Mind, Body, Spirit: Part Two

My friend, Dorge, who urged me to begin this blog, posted about realizing he had become a scrooge.  I commented that he was the person who taught me the meaning of the word "apathy," and my internal dictionary imposes a picture of his smirking face next to the word as a reminder.  I wrote to him, after reading and being moved by his lament, that I would try to move his face to "lament" instead.  I had to look up that word to be sure it fit what I was saying. 

Again, I'm only an English minor.

So I have been thinking along those lines; I need to give more without being a cynical bitch about it. 

When I was younger, I didn't really get to be a kid for long.  Some of it was my parents' fault, some of it was my own.  My mother was diagnosed with bipolar and spent time locked in her room or in hospitals.  My father wasn't around until I expressed interest in meeting him when I was eleven, which I would have done much earlier if I had known.  Add a perverted step-dad, some other perverts, way too much responsibility, and not enough positive attention, BAM!  Steph was a mess.

I gave.  And I gave.  Family, friends, boyfriends, enemies even.  I gave my time, energy, innocence, love, janitorial skills, money, rides, gifts, cooking prowess (ha), my soul!!  Okay, I got to soul and knew I was going a little far.  At least I stopped.

But really.  I gave a lot.  I used to drive friends around all of the time and my mom yelled at me for it.  "You're wasting all that gas and they don't even help you pay for it.  Don't be driving your friends around; they don't drive you around when you need it."  And she was right. 

But later in life I had to drive her around a lot.  I would say I was getting her back for all the times she drove me around, but Mom always acted like I was asking her a ride to the moon if I wanted to go anywhere I couldn't walk to.  I had just become a mother and I wanted my life with my family and I was damn bitter.  I needed to finally really focus on me and even more, my son.  I was tired of doing for other people and not getting anything in return most of the time. 

It took me awhile to learn to take care of myself.  Actually, the more accurate description would be "to become selfish."  I didn't realize that until recently.  I thought I was just thinking about myself, but no.  It was not as healthy as that should be.  So what do I deem healthy?  Glad you asked.

You shouldn't put other people's needs so far above your own that you neglect yourself.
You should care about how you make others feel.
You should communicate with others about how they make you feel.
You should give of yourself freely, but do not allow people to take advantage of you.
The best people to assist are those who are willing to help themselves.
If people can't help themselves, maybe you should help them when you can.
Most of all, help those who help you, and don't be afraid to ask for help when you need it. 

I may be wrong about some of these things being gospel, but I know that I need a little more love in my life.  In the coming year, I vow to do at least 3 charity walks, and not just sign up, but actually walk.  I also want to feed people who are hungry.  I want to show my mom I'm there for her when I can.  I want to volunteer at my son's school and take him to volunteer with me somewhere that helps less fortunate kids.  I will do these things and more.  I will help friends move, I'll babysit, and I'll bake. 

You bet your ass I'll write for every one of you also.  Try and keep up.

Mind, Body, Spirit: Part One

Inhale.  Exhale.  Clean air.  Too clean, even in this valley.  Seems it would be appreciated, but sometimes I forget how to appreciate things.  Now is one of those times.

It feels dark inside.  Lonely.  Where does strength go when I really need it?  I have to make it go away, the feelings of emptiness and uselessness.  I don't want your pity.  I'm not reaching out.  This is merely a request from a dear friend who wanted to read my mind.  I miss you and yours fiercely.  It used to be if I was lost, I could find myself inside your arms.  I need those arms.  These are excerpts from the things I've been writing:

I saw a girl and she was beautiful.  And she knew how to smile.  I'm sure she has known fear, but she has never been alone.  I wish I knew what that felt like--to not know how it feels to be alone.  Because, in life, once you're swept away, no anchor in sight, no land to reach for, it's so hard to ever trust that everything will be okay, to know that love is real, to find a secure place to be yourself.

Depression doesn't tie itself into a neat little box.  It's not just a change in attitude, an easy fix.  Sometimes it grabs me from behind and takes me in the night, gagged and bound.  When the blindfold is removed I still can't see the end.  My eyes strain.  Nothing.

Not that I enjoy nothing; it just feels like the default is set at "shitty."  Life isn't shitty.  Just me.  Does that mean something is wrong with me?  Do I need medication?  I don't want to be dependent on medication and I really don't think I need it.  It feels like that would just be trading one co-dependency for the next.  I depend on people too much, build my life around them.  Substances, self-medication.  Other bullshit.

Why don't I write more?  Sometimes I hate being a writer.  I try to resist it, even.  As much as it helps me, it's ridiculous how in touch with my emotions I have to be to write.  It seems it makes me vulnerable to this.  To wondering about and obsessing over all the endless possibilities and pieces of life without just enjoying it.  Damn being a woman, too. 

I used to insist I would age gracefully, but I was fucked up a lot back then, maybe delusional.  There's no grace in this fear of everything.  Before I had my child, I didn't really fear death.  In fact, I taunted it almost everyday in some way.  Now it feels like I'm dying, like everyday my cells flake away in the dry heat and it's a part of me that will never return.  But aren't we all dying?  That's why it's most important to enjoy the short time we do have without always worrying about the tomorrow that may or may not come.  Today.  Right now. 

I'm so scared of losing something I've never even had; it's just an idea to me, a happy family of my own.  Time together daily to connect without exhaustion being the cost.  Maybe it's in the future.  Maybe not. 

Change is hard; stagnation is worse. 

Love/Hate=Appreciate

Breasts.  Boobs.  Tits.  Titties.  Cans.  Jugs.  Melons.  Sweater meat.  Air bags.  Fun bags.  Sand bags.  Bouncing Bettys.  A Woman’s Real Eyes.  Conversation Pieces.  Erotic Mountains.  Hooters.  Mammary Glands.  Mosquito Bites.  Penis Pillows.  Dirty Pillows.  Fat Nancies.  Chesticles.  Mammary meat.  Knockers.  Ta-tas.

I wasn’t breastfed as a baby, so that’s not where this obsession is coming from.  Bottle fed, straight up.  I do, however, remember seeing my mother nude as a young child and noticing how large her 38DDs were.  I didn’t really pay attention to other peoples’ breasts, unless they were just shaped weird or extremely huge, so I felt like Mom’s natural chest was what a woman was supposed to look like.  In my evening bath I sucked in my stomach really far to pretend like the bottoms of my ribcage were my nipple-less symbols of womanhood. 

In elementary school kids were already romanticizing a grown-up life and rushing their childhoods.  We wanted to stay up late, earn money, grow body hair, drive, wear deodorant and bras.  As of yet, we had no idea how much most of that stuff sucks.  The girls wanted to start their periods and the guys talked about our bodies like we were merely caterpillars about to turn into butterflies.  We all wanted breasts like they were our beautiful wings.  Beautiful wings made of fat.  And most of us wanted big ones.  These sixth grade boys never spoke of their admiration for small breasts; maybe some of them learned their preference later, after they actually saw or touched a real breast or learned that it’s more about the sum of a woman’s parts that makes her interesting, or maybe they learned how to go against the general peer consensus later. 

So the rumors spread through the school and impressionable young minds.  Eating peanut butter made your boobs grow.  Jumping up and down would make them bigger.  It was time to press your hands together under your chin and work out those muscles behind your pert pre-pubescent nipples.  Of course the peanut butter thing worked if you ate enough of it.  But you never can tell whether all of that fat is going to settle instead in your ass, hips, or thighs, which is more likely since gravity pulls it down.  While we’re on the subject of gravity, the jumping up and down can only make your boobs saggier; believe me, this is the method I chose for my experimentation.  I remember myself in my friend’s bathroom mirror around age ten, considering how it surely couldn’t hurt.  I jumped for several minutes, and I recall my gullibility often enough to wonder if anyone heard me and if they wondered why on earth I was jumping in their bathroom.  I toy with the ideas of what I would have said if they had asked me.  “In girl scouts we visited Cherokee and I learned a pee dance” or “I jump when I’m craving peanut butter.  Do you have any?” 

Those pre-breast years were tough.  I got made fun of for my hairstyles (bad perms, mullets, poof to the max), my clothes, my shoes, not having boobs.  I don’t remember growing boobs.  I just remember having boobs.  Then, the ridiculous attention was something different.  My best friend and I jogged in gym class while the guys sat in the bleachers waging bets on “would Stephanie or Emily get knocked out first.”  It took a bit for me to figure out what they meant.  After it sunk into my blonde head, I don’t remember any feelings of shame.  I had already begun to learn how useful my breasts were as I sat in the bleachers getting shoulder and back massages from the same gambling guys. 

Outside of gym class, guys didn’t harass me anymore.  To be fair, I didn’t get anymore bad perms or anything, I only colored my hair with blue food coloring and ended up turning it green, but when you have boobs your hair just doesn’t matter anymore.  It seemed quite the opposite actually.  I didn’t get asked out a lot, but nearly every day there was a guy knocking on my door to talk to me on my porch.  Were they listening to all my bullshit and poetry just because I had breasts?  I was quickly learning to wield my magical chest powers.

But with great power comes great responsibility.  That means wearing a bra.  I don’t remember my first bra shopping experience, probably because it wasn’t as traumatic as it is now, but we’ll get to that later.  How exciting!  An extra piece of clothing to remember.  And one day, I did forget to put it on.  It wasn’t as horrible as the day I forgot deodorant since my breasts were still reasonably youthful and perky, which didn’t last but a few years thanks to all the jumping up and down.  And at least forgetting a bra doesn’t make you stink.

In ninth grade, my boobs even got me out of gym class.  At the same time, they terrified the ever-living shit out of me, those multi-tasking rascals.  I found a lump while conducting the self breast exam I had just learned.  I took it to my mother (the concern, not just the lump—I’m not surgeon), who also became concerned.  She took me to the doctor, who wasn’t as concerned but told me to keep checking them regularly.  I was put on medication and taken off of physical activity.  So I practically became the gym teacher’s aid for the remainder of the year, getting his tea and fixing it just the way he liked it, which helped prepare me for my fabulous life as an overweight waitress later.

Ever since this run in with fibrous tissue in my breasts, I have been terrified of breast cancer.  Maybe even before then.  When your breasts are obvious and everyone is talking about this obviously horrible thing that could happen inside them, it stands to reason that you should obviously be scared shitless.  It took me a long time to understand that boobs just aren’t smooth and you can’t freak out over every little thing that feels weird.  I still get my annual exams and do my monthly exams, which I urge you to do also.  Yes, even you men.  Your breasts may not be as prominent, but they can still kill you with undetected cancer, just like the rest of your body.

But fear of cancer isn’t the only negative thing that comes with having breasts.  If for a moment I enjoyed the attention they got me, I quickly learned that it wasn’t often a good thing that people paid too much attention to certain body parts.  Some guys hugged me for a little too long, or folded an arm in front of their chest so it would rub against my boobs as we embraced.  I started noticing that some of those massages started going from back to shoulder to collarbone to ummm…that wasn’t part of the deal.  There were times that I sat or laid in silence, pretending to be asleep or not to notice the horny fingertips attempting a sly grope-fest.  Other times I had the pleasure of slapping or punching a guy in the face.  I don’t know what separated these reactions; it wasn’t just the people.  Maybe it was more of the mood I was in or how achy my back was. 

That’s another problem with breasts, especially when they’re large.  They are heavy and your body has to work to hold them up.  You need to be strong, and see, as I mentioned before, I skipped on some gym classes, and I’ve had back problems ever since junior high.  It’s a catch-22 though, isn’t it?  I have large breasts so my back hurts so I want someone to rub it for me so they try to cop a feel so I feel used and shamed and learn that’s what men really like about me.  I sometimes felt like I was whoring myself for massages.  And I think that the guys looked at it as some form of payment.  Just for general information:  that’s not ok. 

Whoring away (I just wanted to see if I could start a paragraph with that, and I did) as I did, I learned how to use my assets.  I didn’t flash or flaunt them much.  Hell, I didn’t need to.  Their presence seemed to get things done.  In high school, I saw a shirt on T-shirt Hell that read, “I’ll be Using These to my Advantage” and “These” was large across the chest.  I wanted that shirt, but never got it.  I guess boobs don’t get you everything.  They did get me a great set of matching dents that press forever into either of my shoulders courtesy of the bra straps.

And oh, the bras.  Shopping for them quickly became one of the worst parts.  It was an annual excursion that has pained me since I surpassed the D-cup, and even more when I outgrew my DD bras.  First, I’d look for the plainest, ugliest sons-of-bitches on the racks, because they don’t make larger bras sexy.  They come in three colors:  white, black, and nude (which is the color I affectionately refer to as “Grandma”).  They don’t have patterns, lace, less than three or four crazy sets of hooks.  Many of the ones that actually offer good support and coverage would never allow you to show some cleavage in the turtlenecks you have to wear to cover the damn things.  And to keep them from getting chafed and smelling like sweaty testicles, Gold Bond Medicated Body Powder, which really just leaves them smelling like old man balls after an entire day of activity.

But sometimes a little powder and push-up just isn’t enough.  I was dying for a breast reduction by the time I was old enough to drink.  In a bar once, I was wearing the Playtex 18-hour bra that I’ve been purchasing over and over for more than a decade.  I don’t know what Playtex calls it, but I call it Alcatraz.  Anyway, I had a tight shirt on over it, and I was heading toward the bathroom.  A woman exited the bathroom, saw my breasts, and did a double-take.  I don’t remember which of us was more drunk as we argued over whether or not my breasts were real.  I do know for a fact that I was right, as usual.  I didn’t show her, but I think she wanted me to.  I told her my bellybutton would tell her that they were definitely real.  You know, because they talk since they’re so close and all. 

In another bar at another time, I told one of my mom’s friends that I wanted a reduction and she and her huge natural breasts were appalled.  She asked me why.  I told her because they hurt and I hate wearing bras and I want them to look nice.  She said natural was way better and not to wear a bra.  “What if you lost feeling in your nipples?” she screeched in horror.  I only shrugged.  Glare.  I do take her advice more often about not wearing a bra.  I hardly ever wear one inside my house, which may put off a couple of my friends, but if you can’t handle it, then you shouldn’t be in my house.  Those who live in my house (mainly my boyfriend), however, only get irritated that they find bras all around the house because I just take them off as soon as I stop and throw it in a “get thee hence, demon” style.  Although my mom’s friend changed my mind about the constant necessity of bras, she didn’t change my mind about the reduction. 

That change of mind came much later.  After I had my son, precisely.  While I was pregnant, I decided to breastfeed.  I read books about the subject and I couldn’t think of anything negative about the process.  I was ready for these things to finally be put to their intended use.  I finally got to feed my son for the first time, I think.  I wasn’t really sure who it was because the little parasite just clutched alternating sides of my bosom for the weeks to come.  I got intimate with his cheek and ear and one eye, when it was open.  Every now and then I saw his milk-soaked face come up for a good breath or nap, but I didn’t see it long because I had to run to the bathroom and relieve myself or to the kitchen to replenish some of the vitamins he was mining from my body. 

As he matured into infancy, my son and I settled into our brilliantly symbiotic relationship with the breastfeeding.  He was an extremely healthy kid and I decreased my risk of breast and ovarian cancer.  I didn’t have to sell my soul to buy formula and I lost thirty pounds in three months.  I didn’t have to get up and make bottles and he didn’t have to wait for them.  I remember these things rather than the nipple leakage and engorgement.  Call me an optimist.

Neither the size of my breasts nor the shape mattered here, and it was wonderful.  Well, except for the fact that I could lie on my side and flop my nipple into my son’s mouth as he lay beside me on the bed.  Or that he could lie in my lap and eat without mommy having to strain her back.  I’m reminded of women in Africa who stretch their breasts to feed their babies on their backs as they work the fields.  Anyway, the point is that sometimes breast reductions interfere with milk production and flow, so I knew if there was any chance of having another child, then I couldn’t sever those lines of healthy living.

Even if I don’t have another child, healthy living is still the way to go.  Although I sometimes felt like my breasts prevented me from working out, or making a successful shot at the game of pool, I can make them smaller with a healthy diet and exercise, which my life needs for every part of me.  My mom always said the boobs were the first thing to go when you lost weight.  When I’m at a healthy weight, my breasts are also at a healthier weight; if I get really healthy I may even be able to fit into some of those pretty D-cup bras and have the core muscles to support it well.  That sounds hot.  Has to be a lifestyle change because it’s too easy to look down and just see breast and not think about the spare tire underneath.  Sometimes I lift them up and peer around and go “oh shit!”  I think I need more mirrors.

We all have love/hate relationships with our bodies in one way or another.  Struggles with health, beauty, ability, bowel control.  I acknowledge that many women wish they could endure my struggle, and maybe I’ve convinced them otherwise.  I must say I am rather pleased with my body in general.  In fact, these 29-year-old breasts have grown on me.  They’ve obviously helped shape who I am.  I can be proud of that.

Technology frustrates me

I was just logging in to write a blog and trying to figure out what I wanted to talk about besides the fact that it's been too damned long, when I was notified that I had to change my Google account because the one I was using was owned by WVSU.  Apparently I'm not the only one with access to my private emails.  This is what I get for not reading the fine print of privacy policies.

Now, I did decide to use my school email address when I signed up for Blogger because my old email address is mostly spam and I hardly use it.  I have others but I'm not really one who cares to keep up with several different accounts.  I have enough to do, really.  And I do still like to have a life.  This is why I cancelled my Myspace, and now everyone is moving along to other social networking bit by bit.  Well, I'm not a social media gypsy, people.  So I figured, I use this email the most and check it regularly, why not keep this simple. 

Well that's what I get for not knowing what I'm doing.  I don't know how exactly the split happened when I was forced to change it, but I did just notice that the blogs I've been following are not there.  I'm sure there are other unpleasant surprises lurking somewhere.  I'll bet it changed my YouTube too.  Grrrr.

Explain it if you want, friend.  You know who you are.  No need to.  I truly don't care.

Except that it pisses me off.

Other things with technology make me angry too.  It's all related to how little I know, but hear me out.  Yes, I admit it's my own fucking fault.  I'm still not going to learn it and I'm going to keep complaining about it.  What are you going to do about it?

That's what I thought.

Now I just got Spotify because I don't have any music on this computer and, again, I know nothing.  Not saying anything bad.  I'm liking it for now.  I got a Dave song first, so I'm good.  And then I just realized I can still get that Pandora radio station.

You know what else?  My favorite technology is truly still fire, paper, the printing press, inkpens, music, medicine, the fermenting process, and some video games.  And HVAC.  So I'm a diva.

A diva who is going to go do what my friend Roger suggested when I told him I really want to clean up a bit, lie on the couch and eat and watch Cheers.  He told me to lie lengthwise with my feet up, no pants on, with a bag of Doritos.  Yes.  I only have 1/4 Doritos in the Munchies, but it'll do.

I said I feel like I have to produce.  I don't have to, but I hope this has been somewhat entertaining.

The rest of this was going to be complaining about how little I know of video and audio technology, but I figure I've been learning enough shit to say I'm just getting pissed and learning more.

End rant :) with <3

What is your first memory?

This was our first writing prompt in my Creative Nonfiction Workshop.  We have been reading about memory in Tell it Slant:  Writing and Shaping Creative Nonfiction, our text.  I like what's coming to mind lately regarding memory and how I can take a subject and trace it through the years.  This is unfinished, but I wanted to share and get any thoughts, if there are any.

Again, I appreciate each of you, sweet readers.  And I always welcome an argument or compliment if you have either ;) And even more wonderful, a conversation (which is what "argument" nearly means to me anyway). What is your earliest memory?

     What does it take for a memory to qualify as one’s first memory?  I hardly feel like some of the dazzling fragments I remember would pass.  This feels incomplete, as most memory actually is, but I want to tell it anyway because I believe I can place myself inside a home from my early childhood.  There are bits and pieces in my mind of my Granny’s old home on Thompson Street in Oak Hill where my mother and I lived with her for awhile when I was a toddler.

     I had a playroom off the kitchen at the rear of the house that served as my personal heaven, where I played with my See-N-Say and red and blue shape-sorter before I placed them in my Strawberry Shortcake toy box constructed of what felt like particle board.  In fact, the whole house seems heavenly in my memory.  Why wouldn’t it when I was the first grandchild of the family living with her Granny?  She took a ton of pictures, but I don’t recognize this particular home in many of them, so I can assume these memories are genuine as they can be when resurrected from the deep recesses of my mind. 

     I felt loved and safe in the home on Thompson Street.  I was always surrounded by people who adored me, which is something I still long for today.  My mother, Granny, and my aunts never minded when I slid my body down to their laps and silently begged for a good back-tickling.  Granny was always ready with a grilled cheese sandwich and pickles.

     The house was large compared with the apartments and trailers I had been used to and those I lived in afterwards.  There was a piano in the living room and saloon-style doors leading to the hall.  Someone used to play bass notes on the piano while another person sauntered comically down the stairs or through the saloon doors.  This reminds me of a wolf for some reason.  Maybe they were acting out a scene from a cartoon.

     In one of the bedrooms I busted my head on a wooden potty chair and went to the hospital for my first of three sets of stitches in my face.  The second set occurred years later on a curb outside that very house when I fell from my older friend’s too-large bicycle.  I don’t remember the first set of stitches or that particular bedroom.  I do remember a small bedroom upstairs where I slept on my bed under a bottomless Smurf tent made of plastic and vinyl.  The only other bedroom I recall was my uncle’s because it was the strange space belonging to of a young man.  It was dark and intriguing.  It had a sloped ceiling and a dart board and other things I wasn’t allowed to touch. 

     The front sitting room had a picture window where I could see the tree in the front yard which boasted a rickety tree house I was also not allowed to explore.  I associated most of the things I wasn’t allowed to touch with my uncle, so this was his tree house also.  The backyard had a clothes line that looked like antennae and pebbles that I was delighted to explore while the adults did laundry.

     I deduced that these were some of my earliest memories that seemed my own after trying for days to think of one particular time or event that happened earliest of those I recall.  Even today when I go to Oak Hill I try to drive past the house when it’s convenient.  Although I’m not even sure how long I lived there (and I’m sure it wasn’t long), I have just realized that was definitely the very first place I can call home.

J-O-B

I've been blogging and worrying lately about jobs and where my life will go once school is over.  And rightfully so; this is my final semester.  What do I want to do when I grow up?

I just wanted to take a moment to tell everyone something that is on my mind.

I miss staying at home with my son.

He's starting Pre-K this week and I'm so happy for him.  He loves going to daycare (we call it "school") and he has benefited greatly from his interactions with other kids and teachers without my interference. 

I'm happy to be making a little money and going to school.  Well, I've really been going to school most of his life, although in the beginning I was a stay-at-home mom only.  I think it's the most under-rated job in the world.  Not to mention the benefits are few and far between.  But when they come, they are better than money or not having a ton of horrendous medical bills.  Shaping a life is pretty cool.

When we were at home together more often, we had all the time in the world.  There was so much to do and so much time to do it in.  We had alone time, family time, friend time and he also had time to go stay with family.  It's become difficult and hard to bear since I left his father's house since we split his time.  Add working and school to that and I'm lucky he remembers my name is "mom" half the time.

I miss him so much.  Now that he has to be in school everyday and I'm either working or in school everyday, we have three or four evenings a week.  Hopefully one of those will be Sunday; I'm supposed to be off on Sundays and that's the day I've reserved for him.  I know it's only going to get harder when he begins sports and full days of school with homework and the like.

I am scared, but I know he will do well, therefore, so must I.  I want to take care of him and give him a happy mom.  So I do what I can for myself and keep my head up.

His grandmother tells me that it's not the quantity of time, but the quality.  I'll remember that.

To all you working moms--you're amazing and doing some of the hardest things known to woman.

To all you stay-at-home moms--you're amazing and doing some of the hardest things known to woman.

We really aren't that different.  I believe I'm lucky to get to do something else that I love so that when Fisher is too busy for me I'll not freak out.  But I think the luckiest ones get to be with their babies everyday until their kid mashes them in the face for trying to kiss him in front of his friends. 

Good luck and love to us all <3

Goodbye summer :(

Where did time go?  I haven't posted in awhile because I've been very busy.  And lazy.  But don't give up on me just yet.  I have plenty more to share in due time.  And as always, I extend my promise that better things are coming...

But Hello Final Semester of my Undergrad!  Yes, that deserved capital letters.  If you think otherwise then promptly blow a donkey.  I've been waiting for this for ten years!

School starts Monday.  I should soon have some more interesting things to post since a couple of people will be prodding me along with sticks and the promises of grades that shall see me finishing with honors. 

My son is about to begin Pre-K.  So, as I finish a chapter in my life, he begins one.  It feels good to be doing it together.  He has been my motivation to get my degree after all.  I hope I can motivate him to find his passions, continue his education as far as he can, and love learning as much as I do.

On a completely different note...

There is something I want to mention.  I'm sure this can be debated, and I am sure this won't be the last time I bring it up.

I passed a billboard today that read: "1 in 10 children are diagnosed with autism."  OK.  It reminded me of when my family thought my son may be autistic because he wasn't speaking much yet and he was two years old.  Keep in mind that if my son ever is diagnosed with anything whatsoever I will be loving and supportive while trying to learn everything I can about how I can help him.

However, I was sure that he wasn't autistic.  My son wasn't talking (and still has trouble with articulation) because he sucks his thumb.  Honestly that's a subject I get a little angry about...the thumb sucking.  I need to save this for a later post because it's huge to me.  In short, I feel like I was conned into not giving my child a pacifier and his subsequent thumb-sucking has had a major effect on our lives.  That sounds dramatic, but I promise to explain later.  This is important for prospective parents and grandparents.  And friends.  And babies.  So, listen up, babies, for when I tell that story later.  For now, back to this...*focus*

I listened to my family's concerns and I researched autism spectrum disorder.  I was positive that Fisher didn't fit any of the descriptions I could find.  Not yet, anyway.  Maybe he will someday, I don't know.  All I know is that I was getting frustrated because they must have seen a special on autism on Oprah or 20/20 and they were convinced that was his problem.  And I don't blame them for that.  I tend to obsess after I view a well-done documentary.  Media is influential.

However, it brings up my problem with the numbers and the labeling.  Humans have an obsession with labeling EVERYTHING!  I am not a fan.  The distinction between one thing and another is inevitable.  A person defines oneself by what he/she is not as often as by what he/she is.  I still don't have to like it.

Well, I don't mind that it happens in general or as a means to communicate with others.  It's just the level we have taken it to...it goes too far.  Does any kid in school not have a disorder or something that makes them special?  It can be medical, mental, emotional, biological, physical, attentional, behavioral, societal...I don't really give a shit.  Why can't they just be kids who are learning important lessons including how not to be assholes?

I'm not saying that any disorders don't exist or anything.  I'm just saying that we've lived for so long without many of these problems and yet, here they are to fuck with us.  And often, we're causing our own problems, labeling them, making money from them, drugging the people.  What else has labels?  Pill bottles.  And guess what, they can define a person.  I have seen it over and over.  

Some people need medication.  Even some kids.  I'm sure that too many of both are actually medicated.  And over-medicated.

I don't want my son to think of his friends like this one has this disorder and this one has this.  Just like I don't want him to define people by their skin color or the amount of money they have. Their attitudes and actions should define them and first come to mind when he wants to describe them.  I'm not saying those things are taboo, because I think it's important to discuss them and how they effect their life experience so we can learn.  And there's nothing wrong with sharing information about oneself, either.  I'm not saying anyone should ever hide who they are or the struggles they have; on the contrary I believe those things are best shared with friends and family.

But when we see another human being who is different than the others, we continue to shave off the bits of sameness that tie us together.  We are struggling to set everyone apart.  A slippery slope.  I really hate that expression, even now that I understand it.

When I was a kid, autistic kids were just kids.  I knew they were different just like I knew I was different. 

They still haven't found a label for me.

I intend to make my own.

I like things because of stuff.

For a long time I've known that I have an attachment to things.

Now, I won't necessarily call this an unhealthy attachment, although sometimes it's borderline when I break something one of my best good friends has given me and I cry and mourn it like someone is hospitalized.  I curse myself, but I eventually heal.  Then I place the beautiful shattered remains of the candle shade in a freezer bag for a year and a half and tell myself I'm going to make a plastered stepping stone out of the pieces.

Yeah.  They're in my bathroom closet.

But things fill a void in my life so my brain doesn't have to work too hard to make connections.  I think I like being surrounded by them, these things and whatever they represent:  emotions; people; lessons; facets of myself or others.

How much comfort can one 29-year-old woman get from sleeping with a Made-In-China blue crocodile she won in a claw machine the first time she and her boyfriend took her son to Billy Bob's Wonderland.   I wake up enough to search for it after I've dropped it under the bed when Fisher's staying at his dad's.  When I think really hard about it, it also reminds me that I shouldn't have dropped over five dollars in that quarter machine trying to get it to push that roll over the edge for me.  I really thought I had it.  That's mostly my gambling record for the year though.

And he named him Croc-Go.  How cute is that?  Almost as cute as his name for a Frisbee. He calls it an air beef.  HA!  I cannot get over that.  Make a kid say air beef, and you'll see what I mean.

I have a dried rose above my kitchen sink and a shrinking bouquet of daisies on the table that remind me of how hard Nicholas works to show me he loves me.  Such grand efforts cloaked in simple tasks.  They stare back at me and remind me that I'll just have to find something else to bitch about.  Or, more often, that I should just shut the Hell up and appreciate him like mad because he's amazing.

When I water my patio plants with the glass pitcher which belonged to his ex-girlfriend's grandmother, I remember that my grandmother's useful things, such as her silver serving tray bowling trophy from the first year I was born, mean more to me than designer bullshit.  I cherish the pitcher; I cherish Nick.  Because and although she did not.

I wear jewelry that my family and friends give me and feel their love and strength.  If it's a hard day, I'm wearing jewelry probably.  Unless I'm going to the DHHR.  That's just tacky (oh, and I quit smoking a year and a half ago, but I must say it's tacky to smoke in front of the building where you go to ask people for money too; that's something I refused to do).

Ask me who I'm wearing and your answer won't be any famous fashion guru.  It'll be Fisher, Nick, Erin(s), Jessie, Emily, Mom, Dad & Susie, Cliff or one of my other awesome people I love.

I wear Nick's clothes when he's not around and I'm missing him.  If  you're reading this:  I'm really so sorry for the stains and appreciative of you pretending you never notice them, love. One day I'll be able to wear Fisher's clothes and I fear he won't be so forgiving.  But mom has much practice in the woman wizardry that is stealing male clothing for her own use.  I will prevail.  It makes me wonder what college shirts I'll be sporting...

These things surround me everyday, and there are many things and people that I love and appreciate that I haven't mentioned here.  I have these souvenirs of life lining shelves in my house and in my heart.
 
I know I can't take things with me when I die.  And I don't want to end up on Hoarders so it's evident that I learn to let go of certain things.  I have to learn everything they hold before I let them go, or have something to replace them.  

I don't know what will happen to the lessons when I'm gone, but I hope that I can pass them along in teaching, giving, and wisdom the best that I am able.

On the bright side :)

Here we go!  Ok, I've been super busy and that's why I'm not posting as often. 

Of course I'm not getting tired of it.  Hell naw.

I just got my internship at the radio station and I'm really excited!  So...job, internship, school, family...those are ascending order of importance, of course.  Internship and school are really the same thing, but they're not so much because I have some extra great opportunities for learning and networking there.  Plus, some of my hours will be paid $$$ yay!

So really I just wanted to say that I'm feeling a little better about my opportunities that my degree opens up for me.  I can still go to grad school and get my MFA so that I can teach.  If I teach writing part time, write some stuff I can get paid for (which I should produce some good shit while I'm obtaining that degree), get some hours doing awesome stuff with radio, etc...it will all come together to make enough money that I can live on.

And, for the most part, I can do these things and still get plenty of family time. 

So, the moral of the story is:  I may have to juggle many different things, but I can get what I want and love it. 

Oh shit.  This significantly increases the amount of time I am forced to wear a bra. 

There is a downside after all ;)

Writing is my therapy

This has been my mantra for over twenty years, probably from the time I learned to write or learned that I needed therapy (whichever came first, I'm not sure).

I actually wrote the last blog on the holiday weekend and didn't have time to finish it for some weird fucking reason.  Ohhh, that's right.  I got dressed (yes, I had showered, like today, and was blogging in my underwear--if this convinces you to keep reading, please know that I do this often) and went to the Barge to wait on my love (did I kill it?  good, you're a pervert.  But keep reading anyway...) and ended up heading home disappointed to watch YouTube videos with my neighbors. 

It's kind of funny how that day ended up actually.  Or that weekend.  Because I was about to start work, I felt better about myself (income is good, you know?) and was trying not to stress out over having even LESS time with the people I love.  It's sad because I hardly get to see my friends as it is.

So, I started thinking about all of the things I wanted to do with myself  and my life and I'm sure that got my tummy so nervous that I had to shit.  So I used the time to finish reading Tina Fey's book Bossypants (yes, it was an excellent read, even if I read it in its entirety while I was on the toilet).  One of the last chapters in the book is called "Juggle This," and it's about being a working mom.  It's pretty much about the balance (so difficult to achieve) and the guilt (so damned simple--it's natural). 

It made me realize I'm certainly not alone in my feelings.  And I hope I can only be so lucky as to love my job as much as Tina does.  I started to realize that "A Little Unfocused" is really about finding that balance in my life (and it has been even before the blog).  The good news for the blog is that it's a task that will never end. 

Finding and keeping balance is a constant endeavor.

I like parentheses, do they help you hear me talking to you??  Also part of the unfocusedness that is me (yes, I made up a word for that)--considering that I often interrupt myself and derail my own thought trains.  Here, at least I can go back and read what I was saying instead of having my wonderful friends remind me ;)

This all does have a point.  Swear.  And it's this:  I'm damned scared.

I see people all over the place with degrees that are being wasted.  Many of my friends with degrees could have gotten their jobs without them.  I'm not saying that degrees are bad, but the job market isn't good.  No matter that we are making the same amount of money (or less if you count time we could have been building our experience and getting raises) after going tens-of-thousands of dollars into the debt-holes that Americans can dig in their sleep.  Can we dig our way out on minimum wage or a few dollars more?  If one day out of week's worth of work goes to taxes (is that enough?) and another day or two goes to paying for a "useless" degree...what are we living on and working for? 

But here's the deal.  I've lived on next to nothing.  And even nothing a couple of times.  I like things and places and even people (sometimes, although I don't buy them or pay for them so that really doesn't fit here), but I don't consider myself truly greedy or materialistic.  Not even high-maintenance.  I know that I can make it.  And I know that the other part(s) of my team will never let me down. 

I talked to Nick about it.  "I'm scared I'll be stuck...stuck I say!!!  I'll be pissed if I end up working these jobs forever when I could have done them without spending six years and $40,000!  But what if it's the best thing I can get??!!"

And this is one of the many reasons I love him. 

He asked me if that's what I wanted.  "NO!" I replied.  He told me that I wouldn't settle for that.  That if I wanted more I'd have more because I'd make it happen.

Oh.  Okay.  I guess sometimes I forget.

I may not know much about the future or my career path that will sustain myself and my family, but I do know that I will do something that matters to me and something I love that permits me to spend time with the people who remind me who I am and what my life is about.

Independence Day was last weekend

And I was feeling entirely too independent.  I missed my family :(

Last year, I left the home where I had lived for four years with my son and his father.  Our relationship wasn't really working out and I felt an extreme need to move on despite the hardships I knew I would face.  And it sure has been difficult.  Getting together with one of the best men I've ever known the following month has made it worlds easier, but it's hard to miss him too since his job requires he works most evenings, weekends, and holidays. 

Before last year, I was a student and a stay-at-home mom.  I got to be with Fisher all day and then his dad came home from work and I went to school.  So sending Fisher to daycare last year while I worked was difficult.  Even when I didn't have school because I withdrew to help him adjust to having two homes.  But I told myself that I would have to get used to it anyway because he was soon to start required school and he would have to be there everyday. 

A voice inside me whined, "Yeah, but isn't that why you should be spending more time with him now?"  My inner mommy cried when I had to wait tables on Mother's Day and I saw all these people celebrating with their moms and their little boys that reminded me of my angel.  Actually, I'm pretty sure my outer mommy cried too.  I made decent money that day I think. 

Turns out people don't mind crying waitresses on holidays.

I had Fisher last July 4th, so he was at his dad's all last weekend.  Monday was supposed to be Nick's day off, but we found out three days prior that he was on the schedule for an 8-hour shift.  This year the fireworks were on Sunday July 3rd.  I don't know why...  He works open to close (8pm) every Sunday and they were still seating people after 8:30, so I grabbed my shit and went home.  I had been waiting for him in hopes that we could make it down to hear the symphony play while we watched the fireworks.  Nobody told me they were closing late.  Turns out nobody told the kitchen, either...

I started work this past Tuesday and we don't get a day off together for almost a month.  Hoping we can take Fisher to the lake for the first time when we do get that day later...

But for now, I sit here on holidays and weekends and see these boats go up and down the river from my back door.  They're celebrating, laughing, being with their families.  I see my friends on facebook post wonderful things about being with their families. I do get days with my family; it's just not really the normal life I wanted.  But what's a normal life?

These lonely times have gotten somewhat easier than they were at first.  I try to find things to do or people to talk to.  There is always plenty to do.  I clean the house, work out, write (I should be writing more), read, catch up on personal business or the Netflix queue.  But it still feels lonely.  When I shut the curtains and blinds I can still hear the boats.  I can't call many of my friends because they are doing what I want to be doing--spending time with their families. 

And this is why I'm in college.  To try to get a job with a family schedule that will pay the bills and build my personal American dream.  

I don't need a lot of money.  I just want to work a schedule that compares to my husband's work and my kids' school schedule.  I want a weekend for what it's supposed to be.  Even if I don't get to be with both of my loves, at least one of them would be nice.  

This semester is going to be the hardest yet.  I have to work 20+ hours at my new job to keep it.  I have to work 13+ hours at my internship to earn credit by the end of the semester.  I have three classes also.  Luckily, they are awesome:  Fitness for Living, Creative Non-fiction Workshop, and Digital Video Production.

Stay-at-home moms are way under-rated. 

A little old. RE: this title thingy

Before I decided to begin baring parts of myself to the wide and unknown public (hey, it's a possibility, people), I had to decide on one very important thing:  my persona. 

This is not an easy task because I love my family, I hate offending people, and my favorite word is "fuck."

Seriously, I have a great argument defending its appearance in my everyday language.  I now proudly own a Minor in English and I can use it to say that I endorse "fuck" and all of its affiliates.

And, words are words.  I don't poke you with sticks or throw rocks at you.  You'll recover from hearing them.  You know what you won't recover from?  A busted ass sense of humor.  We should all be able to laugh at ourselves because who deserves a hearty, ridiculing guffaw more than contradictory, self-serving humans!?

And I am currently writing this because I learned the other day that my Granny said she is not going to read this.  (Attention, Granny!  In case you are reading this, see?  It's not that bad.  I'm still funny, and I still love you as much as I did when I began saying "fuck" when I was about 8 years old.)

(I also like that putting "fuck" in quotation marks makes it even more noticeable, isn't that cute?)

So Granny told my mom she wasn't going to read this because of my warnings, which is the reason I put those warnings there.  Those warnings were covering my ass, or telling people they have no right to bitch at me if they're offended because they shouldn't be admitting they read it in the first place ;)  Just go do a few Hail Marys and come back next week.

Sidebar:  I have no idea where I get all of my Catholic references.  I've never even been to mass.  Or, is it Mass?  That's a weird word.  Say it a few times.  You sound like an evil scientist.

Now, I don't mind if my Granny reads this.  I'm sure she's seen her share of dirty words and jokes about masturbation in her day.  But if she doesn't want to see it from me, that's up to her and I'm fine with her choice to avoid it.  No matter what my art is, I always know she will be one of my biggest fans.

So, Stephanie, what about the children?  That's an easy one.  See:  Robin Williams, Steve Martin, Bob Saget (?). 

So anyway, after many thoughts, I had decided to go ahead and start this thing.  The blog and the videos.  It's a slow start, but it's a start.  I figured I should just be myself.  Say what I think and feel and not worry about it.  I think I've still been holding back, but it will get easier.  I mean, who else would I be?  I'm still the same person when I'm with my conservative family, but I just hold a lot of myself in.  It's like an invisible "fuck" girdle. 

The things I want to say aren't supposed to be arrested.  You're welcome to detest them, or simply disagree.  I love that people are different than me; that's how I learn.  I already learn from myself (I swear!) so others just like me are useless until I plot my small, smart revolution and I need warm bodies to support.

Earlier a friend of mine, Harold, posted the following:  "I have no problem with gay people, I have a problem with ones who hide it and lie so they don't piss off family and friends. True family and friends don't care if you're gay or not."

Of course everyone proceeded to Bible discussion.  I cut to the chase and replied:  

"Harold, to your actual point...I think it's sad that anyone should hide anything about themselves. I know people who have hidden their sexuality, their tattoos, their religious choices, their piercings, their pregnancies, their relations with other races. Hate and fear cause this to happen. I would rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I am not. I heard a story the other day of a man who shot and killed his own son because he found out he was gay. He probably called himself a Christian, wtf."

Then I couldn't figure out what to blog about until I started watching Bo Burnham and I can say what I want if he can.  I'm older than him, after all, and this kid also realized that Shakespeare was overrated.
   
As I was watching, I also realized that all these things are connected and I needed to put out there that it's something I've been thinking about.  We all are plenty self-aware, although I'm a fan personally of the unaware sociopath because they can not give a shit what others think and feel*.  I like that I'm learning to balance my give-a-shit.  But if I'm going to make a difference in anything I do, it has to be purely me.   I've been saying forever that I can't wait until people want to burn my books.  Well, I guess it's time for them to start burning their computer screens.  

Turns out, so far, fire doesn't hurt the internet.  Pwned.  And since last week I had Nick look up the history of that word, I can say with confidence, NO WONDER I ALWAYS HATED IT!  I hate typos.  When I have money or I start making cool shit, I will give it to people who find my typos so I can fix them.  (Then I will deny anything was ever wrong so I don't have to give you a damned thing!  Refer to Nelson, above.)

I just needed to write this to remind myself.  And it's sort of another of my many disclaimers and warnings.

Don't forget to enjoy the roast if you're so inclined not to heed them:   http://www.youtube.com/user/StephanieAnn1982?feature=mhee

I'm waiting for someone to tell me how awesome it is before I post part II...

*I believe this is the basis for an upcoming blog

A little bloody

I didn't go to work today.  One of the higher ups called me and offered me a supervisor position at another store.

I laughed so hard.  Not that I didn't think about it at all.  But it was just hilarious.

I did one of the most irresponsible things one can do at work.  And they want to promote me.  I know it's because they don't often encounter employees that are like me, and I'm flattered.  But I am not in the business of being taken advantage of.

So we'll see what happens ;)

In other news, I decided to use the day to clean the apartment and catch up on some tasks I'd been putting off.  One of those tasks was hanging my living room curtains.

I take a long time to do just about anything, and those of you who know me are aware of this.  I was making good time with the curtains though.  I had the level, the tape measure, the drill (I even looked up the drill bits to make sure I was using the correct one), the anchors and screws, a pencil behind my ear, and a hammer.  And here's the bottom line.

Don't use your knees to secure the hammer while balancing yourself on the arm of a loveseat and trying to drill the holes for the anchors.  They just were a little too small.  Or the anchors were too weak.  Or the wall is a little too shallow before it hits the brick.  The same thing happened to Nick while hanging the coat rack.

Except he didn't gash his foot with a hammer.

And here's an honest plug for the Green Machine.  I'm so glad he had that thing.  If you have kids (or you're accident prone like yours truly) and you don't have one, you are crazy.  I left a trail of blood from the arm of the loveseat to the kitchen sink.  The Green Machine will clean it.  It once took care of an entire bottle of red wine that I dropped and smashed onto the carpet of the apartment we lived in before we moved here.  (Thanks to the Green Machine and my friend "Church" for that!)  Ok, there's 3 mentions of the name.  Where's my money, bitches? 

I keep thinking of Dexter.

I better go clean up this blood...

A little poetry ;)

 Because of the end of my last post, I wanted to include this poem here on my blog also.  I wrote this one of the first times I realized that I felt this way.  I was studying my ass off with books surrounding me while Nick sat at his computer playing World of Warcraft.  Not that there is anything wrong with him working and coming home and playing at all.  And I'm not saying that he's stagnant or even satisfied with where he is; he just handles the "now" better than I do when it's not everything he wants it to be.  And he was releasing stress with a game that he loves.  I was in the mood to do something that I loved and not something I was required to do (that I didn't particularly love). 

I'm not calling anyone stupid (there we go again), but I was thinking of a way that I would be able to abandon my ambitions and just exist and be satisfied.  But I realized that wouldn't work for me.  I'm not made for that.


Program

Sometimes I wish I were
Ignorant of passions, and therefore
Irresponsible.
Understandably so
Because no
Sane person would depend
On my lack of ambition.
Oh, I wish this work
Were gone--

The television on
So I could hear the censors
Covering those "real" people,
Repeating sounds like checkout lanes
In Grocery stores—
                                    No!—
            Maybe I could be
Wise enough still
To avoid
The Jersey Shores.
Watch my sitcoms,
Go to work,
Come home,
                        Repeat.         
           Syndicated,
Placated?
                                    No.  No satisfaction,
But to be the
Artist who produces
Other people’s wastes
Of time.

~SAB

Thanks for reading.  This was also one I've been using to play with drop line when I was reading about it.  I think it's quite effective although this still needs some work.  Always more work.

A little weary...

I think today may have been my last day at work.  I told a couple of my co-workers that I may not come in tomorrow morning.  I hate to do that, but it's not going to hurt anyone.  It will actually help them.  They may make more than a couple dollars an hour if one less person is there. 

I had an interview yesterday and it went well.  I was supposed to get a call today at 3pm but the guy hasn't called yet.  Maybe he doesn't need me, but that's ok.  I have an interview on Monday.  Now, I'm supposed to work on Monday but that's why I figured I'd just go ahead and quit.  Burn those bridges down so I can't even go back there in desperate times.  That's a desperate measure I don't care to take again.

I was telling my mom about it and I mentioned that the same person who yelled at me for being loud while filling the ice was telling me goodbye today.  She said, "I'll see ya tomorrow.  Work like I taught ya girl."  Um.  Here's the thing about that.  She hasn't taught me anything.  The very person she likes to compare herself to (and she thinks she's so much better) is one of the people who truly taught me to work my ass off.  To her, if you had time to lean, you had time to clean.  Hell, if you had time to go to the bathroom, you should be working instead.  However, I was perplexed by my current antagonist's remark and I told my mother.  She laughed and replied, "Yup.  Just don't go to work tomorrow and that's exactly what she taught you."

Lol.  I love my mom.

The job I'm interviewing for is nothing prestigious.  It's quite the opposite actually.  But it's easy and it's extremely flexible.  It only pays $7.95/hour but I'm honestly ready to try something that doesn't take everything out of my mind, body & soul on a daily basis.  And at least I'll know what kind of money to expect; I can count on that.  And a friendly work environment?  Yes please.  I'll take a couple of those.

Nick has been jumping through hoops to get a particular job since February.  We just found out yesterday that he didn't get the job.  It boils down to him not being able to pass a test because of his carpal tunnel.  Nobody bothered to tell him that he should practice and use the 4-5 months to strengthen his trigger finger squeeze.  We were really looking forward to a change.  A regular schedule meant more family time.  Being able to spend holidays together.  Insurance.  Tuition reimbursement.  Job security because this job doesn't shut down in the winter with the possibility of not re-opening.  I feel so bad for him.  And me.

I'm not wanting to just blog to complain.  These things are just irritating to me right now and I'm so tired.  We are both hard workers and should be able to make a living that doesn't include deals with the devil.  Here's my weary soul.  Would you like fries with that?

On the bright side (hopefully), I turned in my internship application yesterday in hopes for a paid position.  I should hear back in the next couple of weeks, which is good because I can plan for something else if it doesn't work out. 


In the meantime, I'm still researching low-residency programs for a master's of fine arts in creative writing.  The degree should be attainable while I work a full time job and still have some family time (at least a good couple days a week) because I need to learn how to be disciplined in my writing anyway.  Most of the coursework would be online and I could complete it on my own time.  It'll cost me about $30,000+ but I assume it will be worth it eventually.  And it puts me a step closer to a doctorate.  I'm trying to figure out if it's doable.  Paying for it, working, allowing Nick time to work on something great for his/our future. 


Life is a pain in the ass when you want better for yourself all the time.  Sometimes I just wish that I enjoyed working for the sake of working and then I could come home and enjoy the stuff I pay for.  The end.

But that's not it.  I want to keep my passions alive.  I want to be smarter, stronger, more secure.  I don't want to end up like my mom, who is about out of money and still waiting on her disability to go through.  I want to be able to retire and take care of myself and my loved ones and not go through that worry and pain. 


So I'll have to sacrifice some sleep and work my ass off to get there. 

A little disillusioned...

I spent yesterday morning swabbing the decks of a sinking ship.  Because there were no guests, I decided to clean some stuff.  I made $2 in my first hour of work.  Add that to my $2.13 and then pray for minimum wage.  The business isn't good; it's not just summer, either (for those of you who are  unaware, summer is a bad time for restaurant business all around).

I disapprove of openly defacing my employer, so I'm not going to mention any names.  Few of you know where I just started working anyway.  I don't think this job is going to last for me, unfortunately.  In fact, I have an interview tomorrow (not at a restaurant!).  If the interview doesn't go well, I have plans to apply somewhere else (or somewheres elses if need be...I have to get out of where I am).

Sooo, why do I feel so negatively about a job I've only been working for five days?

Well, first of all, when I quit the best serving job in our area last year, I vowed to stay out of the restaurant business.  However, jobs aren't easy to come by right now, and I realized that with my final semester of my bachelor's degree approaching and my internship on the horizon, I should probably find something flexible where I can still make money if I have to cut my hours to two days a week.

I also desperately wanted to get a schedule that would work out so that I could a) let Fisher go to daycare because he missed his friends very badly, b) allow me to still spend time with Fisher, and c) allow me to still spend time with Nick.  Seems simple, right?  It's kinda not...so I took what I could get.

I'm starting to realize I'm going to have to make some sacrifices somewhere.  We'll see what happens.

But firstly, I have to jump ship.  Quickly.  There are some standards I cannot compromise.  Here are some of the reasons:

I heard that if business doesn't improve quickly, my store is shutting down.

It took me four days to make what I made in one day at my old job.

At that rate, It would take me two whole weeks just to make my car payment.  And it's only $168.

There is a meanness in the store.  I got yelled at today for filling ice because it was "too damn loud."  Excuse me, but if you find a way to dump frozen water onto frozen water inside a stainless steel vat without making noise...please enlighten me.  I hear my superiors talking about things they think I'm doing wrong (such as said example or stopping to grab dishes on the way back to fix some drinks) and NEVER praising my hard work and pleased guests.  Hell, they don't even say the things to my face, and that's disappointing also.  I would have liked to walk out after hearing that I was working the way I've been taught.  I don't STOP working while I'm on the clock except for short bathroom and drink/eat moments just to keep myself from getting sick because...

Nobody has ever offered me a break.  Even on today's 8 hour shift.

I swear they are stuck in the '50s.  I have witnessed blatant sexism and racism.  This particular "chain" seems to focus more on taking people down and treating them like they are stupid and they can't do any better than building them up and making them proud of themselves and where they work.  If you kick people when they are down, they'll never leave you, right?  Not all of them (me lol).  I've also heard that this happens in relationships.  Oh wait, that's happened to me too ;)  I think this is my least favorite thing of all.  Yeah, it is.

It's unclean.  I have a high standard of cleanliness and I love to take pride in my workplace.  I once quit a job after working for only an hour because my feet were sticking to the carpet when I walked.  I hate when a health department inspection has more than one critical violation (5) and even more non-critical violations.  I am not proud of that.  And I see it this way:  No, we don't get paid well enough to clean like crazy, but it is in our best interest to clean when we are not busy.  It will show our guests (and the health inspector) that we have a clean store and therefore, they will return and they will tell their friends.  This means more money for the business, which also means more money for me.  Also, it just helps pass the time, but I guess a lot of people are happy to just stand there or go smoke (again).

How are we supposed to wash our hands without hot water?  They have disconnected the hot water to the front, including guest bathrooms.  I don't know the reason.  I was told not to ask.  But I know that I don't like it.  Oh, hand sanitizer...that's right.  I'm excited now!!

Plus, my poor body is in an uproar because I refuse to poop in the public restroom where the people who eat food I serve to them also have to potty.  I don't want to hear/see/smell my waitstaff shitting, do you?  Gross.  Really I don't want to do that with anyone, and I prefer a private bathroom anywhere.  (I know where the private/locked restrooms are on campus for such a reason...2nd floor library, 2nd floor student union). Sadly, we have an employee restroom in the back, but the day they removed the padlock to allow us to peacefully release our body waste, someone childishly smoked in there.  Now it's padlocked again.  It makes me feel like a child.  Really, everyone gets enough smoke breaks if you ask me.  I know I quit smoking, but everywhere else I have worked gives smoke breaks maybe once a shift.  Some of these people are unhappy to take two or three per shift?  Piss on that.  But don't shit on it because your turds have hidden themselves deep in your body for days now and will only release little machine gun rabbit pellets once a day.  
I have more to complain about, but I'll just leave it at that.  It's really just not for me.


I didn't even really have any good jokes for this one, then I thought of a couple and went back and added them.  It just pisses me off.  I did like the metaphor at the beginning, and that is how it feels.

I opt not to drown.

Peace.

A little sentimental...

Happy Father's Day to all of the people who play a fatherly role in the life of a child :)  I have some people I personally want to thank and honor in this post.  I know I'm leaving some influential people out, and that doesn't mean that I don't love you ;)

My mother--although you are my mom, you spent many years being my only parent emotionally and financially.  You are a beautiful and wonderful woman and I've tried to honor you on as many days as I can.  We have had our differences but you are one of the greatest supporters of my life and I appreciate you endlessly for it.  My love for you is unconditional.  Thank you for making me a good person.

My father--although I don't remember meeting you until I was 11-years-old, your DNA has lived in me my entire life.  Most of your musical talent skipped me unfortunately, but I did get your double crown and the weird way that our middle fingernails grow.  We have had a strange relationship and I'm ready to trust and love you and know that you are going to love me even though we're very different.  You are a great man, husband, and father.  I am honored to be a part of your family and make you a part of mine.

Nicholas--although you are not an actual father (yet), you have shown me what a great step-father acts like.  You treat my son with love and respect.  You are not afraid to discipline him and that is so important for all of us.  We do a great job together and it's because of you that I've been able to keep my sanity throughout this past year and a half that I've had to live 1/2 time without this little guy who is the other love of my life.  Thank you for all that you are and all that you do.  My family feels complete because of you and I am honored to have you by my side to show my son what true love and partnership really are.

John--although things didn't work out between us, you are a dedicated father to our little boy.  We do a great job of working things out without having to go to court and I hope we can continue to grow as he grows.  I know it is more than difficult for both of us, but I feel like we're handling it in a way that provides what is best for Fisher and that is truly what matters.  I honestly wish you the best of everything and I hope that Fisher inspires you to be happy and take good care of yourself.

Pawpaw Duff--if it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here.  I miss you so much even though we hadn't spent much time together in the years before you died.  You were old-school and therefore unconventional to me.  You showed me that chewing tobacco was nasty by giving me my first chew before I was five.  You showed me how to use a riding lawnmower.   You showed me that, as a waitress, dirty old men were my friends.  And I'll never forget the moment I feel like I made you most proud--you were trying to give my son a root beer barrel and I wasn't having it, but you weren't about to listen to me.  Then I gave you a look that could only have come from your genes and sharply inquired, "You ever been beat with your own cane, old man?"  Your smile was priceless.  And you listened.  

Harry John--you showed my son's father how important a good father is and that has made all the difference for my son.  You did things with him and held his trust and he was able to truly love you.  I love you too, for that and for the great man that you are and have been.  You are one of the greatest grand-dads I have ever seen.  I wish you peace and love.  I miss you.

Robby--you are one of my favorite husbands and fathers and I've learned so much from you and your family.  I admire you for all that you are and am proud to call you one of my best friends.  The relationship you have with your child is so very beautiful and I know that he will always know you are there for him and that he can trust you with everything.  I hope your day (and everyday) is filled with love and affection.  I am so proud that you are all working so hard to spend more years together and I hope one day that we can live close again :)

Charlie--you fathered the girls that I call my sisters and you are one of the first people who made me understand what a dad was supposed to be.  I was so jealous that they had someone like you but you always made me feel welcome and loved.  I am more than glad that your daughters and grandchildren have a wonderful man like you to look up to and I hope that you feel as loved and honored as you are.

To all the other dedicated parents out there--hats off to you!  Celebrate your love for your children and make sure they know how much you love them everyday.  Children, let your parents know how much they mean to you and honor and respect them as much as they deserve.  Life is short and not everyone has the opportunity to do so anymore.  Some people never had great parents, but that doesn't mean that they cannot be great parents as they learn and grow with their children.  These bonds are life-changing.  Grow with them in love and faith and don't let the moments pass you by.

A little giddy :)

Yesterday my love, Nicholas, and I took my son, Fisher, to Water Ways--West Virginia's Water Park.  Those of you in Kanawha County (or anywhere else) who think that Boone County is only good for incest porn,  you are sorely mistaken.  (Just kidding, Boone friends, I love you and the Whites.  Ok...I don't love the Whites.  Actually I think they're a plague on you and the rest of WV.  Wow, I'm back to that stupidity thing again already???!!)

Anyway, despite the fact that being in a wooded area makes the bugs a pesky factor in your day trip to the water park on the side of a mountain, the scenery is serene and beautiful (assuming you don't include some major cottage cheese thigh yumminess in your definition of "scenery"...don't get pissy; mine were included).

In fact, Nick just lay there most of the time on the shady hillside watching the cumulus clouds and jets float by while Fisher and I scoured the small, but perfect for us, park.  My companion works hard in a sweaty chef's uniform most of the week, and he was pleased to lie on the old hot blanket in the easy 80-degree goodness.  A perfect spring day for him.  Except there was no World of Warcraft vestibule at the entrance of the park, so he just walked around looking for us when he got lonely or bored (although I'm sure he was just thinking of us...which of course is matched by lonely, eh?).  Wonderful because I got pictures of my son enjoying water slides for the first time :)

I could understand why Nick wanted to take a nap rather than climb endless stairs over and over and spend the next day or two with aching thighs (and it wasn't about the string bikini girls anchored on the hillside below him; I spared more glances their way than my respectful partner).  

But it brought a question to the forefront of my mind.  While Nick has never been on a water slide in his life, many of these people had.  Therefore, they had to know it's feeling of weightlessness and pure giddiness.  I felt great.  And every time I resurfaced, after making sure Fisher breathed air even sooner than myself, I was ready to do it again even before he cried, "I wanna go again."

Now, maybe that's not exactly true.  I did have to carefully place my breasts back where they belonged before I was ready to exit the landing pool and hurry to the stairs.  Even before that, I used the rest of the air in my lungs to ask Fisher if he was alright.  So it went like this for me...check on offspring, check on boobies, go again!

I saw mothers standing around the exit to the landing pool.  They were waiting on their children.  Maybe they worried, maybe they were dragged there by their babies.  Maybe they really wanted to go on the slides but they were ashamed.  I understand if they were just plain worn out from their everyday lives of parenting and financial slavery bliss.

Now, I hate to assume, because I do a fine job of making an ass of myself on a daily basis as it is.  But I feel like most people need a little more water slide in their life.  Even when they're tired.  No.  Especially when they are tired.  When is the last time you let yourself feel like a kid?  We all have responsibilities and complete exhaustion that compete with having fun and feeling free, but we still need to find the time to feel free.

Everyone does it differently too.  Maybe water slides wouldn't make you feel free.  Maybe you hate water.  Or germs.  Or rednecks.  (I'm telling you though, I've been to a concrete oasis in Florida and our park is nice enough...plus it doesn't have the 250-foot drop of Der Stuka or the surprise action of The Bombay, which almost equally shove your swimsuit so far up your ass you need an enema with a stick of butter to get it out.)

Nonetheless, I really just want to remark on self-consciousness more than anything.  When my son was born, I remember telling my aunt Sandy that I didn't want to be the mom who stood back and just watched him play all of the time.  She thought I was saying I wanted to look like an involved mother to everyone else.  But I was just trying to tell her that I noticed that some people were reserved while in public and I wanted to be free of that.  I wanted to spend some of the time (because most of my time was spent teaching and in appointments and doing housework) just acting like my son's friend and not caring what society thought of me.

I wanted to play.  Get wet.  Get dirty.  Not care what anyone thought of me but my son.

Really I just wanted to be there for him.

But, as it turns out, it's him that's been there for me.  He keeps me caring and young.  He keeps me enjoying the things that are really fun.  The things that matter more than how much money is in my bank account after the bills are paid and we are fed. 

Seeing the world again through his eyes is like seeing it for the first time.

A little self-righteous...

Human beings...ugh.  Could you find anything more disgusting?  Maybe not.  But chances are you'll never find anything so beautiful either.  Ask another species and get another result, I'm sure. 

But they can't talk to answer you.  So we're better, eh?

Hah.  Surely not because of talking...no.  Talking does everything but make us superior at times.  Some people open their mouths and ooze inferiority.  Not that I'm judging by class or even intellect (although it may seem I do so from the story I told in my first blog), merely by a thing called respect.  I appreciate the power of speech, and I believe I've learned to communicate effectively.  Well enough anyway.  And I respect others.

Except as I learned how to effectively diffuse conflict, I also learned to tell the truth.  Most people can't handle the truth.  What?  Did you think that line was bullshit when Jack Nicholson spit it out in A Few Good Men?  (Sidebar:  Tom Cruise is a scientologist.  Proof that he can't handle the truth)

As a result, conflict is created.  Their version of the truth is different than my version of the truth.  Yours is different too.  And that pisses us all off sometimes.  We can't help it that it's upsetting; we believe in our convictions.  We also can't help that we're all different and we value different things and react in different ways.

The world is too small.  I vow to do my best to learn to cut out my bullshit so my neighbors don't have to step in it (which would also be respectful of humans to do so with regard to their dogshit).

Let's all make a pact.  Take care of ourselves and our business before we complain about someone else trying to take care of their own. 

Live and let live.  Love.  Laugh.  Repeat.

A little unfocused...

Last semester, I got my first B in five years.  (Just to be clear, the rest of my grades had been As.)  It was excruciating work on deeply personal essays.  My beloved teacher + the subject matter (which I chose) =  anxiety attacks.  I thought I may even fail the course.  Her main concern for my writing was focus...

I had none.  But that was just according to her.  Others (including myself) believed my work was decently focused.  But when I tried to name my thesis, I could not pin it down.  The stories I was telling weren't ready; the lessons were incomplete.  But I was ready to confess.  Not like a good Catholic; that was too private.

Why should only one person get to hear what's in my head?  I feel like telling everyone who will listen.  Kinda like when I used to dabble in cocaine...

The same person who told me my teacher was an idiot last semester told me last night to start my blog.  I listened to him because, really, he's never steered me in the wrong direction.  That's an epiphany and I'm trying to disagree with it in my head, because it feels so wrong.  You understand if you know him.  He once told me in 10th grade not to date a guy because he was "dumb as Hell."  I've always appreciated his bluntness.

I called him crying only days later to tell him he was right and when I tried to break up with the guy he said he would wait for me.  I didn't want that.  He wasn't going to just get smarter, especially at Dupont High...but I digress.  "I don't want you to feel obligated to do that," I replied.  There was a pause.  "What's obligated mean?"

The tears were partially of sadness (though they were mostly from laughing so hard, bless that kid's poor soul).  Sadness (and hilarity) that my friend was right, that people really aren't that smart, that I was an asshole who couldn't date a guy who was dumb as hell even if he was really cute and sort of popular.

Maybe he was wrong about my teacher being an idiot though.  I had her again for a Poetry Workshop the following semester.  She taught me a lot and became a good friend, loyal instructor and fan.  She was still worried about my focus.  Not of the poetry, but of my life.  My art.

I said I wanted to write novels and stories and poetry.  And more personal non-fiction like those essays.  That I wanted to do stand-up comedy.  That I wanted to begin a video log.  Write scripts.  Perform.  Try improv.  Learn to play music so I can write silly songs.  Parody.

Guess what.  I'm going to do it all.  This is only the beginning.

I'm OK with being a little unfocused.  

And here, right now only my first poetry reading is there but still...
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