Updated Bucket List

1. Become fluent in Spanish.

2. Learn to play guitar.

3. Visit a family member who lives in California.

4. Go to New Orleans.

5. Take a mechanics class/learn about engines.

6. Take a self-defense class.

7. Learn to swing dance.

8. Master bellydancing.

9. Learn other formal dances.

10. Publish something -- book, short story, or poem.

11. Get a tattoo.

12. Learn massage therapy.

13. Conquer my anxiety and its symptoms.

14. Become competent at sewing.

15. Do something of an activist nature -- participate in a protest or rally. 

16. Learn to drive a stick shift.

17. Picnic in a pine forest

18. Get a puzzle piece tattoo by Enigma.

19. Go to Burning Man.

Cheap-ass bunnies with attitude

I'll preface this by saying I don't really believe in Easter, and I celebrate it just because the kids like candy and hunting for eggs.

That being said, what is up with Easter baskets, yo?

When I was a kid, Easter baskets consisted of a chocolate bunny, and a shit-ton of cheap chocolates. We'd get all candied up and after the sugar high wore off, my parents would dress us in our finery and take us to church.

But I've been noticing a trend over the past several years. Baskets have become less about candy, and more about... stuff. This year the pre-made baskets being sold were full of cheap generic toys, and then a few sample size packets of candy.

My Facebook newsfeed is cluttered with pics people have posted of their kids with their Easter swag. It is un-freakin-believable. Easter has become like a mini-Christmas/birthday in the spring in which kids are bestowed Ipods instead of chocolate eggs and XBox games instead of Peeps.

This year, I rebelled. My kids each got a chocolate bunny, and I (I mean the bunny) hid plastic eggs filled with candy around the house. You know what? Not one complaint have I heard.

So take that, Easter Bunny *cough, Wal-Fart*

I call your swag and raise you cheap chocolates. You damn right you fold, I knew you were bluffin'. Cheap-ass chocolates in the hizz-ouse!

Gun control and my thoughts

So, social media sites have been ablaze with posts for and against gun control since the recent school shooting. Thought I'd throw my two cents in. I don't follow the politics of gun control, or all the terminology. So you're not going to hear a logical debate here. Just my thoughts and feelings.

Once upon a time, I would have been all for gun control. I am a pacifist. I don't like violence. I don't like killing. A bad person with a gun will use it to harm or kill somebody. I had no problem with rifles, shotguns, etc., because those are used for hunting, and rarely used for personal acts of violence. (Though I have some hang-ups about hunting as well).

A handgun's sole purpose, however, is for shooting people. You don't hunt with a handgun. I had little problem with the idea that all handguns should be rounded up, bought back, whatever. Though the logical side of me argued back that if that were to happen, only bad guys would have guns.

This particular line of thinking was reinforced by the fact that I would have a quiet little anxiety attack every time I saw a gun, handguns in particular. Since it was rare that I ever actually saw one though, I never really took time to think through why I had developed that particular phobia. On very rare occasions, family or friends would target practice and I would try to join in, but my anxiety was so high that I would miss terribly.

Several things caused me to re-evaluate my stance on handguns. About a year ago, I made a friend who occasionally carries a pistol, and he wanted to target practice. He offered to let me practice as well, but my anxiety was so great from even holding a gun, that as usual I did terribly. All I could focus on was trying to make my anxiety indiscernible and hide the fact my hands were shaking.

Being afraid of something pisses me off and makes me more likely to confront whatever it is I'm afraid of, because I don't like knowing something out there has a power over me, or brings out an uncontrollable reaction.

So I asked myself one night -- You seem to be afraid of guns. Especially handguns. Why?

The answer stemmed from an incident in high school. I was dating a guy whose family was very into guns. His brother was somewhat unstable, and during an argument with my boyfriend, he drew a pistol on him. I was standing next to my boyfriend, and I suddenly realized that if this went bad, I likely would be shot too. He had no beef with me, but I would have been a witness and people do crazy things in the heat of the moment.

I don't want to carry that fear any longer. Due to my husband's job, I'm essentially a woman living on her own.Someone may try to break in, or I may get accosted while walking the dogs at night. I want to be able to take of and protect myself and my family.  I also recognize the fact that if some people had been armed during the shootings at the movie theater and school, that the end result could have ended up very different.

So no. I no longer advocate gun control. In fact, I support people having handguns. The reasons why are personal and selfish, but the ends justify the means. It doesn't really matter why I personally want guns to remain legal, so long as they remain so.

I'm also considering getting training and a concealed weapons permit, though I'm waiting till the financial timing is right.

So, there's my $.02.

Bucket list revisited, and more

1. Become fluent in Spanish.

2. Learn to play guitar.

3. Visit a family member who lives in California.

4. Go to New Orleans.

5. Take a mechanics class/learn about engines.

6. Take a self-defense class.

7. Learn to swing dance.

8. Master bellydancing.

9. Learn other formal dances.

10. Publish something -- book, short story, or poem.

11. Get a tattoo.

12. Learn massage therapy.

13. Conquer my anxiety and its symptoms.

14. Become competent at sewing.

15. Do something of an activist nature -- participate in a protest or rally. 

16. Learn to drive a stick shift.

17. Picnic in a pine forest.


So I've crossed another thing off my bucket list. I went to massage therapy school, loved it, met a lot of great people. Now I'm working as a massage therapist part-time at a chiropractor's office. I'm enjoying it very much. 

I'm really working at becoming more comfortable in my own skin. It's taking me places I haven't even considered. I've re-evaluated my thoughts on everything from religion to sexuality. It's left me at a weird spot where I'm feeling more comfortable with myself, but too fragile to share with anyone but my hubby and closest friends. 

I'd really like to share who I'm becoming with my family. I'd like to get to know them better, and conversely, them know me better. However, I'm already the oddball of my family as it is, without adding more elements to cast me in the role as different and that I sure have strayed from my raising's. Also, there are certain parts of my life I feel are private, and should remain that way. I guess I'll see what happens as I grow.

Also, I got another tattoo, which makes 2 for me now. I'm thinking of getting another one later on, plus some more piercings besides the industrial and eyebrow. Modifying my body is another way of my becoming more comfortable in my own skin.

My New Year's suggestion this year is to pay more attention to my blog, besides the incredibly sporadic writings I post now. I'm aiming at posting once a week -- we'll see how that pans out.

The Cat Who Walks by Himself

It's just me. It's always been just me. That's just the way it is. I've never been any different, and I don't know how to change, or if I want to.

My yard needs mowing desperately, and it's to the point that I'd be better off to hire a landscaping service just once, and then keep up with it. But I won't. I have a push mower, and the ability, and I will mow the entire fucking acre myself, bit by bit, until it's done. Because I'm me, and it's just me, and that's just how I roll.

Friends and neighbors have offered to help me with various chores. I usually either decline, or the task is done before they can help. Or I've had some task I could have used assistance on, but neglected to ask anyone. If I get called on it, my reply is that it didn't occur to me to ask.

I've had problems and heartaches like anyone else, and wonderful friends who are willing to lend an ear, or a shoulder to lean on. But they always find out about those problems after the fact, after I have dealt with them and my crisis is over. They say, "I'm here. Why didn't you call me?" The answer? "I had to process this myself."

Recently, my hubby and I were conversing about our teenage years, and what our families were like. He shared several stories, and I told him that for me, I usually did things on my own. I kept to myself and did my own thing, my family in the background. I always pretty much did my own thing, unless there was some family thing imposed on me. Usually my own thing consisted of staying in my room and reading, but occasionally I went to a friend's house, or out with a friend, or to a sleepover.

I knew I would have to ask for permission, but for me it was more of a formality. My teenage years were ones of marking time until I could get out. Not that I had a bad family. Like most, it had its quirks, but was rather much like any typical family. What I couldn't wait for was being able to make my own decisions, without having to defer to someone else or ask permission.

My husband said, "That explains a lot."

That's just who I am. I'm smart, if occasionally a bit naive. I am competent and have a brain perfectly capable of making decisions. Sometimes I have to cut through the mental chatter to get to the heart of the matter and crystallize what the problem really is, but I'm able to do that. I rarely ask for advice, and when I do it's more of an information gathering mission, to help me better decide what to do. Not that I'm going to do what's been advised to me. Often, my decision has already been reached, and asking for an opinion is more of a formality to those who expect to be included.

I know that sometimes that mindset causes friends and family to feel left out. The thing is, whatever the decision or task, the outcome falls on my shoulders. I may either succeed, or fail spectacularly, but I bear the brunt of whatever that outcome is. I'd rather know that the result comes from my own competence (or lack thereof), than be left wondering if things would have worked out differently if I hadn't done what so-and-so suggested.

One story that has long resonated with me is "The Cat Who Walks by Himself" by Rudyard Kipling. The First Woman is using her magic and wiles to call various animals to her, and one by one, the dog, horse, cow, sheep and pig come to her and become domesticated. The cat, using his own wiles and cleverness, manages to charm and bargain his way into being able to share the First Family's home and receive the creature comforts all the other animals now enjoy, while still maintaining his own independence. "I am the Cat  who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me," he often states.

He keeps up with his end of the bargain, and enjoys the family's comforts, but "When the moon gets up and night comes, he is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to him. Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone."

I love my family and friends. I love and enjoy conversation, laughter, hugs, the close moments, and even the sad moments. I wrap up in these things like a blanket. But when I am saturated, and it's time to leave, I am once again the Cat Who Walks by Herself and all places are alike to me.

It's just the way I'm made. I doubt that will ever change, nor do I think I want to.

The point to this post? There really isn't one. I just felt like writing, and this is what bubbled up. There's not much purpose to it unless you're just interested in what makes me tick.

Feminism

This is something I wrote a few years ago on another site, and I'm reposting it here.

     Feminist. Feminism.  Those words conjure up a lot of emotion in people. Some consider them fighting words. They dredge up images of ball-busting Femi-Nazis. I've heard women say, "I'm no feminist." Mostly in effort, I think, to distance themselves from that image.
     First off, let me tell you what feminism ISN'T. Feminism isn't about hating men. It isn't about wanting all men castrated. It isn't about putting women above men. It's not about putting men in their place.
     Don't get me wrong. Women like that do exist. I won't deny it. But if that is how you identify yourself as a feminist, then let me be the first to say You're Doing It Wrong, Sister.
     I've entertained feminist thoughts as far back as I can remember. They were further reinforced after I become a mother. So let me tell you what feminism IS.
     Feminism is growing up in a rural area, questioning why it was acceptable and encouraged for women to serve food on plates for men, and then to let them sit at the table and eat first. It is thinking to yourself, how are you better than me? How about we each fix our own plates and sit down and eat together?
     Feminism is realizing that the sexualization (or de-sexualization) of female political candidates is to strip her down to what use she is to a man. To reduce her to the level of being the bearer of a vagina he either would or would not touch. To realize this is done by those who are fearful of the power she represents and has earned.
     Feminism is shutting your mouth firm against what all you have been indoctrinised about what girls should like, when you realize your daughter is happier playing in dirt than with Polly Pockets and wants a Bob the Builder cake for her birthday.  And to stand up for her, if someone calls you on it.
     Feminism is hearing a man say that he thinks women belong at home taking care of the kids and hoping that your daughter is never reduced to that level of thinking when you know she is capable of so much more.
     Feminism is letting both your daughter AND your son take turns mopping the floor and doing the dishes. Because either way, it is not only a useful skill to have when they are an adult and living on their own, but also to create a better husband for your son's future wife.
     Feminism is wondering how a man came to develop the idea that it is ok to get even with a woman for being a tease by sexually assaulting her when she's passed out. Then to assure yourself to work hard to never let your son pick up beliefs such as these.
     Feminism is raising your son to have respect for women and never to let the barbaric thought of hitting a woman or hurting her physically in any way cross his mind. To look down on those who would with disgust.
     Feminism is to encourage your daughter to play football or be on the wrestling team, instead of ballet, if that is where her interests lie.
     Feminism is when you realize that it IS true that a woman has to work twice as hard as a man, with no complaint and less compensation, to earn just a grudging amount of respect. And to KEEP doing it, because it may make things a little easier for your daughter when she grows up.
     Feminism is a dad teaching his daughter how to fix a car or playing basketball with her.
     Feminism is a dad knowing better than to comment on his daughter's weight or appearance so as not to encourage an eating or body image disorder.
     Feminism is a father willing to confront his own indoctrinations about gender and to encourage his children to be their own person and develop their own interests despite what their gender may dictate.
     Feminism is a man willing to be a single dad or a stay at home dad, despite the looks he may get.
     Feminism is a man who shares the responsibility of his children, because he is a parent, not a babysitter.
     Feminism is a man who realizes he married an equal partner, not a second mother to adopt him and take care of him.
     Feminism is a woman appreciating what is often taken for granted, whether it be driving or holding down a job. Because her forbears didn't have that option and paved the way for her to have those things.
     I think most of all, feminism is activism. Activism not just for women, to promote women. But activism to level the playing field. Not just for us, but for our children. And not just for our children, but any of us who are so ballsy, and brash and outspoken that we are willing to rattle the cage.

Catching up

It's been a while since I've done any sort of update. So here's the lowdown.

The Hubster is still working away. The pay is unpredictable at best, and he's considering taking a similar position with a different company. The positive things would be a more predictable (and slightly better) income, and having him home a little more often.  The cons are the insurance isn't too great. He could probably get hired on the spot, we're just trying to build a little financial cushion before he switches.

I'm still a pseudo-single parent. I'm getting better at this, actually. I like having only myself to answer to, and not having to run every single little decision through someone else. It's nice being the boss, except for the times I really NEED a second opinion, and for whatever reason am unable to to reach my hubby.

The downsides to being the primary caretaker are the facts the kids still miss their daddy, and he's better at instilling morals, character and discipline than I am. So when the kids are acting like bratty heathens in a store, I know it's MY fault. Being the parent 24/7 ensures there are going to be times when I'm too tired or emotionally exhausted for disciplinary follow-through. It shows in their behavior. I really need to be stricter and less laissez-faire, but I'm so low-energy and wrung out I just let it go.



The kids will be starting school in about a week, and that gives me about 2 months daily alone time until my school starts. I'm excited to finally get some time to myself. This past month has been hell. I contracted a case of shingles. It took about a week before I realized it wasn't poison ivy and sought treatment for it, so it took longer to get cleared up than it should. Then both kids developed chicken pox from being exposed to shingles.

Between my misery and their illnesses, we'd been pretty much cooped up and quarantined for a month. We've driven each other crazy. So believe me when I say I can't wait for school to start.

I also can't wait for my school to start. I'll be learning massage therapy, but I'll be soaking up some New Age-y stuff in the process. And meeting New Age-y sorts of people. I welcome this as an opportunity to start showing my eclectic/New Age-y side to others.

I'm tired of hiding some of the parts of who I am. It's nice having people like you, but it's miserable when you realize a good many of them wouldn't like you if they knew ALL of you, instead of the side you show them. "This is one little facet of the gem that I am, hope you like it," and knowing that if they saw the whole gem they'd find it flawed.

I'll probably lose some friends and the like and appreciation of some family once the walls start tumbling down. But like a new friend of mine espouses, "Those who matter won't mind, and the ones who mind don't matter."

That's all for now. More to come later.

Love, Actually

So here's the big fat love blog everyone's been waiting for. What do I think about love?


Can people marry, stay true blue, and it be happily ever after until the day they die? It happens, but it's not bloody likely. If you set yourself thinking that's how your marriage is going to be, you're going to be disappointed.

Monogamy is not natural for most people. Serial monogamy works for others.

The more I read about polyamory, the more I agree with it. Can you love more than one person at a time? Absolutely. Do you love your children exactly the same? Do you love your spouse with the same love you have for your parents? No. So therefore, it is quite possible to hold differing amounts of love for different people with no diminishing of the qualities of the other.

It's quite possible to be in love with one person (or more), and in like with others. And that if everyone is grown-up enough about it, to make a love triangle/decagon/tetrahedron, or any other shape they like.

That's pretty much it, in a nutshell. I know that I've led up to this blog like it's some big revelation. I know there's been other blogs I've deleted. I postponed writing this for quite a while.

Most of that had to do with some horror stories some friends of mine shared with me. A lot of new stories I hadn't heard before, shared in a coincidentally recent time frame of each other. Stories that involved beatings, rapes, emotional tortures and various physical abuses inflicted on them by the men they had been involved with, and for reasons circumstantial to each relationship, they were unable to leave.

Those stories shook me to the core and left me wondering where I stood on the issue of love. If these women had suffered through not just these traumas but blatant, rampant cheating, how could I possibly sanction polyamory?

It took a while to sort their traumas from the notion of informed consent. But with time, distance and fresh perspective, I have. 

There may be other sub-topics related to love I may share my thoughts on from time to time, but that's pretty much the bulk of it. I'll likely write more later, but for now, this is enough.

Not Your Barbie's Dream House

So a friend and I were talking about the mansions we'd build if we were suddenly imbued with huge amounts of money.

Mine would have the typical rooms -- kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms, etc., but it would also contain some wacky stuff you'd never see on Cribs. Let's take a peek at the rooms in my dream house, shall we?

First up is the Mirror Room. So named because all walls, ceiling and floor would be covered with mirrors. I may make the room an unusual shape, so that it has a faceted effect. Maybe even have several panels here and there to make it a little like a fun house. The back of the door would also be a mirror, and would fit nearly seamless with the rest. Extremely disorienting. Uber-cool.

Next, is the Padded Room. This room would have nothing but plush, red, velvety cushions and padding all over. You could lounge in there all day, and waller all you want. Extremely comfortable. Uber-cozy.

The Dungeon would have stone walls and be decorated with medieval-type stuff. Swords, crests, suits of armor, tapestries, etc.

The Game Room would be one of my favorite places. There would be a big table for old-school D&D pencil/paper/dice gaming. I'd get one of those custom made tables that had a grid for miniatures. The room would also contain various game consoles and even arcade games.

My mansion wouldn't be complete without a couple of hidden rooms and secret passageways. I'm not telling you what they're for, because I'm not even sure why. I just think it would be cool to have them.

Last but not least, my mansion would have to have an honest-to-goodness turret, just like a castle. Why? Because I like castles. In fact, it would be nice to just build a castle to start with, instead of a mansion.

So, there you go. Weirdo Mom's dream house.

Beliefs

I have a difficult time sharing myself with people sometimes. I've learned the hard way, that when the things you believe and feel are different from those around you, they tend to be openly critical, attacking and judgmental.

I don't really care what the people I don't know think. However, I DO care what friends, family and those close to me think. I care what they think about me, and it's painful when those that are supposed to care for you turn on you, simply because you were...different.

The result of these experiences is that unless I feel there's an open, non-critical, non-judgmental floor, I will clam up tighter than a miser's purse about what I think or feel about something. Because of some recent conversations though, I'm willing to stand here, on my semi-anonymous blog and just say it all out. I can't say it out there, in real life. But I CAN say it here.

Most of my beliefs tend to be rather nebulous. I have ideas, but I don't always know the labels for these ideas. Privately, I refer to myself as Christo-eclectic. I grew up in a loosely Christian home, and I have built from that foundation.

Some people feel that the Bible is the Word of God and should be taken literally. I'm not one of those people. I feel the Bible was Divinely inspired, but it was also filtered through the viewpoint of the men who transcribed it. It was also decided by a council of men what books should be considered to be part of the Bible. I don't feel those men had anyone but their own best interests at heart.

Therefore, I think while it contains some good ideas, I'm not going to swallow it hook, line and sinker.

I've got some Celtic, Native American, Pagan and Shamanistic beliefs blended in as well. Some may feel that those can't be blended in with Christian beliefs, because of the involvement of other gods. I call bull. Whatever you call your god, is just the name of one facet of the gem that is God.

I'm more open to sharing my beliefs about religion than I am about my beliefs about love and marraige. People are a little more open to religious differences these days, but not so much when it comes to the Sacred Institution of Marraige.

I am already feeling the beginnings of an anxiety attack beginning by just offering to state my opinion on that subject. So, Dear Reader, I am going to pause here, gather my courage, and write a second blog installment on that topic here in the very near future. I know you'll hold me to it.

My latest little thing to obsess about

Last night, I was on a popular social networking site, when I saw an acquaintance of mine online. We'd never chatted online before, but I impulsively decided to say hello.

We exchanged pleasantries, I said "How are you?" and the person responded, "Doing good. Brb, ok?"

That was the last I heard. I was online at least another hour after that. The person's icon showed that they were still online as well. But there was nothing. No response.

I just don't get it. I could handle someone saying, "I can't talk right now." I wouldn't even get upset if the person had said, "I don't feel comfortable talking with you online."

This is a person I see at least once a week, and we've chatted briefly on every occasion. They had even voluntarily offered to put in a good word for me at a company I was seeking employment at. Every interaction we've had convinced me that they saw me in a positive light.

Thanks to this weird, incomplete online exchange, my paranoid mind tries to convince me of several theories.

That perhaps the person thinks I'm mentally unbalanced and that they're only being nice to me, because it's a good idea to stay on the good side of the crazies.

That perhaps while dodging me, they were messaging some other friend of theirs, "That creepy crazy chick is on right now. She just tried to talk to me! What should I do?"

Now I'm worried that they secretly think ill of me. I don't know what to do about the next time I happen to see that person. Ignore what happened? Ask?

My natural inclination, given that I think that they think I'm unbalanced or crazy, is to feel embaressed that I've been inflicting my presence upon them. That I went so far as to friend them or try to talk to them, and they only went along with it because of a sense of social pressure, or out of fear of upsetting me. That perhaps I should avoid them.

I can't believe that one brief chat exchange has so rattled my views of myself, and made me feel so low. What is the outside perception others have of me? My close friends know the real me, but what about those others who only see me briefly? Am I one of those unsavory types, an undesirable?

Why did this happen? That's what I really want to know.

Well, isn't that just odd.

Yesterday, I was driving, and suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the need to cry, hot tears stinging my eyes. I dabbed at my eyes with my sleeve, and tried to continue talking nonchalantly with the kids as I chaffeured. I hoped they wouldn't notice, and they never seemed to.

How weird, I mused. I wonder why? I'd been perfectly fine, and then, bam! Tears!

Then today, I was watching a movie. A romantic comedy of all things. I don't usually dig chick flicks, but this one had me howling with laughter, watching certain scenes over and over, because it was that damn funny.

The next thing I knew, I was bent over double, racked with sobbing. A few tears came out and I just kept wailing and crying, but the whole episode probably lasted less than 5 seconds. As I dried my eyes, I wondered, Why am I crying?

Then, just like that, the tears dried up.

I really don't know or understand why. It's not "that time of the month". I wasn't thinking about anything even the slightest bit depressing or distressing. The second time I was in the midst of laughter when it happened. I don't know what emotion is bubbling up, or why it chooses the oddest times to do so.

I'm not worried about my sanity or mental health. Just honestly perplexed by these sudden outbursts that have all the unpredictibility and intensity of a summer storm. I'd hoped that by writing about it, I'd glean some insight as to why, but I'm still just as confused as when I'd begun.

Little Sister had to go

A few years back, my parents went on vacation at a popular beach, inviting the whole family along -- my brothers and their spouses and children, as well as my own little clan.

One night, my sister-in-law and I decided to have a Girl's Night Out. We kissed the little ones good-night, left our respective spouses in charge and decided to hit a local bar. As luck would have it, that bar was having a karaoke night.

I have a love/crazed fear of karaoke. Occasionally I feel brave enough to open the song book, pick something out, write and give my request to the dj before I chicken out. If I'm completely sober when I do this, the overwhelming stage fright gives me .... ahem... digestional issues. I'm not even kidding about that. But the intense thrill of singing onstage usually outweighs the fear of shitting my pants.

However, this night? I had a couple drinks. Though I grew increasingly nervous as the time approached, I was feeling fine, baby.

My name was finally called, and I got on that stage and had THE BEST karaoke experience of my life. I had chosen "Look At Little Sister" by Stevie Ray Vaughan. And I ROCKED it, absolutely, singing with such passion, fervor and depth, that I heard a shout of, "Sing it, sister!" from the black couple in the front row, who were rocking along with it.

Ordinarily, I do not mention race, because I believe that a person's skin color has no bearing on their worth as an individual human being. Though I am painting with the broad brush of generalization here, just like white teenagers know pop, many black people know the blues.

To me, even now, that couple's call of "Sing it, sister!" is the highest praise I have ever received from singing. I don't know that any compliment I could get would ever match that for me. From what I've read about SRV, he also considered it high praise if his music and style was called black.

I finished the song and left the stage to wild applause, and somehow my trembling knees carried me back to where my sister-in-law was sitting. Who hadn't even noticed I was gone, or heard the song. Distracted by trying to decline advances from another patron, she'd missed the whole thing.

The excitement didn't stop there. We finished our drinks, and left the bar. At some point the SIL and I realized we both had to pee. Really bad. And we were still blocks away from our hotel. There were no stores or gas stations open nearby. We tried asking a clerk at another hotel if we could use their restroom, and the response was negatory.

So, driven by necessity, and the desire for revenge, we snuck onto the beach behind the hotel, and furtively glanced around to see if anyone was present.

And that, my friends, is how I found myself dropping trou and pissing on the beach with my sister-in-law at 3 a.m.

Shopping With the Kids

What Christmas shopping with the kids has taught me:

* Children can use the restroom before and after eating a meal at a restaurant, and still need to visit two rest areas and the mall bathroom as soon as you arrive.

* Children can eat at a restaurant and be hungry again an hour later.

* My son can look at the same Goth chick I think is cool, and tell her, "You're scary."

* I need a pull-string and speaker box, with the phrases, "Watch where you're going, hun!", "Don't touch that!", and "I'm sorry!" played at random.

* That you cannot browse leisurely through Spencer's Gifts, for fear that your kids will see products meant for those far past their tender years. And that your efforts at telling them to "Stay up front!" will be thwarted by the fact of, "But that's where the cool lights are!"

* That children braving the restroom on their own will want to test the acoustics of said facilities, much to the amusement of the adults standing outside.

* Despite using the restroom before leaving the mall, they still have to visit the rest area five miles from home.

Conclusion: My children must have the smallest stomachs and bladders in the history of mankind.

Also, my son can do an amazing robot impersonation, and his robotic laughter kept me in stitches for a good 15 minutes, despite my bone-weary, dead-eye tiredness.

I didn't know

I don't recall what my first childhood memory was, but I DO remember the most vivid one.

I was standing in the living room of our old home. Holding my brothers tightly under each arm. They were squirming and twisting, and shouting "Daddy!" as the paramedics took him down the stairs in a stretcher. They wanted to run over to him. I wanted to run over to him as well, but a very grown-up voice in my head told me that we'd only be in the way.

So I stood there. And held them. And let the paramedics take my daddy away.

I didn't know then, that it would be the last time I saw him alive. I didn't know then that he'd die on the way hospital and it would change our lives forever. I didn't know what a heart attack was. I don't know for sure that I'd do anything different, though I do sometimes daydream about running to him and touching his face for the last time.

I do know that whenever someone asks me anything about my childhood, that's the first memory that pops up. I know that it happened January 28, 1987, but that's only because I have a bookmark with his obituary on it. I know that I was 8 years old. And I know that even though it's been over 20 years ago, I sometimes still miss him, though there are many days I don't think about it at all.

Life is weird. Grief is even weirder.

Bebehs R Preshus

So there I am, sitting in a lobby somewhere, minding my own business. This kid comes along, not quite a year old. He's grinning and squealing, making cute noises and whatnot, like babies generally do.

And I'm all like WANT BEBEHS OH NOM NOM NOM BEBEHS R DELISHUS.

Then, I'm sitting there, reeling from the mindblast, wondering, "What fuckery is this?"

According to 70 percent of me, ain't no chance of revisiting that notion anytime soon. No way, no how. But 30 percent of me says yes. And that bitch has a bullhorn.

I think back to my children's infancies.

I remember getting no sleep the last three months of pregnancy because I'm so uncomfortable. I think that's the body's way of preparing you for the next nine months, because you get no sleep. None.

I remember two years -- TWO FREAKIN' YEARS -- of having another human being attached to my body pretty much 24/7.

I remember learning how to unfasten my jeans one-handed so I could pee while holding a baby. It was either hold her or hear her cry, and I couldn't handle the second option. Then I regressed to wearing sweatpants, because it was easier than jeans.

I remember that everywhere I went, I lugged around a purse, diaper bag and baby carrier.

I remember the crying. The God-awful, incessent crying. Then my crying on top of that.

I remember being so "touched out" that I couldn't even stand to get a hug from my husband.

But then the baby-crazy bitch is all like, "Yeah, but remember the smiles? The giggles? The coos? The snuggles? The way it looks at you like you are the end-all, be-all of the universe? The OM NOM NOMMY pudgy belly? You can seriously look at that and say you don't want that?"

"Yes, I can, bitch. Now shut up. I just now updated my wardrobe and my life. Fuck off, already!"

And so the argument goes, round and round. Either way, the discussion is tabled for now. I don't want to go through pregnancy and newborn stage while the Hubster is working away. I plan to go back to school next year, when both kids are in school full time. I'm sure I'll want to enjoy that for a bit, and perhaps start a new phase in my for-now-non-existent career.

I don't know why I bother arguing with myself anyway. I always win.

No cause for that!

Lately I have found myself beset by everyone's good intentions. I've been presented with opinions about various causes, with each petitioner trying to drum up the required enthusiasm and excitement from me about the subject.

Truth is, while the causes are worthy, I have only a finite amount of energy to expend. I already have my pet causes, and any enthusiasm shown for anything else is going to be lackluster at best.

I thought I'd have more to say on the subject, but I'm tired. Not sleepy-tired, but lack-of-energy tired. So blah on that. I can't take up your causes because it takes too much energy just to get dressed in the morning.

I'll take revenge on your furriness

So, a family member bought the kids a copy of Furry Vengeance. They had no idea how truly bad this movie was, so I can't entirely fault them for that. I'm not sure where to even start.

The first time my daughter watched it, she came up to me crying. "They make it seem like it's funny, but they're trying to kill all the animals!" she sobbed. That ticked me off right there. A supposedly funny movie made my daughter cry?

Soon, she came to realize that there was no animal killing going on, and it's become a movie staple for when the kids are bored.

I ended up fully watching it with them one day. I am far from pleased. There is one character who is Asian. He occasionally spouts off random gibberish, that sounds vaguely like Japanese or Chinese. Please tell me this isn't the 1950s? That they're trying to teach kids that when people "talk foreign" it's funny? That Asians are to be laughed at for "talking weird"? Geez....

This movie plays off so many stereotypes, it's not even funny. Brendan Fraser in a pink sweatsuit carrying a rainbow striped umbrella. The one elderly person in the movie is totally off her rocker (Alzheimers/ageism = not funny). Planning the celebration of the arrival of an Indian client, suggestions are made about teepees and buffalo burgers.

Not even the lovely, unflappable Brooke Shields can redeem this movie. I'm ashamed to have it in the house.

And God help me, the kids like it.


AAAAAHHHH!!!!!

Bucket List Revisited

My Bucket List
1. Become fluent in Spanish.

2. Learn to play guitar.

3. Visit a family member who lives in California.

4. Go to New Orleans.

5. Take a mechanics class/learn about engines.

6. Take a self-defense class.

7. Learn to swing dance.

8. Master bellydancing.

9. Learn other formal dances.

10. Publish something -- book, short story, or poem.

11. Get a tattoo.

12. Learn massage therapy.

13. Conquer my anxiety and its symptoms.

14. Become competent at sewing.

15. Do something of an activist nature -- participate in a protest or rally.

16. Learn to drive a stick shift.

17. Picnic in a pine forest.


Well, as you can see, I've finally crossed off one of my bucket list items. I got a tattoo.

It's a peacock feather, on my hip, and it represents Stevie Ray Vaughan. I discovered Stevie Ray about 10 years ago. I love listening to him flat out wail on a guitar, and I love to sing his songs. I know a good many of them by heart. I listened to SRV so much, that after my daughter was born, the only way I could calm her down when she was inconsolably colicky was to sing SRV songs as loud as I could.

SRV had a tattoo of a peacock on his chest, and originally, my idea was to get the same tattoo on my hip. But as I came to the decision, I realized I didn't want the whole bird -- I'd rather just have the feather.

It took me 10 years to decide I really did want a tattoo enough to live with it forever. It took me 2 more years to pick just the right design. And today, I did it.

It hurt. I gasped. I trembled. I said ow and fuck a lot. I asked the tattoo artist if this was a typical reaction, and he said, "For an area this tender? Yeah." So for once, I guess I'm normal at something.

About 2/3 of the way through, I stumbled onto a trick. I breathed in. I hissed out the air. I realized that when I focused on hissing, the pain wasn't quite as bad. I ended up hissing the rest of the way through. The tattoo artist probably thought I'd lost my marbles, but he was a total pro and never said a word.

I am absolutely in love with it. And now I want another.

*************************

For those of you paying attention, you'll have noticed I've added two more items to the list. I crossed off one and added two more. I must be ambitious.

Highs and Lows

Today is one of those days where I got to experience both the highs and the lows associated with the Hubster's long distance job.

Our income has finally reached the point where we feel comfortable and not pinched. Today, I had new tires put on the car. When I received the bill, I paid it casually, with no concern. A year ago, I would have been sweating bullets and sick to my stomach, wondering how I was going to feed the family this week. I likely would have found myself selling soda cans for gas money, using our last $20 to buy a boatload of ramen noodles, and pondering the merits of prostitution. Instead, I had lunch at a restaurant.

I rode the high of this feeling all day.  Until I picked up my daughter from school.

After she got away from school, into the safety of the car, she became wracked with sobs. Missing her daddy. Yelling at her brother, because she was so upset. When that happens, I just don't know what to do. The only solution I can offer is to let her call him, which she always turns down for some reason.

I don't know why, but I end up feeling like it's all my fault. My fault he's out there, my fault my kids are on an emotional roller coaster. My fault that sometimes I'd rather trade that time with my spouse for a little financial comfort. Even though I have the feeling we'll all be paying the piper for it later.

But I'm not sure why I take on that mantle of responsibility, when it was a joint decision. I guess because I'm the one here, dealing with it. Acknowledging that fact doesn't really make it any easier though.

I guess it's just life. You have to live it, to see how it turns out.