Lisa's Fresh Hell

There are times...

2012-02-08T12:53:00.001-06:00

that try men's souls. Thomas Paine said something like that. He was talking about the start of the Revolutionary War. I think we can all think of times that have tried our souls. We're all supposed to come out the other side "better" or "stronger". We're supposed to see greater meaning and purpose and if we don't, we're not looking hard enough or we're bitter. That's the label we get saddled with. We're told when we lose someone that "God has a reason" or that someday, someway we'll see the bigger plan. To not believe those things makes us feel like we're perhaps betraying the person we've lost. Watching someone fight their way through hell is the most powerless place to be, because ultimately it's their fight and we're just pacing the sideline.

It's been a hell of a week with the Susan G. Koeman Foundation taking what they believed was the right stand and then quickly reversing that decision after a huge backlash from the public. On the day funding was taken from Planned Parenthood, two of my dearest friends' Grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer. And just this week, a beautiful strong woman's long fight ended. The community in which I was raised is grieving that loss, because she became a light to us. She was and still is a symbol of hope and peace and fight and joy in the journey, no matter how that journey ends. We hoped and prayed and feared and cried for her. Now we have to pick up her banner and continue to make a difference and support others still fighting.

No matter how invested in her life and her battle we became, no matter how much a symbol of the war she was fighting with cancer, (make no mistake it was a war not a battle) she was most importantly a mother and a wife, a daughter and a sister, an aunt and a friend. We, the community will feel her loss in this moment. We will think of her fondly and sadly when we hear a story of another young mother fighting, or winning or ending her war with cancer, but we will more easily step out of that grief. For her family and her friends who really knew her, they will wear all of it in their hearts until their last breath. Time does not seem to truly heal, it just moves us away from the immediacy we feel after such a loss. It just gives us, well, time to learn to live with it.

I'm going to touch on this briefly because this paragraph is not what this blog is about, but I feel strongly that it needs to be said. I met this lovely woman once, I've followed her fight through her on-line journal, my friends who were close to her and her family have cried and worried and been strong and shared some of that with those of us who are not part of the inner circle. My heart is broken for her family and her friends and the community. Because I do not have any claim on what they are truly going through, it behooves me to watch my mouth. To not inflict further harm by posting nosey questions on Facebook. By not texting or calling those close to her who are at a loss because of her loss to find out who and what and where and why, so they can be the first to tell, the first to know. If you're calling or texting or posting, it should be asking who can we help, what can we do, where do we go to make a difference, and why don't you who are broken just come to us when you need us; otherwise, we're in the background waiting to do what we can. Social media makes it easy to say things we wouldn't dream of saying to someone's face, so stop and think and then stop and think again and then do or say with a clear heart only filled with compassion.

Disease of any kind is a son of a bitch. MS, cancer, Alzheimer's, mental illness, all of them and all those I didn't call by name fight dirty. They change everything in the amount of time it takes to hear the news. They move you to action; they pin you in your spot with fear and disbelief and grief; they humble and embolden; they break you and they build you up. They take and they give. They show you profound strength and beauty and love and they show you darkness and anger and fear. In the end, they either continue doing what they set out to do or something alters their course and they are stopped. There is no rhyme or reason to the getting and the curing. While there are diets and lifestyles and behaviors that seem to attract them, and there are drugs and therapies that defeat them; they simply begin, and where they'll end with each individual, no one knows.

Fight and believe and hope, that's all one can do. And perhaps in the end, we adjust our definition of "miracle". Maybe it's getting better and living a long beautiful life, and maybe it becomes all the lives touched before moving on to their rest and reward after the fight. Because leaving a lasting mark on someone's heart and mind IS a miracle, you know. Just think of all the people who've passed by you and you've forgotten moments after they left. Now think of the ones who just as briefly were in your life, perhaps simply by reading or hearing about them and not even meeting them, whom you long remember. Those people, those stories and lives, those are miraculous.

The difference between those diseases and all of us is that we are alive. No matter what color a ribbon you put on it, it's still ugly and unfair, yet we are still stronger. We are living and breathing and loving and laughing and fighting. Diseases like cancer don't succeed in their mission because we didn't fight or believe or pray or hope enough. They're just doing what they are programmed to do. Multiplying and morphing and destroying. You see, cancer does not have a soul. You and I do, and because of that, we always win. What takes someone away from us, from this life, is simply the footnote. It's something that unites us and gives us a further purpose, to find a way to stop it, to find a cure. It's not who we are or how we lived; it's simply and horribly how we die. It is not our middle and it is not even our end, because those who have moved past this life here leave behind more than what took them. No matter how they leave us, by choice or circumstance or blessed old age, even if their being here was brief, every single life touches another. So you see, even in the most trying times of our souls, we aren't alone, someone else is always in the trial with us or standing just outside waiting and hoping and loving us to the other side of it. That's what keeps us walking through the hell and into the beautiful.

If you knew...

2012-02-03T09:49:00.002-06:00

how little hell I go through at my work, you'd challenge me to a duel for it. (Dance off or runway walk only. Bring it bitches!) I don't talk much about my job here for several reasons. We have a very strict confidentiality policy, Big D is a pretty private person, it would bore the hell out of you, and I'm afraid you'd try to take it from me.

I have worked here since I was 18 years and 4 months old. That will be 22 years on March 1. It's more than half my life. I've grown up here, really, and it has been a pretty freaking great place to do that. I'm lucky; I know it.

Briefly what happens here is Big D helps public school employees save money for retirement. I do whatever I have to do to make his job easy. Sometimes that means fetching him a glass of water, sometimes that means making copies or doing the bookkeeping. Sometimes that means making him laugh. He laughs loudly. Really loudly. Loud enough to hurt my ears. Maybe I should be less funny.

Big D taught middle school music in the seventies for about 5 years, so our office is always full of music. Dear Lord help me. Usually it's a streaming PBS jazz station, but often he'll come barrelling in with some song stuck in his head and then it'll be a Beatles Day or a Military Bands Day or heaven forbid Wayne Cochran (Google him, it's a good times). The impromptu concerts are amusing and maddening all at once. He sings along to the music, not the lyrics, THE MUSIC! Son of a... I'm getting annoyed just thinking about it!

Big D is often my foil in stories I tell and even in this blog, because he's a pretty good target. He's 60, an ex-musician who may or may not have been a late sixties/early seventies stereotype. He is firmly who he is, which I admire. He doesn't think much about what people think about him. What a great head space that must be. He's pushy and intrusive and brilliant and frustratingly consistent. Truth is, Big D is one of my best friends.

We've kind of been through a lot of good and bad together. Since we've been the only two people in the office for 17ish of those 22 years, we've had to figure out how to like each other. I'm always going to be 20 years behind him maturity wise, plus we have all that different gender - different planet baggage to contend with. He makes me futting nuts sometimes and hurts my feelings (like not noticing the new dress yesterday thus making me think it looked bad - girl logic, you know), he's mean and pissy and not nearly funny enough, but he has been here for every single adult thing I've been through.

The day my dad's cancer was diagnosed terminal, he sat on the couch in our conference room with a towel on his shoulder (practical man that he is, he didn't want my mascara to stain his white button down shirt) and let me ugly cry. He's told me to "Shut the fuck up and LISTEN" when I was being ridiculous. When my grandma died he was at the funeral in the very back. Since I don't have a living father, he's presence gave me some bit of peace. So when I lost my mind and then thought I'd drive myself to the cemetery, I didn't even see him coming until he opened my drivers door and said he'd take me.

He helped move fence when my dad was too weak to do it. Although my dad sat in the window and laughed at him because that city kid pounded the electric fence posts too far into the ground, Big D at least made an effort. He hauled water for our well, he was with me when my sister told me my dad was dead. He's often near the top of my "good news" or "bad news" call list.

He sent me to Alabama when I lost the babies. He checks my tire pressure (even though I am ABSOLUTELY capable of it) and windshield fluid. He knows what good shoes look like. He makes fun my the PMS pimple I always get on my right cheekbone. He nags me about letting my hair go gray (not one freaking chance in hell of that!) and tells me to quit rubbing my eyebrows or I won't have any. He gets in my face when I need it. He's let me miss a lot of work lately without me having to explain why. Sometimes he'll just come to my house and sit on my couch and let me not talk to him, but he's there if I need to say something.

I try to be a good friend to him. I hope I have been. Right now I'm too self-absorbed trying to get to OK that I don't have much to give as a friend, and he understands that too. I was here for him during his long drawn out divorce. That was hell for sure. I helped build his business when his mentor died. I went through several of his attempts to quit smoking, when he was such a dick I wanted to beg him to cheat. He's now been smoke free for 3 years, no cheating at all. I took care of him when he had major dental work done. I was rewarded for that by getting to see him on Valium. Oh damn that was so worth it!

I thought you should know that he's not a push-over or a jerk. OK, sometimes he's both of those things. He was a huge pain for a lot of years and still often is. He's one of my biggest cheerleaders now. He lets me write this blog during work hours; he reads it and edits it for errors and clarity (not this one though). He's supportive and horrible and generous and exhausting. He's a man after all, of course he's all those things. He's my dear friend whom at least once daily I want to suffocate.

I'm writing this because I need to say thanks out loud so he hears it and can't just wave it away. He's been one of the voices in my dark days calling me home. I've written blogs about my amazingly wonderful girlfriends; I thought I should write one about one of my best guy friends, who just happens to also be my boss. I got lucky as hell when I walked into the job interview almost 22 years ago to the day, and I know it. Now you know it too.

P.S. Big D, can I pretty please have Monday off? I swear I didn't write this trying to influence you at all!

Damn, I'm whiny...

2012-02-01T13:28:00.003-06:00

as hell. Last night I got in a pissing contest with a friend about whose life is "worse". Really? How messed up is that? What I learned, quickly, is the whole yard is never greener on the other side of the fence, only sections of it.

I have a fatalist attitude about my life. I used to be annoyingly optimistic, but I think that lessened around age 25. When you start seeing that blind luck is for children, and as an adult you make your own it's hard to hope for the best without expecting the worst. I often worry when something positive happens, because I'm afraid I'll have it ripped away just as I start to be really happy. The truth is, that has happened. But because I feel that way, I fail to feel the good, to smell the roses, to just freaking be happy. (This is where my cousin Matt is laughing at me.)

Sometimes I worry that saying what makes me happy outloud will call attention to some negative force that will come and snatch it away. I also think that mentioning a good thing might hurt people who are going through something really tough. Like I'm waving a banner in their faces saying "ha ha! My life is better than yours." Trouble is, I think that is a self-fulfilling prophesy. You keep good news from someone thinking you're protecting them, because they've had some bad news and all you're really doing is insulting them thinking they can't rejoice with your good fortune. We're all so good at being there for each other in bad times, we forget that we're also there in the good times. People who are wholly on your team aren't just fair weather friends, of course, but they also aren't just foul weather friends. I think I almost forgot that.

Guilt is a mother futter. Guilt about something or someone you've done wrong is really shame because you know better and you're choosing to not do better. Guilt about things that are out of your control is fruitless, but seems to be unavoidable. Now guilt about being happy, that's just ridiculous.

Here's the thing that clicked just this morning for me, good is not a zero sum game. My being happy does not take joy from someone else. Or at least it shouldn't, not from those who truly love me. You being happy shouldn't bring anything to your friends or family but a smile and perhaps a few seconds of "I wish that were me too!" Jealousy is natural. I hate to admit that, because I don't like to think of myself as jealous or natural, but I am. When it crosses over to full-on jackass stage is when you want to take away from someone else in order for you to have. Hijacking happy is seriously low down.

It's hard to not take it personally when you feel like you're about to get something you've always wanted and then it's taken away. It seems to be even harder when you see someone else get it. Hell it's hard to find a dress you love and then not be able to get it in your size and the next day you see your best friend looking all hot in it. Wanting wears you down, so you start to want less so you don't have to be disappointed. That's good and bad. Want can make us mean and angry and aggressive. That's good when you're working towards something, when it feeds your drive to succeed. It's bad when it makes you push people aside and ignore what you already have. Doesn't it just figure when it's a noble want that you get through perseverence and hard work, it feels freaking perfect, but when it's a hurtful want that you get, it is never as pretty or shiny as you thought it would be. Damn it.

Happy or unhappy isn't a competition. Always looking around to see who has what and who feels what keeps me from seeing the things I have. Don't get me wrong, taking a vacation isn't the same as having a new baby, but it also isn't the same as being homeless. Someone will always have more than you and someone will always have less. But the deeper truth about that statement is even those who have more in some areas than you have less in others. And you, yes you, have less of this but more of that than everyone else. Since there is no clear winner or loser, it simply can't be a competition.

You know how everything seems to offer participation ribbons anymore? You get a trophy for simply showing up. Ugh. Don't get me started on that silliness. Truth is, in my opinion, the only thing you really get out of Life is acknowledgement of participation. Hopefully it's a little plaque pointing out the patches of your story that were green as hell.

I'm supposed to say...

2012-01-25T14:25:00.002-06:00

all kinds of things or there will be hell to pay. Right? There are certain things everyone is expected to say when this or that happens or about this or that person. Expectations of behavior, yes? Most are formalities or things meant to be said because there really isn't anything else to say, but when you really look at them, they seem very silly and tedious.

You know what I'm talking about... "What a lovely home you have!", "What a cute baby!", "It's no big deal; it happens to every man!". Let's all get real, even if the place was a hoarders wet dream, you'd say it was lovely. Newborns, unless you own them, look like confused old men. It really kind of is a big deal and it doesn't happen to every guy. But you can't say those things, that would be cruel.

Julie is heading back to work next month after being home with her new baby for a year. She's nervous and excited and sad. Of course. When she texted me those things, I immediately launched into the "It will be so good for you to socialize and Isla will get to be more independent." However in parenthesis after that I wrote, "We both know that's bullshit, but it's what you're supposed to say." This immediately made me think of all the platitudes and niceties that I throw around with no real thought of their sincerity or value. Sometimes, if you look at it, it is simply well-meaning bullshit at best and lies at worst.

Certainly we should be gracious guests and caring friends, but at what point do we just start saying what's real and true? Should we even? Don't get me wrong, blurting out that someone's baby looks like Andy Rooney is simply wrong and in fact, because of their smallness babies are stinking cute. I'd also never ever tell a man the truth about "size", but there are things that we sugar coat or smooth over that might be more well suited to have us be gently upfront about.

We all have expectations of what we want to hear, but what about what we need to hear? Two different things. No one should ever mention a 50 pound weight gain, but we damn sure better notice a 5 pound weight loss. Never call anything but her eyes, pouty lips and rack BIG on a woman and never call anything but his nose and ears small on a man. You should always notice even the slightest change in a woman's hair, but not a man's because he then thinks you're really noticing how it's thinning. Unless you actually see the head, don't ask a woman when she's due.

So what if we started acknowledging the truth about things? Say that it is heartbreaking for those who feel a loss for Joe Paterno, but his death doesn't erase what he allegedly hid. (One thing, he said he'd never heard of a man raping a man... it was a MAN raping a BOY. Big difference.) Let's be real and say Joe changed lots of young men's lives for the good, but he likely helped destroy a few. Let's say Michael Jackson made some legendary music, but he was creepy as hell. Truth that acknowledges the good and bad stuff. Huh.

That stuff is easy. That stuff doesn't hit close to home. A couple of months ago I told a friend that I'd gained about 10 pounds since losing the babies (I like sweets when I'm sad) and she immediately said, "I wouldn't have guessed ten pounds." Now because my assumption is that she's saying what I want to hear, I know she meant it looked like less. But in truth, it's more than 10 (really sad = really liking cake), what if she really was saying "Bitch please, it's obviously more than 10 pounds" because that's maybe what I needed to hear for my own good.

Moms a lot of times say the crap we absolutely don't "want" to hear (and sometimes stuff we don't NEED to hear either!). My mom does not like my hair. Period. She likes it short and dark. Now that my SIL is my stylist she always compliments the work Shan does, but she doesn't appreciate my choice of style, i.e. LONG. For years it would hurt my feelings when she said it, like she was telling me I looked like shit. Seriously. But I think maybe now that I'm older I realize she's just expressing what she believes is best for me. It's her job; she's a mom. Grrrr. Maybe she has good memories of me as a child with short hair, maybe I look more like her or more like my dad with short hair. Maybe she just can't stand seeing my hair in my eyes (how many times did your mom tell you to get your hair out of your eyes as a kid?). Or maybe she's just mean and hurtful and trying to make me cry. See what I mean? It's not junior high, she's trying to help.

Since my conversation with Julie, I've been gently trying to do some of this with friends and family with whom I speak. It is not my nature to do much but agree with others no matter how unreasonable their behavior is, so saying in absolute love what I think that person needs to hear is hard. Honestly, it makes me feel like a bitch no matter how much sugar I put on it. But there comes a time when saying the "want" thing isn't helping and is actually doing harm. It's allowing someone to wallow instead of push on or take no action when something desperately needs to happen. It's enabling instead of helping make able. But damn, it is hard to do.

Everyone has been beautiful about the loss of the babies. I've had emails and messages from folks I don't even know who have expressed kindness about the loss. I have heard from friends and acquainances who've lost babies that I didn't even know had been through it. The baby sister of my dear friend Julie M. has been a touchstone for me. People have just overwhelmed me with their love and thoughts and bolstered me with their experiences. There are not words to express how thorougly grateful I am for all of it. I truly did "feel the love".

Recently though I heard from my friends Julie C. and Sarah, in the most caring words possible, that I needed to push forward a little harder. That moving on actually meant an action had to be taken by me. Damn it, they're right. What I've needed to hear and wanted to hear for the past few months is absolutely what I've been so graciously given. And now, when I need to hear that time marches on and I need to step up, I've been given that. I do know as Lid, the SBJs, my Julies, Big D, Dead Elsie, Jeanne F. have said, it's going to hurt like a mutha for a really long time on and off and they're here as best they can be if I need, but eventually the sad will be more off than on. That's what I need to hear. I also need to hear that I have to let that switch be flipped to off instead of holding it on. Gutsy move on Julie's and Sarah's part for telling me the truth, yes? Could have gone ugly, because it also means I have to put down the cake and find another way to handle my feelings. It's not nice to take cake away from the sad girl... until you know she absolutely needs you to. And I needed them to.

Here's what I take away from this entry, that if you care for someone, you can't just do the easy thing. Notice I said "just do", because it is absolutely imperative that you DO say what someone wants to be said until they are healed enough to hear what NEEDS to be said. If you love them, you'll know which is which and when is the right time. But with that comes the realization that you need to accept when those who have your best interest at heart say something that's hard to hear but you know is true. Relationships are give and take. We all know that, even if we don't act that way all the time. But give and take doesn't just mean I do for you and you do for me, it also means taking what someone knows you need to be given and giving what you know they need, even when it's hard, even when it makes them mad, even if saying it might make them need you a little less. That's love folks, I think, being willing to risk someone hating you temporarily in order to do the right thing for them.

Now let's be clear here, don't tell me you think I've gained more than 10 pounds if you see me. If you do, you'll quite likely find out what Lisa's Fresh Hell really looks like.

I am not a dumb ass...

2012-01-16T14:38:00.000-06:00

and neither are you. Then why the hell are we being treated that way? Think about the number of times a day you read or watch something that is telling you what to think or how to feel about any number of topics and issues. Please, please tell me it's just folks trying to make their points and not people assuming the general public is so damn stupid it can be pushed and pulled into changing their minds just because someone tells them to.

Hang on, you know it'll make sense soon. Everything seems to be geared to swaying our opinion. Of course it doesn't hurt to listen to opposing arguments and ideas, because to be honest I'm not always right. Given a compelling argument, I've been known to change positions (yes, that's what she said). But this whole bullying me and you into thinking like someone else simply because "everybody's doing it" is insulting.

It's a constant bombardment, even with seemingly insignificant things. How you should think about this or that celebrity, what about this hairdo or that. A group of fashion "insiders" sit on high stools in their incredibly expensive shoes telling us what dress is pretty or not. And if you don't agree, you immediately feel like the kid on the playground who showed up with the wrong brand of jeans. It's like everything on television is trying to make us feel like junior high kids who should be doing anything they can to be popular. Screw that mess. I survived junior high once, there's not a chance I'd choose to live there everyday of my life.

Here's where this is coming from... actually it's coming from several different directions... but let's start here, somewhere shallow. I was watching the Golden Globes arrivals and a group of my girls and I were Facebook group discussing it. The thing is all of these girls are different. We're different hair color, skin tone, ages, heights and body shapes. We loved what we loved and hated what we hated, but we didn't have to agree. Some liked that Emma Stone dress, some not so much. But none of us tried to convince the others that they were wrong about it. You loved it or loathed it and that was it.

We disagreed on accessories and color of dresses and the big ass porn star hair. OK, we probably agreed on their hair because we all love jacked to Jesus hair. We're all big girls, so we all made up our own minds. Then today on all the morning news shows I see "experts" dissecting those dresses. They make you feel like a dumb ass if you don't agree with them. "That fashion forward gown was so goooorrrrgeousssss!" and if someone disagreed with the "expert", they acted like they had just noticed gum stuck to their $1200 shoes. All disdain and disgust. They use words like "fashion forward" about a god-awful-ugly-ass-dress (in my opinion), so that if you disagree it must mean you're fashion backward.

Here's the thing, all of those women looked like a million bucks, likely because that's about what it took to get them looking like that. And bless them, it's their job to look that good. Now I am aware that the job of the critic is to uhhhh critique them, and I'm cool with that. But don't act like you are somehow the final word in what's cute. One morning show had on an ex-soap star who quite frankly needs to stop the Botox and spray tanning to offer her "expert" opinion. What made her an expert? She wears clothes?

This isn't the only place all this "better-than-thou" stuff happens. Cable sports shows spend all day every day dissecting the latest game and discussing the next one. And they hammer you about how you should feel about so-and-so or this and that. That poor Tebow kid got nailed by the "experts" months before he threw a pass. I get it's their jobs to analyze, but even those folks seem to talk louder and louder until everyone agrees with them. Of course you have commentators who go the direct opposite way and disagree or be the "I told you so" when the majority is wrong, but that's not forming your own opinion it's conforming or intentionally not conforming (which is actually conforming... work that one out.)

Sweet sparkly baby J, what about all the cable news talking heads? They argue and argue and argue about who did what and why they think it was done. They are so up in your face wanting you to agree with them that if you don't you feel like a bad little child who needs to be sent to bed without dinner. They assume you can't think for yourself or form your own opinion without their telling you what your opinion should be.

If I hear one more time about how the "mainstream media" is controlling America I might likely start screaming and not stop. Please. People believe what they believe and they gravitate toward watching, reading and associating with people who believe like them. If you are a card carrying liberal, the only reason you'd watch O'Reilly or listen to Rush is to give your heart a work out from the fury you feel. If you are conservative to your bone, you're not watching Rachel or Keith for any reason other than to piss yourself off when they say something negative about Bill and Rush. People don't watch the other side's yammering to change their minds, they do it to reinforce their beliefs.

One of the things about this whole "mainstream media" crap that drives me batty is that people get pissed when someone reports something negative about one candidate or politician and doesn't report something equally negative about the opposition. Let's say someone drove 12 hours with a dog in a crate on top of their car, but no one on the other ticket did something equally nuts, should the dog abuser story wait until something equally disturbing is dug up? One for you and one for me. Really?

I hear constant chatter about which candidate is being babied and protected by the "mainstream media" and who isn't. Are you f**king kidding? If you think that's real, turn the damn channel and you'll hear someone bitching from the other side. And just my opinion, but if you're one of the top rated cable news shows, you ARE the mainstream media. You aren't operating out of someone's basement, you have a fancy set and someone who picks out your clothes and researchers and soundbites. That's the definition of mainstream to me.

What you don't have is the ability to control the mind of those who have made their own up and have the courage of their convictions. What you don't have is unfettered power, either side, to take away from me truths I believe to be self-evident.* What you don't have is the ability to make me into a dumb ass. Because honestly, the only way that could happen is if I blindly followed this or that person's or party's or pundit's or expert's path without ever forming an opinion on my own. So stop treating me like I'm simple-minded because I can't be swayed. Stop pretending that if I agree with the majority I'm a sell-out or if I side with the minority I'm unsophisticated. I do know that there are people who chase the majority; who find out what's popular and make it their own. Those people are often called politicians. Dr. King said, "A genuine leader is not a searcher for consensus but a molder of consensus." Bring on that genuine leader.

Maybe some people reading this are dumb asses. That's cool. You be you. No worries if you need to be told what to think and how to think and you need to be spoken to like you're the lowest common denominator. I can see where that would be seriously appealing, because you could not have to figure it out for yourselves. But I firmly believe true dumb asses are a rarity. We're too smart for that as a whole, don't you think? Otherwise, hell would be empty and all the devils would be here**, just like junior high.

* Big ups to the Declaration of Independence
** That crazy brilliant Will Shakespeare is kind to let me paraphrase

Oh my ...

2012-01-12T12:54:00.000-06:00

hell people! There's what my dad would call a skiff of snow and everyone is freaking out!! (Easy for me to say, I drive 5 minutes to work.) But DAMN, when did we Midwesterners get so soft? Bunch of pansies (no offense to actual pansies, they're darling little flowers). I think the people who are so scared are the ones who blow it out of proportion. I can see if this is your first winter driving where you might slow down to 30 on the highway (and RD will be behind you flipping you off), but if you're not new, this ain't nothing. So relax. You're missing the pretty snow globe effect because you're too busy riding your brake. If you're reading this Big D, it's actually horrible out and I should probably go home just to be safe.

I'm feeling a little random hell today my dears. You in? Beats looking at the radar for the thousandth time and watching the crawl on the local channels of the one school that is dismissing early. Or I guess maybe we'll see if this is more entertaining after I'm done.

First, I'm thinking of starting a little private blog where I post bits of my great American novel, also known as "eh, a little something I'm working on". I could put stuff on there or explain the gist of the thing and get a little feedback. What do you all think? Would you be interested? You could let me know if I'm wasting my time and should just develop an internet porn addiction instead. Anyway, just a thought.

Wouldn't you just once like a Presidential candidate during election season to stick by the stuff he/she has been saying for YEARS? If you're pro-choice for 3 years, don't flip when you head south and then soften that southern stance when you head west. If you're for the death penalty, then just be for it. Political pansies.

Most Americans know where they stand on most issues. We perhaps don't know how to make policy or how specifically to the solve problems, but we do know what we think and feel. Wouldn't it be something if a candidate actually had a firm position that didn't change depending on who he is talking to? It's like those folks who affect the accent of wherever they are visiting (GUILTY!), it just makes you sound like a wannabe. Pick a spot and stand still so we can actually SEE you. Just a little FYI, I do not care if you bring your dead baby home so your children can say good-bye, because that doesn't have anything to do with me, but don't be shocked when people are shocked by that. And don't use that dead baby to get votes for yourself or as a reason for people not to vote for that guy. Bringing it home doesn't appall me, making it a campaign issue does.

I'm also worried that the spring lines all seem to be using a pastel pallet. Being a brown haired girl, you know I don't look good in cotton candy colors. Also, my eyes have recently changed color. They are green. I'm pretty sure it's a sign that the world will end in 2012. And why can't someone make really cute snow boots? Boots that are waterproof and really warm but don't look like you're wandering around in Walnut Grove. Told you this was going to be random.

Next, I frequently want to write a full blog about how unfair family courts are in Illinois. I'm afraid if I start, I won't stop. So here's just a little bit. How fair is it really that a man must prove the woman an unfit mother in order to get custody of his kids, but a woman just has to NOT be proven unfit? A man is assumed to be a lousy parent simply because he's a man and a woman is assumed to be a stellar mother because she has ovaries. There are men who desperately want to be involved in their kids' lives and mothers who unjustifiably do everything they can to keep that from happening simply because of their negative feelings against the father. What the hell?

I know moms who struggle because they have legitimate reasons to be concerned about their children's safety and well-being when they are with their father. I know women who do not receive their child support and who have to make excuses to those sweet little faces when dad doesn't show up for his weekend again. And I know women who lie about getting child support (it's easy to check, the state keeps a record and it can be proven one way or the other) or lie about how involved the dad is/wants to be. I know women who consistently defy court orders about phone calls and providing information and all the courts will do is say "you have to go by the order". The mom says "I will from now on." And she doesn't and nothing is done.

I also think about the mothers who have to hire an attorney and fight constantly to keep their kids safe and get what they need to support their children. It's just crazy the hoops a person has to jump through to make someone do the right damn thing. It's hard not to become jaded and think that perhaps the laws and rules are written to benefit attorneys and their wallets instead of helping the kids. It's not rocket science people. If a Dad wants to be involved and is doing what he ought to be doing make it as easy as possible for him to do it. I honestly think that a lot of Dads just give up because they are constantly fighting a system that beats them down and ties their hands. And as importantly, make it easier for a Mom to get what she needs to take care of the kids.

The thing that really chaps my hide is the lying/scheming mothers don't have any idea how lucky they are to get that check and to not have to explain why sitting in a bar is more important to Dad than seeing his kid for two days every two weeks. Bullshitting about your situation in order to get sympathy, money, attention or simply to stick it to the guy who divorced you is a slap in the faces of the mothers who really do have to live with those issues. Shame on you and shame on Illinois for not doing better and making it impossible to do the right thing by kids. Getting a divorce does not make a man a deadbeat father. If you are calling a man that because he divorced you, especially if you call him that to his children, that just might make you less of a good mother.

So much for not going on and on. That's it for today my hellions. I'm exhausted and the snow is really starting to pile up outside. I actually think it might be an eighth of an inch deep by now. Terrifying. Do drive safely, my friend KP might just be sliding through a four-way stop (that makes it easy to decide whose turn it is to go), so watch out for an out-of-control minivan. Bundle up when you head out and just keep in mind, six months from now we'll all be whining because it's hot as hell.

Went to a movie...

2012-01-09T13:57:00.000-06:00

this weekend. That was as annoying as hell. Seriously, people suck. Except you and me that is.

I haven't been to a proper grown-up movie for a while. I'm more of a --wait until I can push the white button on my remote and press pause to refill a drink and I can text during the entire thing if I want -- kind of viewer. I usually go to a movie with my littles, so one knows going in there will be kids and those kids are going to behave like kids. Someone will spill a drink, need to potty or cry (sometimes the crying is your adult friend Kate, but it was during the Muppets, so that's acceptable behavior). My nephew once yelled out "RUN!" during a particularly riveting race scene when he was about four years old. Everyone just laughed. I kind of like that feeling of all the adults being in it together, everyone feeling each other's pain when it's the kid with YOU that does something kid-like.

Now at a grown up movie, do not screw with me. I'm there, I've gone potty beforehand, I've paid my $27.90 for two tickets, a bucket of popcorn, a large diet soda and peanut M&Ms (because peanut just has to be healthier), so I intend on watching the big bright screen and hearing the overly loud audio. I do not intend on watching and hearing the idiot show that the ass sitting behind me decides to share with the group. Son of a ...

The truth is, movie theaters creep me the hell out. Lots of strangers sitting around in the dark, crunching ice and popcorn, sharing an armrest (how have they not figured out a better system than SHARING an armrest?!), and breathing each others' air. Yuck. And then there are the idiots. The ones who were never taught that whispering actually involves lowering your voice and that it is never OK to reveal the ending of a movie in your non-whisper before it even starts (this actually happened to me during "The Sixth Sense". Motherfutter) There is always the guy who thinks HE is the entertainment. He thinks that we are all too feeble minded to get the jokes or understand the drama or action without his commentary. Stupid guy.

There is also the person who has one hell of a cold and just insists on making sure everyone else is exposed. Nevermind the coughing fits and the loud nose blowing (I dislike loud nose blowers regardless of the situation, because let's all get real here, you're removing fluid from your body RIGHT IN FRONT OF PEOPLE! Gross.). Stay home or take some really good drugs. If your cough is so loud that it drowns out the booming volume of the movie, you should really see someone about it.

And why is it that the people who have to get up and get refills or skip to the loo always always sit in the middle of the row where they have to climb over folks on their way in and out? Then you have the whole tush or cookie conundrum. I personally prefer a backside in my face. If I'm going to have to look at your down there region, I better have asked to see it and you better have bought me a drink first. If you have a tiny bladder you already know it, it isn't as if it suddenly shrinks the minute the lights go down, sit on the aisle closest to the door. Duh.

This whole "documentary style" of camera work is absolutely unnecessary. The movie I saw was a "mockumentary" so it was all jerky camera moves and bizarre angles and make you squint to see lighting. People should stop doing that. Unless it's actually a for real documentary or your final in your film making class or you're showing it to some of your artsy friends while passing a joint, it's stupid and distracting. Makes me think you know the story and dialog isn't good enough on its own so you jerk the camera around then if people don't like it you can say they just didn't understand your "art". It only serves to make people like me motion sick and pissed. Stop it, damn it. It's like watching home movies taken by someone's drunken uncle.

Then there's the group of boys who are all testosterone and no common sense who are consistently trying to out bad ass each other. A group of such darlings were in the theater with us... sitting directly behind us. They had been kicked out of our theater before the show started because they bought tickets to a G rated movie and snuck into the R. They left as they were told only to return high-fiving each other about how they so brilliantly pulled one over on the teenagers who were running the place. Loud ass fools. They solved the whole crotch or hiney problem by climbing over the seats like spider monkeys. And they certainly haven't learned how whispering actually works.

Someday I want to be old enough to go all Julia Sugarbaker (Google it) on these kinds of folks. Stand up and tell them that I know they thought everyone was coming to see their show, but actually we paid to watch the movie whose title appears on the screen. They are not funny or cute. Even worse they aren't even clever. Which if you are going to try to get my attention, at least be interesting. Here's a hint, interesting isn't having a burping contest (Gavin and Jack can do that and they're 9), it isn't making a loud noise when the movie is quiet and it isn't saying "nice ass" in your outdoor voice when the jerky camera work "inadvertently" focuses on a nice ass. Big yawn at all their terrible witlessness.

These people aren't just in theaters. At dinner one night with Big D he left the table to take a phone call (look at those manners!) when the big old drunk guy in the booth behind us (12 shots of tequila in 2 hours... drunk is an understatement) decided he and I were good friends and he could start telling me how the only 6 mistakes he'd ever made in his life were getting married. He was talking to me for about a minute before he said the phrase "p*$$y whipped" and asked why women just want someone to pay the bills and kiss their asses. I think he thought this was a very engaging conversation. I did have a chance to ask him if the six mistakes he'd made thought of him as the one they'd made. He went back to trying to get into his very drunk date's pants. Wonder if he's thinking of making her mistake number seven.

My point with all this is it seems like lots of people think they are the center of everyone's universe. I hope they are the center of someone's universe. But leave that crap at home. Think a bit about those around you, about how you like to be treated and act accordingly. Because someday I may decide to make it the Lisa Show and put your nose blowing, loud coughing, ice crunching, loud talking, ending ruining ass in it's place. Oh hell... look what I just did... I may need to rethink my whole "crotch vs. tush" theory, because I've already said an ass's place is in my face at the theater.

Ever wonder

2012-01-04T13:00:00.000-06:00

how the hell we all survive the holidays? It's like some sort of frenzied, moderately controlled chaos for for about six weeks straight. But here we are, 2012, and we're putting all of that crazy away with the tree and the leftover wrapping paper. Whew. But it was some good times, wasn't it? I hope you walk away (run screaming away?) from it with at least a couple of good memories. And I hope whatever crappy gift someone gave you came with a gift receipt.

I was not sleeping last night, as is my pattern lately, and I started thinking about who really knows me. I mean really. With whom am I comfortable? Truth is, the list is short. I'm strung very tightly, so the "able to relax" thing is a struggle for me. Yeah, imagine just how much fun I am to be around.

I've written so much here about my life that you all know lots of me stuff. LOTS. You likely think "too much" from time to time. It's like a hoarder's yard sale in here once in a while... come look at all the junk I have that at one time I thought was potentially precious to me but now I'm sick of! It's tough, really, because what if you don't like my stuff? What if you glance around and find nothing interesting amid the shiny pretties I think I have. Maybe all you see is chipped and cracked and stained and ugly? I don't go to yard sales, because frankly I don't need any more things, but also because if I look and see nothing I feel like I'm judging someone's life and finding it not good enough to add even the smallest thing from it to mine. Told you I was wound tightly.

Back to our nearest and dearest friends, they know the big stuff, don't they? Often they've been with us during that period of time where we had major highs and lows, or we've told each other those things during the "getting to know you" phase. If we're lucky, we have those who have stuck beside us for the joys and sorrows. We have friends who've been our partners in crimes, commiserated over the worst hangover ever, told us that outfit makes our asses look big and it would make Giselle's ass look big (it's the OUTFIT, not the ass -- take note men). They've talked us down from drunk dialing exes, they've driven us by his house to see if she's there, they've let us put our heads on their shoulders when we're sobbing and they've laughed so hard with us they've peed their pants. They've been pissed and angry and plain out sick of us when we make the same stupid mistake for the fifth time, and then they've told us it would be OK when we're dealing with the repercussions of those mistakes. They are tough when we need them to be in the kindest, most gentle way. Sometimes they even walk away because they need to prove a point. But they always always come back.

Everyone thinks of those things as the "deep" stuff. The things that are required for deep abiding loyalty and friendship. And that stuff is your solid foundation, it is obviously of the utmost importance. However, my closest friends know what I like to read, that I hate long greeting cards (and they don't ever send one to me). They know I'm afraid of heights and that Diet Coke kicks Diet Pepsi's ass. They know I don't like fruit. I know if they hate green peppers. They usually understand the little secret messages I put in every blog picture of my shoes. (Now you'll be looking for them, won't you?!)

I know that they take five teaspoons (not packets, TEASPOONS) of sugar in their coffee. They think my road rage is funny and know that if I start a sentence directed at them with "Are you fucking kidding me right now?" we're going to have a big fight. They know a million little things that make up the big things that are me. Them knowing that is huge.

They know I'm rarely late for things and if I am there's likely a major problem. They know standing in line doesn't bother me. They know my shoe size and that I like to believe I'm 4" taller than I really am. But they will never ever know my weight. Never. They know what situations will make me nervous and where I like to be in charge. They know when I've had enough and sometimes they let me have too much because I'm just having so damn much fun. They know how drunk I have to be to dance in public and that if I'm rubbing my eyebrows I'm scared or worried.

I know what they worry after and about how glad they are when their kids go back to school after winter break. I know how they really feel about gay marriage and abortion and exercise, which celebrity they'd run away with if he/she showed up at their door. I know if they hate their rack or their thighs or their asses. I know if they color their hair or wear Spanx. They share beauty secrets and sex tips and life lessons because they want me to be happy. I try to remember dates that might remind them of something wonderful or terrible, I don't always succeed, but they know they can ask me "remember what happened last year on this day?" and once I do they don't need to tell the back story, because I likely was there while it was happening.

Ever think about someone and they text or call? That's friendship magic. They'll skinny dip with you, they'll trip you up the stairs just for a laugh, they'll hound you to get a book they know you'll love so you can discuss how great it was when you're done. They'll tell you when your favorite store has a sale and when you have lipstick on your teeth and when you just need to shut the hell up.

I think we hear much about how "deep" our relationships need to be, but perhaps that's making us forget about the surface which is where you really find out someone knows you. If you can order my drink when I skip to the loo it means we've done time enough together to remember things that are important to each other. And what I drink is very important. Because the big life stuff fortunately happens less frequently than everyday. And it would be a little bit of hell if no one knew you superficially enough to know as soon as you opened that crappy gift from someone who obviously doesn't know you that they'd be going with you to take the thing back. Or maybe we could put it on a yard sale...

Dear 2012...

2011-12-29T12:28:00.004-06:00

it's me, Lisa. I'm hoping you'll be a little kinder in some areas than 2011 was and perhaps break even with 2011 in other places. I'm not going to judge you based on what came before (I have a habit of that, ask any ex-boyfriend), but I am likely to bring some of the baggage from 2011 with me and I'm likely to compare you to the the previous 12 months, good and bad. In other words, welcome to my hell 2012.

If you've been with me for that last couple of years you know I usually have a list of resolutions. There's always at least one that applies to my rear end, typical resolution stuff. This year I decided that maybe I should try something different. So with a little help from my friends, here's what we think is a more practical list, because if you know me, you know my ass isn't likely to change much in the next 365 days. My dear friend Kelley has decided not to resolve anything, because if she wants to change something she will and if she doesn't she won't. Someday I hope I'm as much of a grown up as she is.

That's it, you realize, 365 days. It's not really much to reform oneself from habits you've had for a lifetime. 365 days to make you into a better(?) self. Wow. That's a lot of pressure. Here goes...

I resolve to make an honest effort to not worry about things I can't control. Now control is one of my very favorite things in the world, so when something is beyond it, I kind of freak. It's not healthy and it serves no purpose, so perhaps the real resolution here is to not do things that serve only negative or no purpose. I also resolve that if I'm angry about something, I'm not going to apologize for that anger. Nor am I going to immediately accept an apology. People piss you off, let you down, and sometimes abandon you when you need them. If that happens, no when that happens I have a right to get a bit upset, don't you think?

Stick with me here. I'm not sure if it's a girl thing or just a me thing, but when I'm pissed and I express that anger, I immediately feel the need to say I'm sorry for it. As if I don't have valid angry feelings. I think that sort of goes with my immediately accepting an apology, even if I'm still hurt or angry. I think we were all taught as children to say "that's ok" when someone said they were sorry. Even if we didn't mean it. I still do that. If someone has hurt or angered me, I just accept the "sorry" as soon as it's said and then spend the next few times in the shower having the conversation I WISH I'd had. The one where I tell the person how I really felt about what happened. The same with when I get mad. Now, I have a very long fuse. Ask anyone. I don't get truly pissed over nothing. But light me up and I'll go. However, as soon as I see my anger is upsetting someone else, I say I'm sorry for getting furious, as if I shouldn't have reacted in the first place. What the fut? If someone pisses me off, unless I'm being unreasonable, don't I have a right to let that be known to someone besides my shower head? People aren't mind readers, and if I'm sending mixed signals I'm being unfair to them. They can't know I'm hurt or angry unless I say I am. They also can't know I'm NOT over it when what I'm putting out there is that I am. This is all on me, folks. I need to stop being fake about my feelings. Crap.

Along the line of pushing down their true feelings and servicing things that have no purpose beyond creating emotional upheaval, my friends Holly, Colleen, and Sarah want to not feel guilty about all the stuff they do or don't do involving their families. Sarah jokingly says she wants to drink more, which really means she wants to realize that doing things for her, things away from her kiddos isn't neglect it's necessary. Holly feels guilt about working and being busy dealing with influences outside her immediate family who take her attention away from her priorities, which are her husband and boys. Holly's guilt is really just her beating herself up that she can't be all things to all people. She's going to resolve to speak up and tell folks, no matter who they are, to back the hell off so she can decide what her life looks like. Colleen is a mommy and a damn good one. She's going to be a mommy again very soon. But she's still Colleen and still wants to be Colleen, so she's working on her mommy guilt too. She can be and do whatever she wants, because one of her core values is being an exceptional parent. She's going to trust herself that the decisions she makes regarding her family are right, because she's the last person who would do things that negatively impact them. Right girls? Jill is in the same boat, I think. More focus on her immediate family and less on things that are outside her reach to fix or help with. She's realized that sometimes focusing on the beyond means missing the beautiful right in front of her. Well done my friend.

Kate was going to resolve to stop behaving so much like a middle child. A constant peacemaker, the world's therapist. But then she decided that the world needs middle children. See, she's doing what makes her feel good, what she can live with. I'm hoping that Kate will resolve to bake more stuff and give it to her friends whose names rhyme with Pisa. Rebekah wants to just do things that make her feel happy, quit smoking (do it!), read more for pleasure, and exact some revenge. I like all of those.

Kelly wants to curse less and make more wise decisions than not. I for one could do less cursing (try explaining to your 6 year old niece why your blog HAS to have the word "hell" in it) and the wise decision making is a noble aspiration for everyone. I think that perhaps falls into the "do less harm to yourself". And actually all these perfectly lovely, amazing women could use that as the overall theme of their resolutions. Worrying, feeling guilt, stressing about things you can't control is all doing harm to you. So just stop that. I'm going to guess that could be a lot of you folks' resolution.

My fabulous friend Dora wants to "put herself out there more". She's funny and kind and generous and has the prettiest smile. I don't know if she realizes she's really something to see. She deserves happy and fun and amazing. She deserves to be loved. The guy who really gets that is one lucky fella.

Do less harm to me. That covers exercise and diet and drinking and swearing and sleeping around. Worry and fear. Those are likely our two biggest enemies in life. Neither helps. We use them as excuses and crutches and sometimes they make us feel safe... I'm too scared to do that so I'll just stay in this safe little spot. Fear maybe keeps Dora from "putting herself out there". I know it does me. What if I get hurt? I guess maybe this year I'll decide "so f**king what?!". I've done hurt in 2011, a couple of times, and oddly I'm still breathing. Worry keeps my mommy friends from pushing back sometimes at those who take time away from what they really need and want from their lives. And damn it, you moms (and dads for that matter) deserve some time to yourselves. Based on what my friends all say (yet don't do for themselves, ahem!) taking time for you makes you a better spouse and parent. Maybe just try and see how it works. You can always start over next year if it doesn't.

We've also resolved to say "no" when that's what we mean. No excuses, no fibbing, just "no, I don't want to do that." And we're going to make that NO stick. We said it; we freaking mean it. We're going to ask people, politely, to step back if they are in our personal space at checkouts or in lines or while we're having a conversation. WTH is up with close talkers actually moving a step closer every time you try to step away? We're going to tell people we like having that hair or lint on us, it's part of the ensemble actually, when someone starts picking stuff off of us like we're chimps. We're going to have more sex that still makes our spines tingle the next day. Or maybe that's just my resolution.

So as a recap, less worry, fear, stress, guilt, cursing, fretting, bad life choices. More doing things we want, saying no (except to good sex), time spent as we choose regardless of what others think, expressing what we feel instead of trying to be nice. More sticking up for ourselves, less wondering after the "what ifs". Less time thinking about what other people are thinking about us. As Hemingway said, "It does not matter what other people think of you because what other people think is none of your business." And what the fresh hell, less ass.

Strange isn't it...

2011-12-25T20:17:00.005-06:00

Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he? -- Clarence, Guardian Angel Second Class to George Bailey. Wings or not, that guy knew what the hell he was talking about.

Last night, as is my usual Christmas Eve tradition, I watched "It's a Wonderful Life". I almost know it by heart. I love it every single time and I cry every single time. I know how it ends, yet I still can't help but hope Mary breaks a window with that rock, I still get so annoyed with Uncle Billy losing that $8000 and I still think George Bailey is the richest man in Bedford Falls. I love so many things about that story and, although I'm past the point of seeing anything new (40 years of watching it people!), I still get excited when George kisses Mary for the first time (albeit awkward kissing) and cry when George is praying for a miracle while sitting at Martini's Bar, and laugh when Annie the maid chips in to save George and says, "I've been saving this money for a divorce if ever I get a husband."

But while I was watching it last night I thought that just maybe I had missed something. People could perhaps think that George is settling for his life. He's decided that simply being alive, even if he's not living the life he always wanted, is good enough. Maybe he decides on that bridge not that he had a wonderful life, but that what he has is "better than nothing". I think to some, that just wouldn't be enough. And I wonder if I'm more like George than I've realized. Good enough, better than nothing, I'll take that please. Because what if those things are really amazing but I'm too busy looking for more to realize it.

Selfishly, I wish Clarence would show up and show me what kind of gift my life looks like. I know that sounds pathetic at best, but think of it this way... what if you had proof that what you're doing and where you've been all has some greater purpose. Like seeing the end point on a map so you know the middle is worth it. If you could know if your life really would leave an awful hole, would you want to?

I think on that bridge George realized that maybe he didn't really know what he wanted. He held on to what he imagined would be for so long that he didn't notice that what he wanted had changed. He thought he wanted to build big things and have adventures. He was so fixated on that stuff being outside his little hometown he didn't realize that he was building big things... homes for families and a home and life for his family... or that he was having adventures... raising four kids during the depression had to be some kind of adventure, nevermind working with a crazy man who loses $8000.

It occurs to me while I'm getting ready to take down my tree and think about celebrating the new year that we all, every single day, get to decide our lives. Sometimes what we decide feels forced upon us, like we can't change it, at least right now. And sometimes we wake up and decide enough is enough and we need to get on the path that will lead to something happy instead of just good enough. Then there are the times that we realize that you just have to hold on to "better than nothing" for a while longer to get to the wonderful life stuff.

The amazing thing about a new year is how it truly feels new. If you had a bad 2011, you can shake that dust off and leave that bad behind if you choose. If something amazing happened to you in 2011, you know you'll have so much to look forward to in the new year. Either way, you get a restart. I'm not naive enough to think that I won't carry some of the dents and bruises from 2011 with me into 2012. Life isn't a Frank Capra movie after all, but I also know that I feel myself slowly but surely pushing forward and deciding that "better than nothing" is good enough for now.

I hope your Christmas was merry. If it wasn't, I hope you can't even remember it by this time next year. One thing is for certain, even if 2012 has some hell, it'll at least be fresh.

It's almost here...

2011-12-20T11:29:00.003-06:00

the night when hope and belief mix with magic and make our hearts a bit bigger. Can you feel Christmas in the air? Just stop for a minute and wait for it. It's there, I promise. It's just behind the rolls of wrapping paper, the rush to finish your holiday cards, the waiting for that last gift to be delivered so you can put it under the tree. Christmas is there in those still moments, but you have to stop moving long enough to feel it.

I see it with Sydnee, who is trying very hard to be on her best behavior for this last chance week. I see it when she sits and stares at the tree and asks how Santa gets into her house since they don't have a fireplace. (The Elf on the Shelf unlocks the door, silly!) I see it in kids who aren't quite sure if they still believe and just need an adult to remind them of the magic of last year.

And, believe it or not, I see it in the grown-ups. The thought of warm Christmas pajamas and star shaped cookies with a glass of milk. Remembering their Christmases past and hoping they are making the same sort of merry with their families. I see a kiss under the mistletoe and hear people humming along to the holiday music in stores.

We cuddle on the couch in front of our trees and doesn't it just feel warm and safe and joyful? Don't you feel, at least for a little bit, peace and faith and fantasy meeting somewhere under that tree? You know you can if you let yourself.

Hot cocoa, popcorn, Christmas movies, twinkling lights, the promise of snow in the air, picturing a child opening the gift that they most wanted but didn't dare hope for. Happy squeals of pure surprise, silly Christmas socks and headbands with antlers attached, snuggling with someone you love after all the wrapping is done and wondering if that noise you hear outside just might be Santa.

Late at night on Christmas Eve I like to go outside and hear the silence. Most folks leave their lights on all night so Santa can see them, so it's this still and soft land of white and blue and red and green, where you can barely hear a sound. It is peace on Earth and good cheer and pixie dust and promise. It is Christmas and it is beautiful.

Merriest of Christmases to you and those you love. May it be truly calm and bright. No hell, just joy.

Unexpected hell...

2011-12-16T12:38:00.001-06:00

can sometimes make or break you. Those closest to me know that recently I've not been me. I've been... struggling. When I read back over my past three months of blogs, I can see it. Maybe you've sensed something a bit off too. I had planned to keep it to myself but as Big D often says, outside your head is better than in.

This time of year everyone is supposed to be filled with good cheer and mirth (whatever the hell that is). But just because a calendar mandates it, doesn't necessary make it possible. Often the holidays remind us of those we've lost. Perhaps it's the first Christmas for empty nest parents, and they are sad that things are so different than the past. There are parents who aren't concerned about getting the last thing on their child's list because they're more worried about how they'll feed their children during the holiday break from school. For those people, the constant images and signs that if they aren't happy they aren't doing something right can make this time of year a time of dread instead of joy. What I'm about to write is something that December 25 can't make better.

As I've told you before, telling my story is sometimes telling someone else's. But this one feels very much mine alone. Alone because I'm so damn alone in living it. So here we go...

We tend as humans with an astounding capacity to remember, to mark our time, our lives in befores and afters. Before marriage and children, after Dad died, before I lived here or worked there. We can all look at finite points in our lives and see a very clear before and after. September 8, 2011 is just such a line for me. Seventeen days before September 8 I found out, shockingly, joyously, terrifyingly that I was pregnant. Shocking because I knew at this point in my reproductive life odds of me getting into the family way were slim to none. Terrifying because I'm old enough to know that I had no real idea what I was getting myself into.

I took the test on a whim before I'd even missed a period. Four days before to be exact. And when I saw the faint pink line, I ran from room to room looking at it in different light to see if I'd find a different result. I called the "donor" (nothing negative or accusatory in that word. A potential pregnancy had been discussed and a firm conclusion prior to the pregnancy that I would solely raise our child had been agreed upon. That part of the story isn't mine, so I'm keeping it as private as possible.) His reaction was "I'm really happy for you."Then I called my sister-in-law and she said "take another one". So I did. I took twelve tests over the next few days. Each one increasing in its positivity that the old girl was indeed knocked up.

Then on September 8, they (yes twins) were no longer. Since then, I've been wandering through what seems like a wide dark forest of grief. Those around me who knew were at a loss as to how to help. "I don't know what to say." "I don't know how to help." "Please tell me what I can do." All of those became a soundtrack of my trance-like days. I'd stand in the shower so lost in shock, grief and disbelief that I'd forget if I'd washed my hair yet. My skin felt removed from my body. So raw and exposed it felt as if all my physical and emotional nerves were on the surface. It was as if everyone around me was moving at the speed of light and I was glued in that place on September 8.

A week later I went to a beach house in Alabama to get through the physical manifestations of a pregnancy not meant to be. A change of scenery, a place where my broken heart could rest if not heal. That time is a blessing and a blur. Almost as if it were something I'd watched or dreamed instead of lived. I didn't know that girl who sat by the water for hours in a grief induced haze. I didn't know her because I'd never met her. She is the "between girl". After the loss, but not quite through it.

The me I knew has spent three months trying to figure out how to get her to leave. I'd like to kick her ass, because she's some of the worst of me. She's a stranger living in my head and body and she's completely in control. I really really don't like not being in control. She's angry and sad. Sometimes she seems better only to be filled with despair moments later. She can't cry hard enough. She's a fake and a fraud as she moves through my days, answering phones, smiling and laughing and feigning participation in my life. She has exhausted me. She comes home from work and climbs immediately into bed. Because pretending is tiresome. She is furious and mean and too sensitive. She never says what she really feels because all she feels is "I'm so bone-weary sad." or "Help me, hear what I'm not saying ." "I'm beginning to scare real Lisa."

I had tried everything to get her to leave. I've ignored her, succumbed to her, fought her and hated her. The anxiety she has caused me, that in-between Lisa, has kept me from friends and family because I can't predict her behavior. She alternates among nauseatingly fake, oppressively introverted, and quite simply lost. Like a temperamental toddler, it's best to just stay home with her.

But when she and I are alone, she's the loudest sound you've ever heard or she's deafeningly quiet. Both equal in their ability to create confusion and fear. A couple of Sundays ago I thought for a brief moment that if she wouldn't leave, I'd either have to become her or make her die. And in that moment, I wholly finally realized I am her. That she isn't the between girl, she's me right now. So that me right now goes to sleep sad and wakes up sad. But she can laugh a little easier than she did September 8. But mostly, right now, I feel hopeless and frantic and afraid.

That is until yesterday. Wednesday night Big D, out of absolute frustration of being unable to help me said to me "You are screaming to be heard, but you're not saying anything." As is my way, I keep everything close and then lash out because no one can see or hear me. The reason they can't is because all I'm saying is "I'm OK." and all I'm showing is a carefully crafted facade of "I'm fine." Big D was right, I was the guy in the painting on that bridge, mouth wide open and no sound.

See the grief I feel is truly mine alone. No one else feels what I feel about those babies. It's not like when my dad or my grandma died. There were others around feeling their own personal loss of the same person. With those babies, they were solely mine to lose, so I can't find anyone else to share in that loss. Lest you get the wrong idea, the father grieved in his way, mostly he grieved for my loss. They were an abstract thought to him still and knowing that they wouldn't be a daily part of his life, he'd let them go before they even were.

Wednesday night in a desperate state of mind, needing to find some measure of solace, I dug in and searched for something to bring me peace. I know what I'm going to tell you may seem silly, odd or ridiculous, but I'm hoping what you see, because it's what is truly there, is me simply trying to find my way. Up until her death four years ago, my way usually went through my Grandma Elsie. So I decided to go see her.

I sat on her headstone and told her everything. I couldn't do it sitting in my living room because of real life distractions. At the cemetery in the cold overcast afternoon, I finally felt heard. Big D took me and waited in his car, because I'd cried so much the previous night and most of the day that I couldn't have taken myself. I had cried because I knew talking to Grandma was going to create a line in this grief -- before I started to finally move forward. Before I finally realized that I had to accept that those babies, my babies, were never going to be with me, no matter how much I cried or how angry I got or even if I died. Before I realized that moving forward didn't mean leaving them behind, it meant gathering up my pieces which now would include their loss and finding my way to the after.

I know what Grandma would say beside "Get your damn dirty boots off of me!" She would say that I need to have a good cry and that there would likely be lots of times in the future when I'd need more good cries. But that was just how it is, cry until you're done and then know you're probably never going to be fully done. It's not a failure to revisit grief, it is part of the grief to find yourself feeling it again.

She'd also tell me to wash my face and get on with all the stuff that needs to be done, because standing still for too long in that sad place begins to make it feel like home, and no one should live in a house built of sorrow. Except Grandma would say all of this while using lots of profanity.

I still feel unsure of me. I'm still aware of that "Other Lisa", who will likely resurface and bring the heartbreaking memories with her. But after talking to my Grandma (who sounds a lot like the voice of my inner Lisa), instead of looking away maybe I'll embrace her for a little bit, just so she knows she's being heard. Then hopefully I'll let her go and start finding my way out of this unexpected hell.

Thank you, you know who you all are, for calling my name loudly enough that no matter how lost I am or how much I want to stay lost, I know I can follow your voices back.

These are a few...

2011-12-14T12:20:00.001-06:00

of my favorite things (now Big D is singing that song and I seriously regret making it the title. That song, not one of my favorite things.) I know I said I'd do this next week, but here it is because yesterday's entry made me feel a little like I promised lobster for dinner and gave you Cheerios. Truth is this hell is a little bit of a collaboration with some of my friends (who are some of my favorite things). It's from a list we made and then things gleaned from everyday conversations. So thanks to all of you, because you've helped.

Let me just get this smarmy stuff out of the way up front, obviously my family and friends and health and job (Big D is reading this over my shoulder) are some of my favorite things. I'm not taking that for granted, I'm just thinking I'll save that for an annoying Facebook status on Christmas Day.

Thing 1: The time of night when you're low on sleep and high on coffee and every single thing is funny. You know, "slap happy" or "punch drunk". This mostly happens around people you really trust and love. Or at 3 a.m. listening to my brother's nicknames for people like "Hill-Billy Highlife" while wrapping presents.

2: Party. Bus. Cannot say how much love I have for the party bus. If you get a good mix of people on it, it's fun on an entirely new level. If you get the right bus (air conditioning, potty and a driver who wears a cap) you feel like a freaking rock star. Throw in some mini sandwiches and you'll want to just stay on the bus. But there must be aisle dancing and lap dances and someone has to fall asleep by the end of the ride or you just don't deserve a party bus.

3. Britney Spears still being alive. I think my friends Kate and Sarah have willed that woman to live and be less wacko. You have to admit she makes you shake your ass a little, and she rarely puts any "music" out that is maudlin. It's all hair whipping, arms in the air kind of stuff.

Thing 4: Along those lines, "Glee" and "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia" and "Family Guy". No matter what's happening in your world, Glee will give you that momentary feeling of well glee with an undercurrent of "thank GOD I'm not in high school anymore" mixed with a tiny bit of dirty. Sunny is just plain out there dirty, nothing subtle which is exactly what this girl needs sometimes. And Family Guy disguises itself as a cartoon but is really smarter than anything on Fox News or MSNBC. Watch them and see if you don't giggle a little.

5: Something to look forward to. I look forward to coming up with an idea and writing something here. So, little things like that work. But not as well as big old things like vacations or babies (Colleen and Laken and Amanda!) or when winter boots go on sale. Sorry, I love all you hellions, but I really love a warm sunny beach and 50% off boots.

6: Sephora. Son of a broke ass girl. That place is heaven and hell all in one bright, shiny black and white with a splash of red package. If you're a make-up and products kind of person I'm torn between telling you to run not walk to Sephora and telling you it's the devil. Because you'll walk out with a tiny little bag and a maxed out credit card in about 10 minutes. The good thing about Sephora's physical store is you can test everything, so no more picking a lipstick only to get it home and realize it makes you look like your Great Aunt. If they sold shoes and hand bags, it would be my happiest place on Earth.

7: A memory that you don't have to add to or take away from to make better because it's perfect on it's own. You know, that moment where you're standing there in the middle of something and you know you'll always remember it just this way. Landon saying my name clearly. Filthy dirty martinis with Mandy. Singing your ass off on a party bus with some of your best friends and a guy named Chad. Sitting on a couch at night with the doors open so you can hear the ocean at your vacation beach house. The first time someone says they love you and you know they do.

8: Finding the best Christmas cards to send to your friends and having friends who love how irreverent said cards are.

9: Missing someone you know you'll see again. I'm talking real life living people you just don't get to see everyday. Don't get all "hereafter" on me now. It is one of my favorite things. They don't say absence makes the heart grow fonder for nothing. If you know you'll actually get to put your hand on the back of their necks when you hug them the next time or make fun of their taste in music while you're riding in a car, missing someone makes you appreciate every minute you get with them.

10: OK, now I'm getting all nostalgic and smushy writing this. So I'll go ahead and get this out of the way... my cousins who make me feel like I always belong somewhere... Maddy, Delaney, Gavin, Sydnee and Landon who cannot possibly know the size of my heart because of them... The SBJ girls and the TCs and the Julies and Big D and Lid who have likely saved me. Stacie, Randy and Shannon without whom I'd have no anchor. Aunties Pam and Ruby who make me behave and be a lady, because someone needs to do that. My Mother for putting up with my hell for 40 years and even the 40 weeks before I got here. Ugh, this whole paragraph is icky.

11. Living in a country that values women (at least 75% as much as they do men), where you can tell a telemarketer to stop calling and they will, where there's mostly peace unless you're watching the pundits on cable "news", where I can turn the channel if I don't like what I'm watching, where I can wish you Happy Holidays or Christmas or Kwanzaa or Hanukkah or nothing at all with only a little bitching about how I'm saying the wrong thing.

Last thing: You. Because I know you have other things, better things, to do with your time than read some chick overuse the word hell and prattle on and on about her life. You, because your comments and emails and words for or against what I write make me want to write more just to see what you are thinking. Thank you for visiting my hell, because you, yes YOU keep it fresh.

Merry and Happy whatever you celebrate this year... I hope it's covered in sparkly.

I know, I know...

2011-12-13T14:16:00.001-06:00

it's the time of year that I'm supposed to be all warm and fuzzy, and I promise I'll do a favorite things blog next week, but sometimes something gets stuck in my brain and if I don't get it out, I'll drive myself mad. And I'll annoy the hell out of the people around me. Plus, I think I've overdosed on all the saccharine sweetness that are the made for TV holiday specials. I mean really, how many times can one watch a modern day Scrooge find his/her Christmas spirit, or that sweet lovely girl find the man of her dreams on New Year's Eve? Perhaps you could think of this blog entry as the Chex Mix in the middle of all the Christmas cookies.

I was having a conversation with a friend about how differently we see the world. My friend is a he and I am certainly a she. I said to him, "You are definitively a male and I am definitively a female." His instant reaction was, "I can be sensitive!" Okay. Yes, he can be. But it made me start thinking about how my simple statement could be construed as something negative or even dismissive about our behaviors. Think about it, I know my girls and I have said, "MEN!" as if that one simple word explains everything about a situation. (And it does.) My male friend will often say to me, "You can't help it, you're a girl." At which point the top of my head blows off. But isn't there some truth in both of those statements? Is that truth such a terrible thing, really?

Here's where I am, when did we decide that possessing what has traditionally been thought of as gender based behaviors or attitudes become something one must defend? Don't get pissed. Try to follow me a bit before you judge what I'm saying as "bad" or "good". We've long heard the old adage, "Boys will be boys" or "Girls will be girls", when did we decide this was problematic? Or maybe not a problem but just something to be discouraged or made neutral or fixed?

Please don't misunderstand, what I'm trying to express here is that it seems a bit that we're all working so hard at not stereotyping or pigeon-holing someone based on their gender that we're trying to do away with what comes naturally to some. Now, if naturally a boy is more sensitive or compassionate than boys of generations past we all applaud his enlightenment and assume his parents are doing something "right" in raising such a well-rounded child. But if a boy shows a natural tendency to be rougher or more aggressive or less affectionate we all assume he's a bully or that his parents are trying to make him into a sports star or a "real man". What if that rough boy is just simply a rough boy? What if that's what his personality dictates? Should we try to shame that out of him and make him into something he isn't simply because we think it's better for him?

Now take a girl, say her name is Lisa and when she was young she was a tomboy, by necessity and by choice. Little Lisa lived in a neighborhood with mostly boys and a brother only a year younger. If Lisa wanted to play outside, she was going to be playing with the boys. And she didn't mind that at all (she still doesn't). She played football and rode bikes and climbed trees and did what was considered "boy" things, keeping in mind it was the middle to late seventies. Obviously, I'm that Lisa. And I got hit and shoved and knocked down, never intentionally, but just through regular play. I remember getting the wind knocked out of me once and hearing my brother whispering to me "Don't cry. You're a girl, if you cry they'll never want you to play again." Now, that kind of thing has served me well as an adult. As much as I want to cry, I've realized that crying is seen as a weakness and it's best left to doing in private or around people who love you. But why is that a prized behavior in a girl? "There's no crying in baseball!", right? Why? If you're a girl and you want to cry, why shouldn't you? Why shouldn't you get to storm off in a huff, or be ridiculously dramatic or unreasonable if that's who you are? (OK within reason, let's not get too diva-crazy here.) Why does a girl have to push down what's considered her "girlness" so as not to be dismissed as weak?

My point with all that is, not only are we trying to potentially push boys who don't list "sensitive" high on their list of personality traits into being more emotionally expressive, we're trying to force girls into being "stronger" in order to be successful women. Huh. So in the process of trying to be open minded and allowing for boys to be softer and girls to be harder, we've started taking away some kids' personalities. We've taken something that is inherent to those kids' beings and made it something to be viewed as a flaw. In a quest to find gender neutrality and acceptance of those who do not fall into a spectrum of traditionally average behavior, we've vilified those who are on that spectrum. Oh crap, I hate when we go too far, don't you?

My 9 year old nephew doesn't like playing baseball. He's played for a few years and just never got into it. Now I'm sure this is a bit of a bummer for my brother who played baseball his whole life and loved it. But Gavin gets to be Gavin and he's lucky enough to have parents who will allow that. Gavin is also very sensitive about kids being left out or bullied or differently abled. And he's lucky enough to have parents that just realize that sensitivity is part of his personality. Don't get me wrong, the adults in Gav's life aren't perfect. His Mom and Grandma and Aunt Lisa baby the hell out of him. And sometimes his Dad and Grandpa and Uncles push him to be tougher and "man up". But hopefully, we balance each other out and he ends up just being definitively Gavin. A bad ass video game playing, sister torturing, basketball stud with a kind heart. I'll take that.

I see kids on Gavin's sports teams whose parents want it more than the kid. I see boys who would rather be drawing or cooking than standing in the outfield praying no one hits the ball to them. I see little girls in my niece's dance recitals who'd rather be digging in the dirt. And forcing those kids in those "gender typical" roles is no more right than putting a bat in the hand of a little girl who just wants to twirl in a tutu or an apron on a boy who just wants to make a tree fort.

Around the barn to get to here (you know that's how I do), I get to be me. I started being me when I was very young. I like knowing how cars work and I love putting on too much eyeshadow. I like ruffles and cute shoes and watching the Bears blow it in overtime (Vikings fan, duh). I'm lucky that my parents let me wear a dress with shorts under it while playing stick ball in the neighbor's yard.

Perhaps we all need to just let kids be. Stop trying to make them into anything but kind, strong, independent, productive and healthy little people in the way that is most true to themselves. Let them find the spot that makes them most happy and just be glad they're standing there, even if it's not what we pictured or hoped. Maybe let the boy decide what "being boy" means to him and the girl decide what "being girl" means to her. Because I think one of the worst kinds of hell for a kid is worrying that they're a disappointment because of who they can't be.

It's the most...

2011-12-06T18:23:00.002-06:00

wonderful time of the year! Or at least that's what the song says. I don't know, seems like a lot of stress and schedule juggling and general running around. Maybe it's just that you have to go through a lot of hell to get to the wonderful.

My little group of SBJ girls and I were having a discussion about how disappointing Christmas can be. That's right. You know it can be true. There's all the money and time spent trying to find the perfect gift, only to get the wrong size or color or gaming system. There's the overall crabby moods of the crowds, because they, like you, have a million things to check off their lists. It's just hard to recapture that unfiltered glee that Christmas brought when you were a child. And when your children are bigger, it makes you long for the time they simply woke up on Christmas morning and a little miracle had happened right under their Christmas tree.

Kids seem to expect every single thing they ask Santa for and if they don't get it, they are actually angry. Do you ever remember being disappointed at Christmas? I sure don't. Not because I got everything I wanted, but because I simply GOT. We didn't get things all year long, no big over-the-top birthday parties, no every-whim-satisfied, no trophies for simply participating. We got a birthday gift and then Santa came and I can never remember sitting there with my loot around me pouting because of something I didn't get. But then I was very likely the only perfect kid in the history of the world.

Things are just so different now. Some of the magic seems to be gone. I think the pressure to keep up with what your kids' friends are getting, so that your child isn't the only one doing without whatever the hell the video gaming industry has come out with this year can overwhelm and perhaps we forget that giving and giving and giving only creates a society of expecting instead of earning. It breeds a general feeling that nothing is ever quite enough. I know I have this, but if I just had THAT, I'd be happy. Except there's always another "that" to be had.

Advertisers know this. They are clever little bastards aren't they? The commercials start before Halloween, and I know I've said to my Littles "wait until Christmas" a lot lately. I remember how it seemed like forever until Christmas when I was a kid. Now it's here in a blaze of cartoon wrapping paper and bows and tiny little parts to be pried out of their impossible packaging. But perhaps I'm looking at this as too much of a grown up and forgetting what it looks like through little eyes.

Lest you think I think all kids are greedy little brats, I don't. Most of the kids I know are appreciative of what they receive. Of course they're disappointed if they don't get that one big thing they asked for, but that's kind of our fault as adults. Kids don't know how to handle disappointment, because we rarely allow them to be disappointed. I remember telling my Aunt Ruby that I wanted a certain doll when I was a kid and she said, "If everyone has one, why wouldn't you want something different?" I of course, thought she was nuts. I didn't get the doll, I got something else and I'm pretty sure I completely forgot I even wanted it until I was at a friend's house playing with hers. The thing is, she was sick of it, so my toys were exciting to her and I was sick of my toys so hers were a big deal to me. Imagine if we all had received the same things, you'd be bored no matter where you were. I think the adults just want to make everyone happy, which isn't a bad thing, but we forget that kids are happy as a rule. They don't need lots of stuff until we start giving them lots of stuff. Maybe we should just back off and let them experience the feeling of the holiday and less the getting of the holiday.

I think now that I'm older Christmas can be somewhat melancholy because I can't recapture that feeling I had when I was a kid. Oh it's an absolute joy to watch the nieces and nephews open gifts and be so so excited. Maddy has always had the best surprised face and I work at trying to find a way to get to see it each year. But as they get older and their lists are less whimsical and fantastic and more practical or completely out of the realm of reason, it makes me a bit sad and nostalgic. Because you can never, ever recapture how you felt when you were a kid. When you still believed beyond all probability and reason that reindeer indeed could fly.

I still feel little bits of that. When I hear how excited people are to see my brother's Christmas lights. When I watch "It's A Wonderful Life" and I get a lump in my throat as George runs down the main street of Bedford Falls yelling "Merry Christmas movie house!" The smell of real pine and how my Christmas tree makes my whole house feel warm. Holiday parties and cookies and candies. Chex mix by the handful. Wrapping gifts with my brother and his wife while drinking coffee or some holiday ale. Watching Landon's eyes get big and hearing him say "WOOOOOWWWW!" every single time he notices the Christmas lights in his front yard. Having Syd sit on my lap and explain to me how Santa gets in her house since they don't have a fireplace. Remembering how soft and warm everything felt when I was young. How my mother would leave the tree lights on all night Christmas Eve. Thinking of my brother when he was six years old coming into my room to wake us up on Christmas morning and how it seemed that my dad would never, ever get up so we could open presents. The smell of waffles and bacon for Christmas brunch. Walking to my grandma's to tell her what we got from Santa. Going to my Grandma Huber's house where it was always a bit too warm and a bit too loud, but full of laughter and cousins to play with and amazing foods.

My Christmas wish for you and yours is simple, that in the swirl of wrapping and shopping and cleaning and eating you breathe in some peace and joy and remember how it feels to not just believe in the magic of Christmas but to know it to be real. To be transformed and warmed and merry and bright because you're part of creating that sort of sense memory for others. Before we know it, our little ones will be the ones in frenzied haste to complete their holiday tasks before the big night. And they'll be waxing nostalgic about how it was back when they knew Santa was on his way. You're making that happen for them now. You're creating that. And even if all the holiday craziness feels like hell to us, you know to the little ones it's pure magic. And that's what makes it the most wonderful time of the year.

I am thankful...

2011-11-28T14:37:00.003-06:00

that Thanksgiving only comes once a year. Based on Facebook, most of you are too. Seems like it's a whirlwind of driving, cooking, eating, and cleaning up and just a little too much hell. I love it because it's a major holiday where it is supposed to be about spending time with folks you love without having to wrap any sort of gift. I do love the cooking part, which I did with my brother for his family and then again with my mother for our extended family. The clean up can suck it though.

It's interesting to start observing my family and others' families with a more mature eye. You see how certain things happen the same way every year. How people are who they are no matter what's on the menu. And wishing and hoping for something different will not change that. So it's best to either decide you'll take what you're getting or you'll just keep the contact to a minimum. I'm still working on that one.

Moving on... I was thinking, after reading other people's Thanksgiving stories, that perhaps we all from time to time take too much. And then there are the people who take too much all the time. I understand that each and every one of us needs extra attention once in a while, but what about the people who seem to think they are the center of the universe all the time and expect to be treated as such? The ones for whom "once in a while" means every hour they're not sleeping. Perhaps even then, too. The people who want us to look at them, feel sorry for them, cheer for them, pay attention to them constantly, regardless of what else is going on.

I've been through a bit of a bump lately, and I have relied heavily on my friends. Honestly, I'm not sure I wouldn't have ended up sitting in a corner rocking and moaning (in a bad way) if they hadn't been there. I worry constantly that I'm going on and on and on about what I'm dealing with. I worry that I'm not being a good enough friend to them while they are dealing with their own stuff. If I've been too much, I'm sorry.

During that time, I've had friends going through their own things. The truth is, everyone has something. We all need someone to listen and let us know they care. I've maybe been so wrapped up in my thing that I haven't been there as much as I should have. You know that feeling, like whatever is happening to you is your first thought in the morning and your last one at night. Like it's squeezing the air out of you. I start having tunnel vision because I'm so desperate to see the light at the end of it. So perhaps I don't notice the people around me needing me. I think we've all been there. Hopefully, we all don't stay there.

You know the person I'm talking about, don't you? The kind of person who sucks the life out of a room with their constant angst and drama and blah, blah, freaking blah. To where there is absolutely no room for anyone or anything else but what they are thinking about. We've all been there; we've all been that single minded and self-centered. I've read lots of stuff about people having to deal with the kind of person who absolutely cannot allow anyone else to be the center for even a moment. Adults who can't even allow kids to shine, because they need that spotlight. They need to be babied or patted on the back almost constantly or they can't seem to function. They want you to feel sorry for their situation but refuse to help themselves. My Auntie Ruby reminded me once that even Jesus had people do something for themselves before he healed them. The guy with the withered arm had to reach it out first, the blind man had to wash out his own eyes. I guess that whole helping those who help themselves isn't just a cute saying. Some of these people have forgotten that. Sometimes we all forget that.

What they don't seem to realize in their quest to be loved, which is what it really is, is that they are pushing the very people they want closer away from them. Because in truth there simply isn't enough for these people. No matter how much they get, they want more, because not only do they want what is theirs, they want others to not get any. It's a zero sum game to them... you having any takes away from me, even when that isn't the case. An overbearing mother, a pushy grandfather, a negative uncle, the friend who can't seem to take two steps without wanting you to know about his twisted ankle, they all just want and need attention and don't realize that their actions will eventually garner their ostracism. People can only take so much, yes? My friend Kate calls them "more cancer" people. You know what she means, someone says, "I know someone with cancer", and they immediately have to tell you about someone THEY know who has MORE cancer. Sweet Sparkly Baby, give us a break and nod and commiserate then shut the hell up!

It's simply not right to be the one who always takes and rarely gives. It's OK to be the one who needs more at any given time, but when you are the one who always needs more and who rarely if ever gives more back, then you have to expect people to eventually tire and leave. You can't constantly suck the air out of the room and then be pissed that people can't breathe and leave.

You'll notice it Christmas shopping, less and less cheer and kindness and "we're in the together" and more and more "me me me me me". Some of it is a defensive stance, because you have to protect yourself, but some of it is get me what I want, period. Have you noticed how celebrities get more attention for being asses and less for doing good? Know any people in real life like that? What about getting attention because you've done something thoughtful and helpful instead of because you're constantly telling people how they should pity you?

And we're all responsible. We give that person the attention, sometimes because we are truly worried and feel like a bad person if we don't. And sometimes because we just want them to shut up, to just stop for a minute. But they don't. The more you give the more they want. Attention is the new crack. Unless everyone is thinking about them and worrying about them and discussing how much they are thinking and worrying every single second, then these kinds of people fall into an abyss of self-pity and outwardly directed loathing.

Lid often says that whatever is happening, it could always be worse. This usually causes a "friendly" debate about how downplaying things that worry you isn't healthy (me) vs. quit your bitching (Lid). Now, I'm a firm believer that the worst thing that happens to you is just as big as the worst thing that is happening to someone else. I'm afraid some people take that too damn far, to the point of a hangnail being cause for a round-the-clock vigil.

Now, I love me some attention. This blog is proof of that. When someone comments on it or likes it or even tells me the current picture looks like a dead zebra being bleached in the sun (Auntie Ruby!), I'm a bit giddy. Obviously I don't do this to remain anonymous. I get the goodness that comes with being liked and how that could be addictive. I don't like to get attention because I'm sick or angry or damaged in some way, however. I like to be alone until I feel better, because being a pain to someone is too much for me to carry around. Yet I know that sometimes I am just that, too much of a pain.

I guess I can flip this around and perhaps feel a bit sorry for those who cannot get enough. It must feel a bit desperate to constantly want more emotionally than they have or are being given. To always be trying to find ways to get it, not ever considering the toll it's taking on their relationships. It must be more than a little hell to never be at peace. I guess I could pity them, but then I think perhaps pity is what got them into their hell in the first place.

Once...

2011-11-17T13:05:00.000-06:00

when I was in my very early twenties, my friend Kelly accidentally walked in on me having sex. She screamed and then went back in the other room and laughed. I wanted to die and the guy tried to convince me to finish...as if I could. Here is what I know for sure, if Kelly would have walked into the room to see me being raped, she would have done whatever the hell she could have to stop it. And I was a grown woman. You probably see where I'm headed with this?

Let's just get this out of the way up front, everything is still "alleged", so assume everything I write here has that word in front of it. We are a country of innocent until proven otherwise, so I'm going to at least give a nod to that. Only those people directly involved know what they did or didn't do. Even as I write this paragraph, as someone who experienced childhood rape firsthand, I feel it a betrayal to the victims, Because when you speak up about it, you really need people to believe you. Using the word "alleged" makes it sound as if we are not certain of the truth those brave young men are telling.

Another thing I'd like to put here at the very beginning is this, if you haven't read the Grand Jury "Findings of Fact" you can do so here: http://www.freep.com/assets/freep/pdf/C4181508116.PDF I'm going to warn you, the stuff you read will stick with you. It's graphic and sickening. If you believe those who knew did the "right" thing by fulfilling their legal obligation to those young boys, read this and ask yourself what you would have done.

We've heard lots of things about who is or isn't to blame for this horrific crime that was committed against those boys. We've heard discussion about who knew and when and what they did or did not do. We hear it repeatedly called a "scandal" as if it's some celebrity getting divorced. It's a crime, not a scandal. It's a man accused of serial rape against little boys who trusted him. It was a man who seems to have created his own crop of victims. He took boys who needed someone to help them find their way and changed the direction of their lives, not for the better as he had promised, but into the hell that is living with childhood rape. Don't call him a monster, because that brings up pictures of someone lurking in the shadows waiting to do harm. He was a smiling, grandfatherly, accomplished man who raped little boys. Allegedly.

He betrayed his charity and every single person who volunteered there because they believed in doing good. He betrayed every single student and alumni at that University. He betrayed the staff. He betrayed his family and his friends. He betrayed the sacred trust a parent bestows on someone they believe is worthy of caring for their precious child. He groomed those boys to see who was the most vulnerable, who worshiped him the most, then he slowly saw how far he could go with them before the screaming they were likely doing inside their heads actually became audible to those around them. Then he "aw shucks, I'm so sorry" himself right out of trouble, it seems. Allegedly.

Can you imagine being the little guy who spoke up and said that this man was hurting him? How brave, truly. But I imagine that when his fear of what was being done to him out-weighed his fear of telling he must have been living in absolute hell. Because telling is the hardest thing to do, so the living with the abuse must have been so intolerable, so horrific that he chose the hardest option over letting it continue. How many boys did this kid save? This kid, who was the victim was brave enough to speak out. But grown ass men weren't. Allegedly.

I was in my twenties when I finally told someone about being molested, and I told friends. I didn't tell my mom or any other family members until I was in my late twenties, after my dad died. I didn't tell the police or anyone who could do anything legally about it. Now when I was a child, I didn't tell because he told me that if my dad knew my dad would kill him and go to prison. I knew that to be a truth. But when I was grown, why didn't I tell? I'm likely not the only child he ever hurt. What if he was still doing that when I was old enough to know that I should tell? I didn't tell until after Dad died because I still knew he'd kill the guy. I'm not saying that flippantly, if you knew my dad, you know I'm not joking. I didn't tell because I didn't want anyone to see the stain that I saw when I thought about it. The stain on me. But I didn't tell and now, after hearing what keeping quiet does, I'm going to have to live with that. I'm not sure how to do that. I guess I will have to remember that I wouldn't judge another victim for not speaking up. To me, after it was over, the hell of telling was hotter than the hell of silently living with it. The guy is dead, has been for a long time, so I know he's not hurting anyone now, but I'm going to have to find a way to deal with the thoughts that between me being 8 years old and his death, I kept my mouth shut.

Before we get too far down the street and you start thinking that I am excusing those adults who knew about the abuse but did the minimum required by law and nothing required by morality, I am not. Not even a little bit. I don't care if it was your "God" raping a child in a locker room, you move your ass to stop it. I don't care if it will result in a huge "scandal" and the loss of unfathomably large sums of money, or if it will absolutely change the landscape of your job and employment, you speak the hell up for someone who can't.

See the thing that keeps playing in my head is that these people didn't stop knowing what they knew. It's not something one can forget seeing or hearing about. You don't know one day and then wake up the next not knowing it. So for years people knew every morning they woke up and every night they went to sleep and every moment in between. Those are millions of moments when they could have decided to do the right thing and simply chose not to. Doing nothing is doing something. Deciding to stay silent or to excuse yourself because you followed a chain of command is deciding to allow setting fire to some child's life and watching it burn. And knowing that it's likely another match is being struck for another boy and another boy and another boy.

The man who did this, allegedly, the man who groomed and raped those boys is wholly responsible for that. You can't think it's innocent horseplay, in my opinion. It's not an "oops, sorry, my bad" sort of thing. It's premeditated and habitual and f**ked the hell up. Without his actions, there wouldn't have been a need for cover-up. No one else, people he supposedly respected and loved and had friendships with, would have been put in a position to turn him in or protect him. Those who knew and didn't do every single thing in their power to make it stop, those who looked the other way, those who slept at night knowing what they knew, are responsible for that. They didn't rape anyone, but they sure as hell didn't stop any rapes. Neither did I. Silence never does stop anything. To tell that man after having an eyewitness to him sodomizing a little boy that he just wasn't allowed to bring boys to campus anymore was, in my opinion, saying, "You can rape kids, just don't do it here." I'm sure that wasn't their intent, but that's what happened. Allegedly.

I think about those children who saw someone they likely thought would save them while their little bodies were being brutalized and it makes me hold my breath. Those babies were perhaps thinking they were going to be saved by that witness, only to find out no one was going to save them. Not only were they not going to help, they were going to help cover it up and pretend like they didn't know it would continue. I almost can't carry that image, so just think of what those kids have to carry. Imagine all the hope that this torture would end leaving them. They were broken and ashamed and confused and haunted by what had happened, the abuse and then the lack of a hero saving them from someone they thought was their hero. Allegedly.

The real heros, the ones we should be chanting for and making posters for are those boys who came forward, the families of those boys for their unwaivering support, the investigators who knew they'd be threatened and hated. Those heros don't want that attention, probably. Those boys just wanted it to stop and now it's a national spectacle. I believe there are more boys who haven't been able to bring themselves to tell their stories of abuse, and after seeing some misinformed and foolish youths flip a news van because they are pissed that someone finally, finally has taken action, I'd think it just added a layer of fear to the other victims. Well done idiots. But then look at the example that was set for those students by those charged with educating them... silence those who have been harmed and protect those doing the harm in order to protect the University and its money. Mostly its money. Allegedly. Thankfully, the vast majority of students know the difference between right and wrong and saw no gray here.

When I write something I know I need a beginning, a middle and an end. I know those things need to tie together, they need a common thread running through it to make them cohesive. I don't like not having an ending. With this story I think we're still, unfortunately, somewhere in the beginning... for that football program, for the students, for the administration and for the boys and their families. My hope is the ending is one with a fresh start for those who are innocent victims and for those who have been betrayed by association with that University and charity. My other hope is that for the guilty, there's no redemption, there's only a spot in hell. That's not alleged, that's a fact.

I'm not exactly sure...

2011-11-15T16:13:00.002-06:00

how the hell I did it, but somehow I made it through the 40th birthday weekend. Actually, now that I think about it, I do know how. Their names are Mandy, Joel and Matt. Add a sprinkle of Pam, Dan, Julie. Stir in a bit of Laura, Kelly, Amanda, and Brian/Ryan and you have the recipe for a fabulous 40th birthday weekend extravaganza. It was perfect, except for the actual turning 40 part.

I went north to Chicago to spend the weekend with my smart, funny, pissy cousin Mandy and her husband Joel. Joel doesn't like to be in the blog, so you'll see Joel's name more than necessary. Joel.

I was 5 when Mandy was born and I think my heart knew her before that. I have a feeling we played together in wherever we were before we made our appearance here. Our laughs are similar. Hers higher, mine lower but the same rhythm. She rolls her eyes and has little patience for passive people and doesn't suffer fools well either. We're connected from before we even were.

I went up Friday afternoon and met Mandy at her work and we promptly headed to The Purple Pig for drinks...at 2 in the afternoon. Two filthy martinis made by cute bartender James later and we headed for a little bit of shopping. Word of warning, shopping after vodka ends up with an outrageously expensive yet gorgeous impulse purchase. The guilt induced by that purchase will cause you to need to drink more.

And that we did. We met Joel for more drinks, in a ridiculously overcrowded bar where one had to shout to be heard. (See that, I AM 40!) This is where Amanda and Brian/Ryan first made their appearance. Brian is his real name, but I thought it should be Ryan, so I changed it. It was my birthday, I was allowed. Amanda was this sweet, smart, young woman who had one of those perfectly timed dry, quiet senses of humor. I liked her immediately. Brian/Ryan was more "I'm here, let's get to the drinking". Did I mention these people are in their mid-twenties? Oh yes, that's what this old gal wanted was to be 15 years older than the people she was drinking with.

After leaving that bar and Mandy having an altercation that involved a revolving door and a step, we headed to the next place. That's where Laura and Kelly entered the scene. Laura was a tough read to begin with. I wasn't sure if she loved or hated me. We Haggards are affectionate and immediately interested when someone new shows up (probably because we're bored with each other), so we can be a bit to take. After a very brief adjustment period, Laura even hugged me. I dig her. She and Kelly the dancing queen are good people. I bet in 10 years Laura could be running the world.

We finally settled at a bar that alternated between smelling like a kitty litter box and roasting turkey legs. There is no logical explanation for the two smells coexisting except a mass hallucination. This is where it happened. Where the clock struck midnight and I turned into a 40 year old woman. Oh hell.

I was trying to embrace the impending age change the entire night. I kept talking it up in my head, trying to pretend it was something to look forward to, but I soon discovered two very important things about myself: 1. I know when I'm lying. 2. I'm bad at embracing stuff I don't like... dirty puppies, strangers and 40.

People told me that I wouldn't feel any different. Clearly those people are crazy or suffering from dementia, because for the last minute I was 39 I felt something slipping away. I felt a shift and a change. Not unlike Mandy being thrown suddenly out of that revolving door (Joel is innocent I tell you!) I could see it coming, but had no power to stop it.

Those sweet kids (I get to call people that now) that were with me for that passing from my thirties to my forties were relative strangers to me, yet they somehow were the perfect people for me to spend that time with. They were youth and smarts and impassioned and impatient and marvelous in the moment. They reminded me of twenty something me. They reminded me of how good a place that kind of unfettered belief that you have forever feels. And they included me in their moment. They were the perfect cast of characters for that night.

When I was counting down the last 15 seconds of 39 in that loud bar where we were shaking our asses and pretending to do shots (too damn old for that mess), I told myself to just stop and look at it as if I was going to write it. It's like you see in a movie where the volume is lowered and the lights seem dimmed and one person isn't moving. The difference is, there was no slow motion. Nothing so much as paused. Girls were flirting, boys were buying drinks for those flirty girls. People were dancing and singing and laughing. And then I was 40 years and 1 minute old and I was the only one who knew it.

The next day was spent nursing the Queen Mother of all headaches and then heading to my cousin Danny and his wife Julie's for a birthday party for their kids. Along with my Auntie Pam, they got me a perfect little red velvet cake and kindly only put one candle on it. But then they sang that damn birthday song to me. Danny tried to stop them, for he knew better, but there is no thwarting people who are determined to make someone blush. Truth is, I didn't even mind the singing much.

Matt (who is my cousin and Mandy's brother and JOEL'S brother-in-law), Mandy, Joel and I headed out to dinner. (A quick little thing about Matt, he is who I'd be if I were fearless. When he heads that bravery and strength in the right direction, as he is doing, he's unstoppable. I think he was in the spot with Mandy and me before we were Elsie's grandchildren.) We settled on a dark, loud Mexican place with perfect margaritas and some of the best food I've ever eaten. Also Chicago's best flan 2009 with a candle in it for dessert. Joel asked who won 2010, but no one knew. This is where the actual time of my birth came. Somewhere after the flan but before we finished our drinks.

See my dad felt that your time of birth was the most important part of the day. Mine is 11:11 pm. That meant for 24 years of my life at precisely the time of my birth, my dad wished me Happy Birthday. He'd whisper it to me at night when I was little and he'd call me when I was older and out instead of safe at home in my bed. I've not had one of those phone calls from him for 16 years now, yet somehow a tiny piece of me hopes for the phone to ring at 11:11 and him to say "Happy Birthday babe." Maybe that piece of hope I feel, that skipping a beat my heart does at that time is him. Perhaps he's there between 11:10:59 and 11:11.

Instead it was Matt smiling his ass off telling me that I'd made it. The time came and went and I looked exactly the same. And let's all get real here, I can be 40 all damn day as long as I don't LOOK 40. I don't know if I feel 40, because I'm not sure what that is, exactly. Maybe it's feeling old enough to know better, but also knowing that sometimes it's not the end of the world if you don't do better. Maybe it's stopping to just look around and realize how good that moment is instead of just letting them pass assuming you'll get another one just as perfect. If that's 40, then I think I'm decidedly 40 and I don't mind that bit of maturity at all.

So my little hellions this is the last you'll hear of my turning 40. I promise. You know I can't guarantee I won't complain about the side effects. Especially if gravity keeps being such a bitch to me. I'm still not happy about this whole being in my forties (because I am after all 40 years and 3 days old). It's not exactly fabulous but then it isn't exactly hell either, but maybe that's just because it's all still very fresh.

Here I am...

2011-11-07T12:01:00.001-06:00

the last week of my thirties. I have been dreading this since the day I turned 39. Don't get me wrong, I'm so grateful that I'm able to have a 40th birthday. I know I shouldn't complain because it's a gift to be healthy and 40. But damn even after preparing for a year, after seeing most of my friends do it, it still scares the hell out of me.

One of the most amazing things I've acquired during my almost 40 years on this planet are deep, abiding friendships. One of the friends I'm infinitely lucky to have is Julie C. We met in Algebra class our freshman year in high school. She's an identical twin and the amazing mother of 3 equally amazing kids. She's been happily and successfully married for almost 20 years. She's a nurse who deals with icky parts that make me woozy. She's calm and spontaneous and the least judgemental person I know. How she picked me as a friend, I'll never know.

We do have things in common, she was stressed about turning 40 before she did. We both like the outdoors as long as things with wings leave us be. We could eat Mexican food every day of the week. We laugh at the same odd places in movies and find small quirky non-contrived characters to be the funniest kinds. (If you aren't watching "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia" you should be.) We're both reasonably good girls.

Some things we share are less fun, we both have a bit of the depression and anxiety, we both are extreme people pleasers, we both can't bear others to be angry at us. Even as I'm writing this I'm worrying about the people who will be hurt or upset because I'm telling you about Julie and not them. Seriously, I've stopped writing this several times because of it.

We are less brave than we want to be, we say yes when we feel no and no when we feel yes. We sometimes make many decisions from a place of fear and worry of how it will impact everyone, with full knowledge that what we are doing is the absolute wrong thing for us.

She won't mind me snitching on her about this. We decided this morning that we'd both be brave like that. She'll give and give and give and not ask for a single thing back. We both have trouble talking about how we really feel. The down deep stuff. Where it's sometimes dark and so scary that even saying what it is aloud seems as daunting as actually facing what it is. We both also don't like to even mention the things we really, really want, things that would make us happier, and things that fill spots that are vacant in our hearts and souls. We don't say them, because wanting and not getting, being disappointed to that degree, bends us a little. It can almost break us.

I'm writing this because of a perfectly lovely conversation I had with Julie this morning. She has a way of making me see myself like she does. She loves me and wants all these amazing, happy and sometimes even hard things for me and she thinks I'm wholly capable of making those things happen. I wish she could see what I see in her too. I see all those things she thinks of me when I think of her. Why can't we believe each other? I totally trust her. I've told her things I've not likely ever told anyone. Who she knows me to be isn't something she'd fib about.

Julie has more than once saved me. When I tried to kill myself, she sent me this letter during my recovery the last line said "Don't ever let it get that bad again." But the first line said, "My dear friend, I can't wait to see who you are now that you are going to be well." She doesn't know this, but I had decided to do whatever the professionals said I had to do in order to go home, and then I was going to get the killing myself thing right. The first line of her letter gave me a place to hold onto. It was slippery and I felt almost too weak to do it, but I just knew she was holding on with me.

That's what friends do, right? They know you're lost to yourself and yet they keep an eye on you, so you don't really ever get so deep you can't find your way out. Julie will tell me, "You have a pattern. You're repeating it, understandably. Maybe it's time to stop it." And no matter what she's talking about, I can take it because I know it comes from the purest place.I'm writing specifically about Julie here, but any number of my friends have smoothed out my rough places.

You know all of this has a bigger point, yes? That point could be that I've been looking at this whole 40 thing wrong. That maybe I could see it as a starting point instead of some sort of ending. That I'll draw a line in the sand and decide to stop saying yes out of guilt and no out of fear. That I'll stow some of that baggage from my distant past and even some carry-ons from my recent past and not feel like I need to constantly move them forward with me. Perhaps they can become something I open infrequently, like trying on my chubby girl jeans, just to see how far I've come.

When I think about it, 39 was pretty fabulous and just as heart breaking. Hands down one of the best and worst years of my life. But it was just that, a year of my life. One I'm happy to have had and happy to now put away. Does this mean I'm looking forward to Saturday, the big 4-O? Oh hell no it doesn't. I mean come on, I'm sober, so I'm freaking out about it. But today, I see a tiny pin prick of light at the end of this tunnel. See, Jules and I made a pact to just move the hell forward, to use this getting older thing as a defining moment in our lives to finally be more of who we are and less of who we think we should be.

My dad used to always say, "It's good enough. We're not taking it to the state fair!" I always applied that to putting in fence or mowing the lawn or worrying so much about how clean my place is. But perhaps, in the way that only dads have, he was saying that about life. It's not perfect and it's not always pretty and often you aren't where you planned on being, but it's good enough because it's yours. If you don't like "good enough" change it and find your fresh amongst the hell.

Thanks Jules for always always knowing who I am, for always letting me know I'm not lost because you can still see me. If people don't like the 40 year old us, they can suck a bag of d**ks.

The person who said...

2011-11-02T12:02:00.003-05:00

it's the journey not the destination must have been driving alone with no luggage and an unlimited budget. I remember hearing this when I was younger and it usually went along with "sometimes the anticipation of a thing is better than the thing." To which I would immediately think "You don't know what the hell you are talking about."

But now that I am {ahem} older, I get it. I'm beginning to wonder if there will be even one thing my younger self was right about. The journey and the destination thing and the anticipation, I was dead wrong about those. Crap.

Being a psycho planner by nature and heredity, I love getting ready to go. I love thinking about packing and planning what I'll pack and then actually packing. I tend to be a bit of an over-packer, so I always, always carry my own luggage out of sheer guilt for the amount of unnecessary stuff I've jammed into the bag. Usually it's so full that when I get it zipped I do a little victory "I win!" cheer. If I'm going for 5 days, I'm packing about 15 pairs of undies. And don't get me started on the shoes and more shoes. That's the stuff that adds weight to an already heavy bag.

Besides being a planner, I'm also not so good at relaxing. Seriously, a massage makes me feel twice as tense when I'm finished. I just don't sit still well and take it in and feel peaceful. I'm working on that. I'm the girl who cleans up the hotel room before I leave. I have guilt about the hair I'll invariably leave in the sink. I try to throw all my trash away in only one can so as not to make housekeeping change more than one bag. I throw away my soaps and little bottles because I wouldn't want to touch someone else's personal things. I don't think these things are necessarily bad characteristics, but damn do I admire folks who just are completely able to let everything go. Lucky, relaxed bastards.

Think about the morning you start off on your adventure. That giddy, crazy, stressed "I hope I didn't forget anything" feeling. Hoping there won't be road construction or flight delays, but so damn happy to be finally on your way that you don't care. This year I've been lucky enough to take a couple last minute trips, and by last minute I mean decide Thursday night and fly out on Saturday. There really isn't much time to anticipate or stress out in that situation. It's more of just do what you need to do and worry later. Less build up also means less chance of a let down. But sometimes I miss the count down. I miss the "not long now" thing.

So maybe that's what they mean by the anticipation being better. We build it up so much in our heads and plan and imagine how amazing it will be that we can't possibly make that kind of fairy tale happen. So we're pissed and bummed that every little thing wasn't bright and shiney. We start picking at the idiot drivers or the person in front of us in line at security who didn't have their ID ready or their pockets completely empty or the strange water dripping/potential ping-pong game sound in the room next to ours and we let that kill our buzz.

Until the day before the last day you're gone. You know what I mean. Not the day you leave and not the day you spend packing up, the last day of real vacation. Where you don't have to get up early and you don't have to spend the evening looking for stray earring and checking a thousand times if you have your boarding pass. It's clear and pure and perfect. It's the day you say, "I wish I didn't have to go home." It's wistful unlike the first day when you say that. The first day is all frenzy and frazzle. That perfect day in the middle where you know what you're leaving for real because you've experienced it is worth the drivers and the naked scans.

Perhaps because we didn't go anywhere when we were kids travelling makes me feel like a grown up; capable and sure and a little scared and even a tiny bit glamorous as I step out of my door to go. Before the loading of the luggage and the stopping at the rest stop and praying it's clean (they usually are, btw. Totally under-rated our "rest areas with facilities"), before the kids are hungry and your ears start to pop and the music selection of the driver starts to madden you. That moment after locking your front door and deciding you don't care what you've left behind and before it all gets stressful is idyllic.

Quick story, I went to Asheville, NC this past week (hence the no blog entry). The first night I stayed in Tennessee and had dinner at a place where one shouldn't skip the bread basket. Our waitress, Erin, brought me a dirty martini and a bit of lesson about the journey. She'll be 30 November 11, the day before I turn 40. She grew up with a father who was military and often left to serve tours in Korea, so his wife and kids could stay home and not have to move. Her husband has served 3 tours overseas, I believe, and will be deployed again in September of next year. She has two young children. And she survived colon cancer when she was only 17 years old.

Now, as you can imagine, I'm chatty and she was gracious and warm and all the things we expect from a lovely girl from Tennessee. She didn't tell me those things to garner attention or sympathy or anything of the like. She was just visiting about her journey. Every time I hear about someone surviving colon cancer, my spirit does a little happy dance, because I feel like they've won against something my family lost so damn much to. She didn't give me a "count your blessings" feeling, because somehow that makes it seem like her life is tragic. I'm sure it's hard and heartbreaking and sometimes terrifying. But she talked about her daughters' Halloween costumes and her waitressing just to get out of the house and be around adults. Those things define and describe her, it seemed, more than the hurdles she's encountered.

I'm going to take a guess and say that perhaps Erin's birthdays, her aging, won't bother her so much, because she gets to keep on her path, keep getting a day older every single day. She's likely been to hell with cancer and a husband in harm's way. I'm going to bet she's just glad to be on her journey.

Somewhere on the Blue Ridge Parkway

So that thing...

2011-10-18T12:16:00.002-05:00

people say about never discussing religion or politics? My parents never really taught me that. OK they would say not to discuss it with people you don't know well, but among friends and family it's usually game the hell on, right? I think we're friends, don't you? First let me tell you, I Googled "politics" for synonyms, there aren't really any without the actual word "politics" in it. Seriously. Googling "religion" however produced a plethora. Do with that bit of information what you will.

My parents felt that a conversation, even if it led to a "debate" {cough heated argument cough} about those topics was almost mandatory with people you cared about. My dad was the politics guy and my mom was all over the religion. My mother rarely, when I was young, talked about her political beliefs except in the context of her religion and my dad rarely talked about religion except when it somehow bled directly into his political beliefs. I believe my mother's religion directly chooses her political path, but the opposite was true with my father. His politics had no relation to his lapsed Catholicism.

They both felt passionately about their respective taboo topic, oddly for the same reason considering one was spiritual and the other political. They believed that it was their duty to share what they thought in order to bring awareness and save people.

My mother, like most Christians, feels that if she fails to reach people and bring them to her Savior, they will be lost for eternity. She feels the need to convert the unbelieving. I'm not judging that. I've seen how Mom's desperate need to do what she believes IS her sacred duty. I don't doubt her pure intentions for a second. I never have. I can't imagine how hard and often frightening it is to have me as a daughter, because most of the time I'm not sure exactly what I believe.

My dad did not try to convert you to his political beliefs. Most of my life I had no idea whom he voted for or what his actual political platform looked like. His "duty", I believe, was to simply remind us that regardless of the decision we made, it needed to be an informed one. He didn't think you should just blindly follow a party, he felt you needed to understand exactly what each candidate stood for and how he or she planned to act on those beliefs. He felt that, topic specifically, one should find one's own firm position, yet be willing to move if a better, clearer spot became available. He believed that even if you didn't know the "why" of what you felt, you should have a wide open view of the "how". He didn't necessarily belittle a reply of "I don't know WHY, I just think that!", but he did expect that at some point you'd at least accidentally stumble upon your "why" if you just stumbled hard enough.

My mother's political beliefs are most often based, I think, on what she perceives as right and wrong. Mine are too. Her right and wrong are generally derived from her intensive studies of her Bible. That's where she seeks her wisdom, guidance and solace. My mother's husband died when she was 48. She took care of him when he was sick. Her husband was my father. No matter how CRAZY that woman can make me with her direct, unyielding approach to her life which she lives based on her faith, she took care of my dad when he was sick, and if she did that because her Bible told her so, I have no place to argue.

My mother believes that whomever is leading our country needs to be a person of faith. Her faith in particular. This is hard for me to swallow, because I am my father's daughter and I think "church" should have little to do with "state". I don't pick a candidate because he/she attends prayer luncheons or leads his staff in a prayer to my mother's God on National Prayer Day. I've been turned off by candidates of various faiths who seem to wield it like a weapon saying "vote for me because I love Jesus more". Like my friends Kelley, Sarah, Holly and Kate, I want them to believe in something because that has to be the hardest job in the world, but I don't want them to expect me to believe in the same things. And I certainly don't want them to run the government in a fashion that begins to mandate that I believe the way they do. If you want a bully pulpit, write a freaking blog, don't run for President.

You know I've talked about the slippery slope before. About how if we start changing laws that keep religion out of government at some point perhaps you're not going to like the religion that is running the government. In other words, we want less separation of Church and State as long as it's OUR church. Welcome to America folks, where we don't have a national religion and I for one like it that way. But I've come to realize to folks like my mom, they have no choice. They feel to the center of their beings that it is a spiritual calling to bring all of us to their beliefs, because they wholly believe they have been commanded to save us by any means necessary, including making sure whomever is in charge in this country feels the same conviction.

Sometimes I hear it in my mom's voice when we're talking. Her fear for my soul, her almost panic that I'm not going to get it right and end up separated from her for eternity. And while I'm hearing that, I don't feel that about myself. I don't feel concern for my eternal soul. That probably makes it even worse for her.

I say that last sentence without an ounce of sarcasm and without an eye roll. Because I see my mom. I know how often tortured she feels when she thinks someone's soul has been lost. For my mother and people who believe as she does, not telling someone the way to salvation is like watching someone burn to death when you have the means and mentality to stop it. Asking people who have a conviction from their God to stay out of a political debate is akin, to them, to letting a family member starve. It is that visceral. And it has taken me a long time to understand that.

Understanding and agreement, however, are different critters. But let's all get real here, our beliefs impact our politics. If you believe the death penalty is wrong, (regardless of what brought you to your belief) you're likely to lean a certain way. If you believe the ten commandments should be hanging in every courtroom, you're likely to lean a certain way. Who we are determines how we vote. All of it. Our life experiences move us a little left or right or center all the time. My mom may look at a candidate's church and that's the strongest indicator of how she'll vote and I may not even retain whether someone is Mormon or Catholic.

That's one of the shiny things about our Democracy; we get to decide what matters to us and vote accordingly. The most important thing to me is mine and the most important to my mom is hers. It's not my business to take that away from her. I could say that it isn't her business to take mine, but her core value based on her relationship with God says it is. And that's all right. Because when you come right down to it, both of my parents taught me that hanging on to our beliefs can save us. My dad was concerned with saving us from the hell on Earth and my mom is concerned with saving us from the hell in the hereafter. What they both taught me as a unit is that as long as I bend but don't break, as long as I continue to steadfastly hold on to what I believe, even if it doesn't match theirs (sorry Mommy) then I'm right with myself. And hell here or there will have kept itself fresh.

Do you remember...

2011-10-10T09:38:00.002-05:00

those pictures that you had to stare at until your eyes almost crossed in order to see a hidden picture? How like life, huh? People look one way until you observe them for a long time or until you really see them and then you find out they are someone else entirely or perhaps you're seeing what was there all along. What the hell am I talking about? Let me see if I can bring it into focus.

I think sometimes we confuse comfort and consistency with boredom and apathy. Books and movies lead us to believe that every day should be an adventure. Carpe Diem, right? But who really can do that? Seize every single day? Perhaps independently wealthy retired folks can. They have the time and money to make every day whatever they want it to be. I'd volunteer to be a test subject to prove that theory right. I wonder, even to someone in the best position possible to enjoy it, if life sometimes feels like one big old rut. (Not the deer kind, pervs.)

I've been known to confuse exciting for happiness. Hell, I've been known to confuse different for happiness. Just feeling something that I haven't felt the past 100 days in a row, even if everyone else can see it's bad for me, seems really really good. I think people, me included, do this a lot in relationships. You meet a new friend or potential suitor and everything is new. It's all a big mystery, questions to be asked and answered. You go new places and try new things. You start ignoring the sameness around you thinking you've found greener grass. The people you've had in your life forever seem less shiny and vibrant. The shorthand you've used to communicate with them no longer feels comfortable, it feels lazy. So you focus mostly on the new and begin to see what you think are all kinds of flaws and frayed edges and blandness of the old.

Then one day you wake up and realize the new is now the same. And you notice that because there's something else new on the horizon. I bet you can name people who do this. Maybe it's you? Or me. They jump relationships and beds and cars and jobs because they are chasing that initial high that change gives them. It's one thing to seize today, it's another thing entirely to do it at the cost of losing what you had already established as good.

Think about this, how blah is it to have to clean your house? Laundry that never ends, wiping up spills. Now think about how good it feels after weeks of ballgames and weddings and plans, plans, plans to have a Saturday where you wash your bed linens and clean your shower and actually catch up on laundry. That feeling of just being in your space with your things and your regular old boring people who don't seem to care if you're wearing the same pajama pants you slept in last night. The comfort you feel walking into your house after a vacation and it smelling familiar. Even if you're a go-er and a do-er and you love that, when you finally have a chance to just be in the quiet part of your life, it feels good for at least a few seconds before you're off to something new.

Every second of The Wizard of Oz builds towards a realization that familiar and safe are good words. That doing something new and different can be the most amazing adventure ever, bringing you new friends, stories and joy. But it can also get you lost and attacked by winged monkeys. Now, I'm not saying that in your own way you shouldn't go out there and look for your Emerald City. I'm not saying that you shouldn't ever change or search for different or experience something unlike anything you've done before. I do have a brain and a heart and some courage after all. (Sick of the W of O references yet?)

I'd probably start making dolls out of my own hair if every day was the same as the hundreds stretching out behind me. What I am suggesting is that you take a minute and go back to looking at the original picture and remember why you loved it so much to begin with. Because in the end, what keeps the hell fresh is having ordinary hell to compare it to.

Oh Fall...

2011-10-06T12:07:00.000-05:00

how can something so pretty make so many people feel like hell? Seems like lots of my people are in a funk right now and I'm blaming lovely Autumn.

There are the obvious Fall culprits, the allergies, cold rain and burning leaves. But Fall has lots of good stuff too, right? All those breathtaking leaves changing color... and falling to the ground so you have to rake them. But the kiddos get to jump in the piles, so much fun! Then you have to re-rake the damn things. OK moving on, farmers are harvesting their crops so we can see again at intersections... and driving really slowly in front of you with wagons of said grain when you're late as hell to something. Apple orchards, corn mazes, hay rides, haunted houses... bugs galore, bugs galore, hay poking into areas hay does not belong, and peeing yourself because something jumped out and grabbed you. Crap. I guess I'm in a Fall Funk, too.

I think I know what it is. Fall is supposed to have a feeling. We're done with the going out and outdoor summer fun but we aren't quite to the holidays. We have this sit around a fire and snuggle up kind of expectation of Fall. And you know it can't ever really live up to it. It turns off damp, the kids throw a fit at the orchard because it's boring, we have to throw out that second bag of apples we insisted on buying and never ate. So all these pictures of cozy we have go up in smoke.

Autumn to me is the most couple time of the year. I'm sure some will argue that the holidays are. I've been single for a long time, so I've had the opportunity to evaluate it and Fall is the season that puts the most pressure on relationships. In summer it's fun to be single and if you're a couple you have lots of outdoor things where you don't have to be right next to your other but you know they are there. Spring has that feverish feeling where you're happily looking for love or if you're in a couple you tend to bang like bunnies. (You can't help it, it's nature.) The holidays are busy and while it's nice to be with someone for those things, if you are single you have fewer command family functions you are required to attend. If you are part of a couple there's so much coming and going and doing, I'm not sure how much "coupling" one can do. But Fall makes us feel like snuggling and holding hands and walking through leaves hearing that crunch.

I know couples who say that October is their "fight month". They seem more on edge and less likely to overlook things. I think it's because we expect to feel more like a couple right now than any other time. We want to curl up with a book and know someone else is sitting at the end of the couch watching football.

If you're single, all your couple friends are making joint trips to the orchard (and bickering about how many pumpkins they really need). You go to a haunted house and because they only allow 6 people in at a time, you end up stuck with a bunch of strangers and no one's arm to grab when something jumps out at you. No making out at a wrong turn in a corn maze, no sitting on your couch reading a book on a rainy fall day with someone sitting on the other end watching football. Damn this is depressing.

Shake it off. Give Autumn a chance at redemption. Maybe we shouldn't expect so much. Maybe if we stop trying to create a perfect Fall experience we'll actually find we're having a perfectly lovely one.

What Fall does have is Boo-Berry cereal and candy corn and slutty Halloween costumes. It's warm enough to still wear your sandals, but since it's technically Fall you can break out your boots. Fall has hot cider and apple donuts. It has pumpkin lattes and butternut squash soup. It has comfort around every tree and leaf and bale of hay. The colors of Fall bleed into you and make you feel like home. It smells good and tastes good and feels good. Now why did I think Fall was hell again?

This hell...

2011-09-29T15:21:00.000-05:00

might contain more heat than normal. It's about Planned Parenthood, so if you're not up for it just stop reading. Let me get the disclaimers out of the way up front, OK? Most of the figures I'll quote come directly from Planned Parenthood. Conflict of interest? Well, based on a Google search, there doesn't seem to be proof that they are lying. They are providing numbers and are aware that any politician or media outlet can start digging anytime they want (and they have), so it wouldn't be smart to lie.

This is my personal opinion and my understanding based on my experience and personal research, it in no way expresses the feelings of anyone but me. Don't judge my people by this. Also, I absolutely will not allow my blog entry to turn into a hate fest. Take that crap somewhere else. If you even try to start that, I'll delete your comment, and I'll give you at least a 30 second head start to unfriend me before unleashing my hell hounds. This is to anyone on either side of this issue. I welcome healthy debate and disagreement with my opinion, but it will be done respectfully and with compassion and maturity. Got it?

My final disclaimer is this, I am not debating pro-choice vs. anti-abortion here. Period. There will be discussion of abortion services provided at Planned Parenthood (PP) and what I see as gross misconceptions about PP. However, it is my firm belief that no one can change any one's mind about their feelings on abortion, it almost always takes a personal experience with it. Either way, having an abortion because one feels there is no other choice can change the mind of someone whom always felt it was morally wrong. On the other side, someone who has had an abortion and absolutely regrets it can have once been pro-choice. I'm not here to tell you how to think or what to do. I'm just here to possibly offer an opinion about Planned Parenthood and then you make up your own mind. You're big kids, you can do it.

Here we go... Planned Parenthood (PP) funding seems to have become one of "those issues". You know, the ones a candidate or political party drags out when they want to wind folks up. Nothing unites like picking sides over the abortion issues, but drag out who is paying for what in the area of reproductive health care and you'll get a close second reaction.

*Here's the thing, only about 3% of what PP does is abortion. According to PP, it provided about 11.4 million medical services for 3 million men and women in this country in 2009. (It provides services for approximately 2 million more people world wide.) Out of these 11.4 million medical services, 332,278 were abortion procedures. Those procedures can include surgical abortions or chemical abortions. This means that 97% of what PP does is not abortion services. 97%.

For those of you who say that 332,278 abortions are 332,278 abortions too many perhaps consider this, 35% of what PP does is provide contraceptives. If one is educated on the proper use of their chosen form of birth control and one is given affordable, non-judgemental access to pregnancy prevention then couldn't one argue that PP is preventing those people receiving contraceptive services from needing abortions?

Now get this, because I absolutely mean this... Planned Parenthood making it possible for men and women to become educated on the use of birth control, making available affordable and confidential access to that birth control prevents abortions in my opinion. I'll give you a moment to gasp. Because if you take not one other thing away from what I'm writing I want you to know this, every single word of this blog entry is so that I can make that statement: Planned Parenthood around the world keeps people from getting pregnant when they don't want to be and that keeps those people from seeking abortions. You cannot change my mind about that.

Yes, taxpayers do fund PP and PP does provide abortions. And if you feel abortions are morally and ethically wrong, I can see where you could get pissed. Now let's think about this, PP is not solely funded by Federal and State governments. It is income based, and those who are able to pay for the services do. They also accept donations and funding from non-governmental sources. PP 2008-2009 annual report says it received $363.2 million in "Government Grants and Contracts." That came up to about a third of its total revenue for fiscal year end 2009. But not all that money is from the Fed, PP gets government funding from the Title X Family Planning Program and from Medicaid. About $70 million of that $363.2 million came from Title X and the rest - approximately $293 million - came from Medicaid which is State and Federal funding.** (Oh how I don't love math.)

**By law, PP can't use Federal money for abortions. Title X money can't be used to fund abortions and under the Hyde Amendment, Medicaid can only be used for abortions in cases involving rape, incest or endangerment to the life of the mother. There are some states who use their own funds to pay for abortions beyond that scope. But let's get it down to easy Lisa math, shall we? The way I see it, if PP is only government funded at 33ish% and 3% of what PP does is abortions, why are we talking about whether or not taxpayers are paying for abortions? Stopping funding to PP because 3% of what they do is abortion services is a little like throwing the baby out with the bath water.

Here's what taxpayers are paying for at PP (percentages are of the 11.4 total services provided* not of budget for 2009):
- 35% STD/infections testing and treatment
- 35% Contraception
- 16% Cancer Screening and Prevention
- 10% other Women's health services
- 3% abortion services
- 1% other services

Now let's pause a moment to realize those "services" were provided to men and women all over this country. Men and women who may otherwise have not had access to reproductive health care because they couldn't afford it. Or perhaps they could but were young and needed somewhere they felt was safe and confidential. Let's be real here people, yes a teenager can go to her mom's gynecologist but, especially in rural areas, the odds of her getting there and leaving before someone sitting in the waiting room calls her parents are pretty slim. Even without that, perhaps she couldn't afford birth control or a pregnancy test or STD treatment

***Eight out of ten women consider birth control pills "preventative health care" just like blood pressure medicine. Seven out of ten men think the same (I bet they do!). Since the FDA has approved the pill, women dying as a result of pregnancy has decreased by half each year. During that period there was a threefold decline in infant deaths. Damn that's some amazing stuff to hear as a women. I remember my grandmother telling of a woman who, before the pill was available, didn't want more children because she couldn't afford them and having children was a burden her body was almost too weak to bear. She was married, so it wasn't practical to tell her to abstain and she'd tried the "rhythm method" and still managed to get pregnant. In her desperation to not conceive, she put a piece of lye soap into her vagina before she had sex. She put a piece of soap inside her hoping to not get pregnant. Some women took even more extreme measures. Can you imagine?

Now of course in what some people would consider a perfect world, people would abstain from sex until marriage, but a lot of married folks want birth control. In a slightly less perfect to some people world, kids would discuss the need for birth control with their parents and the parent would educate them and then take them to their health care provider to obtain that birth control. There would also be no STDs or need for cancer screens. So everyone is abstaining, no one is getting pregnant because everyone has access to affordable, safe birth control, no one is passing around an STD because everyone is getting treated and screened and taking precautions and no one is getting cancer. And then you wake up. Look, I have three nieces, two nephews and am an honorary aunt to several little ones. Would I like them to wait? Yes. Would I like them to not have an unplanned pregnancy? Oh my hell yes. Would I like them to never be faced with a choice of what to do about that pregnancy? More than almost anything. I'd also like to be 5 foot 11 inches tall. That's about as likely as everyone I love living up to those improbable hopes.

I've been to Planned Parenthood. The clinicians and staff are some of the kindest most compassionate people I've ever met. I've seen women waiting to have an abortion and I promise you not one of them was celebrating the choice she was making. There were no mustache twirling, happy dancing providers rubbing their hands together in anticipation of their next pregnancy termination. These providers helped me protect myself from pregnancy and discussed whether I was emotionally ready for sex. They wanted to make sure I didn't feel pressured or have any misconceptions about my risk of pregnancy and STDs. They were concerned about my mental and physical health. And yes, they told me that the only safe sex, physically and mentally, was no sex.

Here's my final thought on this, if one of my little loves gets an STD or has sex or gets pregnant too soon and chooses abortion or adoption or to keep it, I'll love them madly still. I'll not judge them nor will I condemn them for the decisions they have made. Here's something I will do, I'll give them the number to Planned Parenthood to do the very best thing I can do to protect them, because isn't that really all we can do? Protect and educate. 97% of what Planned Parenthood is doing is protecting and educating. That's a hell of a statistic to live up to. I'm not sure I'm doing that. Are you?

* http://www.plannedparenthood.org/files/PPFA/PP_Services.pdf
** http://www.factcheck.org/2011/04/planned-parenthood/
***http://www.plannedparenthood.org (search for 50th anniversary of the pill)

Lookie at what happens...

2011-09-26T12:52:00.000-05:00

when I'm gone for a week. People are asking and telling, Saudi women can vote, Glee is back. If that's what goes on while I'm sitting on the beach drinking, what the hell, I should leave more often.

I took an impromptu trip last week to center myself. The last month for me, personally, has been a whirlwind of absolute high then crashing lows. I know my brain well enough to know that I needed to check out and get a grip before things slid off into the emotion ditch. Every single day I feel a bit more able to breathe. Oftentimes, we don't see how fragile we are until we break. Those are the times when we see the strength of those whom we love, because they help put us back together. Much love to my restoration crew.

Moving on... Don't Ask, Don't Tell is a thing of the past. Perhaps like it being illegal for someone from one race to marry another, what it represented will be an embarrassment from our past that is never repeated. I know this is hard for some who are old school military men and women. I get that. Those folks have actually done it, done the hard job of protecting and defending, but it really is a new era. I also see that if you tend to believe stereotypes then perhaps you're worried this will "feminize" our military. Make it weak because gay men are somehow weaker. Let's just think about this, the Gay, Lesbian, Bi-sexual and Transgendered community knows all about fighting for what they believe in. They do it everyday in situations we take for granted. Whom they kiss and where, whom they love and how they show that love, and whom they marry are something they have to fight for. They've repeatedly proven how hard they can push for something they believe in and love. Now imagine that fight directed toward those who wish to do harm to the country they love, to the country that has finally recognized them as worthy to defend its freedoms. I think that's going to be pretty bad ass.

As for those who are worried that it will cause all kinds of sexual promiscuity in the military, COME ON!!! I'm pretty sure there's lots of hetero sex going on already. Your worry is not about sex, but who is having sex with whom. How about this, you have sex your way and everyone else will have sex theirs. Ta da, problem solved. My dad said he knew closeted gay men when he was in the army. My dad was old school, mildly homophobic and pretty much ignorant of anything but the stereotypes that he was raised with, just like lots of other folks from the fifties and sixties. He didn't know better. But what he did say he knew was that when you're being shot at, you don't give a damn who the guy next to you bangs as long as he has your back. Makes sense, doesn't it?

So while we're on the topic of stereotyping, let's talk about how disagreeing with someone of a different race, religion, sexual orientation or gender automatically makes you a bigot. When did this crap start? We need to stop throwing around terms likes racism and bigotry and misogyny like we're saying yes, no and maybe. When we do that, I feel, we take away the power of those words. Those words should be used harshly and strongly and boldly, not as things that fall out of our mouths because someone doesn't think like we do. If we use those words so flippantly, they lose the power to get someone's attention, to shame someone into realizing their ignorance.

It is not racist to disagree with President Obama’s policies and politics unless your disagreement is rooted in his race. If you think he's lousy on job creation or the Middle East, that's not racist. If you think he's not doing his job because he is less intelligent because he's black, that IS racist. You can disagree with me and I don't have to think it's because I'm female, unless you disagree with me because you think I'm inferior because I'm female. Get it? We have to stop labeling anyone who isn't like minded as bigots, because what starts to happen is we create a new breed of bigotry. When you come right down to it, being a bigot is belittling, hating or harming a group of people because they are different than you or I. If you immediately belittle or defame a person because they think differently, if you hate them and name call and bully them, you become the bigot. Stop it, before it gets out of hand.

That's all I have for now. My brain is still a bit in beach mode and is a little annoyed that I'm not drinking an adult beverage and eating some sort of seafood po'boy right now. You know it's always a little bit of hell to come back after a vacation, but visiting with you all makes the hell a little fresher.

Hi, my name is Lisa...

2011-09-13T14:07:00.002-05:00

and I have a hell of a hard time asking for help. It's almost a phobia. I have no problem saying I'm sorry or I love you, but saying "I need help" seems to be the hardest thing for me to say.

We've established in the past that I don't take compliments well. This whole "I'm fine" mentality of mine is a tougher nut to crack. You know I have analyzed the hell out of myself and have a few ideas of why. In most cases, "why" usually leads me to how to change it. Not so much with this one.

I do believe there is something to be said for birth order. I'm the middle child. Most middles I know are peacemakers and independent. By necessity we didn't get a lot of undivided attention, our parents had an older child who'd been the only one for a while and was used to being the center and we have a younger one who was the baby and treated as such. See, I secretly think being the middle is the best place to be. You sort of fly under the radar and you learn to be independent, which absolutely serves me well in adulthood.

We're problem solvers and self-entertainers (minds out of the gutter!), we often are diplomatic and are able to broker truces and we aren't usually the ones to start a fight. Now, I'm not bashing other birth orders because they all have their benefits and their strengths; I'm just explaining where I come from.

Add to my middleness the fact that I'm stubborn, a psycho planner and a wee bit of a control freak and I can be a perfect storm of facades and walls. I usually believe I can push through anything and if I'm having a hard time with that, I'll just pretend to be OK until I really am.

I don't do help well. It makes me uncomfortable, and I feel weak. Here's the confusing thing, when someone asks me for help the last thing I think about them is that they are weak. I think they are unfathomably brave for asking. So why can't I apply that to me? I have trouble asking for help to move furniture or for planning a family gathering, so asking for help when what I'm going through is emotional is paralyzing. I just keep thinking that if I keep quiet and don't say it out loud, maybe it isn't really happening.

I so thoroughly work at convincing others that I'm fine, that I'm coping, that I almost convince myself. So when I have a moment of being overwhelmed with fear or sadness I feel disappointed in myself. I actually think, "I thought I was doing so well." I think of it as a set-back, when in truth it's my reality peeking through my facade. Bottom line, I lie so much to others that I begin to believe it myself. What. The. Hell.

I find myself apologizing for venting even when those who love me have asked, nay begged me to. I will say something that boarders on showing some need and then blow it off by joking. I frustrate those who care because I shut them out and then seem to randomly blow up because they aren't helping. Dudes, I suck.

Now here is the center and my truth, I'm afraid to ask for help because what if I get what I need, like it, depend on it, and then it goes away. I always have this sort of feeling that if I don't expect anything I won't be disappointed. If I don't have anything, I'll have nothing to lose. Now that's messed up, but for me it feels safe. Safe to me is more important than almost anything else.

I'm a lucky girl; I have people in my life who know me well enough to push through all the bullshit to the truth. They're standing there reaching out to me even if I seem to be ignoring it while picking my way though the emotional rocks. They wait quietly and their presence gives me peace. When I turn around, they are there and that's often all I really need. I am infinitely grateful for those folks, because they can see past all my hell and give me help without my even having to ask.

You all know who you are and you all know what I'm talking about. Thank you for your help. It won't be forgotten.

Why do...

2011-09-06T11:01:00.002-05:00

some people feel the need to speak for God? Who the hell gave them that authority? Was there a little bush on fire in their front yard giving them a message? Did they feel a tap on the shoulder while they were sleeping? Exactly how did they get the word from the Almighty that they should be the direct line from the beyond to us? No worries Hellions, this blog isn't turning religious. It's just something that happens so frequently I feel compelled to address it. (Get that Exorcist reference?)

My girlfriends and I recently had a discussion about how prayer chains can turn into a church sanctioned gossip fest. How people seem to want to be the first person to know when tragedy has struck and be the one to pass that tragic information (in great, gory detail) onto everyone they know.

Think about this, have you ever had someone say "Did you hear the terrible thing that happened to so-and-so?" You say you don't know who that is, but they go ahead and tell you anyway? Have you ever not known whom they are talking about, but still wanted to know the terrible thing? I think some of what makes us want to hear and makes us want to tell is we feel lucky or sometimes guilty that something bad happened elsewhere.

I think people often want on the tragedy bandwagon for attention. I think there are folks who genuinely care and are trying to offer some bit of solace or support. Then I think there are people who just like the attention knowing things gives them. Those are usually the people who also want everyone to know all the wonderful things they have done for others during their moment of need. "Look at me. I'm so kind." You know folks like this. Hell, we've all probably been guilty of things like this.

When my grandmother died, I was there when my Auntie Ruby found out her mom was dead. I called my mother to tell her. I called my sister. When you are the one who makes the call and breaks a heart, you really never want to do it again. When you hear someone's voice crumble and witness the crack in who they are, it changes how you see things. It pisses you off to the point that when others seem to be passing around information about another's grief like it's a breath mint, you kinda want to find a way to shut them up. Sometimes you wish they knew how it felt.

OK, so back to the speaking for God. It ties in, you know it does. I often think people do this because they don't know what else to say. Simply saying you don't know what to say is enough. It's honest and it's real. "God needed him more." or "Now God has given you your own angel." sounds sweet, but can read like so much bullshit. Who are we to speak for God? He himself says there is no respect of persons with God. Google it if you don't believe me. He says it a lot, BTW, I think he probably really, really means it.

So the Big Guy in His Big Book says that he's not not sitting up there with a "blessings" and a "smite" button randomly pushing them because he does or doesn't like the looks of you. Your decisions and your choices make things happen. He's not up there picking and choosing who gets sick. He's not deciding this person gets a cure and that one doesn't. He just set this thing in motion and it's up to us to make it work or not. The good and the bad that happens between the beginning and the end of your story is either your hand writing it or just the way things happen.

No God is handing out babies or wealth or misery. Quick example, a few years ago a couple of mothers were mocking an aunt and her niece on the little girl's Facebook wall. It seems the aunt was helping her nieces and nephews make homemade keepsakes for their parents and grandparents for Christmas. On this little girl's wall they were writing how cheap and tacky it was to make things instead of buying them. How they'd throw anything like that away. They are mothers not simply aunts so maybe I was missing something in their discussion. They were busy and didn't have time to make gifts, unlike the aunt they said, who had all the time in the world because she was childless.

They went on to say that while being an aunt was good, nothing compared to being a mother. That GOD had blessed them with children. That GOD knew who should be given children and who shouldn't. And if GOD saw fit to not make a woman a mother, well he must have a good reason for that. The fact that GOD made them mothers was proof that he knew they were deserving of children.

I didn't jump in and argue because being a lowly aunt and not having those mothers' wisdom, I felt it highly inappropriate to discuss such things on a child's Facebook page. Here's where their theory goes off the rail a bit, are they saying that God hand-picks crackhead moms who sell their children for drugs? What about people who beat and starve their kids? He chose them? What about child rapists and emotional abusers? I mean if their theory that God had specifically given them (paragons of virtue and fine symbols of motherhood that they are) children because they are deserving, did he also pick the women who drown their kids in the bathtubs as mothers too?

Here's my bottom line, those women became mothers through a normal biological function of their bodies. Plain and simple. Some people become parents accidentally, some plan, some adopt and some put their bodies through hell because they want a child so much. Is the woman who becomes a human pin cushion, going through cycle after cycle of fertility treatment, more deserving than the woman who had unprotected sex in the bathroom of a bar? It's what you do after the child is here that matters. That's where I think God gets involved. And, according to HIS word (not mine), he's simply paying attention and writing it down and he'll talk to you about it later.

Having a baby, losing a loved one, winning the lottery, beating a disease aren't gifts or punishments handed out by God. I think he put things on this Earth and said, "Make the best of it." Do I think prayer chains or turning porch lights on make a difference? I think they don't hurt. I think positive thinking and a belief in something bigger does good. I also think if it helps you then do it. If you aren't interested in being on a prayer list, that doesn't make you Godless, it might just make you a private person who feels your relationship with your creator is personal.

They say the path to hell is paved with good intentions. I don't know about all that, but I can't help but wonder if perhaps hell is full of folks who presumed to speak for God.

For my sister Stacie, you'd have been on the top of the list.

Want to know...

2011-08-26T12:53:00.001-05:00

my biggest fear? It's actually probably a component of your biggest fear. When asked that question, "what's your biggest fear?", a lot of people say things like death, public speaking, being old and alone. My biggest fear is being isolated. How the hell does that relate to other people's? Follow me, I'll see if I can show you.

If you think about it, most people loathe to be left out. This starts at a very young age. Think about little you in elementary school being picked last for a team or not being invited to a slumber party. Schools have started not allowing students to pass out invites for parties unless everyone in the class is invited. Being left out freaking hurts. I'm pretty sure, regardless of your age, you don't want to be the one isolated.

Even if you believe in heaven and hell or reincarnation, you haven't experienced the actual process of dying until you actually die. At that point, you can't really share with the class step-by-step what happens. Maybe you fear leaving everything you know for what you don't know. You fear having to go through that process alone. Even being temporarily isolated from your loved-ones is daunting. Public speaking, obviously, puts you up front with people watching you. You're up there to screw it up or make it work all by yourself, isolated from your audience. And being lonely is the definition of isolation.

I have a feeling some of you parents are thinking that you'd love just a few minutes of isolation, especially in the bathroom. I'm talking about absolute ostracization. No one wants to be with you or know you. That makes my heart beat faster. My friend Lid says this fear is what causes people to be obsessed with being liked. It makes them act fake, become people-pleasers and do all kinds of things they wouldn't do if they weren't so damn worried about being singled out.

Think about the first time you drank, did you do it more because you were curious or because everyone else seemed to be doing it? I lost my virginity because I just wanted to get it over with since everyone else had. Did you start smoking because it looked grown-up? Maybe. But what if none of your friends smoked, would you have been the only one who did? Probably not, because the fitting in works both ways. Sometimes it keeps us from doing things and sometimes it pushes us into it.

We find all kinds of ways to feel left out. The first one of your friends to get married, after all the excitement of the wedding has died down, feels a pulling at the seams of friendships, because his or her life priorities aren't the same as their friends'. If you are the first to have a child, you're sitting at home with pants that don't fit and morning sickness having to listen to all your friends' adventures. I chose to work instead of doing the traditional four years of college. My friends would be out at bars until all hours, then sleep in late the next day. I'd be getting up, heading to work. I felt so separated from their lives, and I feared that they'd start to find me boring and leave me behind. They'd replace me with their college friends who had similar schedules and interests and I'd be sitting at home alone, missing out.

Then when my dad was sick and fortunately none of my friends could truly relate, I pushed them away. I left them out, because I was angry and jealous of their not-sick-dad lives. If your friend loses weight, it can feel like a betrayal. Like their changing is a commentary on your life or your weight. A friend takes up a new hobby without you and you feel a bit like they are trying to find something to do that excludes you. You change jobs and find a new work buddy and suddenly have less time for your old work buddy. It's constant motion, this friendship thing. And if you don't hold tight, it can float away.

All these things above are blatantly irrational and yet strangely perfectly logical at the same time. Interests change and lives change so it stands to reason that a relationship will change, it doesn't mean it has to end or that it was flawed in the first place, it's just life moving along with the current and doing its thing. Yet it's completely understandable to fear losing something you hold so dear, to fear that the people you've shared so much with have things you don't share.

People have friends with whom they have history and friends with whom they make history. Sometimes they do both. The thing is, it's OK to be one and not the other. When you have history with a friend, they know your secrets, hell they were there when you were doing the things that need to be kept secret. Fear of your dirty laundry being aired is often one of the strongest bonds in a friendship. Even if that friendship dissolves, that bond can remain. You can hate someone's guts, but you'll protect their secrets because you're hoping they'll protect yours.

On the positive side, having common ground gives you somewhere to build. The friendship deepens and becomes almost smooth. You create a shorthand where you just know what will and won't work for each other. You don't even ask them to come along for this or take part in that, because you know them well enough to know their answer before you ask. And sometimes you still ask, because you never want a friend to feel isolated. You also don't want to make it easier for them to start leaving you out.

I have friends who do hold my history and I'm lucky enough to continue making history with them. I also have new friends with whom I've begun to build memories and share secrets and experiences. I think it must be hard sometimes, to be that new friend. I feel that, because I'm also the new friend. You don't yet have enough foundation to feel solid, but you see the potential. You can't create 20 years of history out of thin air, it takes 20 years to build. The good news is the older you are the quicker you feel a kinship. I'm not talking about the quick flitting from person to person we do when we're young, I'm talking about knowing whether this person clicks and fits or not pretty soon after meeting. It's exciting to add someone who doesn't know all your stories and about whom you get to learn new things. Because let's face it, sometimes the old friends repeat the same thing just one too damn many times.

My grandma used to sing, "Make new friends but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold." All I know is that anyone who is a true friend will be there with you for your biggest fear realized. They'll be making obscene gestures from the audience, they'll hold your hand when you're sick, they'll remind you that you can do this and that you're never really alone. And I believe they'll be waiting for you for whatever is next. Come hell or high water, they'll just be whatever you need them to be.

A little late...

2011-08-18T11:36:00.001-05:00

vacation hell today. Seems kind of fitting since everyone is headed back to school soon. I still love the smell of school supplies. Remember that feeling of anticipation and nerves and stiff new gym shoes that the beginning of a new school year brought? Where I'm from, you never could really reinvent yourself for the new year. When you walked into your classroom, it was the same kids you'd always known. There's something safe and comforting in that. But safety and comfort makes us complacent oftentimes. It also, perhaps, keeps us from growing and evolving. Once you build your own box and make it cozy, it's tempting to just stay in it. Here's to the kids who eventually liberate themselves and to the ones who know their box is so well built from the beginning, they just keep making it better.

My original vacation plan was to go to my SIL's family's condo in the Ozarks and write. Remember? We plan and the big guy laughs. At the last minute, my plans changed and I ended up flying to Philadelphia to visit Lid and then heading to Fort Morgan, Alabama with my brother's family. If you know me, you know I'm not a last minute kind of girl, so the change of plans while welcomed and exciting, freaked me the hell out. Plus, I was really wanting to try to write. I was worried I wouldn't have time or want to, because there was that whole beach in the backyard thing. Luckily for me, my family let me have my space, so I did find time to write, and I've been doing a little along since. Damn, it's hard.

I've always wanted to write something so profound it changes your beliefs.  Something so beautiful that it makes you ache when you read it. The kind of book that sticks with you long after you finish it and makes you want to simultaneously read straight through and put aside so you can make it last longer. Sometimes, I read something so moving or perfectly worded that I have to put it down, because I feel unworthy of even reading it. I long to create something like that. But, Fitzgerald I am not. Still, a girl can dream. Big. She can dream big. Or huge, she can dream huge. Then she wakes up and finds herself ill-equipped to change the world. So the best I can hope for is to offer a bit of escape, some dirty sex and maybe one line that touches one person.

I did write and I still am. Even if no one ever reads it but my close friends, creating a story has some weight to it. It seems to have it's own life. I like the people in the book. I'm becoming attached. Yep, that sounds crazy to me too. They are bits and pieces of my imagination; they live in a world I'm creating; they say the words I tell them to. I made them. Yet, oddly, they seem to be telling me who they are and moving through the story with very little conscious input from me. They are flawed and perfect and horrible and soft and I love them.

Don't get me wrong, the stuff ain't writing itself. It's quite different writing a continuous story about one thing that starts and goes and ends somewhere than writing about one specific topic at a time for a page or two like I do here. It's harder in that I have to make sure the thread that I'm tying onto the reader at the beginning stays attached to the end. That end seems to be far, far, FAR away. This blog allows for me to explore many ideas and thoughts without having to become too attached to any one of them. The blogging works well with my ADD. (Squirrel!!!)

Here's a thing about my cute little blog, I feel I am the most me here. I get to speak my mind the way I want to. I have to work at saying what I intend and putting out not just words but feelings. I can expose my fears and my courage and my life here. This blog makes me feel brave.  It provides me a soapbox, a therapist, a bully pulpit, and an outlet for all the things that swim about in my brain.

Mostly it provides me something that is wholly mine. I don't have a marriage I can point to and say "Look at how good I am at that." I don't have children about whom I can say "Look what I made." I've never created a single thing that was entirely Lisa made. This blog is my "See what I can do." Even if it isn't good to another soul, it feels good to me. Everyday I write something, it's like the first day of school.  Frightening and exciting and full of promise and possibility and just a tiny bit over-rated.

So, the book moves on. Slowly, but it's happening. I'll fall in love with the people in it and they will no doubt break my heart. But I can handle it, because I have this place and I have you who not only read my hell but are the reason it stays fresh.

M & D, do great things this year. Be every bit of your possibility. I know you can and you know you can, so prove us right.

Did you ever have...

2011-08-11T12:56:00.000-05:00

a friend who could only have one friend at a time? I bet you did. I bet as soon as you read that sentence you thought of his/her name. What the hell was that about? Now I know it's hard to be the one left out. Everyone else has plans together and you can't go along so you're bummed. What I'm talking about are people who need you to pay attention to no one else but them in order for them feel secure in your love and friendship. Ugh. Those folks are exhausting. Thankfully, at my age, I don't have anyone like that as a friend. This getting older thing does have it's perks.

I have noticed lately something I call the "well, what about..." mentality. It reminds me of that girl who could have only one friend at a time, except it's only one issue at a time. It's on Facebook and in blogs and coming out of most pundits mouths. Regardless of that topic, there's always a "Well, what about...". Things like talking about how hot the summer has been leads to someone saying, "Well, what about Texas? Those folks can't catch a break." or "My throat has been sore since Monday." leads to "Well, what about so-and-so's cousin's brother who has such-and-such?" It really is emotional socialism. Your problems aren't as big as someone else's, so we need to throw some guilt for your seeming self-centeredness on top of it to level things out.

One could see it as someone just trying to remind us that we don't have it so bad; that we should be positive and think of all the good things we do have. I get that. It's a nice thought. I'm all for blessing counting, but sometimes a girl just needs to list her gripes. I need to be able to do it without someone making what worries me look insignificant. Because what keeps me up at night keeps me the hell up at night.

You've probably seen people do this about world problems. Mention the babies starving to death in Africa and someone will invariably say, "Well, what about the kids in our country going to sleep hungry?" Absolutely, one hungry child is one too many. We're lucky we live in a country where we tend to take care of our own, whether we like it or not sometimes. There are resources for hungry families. Sadly, there are also grievous abuses of those resources here and abroad.  Thinking of those we could feed if some people didn't exploit the help given to them pisses me off.

Most of us could agree that going to bed hungry is not the same as literally starving to death. It's not the same as watching your child starve to death. But if you're the parent of the hungry child it probably gives you little if any comfort to think "at least she'll get something to eat before she dies from starvation." Both things make me feel guilty about the apple I just bought at the grocery without a thought and am now eating. I simply walked in, picked one out, opened my pocketbook and it was mine. I'm not even really that hungry, the apples just looked so pretty today that I wanted one. I'm starting to have a hard time swallowing now. I have to ask myself, if I had to give that apple to the hungry child or the starving child, which would I pick? Oh. My. Hell. Isn't that what we're sort of being asked when we pick to which charity we contribute? Now I feel really sick.

One of the "go to" what abouts I see frequently involves either government leaders' salaries being too high or the fact that some of our military families are barely scraping by. I'm going to be honest here, neither of those jobs or lifestyles sounds appealing to me at all. So I didn't become a politician and I didn't sign up for the military. Take a breath. I'm not bashing either lifestyle, I'm simply stating that I'm not up to doing either of them.

I could have become a politician. I wanted to be President when I was in junior high.  Learning more about the job made me realize that my skin is too thin as is my intellect. I also didn't choose to join the military because I couldn't imagine leaving home and not knowing where I was going or how long I'd be gone. I couldn't imagine carrying a gun. And my dad said I couldn't, that I wasn't built for it. I figured based on his experience, he'd be a good judge of that.

Right now, I'm sure some of you are pissed. I'm un-American, a coward, weak. If you want to see it that way and not listen to where I'm going, you're absolutely entitled. You have that choice. Just like you have a choice about where to live, what to spend your money on, how many children you want to raise and what job you do. We get that here, yes? You get to pick. No one is forcing anyone to do any job. Some of us follow our callings and that leads us to teaching or firefighting or customer service or being a stay-at-home parent. Thankfully and honorably, some of us choose to be in the military. At this point, every single person with a job in this country said yes to an offer. No one is being drafted into a job. Wouldn't logic follow that if we don't make as much money as we wish or have the benefits we'd like or the overall job satisfaction we'd hoped for it is because of a choice we made. We signed up for the job we have. Even in this economy, it's true.

Do I think those men and women protecting our country have salaries commensurate with the risks they take? Hell no. HELL NO. I'm not sure what amount of money it would take to truly compensate these families for their sacrifices. I'm also pretty sure most of those fine men and women aren't just in it for the money. If they were, they'd have chosen different jobs.

My friend Sarah posted a status about how people seem to be paying attention to trivial things like celebrities but aren't noticing the bigger picture.  We all need distractions, she gets that, she's a pop culture junkie. It's when we are so busy with Kim's wedding dress that we forget to check on our neighbors that the "distraction" turns negative.

The thought of mommies watching their babies die because they don't have food broke Sarah's heart and she wanted to call attention to it. Uhhh, yea, that makes sense; how could anyone argue with that? After she posted it the "Well, what about..." started. The people posting had true and right and fair thoughts. Those kids starving isn't the only thing wrong with the world. But can't we all care about what we care about without being told we should be caring about something else? Are we like that girl in junior high who could only have one friend at a time? Caring about the dying kids there means you don't care about the dying kids over there or the homeless or the sick or the mentally ill. Sometimes people need to focus on just one thing because if we look past it, all we find is a sea of despair that overwhelms and paralyzes us into inaction. What's the point of doing for this one when it means we can't do for that one? How do you pick who deserves the apple more? You have no option but to go with what you feel when you feel it regardless of what the person next to you feels or wants you to feel.

As my friend Kelley said, "There's a big difference in situations that aren't ideal, ie, military personnel having problems, compared to children and babies starving to death. Doesn't mean I don't feel for people who have all those problems, that would be a hard road but at least they'll eat..and their children WILL EAT and they won't be faced with the horrible fact that they cannot provide food to their helpless offspring and they will watch them die." That is Kelley's truth. The opposite could be your truth. Neither is bad nor wrong. It's when you try to tell me that I can't care about my thing because it isn't your thing that I'm going to have to call bullshit. I often wonder if the reason people make donations anonymously isn't because they don't want recognition but more because they don't want judgement. They don't want "Well, what about..."

There are really no winners if we all walk around forcing people to defend what moves them like Kelley had to. We weren't supposed to talk about dying kids, because there are military families doing without. Why isn't there room for all of it? Compassion isn't like a Radisson full-up for a family reunion; compassion always has vacancies. How about this, if everyone worried about the same thing and supported the same cause what would happen to all the other issues in dire need of addressing? OK, everyone stop thinking about the homeless in Haiti, the displaced in Japan, the starving in Africa, the forgotten orphans of Russia or the sexually abused children in our country and focus solely on finding ways to help the defenders of our freedom make ends meet easier. A thoroughly noble pursuit, I believe. But is it practical to have everyone focus entirely on that? Is it right? Is it what you really want?

One could argue that poverty eventually breeds violence. That violence leads to military intervention. So, maybe if there were less poverty there would be less need for our troops to be put where they can be harmed. It's just a thought. It also makes obvious why I'm never going to be President. Like I said, too thin an intellect. (I could insert a cheap Palin joke here, but those of you who'd want me to already have.)

You know I went around the block, but here's where I stand, there's room enough. The thing that moves me that doesn't move you is not a commentary on either of our depth of caring. If you feel "it" about something, do something. If I don't, I won't. I'll find something else. But don't look at me like I'm the bad guy if I think differently than you.

We're all standing around talking about how the world is going to hell, but the minute someone tries in their small way to do anything about it we pounce on them for picking that cause instead of our cause. Maybe we could all just give each other some room and focus on our own actions and values and beliefs and stop shouting each other down with "Well, what about MY hell?"

Here comes the judge...

2011-08-02T12:46:00.001-05:00

kind of day here in hell folks. I'm admitting it up front, so that has to count for something. Like saying, "don't take this the wrong way" or "I'm only saying this because I care" before slinging a veiled (or not) insult. So there it is. I'm going to judge like a mutter futter today.

Since I don't have kids I am obviously the person best suited to judge parenting skills and family values of others, don't you think? Probably not. But what I am qualified to do is to perhaps share what it is like to be the person without children in a world where children have become, in recent history (read the past few decades), the center of everyone's universe.

First let me say, if you think I am talking about your children, I'm not specifically thinking of anyone's child. I'm talking about the way our society has become so kindercentric that I'm not really sure adults are running anything anymore. If, while reading this, you start to take it personally and believe that it is directed at you (even if I don't know you, you could still feel that way) then may I suggest taking a moment and asking yourself why you think this applies to you. Then roll your eyes and say "She has no idea what it's like to be a parent, so she should just shut it!"

And nevermind that whole "he who is without sin cast the first stone." I'll admit, I can be a major pushover with my littles. I give in a lot. A lot, a lot. They're so cute and sweet and they think I'm pretty perfect, so when they ask for ice cream instead of dinner, I'm going to seriously consider giving in. Who better to judge a sinner than another sinner?

I love me some kids. The kids in my world are the center of MY universe. Every single thing they say or do is noteworthy to me. I can put you to sleep with hours and hours of what I believe are precious little jewels that have dropped from the mouths of my babes. I bet you could do the same with me. The thing is, neither of us really wants to hear that much about the child in another person's life unless we are somehow directly involved in that life. I do love seeing the cute teasing notes Stella writes to her mommy. I love whatever crazy thing Jack has to say, because I love their parents and I think those kids are brilliant. Strangers kids, not so much.

When I'm going to dinner and spending some cash to have an "experience" and that "experience" turns into hearing a stranger's child screaming "I HAVE TO GO POTTY" that turns me into anti-kid. Or at least anti-THAT-kid. I've been places that don't even have a kids' menu or high chairs and have seen children running amok while mommy and daddy enjoy a glass of wine and from time to time shriek "Sit down please. I said SIT DOWN please. SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW please". The kid never sits down, they are too busy standing by my table staring at me or trying to reach my handbag. I've actually had a strange child ask me for a drink. What. the. hell.

I'm not talking about kid friendly restaurants. I'm not at Chuck E. Cheese when this happens. I'm talking about sit down with table linens and not a video game in site kind of places. When did it start being OK for kids to rule the world? Is every single place kid-friendly? Is it OK to take them into bars now? I missed that memo. The people I really feel for are the parents who found a babysitter and are trying to have a lovely, quiet, kidless evening for the first time in weeks or months only to be stuck by people who assume everyone enjoys their little monster as much as they do.

Some folks argue that you can't teach children to behave in public unless you take them in public. Huh. I see. Now, call me crazy, but when I was a kid it never occurred to me that it was alright for me to run up and down stairs at a restaurant, to walk up to another table and stare or try to take stuff off that table, or to scream and yell and generally cause a ruckus in public. Here's maybe why that was the case, I wasn't allowed to run wild at home. I was expected to sit down, use a napkin, and eat dinner with my family. On our way to anything in public we were told, nay threatened, that if we so much as raised our voices once, our bottoms would be reminded of how to behave. If you threw a fit in the grocery store, you were either taken into the bathroom and told in no uncertain terms that you were done acting that way or you left and you most definitely didn't get a toy on your way out.

I have a friend who will honestly tell you that she's left restaurants and stores with her sons in tears and herself in tears because her kids were simply horrible. I admire her, because she has the personal values and common courtesy to not subject everyone around her to her little guys moods and whims. I know moms and dads who still believe it is their job to enforce rules and maintain a certain standard of behavior. They believe it is their job to teach the child how to act in society instead of expecting society to adapt and accept any behavior from their kids. Bravo to those folks.
I wonder sometimes if adults don't want to say anything negative to the child they are with because that would be admitting the child isn't perfectly behaved. I've seen kids and been absolutely at my wits end annoyed with them and the parent is acting as if nothing is happening. Their lackadaisical attitude makes me start to question my rigidity. I honestly start thinking that perhaps I am the unreasonable one. I wonder if maybe that's what the parents hope will happen. I think I'm wrong for being pissed that I can't hear the people at my table talk over little junior screaming NOOOOO. That's actually a pretty brilliant strategy on their part.

I'm not sure when or why it happened, but things flipped. It seems we stopped preparing the child for the road and are running ourselves crazy preparing the road for the child. And how does that serve them in adulthood? Ain't no one making everything in my world easy. I have to figure out where I fit in and make my way. Imagine if my parents would have raised me to think that all good things will simply always be handed to me. The oil in my car would never be changed, I'd never do laundry, I'd expect to be able to sit at work and be paid while I write a personal blog ... ummm, never mind that one. Thanks Big D. Best boss ever. ;)

Kids aren't accessories. You shouldn't just be able to go pick up a girl-child simply because you want to put bows in her hair and cute shoes on her feet. Or a boy because you have only girls and want someone to pass your name to. Children are living breathing pieces of helplessness who know nothing until they are taught.

Kids teach us so much. I honestly believe I've learned more being an aunt than anything I've ever done in my life. They've taught me to look at the small things, to feel joy and express it, that sometimes if you squeeze your eyes shut and wish for something you get it, to slow down and notice what's around you. So why can't we return that gift? Why don't we teach them that you have to sometimes sit still even if you don't want to. That you need to think of others and how your actions are impacting them, because no one lives in a world all their own. You know I believe that the kids I love should be the center of my world. That's easy because they are the world to me. I know yours are to you. The scary thing is accepting that they will one day have to live in the real world and if we didn't do the right things for them, it'll be a world of hell.

P.S. The idea for this entry came from a link on my friend Sarah's Facebook page about a restaurant that was excluding children. She got it from her friend Julia. They took the original negative hits for it, so thanks my pretties for bringing it to my consciousness.

Who decides...

2011-07-27T11:31:00.004-05:00

what exactly constitutes a tragedy and what doesn't? Hello, my little hellions, I'm back from vacation. I'll do a little entry about that soon, but this hell is driving me right now.

Amy. Winehouse. Bless her heart and rest her soul. But seriously, how is that a bigger tragedy than anyone else dying too soon? Her family is heartbroken. She made an album and won some awards for it. She was fantastically talented. That's what makes her death more tragic than any number of other people who died on that day? Or is it because so many more people know who she is because she's famous?

I'm not knocking her. I too think she was exceedingly talented and it is a shame we'll never see what she could have done. What's more of a shame is that it was preventable and avoidable, if it does in fact turn out to be death by alcohol or drugs. It's grievous that her parents will never get to bounce grandchildren from Amy on their knees; that someone is right now truly heartbroken because the girl they loved -- and I don't mean loved like the general public loved her, but LOVED -- won't ever say their name again. Unfortunately, she's just in a long line of infamous, famous and not-famous people who were unable to push past their disease and find life.

My dad had a drinking problem. I honestly believe the trigger was Vietnam. I think he "danced to forget"*. I'm lucky to not remember anything about it from my youngest years. My sister, who is only 20 months older than I, does. Huh. Twenty months separated my knowing that drinking father and not. He relapsed when I was in junior high. It was for only a brief few weeks and it was terrifying. I didn't know that Dad. He was weepy and angry, mean, frightened and frightening. He was like a child who hasn't yet learned to control his impulses. I hated that Dad, because he made my world off-kilter. He wasn't safe or calm or strong, he was the opposite of my real dad. That he would make us live in a heightened state of anxiety and worry because of something he was doing made no sense to me, because that to me wasn't who my dad was.

He did, relatively quickly, stop drinking. But it took a long time for me to feel entirely comfortable with him again. I remember watching him more closely, trying to track his mood, trying to be the best Lisa I could so maybe it wouldn't happen again. And it didn't, because he decided it wouldn't.

Once when I was in my early twenties my mom was out-of-town and my dad took me to dinner. We saw a friend of his who asked him to go have a beer at the Old Mill (RIP Old Mill). I went with and seeing my dad holding that bottle, even all those years later, dredged up that uneasiness. I didn't live at home, so even if he had a beer from time to time, I wouldn't have known about it, nor would have impacted my daily life like it did when I was 12. But damn, seeing him holding that bottle made me feel small and weak. My dad looked at me and said, "This makes you uncomfortable doesn't it?" and he left it sitting, without taking a drink, on the table. I'm lucky, because I think it would have been so easy for him to disregard my feelings and drink, because I honestly believe that's how strong that kind of addiction is.

My dad worried that he'd pass alcoholism on to his kids. He was OK with my having his brown eyes, my sister having his black hair and my brother his big lips, but he worried about what was hiding in him that he could have inadvertently given us that would cause us to struggle. He'd ask me from time to time about my drinking or my brother's drinking habits. My sister didn't drink and still doesn't. Maybe what she remembers from her childhood before Randy and I could remember was enough to make her not do it. The good news is, neither my brother nor I are big drinkers. When I do drink, I drink. I'm not a sipper; I'm a guzzler. I don't have a good gauge on my limit, so I think that's maybe a sign that I should keep it to one. Because vodka and I have a love/hate relationship and vodka always wins.

You know I went around the back to get to this; I'm not sure if someone's death is more or less tragic than another, because everyone means something to someone. Ms. Winehouse, because of her album and her awards, felt like someone we knew. We could recognize her voice and her face, so she meant something to us. Her death isn't any less disturbing because she might have brought it on with poor choices and refusal of help. Life is all about timing. If she'd have had a few more hours, maybe she'd have realized that she needed to do something, anything to get well.

There's always someone else to make music that moves you or write books that touch you. I do have this thought though, what if we knew for certain that the person who would find the cure for cancer died before she discovered it? What if the guy who had the formula for world peace was found dead before he had a chance to share the secret with us? Or what if the person who could end poverty was killed tonight by a drunk driver? Those are very far-fetched, yes? But they are simply not out of the realm of reason, because often one person changes the world.

Here's the bit of hell, how do we know which of us is that miracle worker? How do we know which life cut short is the true catastrophic one? I guess we just have to assume they all are. Because potential unrealized is tragic and being the ones left in the wake of that tragedy is hell.

* "Hotel California" lyrics by Eagles. If you didn't already know that, it makes me sad.

Pre-Vacation...

2011-07-13T13:25:00.000-05:00

hell today people. I'm going to be gone next week, so you all will get a break from my hell. Since I like you all so much (most of the time I like most of you, anyway) I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Let me explain why I'm telling you before I tell you what it is. I feel like you all have been incredibly supportive and down right lovely about what I write and how I write. You're like my mini-applause box. I hope you have one of those, because no matter how pissed or hurt or frustrated I am, it feels so damn good. And because you're all those wonderful things, perhaps you will "hold my feet to the fire" about my little secret. Shhhhh... I'm taking next week to work on my "book". I'm just going to get a feel for what it's like to write more than a few paragraphs at a time. I'll likely not get far, but I'm going to see what I can do.

Now, I'm not delusional enough to believe it's likely to ever really be published. Odds are slim for that happening. But, even if I never walk into a bookstore and see my name, it's something I need to accomplish. It pretty much trumps everything on my bucket list, except owning a pair of Louboutins. It'll be a work of fiction, with a bit of me sprinkled in. And I promised my SBJ girls that there will be crazy sex in it. Crazy dirty sex, because who doesn't like that?

Some of my girls were gracious enough to read my first couple of paragraphs yesterday. I love these chicks because they are full on cheerleaders. My "book" isn't really what this blog entry is about, though. Here's the thing about me, I can't decide if I'm quietly arrogant as hell or if I'm severely lacking in the self-confidence department. Seriously.

My friend Kelly tells me that I seem "together" and somewhat unflappable when faced with situations that are uncomfortable. I can walk into any room and not show fear or uncertainty. I can stand in front of hundreds of people and speak with only the slightest shaking of my hands. Huh. Because inside, I'm a big old disaster. It's all smoke and mirrors and facades. Don't let them see a crack, because that's where they will come at you.

Now, my friend Lid thinks I have a shocking lack of self-confidence. I take things too personally, am too sensitive and defensive. Uhhh, thanks, way to build my self-confidence there friend. Actually, Lid says it in the kindest, gentlest way possible. (You know your accent makes it even easier to hear.) An abstract conversation about an article on single motherhood that has absolutely nothing to do with me can set my ass free. I feel it happen; throat tighten, heart squeeze, numb fingertips, and that damn stinging behind my eyes that says I'm going have to work to not cry. I take what the people I love say very, very personally. Somehow the negative stuff, not unlike cupcakes, aways seems to carry more weight. It, not unlike cupcakes, also sticks longer.

Here's the thing, what the hell kind of ego do I have to assume that when Lid is discussing an article about single mothers that somehow it's a commentary on whether or not I should have a child? Really? Do I think myself so much the center of all things that somehow an article written by a leggy, controversy-seeking blond was written about me? Dudes. That's just wrong.

(Re-read it, Lid. Seriously. We'll discuss if you want, because I'm not seeing what you are seeing. I do like your interpretation better.)

My friend Julie C. is often my true north when I get too into my head. Which is pretty much all the time. I have guilt about saying no; I extend myself and then am pissed that I'm now in a position I don't want to be in. Julie says to me that I need to stop thinking the world will stop if I don't have my hand in everything, that I'm not so important my absence at a family function or event will be enormous and will piss people off, and that people won't like me if I'm not constantly doing favors or being thoughtful or helping out. Because the truth is, I'm not everything to anyone. I am, however, something to lots of people.

Yet, of course there's a yet, I find myself believing the bad more than the good. Don't you? It does get better when you get older, though. I can shake things off quicker when said by strangers or folks who aren't in my inner circle. But, oddly, the people I love; the ones I know love me are the ones who incur my anger when they say something I could even perceive as mildly negative. Fut. I'm "that" girl. The one who doesn't know me well enough to know what I am and what I am not. Apparently, I'll go so far to find the nasty that I'll insult the people who care most by assuming they are trying to hurt me. What other explanation can I come up with for taking things so personally? Whoa. My bad. Is there some sort of medication for this condition, because I'll take it in shot form if there is.

Just so you know, this isn't going to change over night. It is a long cultivated piece of my personality. Big D has told me I actually work at finding ways to take something as negative commentary about me. The worst part is that means my circle has to go around bolstering my self-esteem, explaining how "that's not what I meant!", and being frustrated with my cat in a bag crazy. Son of a.... That's worse than being the girl at a party yelling "I'm soooo drunk!"

See, there are plenty of things that are simply negative about me that I really don't need to look so hard and confound my friend and family to find them. I suck at making coffee. Can't do it, period. I have absolutely zero athletic ability (I kinda like that about me.) I'm a control freak who is lost without a plan. I have crappy calves and a flat ass. I've not always been the best daughter. Oh golly, the list could go on and on.

But... I'm really good with kids. If you want to return to a live pet or plants, I'm the girl you ask to take care of them. I can always find good accessories. I'm a trustworthy designated driver. I'm a good aunt, niece, cousin, friend, and sister. And I've been told I have a good moan. What else does a girl really need?

I keep asking myself if I'm ever really going to get this. Is it ever really going to stick? Who the hell knows. I am better than I used to be and I'm determined to do better. Because I'm not the center and everything negative isn't about me. Now maybe if I repeat that enough, it'll find a place to root.

Have a good next week my dears. Wish me luck. I hope your hell is fresh and the person next to you has remembered deodorant.

How about a quickie...

2011-07-13T13:14:00.000-05:00

hell? There's probably going to be two hells today actually. I guess the heat outside has inspired me to throw some out here. This will be painless, I promise. Just some bits and pieces.

When I was 17 (damn now that song is stuck in my head) my family and I went swimming at my Grandpa's pond. It was dirty and there were snakes and fish and who knows what else in it, but it was really cool on a hot day. Once we took our neighbors along. They arrived and as I was getting out of the water to say hi to their daughters, the left strap of my swimsuit slipped. A wardrobe malfunction of epic proportion. I'm not sure why I thought of that, but I remember being so embarrassed I thought I'd burst into flames. The neighbor and her husband laughed, and I wanted to die. It's funny how if that happened now, I'd probably laugh harder than anyone. Of course with my 40 year old girls, the strap probably couldn't fall far enough to expose them. They've migrated a bit south, you know.

I went to Gav's last ball game Monday night. Hot. As. Hell. Landon was running around like the wild child he is and covered in sweat. I don't know about you, but I love the smell of kids playing outside. It smells like youth. Here's what's not so lovable, said sweaty child laying down in the sandbox then trying to sit on your lap and drink out of your water bottle. Actually, that's still pretty lovable.

Speaking of my littles, over the July 4th weekend I went with my SIL and Gavin, Syd, and Landon to the Lake of the Ozarks. I always learn so much when I'm with them. Things such as, my paralyzing fear of helicopters can be over-ridden if I get to hold Landon on his first ride. The ridiculously hot pilot helped a lot, too. I also learned that kids believe their grown-ups can do anything...if only they nag us long enough. We can make it stop raining so they can swim. We can get 100 people to move out of their way so they can better see the fireworks. We can flatten out hills so they don't have to walk up them.  We can move our destination closer if only they ask "how much longer?!" enough. We adults have magical powers we are not even aware of. I think I'll try them out the next time there's a line at the grocery.

My new cousin-in-law Julie has the sweetest son. Yesterday he sat on my lap and let me read two Spiderman books to him. While he sat there, he kept his little hand around my wrist. Man do I love kids.  I like this kid so much that when he came inside and asked if I'd play Frisbee with him outside in the blazing heat, I said yes. Of course when I got outside I used my grown-up magic to convince him to just stand on the dock and look at the water instead of making me run around chasing a Frisbee. Man I do love grown-up magic. (Did you know Frisbee is a brand name? What the hell do you call the generic version? Flying disk of potential eye damage?)

My friends Julie and Jennie (yes, they are twins) turn 40 today. Slowly but certainly my friends are moving to the next decade of our lives.  I'm beginning to wonder if I don't need to see a therapist about my 40-phobia, because every time one of my people turn 40, I picture that "Price Is Right" game where the mountain climber moves closer to the top of the hill when a contestant guesses the wrong price. He moves closer until suddenly and brutally he falls off the mountain. Now I have that mountain climbing music in my head. I keep picturing Julie and Jen in the knickers with their little backpacks falling off the top of the mountain. Oh by the way, Happy Birthday girls!

That'll do for this fresh hell. Stay tuned for another episode directly following. Some days there's just too much good hell to be contained in one package. I promise it's fresh. I checked the expiration date.

Once in a while...

2011-07-11T13:16:00.000-05:00

I'm reminded that you have to walk through a little hell to get to the good stuff. You know what I mean. Someone has to leave in order for you to miss them, so you don't take the time together so much for granted. You get sick so you are reminded to take care of your precious health. You wear shoes that pinch, so you realize cute doesn't really trump comfortable. (That last rule does not apply to me.)

Last Friday night, for the first time ever, I went to the Relay for Life in T-town. I'm ashamed to say that in the almost 15 years since my dad died of colon cancer, I've never participated. I've gone. I've looked around. I've donated. But I've never so much as walked a lap. Bad, bad Lisa.

This year one of the most amazing girls I've ever met, Taylor, who is 15 years old absolutely blew me away with her selflessness and commitment to do the better thing. Taylor's Grandma and Grandpa have both survived cancer. She's really something. She has more grace at her age than I hope to ever have. She and her grandmother and a friend baked hundreds of cupcakes for a booth she coordinated and ran at the Relay... all night long. As usual, my cupcake craving led me somewhere. This time it wasn't to a 5 pound weight gain. It was to an experience I want to have again. Thanks Taylor for being an inspiration to an oldER lady. When I grow up, I'd like to be a lot like you.

My sister-in-law, Shannon and my nieces M and D and I went to the relay thinking we'd walk around, donate, eat some cupcakes and head home. As we were driving up to the track where the event was held, we saw this.

... and everything changed. You're looking at the luminaries. Simple candles in paper bags. Except they're not that simple. Each one is donated by someone who loves someone who currently has, has survived, or has moved onto whatever is next for all of us because of cancer. These beautiful bags went around the entire inside of the track.

We didn't plan to walk more than a lap. We checked out the booths and ate a cupcake. Then M, D and Shannon and I walked toward the track. The second we stepped on it, I was no longer just seeing those luminaries. When I became part of them, actually felt them around me, the wall those of us who have lost someone too soon all build to keep us moving forward; the wall around the part of my heart that holds my dad, cracked. I wasn't five steps in and I cried.

My niece M is 16. She's gorgeous and dingy and perfect and awful all at once. Exactly as one's 16 year old niece should be. She is also not an outdoors person. Actually, she's not an outside person at all. She's a cheerleader and that's her form of exercise. She doesn't walk for walking sake. My niece walked three miles, in the heat and humidity. Her grandpa would have loved it. He'd have loved her.

Not only that, but when her Auntie Lisa started to break a little, she who is taller than I, put her arms around me and said, "It's ok. I got you." Seriously. Then she whispered, "If your dad was anything like my dad, I wish I could have known him." Walking on that track with my dear sis-in-law and the ghost of my dad, I caught a glimpse of the woman Maddy is going to be. And she shines.

So, thanks Taylor and Relay for Life. Thanks D for always walking behind me and not lapping your poor old Aunt. Thanks all you survivors who walked that lap and all of you who walked the lap in remembrance. Thanks to those of you who wore scarves to cover your heads and shirts to remind us to "squeeze a boobie save a life". Thanks for the organizers and the volunteers and the sweet woman who gave us a pink or white bead everytime we finished a lap.

Thanks to these folks, whom I don't know and don't know their "why" for walking, but during our meager 6 miles kept my feet moving by making me laugh and offering me a smile when I cried.

I do love a good hat.

Thanks to all of you for filling that track with hope and joy. I didn't feel fear or anger or bitterness. I felt sore feet and thighs. I felt hot and sweaty. But after walking the first few laps with Maddy and D and Shan, I felt proud and I felt peace. I felt Larry & Mert M., Terry C. and John D. And I felt my dad and all those others whose lights were shining. I know it's sappy and I know it's a bit cheesy, but when I was in the middle of that, even seeing the lights that represented a death, I still couldn't feel any hell.

http://www.relayforlife.org/relay/

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Effingham-County-Illinois-Relay-for-Life/101290023272462

Some catching up...

2011-07-07T12:18:00.000-05:00

fresh hell today folks. A little of this and a little of that. I've been planning to blog about some of these things for a couple of weeks now but other things surfaced and took over. You know what they say about best laid plans. Getting back to reality isn't necessarily a bad thing. Feet firmly on the ground and not living in a fantasy world keeps you from getting knocked on your ass, don't you think? But sometimes a little make-believe is good for one's soul.

First, today would be Eddie's 38th birthday. The 5th was the 20th anniversary of his death. Just wow to all of that. BUT... a good but... his little niece got her heart last Tuesday. She's doing amazingly. She's strong like her family, like her Grandma Vicki. They're talking about her getting out of the hospital in the next few days and after sticking around St. Louis for another week "just in case", she'll head home. Miraculous. I do think of the beautiful family that gave this gift to Eddie's niece. In the middle of their pain they found selflessness. Where they could have been bitter and angry and shaking their fists at the heavens, they gave hope. Maybe you could send your hope and love and pixie dust to Eddie's family while taking a breath and thinking of the family that gave little Kallie everything. A big thanks to Nicole for the update. It's amazing the connection I feel to her even though we've never met. There is a thread that runs through all our lives and ties us together. Nicole is proof of that.

Onto the catching-up part of this blog. Because my family is nuts or perhaps a bit evil, Shannon, Randy and the kids had a half birthday party for me. Syd thought we needed a family reunion (give her a few years, she'll get over that feeling), so instead they decided I needed a party. It was short notice, so if you didn't get invited and think you should have, sorry and get over it. My Auntie Ruby gave me a birthday card, sans envelope, that she had received for her last birthday from Alison and Rodney. Yep. She just marked out what they had written and scribbled a little something to me. She said that since it wasn't my real birthday, she wasn't going to spring for a real card. Seriously love her.

Randall grilled, I drank, the kids swam and played in the yard, I drank, everyone ate, I drank and ate and ate. Amanda A. brought me vodka and fireworks. I love Amanda A. Lori brought me shots of RumChata. If you've not tried it (and are over 21!) it's not terrible. OK, it is pretty terrible as a shot. I think I did three just to make sure. It tastes like a cinnamon roll with icing. It's pretty thick, though. We girls took turns describing to the guys exactly what the thick drink reminds us of. Think hard, you'll get the picture.

Anyway, Hollie Sarchet made me a perfect cake. So freaking yummy, I'm pretty sure I ate half of it. I hate to complain because it was so amazing and she's a magician with flour and sugar, but there was one teenie tiny flaw. Not her fault. She just followed instructions. Here's a picture, can you find it?

Right there on the top... Happy 40th Birthday. Oh. My. God. I think they are trying to ease me into it. I've been saying I'm 40 for the past couple of months just to get used to the feel of it. Sort of like that therapy where they wrap the huge snake around your neck to get you over the fear. Let me just say, it's not working.

A few weeks ago, my sister from another mother, Sarah, had a dip party. A bunch of chicks, a bunch of food, a bunch of alcohol and no one actually taking a dip in the pool. Sarah was celebrating her 29th-ish again birthday, so instead of presents for her, she asked that we bring feminine hygiene products to be donated locally. First of all, I hate the phrase feminine hygiene. Gross. But here's the haul...

Impressive, yes? Things I learned at the dip party are as follows: When in doubt, ask yourself what Minnie Pearl would do. No chick should say "booyah". No one can make that look good (although Dora came close). Holly will dance all alone in a corner given the right amount of liquor. Rebekah makes magic with tater tots. The Leffler girls need their own Real Housewives series. Jill's laugh absolutely infects everyone. T-town Sheri makes a great designated driver. And Paige might just be superwoman. Don't mess with her; she'll cut you and look damn good doing it. SDK is the party hostess extraordinaire for sure. I bet Minnie would think so too.

Ain't summer great? I'm a damn lucky girl to have all these crazy, twisted people in my life. I dislike the word "blessed" almost as much as I don't like the phrase feminine hygiene. It's overused and trite. Ugh. I'm grateful for all the happy I have. I'm doing my level best to not take anyone or anything that adds to my happy for granted. Sometimes I suck at that. Sometimes I'm so busy wishing for what I don't have that I forget to stand still and feel the good. Having enough is simply enough sometimes. Today I'm just feeling the fresh and ignoring the hell.

Take a little peek, it'll ruin your diet just looking at it: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Hollis-Flour-Shop/192187149421

Justice...

2011-07-06T11:39:00.004-05:00

... is probably feeling as blind as hell to some of you right now, yes? It's non-stop news and Facebook. Caylee Anthony is dead and no one is being held accountable for it. I think when we see pictures of that cherubic face, soft and rounded with the soft curls and the big beautiful eyes and realize she no longer says "cheese" when she sees a camera we see every little child we've ever known and loved. We hear that giggle and that happy squeal, we hear her small voice singing the word "sunshine" and perhaps it sounds just like the way our littles say it, and we're so angry that someone could, intentionally or not, silence her.

I can say all the heart tugging things here about no wedding, no college, no prom for that little one. I can talk about how no one will ever know if her voice would sound like her mom's when she was grown. I can say those things and you can feel them. Maybe because you've lost someone before what should be the natural order of things. Too young, too soon, too tragically. Maybe you feel it because it's simply inconceivable that someone would hurt that child.  That someone could hurt your child. That you could hurt your child. That's the obvious. That's the stuff that keeps us glued to our televisions. The pure WHY of it all. We're all adults here folks. You know and I know, the why will never likely be told. We're not even sure of the how right now. All we know is that little one is gone and it seems there's nothing to be done about it.

The innumerable people making hay on the head of that dead girl is pretty sad commentary on our world. We're watching it, someone is making serious bank on ratings. Someone will invariably write a book and make a movie and pay for an interview. Hell, I'm writing about it now. The truth is, sadly and horrifyingly Caylee isn't the only little girl this has happened to. She's not even the only little girl that it happened to on that day. Yet she's the face that captivated us. She's the face that haunts us. And now she's being waved as a banner for all sorts of "causes". She didn't ask for it. She, like most little girls, probably wanted to swim and eat ice cream and play go fish and sit on someone's lap and read a book.

Now people are screaming about how our justice system has failed us. Wondering exactly what case those jurors heard, because what we saw on cable news seemed to point to no other logical conclusion but guilty. Let me just say this clearly, I think her mom was involved in her death. I think that based on the deluge of information I've read and seen. My "verdict" isn't even remotely based on only the information presented in the trial. I don't know the details; I don't know if she meant to do it or not. She says it was an accident and there was no one else saying they saw that it wasn't. I do think there's more to the story than either side showed. I'm neither fair nor impartial. I'm a tainted juror because I listened to more than our judicial systems allows. Therefore, I could be absolutely wrong.

Here's the thing, whether we like it or not, the only information those jurors were privy to was what was presented in that courtroom. They didn't hear Nancy or Dr. Drew or anyone interpret what they heard. Because let's get real folks, that technical physical evidence stuff bored the hell out of me. I can't begin to understand it. It seemed on every cable news show we heard "expert" after "expert" and a line 50 deep of attorneys explaining to us what we really heard. What we should have heard. What they wanted us to hear. It seemed the more face time those folks got and the louder they shouted for justice, the softer Caylee's voice became. But those jurors perhaps had the advantage there. It was quiet where they were and all they were allowed to hear were those voices speaking for and about that dead child. They had nothing else to do but listen to that.

How do we really know what we would have thought, having been closed away for a month? Not reading the news. Not seeing Nancy's rage and furor. Not watching every little facial twitch of Casey and having body language experts tells us what they say we were really seeing. What if we'd only listened to what was actually said by those people called to tell us their best version of what happened to that child? What if all the sensationalism and white noise was blocked out? How can we know what we'd have done?

Lid believes it's pure common sense. This happened and Casey did this, it's obvious. I see that. Common sense does seem to point to the fact that her mommy brought that child into this world only to take her out of it a few years later. But the jury wasn't instructed to use common sense. The jury wasn't instructed to use their hearts. They weren't to look at those videos of a smiling, loving child and see their child. They weren't instructed to look at that Mother giving her daughter airplane rides and assume that a mother's love could keep her from doing the unthinkable. They were instructed to take what they had learned in court and the rules of law and see where those two things met.

Perhaps their intersection, their truth doesn't match yours or mine. Do I think people watch too much CSI and assume that all cases must be that clean-cut, that perfectly proven in an hour? Yes, I do. I also wonder what if it had been a father accused of this crime.  Would he have been convicted? What if it were some poor, alcoholic mother? Would she have been convicted? Can justice really be blind if the people meting it out aren't?

It's certainly not perfect, and we don't all always agree on the outcome, but our judicial system is still a beautiful and strong gift our Forefathers gave us. It's full of moving parts and checks and balances and the best attempt at fairness the world has ever seen. A police officer can't say you're guilty and you go to prison. A prosecutor can't say you're guilty and you're put to death. Someone on the street can't simply point you out and say you're who done it and you're guilty until proven innocent.

I think maybe we forgot a bit of that in the feeding frenzy of this case. We forgot to start at a point of innocent and stay their until we had bits of actual proof to move us a step at a time toward guilt. Those twelve people were told to do that. They stood in the middle of a fire storm of emotions and think-so and found more than a reasonable doubt. The very fact that after all the media's shouting and our listening long before a jury was seated, those 12 men and women stood firm and voted their belief that the evidence showed more than a reasonable doubt that things happened the way the prosecutor theorized, is proof the ideal of impartiality and fairness is alive and well.

We don't have to agree with the verdict, but we do need to try to realize the system that has served us so well did work simply because 12 people heard evidence and decided someone's fate. It wasn't the military or the Monarchy or a gang of vigilantes. It was 12 people who gave up their time to keep this big machine moving. Justice cannot fail when the people are truly involved. Even if you think our system was off the rails in this case, think of the hell we'd have without it.

P.S. The folks using this dead girl to further their "agendas" know who they are. And shame on you.  She's a dead child, not a poster child. She deserves some measure of peace.

We've all likely...

2011-06-28T14:18:00.000-05:00

heard of the Golden Rule, yes? To paraphrase, "do unto others what you would want them to do unto you". Seems pretty straight forward. But strangely it's not and interestingly, regardless of its origins, it doesn't have much to do with religion for me. (Sorry Mom) What the hell does it really mean? I think that poor little rule is so frequently battered and misused it's almost lost all weight. Sad really because it is truly golden.

This past weekend at my Faux-tieth birthday party (more on that in the next entry), I had a bit of a revelation about the Golden Rule. I tend to apply it with laser precision, when in fact it's a much broader guideline. You know I hate when I'm wrong, especially when I've been so wrong for so damn long. The Rule is one of the very first values my parents taught me. "Would you want her to do that to you? Then you shouldn't be doing it to her." I hear myself reciting versions of that to my littles.

Let me try to make my thinking clearer to you. I have a dear friend whose husband told her she had gained just a little weight since their wedding. Silly, foolish man. She of course was hurt. He of course was confused. His thinking is the laser beam theory of the rule. If she said that to him, he wouldn't be upset.  Let's follow that thought. He wouldn't care if what he did unto her was done unto him. Think about how many times you've probably said, "What? Why are you mad? I wouldn't be if you said/did that to me!"

Keep following... Let's say I had an ex-boyfriend who was notorious for not showing up when he said he would and not calling when he said he would. Now he did always have a fabulous excuse for being a bit of a cad.  Not wanting to be a nag because I myself don't like to be nagged, I didn't say much. That is until it built to the point where I couldn't take anymore. I'd worried and been embarrassed enough by his behavior that I had to freak out. It wasn't entirely about the not calling or showing up, it was about his utter lack of concern for my feelings. It was how it made me feel taken for granted. Like he knew no matter how thoughtless he was, I'd stick around.

I do believe that when he said he'd show up, he had the best of intentions. I don't think he purposely set out to piss me off or worry and confuse me. When I finally did freak out, guess what he said? "What? Why are you mad? I wouldn't be if you didn't call. No big deal." OK. That seemingly follows The Rule. He's not doing something to me that he wouldn't want done to him. Huh.

Here's the thing, my friend would never say her husband had chubbed up. I'd never fail to at least text if I was going to be a no-show. Of course, I've made the man the bad guy in these examples. It could easily be me. I've inadvertently said things about how Big D is the best driver I know when a fella I was riding with had a near miss in the car.  I've maybe referrred to how handy my dad was around the house when some beau was unable to fix something for me. If someone said those specific things to me, I wouldn't blow up. But to some guys, that's pretty damn hurtful. (Also, never point out the thinning hair or the saggy ass. They have their physical vanities too.)

The problem I have is I'm applying The Rule too finitely. I need to step back and view the picture as a whole. I need to figure out the way that rule should be used in relation to the stuff that comes out of my mouth. Here goes: I simply wouldn't want someone doing or saying something to me that would cause hurt or confusion or worry, so I'm going to do my very best to not do it to them. People don't want to be taken for granted or insulted; I don't want to be taken for granted or insulted.  I need to go first and not do it to them. Just because I wouldn't find something hurtful doesn't mean the person I'm saying it to wouldn't.

I'm so guilty of focusing on what's right in front of me that I forget to zoom out and take a look at my behavior and words and its effects on others in the larger landscape. Maybe I do it because managing the tiny stuff is simpler. Maybe I'm too busy being pissed about the minutiae of what I think is being done to me to pay much attention to what I'm doing. Crap.

There are some folks who apply it so thoroughly to their lives they become door mats. I believe one can be so absolutely selfless and thoughtful that they are taken advantage of. They are always thinking about how what they are doing positively impacts others. That doesn't seem like such a bad thing, but I think it an extremely rare person who can keep up that kind of pure altruism while having no expectations of reciprocation without eventually feeling some resentment toward those who seem to only take.

There are also those who are determined to find a slight and a hurt in every word or deed. You know those people. They're the ones who get a puss on if you compliment someone's new hair cut in front of them, because you didn't say anything about their same-haircut-having-for-20-years-hair. The "what about me?!" mentality. They are a no-win, so it's best to just not play.

Even the most patient and magnanimous person has limits. We'd all do well to not push too hard, to realize folks have a threshold of emotional pain beyond which a quick "I'm sorry" can't fix. Those kinds of people often slowly but surely reach a point where they simply can take no more and just get done doing for you or putting up with your thoughtlessness. I eventually got done with the no-showing guy. It took too long for me to do it, but I did. He kind of made it easy, actually.

I know rules are made to be broken and there's always an exception to every rule. Looking for a loophole in the Golden Rule will just cause a lot of hell. And is that really what you'd want done unto you?

Hellooooo....

2011-06-20T13:47:00.001-05:00

... summer! Why you gotta be so damn hot? The official start is tomorrow, but summer seems to really begin when the kids are out of school.

Remember when you were a kid? Summer had a feeling to it, didn't it? If I sit really still, sometimes I can still feel it. It's a sense memory. I feel it when a hot breeze lifts my hair ever so slightly or I smell the chlorine of a pool or hear the sound of a lawn mower waking me up on a Saturday morning. OK, that last one isn't so great. It's all in there, that summer happy place. Remember?

It was never too hot to play outside. Remember the sound of the screen door banging when you ran out in the morning with your piece of toast headed on one adventure or another? Which was usually quickly followed by, "DON'T SLAM THE DOOR!" or "SHUT THE DOOR!"

Swinging on a swing just to cool yourself off with the breeze your own little self made. Reaching your toes as far as you could to try and touch the ends of the tree branches. Riding your bike so fast all you could hear was the wind in your ears. Letting go, arms stretched out, head thrown back, looking silly and not caring.

Having to be reminded to wash your hands before you half sat on a chair to inhale a sandwich at lunch, crust on because otherwise it was wasteful. "Slow down! You'll make yourself sick. Don't talk with your mouth full!" The stain left on your face from drinking lukewarm Kool-Aid. Mmmmm grape.

Pretending sticks were fishing poles and catching wet leaves in a mud puddle. Smashing crawdad holes. Catching lightening bugs and putting them in a jar not thinking for a second how icky they smell. Mosquito bites on the top of your knee itching you to distraction. Walking barefoot across the grass and the rocks and not flinching, that is until you stepped on a honey bee. Baking soda mixed with water took the sting out, because the grown-ups said so and you believed them. Watching your footprints disappear on the sandbar at the river. Running through the rows in the corn field, playing hide-and-seek.

The smell of sunburned skin that quickly turned into a tan. Not realizing your scalp was burned at the part in your hair until your mom dragged a brush across it after your bath. Pony tails and buzzed heads and not caring if your curls were frizzy.

Softball games with your cousins. Lemonade from a pitcher making your hands and somehow your arms all sticky. Homemade ice cream that melts faster than you can it eat. Hummingbirds eating out of Grandma's feeders. What was in those things? Playing in the pump at my aunt and uncle's house. Drinking from a garden hose and yelling at the kid in front of you to not to get his mouth cooties on it.

A fan in the window doing nothing more than making sound and pushing the warm air around, no matter what your dad claimed about cross-ventilation. Crisp, clean sheets that had flapped on the line smelling of sunshine and heat. T-shirts to bed instead of pajamas. Your parents' cool kiss on your sweaty forehead.

Spending the night at Grandma's, eating root beer floats and butter bread. Hearing the wind chimes stir seconds before feeling that "heavenly breeze" as Grandma called it. Playing in her sandbox made of an old tractor tire. Sitting outside on her porch swing in your nightgown listening to the crickets and frogs try to out sing each other. The sound of the chain on the swing making the perfect rhythm to lull you into the peaceful sleep of childhood.

This is the summer I know from when I was a kid. I'm sure you have an entire list of things you know about yours. The further we get from it, sometimes the harder it is to see. But if you're lucky, you get to hear a little voice wistfully saying, "Oh I love summer. I wish it could last forever." Even though it can't literally because school will start, bedtimes will get earlier, we know the secret that our childhood summer always exists in our memories and it's real and tangible no matter how old we get. But while they're actually living their childhood summer, for as long as they can they'll do what we did... play like hell.

You know

2011-06-14T15:40:00.002-05:00

... no story is really ever your own. When you tell something, it always involves others, even if it's just in the peripheral. Because we are all members of families and communities and friendships, our lives and our stories impact others. So telling you about me is by default telling you about them. That's a hell of a lot of responsibility.

My sister will let me know when I write a story about my childhood (which is really "our" childhood, mine overlaps hers) where my recollection doesn't match hers. I understand and appreciate her doing that. But I don't always change what I write to reflect how she saw things happen. See, what I write here is through my looking glass. To change it means to change what I feel is my past, my story, and I can't quite bring myself to see things differently. I know that my memory is certainly flawed. Things age and soften and sometimes become more bitter or more sweet. Here's the thing, my putting my memories down the way I saw them forces her to see things differently, perhaps influences her perception of her past. That's really not fair. I hope she discards things that don't match her remembrances. I wouldn't want to be responsible for rewriting someone's history.

Believe it or not, I haven't begun to tell you everything about me. Sometimes I feel the weight of what I'm doing here in my cute little blog because it can directly involve others. Don't get me wrong, I don't think this is some important piece of literature or full of life changing words. What I do think is that words mean something. And if those words are about you or touch you, they mean even more.

To tell you about the time I was pregnant is to tell you the story of someone else's child lost. To tell you about exactly how less than privileged I grew up is to tell you how my brother and sister grew up. To tell you about being bullied in high school is to tell you about a bully, who is likely a very different person now, whose hurts I could only begin to imagine. To tell you about having my heart broken is to tell you about the boy who did it. That would be me telling you our story without his interpretation of events, rendering him defenseless. (Boy would I like to do that sometimes.) To tell you about someone I hurt is to expose their pain. I can change the names, but if you know me, it's pretty easy to guess of whom I'm writing.

If the person next to you suddenly gets naked, unless you want them to be naked, you start getting really uncomfortable. I worry about where the line is between my creative freedom and others' right to privacy. I often feel I'm walking that line in four inch heels.

Oh, writing about my girlfriends is easier. I imagine what I wouldn't want told about me and don't tell about them. I have friends who have things going on in their personal lives that might break you or me. That's absolutely their stories. I'm in the background of it. I hope I'm at least a supporting character.

It just goes to show that you never really know someone's life, no matter how close you are to them. We all hide a bit from people. No matter how much we trust a person, no matter how much our lives are intertwined, I think we always hold a bit of ourselves back. Perhaps out of shame or fear. Perhaps because whatever it is that we're hiding changed us so profoundly that we feel saying it out loud will break that wound open again, and we simply couldn't bear that pain. We lived through it once, so we shouldn't press our luck that we'd make it again. Maybe what we're holding back is something that's so perfect and lovely that we feel we give part of it away if we tell anyone. We're afraid that someone's careless or innocent remark will effect how we feel about that bright shiny piece of joy, will tarnish it a bit, will change our story of it.

I've heard much about living our authentic lives, being our authentic selves. Living with no regrets. Geez, that sounds awesome. But the reality is in the middle of the night when we can't sleep, when we're overwhelmed, when we're embarrassed or broken only we can take care of us. We can share our joy, but no one else can truly be in it with us. No one ever feels what we feel.

One thing I came to learn when my dad was sick was that many people had been through the place we were headed with him. I knew this because I heard a lot of "I know how you feel." Being young and angry and selfish my brain would scream "F**K YOU! You can't possibly know." Truth is, they didn't. They were well meaning, but they only knew how they felt when they went through it. No one knows how someone feels, because no two of us are alike. We're all similar, we're all equal, but we're all ultimately alone.

I wonder why we're more apt to share our happy than our sad. When I'm hurt or damaged, I hide. I'm so far inside my head what's happening around me seems to move back to where I almost can't touch what's right in front of me. When I'm happy, when I feel relief, when I get good news, I can't wait to tell people. I will drive them nuts with my good fortune or my accomplishment or my good hair day. I wonder why I can't give more than just a shallow glimpse of the bad.

Sometimes people that I love will blurt out what's gnawing away at them. Truthfully, that last sentence is about me too. Even as we do it, we toss a joke in at the end to soften the blow. We try to laugh about it. You can see or feel us pulling back, withholding the core from you. Sometimes I think we give a little peek at our pain to others so they don't think they are causing it. Or if we love them and they are who's causing the hurt, we give them enough for them to stop, but not enough to hurt them back. We try to make you feel better about our feeling bad. You know you do this. I know I do this. To be that vulnerable leaves you open to more pain, we just can't trust that it could help heal us. At least that's how I think. I think to tell someone what hurts me is to give them a map to how to hurt me more.

I wish I could find a way around all this. But I think it's human nature, to protect and keep those things we hold dear close, our wounds and our triumphs. Exposing either feels like we're betraying our inner selves. We never really trust anyone to not wield our secrets as weapons, to not be jealous of our joy and try to darken it even inadvertently, to not take some pleasure out of our pain thereby adding to it.

If you're reading this and think I'm telling your story, you're probably right, because isn't this all of ours? If you've found a way to not feel what I've written here for the love of Pete bottle it and start selling it. Hell, I'll be first in line.

Crazy is...

2011-06-13T13:52:00.002-05:00

... in the eye of the beholder. No more obviously than when it applies to your extended family. I had a family reunion this past weekend. I know, I've had a hell of a lot of family togetherness lately. A lot. Yep. The thing about families seems to be that you love them, but they're crazy. Nothing like bringing generations of people together just to show you how far back that crazy goes.

My Uncle Don and Auntie Pam were kind enough (evidence of their crazy) to rent Tami and Ryan Michl's lodge in the J.C. for the Turner Family Reunion. Turner being my grandma's maiden name. It's actually located very close to where my Grandma Elsie's family lived when she was young. My Great Aunt Eileen still lives near there. It's not only close to Rose Hill where I grew up and where my Grandma lived my entire life but also close to where my dad was born and died. It's the only place that feels familiar to me. Familiar in a way that pulls at me as I near it. My edges seem a little fuzzy, because they're running into my history; my family's history. There's an ever so slight tug at my psyche and my soul that tells me these places are a part of me.

The lodge is located on what we used to call "The Poor Farm". Depending on where you're from in the J.C., you probably still call it that. Places, like people in a small town are always what or who they were. Where I'm from, we don't give directions using house numbers and street names. I was double checking with my brother that I knew where I was going Saturday night and the conversation went like this, Me: "It's on the poor farm, right?" Him: "Yes. You can go through Newton and turn by where the Barkley's used to live." Me: "I thought I'd go through Gila. River out?" Him: "No. Go like you're going to Grandma Huber's and go past the Miller's. Past that creek that washed the truck away once. Top of the hill across from house that had the mean dog." Me: "So, the poor farm?" Him: gives me annoyed look.

When I think of my family and extended family, I see them as concentric circles. Sorta like a target. The further out you move, the more people are included, the thinner the familial bond becomes, and the odder the people seem to become.

When you take a look at the next ring of family outside the immediate, that's when you start to notice, not all these folks are the same. You have the ones who try too hard and end up making everyone uncomfortable. You have the ones you hide from because they're just too much... loud or huggy or annoying. The further the circle widens, the more you start to be a bit scared of what's swimming around in your gene pool that you're unaware of. You start to wonder if there are places where your family tree failed to fork.

You know, I love my family. The cat in a bag crazies and all. Sometimes especially the crazies; they make great stories. They also somehow, perhaps inappropriately, bond us. My Auntie Pam is an expert at letting her nieces and nephews and her own kids dangle a bit when cornered by the nosey old people or the annoying younger people, but then swooping in to save us. "Lisa, come help me." And I'm saved from again trying to explain who my mom is and where my kids are. Auntie Pam is my uncle's wife. I've never not known her. I secretly don't mind helping clean up after lunch if Aunt P is there. We're like co-conspirators. Bitching about the people who always somehow seem to slip away when it's time to clean. Trying to figure out why on Earth someone thought it made sense to bring a gallon of pea salad. Her telling me to "f**k off" when I stick her with having to dry dishes with an extremely annoying cousin. Everytime we do this for and to each other, I love her a bit more, because we're stuck there together.

Dan, Pam's and Don's son, was driving down with his new wife Julie and their kids. Julie grew up on a farm in northern Illinois. I love her. She's good people. She told me that she was from a small town, too. A small town of 5000 people. So J.C. is probably like another planet. She said that as they passed my grandma's Dan said it was starting to feel like home. And when they turned off the highway onto the Rose Hill blacktop, Dan told the kids "Well, we're headed out to the country now!" Julie's response was that they had BEEN in the country already for 3 hours. It's all about perspective. Dan and I grew up in Rose Hill, which to us is a town. The country was out where houses were a mile apart. Where in the summer you can't see the neighbor's because the corn is too tall. To Julie, anywhere you can name everyone who lives in your "town" is the boonies. Dan and I sat and named everyone in "town". Funny how we sometimes don't really see something until we look at it through someone else's eyes.

Syd - because she's cute

I ask myself why we all go, my cousins and I. Really. We don't have to. We're grown. But we do it because we respect all those that came before us. Ruby, Don, Harry, Bill, Elsie, Elza, Everett. The ones who are there and the ones who are long gone. Only their shadows remain. In the laugh that sounds like my grandma or the nose that's been passed down through generations whether we like it or not. Eventually, your center ring disappears you know, and you have to count on those overlaps, those further out to remember where they started, where their original home was, where you took up space. Because without knowing the middle, I often can't really understand where some of you came from.

It's all a matter of perspective. Beauty and crazy both I suppose. How you see your family, the concentric circles expanding to include more people and getting further away as they go is a matter of who you are inside that first circle. Here's the thing, even my circles are a matter of perspective because everyone has their own, because their middle, their home, is different. They start with someone else next to them. As the circles widen and ripple out, they begin to overlap. Like throwing rocks in a pond. I'm in someone else's third ring. Maybe I'm the fourth cousin they hide from. Maybe they feel cornered by me. Maybe, gasp, I'm the crazy family member their first and second rings shake their heads at each other and talk about.

Gosh I hope I am. I hope some of those other circles sat around and discussed how odd Elsie's kin are, like Addie and Alison and I did last evening about "the others". I hope those people find us all interesting enough to try to decipher. Because really, you don't talk about the average, you talk about the freak show. And being part of a freak show family is hell, but it's never average.

Freaks

A short little...

2011-06-10T11:21:00.001-05:00

... post today. Because it's my blog and I have a little hell in my head right now.

You know the perception of a group of women is that we tend to be catty and backstabbers and at times downright freaking mean. We compete on shallow levels with each other and gang up on each other and are just not nice girls in general. I see where that can be true. All you have to do is watch a couple of episodes of "Real" Housewives of anywhere and you can see that. Hell, I've experienced it in my "real" life.

Here's the thing about those kind of women... they really aren't friends. They don't have that deep thread of love and respect and soul sisterhood that it takes to make a true female friendship. The truth is, women don't trust each other easily. Oh we do lots of "hi how are you, how are your kids, did you hear about so-and-so" stuff. But the realness, the bleed for each other stuff, takes time and loyalty and proof of connection. The real is harder to get to.

Women as a rule come together when one of us is pushed. Think about that. Even women who don't agree with each other, even women with opposing opinions and beliefs and agendas will jump to each others' defense simply because we share a fundamental bond of sisterhood. If you attack a woman, physically or verbally, simply because she's a chick, game the hell on. Hell hath no fury, right?

Now push one of our soul sisters and all you'll see are claws. We'll circle our dear friend and we will push the f**k back. If one of our true girls is sad or hurt or scared, we'll circle her too and push in so that she can use our strength until hers returns.

Sometimes I forget how warm and safe that circle of girls can be. Even if it's just me and one other of my true friends, it's impenetrable. Today I was reminded that women carry the world. And if you need it, we'll help carry yours. Whether that circle is facing out to protect or in to support, it's beautiful. Because even in our weakest moments, even when we feel like we're unable to move, we know that inside us is everything we need to make what has to happen, happen. We know there's at least one woman who'll hold our hand while we find our way out of the hell.

P.S. Thanks to my guys who help fill out my circle of friends. You're not so bad...for boys.

I'm feeling a...

2011-06-09T13:13:00.002-05:00

... bit annoyed today. Hell, I'm a lot annoyed today. A friend poked me with a stick this morning until I decided to write this. Or perhaps I'm just hormonal, like women tend to be. You know, hormonal meaning weaker and more emotional meaning flawed.

I think we all play roles in life. All sorts of outside factors influence that. How you were raised, where you live, education, economic circumstances, religion, etc. How much of who we are comes from inside us, really? Add on top of that list gender. Are women more emotional because they are women or because that's what society has taught them? Are men more likely to believe they are right because they are hardwired to be arrogant or because society has encouraged them to be emboldened?

When I was a kid, I'd often hear parents tell their boys to shake it off if they were hurt. Or if someone threw a rock at him, my brother might hear that he should fight back. Little girls were told to be nice and kind. Girls didn't hit, they hurt with words. We'd cry and our parents would say to just ignore it. I can't ever remember my parents telling me to fight back against a girl who said mean things to me. "Be the bigger person. Don't sink to their level." was what I was told.

I've already explained how we baby our boys in our family. If my nephews get hurt or cry, I'm angry at who hurt them or I want to find a way to fix it and make them feel better. If my nieces get hurt, it's a lot of "you're OK" and "you're tough". I wonder when that started to switch. When we started to realize that girls need to be and are as strong as boys. And that maybe it would be good for boys to learn compassion or to consider feelings when doing and saying things.

I think people (men) are under the misconception that women wish they were men. That the women's movement in the late sixties and seventies and hell that still continues even now is about women wanting to be like men. I'll pause while all my girls laugh at that. We don't want to be men. We don't want to be like men. We want to be able to be the very strongest, best person we can be. To attain all thing we are capable of without someone throwing a blanket over our entire gender with the words "emotional and therefore flawed and less than" printed on it.

Most women don't want to be looking up to men as an ideal example of how we need to behave, believe, think, or feel in order to be valued. Nor are we wanting to look down to men thinking that we are somehow what they should aspire to. We'd really just like to be able to look them in the eye and know that the way we got there wasn't because we acted more like them but because we started out on a level playing field. Maybe we took a different path, but it all ended at the same place. The place we wanted to be.

It really is that long-standing question, why is it when a woman is driven she's called a bitch and when a man is driven he's called a success? I can see the converse of that too. Men who are more compassionate or caring are labled as weak. That's no more right than the bitch thing is. We all assume and label and judge based on gender. Less than it used to be, I hope. Are women drawn to certain fields because they are more compassionate and emotional, or have we just been so conditioned by society that there are more acceptable behavior and careers for women that we haven't quite broken through that thinking? I don't know. I have hope that the next few generations will answer that question. That girls will become less pre-destined to do certain things because they're girls and be more able to see that the entire world is wide open to them. Pick a spot and make it your own. I also hope that we allow boys to not feel emasculated by doing and saying and feeling things that traditionally were considered less manly.

I think about "snips and snails and puppy dog tails" being what boys are made of. And "sugar and spice and all things nice" being what girls are made of. My grandma used to say those things when I was little. I observe my nieces and nephews and see that they are all made up of a little of both. Syd's love of worms and all things bugs and Gavin's love of babies. My generation finds that cute and something to remark on. Maybe Gav's and Syd's kids won't think a thing about it, because those gender lines have become fuzzy, like words written in sidewalk chalk.

As Lid said, sprinklers and bubbles are genderless. Kids everywhere, regardless of the roles they are expected to play, love sprinklers and bubbles. I hope that someday jobs and lifestyles are more like that. You like what you like because you like it, not because someone made you feel as if that were your place, your role. But what the hell do I know, I'm just a hormonal female, I better go ask a man what HE thinks.

Oh my...

2011-06-02T12:29:00.000-05:00

... hell. The 13 year cicadas are back. I find them horrifying. Come ON! They have beady red eyes and their little legs are pointy at the ends. Never mind that horrendous noise. Am I the only one that finds it creepy that they are living underground for THIRTEEN YEARS, eating tree sap, just waiting to burrow their way up to the surface to eat and mate like frat boys?

My fear of them is visceral. My fingertips and toes get numb. I'm afraid they'll get in my hair and I'll have to touch one to get it out. I know this is an irrational fear. They can't hurt me, blah, blah, blah. Sarah has a picture of her 2 year old son holding a live one. Obviously, they don't bite. But I can't help it. I fear these critters.

You know I'm going somewhere. Hang on. I'm more afraid of insects that can't hurt me than those that can. A wasp landed on my sunglasses, and I didn't flinch. I can kill a spider, no problem. But a butterfly or a cicada or a moth or a mouse makes me feel panicked. So these damn cicadas have me thinking about some things. Here comes the point of this...

Imagine if you'd been hibernating for 13 years. How entirely different things would seem. First, I'd be seriously pissed that I went underground a 27 year old and came back up almost 40. There's the practical, maybe a house was built over you, so you can't get out. Babies were born, people like Kate & Mike and Randy & Shannon have been married for 10 years. Our country was attacked by terrorists and we're fighting two wars. We have a black President. Cell phones, email, Al Gore's internet, iPods, iPads, Glee, the wrinkle above my left eye. All this stuff would be new to us.

I wonder if we'd think the world better or worse. Both, as is the usual answer in cases like this. Cell phones and the internet have made it easier to keep in touch. I think they've made friends and extended families closer, but perhaps immediately families further apart. AIDS is not curable, but at least treatable. It was a death sentence the last time those little bastards were above ground. There is still war, famine, inequality, rape, murder. There's still plenty of fear to go around, rational and irrational.

Is there more joy? More peace? More happy? I'm thinking those questions are personally subjective. The world can be falling down around you, but one can still find a piece of peace. Remember, babies were still born on 9/11. And how many times have you laughed through tears? I know the opposite is also true. Things can seem to be running smoothly, and yet there's one little thing nagging at you. You feel like compared to others your life is beautiful, but you can't quite get over that little voice saying "yes, but what about...."

Here's the thing, compared to others is where the problem begins. We just can't do that. Good or bad. It's never ending. You lost your job, at least your house didn't burn down. Your house burned down, at least you're healthy. And on and on. But the worst thing that happens to you is the worst thing that happens to you. It's like a form of reverse bullying, really. We have to put ourselves down because the bad that's happening isn't as bad as someone else's. Get it? We remind ourselves of how bad others feel so we don't feel good. Or if we have some joy, we feel guilty because someone else is having a hard time.

Sometimes it's OK to see the storms all around you and stand in your calm life and be grateful without feeling guilt. It's right to feel the warm sun while others are fighting the wind. All things ebb and flow, yes? You get and you lose. So what's wrong with being happy in the getting while you have a chance? You need to believe, to know, that you having something good is not causing someone else's bad. Now, I know it does seem that one person's misfortune can positively impact someone else's life. But instead of seeing that as unfair, maybe we could see it as the bright spot in an otherwise muddy pool.

Quick example? Contractors and construction workers in Joplin are going to be very busy rebuilding that town. They'll be able to provide for their families, pay their mortgages, feed their kids. Did the contractors and construction workers cause that tornado? No. Are those workers benefiting from that storm. Absolutely. Should they feel guilty? Absolutely not. Why? Because they didn't cause the storm. I doubt they sat at home and wished over a hundred people dead and homes destroyed so they could make money. I bet they are heartbroken for those who've lost everything. Maybe some of them lost everything. But they can go in and because they have the skills necessary, they can help those people start a new life. Of course they are getting paid for it. They should. They're providing a service. They're likely contributing to the local economy. Shouldn't something good come out of it? Or should we all just say a bad thing happened there, so no one better try to find any good.

You know what? Sometimes it's OK to stand in the middle of your own personal hail storm and say "why me?". To curse and be angry and hurt and jealous because you can't believe this is your life. To find it unfair and wrong. To wish you could trade places with anyone else. It's OK to do that, I think, as long as you eventually are smart enough to come in out of it. To wallow and fret and fear and rage until it becomes obvious you need to do something else. I have friends I've seen do this very thing. I have friends doing it right now. And it is a marvel.

Just like those terrible cicadas are a marvel. Nasty little freaks of nature. They know by instinct what to do. They know how long to be underground. They know to come to the surface, eat, mate and then die. That's their life. Huh. I wonder if they are comparing themselves to a house cat. Pampered, fed, loved, getting to live a long and happy life while the bugs are hiding underground. Doesn't seem very fair, does it? But then again, most house cats get fixed, so no nookie for them. That sounds like hell. Yea, I bet those cicadas think they have it really good compared to a cat. That is until the cat eats them.

This girl...

2011-05-26T13:09:00.001-05:00

knows she's lucky as hell. Why? Oh lots of reasons. I have health, a home, love, enough (too much!) to eat. You know, the usual stuff we all take for granted.

There are things I really take for granted that aren't life or death. Things like liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Things like a driver's license, a voter registration card, being able to be seen in public without a male escort. Things that I by no means earned; things that by chance I was born into.

Think about this, because I was born in 1971 in this country, a little white protestant heterosexual girl, I've never known what it was like to not see women be able to vote or drive cars. I never gave going to the church of my choice a second thought. I've never been discriminated against based on the color of my skin or my sexual orientation. I'm not responsible for any of those things, yet I've enormously benefited from them.

Being female, even in this amazing country can still be a bit disadvantageous. Nothing like it was. Nothing like other countries.  Change any one of those other variables that describe, in the barest of terms, Lisa and my life gets infinitely harder. Change my skin color, or my religion, or the fact that I'm a big fan of man parts, and you change a lot. Seriously. Seriously sad.

One of the first decisions made about me when Rena was carrying me was that I'd be a girl. It's a matter of chromosomes. I'm not, in this entry anyway, discussing the mind-body connection. Whether genitals make you male or female or if it's something inside your mind and spirit that determines that. Right now, I'm talking about being born and a doctor taking a peek to see if you're an innie or an outie and putting it on a birth certificate. Because, living in this beautiful country, that's almost become simply a way of determining which pronoun to use, he or she, not determining how you live your life.

We're so damn lucky to be born here and now. If I'd simply been born 51 years and 3 months earlier, I wouldn't have been able to vote. Wow. Women who were alive when I was born were denied the right to vote. My grandmother Evelyn, who was one of the smartest women I've ever known, was born when a woman's voice had no value. Boy, I bet that pissed her off.

You know I'm heading somewhere. This morning, I switched pocketbooks (what I like to call my wallet -- it's sounds more interesting, yes?). I moved my ATM card, a credit card, $26 in cash and my driver's license to the more summer looking one. There are countries where I'd have nothing to move. If I tried to get one of those things, I'd be arrested. If I tried to register to vote, I'd risk being jailed. Or worse. Since I'm not married, my brother would be in charge of where and when and why I went. I'd need a note from him. My little brother would have to give me permission to travel. Boy would I hate that.

If you're male think about this, your wife, your sister, your mother, couldn't get in the car, pick your kids up at school and take them to their baseball game. She couldn't pick her kids up. If she did, she could be jailed and beaten. Maybe you'd be one of those who did the beating. Dude. How lucky are you, fella, to have been born here and now?

The driving and the voting seem easy enough to solve. I'm neither naive nor silly enough to think there wouldn't be real, tangible challenges for those countries.  I can see initial burdens. Thousands of new women drivers on the road (this would scare Big D for sure) at once could test the infrastructure.   I understand an influx of almost double new voters could absolutely shift power in some of those countries. Maybe it's about damn time power was shifted. Maybe it's about time that when someone took a peek and said "It's a girl!" it was as joyous as it is in my country, instead of a life sentence to be less than.

But I don't think it's about having enough roads or polling places. I think it's about what it's always about... power and fear. If we make someone smaller and weaker than us by denying them rights, mocking them, ignoring them, oppressing them, we see ourselves as better and stronger. The truth is, I feel like I'm better and stronger than those men who make rules that keep women from being liberated. See, I'm not afraid of a girl. They seem to be. They have to beat and belittle and shame women, because they know if they let a woman sit side-by-side with them, those women would be equal to them. Equal in intelligence and strength and love of their country. And to those who keep pushing others down, equal isn't good. They continue to fight equality because they fear what it will look like when those strong, brave women rise up.

It hurts my heart. Because here's what I know it could look like... it could look like us. It could look like this country and many, many others who have decided that whether you're called him or her is simply a matter of grammar. It's perhaps the first piece in your story, but it ain't the entire book. To women born in those oppressed societies, that tiny little pronoun, she, writes her entire story of lesser human.

We're not there yet; we're not perfect. We still discriminate based on religion and sexual orientation and disability and economic circumstances and a myriad of other things. Just because I don't feel them doesn't mean they aren't happening. There is still subtle gender discrimination. Make no mistake, men are not immune to being discriminated against, so let's not pretend we women have the market cornered here. We've come a long way, because we no longer make laws based on whether you're a double x or an xy. He or she is simply a descriptor, not a definition.  Women who fought and men who were open-minded made that happen. Men and women, doing what needed to be done. That's really something.

Today, I'm going to thank my lucky stars that I'm me. Definitely and sometimes defiantly woman. Able to pursue life and liberty and happiness, without having to have a permission slip from my brother. He has 5 kids, three of them girls, so you know he's too busy for that nonsense.  His three girls are lucky too. Beautifully oblivious to the hell that they were spared simply because of when and where they were born.

The kids' table...

2011-05-23T11:38:00.004-05:00

or the adult table? What the hell does it take to sit with the grown-ups, and do you really want to? This may come as a surprise, but I attended a wedding this weekend. That's four family weddings in six months. We all promised my Uncle Don that no one will get married for a year. Considering those unwed are Addie, Josh, Matt and me, I think we can keep that promise.

The wedding was that of my cousin Jane and her fiance Billy. It was beautiful and touching and oh so happy. Jane is one of the strongest people I know. She definitely has been sitting at the adult table for a long time. I'm going to briefly tell you why and then move on, because dwelling on it takes her wedding in a different direction than the one she so successfully went Friday night.  When Jane was in her early twenties, Jane's mother Judy died of pancreatic cancer. While preparing to leave for her mom's funeral, her dad Bruce's heart gave out. I know. Wow. She's an amazing teacher and the kindest most lovely woman you could meet.  Her parents were funny and sweet and loved her and her brother to distraction, so it's easy to see where Jane got it. The girl can also shake her ass.

While at Jane's wedding, my new cousin-in-law Julie and Addie and Alison and I were discussing what it takes to make it to the adult table. We were joking that somehow Dan and Julie were sitting with all the grown-ups and I, 40 years old-almost, was still with the kids. But wait, none of us are really kids. We're all living on our own, taking care of ourselves. Some of us are raising kids, we have jobs, electric bills, dishes to do. As Addie said, she drinks coffee in the morning and watches The Today Show before work and when she was little, that's what being an adult looked like.

Since my grandma is dead, my mom and her siblings are now the top rung of the generational ladder. And we cousins are in the spot that our parents occupied. Second in line. Yet none of us feel as mature as our parents appeared at our age. So, was it all appearances? Did they internally still feel like teenagers?  Julie wondered if you don't really feel like an adult until there is no one left above you, until you are the generation at the top. I think she may be onto something there. When there's no one to catch you, necessity makes you mature. You're it. Yikes.

The thing about the "kids' table" is the adults always somehow manage to move their chairs over to it. Auntie Ruby is checking in to make sure everyone has what they need and just listening. Uncle Don is always gently prying information out of his nieces about our lives. He gets us to talk about things we didn't even realize we needed to talk about and makes us laugh about how dramatic we are. Uncle Harry is forever scolding us about what we are or are not doing that he thinks we should be. One thing I did notice was that we kids now go sit with the adults, too. We feel comfortable doing that. We're not afraid we'll be told to get back in the other room. They want us there. They trust us not to spill stuff or throw a fit. So, are they starting to see us as adults? Or do we see ourselves that way, so we feel more comfortable taking a seat at the big table? (I think Dan is just sitting there to suck-up to Ruby. She was my aunt FIRST!)

Alison has struggled with being our baby. It's a true dichotomy. She loves it, because we all sort of take care of her. But she's tired of all of us seeing her as a little girl. She's married now. She's doing adult things, but sometimes we wag our finger at her. We tell her what we think she should do even if she's not asking. And quite often we use that tone of voice. You know, the spoon full of sugar voice. If I speak slowly and soothingly maybe you won't realize that I'm trying to run your life. She really hates that. One of the good things about this weekend was Alison got to see that even though I'm 39, people sometimes still use that same tone with me. U. Harry not once, but twice chided me for not returning phone calls. He used that voice and I'm pretty sure he even called me "little girl", which makes me want to start verbally swinging. I don't, because I was raised not to. (In the original draft of this blog, I did swing... like a little girl. Crap.)

I still can act like I'm at the kid's table. I don't roll my eyes or yell or tell him to shut up. I just make excuses instead of telling the truth -- I don't call him back because the conversation will be about how I don't call him back! That is improvement, isn't it? But not really adult-table worthy stuff. Yet. Most days I think "someday I'll be an adult" then I bump my head or drop and break something and think, "today is not that day".

Friday at the wedding was not the day.  Alison and I somehow managed to be in the buffet line out of turn. Oops. We skipped to the loo and then came back in time to see our adult table getting in line. So we just scooched in behind them. Upon returning to our table, all the other kids decided they'd go ahead too. OK, this was maybe wrong. We're sorry, Jane. While sitting at the table, the assistant manager realized we had our plates before we should have. Alison kept saying, "Oh no, here he comes." Sure enough, he wanted to know how it happened that our table went before he told us to. Uhhhhh, we don't know. "Where's everyone else?" Uhhhhh, getting drinks maybe? Right at the moment, the other kids came back carrying plates. So busted. Like the adult I am, I told the fellow, "Aunt Ruby said we could!" And he walked away. Having the more adult rung above us is a good thing, because obviously when pressed, we come out acting like kids.

No matter what, we'll always be younger, that's simple mathematics. We'll always be their children, even if we aren't really children. They'll forever being shaking their heads in disbelief at the things we say or the crazy we do. They'll laugh and tell us to watch our language. They'll raise their eyebrows and rub their foreheads when we ask for advice. They'll hug us and tell us it'll all work out. They'll sit next to us quietly when they know we can't find the words and they'll tell us to be quiet and listen when they know they do have the words. They'll always be the adult table and we'll always be the kids because they know we need it to be that way. I hope for a very long time I can look across a room and see their heads shaking and fingers wagging while trying not to laugh at us. The fact that they've already navigated some of the stuff we're just now trying to figure out and are willing to compassionately and sometimes forcefully lead us through it by example means they've earned a table of their own.

Right now, I'm not sure any of us kids are even fit to clear their table. But we're getting there. They're bringing us along. Sometimes kicking and screaming and sometimes we don't even know it's happening. I have a feeling we'll all pass that on too when it's our turn at the adult table, because we've had such good examples of how to do it. In the meantime, we'll give them hell for being the grown-ups and they'll give us hell for being the kids. And we'll all secretly be happy at our own tables as long as they're right next to each other.

Men...

2011-05-19T15:07:00.001-05:00

... seriously, what the hell? For some reason over the past week I've heard a lot - alot alot - of "boys are so much easier", "you're a woman, you can't help it", "girls are a lot of work". First, how smart is that to say to me? Especially if you're packing around testicles. One great thing about being a girl, you can't kick us in the nuts.

Of course it's easier to be a boy. Fewer moving parts (including a brain sometimes). Less going on internally effecting you mentally. Lucky, lucky you.

We've been here before. Blah, blah, blah, boys are stupid. So are girls. I wish I were one of those infinitely self-assured women. I wish I could look in the mirror and think, "I'm good with that." It's true that women hold more stock in other women's opinions than they do men's. Sort of. If my girls think my bangs are good, that means something. But, sadly, a hundred women saying they like it can be erased by one man whose opinion we value saying they don't.

Now we realize men have their own motivation for offering a negative or even neutral thought about something (we'll get to how truly bad a neutral remark is in a minute). Big D sometimes is absolutely opposed to a dress because it's too short. But, is it too short in the work appropriate way or in a dad way or in a regular guy way? That's usually what I have to ask. And he usually knows exactly which it is.

Here's the thing, a neutral statement is a negative statement. Yes, that's right. I have been told by two men that I have crappy calves. It's really a shame, they say. Before they said that, I never thought much about my calves. I liked them because they were kind of skinny and could always fit into boots. After hearing that, I'm almost obsessively disturbed by my calves. That's likely part of the reason why I wear heels, because I read in Cosmo that will make calves look more shapely. Now, I've been told by ones who know my calves intimately that "there's nothing wrong" with them. "They're fine." Huh. In a woman's mind, that means "I'm not entirely disgusted by them, but I'm not a fan either." See what we do there? Doesn't it sound like fun to have that going on in your brain?

You know this all starts when we are babies, don't you? Think about it. When you see a girl child you coo over her big eyes or her curly hair or her pretty skin. A boy generally gets "such a big handsome boy!" Big is the most important thing one can say about a boy. That's all they need. That seems to carry on into adulthood, too. When men watch movies, they want to see naked women and sex and stuff blowing up. They comment on other women's asses and legs and stomach and rack and everything in between. Women generally don't do that. At least in the presence of men. Think about it. We don't sit around commenting on arms and legs and rears. Men don't get naked in movies, because women generally don't need that to keep their attention.

Women are usually satisfied with what's in front of them. If we're with you, you can count on the fact that we find you sexy the way you are. We're not wishing this was bigger or that was smaller. We're probably wishing you weren't wishing that about us. This hurts us. We can't help it. We want to believe that you can't keep your hands off of us. That you think about how we feel and smell and look and think it's way better than good. Because if we love you, that's what we feel about you.

As a way of giving some direction to men who honestly cannot win because we're very hard to read, here are a few "tips":

Never tell a woman you're sleeping with she's not the prettiest girl you've been with. Extra points off if the girl you think of as the prettiest has the same name as your girl. Then she's not only not the prettiest girl you've been with, she's not even the prettiest girl with her name you've been with.

Never talk to your girl about how much she's exercising. Never ask if she's thought about doing a different form of exercise than normal. She will absolutely read this as you saying she's fat. Period. You can't save this one. The only exceptions to this are if you're worried about her health or you're both crazy fitness freaks.

If you love your girl, lie a little. The length of time it has taken her to get ready is in direct proportion to how good she hopes she looks to you. So, the longer it takes, the more definitive you need to be about how hot she is. The words "Damn baby you look good" will earn you a little extra attention, maybe even in the car on the way home. Conversely, if all you can muster is "You look nice, are you ready to go now?" then we'll spend the rest of the night in an uncomfortable funk. Thinking about how the guy who knows us best isn't impressed by how we look. No road nookie for you for sure. Not because we're mad, but because we feel unpretty. What you think about us means that much to us. That's a lot of power. Wield it wisely.

If she tells you things about her that make her insecure, help her get over it. Women usually don't like to hear they are wrong, but hearing they are wrong about their negative perceptions of themselves is the best kind of wrong they can be. Don't be neutral about it. Be definitive.

While we're at it, girls girls girls, when was the last time you told your fella that he was your strong, sexy, handsome, (big!) guy? I don't think they need it like we do, because they haven't spent their lives hearing about other men's looks or being bombarded by images of what is the ideal. Maybe if they heard it more, they'd think to say it more. And come on, you know your guy is hot.

In their defense (ugh) men are more visual than women by nature. Just look at TV and movies. Goofy, less attractive men are with hot chicks. Usually it's that way in real life too. You rarely see a really good looking man with a less than average looking woman. But you can probably off the top of your head think of couples where the guy for sure married up.

Here's a little secret about we exhausting, dramatic, crazy, hormonal, annoying women -- if you make us feel good about ourselves, if you make us feel sexy and wanted, we'll relax a bit. When we're relaxed, when we feel hot as hell because the guy we love makes us feel that way, that's when you'll get the good stuff. That's when you'll see what crazy can do for you. Trust me when I say it will be worth the hell we put you through.

Some things are...

2011-05-18T12:20:00.003-05:00

... simply not fair. There's no fixing that, is there? Unfair hurts like hell. Lid tells me that one can tell an emotional liberal by those words "not fair". The older I get the less I think about what is fair and not fair, except where it comes to my small people. But fair where a child is concerned should be easy, brainless almost. Three Hershey's squares each. You spend the night this time and you the next. A hug for you and a hug for you. If life were truly fair, it would also be that simple. But it's not fair or simple, is it? It seems that "fairness" leads me to a lot of questions. You'll see.

My blog entry the other day about wanting and if it was OK to want made me think about what and exactly how much I'm taking out of the universe and how much I am or am not giving back. Is there some karmic accountant somewhere deciding if we've taken too much and not given enough? Is someone keeping score about whether or not our lives come out even? Have we given and received in equal measure? What about the stuff we don't have a say in? Like illness or death? Are we sometimes lucky and other times unlucky? If that's the case, how can we be responsible for the tally? I warned you about the questions.

You know this is all coming from somewhere. I have a friend, Jill, who is a life long member of the DPC (Dead Parents Club). She's lost a lot starting at a very young age. Jill also knows she has a lot. A warm, funny, precious (smoking hot!) husband. A perfect, sweet doll of a daughter. So is she now even? Did all the stuff she give as a young girl equal what she got? How the hell do you measure that? WHY would you want to measure that? But then, how can you not? Not because Jill feels like she deserves more than what she has, but because there's always a piece of her that fears that because she has been given much, she has so much to lose.

Jill won't mind me telling you that for right now, she's lost faith. Faith in her higher power. Faith that good things happen to good people. Faith that once you've sacrificed at the alter of lost loved ones, you maybe get a break from it. I understand her loss of faith. I feel it, too. But however much we feel that we have no ability to believe in the unseen, we have to hold onto hope. Hope that we're wrong about miracles. Hope that there is happily ever after. Hope that sometimes things just work out the way we, well, hope they will.

Jill and Eddie were buds. You remember Eddie, right? If not, read here: http://lisasfreshhell.blogspot.com/2010/02/love-can-be.html She lost Eddie, too. Too meaning on top of everything else she'd lost. Ed has a younger brother, who through a miracle of medicine during a pioneering age not only survived a heart transplant, he thrived. Eddie and his family learned how fragile life was. Then they learned about the selflessness of strangers who gave his family that heart. Through that family's loss and heartbreak and what had to be utter despair, they found a way to look out past all of that and see a way to give. They not only gave Ed's brother life, they gave hope and faith. When Ed died, his parents passed that on to someone else. They took that thread of hope and faith and moved it forward.

Now Eddie's family is back full circle. Eddie's niece needs her medications to start working. Or she's going to need a new heart. She's just a little girl. I know what it means for that child to receive a heart. Someone else will lose what they hold most dear in their lives. Someone will lose their child. Damn it. Either way, there will be profound loss. I can think of all the trite phrases that apply "boxed in", "catch-22", "no-win-situation". But the phrase that is screaming in my head is simply, Not Fair. Please let the meds work. Please let the meds work. I hope with every cell in my body for that. Maybe you'll hope a little with me?

Life isn't a novel. It's not a movie. There are no promises that it will end happily, just that at some point it will end. Lovely thought, no? It's the middle that matters. That's what you'll think about when it's done, the in-between part. Whose heart you touched along the way. The compassion and kindness we gave to others. Did we find joy at times? Did we look and see beauty in the common and the uncommon? Did we plant our feet and hold on as tightly as we could to the hope we've been given? Or did we keep score? One for you and one for me. I hope I don't. I have to have faith that when I'm no longer asking what fresh hell is this that I've given at least one more little thing than I took. Otherwise, what the hell is the reason for any of it? And Jill, I have to believe there are reasons to believe in things that are good. Even when you can't see or feel them, those things are there. When you've lost your faith, hold onto your hope.

http://www.donatelifeillinois.org/
http://www.giftofhope.org/

Common sense...

2011-05-16T12:57:00.003-05:00

... seems to be less and less common. What the hell is that about? If you listen to friends' experiences or if you venture out amongst the common folk, it won't take more than a few minutes to realize that lots of people are creeps.

I could go on and on and ON about how some "kids today" have very little respect or consciousness for those around them. Take for example the teenage girl at the airport who while at a very crowded gate took her pillow and stretched herself across five seats with absolutely no thought to the adults standing around her. Not even the pregnant woman standing right next to her. Anytime anyone approached her about sitting up or at least moving her BARE FEET off one of the seats, she would blatantly ignore them. At one point, she rolled over to put her back to the older woman asking to sit down.

How about the kids who expect adults to stop when they are crossing paths. I'm talking about youngsters old enough to know better. You've had to experience this at ballgames or the grocery. You're walking and here comes a kid and they'll walk right in front of you without even pausing, so that you have to stop short. They won't turn around and say "excuse me" or anything. I get kids are self-absorbed creatures by nature, but dang. I bet you were taught to open doors and move and stand and basically get the hell out of the way of adults when you were a child. Some kids seem to believe everyone should accommodate and make their lives simple. Those kids are going to be very shocked and unhappy adults, unfortunately.

But kids haven't cornered the market on being asinine. For example, my friend Kelley was at the gyno the other day and there was a woman with her husband and little kids in the waiting room. Let me tell you, for those of you who haven't experienced it, the gyno is not a good time. It's a must do. I really don't know anyone who is excited to sit naked covered by a too small paper sheet while having an expensive cookie prodding. So, having to wait (always long past your appointment time) with a bunch of rowdy kids isn't fun. And unless you are going for some sort of pregnancy related appointment or because there is the potential of bad news, it really needs to be a solo effort. Sitting in a room with a strange man who knows you're waiting to have stuff inserted in you is a bit twisted. This isn't a porn.

Of course I have some driving-related annoyances. Move into the left lane if you can so people can merge. Seriously, it's a slight adjustment of your steering wheel, BFD. It's farming season and I know they have to be out, but if there is a shoulder, pull off as much as possible when you know you have a string of cars behind you. It's dangerous to let traffic line up, it increases the risk of someone rear-ending you. (My brother drives slow-moving equipment. He moves over, so don't play like you can't.)

When you are in a movie theater, take a look around and notice the strangers. This is how you know it is not your living room. Since it isn't, you shouldn't act like it is. That means you loud guffawing guy behind us. I seriously hope you'd smoked a bunch of pot before the movie to explain laughing over the punch lines. Never mind the guy sitting near Dora and Kelly thinking he was in a locker room. His wife is a lucky, lucky woman.

I went into the ladies' room at the airport and to say there were 20 other open stalls is an understatement. A mommy and her little girl walked in behind me. Cute little girl, maybe 6 or 7 years old. Perhaps TMI or you could think of it as a tip, due to my aversion to public potties, I tend to head to the furthest from the door, it's usually the least used and the cleanest. This darling little girl decided she wanted the stall I entered, and loudly began to demand to her mother that she get me OUT of it, because it was "hers". The mom did give one try to convince the girl to use another and then began knocking on the stall door while I'm unzipping. No. Freaking. Joke. "You know how kids are." "Flying is stressful." "Would you please just switch stalls?" As my friend Kelly says, "F**k a bunch of that." Meanwhile the girl is whining about how it's "HER bathroom" and she "WANTS THAT ONE NOWWWWW!! GET HER OUT MOM!" I'm not making this up.

Now you all know what it takes for a woman to use a public restroom. There's the strategically placing your bag and purse so they do not touch the floor. There's the hovering over the seat; there's the toilet paper that seems to tear off one square at a time. In other words, no matter what you are doing in there, it takes some time. Add to that a grown ass woman being bitched at by her daughter knocking on the door and allowing her kid to stick her head UNDER the stall door to tell me to GET OUT RIGHT NOW STUPID! I honestly wanted to reenact the Christmas Story scene when Santa pushes Ralphie down the slide with his foot.

I don't have kids, but I absolutely cannot imagine letting my 6 year old niece pull that. I can almost feel my hands holding onto her her little arm while dragging her to a different area and apologizing profusely. The thing is, I get that kids have their "moments". Hell, I have my moments. But come on now, there's no way anyone with any common sense thinks that is right. The little girl was just doing what she knows she can do. The mom is going to have lots of self-created hell when this child is a teenager.

How about grown ass people throwing a fit about a flight delayed because of weather? Exactly which airline is in charge of weather? Or the person so important they need to make sure everyone is hearing their cell phone conversation. People who try to step onto the elevator as soon as the door opens instead of waiting for the people to get off. The person who sits right next to you instead of in one the dozen empty chairs available. One who doesn't hold the door until the person behind them can grab it. Or doesn't say thank you when someone does that for you.

I wrote something about this last year and I honestly think things seem to be getting worse. Maybe we all need to check ourselves and see what we're doing that's unkind or thoughtless. Maybe we need to ask ourselves if we're teaching the little ones in our lives common courtesy or just assuming they already know. Sometimes I need a reminder. It is a little sad that warmth towards each other is no longer a natural state of being. Think about what's happening around you. Think about how a tiny bit of compassion goes a long way. Oh hell, just think at all.

Need and...

2011-05-14T01:18:00.001-05:00

... want are two very different things. Remember hearing that when you were a kid? You don't need ice cream, you just want ice cream. I've been thinking a lot over the past few days (while stuck at gate B10 waiting for a flight to Indy) about needs and wants. Is it OK for me to want? What is the difference, really, between needs and wants? Exactly what the hell do I want?

While waiting for the delayed flight, I wanted coffee. I was tired and the truth is, I'm a coffee whore. I'm not really sure what I wouldn't do for a cup. The line at the Dunkin' Donuts was freaking long, but I stood there waiting, holding my pink carry-on bag that got heavier by the minute and my purse whose handle had broken at the beginning of the trip. Then the counter worker announced that her manager had logged out of the system and she was not able to ring anyone up. Being told I couldn't have coffee my want immediately became a need. Like an oxygen kind of need.

Here's the thing, we've been taught that we don't get everything we want, the best we can do is to have what we need. But why does want have such a negative connotation? Why do we feel like wanting is bad, selfish or greedy?

We put "need" in front of things like health, shelter, food, air, clothing, water, etc. We put "want" in front of things like security, friendship, peace, love, good sex, and -- the big one -- happiness. Huh? Are we all missing something here? How can happiness or security simply be a want? How can those things be thought of as icing on the cake and not the actual cake? If we have the basics, that's good enough. Asking for more, well that's asking for too much.

Julie C. and I were talking about my list of wants and I had some sort of epiphany. I love Julie. She's always like the hand on my shoulder pressing lightly to move me forward when I need it and resting there to let me know she's with me when I need that. She told me that she's waited over twenty years for me to say I want. She's hoped that at some point I'd feel like I deserve to want. It didn't occur to me until Friday, May 13, 2011 that I've gone all my life trying not to want. Not feeling like I can ask for anything extra. Thinking that what I have, the way things are, should be enough. That if I'm not content in that, I don't deserve more.

Dude. That's something. If you know me, you know this... I'm in my head a lot. I'm up there thinking and analyzing and worrying. I'm drawing lines between things that don't exist. I often hear, "don't take that the wrong way" or "now you're quiet, what's your brain doing with what I just said?" Damn. I am annoying as hell.

I'm forever trying to find exit strategies for the people in my life. I do it much less than when I was younger, but I still do it a lot. I often feel, even when something good is happening, that it's hard to be in the moment because when it's good, I assume it's the beginning of something bad. It's like when my 1 year old nephew is being so good at dinner that someone mentions it, you just know it's jinxed and any minute now he'll start throwing spoons. That's how I feel when something feels good; when I'm getting something I want. I feel like spoons are about to fly. Here's the truly nutty thing, I'm going to take the spoon and throw it myself because I'm thinking I'll do it to me before you do it to me. Somehow that will make it easier to take.

Once again, I'm back to a self-fulfilling prophecy. It's going to happen anyway, so let's just get it over with. In doing that, in behaving like that, in deciding that I'm not going to get what I want, I chip away at it until it perhaps no longer exists. Crap.

We hear how we are supposed to be who saves us. We are the ones who are responsible for our own happiness. That's a lovely thought. But the truth is, others can help make us happy. My problem is I think of happy as a want that can only be fulfilled if I'm content with only having what I need. That if I can't find happiness in having the basics; food, shelter, clothing, I'm not deserving of anything else.

In today's economy, we're somehow ungrateful if we try to have something more than a job, if we complain about the job we have, if we want a job we love. Isn't that sort of like emotional socialism? I have to want less in order to restore balance with people who have less, so everyone is on a level playing field. No one needs more than the next person, so we better not be wanting more, because that just wouldn't be fair. The problem I see with that is what you think of as a need might not be a need for me. Everyone needs security. I'm not disputing that. But does the fact that I have my job mean I shouldn't need anything else because someone else doesn't? (This is obviously for example purposes. I'm grateful to have a job; I'm also very lucky to like my job. I get that.)

Perhaps, we should just adjust our needs list to include some of those wants I listed above. We need love and happiness and peace and even sometimes really good sex in order to be content. We need someone to rub our heads when we're exhausted and can't sleep. We need the kindness of strangers. We need to be helpful and thoughtful. I'm not suggesting our list of needs should grow larger than our wants. Sometimes the best part is the wanting. We can all think of things we thought we had to have that turned out to be just so much bubble gum machine junk when we got them. What I am suggesting is that perhaps the line isn't so clear between the "must have" and the "it sure would be nice to have".

I want to need more, and I need to want more for myself. I'm going to guess you're the same. I want a zero calorie cupcake. I want something that exercises for me when I'm sleeping. I want to magically be good at parallel parking. I'm not likely to get any of those things. But maybe, I can get a few of those new things I added to my needs. Moments of serenity and joy and peace. The ability to not wrestle with the happy I'm holding at the time out of fear of losing it. In other words, I need less hell and more fresh.

Moving on...

2011-05-04T13:33:00.001-05:00

... let's get the hell out of this funk, whattayasay? The sun is shining, it's a good day. Never mind my head is swimming, and I got a rock chip in my window this morning, AND I spilled coffee all over the purple sweater Dora likes, the freaking sun is out. Woo. So, 100th blog, take 2. First, Happy Mother's Day!! I hope you get to do exactly what you want and don't have to clean up afterwards.

One of the reasons I started this blog is because I've always written. I'd love to be writing books as a career. Check out the ego on me, huh? That's a one in a million shot, so writing here gives me an outlet for that. It also does take things out of my brain, so I can see them as they really are. In my case that means much less dramatically. Your response to me is the most learning experience I've had. You've opened my mind in ways you can't imagine.

My dear friend Sarah encouraged me to do this. My friends Julie and Kelly have for years told me to write something. Also, my cousin Mandy who is my calm, quiet encouragement made me think that I could do it. If no one reads it, what the hell, it's free therapy, right? Big D reads every single entry, usually before I post. He's a good sounding board for whether I'm getting across what I intend. He also takes my minor freak outs when he's trying to tell me something isn't clear. It's a little like he's telling me he hates my shoes, so I tend to get really pissed, really quickly.

Usually the entry starts very small. A discussion I've had with my friends, something I've read or watched. I know this sounds crazy, but it almost feels like a pebble in my shoe once the idea is there. It won't let me be until I start to fill it out in my head. Most times, it's like putting the edge pieces of a puzzle together. Little bits and pieces in random order. Then at some point a sentence or phrase will appear from nowhere and I know the tone and build around that. I realize how pretentious it sounds, but that pivotal line is like a light bulb. As soon as it goes on, everything else becomes clear.

Here's the thing I find most interesting, in all the blogs I've written, the part that people respond to is almost never the part that builds it for me. That always sticks the point that communication is what the other person takes from it. Everyone comes to things with their experiences and their values, so what speaks to them isn't necessarily what speaks to me. You know what I mean, you hear a song and absolutely relate to it and maybe your best friend hears it and thinks you've lost your mind? I love when someone makes me see something I didn't even realize was there.

I know it's completely wrong in structure and grammar. I write like I talk, so lots of sentences start with because and but and and. That drives Big D nuts. He also doesn't like when I call you all "guys". Guys are boys in his head, so it makes no sense to say that. Silly, silly, old guy. But thanks to you all for tolerating it.

Without Big D, Kelly, Kelley, Julie, Julie, Julie, Keri, Kira, Cassie, Lid, Mandy, Dora, Jill, Sarah, Rebekah, Colleen, Kate, Holly, Stacie, Sheri, Billie, Betty, Matt, Debbie and the rest of you who read and respond to this, I'd be lost. As dramatic as it sounds, there have been times when you saved me from me. Every girl should get to have their own personal applause box. One that when you open it makes you feel like you can do anything. You all are that to me. Thank you isn't big enough.

The title of my blog comes from a quote credited to Dorothy Parker. She supposedly answered the phone saying, "What fresh hell is this?" She also reportedly asked to have it as her epitaph. I do love a girl with moxie and wit. I picked that because I tend to spend my life waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the next fresh hell. Experience has made me weary and wary of what's around the next bend. But, sometimes because you all are with me, I don't fear it so much. You all help me know I'm not alone in this hell.

P.S. Happy 60th Birthday to Big D on May 8!!! Damn that sounds old. (You know I only say that because I'm pissed that I have more gray hair than you.)