dear teenagers, *this* is why your parents are so grumpy when you go back to school supply shopping.

1. we don't 'technically' budget for back to school supplies.

2. we don't think they should cost NEARLY as much as they do.

3. we are not in charge of the list.

the thing is, we know you're going to need school supplies. but high schoolers don't generally need their supplies until AFTER the school year begins. when each teacher gives their specific requirements. and by the time that happens it's like a month after we've started dealing with back to school. and the beginning of the shopping is all about the shoes and the clothes and oh you need a new back pack this year? your old one won't work? didn't i just buy you new underwear?

in some cases we've paid for transportation for the year or sports fees or both. then the summer packet with the fees laid out for the school comes and in some cases we've had to already pay for the yearbook, sometimes there's club fees, a PE uniform, a pre-paid dining card to load so you can eat at school.

THIRTY FIVE FREAKING DOLLARS FOR AN ASSOCIATED STUDENT BODY CARD? does it come with a massage and a free term paper?

whatever the fees, they are at least, more often than not, expected or hit early enough that they just get 'dealt' with. it doesn't mean it makes us grumble less, it's just a known quantity.

then the lull of the last days of summer set in. we start to relax. anticipate the start of school.

then the held breath, the exhalation, and the whirlwind of the first days of school hit.

and then it's like the 1st school day friday and we think we've made it through the first week unscathed and we're sitting on the couch and enjoying a (cheap because by now we feel tapped out) glass of wine, patting ourselves on the back for having made it through when BAM!

you remind us you have the requirements from your teachers.

oh? we ask. what kinds of things this year?

and you say, 1 inch binders, notebooks, dividers, etc. you answer, but are vague.

not a lot, you say.

oh? we ask. do you have a set list?

you do not.

well, we say. let's go this weekend.

we might discuss it again on saturday. mention about a list. you mention back that you know everything you need. we mention maybe you could give us an idea. you mention you know, binders. paper. the usual.  we drop it. because we forget to remember. what it was like last year. we just forget in general.

so we get in the car and go on sunday. and of course target, where everyone else has already gone, is out of everything. except the crappiest bright white binders and justin bieber notebooks. and they're WIDE ruled.

so we go to the big box office supply store.

we are lucky if we only have to hit one. because more often than not they too are out of everything. and then the driving begins.

which brings us to #2 on the list.

NOTHING and i mean nothing is on sale at the big box office supply stores. nothing we need, anyway.  and not only is nothing on sale, shit is EXPENSIVE! and i know we *just* did this last year so why am i so freakin' surprised?? you wonder. but i will tell you what, back to school supply shopping is a lot like childbirth. if you remembered the actual pain involved in doing it you wouldn't ever EVER do it again. 

and we just don't think things should be as expensive as they are. we think about how little we needed in high school, a back pack and like a folder we're muttering to ourselves. we can't think of much more we needed. kids these days with their fancy school requirements, we mumble under our breath.

but loud enough for you to hear.

of course we are being completely irrational. and it's not your fault you have school supplies you need. but it makes us feel better. best just to let us be.

to our way of thinking, a binder should be like a dollar. maybe two dollars.  you know, if it has that fancy plastic outer sleeve. a notebook should be no more than 50 cents. maybe a dollar. but binder paper should never be more than a dollar. can't you get pencils at school? since when did they stop offering pencils at school?

OH MY GOD HAVE YOU SEEN THE PRICE OF A PACK OF DIVIDERS??? if i had any smarts at all i would have gone into the divider industry. that or disposable razors. those people are making a MINT.

ah, so now you see that pinchy look on our faces? yeah. look around. every single parent we pass has the same look. and do you notice how every parent/child combo seems to be having the SAME 'conversation' we are? have you ever seen a grumpier looking group of parents? we can't even make eye contact with each other, we parents. it's too raw and painful. it's like we're all being slowly tortured to death but nobody wants anyone else to share in their pain and we have no sympathy left to give others. we have no commiseration left in us. you have broken us. so no judgment from you, teenager.

and we haven't even made it to #3.

which brings us to #3.

we are not in charge of the 'list.' not only are we not in CHARGE of the list, there isn't even a LIST TO CONSULT. LET ALONE TO BE IN CHARGE OF. because the list is several items jotted down in several spots on several pieces of paper in your weird ass hurried handwriting. papers which you have gathered at the last minute and are 'consulting.'  and by consulting i mean you have like 6 different spots you wrote 6 different class requirements down in and you're shuffling through them like you have no idea where they are or what they are because YOU DON'T. we are standing IN.THE.PLACE.and you have NO CLUE WHAT YOU  NEED!

we know what we need. and i'm pretty sure they don't sell whiskey at staples.

this is a grave error on their part. they could make a killing. the 'speak-easy button bar' they could call it.

so there is no actual list and the person who knows what's even remotely supposed to be ON the list should one exist is you. and you are a teenager. with a now grumpy parent in tow. and you're not quick to answer our questions in the first place, let alone with any real DEFINITIVE and CLEAR intent, and add to that the fact our grumpiness and sheer need to now keep repeating the same question hoping to get some idea of what we are shopping for, how many we need, and some vague idea of how much this is going to cost us.

it's a school supply clusterfuck. it's a meltdown of college ruled proportions waiting to happen.

'so a binder. for every class? or just some? and what size?' we ask. trying to beat back the rising hysteria in our voice.

'mumble mumble don't know mumble 1 inch' you reply.

'what about these notebooks?' we grab a stack from the one and only box we see. only we've asked without looking at the size. and we will pay the price.

'those say WIDE RULED. you KNOW i can only use COLLEGE RULED.'

to your credit you don't add 'dumbass.' yay you. you get to live. 

and that's *just* the paper goods. because wait, there's more! all the times you maybe even remotely discussed with us what might be getting purchased on this trip you never once mention the extras.

the lock for the PE locker, the specific requirements for your 'sportfolio.' oh? what's a sportfolio one might ask? well, that's a good question. yes well, it's an entire binder set up with a bunch of extras for YOUR P.E CLASS. wtf? not to mention the protractor and extras for math and the graphing notebook not just loose graphing paper and don't EVEN get me started on the graphing calculator. oh my god we did that last year and i STILL can't really even talk about it.

so with the driving and the finding it's going on hour two and we are pushing the cart wondering how in the hell we got blind sided AGAIN by something we knew was coming, can't believe how goddamned expensive everything is and really want to start every single sentence with 'well back in my day...' and have NO earthly idea of what we need to buy you, how much we need to buy you, how much it's going to cost us, and we only have YOU to rely on for any kind of actual information.

and by now you have picked up on our irritation, you can't believe how old we sound when we're complaining about the prices because 5.49 doesn't seem AT ALL an unreasonable a price for a binder, hey what's that shiny thing!!! you think and you wonder if you need it because it's so shiny and so you ask us if you should get it because you don't know what it is but you're pretty sure you need it it's SO SHINY and you can't figure out why you get such a snippy answer from us to a such a simple question from you and why would we flip out on you just because you asked to go to urban outfitters 'just to look around' and maybe go out to get something to eat afterwords?

WHY. INDEED.

and THIS, teenagers, this is why your parents are so grumpy when you go back to school supply shopping.

the end.

sincerely,

x.

marriage is not very sexy sometimes. more often than not this is realized while shopping in target.

so the husband and i went to target. by ourselves. this is called a 'date.' oh, and also we needed trash bags.

so i have a list and he has a list and he grabs the cart.

and that's when i see them. a young couple. they look like they just rolled out of bed. they're both wearing the loose, branded clothing of their respective colleges. she's beautiful in the way young women are. when you can roll out of bed and look like she does. i remember those days. these days when i wake up i look like i just rolled out from under the bed.  i can practically smell the strawberry shampoo from where i'm standing.

she looks up and catches my eye. she looks me up and down. you know, like women like to do. and i can almost hear her inner dialogue based on the look on her face. oh my god, i will never look like that at her age. i will still be thin. i will be dressed cute. i will not let my hair go grey.

i want to take her aside and explain what 'poker face' means and how it will serve her well in the future.

instead, i just smiled at her and she tightened her grip on her boyfriend's hand and they went down the next aisle.

meanwhile, we shop.

 the husband is rattling off the list and then he says

'we can get the board to cover the cat boxes at home depot. we'll go there next. then paper towels and toilet paper at trader joe's.'

'you know. if you really think about it as a whole, marriage is one un-sexy undertaking.'

'oh hush. we should get more light bulbs.'

the beautiful young woman and her boyfriend pass by.

i try to hold the husband's hand. but someone has to push the cart.

we are walking down an aisle and the husband stops. he sees something. it's a bench. for the entry way. we need a bench for our entry way because we've decided we're not going to wear shoes in this house. i know, we're THOSE people. but YOU can totally wear shoes when you come over. really. i'm serious.

so we need a bench and he's looking at this bench that's on sale. and cheap. and probably kinda crappy. i know what he wants. and it's not this bench. it's an antique oak 'hall tree' that has a built in seat with a hinged top and a mirror and hooks and you put it in your entry way and it's beautiful. it's also out of our price range.

and he knows my ultra practical self would go for this as a temporary fix. even though he's not into temporary fixes. especially kinda crappy ones. so i ask

'i thought you wanted something different?'

'yeah. i do. but that's really pricey and we need a bench and this is on sale.'

'well, i don't mind it. but this is YOUR decision. i don't want you coming in every day after work looking at that crappy target bench and seeing your whole life in that crappy target bench.'

'what are you talking about?'

'you know, the whole i don't get to make any decorating decision and i don't have any say and i work all the time and i don't have any say and now here's this crappy bench and i didn't have any say.'

'when have i ever done that? even remotely?'

'well, never. but people do ALL THE TIME. and there's a first time for everything. one day you're happily married and the next thing you know you're arguing over who gets to keep the crappy bench that no one wanted in the first place. get the bench or don't, but this is your decision.'

'don't you have something else you can go get?'

'i'll go get the trash bags.'

'good idea.'

so i'm looking for trash bags. this is an 'issue.' because we bought like this HUGE ass trash can. and it needs the 13 gallon sized trash bags. only, by the time they're filled they bust when you try to take them out of the trash can. so i'm looking for BIGGER kitchen trash bags thinking that the extra at the top will give us an edge in them not ripping when they're full.

the husband and i had like a 20 minute discussion about this.

well, and as it turns out, they don't MAKE kitchen trash bags larger than 13 gal. who knew? not me. BUT, and as it turns out, there's like this whole bunch of trash bags that are like rip proof and stretchy and grabby at the top so they don't slip and rip. but now to choose which one. so i get to work and i'm already overwhelmed. i have a choice of 3 when the husband appears.

'okay. so this one is extra tough. this one is extra stretchy. this one grabs at the top of the can.'

'jesus. you'd think they could roll it all into one. well which one should we get?'

'beats me. i mean, with all the cat litter we have to toss after cleaning boxes twice a day it gets really heavy.  that's why it rips.'

and right then the beautiful young woman and her boyfriend pass by. she looks at me and quickly looks away. she looks like she swallowed something fermented. she's holding one box of band aids. they have kermit on them. isn't that cute. i think i want to punch her.

i look at the husband. studying the boxes of trash bags. in which to hold the massive amounts of cat shit and garbage our house generates. i remember when we used to have sex in the front seat. well, it was that once. he had a really small car.

'marriage. un-sexy. and here's the proof.'

'oh hush. i'm going to put these two back and get this one.'

and as he's reaching up i reach over and put my hand on his ass.

he looks at me and smiles.

'what are you doing?'

'i'm making trash bag shopping more sexy.'

the woman in front of us turns around and glares.

the moment passes.
 
we head over to get contact lens solution.

'oh wait. let's go down here. i'm going to have my period soon.'

'okay.'

and there she is again. WHAT IN THE HELL! is she fucking following me?!

and now she looks at me with horror and revulsion. she looks at the husband calmly marking off his list while i've been caught red handed buying feminine products IN FRONT OF HIM. AS IF IT ISN'T ANY BIG DEAL. oh. the horrors. stop.

she had been looking at the sun screen on the end cap. she still has the band aids.  she puts down the sunscreen and grabs her boyfriend's hand.

'let's go.'

'didn't you want to get that?'

'i'm done.'

and i start to chuckle. and i SO want to shout something after her. but i don't. and i don't know what i WOULD shout. 'it gets better!' maybe? as in one day it's going to be comfortable to be with the one you love. one day you'll finally feel comfortable eating in front of him. one day you can buy more than a box of band aids with kermit on them just because they're cute. because you're stalling. you came to target for that? the hell you did. you probably had something else you needed but were suddenly too shy in front of your boyfriend. and now you're here like YOU DON'T NEED SOMETHING? you're in target, beautiful young woman. CIRCLING 'health & beauty' and there isn't ONE THING YOU NEED? and yes i'm assuming and judging BUT THIS IS MY INTERNAL FANTASY SHOUT SO I GET TO! AND I'LL BET SOME OF THAT RINGS TRUE ANYWAY! oh, and yes HERE'S ANOTHER ONE:  one day you might even be buying a bra here! IN FRONT OF YOUR HUSBAND! yeah that's right! a bra! and maybe even PANTIES! in the same place you buy garbage cans and motor oil! IT CHANGES HONEY! and it may not be sexy but it's REAL! and sometimes that's even BETTER! because you finally get to let out that breath you didn't know you were holding! AND THAT'S WHY MY STOMACH ISN'T AS FLAT AS YOURS! IT'S CALLED BREATHING! i'm finally breathing! well and i should be doing more pilates but that's neither here nor there right now missy because this is about you! and my advice to you is to just ROLL WITH IT! EMBRACE IT! because if you don't there's a greater than average chance you could end up SUPER UNHAPPY! and for god's sake i hope you're wearing SUN SCREEN WHENEVER YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE EVEN ON OVERCAST DAYS BECAUSE YOU HAVE GORGEOUS FLAWLESS SKIN!

we finish our shopping and are heading across the parking lot to the car.

'did you see that girl?'

'what girl?'

'the really pretty one. with her boyfriend. she was like everywhere we were.'

'huh. i didn't see her.'

of course he didn't see her. because he's the most confident person i know. who literally could not care less what other people think of him. what they see when they see him. he's content. he's got a few hours with his wife. the day is fine. he solved the vexing shoes in the entry way problem with the cheap crappy bench. he's got a half checked off list (if you're an aquarius this is a lot like winning the lottery. a whole checked off list never happens because if you're an aquarius you keep adding to the list...so a half checked off list = golden.) he's a happy camper. today and most days. if i didn't love him so much i'd probably be really annoyed by that.

'she was all over the place and i swear she was looking at me and glimpsing some kind of future and she wasn't pleased. didn't like what she saw.'

the cart is heavy but he takes one hand off the handle and puts it around my shoulders. he easily steers the heavy cart with the remaining hand. he kisses me and says

'she should be so lucky.'

x.

home of the brave.

"What do you think we could be if we didn't have to be brave."

this was in a book i just read. i read that and then put the book down. in full and fair disclosure i cried. but you knew that.

the thing is, i have thought this very thing so many times in my life. what might i do, what i might become if i didn't have to keep doing 'this.' keep being brave. picking myself up.

i think many people with difficult childhoods or difficult circumstances have had the exact same or a similar thought.

what else could i have been or done if i didn't have to put my energies towards bravery?? just getting by. just making it through. imagine the possibilities. imagine the me i could be.

i was in my hometown when i read this book. a place i rarely go. a place that holds memories both good and bad. so many of each.

the boys asked to go by my old house. this is not usually on the agenda during my rare visits. but, they had never seen it and of course were curious. i joked to a friend on the phone when he asked what we were up to that day that we were going to strap on our kevlar and head over to the old neighborhood.

it's not that bad. maybe it is. it's hard to know when you're not really there. it was fine growing up. i mean as a neighborhood in general. i guess. from what i remember. i mean there were neighborhood bullies and the occasional flasher. one neighbor drove his big old convertible drunk and with kids all piled in on the regular. the other neighbor sometimes forgot to feed her kids. we think the lady who lived upstairs was a hooker. when i was older i wore a low cut shirt and got a good deal on a set of used tires from the guy who lived behind us. i walked to all three schools i went to, walked to the store. bought cigarettes for cinnamon's mom at the corner store with a note saying please let my daughter buy cigarettes for me. and her mom signed it. so, you know, the usual neighborhood dynamics.

anyway, i was a little reticent. the last time i went home i ended up in a puddle on my hotel bed. crying to another friend on another phone call. i couldn't even fathom driving down that street. by the old house. why couldn't it have been different, i cried. why couldn't it have been easier, i cried. blah blah blah.

so i'm in the car and driving the boys towards my house. i see the shopping center that had the grocery store and the place we used to buy 10 cent boxes of candy. the video store was there. i remember when it opened. this was right when VCRs came out and video stores started popping up. you could rent a VCR then because so few people had them. my father used to rent a VCR and 3 movies there every friday afternoon. he'd watch them and do a review column for a local paper.

i see that ernie's liquors is still a liquor store but called something else. i remember going in there with my father when i was little. i remember later, more recently, sprinting in there dressed to the nines for the goddess mother's wedding. i was supposed to be at the church already. supposed to be marrying her and her husband at nearly that exact moment. i was still miles away.  i was late. the laptop ate my ceremony. the duke nursed too long. my hair and makeup made me look like i spent a little too much time at home with mother's little helper. i sprinted in there and grabbed a bottle of jagermeister.

mother's little helper indeed. liquid form.

the husband was driving and the duke was asleep in the back. and there i was, sweaty, freaked, and late. cermony-less. shooting jagermeister and muttering to myself.

it turned out beautifully.

it's true. ask anyone.

the car made its way past. i shook off the memory. there's the apartments on the left my father told me never to go to alone. sometimes i did.  there's the park on the right that used to be an orchard. there's my street. shit. i nearly passed it. how in the hell did that happen? this street has its own freaking barbed wire wrapped wing dug right into my soul and here i almost missed it. i turned off and expected it all to come flooding back. you know, it. it. the it of the difficult childhood. it. like it always had when i had gone back the few times before. expected something that didn't come. instead, i played tour guide.

there's where melvin lived.

the kid with the rotten teeth who always cussed?

yep. oh, there's cinnamon's house! it looks so small.

that's where she lived? is that the tree? you were lucky to live so close to your best friend.

so lucky. oh! there's allan's house. god it looks so small. the yard was always perfect. too bad it looks the way it does now.

was that the kid who always wanted to play border patrol?

yeah.

i slow the car.

pointing out allan's house had almost made me miss my own.

i stop.

i point.

that's my house. look at that fence and grass. we didn't have grass or a fence. it was prickly bushes that smelled like cat pee and beauty bark instead of grass.

it's cute. i like the brick.

it looks exactly the same. look at how big my father's peach tree has gotten. i remember when he planted it. so he could always have fresh peaches. for cobbler. and pie.

i put the car in park and briefly i remember how my father made a list of foods that he wanted me to cook for him when i came to visit. last year. when he was dying. peach cobbler was on the list. i made most of the food. he had a plate, but didn't eat any. i never got around to making the peach cobbler.

at this point it's just as my sister said, everything seems smaller. the houses the street the distance to the corner. everything seems at once shabbier and brighter than i remember. i am somewhere else, but it's not painful. it feels odd for it to feel so...normal. like, hey here's the house i grew up in. and nothing more. it's just a house. where i grew up. it isn't everything it used to be. no longer the scene of the crime. just a set piece in the movie of the week of a silly mortal.

and then i remember it's probably best not to be stopped in front of unfamiliar houses. i pull forward. drive by my old elementary school. turn around. cruise by the house again. and then we're off. more places to see.

and again, i expect that thing. that pit to open me up and swallow me whole. the reminder of pain and sheer exhaustion. i expect it to hit. and, it doesn't.

instead i am pointing out my jr. high. why can't i remember that it was called a 'senior elementary' instead of a jr. high. what in the hell is that?

mama, that's so weird.

i know.

i keep driving down the street that takes me to my old high school. i point out to the left side of a duplex with a rusting car on blocks in the driveway.

i had a boyfriend who lived there with his dad.

oh. it looks um, really run down.

it looks about the same.

was this in high school?

no. after. i worked with him at the burger place. actually, technically he was my boss. he was a little older. from a trailer park in oklahoma. he used to invite me over to watch an old video of him playing in the state basketball championship. over and over and over.

oh, mama.

i know.

i keep driving. in my old hometown. here where i grew up. here where i grew my armor. and regrew and regrew and regrew my armor.

but  the more i drive i STILL don't feel it creeping up on me. i am just pointing out houses where friends lived (look there's rich's house!) and telling stories. i don't feel the need to be crushed by this trip down memory lane. i don't feel the need to be brave. at all.

i stop at the stoplight.

oh my god, i'm thinking. that's what it is. this feeling. i am not a wounded child here. i am ALWAYS a wounded child here. but now i'm just a mama showing her boys the old neighborhood.

and that's when it hits me.

that thing i always thought about having to be brave all the time. how my life might have been different if i could put my energy towards other pursuits. the possibilities. the me i could be. if i didn't have to carry around all that armor. i look over and sitting beside me and behind me was all that i ever wanted. my boys and my little family were all i ever wanted. to be a mother was all i ever really truly wanted.

and that's exactly what i got. and it's fucking awesome.

and those other things i did. things i've done in my life. those were awesome, too. i think we need to take stock more of the things we have done, and not the things we think we might have done. or missed out on. because i don't even know WHAT THOSE THINGS ARE. i mean my god what exactly has to happen to make the things we have done, however big or small, *just* as important as the things we think we might have missed out on?              

i don't know, but i think i accidentally stumbled on it at the stoplight in front of my old high school.

the light changed and then we were passing by the school. under the pretense of getting a better look i pulled over. i needed a minute. i needed a breath.

i don't know if it's because my father is gone now. or if i have finally just grown the fuck up. or if it's a combination of the two. or if it's getting back to the west coast or all the sun or WHAT. but 'it' never came. not the crush, not the sadness, not the pit. not the armor. bravery was no longer needed. at least not here.

and that was that. how quickly the shit that's kept you down falls away. and then you're left with...a deep breath. a little wiggle room. possibilities.

the me i have always been. 

just like that.

we looked at the bumpy walls of my old high school. and i told them the story of uncle nate's 'controversial' mural and how we (i won't name names to protect the absolutely guilty as charged) snuck into the school and uncovered the paint they had painted over it to hide it.

did uncle nate go with you?

no. i don't even know if he knew at the time we were gonna do it.

wait. how could you take that paint off without taking uncle nate's paint off underneath?

he sprayed his mural with some kind of anti graffiti spray. that makes it so you can take paint off the top without taking the paint of the piece.

that's awesome.

yeah. just you don't do something like that. sneaking into school property and all that. and if you do, don't let me know about it. and don't get caught.

gotcha.

i pulled out and we drove to the taco trucks and to sonic for slushes or whatever they're called there and to the park.

i like it here, says wingman.

i do too, i answered.

x.

getting. getting. getting it.

before the duke started high school last year he was understandably nervous. any kid would be, but having been home schooled his whole life he *literally* had no idea what to expect. he'd ask me a ton of questions. about this and that and the what ifs. and i'd answer the best i could given my biases from my own dubious high school experiences and the wisdom gained with the passing of time.

basically, i pulled it out of my ass. about what might happen, and how he might deal with it.

but what i ultimately told him was 'just be yourself. that's it. that's all you have to do. the rest will come.'

so. he did. he was.

he wore the clothes he liked when very few other boys would even consider wearing what he did and teased him for doing so.

he took his lunch packed by his mother even as the other kids snickered or teased him that i wouldn't make his lunch forever. 'yeah but she makes it now. and i'm hungry. what are you having?' they were having nothing, or a slice of pizza, or bumming his left overs.

he listened to/read and defended the music and books he liked, never shy about it. or pretending he liked something just because someone else did.

he wasn't afraid to be dorky or laugh at himself.

if he liked a girl, he asked her out. regardless of whether he 'should' or what others would say. when he got rejected he was bummed, but he would still ask out the next girl he wanted to.

he refused to go along with the 'guys' when they started in on the unflattering girl talk. he'd just go find the girls and hang out with them.

he'd get heckled nearly daily by a few jerks and learned to ignore them, or do a humor zing. refusing to believe that it was anything other than them not understanding the new kid, even as the school year dragged on. it bugged him, but it didn't bite into him and take hold.

and at the end of the year he was lured by a couple of his friends to someones house. and when he got there there were 30 kids, all his friends, waiting to surprise him with a going away party. they had tables of food and drink, music, and they gave him gifts. they gave him framed photos they'd taken of him around the halls, or of them all dressed up for the semi formal dance they had attended. someone made him a mix cd. he got more than one filled up photo album. he got a t-shirt someone screened for him, someone drew him a picture, and he was given more than one handwritten letter telling him how he was just so different and cool and would be missed.

all from kids he didn't even know 10 months before that day.

he was surprised and happy and really stoked. he said he had no idea how much people cared for him.

imagine being exactly who you are and people digging you for it. 

except here i am telling him to be himself. 'just be yourself.' meanwhile i am staring at the spot on my chin wondering if anyone notices, sucking in my stomach at the oddest times like it works and makes me look 23 again, waking up at night wondering if maybe i'm not just a little too soft and curvy even though i like it maybe i am, if i should have had so much hair cut off, shouldn't i write more about this and less about that and who cares about what i have to say about my kids and why don't my toes look as cute as they did before and does anyone notice? my toes my hair that spot on my chin. OH MY GOD DOES ANYONE NOTICE?

we say these things to our  kids, be yourself. then we go stand in front of the mirror and catalog our flaws. we keep whole industries in business just so we can make a valiant attempt to look like we did when we were 17 or 23. even though 41 is pretty damned awesome. we feel bad about this and that so we eat too much or not nearly enough. we love our children unconditionally, but not ourselves.

and that's why my child is completely awesome. not because i'm bragging but because i am in sheer awe. because i gave him the line i have been working towards my entire life and at 14/15 he nailed it.

isn't that something.

and in a month he'll do that all over again. in a new town in a new school. (oh yeah. we moved. to the west coast. i would have said something before but i'm pretty sure i was too crazy and excited. but, now you know. so.)

i have made huge strides in the past few years in this area, just being me. i'm not there, but i'm so much farther than when i started. and i can't say that i'm going to suddenly stop worrying about my curves or my toes (or whether or not i should wear the short-ish skirt i just bought. but that is ANOTHER blog all together), but what i will say is that i got it. the lesson. again. getting. getting. getting it.

life is THIS. it's happening NOW. and it's just too damned short that it's so not worth it to waste what time we have worrying about the stupid shit.

and when i do start worrying over the stupid shit, because i know i will, until i don't, and i don't know when that will be, but i'm working on in it BUT WHEN I AM trying to stop worrying about that stupid shit i'm just going to go hang out with the duke.

you know, if he'll let me. because part of just being himself is him being one of those pesky teens. prone to eye rolling and snark and definitely at certain moments NOT at ALL wanting to hang out with his mother.

but that is ANOTHER blog all together.

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

  

image by navila kalam

last night my father was talking to me in my dream.

he had the richest most melodic voice.

he still does.

he took care with his words as he spoke.

to be sure that they rose and fell right where they needed to.

that the pitch matched the pace.

he was sure to draw you in, even as you longed to leave.

occasionally he'd talk about something you were interested in.

mostly, he talked.

about this and that.

himself.

conspiracies and theories and civilization and books.

music. mostly what he couldn't stand.

something he read about asafoetida.

and everything you'd ever want to know about it.

and endlessly about his pack.

his gear.

always his gear.

i think the beauty of the dead is the ability to cast your gaze with a softened beam. you can put away the armor, the laser, the 10 foot pole. you don't have to think about the bad stuff or the hurt. you don't have to unless you want to. and mostly, i don't.

the beauty of the dead is when they come to you in your dreams they are their dream selves. and whether they were their dream selves ever while living, it doesn't matter. you have them now as you want them to be. forever and ever. they are cast in the dreaming bronze of the sepia-toned epilogue. the rewrite gone perfectly.

when we dream about the living the possibilities are endless. and frankly, frightening. who wants possibilities and endless? especially when you know what one is capable of. especially then.

no. not me. give me the father i loved and the one i liked. roll them into the one i saw in real living life, but not nearly enough, always longing for more. of that. of that father.

i used to sit on my father's lap. when we'd be out at a holiday gathering or friend's house or a party. and it would grow late and i would grow tired and i would plant myself on his lap. and i would lean my head against his chest and listen to the low rumble of his voice. and i would close my eyes and i would soften and i would sink. i would lower my shoulders from their space by my ears, and i would let down my guard. and i would be in the safest place in the world. the softest place. the dream place on my earth, always longing for more. of that. of that feeling.

i miss my father. terribly. and i wish that he didn't die. but i would be lying if i said i didn't like the fact that when he visits me now it's mostly peaceful. filled with the good and the safe the charming and the familiar. the safe familiar. i don't like that he died, but i like that he is where he is. i like that i am mostly no longer afraid.

that we are both safe.

that he has let down his guard, too.

anyhow, this installment of your moment(s) of zen have nothing to do with my father and me. and it's a song and a band i am sure he would have nothing less than a 45 minute perfectly delivered eye rolling (me) lecture on its horrible awfulness  (though he would use a much, much better group of words strung together in stinging phrase) BUT, it was in my dream. in the background. seems fitting. i guess. so. here you go.

sweet dreams.

x.

NEVER SURRENDER. okay. maybe. do.

i learned a little something the other evening.

it's okay to 'give in' to your teenager.

even when you've laid it down.

and hammered it out.

and made a plan.

and it's a school night.

and there's still some homework left.

and he still has laundry and a room to clean.

it's okay to negotiate and soften and say yes. really.

teenagers are marvelous negotiators. given that they suffer from the disease of 'right here right now the future is nothing but a theory' they really have no idea what they are saying so they'll tell you exactly what you want to hear. sometimes they even believe it. when more time with your friends is on the line you'll say anything.

damn teenagers.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

because if you don't keep constant vigilance and say yes after you said no they'll surely right then and there develop an insatiable need to feed with drugs and alcohol and inappropriate facebook posts and pictures and promiscuous sex. or girls with daddy issues. or, drummers.

so i went into this particular parenting phase being an accommodating and fair parent, but i am firm. understanding, but firm. allow in the beginning, but do not concede after the no. don't negotiate your position once you've firmly stated it. ever.

this is as much for safety as it is for sanity and let's face it, perceived control over a mass of hormones and emotions and growth and dorkiness hurtling through your space and bouncing off whatever happens to be in the vicinity. or, eating it.

the thing is, what i forget to remember sometimes, is how MUCH it is to be a teenager. how it's the little things. it's that one moment that means EVERYTHING OH MY GOD. i forget how much is riding on making that call and asking for extra time. when your friends are hovered around 'ask her.' 'what did she say?' 'tell her that blah blah blah.'

when everyone else gets to stay and watch the fireworks why shouldn't he be able to, too. to him it's the most unfair thing, i am too protective of his time, his sleep, etc. etc. oh, he's too respectful and he wouldn't say those things out loud to me, but i know that's what he's feeling. and he has every right. but, to me it's that i only want him home because it's getting dark and late and i want to feed him something healthy and make sure he gets a good night's rest.

(i know. i have it so rough with my unruly teen. boo hoo, poor mama. don't worry, i have a point.)

and i am in charge and i am right so what's the deal.

here's call #1 we made a deal, honey. oh and here's text #2 with more better info and a way home. and text #3 to papa, 'tell her...'

finally i just called him. hey, we made a plan. i said no. we were firm before you left the house. i feel like you're putting me on the spot and i really don't like that.

you're right mama. it isn't fair for me to do that. i don't mean to manipulate you, i just really want to stay. i want to see the fireworks. and i wanted to tell you it's at a different spot closer to home so i'd been home sooner.

how much homework do you have left?

a half an hour tops.

really? that's it?

yes. i promise.

and at this point i don't know if he has a 1/2 an hour of homework or 3. or if his promise to start his laundry and finish his room tomorrow means anything. i just know he really wants this one thing. he wants me to give him this one stinkin' thing when he does all the things i want him to do. well, except put away the milk. he's 15 and he's with his friends. he's having trouble with some idiots at his school. he likes this group of friends. they are always so busy he doesn't get to see them a lot except at school. he's moving in a month and he hasn't put up a stink about the change. he's 15. tonight is what he has right now.

fine. be home right after the fireworks. get to your homework right away. and no tomfoolery.

i don't even know anyone named tom.

ha!

thanks mama so much i totally appreciate it!

click.

so this may not seem like a big deal. at all. so your kid got to stay late for fireworks after you said no. um, okay...

but here's the deal. and it's not just a mama/teen thing.

this particular time when i wasn't saying yes i felt like all i was doing was holding on hard to my *control* of the situation. that's it. it was the control. i was RIGHT but it didn't feel right. i wasn't really listening to his position. my maintaining control was more important than listening. i had already said no and it was easy to hold onto that. I SAID NO GODDAMMIT! i was thinking to myself. even as i was ALSO thinking to myself, so he gets to bed later. so he just eats hot dogs all night. where's the issue? that's being a teenager. this is an isolated incident.

in our relationships, especially parent/teen, we think the way to get what we need/want/have to have is to be unyielding. if we are in complete unyielding charge we will be listened to, right?

i'll give you a minute to consider your own adolescence. your own relationships.

hey, it's easy to be 'right,' especially as a parent. especially as a parent to teens. but i think we do this out of personality (some of us) and fear (a lot of us.) fear that we will lose our perceived control, fear that our kids will jump off the cliff because everyone else is, fear that if something 'bad' happens it's because we let down our guard and loosened our grip.

it's very important that this is NOT how we teach our teens to be in relationships.

it's important that they listen to us and respect us and have rules and boundaries, but it's also important to be told no and to push back successfully. this is an important skill to have. i used to tell the duke, learn the rules and boundaries and respect them FIRST. then you can figure out when to push.

i think he figured it out.

starting out small is fine, too. ;)

hey, you, don't be afraid to NOT be in charge all the time.

whether it's your teen or your toddler your partner or your pal.

even if you're right and you know it.

especially if you're right and you know it.

at the very least take a minute to listen.

it'll be good. i promise.

x.

pancakes.

i have to go to a pancake breakfast this morning.

there are two things wrong with this.

1. if given the choice of a firing squad at dawn complete with blindfold and my first and last cigarette OR to be clumped in a large group of strangers milling about all doing the same exact thing i'd really be hard pressed not to ask for a minute to decide.

2. i don't like pancakes. at all.

i wish i was more like my little sister and the goddess mother who like these sorts of community minded events. at least, they tolerate them. it seems like a good thing to be able to do that. be amongst the people. you know, hanging with humanity. but. i don't. i'm more like my father. who would have rather crawled under his truck and covered himself with a blue tarp and sleep than do stuff that falls under the category of 'pancake breakfast.'

whenever i have to do something like say oh a pancake breakfast or board an airplane and i'm in some advancing line of shufflers and i'm just thinking what is this? where am i? this is not my glamorous life. there's like this rising hum of desperation and anxiety amongst the gathered. will i get on the plane WITH my bag? will i get my window seat? will there be any pancakes left? what about my slab of sad ham? is there still one left for me? why is this guy on my right seem like he's trying to ooch in in front of me. the collective neuroses builds and then BAM! suddenly it's all too much. like a huge crowd of woody allens on his worst day. and i'm one of them.

no thanks.

my grandmother used to have a sourdough starter. from this she made pancakes. big thick fluffy huge pancakes. every weekend i was there she'd make these pancakes. my grandmother, bless her heart i loved that woman, was not what one would call a 'good' cook. everything looked all right, but it would always just be a bit 'off.' chewy tough beef, undercooked chicken, and cookies frozen solid. 'just give them a minute.' it was summer, she had frozen the christmas cookies. they were never defrosted when she served them. those cookies needed a hell of a lot more than a 'minute.'

so she'd make the pancakes and they were never done in the middle. big and thick and never done in the middle. and she never let me fix my own plate. she just set it in front of me. i was a thin child prone to stomach aches and nervousness. kind of like a small hairless dog who has to wear sweaters in the summer. and here's a huge ass plate of thick underdone sourdough pancakes. and if i didn't eat everything set in front of me she'd be upset which would upset my father and let's just say it was easier to choke down the pancakes.

now. lest you think i'm some kind butt head who can't get over things well you'd be wrong. but that was so long ago, you say. can't you give it another chance, you ask.

i give plenty of things another chance! first kiss (he was cute, sweet, funny, but it was awkward of course AND he wore braces) did i walk away from that saying well, that's never gonna happen again. NO! i was like, huh, yeah, i'll try that again! first time having sex (don't ask) huh, yeah, i'll try that again! first beer (hamm's light. warm and flat from a can.) huh, yeah, i'll try that again!

me. rising to the occasion.

see!!!

okay all right those *may* be unfair examples BUT it serves to illustrate that i don't just always hold fast to hard first beliefs.

pancakes are just wrong. i mean devoid of nutrition and covered in butter and syrup...how is that breakfast unless you're an elf? i know i know there are healthier pancakes. but they don't fit in my rant so i'm not going to include them.

and i've been out with people who order them as a side at breakfast. that's like ordering a steak and saying, 'oh, and i'll have a side of ribs with that.' okay, maybe not. but how can a breakfast entree that shouldn't be a breakfast entree get to ALSO be a side. i ask you.

BUT

isn't there always one

i love my kids and this is a fundraiser and they love pancakes and i INVITED FRIENDS (moral support. they can have mine.) so i will go like i did before and be happy just to be with friends and my little family. and i'll eat one.stinkin.pancake. and i will do so with a smile on my face. because my kids think it's terrifically fabulous when i do. for them it's like spotting a rainbow. or spotting crappy cereal on sale i'll let them have 'just this once.'

and if you invite me over to your house and you're serving pancakes i will eat them. because i'm not allergic and i'm not an ass and if you made them for me i will happily indulge. because i like you. and you were kind enough to invite me over. obviously not a reader of the blog...but that's okay, too. sometimes ignorance is bliss.

oh and by the way, if you come over here? i make AWESOME pancakes. and i even warm the real maple syrup and make sure the butter is nice and soft.

because i like you, too.

so there.

x.

mamablogging.

there's a reason why this blog is called sillymortalmama.

i lost my shit with the duke last night.

i hate it when that happens.

it usually means i'm overwhelmed, there's historical evidence for this, but it's no excuse.

once i hid in a closet because if i didn't have 3 minutes to myself i was going to explode. because it was week 3 of living in a crappy extended stay hotel room. on a busy boulevard. overlooking a parking lot. looking for a place to live. because we moved from the farm for a job. i missed the farm. i had every good excuse for losing my shit. and no excuse at all. but see, before i hid the duke saw me run to hide. i literally ran from the kitchenette because i felt trapped and smothered and i needed 3 minutes. the duke was two going on 3. he came after me. he did not find me. and he burst into tears and said, 'she's gone!'

he was heartbroken.

it was horrible.

i can still hear him.

i felt like the world's biggest asshole.

maybe, at that moment, i was.

once i threw a box of popsicles against the wall and shouted that duke COULD HAVE THE WHOLE ENTIRE BOX SINCE HE WANTED THEM SO BADLY!!! it was 10 am. he had been up for 4 hours by then. and so had his mama. he had been whining. and pushing. about the popsicles. about everything. and would not stop. he was 3. he hadn't yet started preschool. i was 3 months pregnant. i was sick all the time. i was so sick we didn't get out as much as usual. i would count down the hours until the husband came home to take him to the park and i could be sick in peace. and we were away from the space of the farm and living in an apartment. and we always had to be quiet because the guy upstairs came down on one really really bad day (not the popsicles day. a different day. a few weeks before.) when the duke was just done with the world, mad at his toys, mad at his lunch, mad at me. so i put him in his seat in the tub, filled it with warm water and soft bubbles and his favorite bath toys, and let him cry.

i sat on the bath mat and cried. too.

the sound must have traveled upstairs. not surprising, sometimes the duke was a dramatic crier. and he was a mad AND dramatic crier that day. the guy came down and knocked. i opened the door. he looked past me and his eyes widened. the living room was a disaster. a total fucking nightmare. then he looked at me. my shirt was wet and misbuttoned, my eyes were red from crying, i was so sick i looked like i was in withdrawal. the duke was crying his dramatic, mad cry in the background. the guy from upstairs didn't know me, couldn't tell i was pregnant. with perpetual morning sickness. it just looked like i was running a crack house day care out of a very nice apartment in a very nice neighborhood. and i was disturbing his very nice day.

and because the guy from upstairs was an ignorant asshole because he didn't ask, and because he didn't understand and he assumed, and because he could, he all but threatened to call CPS on me. make him be quiet, he said. don't make me get people involved, he said. i was sick. i was young. i complied. so we were quiet on the days he worked from home (he finally moved. thank god).

so the popsicles day i was just done. done with trying to keep a toddler/preschooler TAURUS duke quiet. done with being sick. done with the whining. and there go the popsicles. against the wall. WHAM! HIT! DROP! and the shouting. i felt like the world's biggest asshole. again.

so, last night. i told the duke to go to bed with no dinner. SHOUTED for him to go to bed with no dinner. it was 7 pm. he and wingman would.not.stop.bickering. you stop. no, you stop. no YOU stop. all about the duke making his pen click. and it annoying wingman. i told them both to stop. twice. i looked at the duke and said you need to stop. we're all in this tiny house together. it can't be perfect. take the high road. do your homework elsewhere. just stop.

he didn't stop.

he threw his pen.

not at me. but just threw it. like a toddler. which they sometimes are as teens. which normally i can address rationally and let him know what asinine behavior that is. and to knock it off. and then he says he knows and then that's that. usually.

except last night i didn't do any of that. instead, i lost my shit. i have never in my LIFE sent anyone to bed without dinner. i don't know what came over me. i just had to make it stop.

the look on his face. he was so hurt. his little face. so little to me still. cracked in confusion and dawning sadness. geeze. sometimes parents can be such assholes. i mean, kids are no picnic, but, they're just kids. they're trying, too.

i could illustrate the reasons why i reached the break, the reasons why i came to the brink, the reasons why i did not have the reserves to pull myself back. i have the world's best excuses right now. but. it doesn't matter.

just like it didn't matter those other times. not when you're yelling at a child. nothing matters except that you stop. because it hurts. to be yelled at. no matter how old or not old you are.

they never tell you in the parenting books about what to do when you're an asshole. when you yell and fly off the handle. when you say things you don't mean.

i figured an apology is always a good start.

i mean, that's what i taught the duke. and he always apologizes to me for yelling or flying off the handle.

so. i went upstairs. and i talked to the duke. he apologized for not listening, says he 'tossed' the pen, didn't throw it. i said stop talking you're making it worse. don't throw stuff. it's asinine. then i apologized for my inappropriate reaction, for yelling. while it wasn't an excuse, i did remind him what led me there. and reminded him that he needs to be mindful, to listen, to pull back before he pushes. that i would try to relax, even though it's been nigh on impossible lately. but that i would try. and he had to do better than try. he had to stop when i told him to stop. it's as simple as that.

he came down. we ate. then i went to the bathtub and texted the husband for a big glass of wine and box of tissues and i cried.

because i'm overwhelmed. and because i let overwhelmed win and i yelled and i was mean. it's mean to deny food to a hungry child. meaner still if they're a starving teenager. meaner STILL when he's smelled marinated tri tip grilling for the past 20 minutes.

and i tell you guys these things not so you can say, oh...don't worry...we've all been there don'tbesohardonyourself and i tell you these things NOT so you can roll your eyes and say THAT? that's you losing your shit? honey, you should spend a day with me...

i tell you these things to say them out loud. to say it happened. that i messed up. to say that some days are just really hard. some days being a parent is really really hard. i say this just because i can. and it feels better to.

and there are rough days with every job, sure. but most jobs come with some kind of training. or test you have to pass. or a manual. a supervisor or a certificate. something that says YOU EARNED THIS AND YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO. and when you don't you get the supervisor or the manual.

the only test you have to pass to be a parent is waiting 3 minutes to see if there's one line or two.

(i know this isn't the only way. allow me the largesse.)

the rest is up to you, baby. all you.

and we can tell ourselves oh this day or month has been hard, when it has. we can tell ourselves that we're only human, when we are. but the bottom line is when we yell at our kids or fly off the handle and overreact we are hurting their feelings. even if they are little shits that day, even if they 'deserve' it...they aren't and they don't. they're just kids. trying to make it, too.

when my kids are wrong they are wrong and if they don't know it i let them know it. they're 'just kids' doesn't mean they get to do what they want and i shrug it off. it means i point it out, i model behavior, and consequences are appropriate.

and i hate it when i fuck that up because i hurt my kids' feelings. that's the worst. it happens, it's human, but it doesn't mean it doesn't suck.

i hate it that this late in the game the potential for fucking up is still present. good lord. 

like i said for some of you these transgressions might be so small as to be laughable and certainly not worthy of my writing them all up. of remembering them so clearly.

but i did and i do. because this is my day job. because this is what i chose. to do. to be. this is what i do. right now. i don't have to be perfect, am not, but i don't like being an ass at my job. an ass to my kids. ever. because in my world of parenting i never once for even one second wanted my child to feel abandoned or alone, to live in a house where things are thrown, with yelling, and over the top, inappropriate punishment.

i already did that as a child.

and i didn't like it. i don't like it.

i finished my bath, and my wine, and had my cry, and gave myself a big fucking break. which is easy to do when you're clean and relaxed and naked and slightly drunk. thank god for the bathtub.

i tucked wingman in. had a nice evening with the duke. went to bed.

and today i flashed the mailman.

on accident.

so.

back to normal. silly & mortal. just the way i like it.

hey. when you have a bad day do what you need to move past it. whatever works. try to give yourself a break. and if nothing else, i'm here. and i'll listen. and i won't judge. and i might even get you to chuckle a bit. i'm here. don't forget. no one is alone in this. remember that. don't forget.

x.

goat rodeo.

so i heard the term 'goat rodeo' the other day. it was new to me so i looked it up. it means a chaotic, unmanageable situation.

of course this brought to mind people i know who always seem to be in the middle of a goat rodeo. how chaos reigns and unmanageable seems to be the order of the day. we hear about 'one more thing' and we cluck our tongues and make our judgments.

never stopping to remember each one of us is capable of getting to that point daily. or, we believe ourselves to be there. one misplaced hour of sleep, the cream curdled, a wretched commute, soul crushing cubicles that define the majority of our daily existence. boom. we're there. we're complaining and defining our lives by the randomness of the world.

and, sometimes we're just there. for real. divorce, foreclosure, diagnosis, prognosis, money money money and just sheer fucking dread and terror at what the next bit of life might bring. that's real life at its real hardest.

i'm always amazed what the human body will put up with and still keep on keepin' on.

but, real or imagined or situational or chronic, the goat rodeo ALWAYS sucks.

i was thinking about this yesterday when i heard wingman say 'of course that didn't work. why would it? because that would be too easy.' in my exact tone. because this is what i find myself saying. when the salsa jumps from the fridge and yawns open and cascades to the floor. when the grocery bag rips on the stairs on the way into the house. when something is twice what it should be. twice as much. twice as hard. twice as sucky. when i'm in a hurry and i can't find my keys. when i'm in a hurry. in a fit. in a mood. in my life.

it stopped me in my tracks. because not only is it what i say, it's what my father said. actually, that's not true. what my father said was 'shitfuckfire.' in the same exact tone that i use. the same tone i heard wingman using. and while our mantras were different, the message was the same. that life was just meant for being shitty. that things aren't easier and that they SHOULD be easier. for us. for me. and they're NOT EASIER. lather rinse repeat.

now. my father was nearly always like that. me? it comes and goes. not often. getting less often still as i grow older and understand more and learn that life is not for taking personally. it just is. i have my moments. but my father, my father could not catch a break. you know, like poor, mentally compromised, single parents seem to not be able to do.

he couldn't catch a break, nor did he chase one. i'm not going to suggest he didn't try. i'm not going to suggest he didn't do the best he could. the opposite. but what he also did was become *accustomed* to the goat rodeo. it wasn't just something that happened. it's something he chose. i'll stop now because he is gone and it isn't fair to talk about shoulds and should nots when someone's dead. none of us are perfect. or above reproach.

i went up to wingman and i said, 'dude. don't start that now. don't start believing it's meant to not work out. don't. you hear me say it. but it's not true. it just isn't. it's a crutch i no longer need. and i'll try harder to remember that. and try not to not say it.'

to which he responded

'when were you on crutches?'

so. that picture above is of my father. at the top of mount whitney. the highest summit in the contiguous united states. i knew he climbed it. but i have never seen this picture. i have never seen that look on his face. his arms raised in victory. 

i have never seen him in such joyous, masterful control. that is unmitigated bliss you see on his face. we are all seeing that look together for the first time.

that is not a goat rodeo. that's taking the fucking bull by the horns. dammit. and yes, i'd like to go into the what ifs. as the what ifs of his life would have directly impacted my own. WHAT IF he chose THAT. always. what if. but, hindsight is only in the eye of the beholder. so.

we are all handed what we are handed. that is pretty much out of our control. and yes i get that poverty and mental illness and life are REAL. i understand. i've been in all three. reside in two still. but nowhere is it written that we have to choose the chaos. and if you find yourself in the middle of the chaos, surrounded by goats, extract yourself and just keep going. it seems simple and trite, 'duh' & 'yeah right.' but sometimes the simplest messages are the ones that get lost in the need to find the answer. the exit. and the excuse should the answer and the exit not work out. 

you get to choose. always. i told this to myself when i was younger. in a different set of words and a different voice. but the message was the same. i tell this to myself now. daily. even as i forget and slip. i tell this to my children. i tell this to you.

so. what if indeed. WHAT IF we learned to count up our blessings *before* we count up our losses? like a baby who walks before she crawls. cut out the middle man. cut right to the good. WHAT IF we choose the summit FIRST. always.

and this is not about bootstraps and all that. it's about choice. it's about life being short.

life doesn't last forever.

you are living it today.

you get to choose.

choose well.

choose now. 

x.

wherein the universe calls me a jackass and tells me to knock it off.

so i lost this ring. last night. while i was on the phone with my sister. in between the kitchen where i was taking it off and the dining room where i was going to put it down. on the eve of the full moon.

it's a face carved into a found antler. it very much looks like a full moon face. surrounded by silver. 

i've been wearing that ring every single day for nearly 15 years. my sister and the goddess mother gave me that ring when the duke was born. i love that ring. everyone who sees that ring loves it. i am constantly being asked about it.

and i lost. it.

it literally vanished. one minute i was taking it along with my watch and my wedding ring off to set them down to make dinner and the next minute it was gone. i searched for it everywhere. it wasn't anywhere. it was getting loose on the finger i wear it on so i entertained that it *could* have dropped somewhere when we were out running errands BUT i would have heard, it's big. i would have heard it drop. AND i felt it as i was taking it off.

i was devastated.

i did the thing you do where you say aloud well okay. i know everything has a reason and i was talking to the person who gave it to me on the eve of the full moon which it resembles and maybe it was just time to let it go instead of losing it in a far less 'meaningful' way.

i decided i would just be 'fine' with it. you know, accept it without a buncha weirdness. loss, it seems to be the theme, maybe this is just part of it and i need to just accept it.

so i went up stairs. and i sat on the bed and i started to cry. because i don't want to accept it. i don't want it to be gone. and i said, out loud:

universe, i don't know what kind of lesson you're trying to teach me. but i've already lost so much and i'm dealing with it and how much do you need to take from me? is there something i'm missing here? something i'm not getting? because i don't want to let anything else go. I AM DONE LETTING THINGS GO. stop taking from me! i got it!

and then i got up and yanked open the drawer to get my pajamas and i pulled out the jeans i took off earlier and stuffed in the drawer. i tossed them in the corner with the dirty clothes and there was my ring. jumping from the jeans, falling to the ground. it made a loud sound. i KNEW i would hear it if it had fallen!

so basically the whole night of running errands, etc. i wasn't even WEARING the fucker. and when i was taking it off in the kitchen i didn't even HAVE IT ON. it was just rote. it was just what i always had done, watch, ring, wedding ring in that order.

so i put it on and i sat on the bed and then i heard it:

there's your ring, you jackass. i had NOTHING to do with it. YOU took those jeans off in hurried vanity and changed into your other ones because YOU didn't like the way they made your ass look. why do you need your ass on display at whole foods to buy chicken? really? and YOU stuffed your jeans into your drawer like a 10 year old instead of tossing them in the wash. in doing all of that your ring came off. i didn't take it to teach you a lesson. so knock it off. give it just a minute would you? quit making life more difficult than you need. quit adding to it with your own issues. contrary to what you believe, i don't just work for YOU. so you need a lesson? well then the lesson was THAT. that and maybe you better think about putting that ring on a different finger. ever thought of that?

so.

x.

your moment(s) of zen.

the day kurt cobain died i was at my job. it was the most normal job i would ever have. it was a daytime 180 from my real life. it gave my life structure, but i did it poorly. because it wasn't me. and i knew it. but i did it. and every day i questioned my sanity at choosing to be hemmed in like that. for actually getting up and going *there* every single day. so, i wrote (mostly) bad poetry when i was supposed to be working. i wrote a whole book of (mostly) bad poetry when i was supposed to be working.

it was an office job. almost seinfeldian. absurd and mundane and definitely sitcom worthy. i sat in a cubicle. i wore knit dresses and tights and sensible mary janes. i had a creepy, inappropriate boss. he had a put upon assistant. i had a gay office BFF. and a supervisor with out of control kids and fertility issues she wasn't afraid to gone on about at length. and a friend across the hall i could dish to. and did. too often, i suppose. outside of that job, my real life was beginning to spiral. coming apart at seams that were never meant to be stitched together in the first place.

i would ride my bike from the absolute top of capitol hill down to denny down to alaskan way which separated belltown from lower queen anne and i'd ride along this gritty industrial strip and then make my way into the left hand lane and turn onto to the magnolia bridge and with puget sound and the shipyards on my left i'd take the bridge all the way up and into the heart of magnolia. at the end of the day, i'd do it all over again. miles and miles of immense hills and endless water and amazing amounts of traffic. miles did not scare me. hills did not scare me. fast moving traffic did not scare me. i miss that girl. she made questionable choices and was such an asshole at times, true, but i admire her pluck.

i never met kurt cobain. or his wife. but circumstances were such that the degrees of separation could be counted on less than one hand. and as time wore on would get smaller still. that was just the way seattle was then. a very small town in a tucked away corner of the world with a soundtrack all its own. a great deal of that soundtrack kurt cobain was responsible for. so when i heard he died there was a profound sense of something being...off. the world tilting in a way that didn't make sense. of having lost something i didn't really 'have,' but that meant something more than i could understand at the time. 

sillymortals and their connection to music. what can be said that hasn't already been said. except that everyone has their own story. of a sound or a song. an album or a band. a story that gets richer for having music attached to the meaning. for having a soundtrack.  

and everyone who grows up thinks their soundtracks are the greatest. that they are the luckiest for having been in that time, with that music. and they pity others who got stuck with other, lesser soundtracks. this is how i feel. and mine was, is, the best. and i wouldn't trade one song on it for the world.

and every year on this day since that day in 1994 i'll be in the car or at home and the radio will be on and it will get mentioned. kurt cobain's death. and i'll stop a minute. or two. and i'll remember. where i was. and i can picture that office. and what i was doing. in general. in my life. and the rest comes. the music and the memories and the girl on the bike.

and now 18 years later i have sons who love nirvana. one with wholesale dedication. and passion. their music regularly plays in our car. and in my son's room. it does not get old. it has not worn out its welcome. all these years later and kurt cobain still commands attention. all these years later he's still in the soundtrack of my life.

recently we drove over an hour away to see a rock and roll photography exhibit because there were three iconic kurt cobain/nirvana photos included in the collection that the duke wanted to see. the above was one of them. it was chilling and arresting in person. it was hard to look at, even harder to look away. one hopes that one so tortured eventually finds their nirvana.

so here you go. this installment of your moment(s) of zen. enjoy.

x.

securing the perimeter.

so yesterday afternoon i was cleaning out the hall closet which is to say i FINISHED unpacking the bathroom box i packed when we moved. sifting through stuff i should have tossed back in washington, throwing out expired meds, organizing what was left.

so what was weird, other than the fact that it's been a year and a half and i never unpacked the bathroom box fully, is that i found the switchblade my father gave me ON TOP OF a 6 page new york times book review of jonathan franzen's book 'the corrections' from september 2001. printed from the web in january of 2002. i read that book, i have that book, but i read it years later and i have never printed a book review from the web. ever.

moreover i packed that box and not only did i NOT pack the switchblade in the bathroom box (i kept it by my bed at the farm. upstairs.) i most certainly did NOT pack a 6 page 10 year old NYT book review. i would have remembered these things.

so i read the review which was long and wordy and made me remember how much i liked the book. a book my father hated. only because he never read it. because he was a disgruntled writer who didn't appreciate the success of other 'lesser' writers. at one point in the review, the author referenced eugene o'neill to draw a parallel and make a point. i finished reading it. and set it and the switchblade aside.

cut to this morning, i'm driving back from dropping the husband off at work and there's a story on the radio about eugene o'neill's play 'long day's journey into night' being staged in the area. and how eugene o'neill is so connected to the area. about how he died here. and how there's been sightings of his ghost. how he's buried in the same cemetery that is down the street from one of my very best friends from high school's old house (she just moved) and that  i've been there. i just walked in that cemetery not long ago.

and how the actor who plays the son in the play, a play about eugene o'neill's family, how his own father, a director, worked on the original broadway production of the play. and that his last name was my father's mother's last name. and the middle name of my youngest son.

and how his father just died. in january. and how the memorial is in may.

so i looked up the father when i got home this morning. and his widow's middle name is the same as my father's first name. only the wacky way he spelled it later in life. not how it was spelled when he was born.

cut to yesterday evening. riding along in the car to the library i was getting very sleepy and my mind was drifting. and i had two thoughts, the first was: i wonder if my father is really watching over me. i mean we think the departed are, but is he really? and how would i know? i have the lucky pennies i find so i mean i know he is, i hope he is, but is he really? and the second was: i wonder if it's in poor taste to have a memorial so long after someone dies? because we never had one for my father. and maybe we could this summer. would people come? would they still care?

cut to very early yesterday morning when i opened the front door to see the duke off to the bus and it was UNLOCKED. and i had my usual, well it's a wonder we weren't all murdered in our sleep thought. my father was notorious for 'securing the perimeter' before turning in for the night. every window, every door. a weapon always by his side. he too was afraid of the dark. he had daughters to protect. and i have usually been so good in that department. but that's twice in two weeks something was left unlocked. unsecured. shit, i thought. and me without a weapon.

so this morning, sitting here, it's just like that part in the movie that cuts to all the signs along the way the lead actor suddenly puts it together, along with the audience, and the mystery is solved. closing the circle. stories about difficult families. names. getting what you need right when you need it. oh. yeah.

now. it's different in real life. not manufactured for entertainment that ties itself up neatly. i know we can make much of 'signs.' or what we see as signs. connecting dots that are just 'there.' and not 'really' meant to be connected.

but i feel like that's the beauty of it all. being able to see 'it' if we want to. even if sometimes we are making a big stretch. a big leap. we get to. we get to make that leap. we get to secure love and comfort for ourselves. manifest what we need. something to see and to hold. something to know is real. to know that we're still being looked out for.

which brings me to my final thought about all of this: i really need to make sure the goddamned doors and windows are always locked. i'm sure my father is horrified. and it's a wonder we haven't all been murdered in our sleep already.

x.

morning joe.

i knew there wasn't any cream for my coffee before i woke up this morning. i knew there wasn't any milk in the house, either. not that i can abide by milk in my coffee, but at least it would be something.

i knew this because wingman and i used half of what was left of the cream yesterday to make butter. which i thought would be fun for him. and it was. so he decided to use the other half and shake it until it made whipped cream. which he flavored with sugar and declared delicious. he put what was left in the freezer. so, no cream for my morning coffee and a happy kid. i figured i would get up and get some in the morning on a walk to the little store. or, that honestly, it really wouldn't matter if i had coffee or not. a lot of days i just don't.

last night i watched the duke drink the last of the milk and figured i'd get that with the cream. around here cereal is an afternoon snack or a weekend breakfast. so we didn't need it first thing. so i could get it anytime tomorrow. later.

when i woke up this morning it was from a(nother) fitful night of sleep. it was windy and rainy and cold. the cats gave me grief, the duke irritated me because he's nearly 15 and the way he 'cares' about something is very different from the rest of the way regular normal people with already developed frontal lobes 'care' about the same thing. i held my tongue, which i cannot stand, which was best, and which only fed my irritation.

so by the time everyone who was awake had been fed and i closed the door on getting the duke on the bus all i could think about was a nice big cup of hot coffee. in my favorite cup. the one that the duke bought me for mother's day last year after i broke my former favorite cup in a fit of glorious conniption. actually, i was just being pissy at the exact same time my cup decided to slip from my grip. it really was a coincidence, truly, but it looked like so much more. more dramatic. more intense. like how you wish it would look when you WANT it to look that way. when really, the way it usually goes it that you furiously stalk out in a swirl of anger and all your DESERVED self righteous glory only to have to return sheepishly because you forgot your car keys.

anyway, where was i? oh yeah. so i headed to the coffee maker, pleased to see there were just enough already ground beans left over for my one cup so i didn't have to wake the sleeping wingman by grinding more. wingman who gets up far too early for this mama who wants just 15 minutes of no one talking to her a day. 15 minutes. that's all i ask. no cats. no kids. nobody. this does NOT happen if wingman wakes up right when everyone else leaves for the bus, for work. because after i feed the cats and everyone else and then they leave, the cats take their first nap of the day. ALL of them. and, it's quiet. just like that.

if wingman wakes up, there is no quiet. 

i look for the scoop and it's not where it lives on top of the grinder. it hasn't fallen to the side or the back of the grinder either. and for a moment, i panic. there is one scoop for coffee in this house. i don't use anything else to measure. i feel like if i do, it won't be right. i am not a coffee snob in the world at large. i will have coffee from a gas station or a convenience store or a styrofoam cup with powdered creamer. if i accept your offer of coffee i will drink whatever coffee you offer me in any way that you offer it. i will drink instant, i will drink flavored. because i suffer from migraines i learned early on that coffee of any kind will stave it off. sometimes beggars can't be choosers. BUT in my little life here inside this house, i have one cup of coffee a day. that's it. and if it's fucked up by any measure then i cannot drink it. won't drink it. it's simple as that. i don't 'need' it until i don't have it and then it sucks. it's such the human condition. well, if you're in the first world.

but there's something else about the coffee scoop. the coffee scoop came with us across country from our other house. our other life. not in the truck. on the truck. on the back of the 26 foot long loaded to the rafters moving truck. the truck that had gone, by then, over countless mountain passes through countless miles of blizzard and snow and ice and just complete shit weather. the truck that held our life before in material form, and our borrowed hope for what lie ahead. simply by moving us forward. mile by teary mile.

and by the time i noticed the scoop we were three days into that god awful trip. in some other state. at some other gas station. at some other fucking subway which for most of the trip was the default food because it simply was the least of all evils. i was on the phone with my mother in law, trying not to gripe, trying to keep it together so when the boybarians and the husband and the trip companion all came out of the subway i wouldn't be crying. so i was walking and talking on the phone and i walked around the back of the truck and there it was. the coffee scoop. from the kitchen. my kitchen. my kitchen with the sky blue tiled counter and the view to the back pasture. the kitchen that i discovered my passion for cooking in. the kitchen that for years fed my family and friends, that hosted all the holidays and birthday parties and gatherings.

and because we needed it up to the minute we pointed the truck and the car east, and because there literally LITERALLY was not one square inch of space left, we left the old, worn out, white mr. coffee behind in that kitchen. on the counter. but i grabbed the scoop.

and there it was. on the back ledge of the truck. just sitting there. like someone put it there. i assumed when i grabbed it that i tossed it into the car or a bag or box. that's what i intended. and yet. there it was. and it hadn't fallen off. through all the shit of the first three days of what would be an eight day trip i never again wanted to repeat in my life, there was the fucking coffee scoop.

i took it as a sign. i mean, at that point i took EVERYTHING as a sign. the way you do when you're heartbroken or lost or drowning. or, all three. i figured that if that coffee scoop could hang on to the back ledge of the moving truck and not fall off then maybe, just maybe i could, too. hang on. not fall off.

it took some time for that to happen, but, it did. eventually. eventually it does. we just need to be patient. time. distance. it comes. i know that now.

so i look again for the scoop. i look next to the new, black mr. coffee. i scan the dark granite counter top. i look again by the grinder. and finally i locate the scoop on the side of the counter on top of the nest of plastic containers that live in the wooden box on the floor. for lack of anywhere else to put them. for lack of usable drawer space due to the mice who are probably gone but the lack of my really giving a shit since i moved here prevents me from really caring or reclaiming the drawers and thus the box of plastic containers lives on the floor at the side of the counter. in some ways i am resistant and petty. in some ways i am hanging on, but not in the good way. but, no matter! there's the scoop!

i grab the scoop. happy to have found it. i scoop the coffee into the filter resting in the basket and pour in the water and hit the 'on' button. and that's when it hits me. that's when i remember i'm out of cream. and milk.

shit.

the coffee is now bubbling and gurgling away. my cup is ready on the counter.

i go to the window and i look at the sky. it's dark. it's windy. it's spitting rain. wingman isn't awake yet. and even if he was, i don't have cash on hand to make a quick run to the little market down the hill that has the five dollar minimum for purchases made with a card. i'd have to drive. to the bigger store. farther away. but not until wingman woke up. and the irony is the one morning it'd be convenient for him to be up early, he's not.

i take a deep breath and look back up at the sky. and down to the broken bird bath. to the shit yard i can't stand. with its endless pine needles and lack of charm. i am beginning to really turn on the dark when two more things hit me. both at once: there's the buddha. under the tree. just like he used to be at our old house. oh by then it was just a stump. it had been an old plum and had fallen years ago in a storm and the stump was all that was left. the stump and the buddha. right there. still there. he came with us here and has a new tree. not minding the weather or the yard or the endless pine needles.

and that's when it also hit me: wingman's whipped cream in the freezer. the whipped cream he made from the last of the cream left yesterday. he only had some of it to taste, and then froze the rest. so i went to the freezer, and there it was. the cream for my coffee. just waiting for me to find it.

the thing about life is that some days it's just harder than others. worse still is when some days turn into a string of some days, into months, into years. for whatever reasons we hold onto or are thrust upon us. sometimes it seems as if we'll never have enough of what we need or want, sometimes it seems as if all we have is too much of what we don't. too much of what holds us back and holds us under.

but the beauty in life is that it just is. there. everything is right there. it's just up to us to hang on. to be patient. to use time and distance as salve and salvation. to take a deep breath. to see the sign.

to remember that what we need is always right in front of us. it's just up to us to see it. to notice it. to reach out, and take it.

be blessed,

x.

in any other town.

last night a new-ish and has become dear friend took me to sushi. just us girls. i only met her last year but she is adored by me. we are the same age and come from the same place. the same coast, the same state, the same vast valley, the same hometown. she went to high school with my first husband. i went to high school with her husband. she didn't know my first husband, but knew of him in high school. in high school her husband and i were friends, and i once witnessed him, fully clothed in a nun's habit, fall down a full flight of stairs and not spill one drop of his beer.

it was a BYOB restaurant. i brought champagne. we ate. and sipped. and laughed a LOT. at one point 'it' came up and she looked me in the eye and said something to the effect of, 'it's been almost 20 years since my father passed away and it still hits me. and i still cry unexpected tears sometimes, and sometimes i'm mad at the universe. i still grieve.'

and i let out a bit more of that breath i always forget i am holding. forget until i am reminded.

which brings me to what i wrote on the plane about how i felt about being in new orleans. how i was reminded to let out that breath, and breathed just a bit easier than i have in a long time:


when i was in new orleans i had a sense of everything being just as it should be. i couldn’t name it. i didn’t talk about it. but i just felt, right. after so long feeling a bit adrift, un-tethered by death and loss. i felt like how i felt and there wasn’t a need for qualifications "well, it's *only* been 6 months..." "well, it was so hard at the end..." "well, i *am* so far away from my family..."

i loved the way people are broken in the south. like they are everywhere else. only in the south it somehow seems okay. okay to be broken for a time. it seems like in the south they give you however long it takes. because we all make ourselves whole in the way we know how. or the way that gets us by until we learn how. we really just need as long as it takes. that's all. and i felt like i could have all the time in the world there. i don't know how i know this from being there just 3 days, but i felt it. i did know it. deep down.

i loved the way it was okay to drink too much and to laugh too loudly in the south. it’s okay to talk to strangers. the fully clothed ones at least. the ones still able to stand on their own and don't have to be held up by a pole or a bar or a friend. in the south it's okay to stay up past your bedtime. it’s okay and even encouraged to engage in debauchery. and how sometimes that’s just what a soul needs. at least some souls. while i couldn't make a life of that, it made all the difference at the time.

in the south i was reminded that moments come and you embrace them. and let myself be okay with the fact that the only thing i’ve written about since my father died is my father. dying. that it’s amazing that i am as whole and as sane as i am to begin with so fuck'em if they don’t get the joke. i do. the south reminded me that that was enough. me getting the joke. in the south i got the joke. and wrote another poem about my father.

i loved being in a place that knows its death and despair and can still throw a parade. to know tragedy and still be able to take simple pleasure in sitting with a cold drink, enjoying the sticky warmth of a sleepy southern sun. i learned that in the south it’s really truly okay to grieve, to STILL GRIEVE even if it makes others uncomfortable. again, i don't know how i know this from 3 days, but i felt it. i did know it. deep down.

without a single conversation on the subject that i can't stop writing about, that i still cry about, i felt understood in the south. i made no apologies, and nobody asked me to.

so that's a rough and unedited written on the back of a boarding pass on a half night of beer soaked sleep synopsis of me in new orleans. and it seems strange to be so taken by a place i was only in for 3 days. but that's just how it happened. like love at first sight. you just know. without any reason or logic or comprehension. and you can't explain it. you just know.

and the only way i can attempt to explain it (because that's just how i do) is to recount an interaction i had with a shouldn't be as gorgeous as he is lad named spencer. he was one of the waiters at the fantastic commander's palace where along with two of the dearest to me people in the world the three of us celebrated turning 40 this year. there were balloons at the table provided by the restaurant and at the end of the meal spencer gestured to them and asked

"would you like to take these with you?"

i didn't even think about it. uncharacteristically.

"you know, i think i will."

he untied them from the table and made a loop, knotted it, and slipped them over my wrist.

"normally i would never do this. just walk around in public with balloons. in any other town, i would NEVER do this."

he looked at me for a minute.

" 'in any other town...' well, that right there is new orleans, ma'am. in a nutshell. you got it."

yes, i believe i did. get it.

x.