Islands -- The XX

Don't worry, I'm still kicking. In fact, I'm gonna kick until I need new shoes. Speaking of shoes...

Remember Mom's flying nun shoes?

Here's a tip: Don't wear three inch heels to work unless you sit at a desk all day.

I experienced a close talker today. In case you don't know, a close talker is inches from your face, like Joe Biden when he talks to the ladiessss.

This lady was looking for a patent leather clog. Yes, I'm Al Bundy, y'all. Only, when I come home from work, I don't stick my hand in my pants when I sit on the couch. In fact, there's no sitting after work. I continue my real job after I get home from work, and my real job title is Mom. Only you have to say it like Quinn Morgandorfer, "Mah-oooooommmmm." 

Anyway, back to the close talker...So Joe Biden's long lost twin sister comes into the store today looking for a patent leather clog she saw online at Zappos. After I explained that we didn't carry the particular brand she was looking for, she described, in detail, how she had fallen in love with these shoes online. She couldn't sleep over wanting this pair of shoes. Patent leather clogs with ripples. Yes, ripples, all down the top and around the sides. I kept trying to picture these shoes in my head. What color? Ripples? Like the potato chips? I could only picture the rather unfortunate-looking dull, matte red clogs someone had returned the day before. I tried to imagine the red leather as patent with ripples all over it, and only succeeded in picturing what a red patent leather potato chip would look like on a foot.

Aunt Bethany Biden was mere inches from my face as she described her insatiable desire for these clogs. I may not have mentioned it before but I truly value my personal space. I don't want people to stand too close in the checkout line. I don't want you to touch me. And I really don't want to have a conversation with anyone with our faces inches apart unless I fucking love you, or the music is really loud. And even then, I'd rather just lean in just close enough to read your lips.

This lady had no idea what personal space is; it could have been more awkward, I suppose. But only if I had just stuck my tongue out as she got closer and closer to my face and just licked her. But I think licking the customer's faces is frowned upon, although I haven't actually attempted it...yet. We talked for quite a few minutes; she is going to tell her son at Thanksgiving dinner to buy her these shoes online. I encouraged this. Every once in a while a pair of shoes comes along and just speaks to your soul, buy meeeeee. I know, I've heard the tiny screaming of the cute shoes.

And then there are the shoes that are just...ugly. They have tiny screams too, run awaaaay!

Some lady just stopped by to browse last week and when I offered to help her with whatever she might need, she says, "All these shoes are just...well...ugly. I haven't bought shoes here in years because they're all so ugly.

"Oh, I'm 'sorry.'"

So why the fuck do you keep coming here? But I didn't say that. I have gotten very proficient at holding my tongue. I hardly ever say the first thing that pops into my head anymore. But you can bet your sweet ass I'll be thinking about saying it for a good ten to fifteen seconds. People mistake this pause for inattention. But it's just me running a hundred different responses through my mind before choosing, hopefully, the least offensive phrase.

Like Mom said, "It's better to keep your mouth shut and appear ignorant than to open it and remove all doubt."

Jenny -- Nothing More

Maybe Mom had to die for me to grow strong enough to do what needed to be done? Maybe our Mother died and instead of feeling angry toward god I should feel grateful for the lesson. I miss her. We all do. But we can't bring her back.  We can only move forward. As much as I'd like to have her here with me, I know now that surviving her death was what gave me the strength to overcome everything that I face now and will face in the future.

Mom was right. Life isn't easy. And it will never get easier. But it can be better. It's my choice. Every day I get to decide my attitude toward the world. I decide how to live my life. No one else gets to decide that for me.

I am relearning...everything. For too long I have looked to others for the answers, for the way I am supposed to be. All I ever really needed was to just be myself. I know who that is, I have always known it. I just spent this whole time trying to be what I thought other people expected me to be. And now I see that I was wrong. I was unhappy because, in trying to fulfill the expectations of others, I neglected to just be myself. Even now I find myself slipping into that old mentality. And then I pause and reflect on my emotions and I realize that every day I must work toward not letting the past dictate my future.

In the past, I thought that I was always right. Now I know that it's okay to be wrong. It's alright to make mistakes. You just need to learn from those choices instead of trying to justify your actions.

People have suggested that what is negative in my life can be solved by turning to God. Thank you for caring. What I really need, though, is for you to simply let god do the job. I find peace in what I believe. You find peace in what you believe. When I was a child I consistently questioned what it meant to be Christian, what it meant to follow one religion. I continue to learn about all the religions and take from them the positive pieces that seem to be consistent throughout them all. There's nothing wrong with that. And nothing has changed about that aspect of myself since I was young. And that's just how I am. I don't need to explain it. It just is.

Every book I read, person I meet, experience I have is a lesson, a learning experience. I just want to be myself. Don't try to make me explain why, just accept me--or not--and move on. I accept you. I accept that I cannot change you and that I will never truly understand what it is like to be you.

Do you?

Push -- Matchbox 20

I'm a pusher. I push people away. I push people to their breaking points, watch them shatter, and walk away, smiling like the crazy bitch that I am.

Some people know this about me and they push back. They insert themselves into my life and refuse to give up on me or be pushed away. I like those kinds of people, I guess. All the rest just give up too easily. They see me and if I'm having a bad day, or two bad days in a row, they're like "whoa, what the fuck?" But to me it's a test I'm giving you. You don't know you're taking it. Sometimes I'm not even aware that I'm giving it. But later, when you go, I look back and say, "Well, they just didn't pass the test." 

You should cut your losses and be okay with that, if that's the case. I can't be bothered with trying to reel people back in. I push people away, and some stay away. And some keep pushing their way back in, relentless bastards. 

It bothers me when people call me crazy and tell me that I need help. Why? Because I just smile in your face when you try to put me down? Because I laugh at you and agree when you say horrible shit to me? If that makes me crazy, I'll gladly take it. 

Sticks and stones will break my bones,

But YOUR words no longer have the power to hurt me.

People against internet bullying really hate the sticks and stones bit, and I understand that. But there is always gonna be that one asshole that uses all the hurtful words in the world to try and tear you down. You've gotta be ready for that shit when it happens. Because it will. Oh yes, there will come a day that you walk into a room and all the eyes are on you and someone is saying the most horrible things that you could ever dream of about you.

You see, I made the mistake of responding at all. You really just shouldn't respond. It's so much better that way. People don't know what to do with you when you don't respond. It puzzles them. Sometimes it frightens them. And that's just going to have to be okay because, that's what you need to  do. Be like Jesus. Be like SpongeBob. Absorb the blows like a sponge, only don't make that really annoying squeaky sound, because that's a response. And we don't want that.

I'm never going to be whatever it is that you want me to be. And I'm not going to apologize for that anymore. Sure, I will apologize to you when I lose my cool and respond, because usually it's not good when I do. But this is me, Beth The Pusher. Beth the Bitch. Beth the Blank Wall.  

If I've ever lied to you it's because I was scared of what would happen if you knew the truth. Turns out that's my weakness. Trying to keep people in my life when all I really need to do is give them one good, hard push and see if they go. 

If I push you and you don't push back, if I push you and you go, you didn't belong here anyway. And I will have to make my peace with that. It's hard, losing people. It's even harder trusting people. 

This is not an invitation. If I've pushed you away, then I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. If I've already cut you out of my life then no pushing either way is going to get you back in. 

You can call me crazy.

You can call me a life-ruiner.

You can call me a heart breaker. 

But I'm a pusher, I'm going to push you until you break. 

And, if I feel like you need it, I might just help you pick up all the pieces. 

Or I might just walk away and wait to see if you can do it yourself.

Tyler -- The Toadies

Here's a tip: I will not change for you. Or for anyone, for that matter. If I need to make a change in my life I will do it for myself and my kids. I'm not going to ask you to change either. It's unnecessary. Because you're not going to. I know that. Honestly, I don't expect you to.

I'm going to read three or four books at one time and listen to the Meat Puppets regardless of what you think about it. I will work on me, grow as a person, and improve my life one day at a time.

I have an endless capacity for love. I think I told you that. That's the one thing that this world will never take from me. You can take my friends, my cousins, my lover, my mother, but you will never take away my ability to show others love and kindness.

Since Mom died I have struggled with anger. I feel anger toward God because I don't understand his plan. That is my struggle. I accept that. And I also accept that most of you will tell me that I shouldn't be angry with God. But that doesn't really help me. In fact, sometimes I just need a hug. My kids give the best hugs. Because they love me no matter what. They don't care if I have fucked up everything. They open their arms and embrace me with unconditional love. That's all I really need.

Nero loved me like that. He didn't care if I was being a bitch, he'd follow me around everywhere I went waiting for me to reach out and pet his soft ears. He ran away, you know. Last week I had a dream that I went back to my house and there he was, sitting by the back door whining to come inside. "Look who's back!" I exclaimed, and we rejoiced.


People like to think of me as cold and uncaring. I invite that, in a way, I suppose. I don't react the way people expect me to, so they naturally assume that I don't care. People have told me that, quite a lot actually. People that love me have told me so. What I'd like to say is that is your fucking problem, not mine. But I can't act like that either, so I'm told.

When Mom told me she had cancer I had no outward emotional response. Apparently that really bothers people. She said she thought of me as the Ice Princess. To be quite honest, it had never occurred to me to be anything other than what I felt was me. But it bothered her. She told me that I had never said anything like that I was sorry that she had cancer, or shared my feelings. I know if you've been with me since the beginning, that you already know this story. I told her that day on the phone that I was pissed off at God. She made me promise that I would not hate God for what was happening to her. I made a promise that was a lie the moment it left my lips. I did hate God for it. Right or wrong, that's how I felt.

It took me years to realize that I could only feel hate for God because I loved him so. I knew it. But I did not accept that they were two sides of the same coin. I only have the capacity to hate when I have experienced love. There cannot be one without the other. People who have wronged me in my life I have thought back on and said to myself, I hate them. But it was only when I realized that I could only harbor that hatred instead of love that I decided to change the way that I felt about those people. I love them despite their flaws, in spite of their actions toward me, because it is better for me to accept that those people held a place of love in my heart, and that they always will. If I try to hold onto the hate that I might feel, I am only hurting myself. So I let it go. It doesn't make the hurt go away, but I feel better knowing that I can love those who think that they are incapable of loving others in return. I can treat others with respect and kindness when they show me hatred and disrespect.

From the beginning, we have all heard the saying "two wrongs don't make a right." It's true. If you slap me and I hit you back, we both lose. It happened once that a girl slapped my face. And I did the wrong thing. After I laughed in her face and said, "Really, bitch?" I should have just walked away. I know that now. But at the time I let anger control me, rage was my friend, and I smashed my fist into her mouth because she had braces and I knew it would hurt like hell. But I was conscious enough to know that if I grabbed her and put her head through the glass trophy case like I wanted to, that things would go really wrong really fast. I'm sorry. I was wrong. I should have turned the other cheek.

Don't make the mistake of misunderstanding me. I will always defend myself and those who are unable to defend themselves. If your intention is to physically hurt me, how fast can you run? Because, first, you better be able to catch me. And if you do, you better be ready to seal the deal. I am not afraid of pain. I am not afraid that you might hurt me. I am afraid that I will retaliate. So just don't bother, okay? It will not end how you want it to, and when you fight, no one wins--regardless of who's left standing.

I say this only because I have changed. I'm not a hot headed teenager anymore. I'm not going to hit you back. I'm gonna laugh in your fucking face and dare you to do it again. And again.

Do not come to me with your stories of suffering as an argument for me to change my morals. My morals are steady, solidly built in my mind and in my heart. You cannot change them. They will not falter. I will never again whine to you that life is so unfair, that all these things that have happened in my life are someone else's fault. "I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul." And if I do, be kind enough to remind me of my own words. I can only take those stories of suffering and internalize them, I think about your story and try to imagine how you must feel. I am a better person for that. But don't expect me to pull the pity card when you pull yours, because no matter what you have gone through, are going through, or will go through, someone out there in the world is living through the most horrific thing imaginable. Just stop your pity party for one second and consider that. Sit down and be thankful that you are still alive. Be thankful for all the blessings in your life. Because to do otherwise is to tempt fate. You think you've had it rough? You think you have it rough right now? You do. I won't say that you aren't struggling. We all are. Just remember that. We are all suffering. But it could always be worse.

Rebel Yell -- Billy Idol

My Mom is dead. If you've been following along you know this already.

Don't ask me if I'm okay, because I will say yes while thinking no. No I'm not fucking okay. 

For me, Mom was my conscience, my filter, my mentor. Now I'm looking around for guidance and all I really have, all I've ever had are my Family. They're not Mom, of course, but a little spark of her remains in each one of us. And that is what I cherish. 

I'm difficult. I'm an abrasive asshole. I will tell you all the things you don't want to hear. And I have to do it because she's not here to do it. 

Try to make me weak. Try to crush my soul, go ahead. I fuckin dare you. I'm more afraid of my dead mother than I am of any of you assholes. You better hope that when you go to attack me in any way, shape, or form that you take me to my fuckin grave. Because if you don't I will exact revenge. The kind of revenge my Mother loved best: living well and being happy. 

No matter what else happens I will strive to be happy and make the world a better place. I'm gonna do that whether you give a fuck or not. Because that's what Mom would do. 

Most Christian people live their lives by "What Would Jesus Do?" I'd like to challenge that ideal. What would my Mother do??? Exactly what Jesus would do. Motherfucker upended tables and whipped some assholes. Think about that for a while. 

Judith -- A Perfect Circle

Turns out, you can have everything you ever wanted. If you sell yourself to the debil, or as I like to call him, Corporate Entities.

I tried. I really did. But I felt wretched.

How do you sleep at night?

Tell me, won't you, how does it feel to have a lot of money by stepping on someone else's neck to get it? Does it feel good? Do you stay up at night wondering if you're going to end up in the seventh circle of hell? Hmmmm...I didn't think so.

But I've had nightmares.

I don't need to do this.

I would rather be dirt poor and actually helping people than to have lots of money and no soul.

You do whatever you think you have to do.

I'm going to go help people.


I went door-to-door...I know, dark matter Beth met her antithesis and you know what happened? She appeared as several people who had recently lost their parents.

This weekend I talked to a guy who had watched one of his parents die in the hospital for a full week. I thought three days was bad. I also talked to someone who had seen far worse deaths than either of us could have ever imagined. So save your goddamn pity party stories and suck it up, Susan, because there is a lot worse shit that could be happening to you than your iPhone breaking.

There's a reason you meet the people you do in life, and when Homer's eyebrows flew up at my mention of meeting and speaking to a man whose mother had just passed away this May, I heard something inside me, a warning bell so to speak, that had been sounding and hasn't left me alone since I met that guy the other day. This stranger cried openly, tears poured from his eyes as he spoke to me of his love for his mother. I fought back tears and told him to hang in there. Moms are the best, and then I went back to my truck and cried for about an hour, before going to cry to my friends and family.

Did I tell you that on my first day of the new job I found a four leaf clover? Well, I'm telling you now.  I stepped out of my supervisor's truck to record my new cell phone greeting and just happened to look down and there it was. As soon as I wasn't searching for one, I found it. Like all the other great things in my life, that's how it happened. Serendipity. Fate. Whatever you want to call it.

When you wake up every day and feel perpetually bad about what you're doing to make money....just don't fucking do that anymore. I want to help people. I'm pretty sure God wants me to do that, too. Or I wouldn't blink a fucking eye at what I've been doing. I would sleep soundly and it wouldn't bother me that God is making all the people with dead parents interact with me.

Seriously, put me on a fucking roof with my tool belt and some nails and I will nail shingles all day. I will earn a living by the sweat of my brow and rest peacefully at night. But this? No. Just no.

If it sounds too good to be true, you're probably just selling a little piece of your soul to get it.

No thanks.

I have a different calling.

Supermassive Blackhole --Muse

People are mean. They like to pretend that they don't have feelings. Like things don't affect them. They drown it all out with drugs or alcohol or hurting others. But all they really end up doing is hurting themselves.

Go ahead. Try life sober for a while. You might not like it. But you'll see things for what they truly are. And then there is no turning back.

I think that's why people relapse. Because life is hard. It never gets any easier. And you won't make it if you're checking out with drugs, or alcohol, or being cruel to others. Oh, you'll probably live. You'll definitely live. Because that is your punishment. Some people believe there is a hell. I think you make your own. Right here on earth. If you're arrogant enough to believe that what you're doing in this moment has no consequences, then you deserve what's coming.

The thing is, life's not fair. It never has been. It never will be. But the only thing you have control over in this world are your actions. So choose them well, treat others as you would like to be treated. Turn the other cheek. It won't be easy. You will fail at moments. But don't give up. Never give up. Because one day this life will be over and you will know what is beyond it. Whether you believe or not, there is an end and when it comes, and it will come, you're not going to be ready. I don't think anyone ever really is. And I've been there, I've seen people go, and all the wishing and hoping in the world is not going to matter in the end. All you really have is right here, right now. So be wise.

Indy Kidz -- Cage the Elephant

Don't try to commit me, I'm not insane.

That being said, I have a jobby job with a picture name badge, company shirt, and company truck.

I got a haircut and a real job.

My kids are good. I took them to the creek to swim a couple days ago and we found a lot of interesting rocks and fossils while we were there. We skipped rocks. Bella pulled large rocks from the creekbed and threw my cool fossils back in the water.

I am starting a new chapter in my life and it's called:

Beth Owns All Her Decisions And Is A Big Girl Wearing Big Girl Panties

Sooooo...I have NOT been repeating the same actions over and over expecting different results. I'm changing the results by changing my actions. And I will not apologize for taking control of my life.

I love my Dad.
I love my siblings...all of them.
I appreciate everything that anyone has ever done for me.

If you want to be part of my life, dont fuck with me, okay? I'm a lot more clever than you're giving me credit for...so LOWER YOUR EXPECTATIONS to a reasonable level, okay? Okay.

Stay -- Thirty Seconds to Mars

Okay, so truth or dare?

NO.

You don't get to decide.

Here is the truth. I could really have everything I ever wanted. I am so happy right now, in this moment, and I'm also frustrated, impatient, and waiting. I'm working on the latter.

What if I turned into a real Patch-Adams-clown-nose-wearing-doctor-who-entertains-sick-kids-and-help-people kinda person. What would you think of me then?

Also, heads up to all those Moms out there who are ignorant and mean to children (this is not you S*r*h or J*ss), sometimes children whose needs are different than others. I see you. And I don't like it. If it were socially acceptable I'd just take your baby home with me. But I'm not down with babby-nappers, sooo I will sit here and make scathing remarks online. It's sort of what I do.

But sometimes all I can do is get up from where I'm sitting, take my paper plate and take a kid outside to play. Heaven knows nobody else has the gumption to do it. Fuck.

Grow up.

Grow up, Beth.

You're incredibly selfish, Beth.

You're not you.

Actually I'd like to interject a new song right here:

Not For You --Pearl Jam

Come Home -- OneRepublic

I still have tooth k. If you don't know, it's a baby jaw tooth that actually has no grown-up tooth under it. The filling in it broke so I went to the dentist, naively thinking they would fix it right up.

But they had other plans. They tried to send me to the fuckin wackjob dental surgeon down at Bardstown Road and Fegenbush to have it surgically removed and replaced with....wait for it...a fuckin screw in my head with a "tooth" smushed onto the top of it. Now, keep in mind this is the guy who tells you one price for an "extraction" bills the insurance DOUBLES  the price then rips your gd tooth from your head with (probably) a pair of fuckin needlenose pliers. I digress...

The point of the story is this:

"Well, when they pull the tooth out they can keep it for you and you can give it to your Mom."

I know, right? I used blank face, because when you say it with a smile people think you're disturbed. "My Mom is dead."

"Oh."

Oh. What the fuck does oh mean?

"Your dad? You could give it to your dad."

Smile, more like a grimace at this point, dismissive mumbling. I left as quickly as humanly possible, taking the stairs fast like i was running them again.

Running stairs...now that's some sadistic fun.

They can't have this tooth okay. I went to an orthodontist who took a fucking skill saw to my face, no shit, so...No. Just no.

So I'm in the market for a new dentist. One who will patch it up and let me keep it for as long as I can. Hmu, dentist friends.

All the Right Moves -- OneRepublic

When Anna-Lee was about two, maybe three, Mom was keeping her so I could have a break, as I was in college.

One day, Mom was smearing some kind of anti-aging cream on her face and Anna-Lee asked her why on earth was she putting that stuff on her face.

"It makes your wrinkles go away," was her response.

Anna-Lee walks over to her as she's putting the lid back on, takes the small container from her and throws it into the garbage and says, "Well. It's not working."

Everyone wants me to tell a good story, well, I'm not going to tell another one, that one's pretty damn good. What I will say is this:

Go ahead, fucking judge me. Talk about me behind my back, if you like, I no longer have the capacity to care. And just fyi I know the way people look at you when they're thinking something snide, I can see it in their faces that split second before they regain control of their facial expressions. Believe me, I know exactly how it's done.

The thing is, I do care. I want people to like me, I want people to know that I'm a good person. I wish I could yell at everybody and say, my Mom is fucking dead and two years after the fact I totally lost my shit. I can't go back and change those facts, but I sure as hell can change how things are going to go in the future.

Someone I am acquainted with, their nephew took his own life at their house. I didn't know that until they had confided that to my husband. He, in turn, told them that we had both lost our mothers recently and many other important people in our lives as well. Now every time I see them they wave at me and are very friendly.

Why? Why now? What difference does it make that we are grieving over here, so now you'll be friendly because you know a little of our plight?

Fuck off. Not really, I will be kind and friendly to them, but holy shitballs, I'd like to say--Am I only worthy of your attention and kindness because we have revealed to you our deepest, darkest secrets? The reason why we're always so seemingly glum. It doesn't matter, not really, how others treat me.

All I know is that I face every person I see every day with a kind smile because I am always thinking that no matter how difficult my day, my week, my year...my life...has been and what I have overcome, someone else out there is having a much shittier time than I am, and for goodness sake give someone a smile or a helping hand.

I'm not going to be like you. I'm not even going to be what you'd like me to be.

I'm gonna keep on keepin' on, just being me, because I really don't give a fuck what you think. And if that bothers you, keep on moving 'cause I definitely don't have time for bullshit when there's shit to do with my family.

Also: I'm busting my ass getting these girls to dance lessons and after-school activities, I'm trying to get a job, on top of all the other things that go with being a Mom. And just...just...FUCK YOUR COUCH.

PS Mom liked rum and cokes or MGD. God bless.

Under Pressure -- Queen

I keep having these dreams where Mom comes to our family things and hangs out with all of us, no big deal, like nothing ever happened. And then...and then, right before I'm jerked back into consciousness, I look at her and exclaim, "You're dead!!!" And just like that, I'm awake again to face the day--or the wee morning hours--knowing that Mom is dead.

People like to tell me that it's my Mother visiting me while I'm asleep. Maybe. Or maybe my broken heart is aching for my mother. Maybe my mind conjures up stories while I'm asleep, something to entertain me while my body works on itself. I always marveled at the way my body soaked up a mild sun burn as a teenager, turning it into a golden brown tan by the following day. What I can't seem to wrap my mind around today is the fact that My Mother Is Gone. All I have left of her is memories. And if I can't convert those memories to written form for generations to come I will forever lose them to the world that is uncaring and undying.

I've tried a lot of things I never thought I would do. I go to the hospital every six weeks or so, and when I find myself walking those hallways, looking at the doctors talking quietly and seriously in the hallway of the pediatric surgery unit, I always remind myself that I'm still here, I should be grateful for everything that I have in this life.

But there's a part of me, deep down inside, that screams to be heard. Fuck your couch! I want my Mom back. 

I watch people when I'm out. I find myself thinking back to those times that I was out with Mom and would "sneak" an obscene amount of stuff I wanted into the cart while we were at wally world. I'm jealous of all those Moms and daughters shopping together, I smile at them, probably like a crazy person, when I see them at the store.

The thing is, I feel immense pressure to finish this book. It just isn't coming to me very easily. I try to explain to those who desire explanations that my writing comes from something within. Something inside me tells me what to write and when. It's not as simple as, write this book--finish it--do it now.

What the fuck?

Lower your fucking expectations of me, really.

Just be thankful that I'm getting better--that my broken heart and soul are healing.

I had a job interview. Did I mention that? They probably think I'm a fucking crazy person because I pointed out that I could fix and update--bi-weekly or monthly--their website that is bullshit constant contact propaganda sold to them at a flat rate to provide a website that they could care less about updating.

Now I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I don't know what I'm doing with my life.

There. I said it.

To be frank, I'm fucking surviving. I'm making it through each day with goals and routine because I can't possibly go on the way I was before. I'm reclaiming my space. Fuck your couch, mine is antique and I'm just about to pick out a new fabric for it. Who cares if I get this job or not? There's a whole world of people that don't give a shit what happens to you or your business, what do they care? That's right, they don't. Hire me and let me lend a helping hand and then, when I'm sure you can proceed, I'll move on,

I try to live each moment of the day considering the possibility of the worst scenario of a person's life stretching before me as if it were my own. Maybe that's pessimistic. Maybe it makes you want to slap me around. All I know is that the longer I live, the more simple things really become.

I used to be in awe of how Jesus could turn the other cheek. Now I realize that he was having the best time ever throwing people off their game by not reacting the way they expect you to. I can handle that. Go ahead, take my mother. You can't break me.

I break stuff.

Don't Get Fooled Again -- The Who

I'm growing the fuck up, as some people have always told me to do...maybe I shouldn't begin a story that way, but oh well.

The only thing that I have control over in any given situation is how I respond.

It's a lot easier for me to fight with people verbally, so texting is the bane of all disagreements, of course, and I exploit that to its advantage.

Either way, I've said some pretty fucked up shit to the people that I love the most.

I wish I could take it all back.

That's not how this life works. If you've been following along, we have already discussed so many what-ifs and buts to cover a lifetime.

Sarah wanted me to tell you this story but I didn't, so here it is now.

We had a cow named Black Widow. She was black and white and apparently liked to socialize with the people who fed her hay and feed. I imagine myself being very adamant about not touching a cow, but what I really remember is this:

Imagine a large construction of barns smashed together in the middle to form its own sort of auditorium. The cows are led in, across the stage, if you will, and are auctioned off to the highest bidder. The highest bidder, you say? Yes, the highest bidder.

Sarah and I were up top, center, slurping down RC Colas with Double Decker Moon Pies when we suddenly realized that we could be the highest bidder for our cow, Black Widow. She was pretty much the only cow that you couldn't piss off, what would we do without her?

It was a good plan, really, until we realized that the black and white cows look eerily similar. Did she have a splotch like that over her eye? No, that's definitely not her. Can't they just call these cows by their names? 

To make a longer story a wee bit shorter: everyone was amused at us trying to buy our cow back. Sarah, of course, insisted I bid first and see how things worked out. Hmmpff, that went over well.
They thought I was kidding, such as the "I wanna bid, let me bid!" sort of attention that children at the stockyards apparently demands. What they did not understand was that, as we were whispering amongst ourselves, we had decided that they were definitely not taking us seriously. We were never going to get our damn cow back, whether we recognized her and bid the most on her or not. And the worst part is that they schooled us on how this goes down, and it's not pretty for the ones who don't get bought. (At this point we were determined to buy every sad-looking cow that didn't get a bid. Which was a lot of cows.)



















typos will be the death of me

December -- Collective Soul

Go outside, observe.

The trees know that the weather is changing. That's why they are desperate to reproduce. The maples have produced so many seeds over the spring, summer, and into the fall these last few years that we've had to employ the leaf blower to clear the inches of helicopters from the patio in the back yard.

Swaths of them hang from the neighbor's tree already, shining a golden color next to the new leaf growth, and our maple trees have released theirs already, green and soft, a great littering of color across the grey of the patio.

I watch things grow, and file away the information in my brain, studying each leaf and petal in an effort to memorize the fleeting names of all these plants. Mom would have known what they were called. I have been desperately begging myself not to try to be as smart and cool as my Mother was, to not approach every task with the thought that Mom probably did this better, already knew this fact.

You don't have to be your mother.

I spent hours cleaning the other day and unearthed things that I hadn't realized I had hidden, closed off, tucked away. It's almost as if my crazy ass were hiding all the things that meant anything to me in an effort to avoid seeing the physical reminders of how much I miss my Mother, my Grandma Roark, my Aunt Sis. All these things, these artsy glass things, the prints and drawings that should go in frames and hang on the wall, framed things I made when I was little, things with kittens and yarn decorating their surfaces. I unearthed the bird books from Billie that I had all this time and that I had shoved in the farthest recesses of the bookshelf. I hate birds. Mom told me that things weren't always so. When I was little she would hear me singing in my room and peek in to find me, face to the glass of the window, watching the birds outside singing about how pretty they were and how the world was such a beautiful place. I made up my own songs then, I had loved the birds and their singing. Mom named the birds to me by their twittering songs....Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill. Pretty girl, pretty girl, sweet sweet sweet sweet.


Oh my. I just totally bummed myself out again.

Sorry, Mom, and God, that I hate birds.

Pandora -- Tori Amos

By the time I gave birth to Arabella I was looking at a three-day stay in the hospital as a vacation. The nurses would come in and demand that I get up and walk around, "You need to get up on your feet and move around. It's not good for you just to lay there all day."

Duuuude, I have a toddler at home, please just let me lay here.

After you have a baby the nurses come in and smush on your belly and check out your ass because stitches. And to make sure you're treating your hemorrhoids. When my nurse came in to check me, she asked if I had hemorrhoids, and thankfully, I did not. No matter, she tore back the sheet and stared at my ass to make sure. As if she'd never seen a woman give birth to a baby and NOT have massive hemorrhoids. Talk about embarrassing, just have some stranger tear back your sheet and stare at your bare stitched ass. That's fun.

I was so shocked I could't say or do anything, I just sat there as she marveled at my ass and then tucked my sheet and blanket back around me like she hadn't just fully violated me. If you're a prude, don't get pregnant, okay? So many doctors and nurses are going to see your naked ass that you'll never ever be the same.

You haven't lived until some doctor shoots demoral into your ass and parades med students into your room to see your naked ass. (That's a story I'm NOT going to tell you. Don't even ask.)

Or, before they rush you into surgery they write on your body with permanent marker to make sure they're blasting a kidney stone out from the proper side, and they put you under, and when you wake up your Dr., a dude who just met your business end of things, smiles at you and presents you with a picture of the kidney stone he blasted to pieces. "I went ahead and cleared out all the stones on that side and put in a stint."

"A stint?" They gave me a morphine pump but assured me that some people couldn't even feel their stints. You mean I'm not feeling that piece of plastic they had shoved up into my ureter?

"We don't want the ureter to collapse, so we will leave it in for a week. You'll see me in my office to remove it..." Paperwork, directions to his nearest office, prescriptions, assurances.

Let me just tell you that, yes, you can feel stints, and they fucking hurt like a bitch. I spent the week in bed with glasses of water and cranberry juice on my bedside table to choke down the pain meds like clock work. Jamie took me to target and I bought a heating pad and a giant blue purse--and then the guy at the movie store gave me a free rental when I told him I'd just checked out of the hospital. I managed to make it home and then didn't leave the bed for more than a few minutes at a time. My sister-in-law came up and cleaned my house spotless and cooked and I got up to visit with her and smoke a cigarette...and I just couldn't. I lasted maybe ten minutes before I excused myself and lay back down on my side with the heating pad as high as it would go. It seemed like the piece of plastic became less stiff, almost bearable, with the heating pad on high. But it's got a safety setting that makes it kick off after a while, so I'd wake up in horrible pain to find the heating pad off.

Mom had, of course, whisked Anna Lee away to her house when they got the call. After Sarah and Amy had taken turns with her until Mom could get there.

It was three days before Dad's birthday when I went into the hospital. That's why I will never forget when it happened. I missed his birthday. But I did call him, I'm sure. Things get a little fuzzy when they give you your own morphine pump.

I didn't have a private room. Which wouldn't have bothered me in such a drug-induced stupor, except that the lady was a diabetic who had to have her blood sugar checked every couple hours and every time the nurses touched her she screamed bloody murder. The day nurse was a fucking bitch who was told to give me a morphine shot before I left the hospital because it would take a little while to get my prescription. Well, she didn't. They had long ago taken away the morphine pump in preparation for my release and I was in horrible pain. The NA kept asking me if I wanted her help to get a shower, but I was so miserable that I refused, saying I'd rather just wait until I got home so I could use my favorite body works stuff. I didn't really care that I smelled, I guess, Jamie insisted that all the morphine they gave me made me smell gross. But what did I care? I had just hit the button on the pump and tried to go back to sleep at this revelation.

When you go to the hospital they mail you a survey to ask you about the quality of treatment you received to help them improve. Well, I made a scathing review of the experience and added an extra sheet of paper to describe exactly how miserable my few days in the hospital were. Years later I found their response, tucked into my desk unopened, asking me to call or meet with someone at the hospital to talk further about my disappointing experience. Oh well. I was busy with kid and school and must have dismissed it as another survey or something.

Just FYI: If they give you a stint you may never have a kidney stone to get stuck in the ureter on that side again. Yay.

The Day I Tried To Live --Soundgarden

I want to write another open letter to God, but he didn't exactly answer the last one, so...


Dear Mighty Cosmos Man,

I really, really, want to fucking know what the purpose of this shit is, I mean, c'mon, God what the fuck did we do?

I prayed for a miracle and was so relieved to find out that God must have heard my prayers, because suddenly the black pit there was snugly covered over by a lid. But, while I'm over here whining about my fucking dryer, the people I love the most in the world are dealing with something that would have certainly made me shut the hell up.

I made such a big deal over the damn dryer thing, and all I really should have been worrying about is how I should STFU because my problems are petty and ridiculous compared to things that others are going through.

My goal is never to diminish anyone else's problems, just merely to convey a, hopefully, comical life experience.

And then I got to thinking...

I'm sitting here at my iMac with my Starbucks blend coffee I made here at my home, in jeans that fit, shoes that aren't worn so thin that there are holes in the soles, and a fucking bra that cost more than the two shirts that I'm wearing over it. What the fuck have I got to complain about?

The truth is, I get two steps forward in my recovery only to shove myself three steps back because I've inherited Mom's propensity for revealing the tragic spin to everything.

Oh, you just threw half a banana away? You know there are kids out there starving, why didn't you let someone else eat that?

You should appreciate that you have clothes to wear, food to eat, and a house to live in; a lot of people in the world don't have those things.

(I'm terrible.)

I have a whole list of complaints:

the front left burner on the stove quit working

everybody's got/had some horrible stomach illness

my car....ugh, my car...

actually, that's about it. I don't want to complain anymore.

Here's a whole list of things that I'm grateful for:

My Mom, Dad, all my family

our health, my ability to play with my kids and out run the big one (sometimes)

that both my girls (so far) love to read as much as I do

the uncanny ability to retain and regurgitate seemingly useless, and endless, bits of information

my ability to read and write, communicate my feelings through writing

I am truly grateful for all that I have ever been blessed with in my life.

But, God, why this? Why now? What lesson is there here? What am I supposed to learn while I sit by and watch good people suffer and die from disease?

Am I supposed to do something? Am I supposed to go back to school and hit science and med school? What is it? What are you trying to tell us?


There are people out there that think they can be healed by a miracle of God.

I fell on a box and it cut an artery. If I was waiting for you, God, to come down and stitch me up at the ER I'd be dead right now.

Let's pray the blood back in.
Let's pray that God will heal us.
Let's pray the gay away.
Let's pray that God will get me out of this flood.

Oh wait, he already sent me a boat, a helicopter, and a canoe, but I was too stupid to see that?

I NEED to do something. I need to help, I need to fix everything up and save everyone from everything.


"How come I wasn't there, at the hospital, when GG died?" Anna Lee asked the other day.

"I'm sorry. I was just trying to protect you from things that you'll have to go through later in life. Seeing people die...It changes you," I gulped back tears, "It's not something you can ever forget."

I had hoped I did the right thing. Anna Lee was young, she stayed with Missy while I was at the hospital. Did I really just deprive her of those last moments of Mom's life? Or did I do the right thing?

You'll never know all the thoughts and feelings that overwhelmed me that day. How was I able to tell her that she'd never get to see her GG alive again? At the time, it was one of the most difficult moments I'd ever had in my life.

I said, the other day, God, that I'd like to cock-punch you. It's true. I said it. And I meant it. I'm fucking pissed. You took my mother. You took his mother. I watched them go. I don't want to do that again, with anyone, and yet, the longer I live, the more people I'll have a front row seat to watch die. It's a pretty grim way to look at things, sure, but just because I notice the glass is half empty--don't worry, I'm still gonna drink the rest and fill up the glass again, because, hey thirsty.

Please, God, just give our family a break, ok?



"Nothing...
seems to kill me...
no matter how hard I try..."

BRING ME MY DAMN DRYER, OK?

I had to go to the laundromat Monday...and Wednesday. Turns out the closest coin laundry is closed on Wednesdays now. So plan b took us to a laundry where the washers are free because they test them for GE.

To make a long story short, I gave some random dumbass a jump because he was sitting outside the laundromat with his sound system thumping. I didn't mind, really.

I kept my eyes on the dryer the whole time because I was afraid the shady guy in the corner with the thongs on his head was gonna steal my underwear.

Turns out he was just messing with his girlfriend. But still.

They called to schedule the dryer delivery from Lowe's yesterday. I said today between noon and five would be *great* for me! And then they called this morning to tell me it's not there yet.

Get your shit together, Lowe's. Stop teasing me with the prospect of a timely delivery!

All That I Am -- Rob Thomas

"...I am primed for givin' in..."

Mom has a doppelganger. Sorry. I had to say it.

Today Addison asked me if I liked being a Mom.

No. "Yes, I love when I see you learn new things, it makes me so happy," Mom. How do I tell her I pale in comparison to my Mother? Why am I not the perfect mother?

Valentine's cards. Twenty-five for one, how many for the other? I had to think straight, assess my grocery store goal and get it done.

Suddenly I was reflecting on my day and my mood tumbled down like dominoes.

I have to pick up Anna and if I don't make it in time I'll miss her dance. There's something wrong with me. I'm either half an hour early or five minutes late--for everything. There is no in between. Some people find it endearing, I'm sure (ha!). But that's just how it is.

When I can't do anything else, I can always write. I'm supposed to tell you another cow story, but I'm not in the mood.

I want you to feel like I do. I want you to feel like your heart was ripped out of your chest and stomped on until you thought you would die, and then, just as you're willing to relinquish it all, to give in, to give up...you decide that you'd better not make things worse than they already are.

I know I'm not the only one out there feeling lonely and unhappy with the hand that's been dealt.

I have only one thing to say. Lower your expectations of me. Appreciate that I'm still here and living life as best I can. Don't pity me, for goodness sake, just wake up and say "Thank You" for what you have, because one day you won't have the chance.

Don't ask questions of me that you're not ready or willing to answer yourself. Don't fucking judge people. Smile at strangers...

Some older gentleman remarked yesterday, as we were walking to the car, how beautiful the day was. I smiled and responded politely that, yes, indeed, it had turned out to be a beautiful day.

That's when Bella piped up and said he was a stranger--he was surely out of earshot by then, but I tried to explain that it was acceptable to respond to someone when they speak to you, even if you don't know them.

When did the world become such a bad place that my child thinks that it's not okay to have a polite, friendly conversation with another human being, regardless if you've known them forever or never met them before in your life?

Why is it dangerous for my children to play in our neighborhood without constant supervision? Why can't people be decent to one another? Where is the kindness in the world? Where is the God that took my Mother and what is She/He thinking as they watch what foul things people do to each other?

Ugh. I'm bumming myself out...

You Can't Always Get What You Want -- The Rolling Stones

When I think back, there are so many cow stories I could tell you, but we'll just stick to this one, it has a moral.

When I was younger, about your age, I lived on a farm with my rents and brother and two sisters. One day, Dad came home with a new cow. He put him in a pen right by the pond, next to...hmmm...barn A. It was a Jersey I believe, and he'd eat anything you held out in your cupped hand--including M&Ms and the small amount of Dr. Pepper you could keep in your palm. We named him M&M. You could pet him. In fact, he seemed to like the attention. And the snacks we had to offer. Even if it was just his water, hay and feed he was friendly, and a pretty docile cow, really. Not like some mean-ass bulls we've had over the years.

Dinner time at our house meant, at the end of the day, we all sat down together at the kitchen table and talked. One particular evening someone remarked that M&M was gone and where was he?

"You know that delicious steak you had the other night? Well..." Those probably weren't his actual words, but I could ask him. I'm sure we'll talk.

I felt wretched. But the steak was good. I'd be haunted forever thinking I was eating a fucking cow that I knew. I hadn't had any qualms about eating it before I knew this important bit of information. I wondered how Dad felt, after all, he was the one feeding him every day. It didn't seem to bother him. It bothered us, though. It bothered me.

We discussed pigs as well. Bacon is a big hurdle for anyone who's trying to swear off eating meat. It was a topic that we discussed several times. Where did we think the meat we ate came from? The eggs, the butter, the yogurt, the cheese...the list goes on. 

My Mom grew up on a farm. They milked the cows, had chickens and fresh eggs...grew crops and tended the orchard. A farm.

Tell me, won't you?, how you feel about steak--and bacon.

P.S. Some jackass on the interwebs said that dairies (dairy workers) rape (Artificially Inseminate) the cows to get them to produce milk. I have never--ever--heard anything about anybody raping any cows to get them to produce milk. Please correct me if I'm wrong.

Remind me next time and I'll tell you another cow story: Beth and Sarah Save Black Widow.

People Are Strange -- The Doors

Last night I had the weirdest dream. We were at a ball game. We had gone to the concession stand before finding seats. I led the way up the bleachers juggling drinks and popcorn, and trailing two girls and Mom. As we began to take our seats near the other girl scout/ dance team/ cheerleaders moms, they give me this look and Candy stage whispers, "You told us your Mom was dead."

I looked at her for a second, trying to understand. I looked over my shoulder at Mom, and she shrugged and smiled. I gave her a look that said, "Mom! what are you doing here!? I told them all you were dead. Now they think I'm some kind of pathological liar!"

But she just smiled at me, her hair was short and her face was plump and young, just like a picture in a photo album.

Good Times, Bad Times -- Led Zeppelin

So everybody wants to know what happened to the car. Well, let's just say "It's bad. Really bad," those words tumbled from Jamie's terse lips, and he looked mad as he came back through the front door. He motioned for me to follow, and I walked behind him out the front door. Barry* was mumbling something about being sorry. My first thought was that a dye pack from a bank robbery exploded inside my car. From the sidewalk that runs in front of the house to the driveway I could just see that the windows were darker, opaque. A few more steps and I could see, leaning to see around Barry, my open passenger door. And it was fucking melted like a bad Salvador Dali dream. And so was the seat. A pile of ash and a wire binding was all that was left of the Union Stewards rights book that Daniel had lent to Jamie when he first became a steward. In the pocket of the passenger door was where he'd tucked it after that last meeting when he spoke to the company reps about a grievance. One glance at my ruined car and I went back inside.

Jamie asked Barry if perhaps he'd dropped the fire out of his cigarette when the went to speedway around 7/8 PM the night before. Barry said that he had, indeed, but he thought it went out, and that's why he didn't say anything.

Let me just attempt to explain Barry at this point...When I was maybe a freshman, my brother and sister, the twins, were juniors in high school. We rode the bus, for whatever reason, maybe the car was messed up, anyway, there was a boy about their age who rode the bus too. he had just moved to our area. When we asked him what his name was he said, "Barry." And when we asked what his middle name was, "Barry." And when we asked what his last name was he also said, "Barry." Barry was a UK fan who wore jeans with giant bleach stains and holes all over them. We realized that he was special needs, and possibly needy on top of it, and for Christmas that year, my sis and her friend cooked a big meal,  turkey and dressing green beans and potatoes and my brother gave him an extra UK ball cap that he had received (regift) and dad sent an extra Christmas box with nuts, fruits, ham, etc. that he buys for employees and neighbors for the holidays. We took all this to his house, walked in and his dad and step mom were in recliners across from a big screen tv. We pretty much put the food in the kitchen, said Happy Holidays and split. Awkward.

Anyway, our parents were proud that we had tried to help this boy, only to find out that he wasn't quite as needy as we'd thought him to be. What he really needed was friends. And we tried.

I would find out that Jamie had sort of taken Barry under his wing after Barry graduated high school. But I didn't find this out until much later.

So, fast forward to present day. Jamie posts his number on a friend's wall on Facebook (where he just so happens to be friends with Barry). Barry gets his number, and begins calling Jamie no less than 7 times a day. Every day. And sends him countless messages. So Jamie talks to him every now and then.

Anyway, Barry is living in the same city as us now, and really really wants to hang out. Jamie finally relented and told Barry (after he'd learned our address somehow and decide he was coming over "Wednesday, December 31st") that he could meet him at Kroger down the street and bring him over to our house.

I was apprehensive and angry. I threw a fit, "What do you mean he's coming here? I thought we would just meet him and go bowling, and take him home later! What do you mean he knows our address? How can you just invite yourself over without asking if we had plans? What if we were out of town for New Year's?"  But I finally resigned myself to the fact that it was happening and I could do nothing to stop it.

Barry's wife (idk, don't ask) put him out of her car down the street from our house with his garbage bag of stuff (extra clothes, sprites and cigarettes I guess) and Jamie went and got him and went on to get some potatoes and onions at the grocery for the roast I was cooking. I figured the roast could be cooking while we were bowling. But when I asked Jamie, he said we'd just stay home and have family game night like the girls planned initially (bowling was a surprise).

my reaction: Okay, fine. I'm gonna pop the cork on my champagne and drink it. Sometime around seven or eight Jamie and Barry went to the speedway down the street for drinks and chips, and the rest is history. While we were playing scrabble and having a good time, my car was on fire. Too bad it was dark, or maybe the neighbors would have come knocking or something. If I had run out of toilet paper that night, instead of the next, maybe I would have been out there and discovered what was happening. Coulda shoulda, woulda.

I had a bad feeling about this, but I chalked it up to anxiety and having to have a veritable stranger at my house. I can't change the past, and it still sucks.

After the initial shock, I texted my brother who'd stopped by before we discovered my burnt car to bring some presents that got mixed up with his kids'. I told him, begged him, please just come and take him home, I'll never ask you for anything else, I promise.

And guess who hasn't called Jamie--not once--since my brother took him home? Barry.

*Name has been changed.