. I also explained to her that my birth certificate did indeed show that I was born in the U.S. but did not offer any other proof that I was Me, seeing as how it had my birth name on it and not my current name. This stopped her for a second.

Ms. Worthless: "Well, but your birth certificate proves who you are!"

Me: "No it doesn't. My birth certificate shows my name as Amy Colclasure. If I come in here with two other forms of I.D. that show my name is Amy Warner, how do you know that's actually MY birth certificate?"

At this point, I'm just trying to win the point because I've already written a ginormous check to the state of Arizona to have my car registered with their sorry asses and now I'm having to deal with a low paid government asshole who is just "following the rules." I am now also speaking several decibels higher than my normal voice.

Ms. Worthless: "I'm SORRY! Those are the rules. We have to verify that you're a citizen!"

Me: (Looking around at the room full of immigrants) "YOU'RE TELLING ME THAT A BLONDE HAIRED ENGLISH SPEAKING NATURAL BORN CITIZEN HAS TO PROVE TO YOU THAT SHE'S A CITIZEN IN ORDER TO GET A LICENSE IN A STATE THAT HAS THE WORST ILLEGAL IMMIGRATION PROBLEM IN THE NATION???!!!

Ms. Worthless: "Those are the rules!"

Me: "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE F_ _ _ _ _G KIDDING ME!!!"

This is where Mr. Right walked in. And then turned around....and walked out. Way to watch my back there, Mr. Right.

Me: (To Ms. Worthless) "You are aware, aren't you, that a birth certificate is the easiest document to forge?! Anybody can get one! ANYBODY!!

Ms. Worthless: (Obviously feeling no remorse, only a sense of sick and twisted glee) "Those are the rules."

Me: IT MAY BE THE RULE, BUT IT'S THE MOST LAME ASS RULE I'VE EVER HEARD!! YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE AND THIS STATE F_ _ _ _ _G SUCKS!!!!"

This, Dear Friends, is where I made my graceful exit. I gathered up my inadequate documents, shoved them in my nifty labeled folder and marched out the door, screaming the entire way.

Be honest. Have you ever had one of those pivotal moments where one minute you're a completely logical and rational human being and in the very next minute, even though a voice inside your head is saying, "Shut up, shut up, shut up!!" you turn into a complete and utter idiot?

That voice is giving you the opportunity to shut your cake hole and save face, but for whatever reason, you don't hear anything other than the raging idiocy spewing out of your mouth.

If you haven't had one of these moments, you're my hero and I'm not worthy to be in your presence. If you have had one of these moments, I totally feel for you.

If, like me, you've been stricken with recurring bouts of this sometimes embarrassing and humiliating malady, I'd like to have you over for drinks.

I think we'd get along just swell.

*Footnote: Texas has indeed been verifying citizenship for driver's licenses for years. I had to provide my birth certificate in order to obtain my license there. They included that information on their website. As of January 2009, the form you must fill out for the state of Arizona in order to obtain your license, no longer lists Texas as one of the states that does not verify citizenship. For all of you incoming Texas residents....you're welcome.

Clickity Clack...I Was Quite the Brat

2009-03-30T22:46:00.000-07:00

There is a relatively small box I just dug out of my garage which contains approximately thirty years of riff-raff and which offers a little insight into Me.

I have no idea why I held on to some of the things in The Box, and I have no idea why I hang on to them still, but it has been carried with me from place to place and through a couple of lifetimes it seems.

As I was sorting through The Box just now, I pulled out a piece of paper with actual typewriter print on it. You remember typewriters? Those archaic dinosaurs we actually used to use to write letters with? Oh, you don't remember letters either...do you? Tsk, tsk.

A note is handwritten at the bottom of this typewritten page that says, "I wrote this on a bad morning in typing class. Mrs. Pitts gave us the stupid assignment of writing a short story and then typing it for practice. So, here's what she got. Stupid Mrs. Pitts." It's dated only, "1984." I was a sophomore in high school.

Poor Mrs. Pitts. She made the horrendous choice of marrying Mr. Pitts, knowing full well that her first name was Armand. Didn't she have any other suitors worthy of her hand? She must have really loved him to become Mrs. Armand Pitts.

By the time Mrs. Pitts had the misfortune of having me land in one of her typing classes, her hair had turned, for some odd reason, a palish sort of blue. She always wore a sweater over her shoulders and she gave the impression of possibly having been raised by Miss Manners herself.

Her fingers were long and spindly and they kind of freaked me out. She was always pointing them at me. She pointed out the fact that my nails were too long and needed to be short in order to be a typing wiz. She pointed out that I had bad posture. She pointed out that I wasn't paying attention. What was with this woman?!

Anyway, this was my short story, typed for practice:

Once upon a time there was a pretty young lady who had to go to a yucky typing class every day. This young lady was a very tolerant and peaceful girl, so she went every day without saying one naughty word.

One day, the young lady's typing teacher, The Lady With the Blue Hair, got real angry at one of her students and threw a hissy fit. This made the young lady quite upset for she hated to see anyone so out of sorts.

So, very quietly, knowing the other students hated The Lady With the Blue Hair, the young lady took the blue haired lady's letter opener and stabbed her through the back.

The whole class cheered and cheered and cheered and cheered. The young lady took over the teacher's class and they all lived happily ever after.

A short story by a Young Lady

(Amy Colclasure)

A few things occurred to me after reading this:

Number 1: I may have had some violent tendencies as an adolescent.

Number 2: I am a very speedy and accurate typist. I never took another typing class other than Mrs. Pitts'. Hmmmm. I think I owe her an apology.

Number 3: If I would have written this today, it would have been found on my hard drive by the school's Net Nanny and when I arrived in class the next day, I would have been jumped by a SWAT team, hauled to the hoosegow for questioning, booted out of school, and had my face on the local nightly news. "Local Teen and Poor Typist Arrested For Assassination Plot."

The Mature Woman's Guide to Fantasy

2009-03-26T12:31:00.001-07:00

Is it wrong that my fantasies don't involve gorgeous celebrity movie stars or even averagy-type real life men and instead involve the guy who invented the Dyson vacuum cleaner? I mean, there's a guy who really knows what a woman want and delivers!

You have to think that this guy is a real catch, right? He's a successful inventor of the world's greatest vacuum cleaner, he's real-guy cute and he has that adorable little accent that makes it impossible to understand every third word he says, but also makes me not give a damn.

A practically filterless vacuum with its only filters needing to be rinsed twice a year or so. It's light enough for a 5'4" lightweight to haul up and down the stairs and has every possible attachment necessary for keeping my home dirt and dust free. And, it's purple. *sigh*

I have a love thing for Mr. Dyson.

I also have the hots for Mike Rowe, the guy from the Discovery channel's show, Dirty Jobs. Not only is Mike kind of nerd hot and goofy, but he's perfectly willing to stick his bare hand in anything you put in front of him. This makes me believe that he would actually be game for cleaning my kids' bathroom.

I could really love a guy who would do that for me.

I don't think Mr. Right is even aware that the kids have a bathroom and I'm pretty sure he thinks that the other two bathrooms in the house get clean by way of a magic spell.

Mike, brace yourself. You're on The List.

You know what The List is, right? We all have one whether we admit it or not. You do...come on!!

The List contains the names of men that we would have a wild fling with if there were no possible repercussions of having to deal with our own guilty conscience or the possibility of being drop kicked to the curb by our spouse.

A long time ago my list included names like Tom Cruise, (This was before I knew he was a total whack job.) Andrew McCarthy (You know...the preppie lust interest of Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink?) and Andrew Ridgeley (the OTHER guy in the pop 80's group Wham!). I know...I know!
My list has definitely been through some changes over the years. The names have changed from pretty boys to swoon over in the hope that if they ever did meet me, they would find me irresistibly charming and witty, to men who will invent helpful household appliances and stick their hands in my toilets.

Jon Bon Jovi used to be on my list, but as I've *ahem* matured, he's been replaced by his bass player, Richie Sambora. Sure, Richie could lose a few pounds and get a tan, but he just seems much more interesting to me now. I saw Bon Jovi in concert a couple of years ago and found myself standing on my chair screaming at the top of my lungs, "I LOVE YOU, RICHIE!!!!" That must have been pretty. Anyway, Richie looks much more prone to getting his hands dirty and not being afraid to mess up his hair while helping clean out from under the beds.

Okay. I lied. There is a celebrity who has been on The List for a couple of years now and I'm not taking him off. It's Pierce Brosnan. Seeing as how he has like, a dozen kids, I'm pretty sure I could get him to help me move the refrigerator to clean behind it.

If not, he'll still be awfully nice to look at while I'm seductively vacuuming the house with my Dyson.

A Love Story (or) The Greatest Teacher Who Ever Lived

2009-03-25T23:10:00.000-07:00

Once again, I have been inspired by fellow bloggers. This has to say something about my own lack of creativity, right?! Regardless, because of Angela S. and Reya M., I've been thinking about my favorite teacher.

Actually, he can't even qualify as a favorite teacher. In my mind, he was a man among men. He was THE teacher.

My sister, Inga, was two years ahead of me in school, so for two years before starting high school, I made mental notes on her comments about teachers...who was tough, who was nice, who was going to throw erasers at your head. (Uh...yeah. Still didn't avoid it though.) One of the teachers she moaned about sometimes was Mr. Milliren. He was tough...brash.

By the time I'd suffered through my freshman year, it was time to choose electives for my upcoming sophomore year. Mr. Milliren taught only elective courses and you couldn't take any until you were a sophomore. The classes he taught were the most interesting to me. Psychology, Sociology, all of the ologys. And some classes on the Arts. Stuff that really flipped my trigger. So, I signed up for one of his classes with a little bit of fear in my heart.

The first day of class with Mr. Milliren my sophomore year, I was sitting near the back of the class as he read roll call. When he came to my name, he looked up over the top of his glasses and said, "Are you Inga's sister?" When I meekly replied that I was, his reply was, "Oh, boy."

Well, I wasn't quite off to the start I'd hoped for!

After roll call, Mr. Milliren stood behind his pulpit...no...not podium Dear Friends, pulpit...and proceeded to tell us a bit about himself. One of the things he informed us of was that he had served honorably in two wars. He had left the military as a decorated Major. He also informed us that we could call him Mr. Milliren or Major Milliren, but we'd better never think to call him Jim until after we'd managed to graduate. He also told us that he didn't expect many of us to do that.

I think by this time, I'd slunk down in my seat about as far as I could go. This guy was going to have a preconceived idea of who I was based on my DNA and on top of that, he didn't expect that I was going to graduate!

Major, as I decided to call him, then proceeded to pace in front of the class, talking about I don't remember what. I do remember clearly thinking to myself that this guy was totally full of crap. What he was saying was total hooey! Every once in awhile during his pacing, he would stop and look at us and ask, "Isn't that right?" or "Don't you agree?" Everyone would either nod or wouldn't move a muscle and let him continue. At one point, I'd had enough. How could I just sit there and let this blowhard blow?! So, the very next time he asked, "Isn't that right?!" I very slowly, with my heart racing in my chest, raised my hand and said, "I don't think that is right." Every single person in the classroom froze. The Major stopped dead still. He looked at me, raised his hand and pointed at me. Just as I thought I was going to pass out, he smiled and said, "I'm absolutely NOT right, and none of you little peons had the guts to say it until her!"

I think I may have let out a sound that was not unlike a hot air balloon letting gas out. After that, on my part, it was love.

Major Milliren was in his sixties. He was a solid 100 pounds overweight and was a doppelganger for an angry version of Santa Clause. He mostly wore Hawaiian shirts or shirts that looked like he'd mugged a tourist. The administration a couple of years before had made him stop wearing overalls and bandannas around his head. Damn them.

Major drove a classic old VW van that had a sticker on the back that said, "I (heart) my Labrador." I smiled every day when I pulled into the parking lot and saw that van.

Major's greatest impact as a teacher, in my opinion, was not what he taught from the books. Yes, I learned that too, but his greatest lessons were the ones he taught about being cautious of conforming and of being the voice of dissent when dissent was necessary. I think he was somewhat of a conspiracy theorist. He wanted his students to question authority if we truly felt it needed questioned. He wanted us to not follow our leaders blindly. He wanted us to question everything.

Yes, he was stern. He didn't relax the rules. He graded tough. He called a spade a spade and when you were being a little a-hole, he told you so. He was quite fond of telling those of us that had his class directly following lunch that he could smell the pot on us as we came into his classroom. I always thought that was a riot. But, Major had a heart of gold beating beneath those atrocious Hawaiian tourist shirts.

I think it was my Junior year when the Great Perm Incident occurred. My friend, Lisa, was going through beauty school and needed to practice giving a perm. Somehow, she got me to sign up for the gig. Lisa, the professional that she was, talked on the phone and smoked and got liquored up the entire time she was putting toxic waste on my head. When the cap came off, so did my hair. It was completely fried. My mom let me skip school the next day so that she could take me to a hairdresser to see if my hair could be salvaged. It had to be cut kind of Liza Minelli style, but shorter. Maybe more like Lyle Minelli. Anyway, I had practically no hair and what I did have was frizzy on the ends. I was horrified, humiliated and completely mortified to have to return to school.

My first class of the day was Major's. (By this time, I was taking every course he offered so I had him twice a day for both my Jr. & Sr. years.) Anyway, I filed into the classroom trying to keep a low profile. I'd done my makeup especially dramatic that day to try to avert attention away from my hair. (It was the 80's. Picture it. Lots of mascara.) The guy that occupied the chair next to mine was a tall beautiful football player. A guy so far out of my socioeconomic and social leagues, he might as well have been from another planet. So, of course, I took every word he said to heart. (Idiot me! Idiot!) Tall Dark and Handsome plops down in his chair and looks at me and says, in front of the entire class which had filed in by this time, "What happened? Did you get run over by a lawn mower?! (I said he was tall dark and handsome...not bright.)

What happened next will always be stamped on my brain. Major looked up then stood up from behind his pulpit. He walked around to the front of it, and right up to Tall Dark and Handsome's desk. He put his finger in the guys face and said, "Shut up! I think she looks very nice! Keep your mouth shut. Fool!"

And, that was the end of that. The tears I tried to hold back were not tears of humiliation or anger. They were tears of gratitude.

I have a multitude of stories about Major, and all of them are good. Some of them are about what he managed to teach this young, ignorant, scared girl. Some of them are about how he always came to my defense when he felt I was defenseless. He once bailed me out of getting into some major trouble for calling a student teacher an "asshole." The student teacher sent me to the office and as I was waiting for the principal to see me, Major walked in to the office and asked what I was doing there. When I told him the circumstances under which I had felt enough passion to actually swear at an adult human, he waited with me for the principal. When we got in front of him, Major told the principal that it was his opinion that no punishment was required because I had been punished enough by having to sit in class and listen to that "Asshole of a student teacher." I was let go with no punishment...just a cautionary look from the principal, and a wink from the Major. (The student teacher didn't spend another day in our school, either.)

Again, I have many stories. Most importantly though, is the impact this teacher had in my life. For a girl living in a not so functional household who lacked any self confidence, this man helped empower me. He gave me knowledge for sure. But, he also gave me confidence and self assurance.

Major retired the year I graduated. I like to think it was because after having me as a student he just knew it didn't get any better than that...but of course that's not true. He'd lived a long interesting life, had experienced love and loss, and he'd taught thousands of kids all he had to teach them.

Major's dream for his retirement was to travel. He'd been a lot of places in his life and he wanted to visit some of those again and go to some new places as well. And, so he did.

As I went off to college for my freshman year, thoughts of high school were far behind. Until a couple of months into the school year...maybe September...I ran into a friend from high school at a club off campus. He asked if I'd heard the news. No, I had not. What was it? And, through a dense horrible fog came the words, "Major is dead."

The funeral was the next day. I rushed to arrange a ride back home to attend. The funeral was held at the school auditorium. It was the only place in town large enough to hold all of the people they knew would come to pay respects to this great man. Of course, as I'm sitting here writing, the tears are welling up in my eyes, so I don't even need to explain to you how it was to sit there and mourn his loss.

At the grave site, because he had been a military officer, there was the traditional 21 gun salute. I remember with dreadful clarity listening to the sound of those rifles fire the last shots as the sky opened and poured down tears in droves.

I dreamed about The Major for many years. It was always the same dream. I was sitting on a porch in one of two swings which were facing each other. Suddenly, The Major would appear across from me. With great angst, I would desperately inquire of him if he was alright. I would frantically try to tell him everything he'd meant to me. He would say nothing and disappear.

I don't quite remember the circumstance under which I reached the point where I'd settled things in my mind enough (maybe the almost year of therapy I had in my 30's?!) to finally have The Dream.

In The Dream, it's the same as all of the other dreams with one exception. When I ask The Major if he's alright and I tell him how much he'd meant to me, he looks at me and smiles. At first, I continue to talk, trying to tell him everything before he disappears. Finally, I realize that he's sitting there calmly, just smiling. So, I sit back and relax and stop talking. We sit there and look at each other for a couple of minutes and then he stands to go. I don't want him to leave, but I see his face and he is happy and I understand that he has to go. And, he does.

That's it. I haven't had the dream since. But, I miss him still.

The Audacity! And...Hopelessness.

2009-03-23T09:31:00.000-07:00

Last night I stayed up late catching up on my reading and then decided to do a little blogging. Since we returned from California on Friday, Mr. Right has been in bed. His joints ache, his chest is congested, he feels like he has a fever (but doesn't), etc. You know, all of the things I feel when I'm sick but also don't prevent me from taking care of a toddler, doing laundry and cleaning the house.

Anyway, Mr. Right spend all day in bed on Saturday. ALL day. He emerged a couple of times for food (cookies) and drinks. Repeat on Sunday. To my knowledge, he never felt miserable enough to turn the television off and just rest. The t.v. was on in our room from sun-up to sun-down.

So, last night around 11:00 p.m. Mr. Right finally turned off the television. I was sitting on my side of the bed with the computer on my lap and my bedside lamp on. As I typed, he began to snore. That hideous growling snore he does that has a little gargling sound mixed in that makes it sound like a bear about to drown. He would stop this every couple of minutes and cough. Then he would toss and turn, bouncing me around on the bed until he came to a stop. Snore, cough, bounce. Snore, cough, bounce.

Normally, I would just get up and move to my daughter's bed, but since I was awake anyway I thought I'd just continue my typing and wait for Mr. Right to finally wear himself out and give me that little window of time I'm sometimes afforded. It's that space where the snoring and tossing and turning settle down for just enough time for me to close my eyes and click my heels and hurl myself into sleep before he starts up again.

The window never came. It was just snore, cough, bounce. At 1:00 a.m. he rolled over and said, "How long until you wrap it up?"

I didn't say a word. I just shut the computer down, turned out the light and settled in. Within one minute, the snoring, coughing and bouncing began again. This is where I started yelling at him. In my head.

"How DARE you?! How dare you have the audacity to behave as though I'm the one keeping YOU awake?! I don't EVER get to sleep without interruption and disruption! I'm the one who wakes up when The Duchess comes into our room and needs put back to bed! I'm the one who lays in bed listening to the bear beside me rumble and roar! I'm the one who is so tired in the morning when your alarm goes off that I can barely move and who is relieved when you leave for work so that I can finally get a couple hours of sleep! I'm the one who gets hassled by you for sleeping in late and teased about being a "lady of leisure" when the fact of the matter is, that I hate sleeping in and feeling like half my day has been wasted! I'm the one who has eaten nothing but vegetables for the past three days and still woke up this morning two pounds heavier and with puffy bags under my eyes! So, how ( DARE YOU ask me when I'm going to "wrap it up!!"

Boy, did I give it to him good.

It's hopeless. We've talked, several times, about the effects his snoring has on me. We've also discussed the effects it must have on him. I've discussed it with our family doctor. What it comes down to is that Mr. Right needs to make some changes. He needs to change his schedule, his eating habits and his activities. Mr. Right doesn't show any indicators that he's willing to change these things to improve his health or mine.

I can only change what I can change, so I need to work on what I can do to improve things for myself. (I'm really kicking myself for not splurging on that fifth bedroom now!)

*sigh*

This and That and Then Some

2009-03-21T13:21:00.000-07:00

Whew!! I'm back. Didn't even know I was gone, did you?! (I'll try not to be too terribly offended...) We disappeared for a few days to hit the San Diego Zoo for Spring Break, but now I'm home in my own bed (hallelujah!) and no more of that crappy on-the-road-fast-food for me.

My fellow bloggers have been busy as little bees I see! There will be a couple of late nights trying to catch up with all of the reading I have to do to see what you all have been up to in the past few days. I'm looking forward to it!

Okay. I'm having difficulty getting back into the groove. My focus is shot. I think instead of trying to expound on one subject right now, I'll just try to de-clutter my brain a bit.

*First things first. I have now been confined in enclosed spaces with Mr. Right and The Offspring for nine days straight. Please send help. Seriously. My vodka supply is dangerously low.

Spring Bust

*We decided at the spur of the moment to head to California to the "World Famous San Diego Zoo" for the kids' Spring Break. If I push out of my mind the fact that all of these animals are being held against their will in cages and completely manufactured environments, I actually kind of like going to the zoo. And...this is no ordinary zoo, it's "world famous!" I had visions of talking giraffes and of lions pacing anxiously back and forth waiting to jump over the fence to eat the first kid to make a face at it. Wrong-o. These animals didn't give a rat's ass that we'd driven for six hours in a cramped car, passed through three border patrol stops and spent a small fortune to come see them. These were the most lethargic, ambivalent and apathetic animals I'd ever seen. I had almost lost my faith in the animal kingdom when, near the end of the day, two little monkeys saw me wiping away my tears in front of their cage and took sympathy on me. They lit into an Ultimate Fighting match beyond my wildest dreams. I stood and laughed for ten minutes and then scratched my armpit as a way of saying "thank-you" before moving on to the dreaded gift shop. (Hello, Cheap Crap. Goodbye, Wallet.)

*We arrived in San Diego about 5:00 in the evening and decided that while we still had daylight, we'd take the kids to see the ocean. Our hotel room was about two miles from the beach so we changed into our swimsuits (we'll talk about that nightmare later...) and headed out. About a mile down the road, I said to Mr. Right, "Is that SMOG?!" He looked around and slowly said, "Noooooo...that's fog." I am here to testify to you that this was some of the thickest fog I've seen in my life. When we parked at the beach, we couldn't see more than a couple of feet in front of our faces. The ocean wasn't visible. At all. And, it was freezing. Maybe we should have checked the weather forecast beforehand? Duh.

See the boat through the fog? The Duchess had blue lips and the shivers after five minutes.

*Alright. I'll choke down my humiliation for long enough to tell you about The Swimsuit Incident. The last time I wore my teeny weeny hot pink and white polka dot bikini, I was deeply tanned and a few pounds thinner. Smokin'. Fade to this week, standing in a hotel room in California. Um...not so hot. I haven't been able to tan because of my surgical scars and therefore, have turned a pasty shade of white. I've also put on a couple...er...a few pounds. As I stood in front of the mirror in the hotel room, I realized that my bikini bottoms were almost the same shade of white as my ass. I also could not get my boobs to stay contained in my top. Every time I moved, a boob fell out. I was disgusted. I was mad. I stood there with tears in my eyes, angry at myself. A vow was made right then and there to do something about it. So far, so good. We've been home for two days and my willpower is still strong. I'm just saying "NO DAMMIT!" to all of the evil foods calling my name. I WILL see my hip bones again. Yes, I will!!

*I forgot my makeup bag. I walked out of the house, got in the car and drove to another state without a lick of makeup. Someday, twenty years from now, The Offspring will be looking through the picture album from the trip and ask, "Why didn't Mom go with us to San Diego?!" That's right. There are no pictures of Mommy.

But Mommy's feet were cute!

Sidenote: I'm on a quest to find the people who take the pictures of hotel rooms for travel websites. When I find them, I'm going to show them a picture of a nice large luxurious hotel room and tell them that this is where I'm taking them for a week. Then I'm going to take them to an old teeny tiny hotel room and stuff them all in it, kicking them each really hard before I slam the door and throw away the key card. Oh. And they will have NO access to a Diet Dr. Pepper...anywhere...and their "heated" pool will be ice cold. (How do they sleep at night?! Probably much better than I did....)

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

*I woke up for the final time Thursday morning, really mad. I'd been awake at several different points during the night because Mr. Right was snoring. There's nothing quite like being wedged into a queen size bed with a squirmy four-year old and the equivalent of a small grizzly bear. Good times. About 2:00 a.m. I'd been awakened for maybe the twelfth time and couldn't get back to sleep. So, I did what any psychotic insomniac would do. I laid in bed, half awake, plotting Mr. Right's death. I just kept thinking about how many times I've had the discussion with him about his snoring and how he's never done anything about it. In my woozy state, I thought, "How can he profess to love me?! He can't possibly snore like this, keeping me awake and wrecking my sanity and really love me!" Had it not been 2:00 a.m. I would have called my sister in Oklahoma and cried on her shoulder for an hour. Or, at least until I fell asleep.

*Have you read the article about sleep and its affect on weight loss? It's amazing. In a test study group of ten women who were having extreme difficulty losing weight, doctors took all ten and asked them all to agree to abiding by a few simple "sleep" rules. The rules included things like going to bed within ten minutes of the same time every night, getting at least eight hours of uninterrupted sleep every night, etc. After one month of following the sleep rules , all ten women lost weight. Their weight loss ranged from 5 to 12 pounds! I have ten ugly pounds to lose and haven't been able to do it. I don't sleep at night because my husband snores. Moral of the story: My husband is making me fat.

Damn

*We've lived in our new house for eight months and have been hoping, hoping, hoping that the house next to us that has been sitting empty since we've moved in would eventually house super cool neighbors. Maybe a lovely gay or lesbian couple with whom we could drink pomegranate martinis and laugh together at our collective wittiness, or maybe a hip couple our age with no babies to impede them coming to our parties and who swear a lot and worship the Stella bottle the way I do. Alas, 'tis not so. We met our new neighbors last week. I don't know who is who and what is what over there. The main guy is a tall fellow with spikey hair who wears a gold chain and drives a massive pick-up truck. The first time I met him, he engaged in conversation that included making money from at-home web porn and comments about our country no longer being free or a democracy. Dude. Your laundry is hanging out for everyone to see, and it's icky. His "wife", Marty, looks as though she expects you to elbow her in the face at any second. I don't think she said a word when Mr. Gold Chain introduced her to me. Apparently, another fellow lives there who Mr. Gold Chain refers to as his "partner." Business partner? On the Down Low partner? Partner in crime? I don't know, but Partner also drives a gigantic redneck pick-up truck. Damn. Damn!

Show Your Boobs if You Think We're in a Recession!

*Today I opened up MSN and one of the headlines read, "More women strip and make porn as economy tanks." Okay. My question is, who in the hell are these women?! Unless there are clubs that actually have Stretch Mark and Cellulite Night, I'm not getting hired on anytime soon. They must be referring to the unemployed, non-children having, tight bodied, shame-free, willing to show your tits for dollars segment of the population. Hey, I'm not knocking it. I'm just pissed they turned down my application.

Petits Morceaux de Moi, Part III

2009-03-15T09:47:00.000-07:00

Fellow Blog Friend, Reya, wrote a post the other day that really resonated with me. If you haven't read her blog yet, you really need to get on over there. Not only are her blogs incredibly insightful but her pictures are fantabulous. You can find her at http://www.thegoldpuppy.blogspot.com/. The particular post I'm referring to is called, "What Not to Wear."

While I was reading this post, it really struck me that we do indeed take on different personas throughout our lives. At least, many of us do I think. It probably took me until I was about 35 to finally find the "costume" in which I was comfortable and happy. It also made me think about the choices we have in our lives. As adults, we have the power to choose which costumes or personas we will wear. We have the ability to shed those things which have led to discomfort or unhappiness and keep those that uplift us and bring us joy. We don't have to conform or fit into any costume forced onto us by others. We don't have to impress. We get to choose who we will be and what face we choose to present to the world as "Me." Quite a liberating thought, isn't it?!

Anyway, it made me think about a poem that I wrote while I was going through a terrible time in my life. The only thing not terrible about this time was that it was the beginning of the end of wearing a costume in which I was horribly uncomfortable.

She

She is your friend-
Sometimes failing you miserably, as friends sometimes do, but loving you always and watching out for you. Ready to help at the drop of a hat. You've only to ask.

She is your wife-
Occasionally nagging until you shut your ears to her, but longing with wifely desperation that you'll never shut your heart.

She is the mother of your children-
Cleaning and bathing and cooking and washing and kissing wounds that will go away with a little care, and crying over the wounds she knows will never heal.

She is your lover-
A maturing version of the girl you fell in lust with years ago. Still longing to be chased and wooed and to be kissed in that spot behind the ear that leaves her weak in the knees.

All these things she is-
But if you look closely, you will see there is more than meets the eye. There… beneath the surface…look.

Do you see her?
The wild at heart, half-naked, barefoot jungle girl who dances around fires in the moonlight? The girl who laughs and lives out loud? Who loves with reckless abandon and who gives her all, asking only that in return? The girl who is part water, part sand, half goddess, half child?

Do you see her?
Can you find her somewhere beneath the layers of "office casual" clothes? Of defrosting chicken? Of baths, bedtime stories, vacuuming, ironing, budgeting, fighting?

Look closely-
If you tilt your head just right, you can see her in the morning just before the sun comes up. She will be lying next to you, eyes closed, looking very much like your wife.

Listen carefully-
Put your ear against her lips and you just may hear the sound of ocean waves crashing against the sand, and of a girl laughing in a far off place.