Kaat Litter

The Expectations of Depression

2008-07-28T09:16:00.000-07:00

So... depression. I used to think of depression, even when I was supposedly "suffering" from it, as a concept. A state of mind, albeit not a very happy one. I have gone through periods where I am exhausted all the time, can't seem to think my usual sunny-side thoughts, and at those times, I went to my doctor and she gave me a pill, and the pills worked, and before I knew it, I felt better. Eventually the feeling better became my normal way of being, and I quit taking the pills, and everything would be dandy again.

I see depression differently now. The last year has given it a name, a face, a flavor. I can almost smell it. I see it as an actual, a storybook monsterthing that lurks in the dark places of my sick and eroded brain. It's skin is tattered, greasy tears slide down it's sharp cheeks. It leers out at me, grinning with black, filed teeth, edged enough to puncture...things. Depression is the thing that almost ate me, that sat on my chest day after day last winter and happily explained away every slightly positive thought I was able to have.
It was the mommy dearest who murmured bedtime stories about how my children would be better off without me- that everyone in the whole fucking world would be, in fact, so why don't you just swallow all of those little pills, there, huh? There's some water, right there, to get the sticky ones down. Then this will all be over, you won't have to think about this anymore, and as we were originally discussing, your family will be so much happier, breathe easier without your cloudy presence fogging up every fucking thing...
Depression was the anti-coach, who carefully cataloged and then relived with me every bad decision, every broken promise, every abandoned dream. He would hold up a map from twenty years ago, titled "THINGS TO DO", and ask me to show him which ones he should cross off, now that it was, after all, twenty years later. Which of these could be erased now, now that I am well into "life", now that I can stop thinking of myself as a kid whose real life is going to begin at any moment...? C'mon, let's start listing those accomplishments! Oh, oh, how awkward, oh my, how embarrassing, there aren't any, oh I see...
Now that my kids are growing, growing, gone... now, again, explain what good and right and successful things you have done, and why the other ones lost importance? Innocently asked, pencil and eyebrow raised. Then, shaking his head, clicking his tongue in sorrow, he listed my failures, one by one, instead. He was writing a new map to follow for the near future, one that ended in a skull and crossbones and a cheerful, handwritten note, "Do not cross go. Do not collect two hundred dollars (or even two cents, you pathetic piece of shit.... your buck stops here, moron. Now die."

Depression means accepting that things don't always turn out the way you want them to, that being a white hat doesn't mean the sunset belongs to you. It means finding another reason than The Future, because so far, in my experience, The Future has proved to be an impossibility. It means letting your children go, allowing them to become adults, rather than keep them in your smothering embrace. Did I have these kids so they could give me a reason to live?
No, no I didn't.... I'm not sure why I did have them, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't for that. Although I might have used them for just that reason, since they were around anyway.

Most people would look at the place where I am and expect anticipation, optimism, a belief that things are finally going to start going right. I'm not such a sucker anymore. I have felt that way too many times, only to fall on my ass quite gracelessly when the hope was kicked out from under me. So I am just waiting right now, to see. What happens next.

I hope I am at the edge of the storm, not the eye of it.

2008-01-21T10:27:00.001-08:00

Obviously I haven't used this blog very much. I may never again. Or I might start again reel soon. You never know with me, I am so crazy, so on the edge, yabba dabba do and all.

231 candles is a big fuckin fire

2007-07-05T02:02:00.000-07:00

I love the 4^th of July. I mean, I am one of those freaky-deaky people who will spend the rent money on firecrackers. If it stinks, makes a big boom, and has the definite possibility of blowing off my hand or another body part, by god, I will PAY you for it. While a part of me, the side that is rational, somewhat sane, you know the itty bit piece of me that is located somewhere between my pinky finger and the left earlobe- tells the rest of me every year that I will NOT buy fireworks this year… the little part, which has an extraordinary lack of actual power…but hell, it’s such a little guy… it says this even as the rest of me, big, foolish bully that it is, laughs. And then spits on the little part’s foot and smirks, like, “What are you going to do about it, Miss Sensibility Sensible?”

And I find myself driving to the Indian reservation to buy BIG booms… because the ones they sell here in my state are not good enough. Oh no, by golly, if I am going to blow up my eye, I am going to do it with an ILLEGAL firework.

The Indian reservations are where you can gamble (and, I might add, smoke indoors while you do so) and buy things that explode. These are the two reasons on the top of my paper that is titled “Why I Want To live On An Indian Reservation”.

Well, I went a little bit crazier than usual this year. We have the sort of silly, childish wars with the rest of the neighbors every 4^th of July, where we try to outlast and outboom each other. And I was going to WIN it this year. Some friends chipped in to buy the fireworks, I put on my best Barbie smile (which always ensures I will get free fireworks in addition to the ones I buy) and off to the res I went. I had many, many bags of fireworks when I came home, and we set them off tonight. I had to work online at the same time, so I took my computer outside and in between chats, I dashed out into the street to light an artillery shell or a big cake. I sound so professional (to myself) when I use terms I heard used at the fireworks store. “Cake”, obviously being one of them.

Two of my freebies, tossed in by helpful gentlemen, were called Street party and High Plains drifter. The street party was long and it was good, but the High Plains drifter was the impressive one to me. I have NEVER dreamed of such a big boom packed into nine inches.

Re-reading those last couple of sentences, I am tempted, sorely so, to make a naughty comment, but I will refrain.

I am patriotic, too…. Disgustingly so, I guess, especially to my friends who don’t live in the US and don’t particularly like my country. That’s ok, I bear them no grudges, because they just don’t know. They have no idea what it is like to grow up here, to breath in the red white and blue as you grow up. To have that instilled in you- the whole life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness fed to you with your wheaties. I love my rights. I love my country. There is nowhere else I would live, even with all the crap that goes on in our political realm. Nowhere. And, I realize the irony of all that I say here, in light of the fact that I was talking about going to the Indian reservation just a paragraph or two up above. I hope that the modern day native Americans aren’t too bitter about the theft of their beautiful country to not want me to enjoy it today. I will have to ask Joseph, who is, admittedly, a “bad” Indian, who is not “red-correct,” as he puts it. He will probably make some smart-ass remark about his people making money off stupid white people who buy fireworks. But damn, I love the USA.

I realize that this makes me a sap, a redneck, a total dork with not an ounce of self respect in a lot of people’s eyes. That’s hunky dory with me. The day I start caring too much about what other people think of me is the day I need a swift kick in the kneecap. You thought I was going to say “butt” didn’t you?

I love my country. I get all choked up by the star spangled banner. I proudly stand, with my hand plastered on my heart, when the pledge of allegiance is announced. When I leave this country, which is rarely, I admit, I want to kiss the ground when I get home. Kiss the frickin’ ground. Recently, on a plane trip when I sat next to a guy home on leave from Iraq, I felt the profoundest sort of respect for him, and it made me think about all of the veterans of all of the wars America has been in, in her short, violent life. I hope my fellow Americans feel the same way tonight, of all nights. If you don’t, go watch “The Patriot” or something. I hope my fellow earthlings, non-American, will get over hating me for one night.

Happy Birthday, America. The Kaat loves you, bigtime.

Why I Am Finally Going To Homeschool My Children

2007-06-12T19:54:00.000-07:00

or... the straw the broke the camel's back.
or.. letter to the superintendent.
Or...whatever the hell you wan to call it, posted here for my own remembrance.

May 31, 2007

To Whom It May Concern,

Yesterday, my son A was supposed to serve in-school suspension. Why he was going to serve this punishment is not clear to me, as I didn’t hear anything from anyone at the school about what he did to receive this punishment or when/how it would be served. A told me that another student fell against him during an assembly, and he (A) protested loudly. This happened, he said, in a moment of silence, so he got in trouble. This is not unusual with A, as he has been “in trouble” with the school authorities and teachers fairly consistently all school year, and last year as well. Honestly, A can be an outspoken, fairly argumentative person who asks far too many questions and does not respond well to arbitrary rules. He clashes often with the authorities at the school, questions the rules, especially the ones that don’t make sense to him, and argues loudly when he feels it is called for. I recognize that A’s attitude can be seen as disrespectful at times, and it is not the punishment itself that I am writing about today. I must add, however that it is annoying to say the least that I am not always informed about these episodes of “misconduct”. Since I have been notified on some occasions, but not all, I am confused as to what the criteria is that determines whether or not I am to be informed of his behavior and subsequent punishment. I thought when an action such as detention, suspension, etc. was enforced, that the parent of the student was to be informed. D. Town school district must have changed this policy, because I no longer receive communication from the school in any circumstance any longer.

I suspect that when it became clear that I wasn’t going to “gang up” on A and accept everything said about him without question, agreeing with the various punishments handed out to him frequently, the school decided to give up on informing me when he incurred a punishment. As I said, I am not writing about the punishment itself, however. It is the events that followed that concern me greatly.

Previously, A has been forced on occasion to serve his in-school suspension in the elementary school. Let me state that this is not acceptable to me. My son is six feet tall and in no way fits comfortably in a small, elementary-sized school desk. He can balance the desk on his knees while sitting with feet flat on the floor. To me, forcing him to sit in such a desk for eight hours is unreasonable punishment. Aside from being extremely uncomfortable, it smacks of shaming-type punishment, similar to placing a cap on his head that says “dunce”, forcing him to sit in a tiny desk for eight, long hours. It is simply not reasonable. It is no surprise to me that when he was told to go to the elementary school to serve his “time”, A balked. According to A, he then went to the high school, where there is an in-school suspension room in the library, and he found it empty. This is curious to me, since I don’t know why he would be sent to the elementary school if there was space available in the “size appropriate” area of the school. He says that he then sat quietly in the room and was working on a math assignment when Mrs. L appeared, accompanied by a police officer. He was escorted by the officer from the school, placed in the back of his patrol car, and was told that he was going to be taken off the grounds, supposedly taken home. I say supposedly because I do not know. In fact, had A not called me on his cell phone to inform me that he was sitting in the back of a police car, presumably in “custody”, I would not have known, since no one from the school called to inform me. Luckily he had a cell phone, or I might have received the news from him when they got him to the station and gave him his “one call”. Incidentally, he had his cell phone so that he could call me if he became ill. He suffers from migraines and had one in the morning. I want him to be able to keep in touch with me when he is ill, and I cam certainly glad he had the phone yesterday.

I immediately drove to the school and intercepted the police vehicle as he was driving down the street from the school. The officer said yes, he did have my son in the car, but disturbingly, he could not tell me why, when I demanded to know what my son had done that merited police custody. The officer told me that as far as he knew, A was not in the library he was supposed to be in, and because he wouldn’t “listen”, he, the officer, was called to take him off the school grounds. I insisted that he release my son immediately, and the officer complied, then drove away. I am curious what his report might say on the incident.

At this time, I was admittedly furious, and I am not much happier now. I went into the office of the elementary school and asked to speak to Mrs. L immediately. I was told by the secretary that she was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. I then requested that she phone me as soon as she was out of the meeting, to discuss why she had not called me before calling the police on my son. The secretary then told me that Mrs. L hadn’t had anything to do with the incident because she had been in the meeting all morning and probably didn’t even know about what had happened. Since it was Mrs. L herself who brought the officer to A, I can only assume that the secretary is sadly misinformed of Mrs. L’s schedule, or she was deliberately lying to me. Tonight, a full day and a half after the incident, no one from the school has called me to discuss this, offer an explanation, or apologize.

I question not only the procedures that would allow a school official to have the police physically escort a minor from the school, in a police vehicle, without informing the parents of that student, but I also question the legality of such an action. I question the motives behind such a decision, and the thought, or lack of thought, behind choosing not to call me first, and then not to call me afterward, even though I strongly requested an immediate explanation.

In view of the lack of communication on the part of Mrs. L, or anyone else at the school, I have no idea what A’s status at the school is currently. Is he suspended? Expelled? Is he expected to attend class and be given detention for using his cell phone without the officer’s permission? Does he need to now come to school and serve some in-school suspension in the closet of the principal’s office, and because they will provide him with a flashlight, this will be acceptable? Please excuse my angry sarcasm, but this entire situation borders on the insane.

If this police intervention was intended to intimidate A into compliance, it has not succeeded. Instead, he found the entire thing amusing, and the only emotional result of the debacle that unfolded yesterday was mine. It made me very angry, and convinced me that A is probably correct in his feelings of persecution in that school. He has long felt as if the teachers and administrators are just “looking” for excuses to punish him and that consequences for his actions are much more severe than for those of other students who display similar behavior. Indeed, it is hard for me to imagine that calling the police on a student without notifying the student’s parent is the usual school procedure in cases where students go “where they aren’t supposed to”, as the officer said. I asked A if he in any way acted violently yesterday, if he could have been considered a danger to anyone, including himself. He admitted that he said the entire thing was “stupid” but nothing more, and said that he did not even use “bad” language. Under the circumstances, I have to agree with him. This was stupid.

In the assumption that he will now be further punished, I am keeping A home for the remainder of the school year. I no longer trust the school with his safety or well-being. I believe that Mrs. L, or his teachers, or any other adult who comes into contact with him, has developed such a strong dislike of my son that they are not capable of making rational, fair decisions about him, if they ever were. I would ask that his school work to be made available for me to pick up, but I don’t have a high expectation of this being done since there has been a sad lack of compliance with this in the past when he has been suspended from school. Most of his teachers just never bother to respond to such requests. In some or most of his classes, he will probably fail, since he has fallen so far behind, due to missing assignments while he has been on these “vacations”, or as the school calls them, “punishments”. I suspect that they are vacations- breaks for the teachers from A, because they can’t “handle” him in the way they are accustomed to handling the students. In light of all of this, there is no point for him to come to school for the rest of the year. I’m certain the majority of his remaining time would be spent in punishment of some sort or another, and A has had enough ineffective, petty punishments heaped on him to last a lifetime, let along one school year. I no longer wish for a phone call, it is too late for that. Please direct any further correspondence to me through the mail, or email, as I wish to have everything in writing.

I have thought about writing a letter like this for a long time, but I have not done so. Instead, I hoped he could just get through the remainder of the school year here without too much trouble. Obviously, that was wishful thinking and unrealistic on my part. However, I am going to take the opportunity to express my feelings about my son, and the way the school has dealt with him, and me, this year. I expect this will be of some length, so feel free to stop reading when you get bored, if you haven’t already. The amount of attention paid to what I have said about my son this year has been miniscule. It seems to me that the people “In charge” at the school are so convinced that they are right, that there is no room for any other ideas in their minds when it comes to A, and probably students like him. I would be willing to bet that he is not the only “troubled” (or is the politically correct term now “at risk”?) student in his school, and if he is, the administrators should consider themselves lucky! It is my guess that the other “bad kids” like A also have several things in common, like asking questions, expecting to be treated like a human being with a brain instead of a mindless sheep, and the traditional methods of forcing compliance and seeking to intimidate students into behaving in the rigid roles set out for them as “good behavior” probably don’t work well on them.

I am sure that Mrs. L, Mrs. C, and the various teachers who have been involved with A see me as one more parent that is blind to her child’s faults and ignoring what is going on under my very nose, as A rolls down the hill toward more and more dangerous behaviors. All I can do is try to explain to you that I am not that parent.

What I am is a very young parent who remembers exactly what it was like to be a teenager, especially considering I was one when I gave birth to A. I also remember the way adults treated me and the way that I responded to that treatment. I was (am) determined to do it differently with my children and so far, I am happy with the way it has turned out. I am happy with the way A has turned out, believe it or not. He is strong willed, intelligent, and unafraid to stand up for himself and what he believes in, which I see as good character traits that will serve him well later in life. I do recognize that not everyone has this perception, and in fact you very well may have the opposite view of him. We will simply have to agree to disagree on the matter, because I certainly will not change my mind about my son, nor will I begin to see him as dangerous, a bad kid, or heading for disaster. Everything said about him at school is viewed through a skewed perception, in my opinion, and as I have said many times, he is a very different person away from that atmosphere.

Much of this year’s troubled behavior has been his way of acting out his grief over the death of his best friend last year, a fact I tried to discuss on more than one occasion while in conferences about A. My observation and my requests for possible counseling for him, and any other students who were not dealing well with their grief over the deaths of Kyle and John never went anywhere. Please understand that Kyle Hayes was A’s first friend at school, and his oldest, best friend. His death has been unbelievably hard on my son, and he is not “over it” yet. Teachers and others might be surprised to find that this is so, since A is not viewed as having any emotions at all, let alone tender ones. They might have been surprised to see him at the cemetery today, weeping, while he gently placed orange roses (Kyle’s favorites) on his grave, because it is his dead friend’s birthday. Again, their perception of my child is skewed, and he is certainly never going to make an effort to prove differently, as he is not interested in a relationship with any of the adults at the school any longer. Those who insisted they “liked” him (as though this is so surprising!) haven’t shown that, in his opinion.

Even without the loss of a friend early on, the teenage years are very difficult ones, and few adults bear much resemblance to the creatures they were during these hormone-addled time (thankfully). I know I do not. The only thing that I can do as a parent is try to guide my children through this time of “insanity”, as I have often thought of it, without too much damage. I am responding to the challenge in the best way I know, which is to be my son’s ally and an adult he can talk to and be honest with. He has a very supportive extended family as well, including grandparents and uncles and aunts who agree with me. Both of his grandparents are counselors by profession, and they do not agree with the unprofessional assessment that he has “anger management” problems, as I have been told. In fact, his grandmother offered to write a letter to that effect, but as I doubt it would make any difference to anyone in a position of authority, I told her not to waste her time.

I have raised A to know that he can be honest with me, and his father, in all things, and in most cases, he is. I doubt very much there is anything you could reveal to me about him that I do not already know. Trust me. Whether it is “sex, drugs, or rock-n-roll”, I believe my son is far more honest with me than are most kids of his age with their parents, who beam proudly at their “good child” without ever realizing what goes on behind the scenes in innocent D. Town, Washington. As his parent, you will have to leave it to me to worry about how much of his “reputation” is just that- reputation with little truth.

I have listened to Mrs. C, and Mrs. L, when they have spoken to me about my son. I have received offensive letters with implications that I am not an emotionally supportive or loving parent. Trust me when I say that I know A far better than any of the other adults in his life do, especially his teachers, and I do not appreciate their passing of judgment on me with so little real knowledge of my relationship with my son. I have remarked on more than one occasion that he is a very different child at school. He seems angry, withdrawn and sullen, not at all like the happy, smiling, joking son that I know. I have thought long and hard on this manner, as well as discussed it with A, and it remains very disturbing to me. I once tried to explain my thoughts to Mrs. P, but I believe I only offended her. I will attempt to do so with you today, and I apologize in advance if what I say is contrary to your own opinions.

I have raised A to question everything. I have always told him to “Be a wolf, not a sheep, don’t follow the flock” and to ask why, ask how, ask what the reasons are behind things. A has only been in the public school system for three years. Before that he was at the Christian school from kindergarten where he was praised for his individuality and questioning. His questions were not only tolerated, but encouraged, and they were never seen as a sign of disrespect. At home, and with his extended family, A has learned this as well. Question, question, and then question some more. In our family, it is considered a good thing to challenge the status quo, to demand to know why someone says or does something, and to expect an answer that can be argued about, or at least discussed at length.

I realize this has made him a square peg in the public school system. What he is encouraged at and praised for at home, he is punished for at school and called “rude” and “disrespectful” for. What he says jokingly, he is punished for. When he does something that breaks a rule, no matter how small, he is punished, and he is, again, called rude and disrespectful when he questions the fairness of the punishment. He has lost all interest in even attempting to discuss any subject with anyone at school, as it is clear to him that his opinion is unimportant and his questions bad ones. As he says, “There is no point.” And I can see his point. Several months ago, Mrs. C called me about his anger at being given detention for putting his hood up in the hallway. He told me that she didn’t give him a warning, just immediate detention, and yes, he was angry about it. Frankly, I don’t blame him. Incidentally, when I visited the school to speak with Gabriel’s teacher a week later, I counted four students with their hoods on in the hall.

Earlier in the year, I was called in to meet with Jude and Ms. Leid, to witness A signing a contract that basically, boiled down to these instructions:

Stay in your seat

Raise your hand

Bring your pencil to class.

All small things, seemingly inconsequential, but important enough in the eyes of the school to cause him to be kicked out of class for the rest of the year if he didn’t follow them.

It is these small things, the rules that make sense to them and other school authorities, that don’t make sense to A. It is these that cause him problems, that he thinks of as “dumb”, “pointless”, that he is constantly going to be caught in, again and again, and punished for, because that is the nature of this child. This is how he was raised and is no more his fault than anything else he has learned from his family. The only way he is ever going to remember to follow all of the “little rules” without questioning is if he is finally “broken” into the mold of every other kid… and frankly, I don’t want that to happen. The things he might be despised for and called rude for as a child are things that will make him a strong and confident adult.

Please understand, I do not expect the school to change for A. On the contrary, I have encouraged him to try his best to fit in, to go along with the rules, to remember all the little things he is not supposed to do. The result makes me terribly sad. A now views school as a place where he is under unfriendly surveillance, a place of arbitrary rules and constant punishment. He sees school as a place of contradictions where someone is always just “waiting for him to mess up next”. He has ceased to show any interest in learning, and at this point he has ceased to care about breaking the rules either. He is to the point of quitting- he feels he will mess up, no matter what, even if it is as small as putting his hood up on the way out of school for the day or as “big” as questioning his teacher without raising his hand or going to the “wrong” library. My fear is that by the time he reaches an age to attend college, he will have come to view school and learning as something so bad that it is a punishment that he will run from, instead of look forward to attending.

I am not writing this because I expect either sympathy for A, or agreement with me. I wanted to explain that these are the reasons I am planning to enroll him in a different school next year. However, I sincerely hope that this letter will put your mind at ease that my son is not a child slipping through any cracks. He is a well-loved and respected child on the verge of adulthood who is supported by a family that is proud of him, and we will all continue to support him, love him, and help him make decisions that will lead him to a happy future.

Sincerely,

Mama Kaat

Post Script- 6/4/07 I wrote this letter on the day after the incident and decided to wait for the remainder of the week, just to see when the school would finally contact me. On Friday, Mrs. Leif finally left a message on my voice mail, though no explanation, just an assurance that I could call her now. My call to the school was not answered. I have received nothing in the mail. I still do not know why the police were called on my child and why I was not notified of the fact. I am now sending this email to the superintendent’s office, as well as Mrs. L and Mrs. C, since they are the two who have dealt with A most often.

Friendship, Beauty, Bullshit.

2007-05-25T08:41:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, in my family there was not a whole lot of emphasis put on the physical side of life. Brains were what mattered in our house, not beauty. My looks were never even commented on, unless I was unusually pale, an indication that a migraine might be on its way. If someone complimented my mother on my prettiness as a little girl, my mother would glower at the complimenter and point out how intelligent I was. In my old blog, I told the story of how I came to look like a Barbie doll, and maybe I will repeat that one day, but suffice it to say, it was a form of rebellion. In my house, you better be smart if you wanted anyone to notice you. If you wanted a hairstyle, Mom would take the scissors to you. If you wanted a “real” trip to the beauty salon, why, she’d take you on down to Montgomery Wards, where haircuts were four dollars. Did you know that MG had a hair salon? Indeed they did- it was back by the tire department, a dark little corner of the closet, and the man cutting hair there left locks lopsided and looking like an evil razor had taken you into the ring for a round or two. My first curling iron was one I found in the garbage of our apartment building. I brought it home and was enthralled when it actually worked, even though rust was growing on the metal barrel. My first make-up was a hand-me-down and my gay guy friend, who bore a marked resemblance to Boy George, showed me how to put it on. The coolest clothing I owned was that given to us by another family where there was a single, spoiled daughter. I was so excited when she would pass on her leftovers to me, even though it meant that she would have opportunity to point out “her” shirt the next time she saw me. Everything I learned about fashion and beauty, and the accessories and tricks pertaining to them, was learned on my own, by clever observation and copying, not from my mother. In my house, beauty, looks, physical anything just didn’t matter…at all.

If you wanted money to buy clothing of a certain brand and were stupid enough to suggest its purchase, you were looked at as though you’d lost your mind, and beauty bugs had begun rotting your brain, taking away all good sense and leaving a vacant echoing darkness behind. You’d be given ten bucks and sent to Kmart, told that they all “last the same amount of time anyway”, or “Jeans are jeans, right? Denim, stitching, a few buttons? You want to pay for a name embroidered on the back pocket?” Then a hand would check you for fever.

I remember one day clearly when my mom came to pick me up at the mall. I was about thirteen, the same age as my son now, an age primed for embarrassment by anything remotely uncool. I was hanging out with a group of casually run-into guys, one of whom I had an enormous crush on. I remember seeing my mom appear, I was getting ready to launch into my carefully rehearsed “Why I Should be Allowed to Stay at the Mall for the Rest of my Life” speech, when I noticed that her pants were high-waters, about an inch above her ankles. Embarrassing enough, yes, but they revealed the fact that she was wearing two different socks. Green sock, with her gray pants and red shirt, and they were two distinctly different shades of green. One dark, like Christmas, one light, a bright lime…probably left over from my sock drawer of the eighties, when we layered socks in unbelievably eye-tearing combinations.

Knowing that at any second, the boys, including the man of my dreams, were going to notice and start to laugh, I pointed it out first. With all the scorn in my possession, I declared that my mother was hopeless, told everyone to look at her socks and theatrically began to groan. It was my only defense, an offense. Yet I still remember the shame that seared my soul as the guys gleefully picked up the refrain, “Jolly Green Socks” and chanted it over, and over, throughout the day, because of course I got to stay at the mall longer, although as the day went on, I just wanted to go home. I was ashamed of my mother, yes, but even more so, I was ashamed of me. Some time later, I got to spend an evening with this man of my dreams, and he turned out to be, although heavenly looking and a great kisser, really, really dumb. He left hickies on my neck and a hole in my heart as I chose to never return his phone calls and ignored him in school. He was puzzled, I could tell, but there was no way he would understand that to me, he represented my defection, a breaking of loyalty, and shame…shame. I had joined the sheep. Other events scattered my life in the next few years, mixing me up and plopping me down in a new form, so it was inevitable that I would not be a “typical” teenager, but I remember that day as the beginning of the shift in my mind.

And …although I did continue my quest to be a Barbie and a real woman at the same time, I changed after that day in the mall, over the next few unbelievably hard years, when I had many lessons in what was “Really Important”. I stopped noticing socks on my mom, and my sister’s uncombed hair, and started noticing my mother’s fierce intelligence, my sister’s gentle heart. I noticed how my mom never, ever said “I don’t know” when I asked her something. Believe me, I tried hard to bring forth that response, too, but she never said it. She admitted freely when she was guessing, but her guesses had merit, thought, and logic behind them. She taught me how to think my way through situations before reacting. She taught me to think, period. By the time I had children of my own, I had realized the unique and wonderful woman my mom was, and I was as powerfully proud of her and I had been embarrassed on that one, long ago day in the mall.

At the same time, I had figured out sometime in my late teens that I was attractive. Not my early teens because when I first hit the waves of puberty, I was floundering and unable to swim. No one had told me I was cute growing up. I was fairly sure I was smart and could debate on any subject known to man, and write a five page paper on my position, but I didn’t know if I could get a boyfriend. That gay friend of mine helped me enormously, as soon I could layer on thick black eyeliner with the best of them, and he had the concept of thrift store shopping down to an art way before it became cool. The man I became involved with at a young age used insults as a way to control me, and I was told I was fat and ugly enough times to believe it. When I escaped his clutches long enough to take a breath and look around, I noticed that the men in the general vicinity happened to be watching me back. It was heady for a year or so. But honestly, I was unable to be shallow…it was like it had been bred out of me, or maybe just cut out by events beyond my control. If a guy wasn’t intelligent, or sensitive, or funny, beyond being the owner of an impressive pair of biceps, I wasn’t interested for longer than a day (or night).

And so I finally come to the subject of this post, the reason I sat to write this morning. I have a friend who I have never really “looked” at, I suppose. She is overweight. I know this, but when I have thought of it, it is more in terms of her health than her looks. She gets short of breath too easily, it alarms me. She has glossy chestnut hair that spills down over her shoulders, huge sparkling brown eyes, and a face that you could use as a cast for an angel. Her grin is infectious. Her skin is smooth and silky, white as milk, but not ugly white, like mine when I don’t tan. It’s velvety, buttery white, if that even makes sense. She actually does not have to wear makeup, because her skin is so gorgeous. She is also very witty, extremely bright, and a lot of fun to be around.

It wasn’t until this morning that I realized she is also envious of me and maybe even hates me a little bit. This concept has so shocked me, and I am at the same time, berating myself for being shocked. I had dropped A off at school and then had gone to chat with her a bit, and I was telling her how he mutters his quick “bye” and scrambles off, anxious to get away from me, how he won’t even look at me. She said, “Well, I guess it isn’t easy for him to have you as a mother.”

“What do you mean?” I was honestly puzzled.

“Well, just look at you.” It wasn’t the words, but the scorn, the thin icing of hatefulness in them, that really took my breath away. I had no idea that this lurked in our friendship.

I did look at myself, tried to do it objectionably. I was wearing camouflaged shorts and a thin tank top, the first clothes lying on the floor that I grabbed up when I got out of bed. I hadn’t brushed my hair this morning, it was mussy and flying around. I didn’t have makeup on, and I’d shoved on a pair of sunglasses to hide the fact. Flip-flops on my feet. She continued, and her eyes were narrowed, her mouth now wore this uncomfortable, but somehow gleeful grin. It was all tight and un-natural looking, her face, like I have never seen it, and her words just got heavier and heavier with scorn.

“Your hair is all messy and sexy. You’re wearing your glamorous sunglasses, all movie star-like. Your boobs are bouncing around and you’re showing off your muscley legs in those short-shorts. God, you just scream ‘Look at me, I’m sexy!’ Of course he wants to get away from you. You probably embarrass the hell out of him.”

I gaped at her. I had no response.

I could see in her face that although some part of her hated herself for saying this, it was also something she’d wanted to say before. I wondered how long this had been there, under the easy surface of our friendship. Her face was like a twisted, jerking mass. I mean, I could actually see her mouth twitching uncontrollably, her eyes went from squinty to wide, but her mouth continued to wear that yucky, sickly-looking grin that was so fake, so hateful, so…disturbing.

I finally just said, “If you say so.”

I know my friends. I know my loved ones, and I am a little ashamed to admit that I also know how to manipulate their emotions. I know exactly what to say to hurt them, or inspire them….hopefully, I use the inspiring ones much more than the hurtful ones. In this case, I spoke without really thinking, just wanting to wound, the way she had wounded me. I could immediately see that my words had their intended effect, that she was wounded, by her own shame. I have been reminding myself of when I was young, when I mocked my mother in front of my peers. I think of how I hated myself more than her…and I hope that is how my friend feels, too. I hope she hates the side of her that forced this forward, more than she hates me.

The funny thing is, that I never thought she was one of them, the overweight people who just hate the skinnies. She knows how hard I worked to get thin, to get fit. She saw the tortuousness of it, has seen me pass up things I’d love to eat a million times. She is aware that to look like this, at least as far as my body is concerned, it took work, and sacrifice, and more work. This is not genetic. The woman in my family are soft, short and soft and nature would definitely be dragging my ass (soft, pillowy and wide ass) with it in that direction if I didn’t fight it every step of the way.

I don’t even remember if we said anything else. I came home. My stomach feels slightly sick. I know I will be thinking about this all day.

Do men have these nasty little surprises in their friendships? Or are they as they seem from the outside- simple, solid, and unaffected by pettiness and the ridiculousness that pepper women’s friendships? I have heard men say “Bros before hos” sooo many times, a gross little saying that nonetheless, is understandable. Their brothers (bros) come before women (hos). Here is the part that gets me… we woman, in my small group of friends, have a similar thing. We have talked many times about the kind of woman who “will dump you for a guy”. It is understood, what this kind of a woman is, and I have always assumed none of my friends were that kind, or thought it of me. Now I am unsure, and it makes me feel ill.

No doubt just writing all of this out has helped and I will find a suitably philosophical way of looking at it by tomorrow.

But in the meantime, I wouldn’t mind grabbing a chunk of her glossy chestnut hair and showing her in physical form, all about the cliché of a woman’s catfight.

Hostage Mama

2007-05-07T13:56:00.000-07:00

Saturday night was one of the longest of my life. A., my teenage son, did not come home. He swears that he left a message for me, letting me know he was spending the night at a friend’s, but of course, I did not get this message, and the existence, or non-existence of this message, did not help me Saturday night, when the hours stretched on and on, and I did not know where my child was, or who he was with, or what he was doing, or, as any parent who has been in this situation knows, most importantly, if he was alive, unhurt, helpless, afraid, dead.

Some might think, oh this is typical teenage bullshit, and scoff the night away. True.,.. this might be typical, and it is definitely teenage, most assuredly bullshit….but none of that changes the fact that the night was long, it was horrible, it was something I desperately do not ever want to experience again, although I am afraid it won’t be the last time I do.

First of all, A is not a typical teenage. Those who read my old blog know that he is extremely honest with me, to the point of painfulness, and is also kind and caring, solicitous of my paranoid freakiness in a maybe-not-healthy way. In short, he knows his mother is a total wack job when it comes to vivid hallucinations about what could be happening to my children when they are not under my protecting gaze, and he has always been so careful not to upset the delicate balance I have managed to create, keeping me sane and allowing them to occasionally leave my sight.

He always calls, he always lets me know where he is. If he is going to be one minute late, he will call, let me know, assure me that he is alive and well and even in a good mood, so no freaking out Mom, don’t worry Mom, I am ok Mom, be cool Mom, everything is fine Mom.

When midnight came and went without one if these phone calls, the first waves of fear began crashing over me. I noticed that his cell phone was sitting on the end table, being charged. Ok, so he forgot his phone, and he can’t get to one. He will be home shortly, apologizing for his lateness, with some kind of explanation. As the seconds ticked by and one a.m. approached, I mentally calculated the distances in walking time of our small town…how long it would take for him to walk home from any point on the city map. By the time his imaginary time was up, when I knew that there was no place within the city limits that he could have been and not yet reached home, even on foot, even dodging cops (it was after curfew and of course like any rebel without a car he takes great delight in breaking this seemingly asinine rule and hiding in bushes when a patrol car goes by) my first panic attack was well under way.

Any parent, even ones not as freaky-deaky about their children as I am, who have had this happen to them, knows the kind of thoughts that roll through the mind in the wee hours of the morning. There is no stopping them- you can’t hide from these thoughts, or bury them under other, more important thoughts of work, what to buy at the grocery store, what bills are overdue. There is no ducking from these vivid, horrifying, blood-curdling scenarios, built one right on top of the other, so you can’t even get over the horror of the first before the next hits. Your mind seems to become an enemy, as if it has held these private plots in a secret place, just waiting for the right opportunity to come along to lay them out before you.

Look at this, this car crash. Isn’t that awful? See how many pieces a person can be sliced into during an accident like that? Oh, not something you want to see, your baby’s body in pieces, no sirree. Maybe , here’s a scary thought, maybe he’s not dead, but alive and suffering many painful injuries… he isn’t dead yet, oh no, but he is going to die, and he is doing so now; painfully, horribly alone, and thinking of you, wishing for you, calling for you, like he did when he was a baby and hurt himself.

And how about the possibility of a drug overdose? Wouldn’t that be terrible? If he was jerking and seizing in the throes of some drug-induced fit, and the only people around to help him are a bunch of other drugged-out teenagers? Oh yeah, picture that! They are all too scared to call for help, but they don’t know what to do, so they just stand there, watching him flop on the floor, eyes rolled back, maybe foam or something at the corners of the mouth, oh they don’t know what to do…it isn’t their problem, maybe they are saying "whoa dude" and he is dying right now, right at this second….

Hey who just grabbed him and pulled him into a van?

Hey was he crossing the street in the dark and thump thump- couldn’t be seen in those black clothes- just a speed bump for a drunk coming home from the bar?

What is alcohol poisoning, anyway? How many teenagers die from it?

…cheerful little stuffs like that. I didn’t want to wake up my husband, who would undoubtedly be useless at comforting me and simply suggest that he was fine, and if I was really worried, just call the police. I didn’t want to call the police, especially not on A., who has had numerous run-ins with them, mostly about his girlfriend, who is a habitual runaway. I could imagine their skeptical gazes as they realized whose boyfriend he was, and decided that he was just “running away” as she did so often. I didn’t want to call his friends' houses at three in the morning, for obvious reasons. I wanted to believe he was fine, there was a simple explanation because he wouldn’t do something like this, he was conscientious. At the same time, thinking that he wouldn’t do something like this, because of his conscientiousness, increased my panic. I called myself ever despicable thing I could think of (and I could think of a lot) as I drove around and around the town, up and down every street, looking for him. Bad mother, simple and eloquent, was the favorite by a mile. If I did not allow him to be out at night, by himself, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen. Never mind that he is six feet tall, strong as a young bull and actually pretty damn fierce, probably better equipped to defend himself than most men twice his age. All of that was a jumble of pathetic excuses, trying to make myself feel better for being such a horrible, awful, doom-inviting mother.

I was aware of this handicap placed on me at the moment of his birth. I don't know if it is the same for all mothers, but I felt it immediately. First, that sensation of absolute love... the realization that I had never actually understood what "love" was before. The simple knowledge that I would die, easily, no questions asked, to protect this little creature. And third, that my life was never going to be the same. I was made a kind of hostage in that moment of his birth, or maybe it was when they placed him on my stomach and he began to roar like a little lion, or when his unfocused eyes first fluttered across my face, or when I first nursed him. Never the same, were the words that went through my mind, I remember it quite clearly. From that point, to today, 'til, according to my mother, I die or happily lose my mind, I will remain paralyzed with fear whenever my child is in a place where I cannot touch him, fix him, take care of him, watch over him.

As he grows older, it is worse, not better, though for my husband the opposite seems to be true. There are more and more situations like this one on Saturday, when he is out there, in the world, and god, I know what the damn world is like, and there is nothing I can do to guide him. Just sit back and hope/pray/will that the things I have told him stick in his head, that I have given him enough ammunition to fight things he needs to battle, and enough wisdom to make choices that won't lead him into bad places. I worry that I haven't done a good enough job, that there were, are, a billion things I should have said, done, shown him, to prepare him. Bad mother... the whisper is always there.

But I love him so much, is my inevitable answer, as if I live in a fairytale world where love in enough, where love conquers all, where love is all you need. Nope, that's not this world.

Hostage to fear. Watching my younger son sleep, and he is all innocence and long lashes and sprawled limbs, beautiful and ten, and a couple of years from the days when he will rather spend time with his peers than his family, when he stops listening to me, when he starts rolling his eyes at my warnings on his way out the door. I am cherishing this time, drinking it up like a cool, sweet drink through an intricate, rainbow-colored straw, in a gorgeous, precious, thin glass of an impossible shape. Knowing that when it's gone, it's gone. It will be empty and I will be left cradling the glass, remembering how it tasted, tracing my fingertips over the rim, trying to capture the last drops.

Rights? Righteous? Rightening?

2007-04-14T07:54:00.000-07:00

There was this absolutely astounding (to me) thread of emails going on yesterday on the Lulu op’s email list… one of the ops, a young German man-boy (he is like eighteen) had discovered, by accident, some content on Lulu that he immediately sent out a notification about, demanding it be removed and the user who had it available be banned. Apparently it was nazi propaganda.It was old WWII photographs and descriptions of the “glories” of the Nazis during that time… pretty stupid, pretty gross, but nothing that I haven’t seen a billion times before. He included some of the chapter titles, that had names like:

At home in the batallion

...

Duell of snipers

...

Night attack

...

Butchering

...

The urn of death

Now let me tell you that this guy was genuinely shocked and horrified by this… so much so, that I believe it was his first time ever seeing something like it. You couldn’t have made him much more upset if he had found a photobook of babies being ripped apart alive. It took me several emails before I understood the depth of is upset, but it was genuine. Not only did he go ahead and reset this author’s account so that the books were no longer available, but he was positively fuming about how we needed to find and ban all the lulu creators who did this sort of thing. He then, later in the morning, went and looked for other inappropriate (nazi) material, and reset all of those he could find, to make them unavailable.

Now, before you (Americans) laugh… he was enthusiastically joined by most of the European ops.

I discovered, to my amazement and equal wonder, that not only did the majority of them think this was right and good, it was, in their opinion, Lulu’s obligation to do so. One of them, and remember, I am NOT kidding, suggested a “witch hunt” their term, not mine, to find other Lulu creators who had any kind of nazi- related stuff in their accounts, even to the point of assigning two reps to go out “hunting”.

At this point, my mouth was hanging open. Literally.

I did not join the discussion, because the couple of Americans who did, kind of joking, like, “yeah that sucks, but what are you going to do”, were pretty much shot to pieces (THIS is what we are going to do- was the answer). However, one of our US reps, C., did join the discussion, calmly trying to explain the United States’s whole “freedom of speech” thing, and saying, yes indeed, she hate the nazi stuff as much as she hated other stuff on Lulu, but she still wouldn’t yank it, anymore than she would yank KKK material, as disgusting as the majority of the public may find it, and especially she herself, as a black woman, did.

But… not only did most non-US ops agree with the german dude, they made disparaging comments at C when she tried explaining, and said things to the effect of, “Oh, KKK and Nazis aren’t the same thing”, and “If it was Al-quaida propaganda, you’d be pretty quick to yank it”… neither of which are true, as I think most Americans would agree.

It was all eye-opening to me, how ingrained the freedom of speech is in me, and probably most of my country people… I mean, I thought the nazi stuff was disgusting, yes, but it never even occurred to me to ban/take it off/start a witch hunt to track down other creators with like minds. I found it startling, and in some way slightly scary, that this is the law in Germany and other European countries…. That my reaction is against the norm. Banning, censorship, and witch hunts are well and good to them. I am not trying to be disparaging about them, or their beliefs… it was just astonishing to me that I should have such a deep, gut reaction, when I hardly ever even think about this “right”, and I hate Nazis as much as the next person. And yet I found the mob mentality that swept over the group just as disturbing.

I was trying to place myself in this young man’s place…. If this sort of thing is against the law, and banned as quickly and violently as it seems, then maybe this was indeed the first time he had ever stumbled across it. People his age have been taught, obviously, that the things that happened in their country during WWII were horrifying, evil, and something to be ashamed of…. He said as much. But other ops are older, perhaps wiser, perhaps not… and they all, almost as one, agreed that people could not be “allowed” to express those kinds of views, even in books, because of what it could lead to… Nazis, I assume.

The debate is dwindling, but I expect lulu will go by its guidelines, not by any one country’s, and “hate” material is not allowed, apparently… so the witch hunt may go on. Ops may spend their coffee break looking for hateful things to ban, and… if this happens, and word ever gets out, well, the European ops will be as amazed by the uproar Americans will start over it as I was by this.

Wow. The entire thing left me feeling in a very “wow” kind of state of mind. And glad I am an American, and grateful for my freedom of speech.

those we love are to be kkkick-kissed

2007-04-05T09:22:00.000-07:00

Loving people, ugh… you know, there is that saying, “We like someone because… we love someone although.” And I guess that truer words have never been spoken. Or they have, but they just don’t apply to this post, so let’s just say that THOSE are indeed the truest. This is the reason that a perfect stranger can cut in front of me in line at the bank on Friday afternoon, and instead of snapping, frothing, at their jugular vein while my eyes roll around in my skull like a cartoon character, I am able to calmly step back and give them a smile, because I am thinking, this person might have had a horrible day. This person might really be in a rush, maybe their grandma is in labor… or this person might bite harder than I do… it is because I do not know that person, and therefore, while it is true that I can imagine all kinds of bad things about them, it is more likely that I will assume good things. I always assume good shit about people I don’t know, and the opposite is true, too. Those that I love… well, they get the short end of the assumption stick. In fact, they are lucky not to get hit over the head with it.

Once, someone who loved me quite a lot, and the feeling was mutual, chided me, saying, “Those you love are to be kissed.” Now, aside from sounding like the perfect first line for a Hallmark card, I got what he was saying. It seems like we use up all our good shit on people we don’t even know.

The mail lady who is a bitter, sour-mouthed lagoon creature and looks down her nose at me like I am the one who slept with her ugly husband- gets a smile.

My husband of a billion years, who has actually had sex with me a couple of times, so you would think he would be on the short list of people to be nice to- gets a glare and a “Why isn’t the fucking garbage taken out yet?”

The little kid who runs out in front of my car gets a startled laugh and a rueful shake of the head as I slam on the brakes, adrenaline flooding my entire body. “Oh boys will be boys, that little stinker.” (Ok maybe I do not use such hokey words, but for illustration’s purposes, it works)

My son, who I would literally lie down on train tracks while simultaneously being pecked to death by big crows to protect from harm, accidentally spills pop on the floor, and I am likely to scream his face right off his little head.

At work, I ignore their dog (Yes they bring a dog to work… and all of the children in the family, but let’s not get started on that) who runs in front of me and barks at customers.

At home, if my dog farts after I have given the Be Silent command, I want to beat her with a big stick. No I don’t DO it, but I really want to, and I use a very mean dominant dog voice. You should hear it.

What is with that? Why do we save all the politeness, the sweetness, the goodies, for people we don’t live with, don’t even particularly like, will perhaps not ever see again, and don’t have sex with (Well except for the mail lady. Hehehe. Just kidding- Ew, she is such an amazon troll woman)? Why don’t we use some of that goodness for the folks in our houses? In our workplaces? In our beds?

Not like I have an answer… I was just thinking about it.

Now I must go- I have to yell at my family about what a fricking mess the house is… you know, the least they could do, all lounging about on their “spring breaks”, is pick up the place… instead of waiting for me to, me who is working two jobs and barely has time to freakling shower….

Recovery For Dummies

2007-03-24T10:13:00.000-07:00

Hasn’t this whole “personal” blog thing really worked out well? I keep it up as well as can be expected, I suppose, me being a professional procrastinator and all…

But I thought I would do a little bit of typing before I leave for the movie, since I don’t need to prep… I have already seen this (we are seeing 300 again) and I have a little time.

Last night at my meeting, I was given my “90 Day” medallion. No it did not look like the medallion jpeg I put up- I just put that up cuz I thought it was cool. I swear, all of this shit makes me ill sometimes, it is so completely not something I would have ever seen myself doing… going through the whole 12 Steps crap, but surprisingly, I have discovered what about a billion other people have already discovered- namely, that it seems to work, when applied.

So I am faithful going to my meetings on Fridays and my step-study group on the weekend, and I am trying to be sincere and not roll my eyes when someone starts talking about something that might seem lame to the rest of the world but has deep, real meaning to that person. The recovery group that I attend is not just for pill popping princesses like myself, but for anyone who has any kind of addiction, including, oh, like food.

I admit when I first started going, I had this huge swell of sarcasm building up in me at the very thought…. And I had to keep my mouth shut tightly to avoid it breaking out and hurting someone. However… I have changed my mind. Without naming names, or even telling stories, I will say that there are women in this group whose eating is as totally out of control, if not as life-threatening, as my drug use was.

So am I becoming more mellow? Am I starting to be nice? Maybe just a little sympathetic? Probably none of the above, it is all debatable in any case, and I am not in a philosophical mood today.

Oh wait, maybe there is a little trickle of philosophy running through my left eye…

I do know that my perception of the world has shifted since I quit using drugs, and perhaps that is just natural… it’s like seeing out the window that has had rain rolling down it for years and years, and going, Oh my God, is THAT what the front yard really looks like?

Last night, driving home, I realized that something is missing in me that has been so long a constant companion that it’s actually odd I haven’t noticed its absence until now… that thing is self pity, and the accompanying all-around Wretchedness… I have worn wrapped around me like a cloak. Me, the mysterious pity vampire, wrapped in my shroud of wretchedness, sucking up any pity that I come in contact with and turning it to suit me… I recognized that was indeed what I was like, but I thought it was how I “just was”…nothing could be done to change it, divert it… I looked at myself fairly clearly, with a large dose of honesty. I saw the disgustingness of who I was, the characteristics that were shaming and that I had to laugh at, because deep down, I was always wondering how in the HELL I turned out like this… but I never thought any of it would change. Certainly not by getting clean. I thought drugs were just a helpful way to deal with the awfulness of myself. I never thought that the awfulness might start to change if I got off the drugs. I was, quite simple, a horrible, self-pitying, emotional wreck of a person. Period. Forever and ever. Til death do I part from it.

And now, I am thinking. Maybe that is not true. It is certainly startling to think of… and of course leads to other thoughts… if this is not true, maybe there are other things I have always accepted as “Fact” that are not true either.

I just beg, no, I plead…. If I start to talking about “recognizing my own needs” and telling people that they are affecting my feelings of self-worth, punch me in the face. Twice. REALLY HARD. That is the only thing that still brings forth the eye-rolling and clamped lips at these meetings… listening to the people who seemingly have replaced drugs as the reason for all their problems with other people now…

“He said “blah” and I needed to tell him how much that hurt me.”

“She did “blah” and I really felt compelled to tell her that it offended me and hurt my feelings of self-worth.”

“And I told him, I really feel that when you said that, you were crossing one of my personal boundaries.”

Puke. But whatever- now I am being as bad as them, focusing on everyone else but myself. I will just say it once more- if my self-pity turns into self-righteousness, hit me hard and fast and don’t let me get up until I laugh at myself.

I don't know... but it is a lot to think about. It’s a crazy fucking world, people, but I might just be able to find my way through it anyway.

Re-reading that last line made my eyes roll hard, so now I have a headache and I need to go take some drugs… just kidding… and I really am. Kidding. Ninety days. Uh-mazing.

Yawn

2007-02-25T10:48:00.000-08:00

The last twenty-four hours has been something along the lines of: sleep, and then sleep, on top of sleeping with some sleep, and adding in a little sleeping sleep while taking a sleep and a short nap.

This schedule is actually getting to me. Honestly if someone had told me so, I would’ve laughed, with not a little trace of mockery, at that. Sleep has never been anything I needed a lot of. Naps, yes, those are simply part and parcel of Kaatness, but actual, hours-consuming sleep, like where you lie in one place breathing slowly, not moving…wasting all of that time…

Heck no.

Five or six hours a night is more than plenty.

But piling on top of each other like this, night after night of working until two in the morning and then getting up with the kids at seven, I find myself, on a day where I don’t work either job… well, sleepy. It’s impossible to fall asleep right at two, unless I drug myself well beforehand. Since I haven’t taken any kind of drugs for two months

(WHAT WHAT WHAT? No DRUGS?

That’s right. No drugs. I TOLD you I was getting healthy.)

…anyway even if I did fall asleep right at two, five hours of sleep a night for five days in a row isn’t apparently enough, even for a dyed in the frickin stay-up-late feather night owl like me.

Which brings me to the subject of luxury in bedding. Not everyone’s favorite topic, but certainly one of mine.

Looking at my house, you’d think the White Trash McTrashsters live here. My husband is not what anyone would call “handy” (at least in the way “handyman” is used, although he’s remarkably adept in other, more important ways...but not when it comes to holiday gift-giving. This another very UN handy part of him). I have no time, or even the tiniest inclination, to strap on a pair of overalls and, hefting a hammer, climb up to fix a tilted rain gutter. Our house was probably last painted when Michael Jackson was still a black man. And the whole thing sort of, well, leans. Not so you’d notice, unless you wanted a perfectly round object to stay on the floor where you left it. I’m sure all of this could be cured with a hard working handyman and a big bag of money, but since I have neither, we continue to live in the crappiest house on the street. That’s including the one down the block where the crazy bachelor lives with a hell of a lot of cats and paints one side of his house each spring…all of them a different color.

Inside, it’s a different story. I have a flair for decorating, I am the Ebay Queen, and I can smell a sale within ten miles. So, even on our ridiculously tight budget, I have managed to make the inside of our house look exactly opposite from the outside. You’d never know it was the same place….if I blindfolded you before bringing you inside, you might actually think we were in a different building. All of this was done on the smallest amount of money, lots of ebaying, and paying superdy-doo high interest on furniture payments when our credit died. Died like someone had ripped its throat out and gobbled it for dinner….but that is a different story. And not an interesting one.

Oh I know, this isn’t very interesting either. {pah}

My children have told me, in relieved/embarrassed voices, that their friends have almost all GASPED when through the door, and all of them have commented on how “nice it is in here". In disbelief. That pretty much tells you how bad the outside is. I tell them to inform their friends that we are a family that appreciates contrast in life, and leave it at that. I went through shame in extremity while growing up poor, so I know that my kids don’t have it that bad AT ALL. They don’t know what poor really is.

Thank God.

There is one place I don’t scrimp though, and that is my bed. The sanctuary of my home, my place of peace and quiet… my bed is a haven. It is the place I love most in the world. I think about my bed and sigh the way other ladies sigh over Brad Pitt’s sulky mouth. Trust me, Brad’s lips have nothing on my sheets- nothing, babay.

I have a memory foam mattress. I have 1000 count Egyptian cotton sheets covering the mattress pad (made of more billion-count cotton). The goosedown comforter and their mates, goosedown pillows, are like snuggling into a cloud. My bed is the most comfortable place in the world. There is nothing I like better than to grab a good book and climb into my bed, going AHHHHHH over the sweet sleekness of the sheets.

Is it worth it? Why yes, yes it is. If I was fleeing a house fire, I would undoubtedly go into my bedroom and vainly try to tug my bed out after me.

I could listen to a white political rapper go on about the need for equality in the colors, brothers, all day long, if I had my bed to lie in.

Napping is almost orgasmic in its beauty, in my bed. It's a frickin art form.

I was way behind in doing the laundry the other day. I had put clean sheets on the bed, but I was short one pillowcase. Figuring my husband wouldn’t notice, but kind of curious to see if he did (he thinks I am insane for spending so much money on bedding and there have been plenty of discussions about it), I put a “regular” pillowcase on his top pillow. It was dark blue, close enough to the color of the rest of them.

Of course it was vastly amusing to watch him that night, get into bed and lay his (bald) head down on that pillowcase. His eyes popped open, he had the expression a man would wear if he had just laid his head down in a wet puddle. I could see his mind racing the same way a man would wondering, why was it wet? Why was it warm and wet? Where is the puppy?

“There is something wrong with this pillow!” he finally announced, with all the gravity of a man pronouncing that the world has come down with an incurable STD. “It’s rough and ....hard. What the hell happened to it?” Seeing my smile, he got pissed. “There is! Something! WRONG! With this pillow! I’m not kidding, feel it! There is something wrong with this pillow!” He tried futilely to grab my hand, to force me to feel the wrongness of this evil pillow.

Sometimes the very best revenge in the world is a shrug and a smile.

I smiled quite a bit that night.

....Forgot Valentine’s day huh? How do you like that hard, rough pillowcase, huh? Maybe that’s the only kind you’re going to get from now on. How do you like that? Maybe I’ll just find some half-n-half sheets, and you can have “normal” sheets on your side. Huh? Would you like that? Your pillow is wrong? Well, how wrong is it to forget Valentine's Day, buddy? HUH? Maybe you’re going to get a foam pillow from Kmart next! Forgot Valentine’s day, huh? Well I forgot your bedding!

It is a small satisfaction but we must take our joy where we find it.

Hell Week Is Over

2007-02-18T20:32:00.001-08:00

God I tell you what people, Britney Spears makes me want to run screaming. Why did she shave her head? Has she officially lost her marbles? Is it just another ploy to stay in the spotlight regardless of the level of puking she inspires in watchers of said spotlight? Ew yuk. That is my official statement on the whole chrome-domed songbird….

I am sooooooooo glad that Valentine’s Day is over. It was everything I had feared it would be, what with the NB not knowing shit about flowers. She kept questioning everything I did, like was I sure I needed to order all those flowers? Was I absolutely certain I needed extra designers? Um, was I really for real about not taking “timed orders”? What would we do with all those roses if no one bought them? (Yeah right, that is as likely as putting down a chunk of chocolate in a room full of PMSing women and hoping it won’t grow mold, just sitting there.) She and her daughters ran around taking orders and watching us put them together… she says she would like me to start “lessons” next week. That is… me teaching them how to “do” the things I do. I’m not looking forward to it.

Um. The honeymoon is over I guess. Tension and negativity filled the air in the store to the point that if you were able to squeeze the air, instead of flower-scented happiness, you would get like, a face full of hot pig urine.

Spiked with a sweet ribbon of liquid fecal matter.

Maybe this is just how these ladies deal with stress. By becoming surly, mopey bitches. OH and the reason I made this a private blog becomes obvious here, in paragraph number three… I’m going to talk shit about my employers. Seriously, they are really nice people when they aren’t moaning about how this is so hard…because it’s really not. Hard at all. Having enough cash on hand to buy a business that you know nothing about and then luckily getting an employee along with it who is capable of running that business until you get around to learning a bit about it…well, that’s not hard. That is sheer bloody goatfucking good luck if you ask me.

Ok, I admit I am pissed because after ALL OF THAT….

I didn’t get a bonus.

I was so shocked. LOL and that shows how dumb I am. Me, with my constant matra of “Expect nothing, for then you shall not be disappointed.” I guess it is just another thing NB doesn’t know about the flower business…that the HEAD designer who worked OVERTIME always gets a BONUS for the HOLIDAYS. This is the first holiday I haven’t received a bonus, and it really yanks my wiener. If I had a wiener. And that’s assuming I didn’t like it to be yanked, which, judging from the wiener-owners I have talked to, isn’t likely.

I know what a dumbass, boring, lame-o post, when I promised, well, hinted at, sex and drugs and rock-n-roll, at least one or two horny skeletons falling out of my closet.

The skeletons have a headache.

To top the sundae, my husband completely ignored Valentine’s Day. Not a word. Not a card. Not a footrub in sight. He sheepishly approached me as I staggered out to smoke after a hellish day of doing hundred dollar orders for lucky bitches whose husbands actually get their wives something for the romantic holiday of the year… and thanked me for MY gift to HIM- what a nice card, what a lovely, expensive GIFT… “I didn’t get you anything.”

I guess my abrupt nod was apology accepted and all was forgiven and forgotted, to him. To me, it meant that I was biting my tongue hard enough to draw blood, reminding myself that lack of holiday observance is probably not a good enough reason to divorce.

Tomorrow I have the day off and I am going to go shopping. Shoes, maybe. Shoes always make me feel good. Or maybe a month of super deluxe tanning at the new salon. A haircut? A diamond bracelet? Hell, why not all of them?

The skeletons are not the only ones having a headache this week.

The Dilemma is Solved

2007-02-03T16:39:00.000-08:00

Thanks to some uncommon brilliance upon the part of Patrick, my god friend from the wild and witty Pagan Temple (whose pictures are sometimes NSFW I should warn... hehehe), I am going to fix my little problem of blogging and not really blogging....warning, I can feel a major run-on coming upon me... it's like the spirit of the Lord, it comes and I speak its words and none can stop me... because I want to blog only if I can be honest -and nasty- and I can't if the little old lady who is one of my best customers and just got a brand new computer for Christmas, who thinks I am an angel, and wants to read my "online journal, dear", and gets the addy for the biased review from someone and that I can handle, because heck, a little swearing and sarcasm never hurt a soul and it does have a disclaimer about it being my own biased view and all, but I don't want her reading this because I might say that the old lady who just got a computer for Christmas is a snarky old rotten crotch whore and I hate her fucking guts... well, see, that might hurt someone's feelings. Not necessarily the old rot-crotch's feelings, but her banker, or the guy who delivers her mail, they might be deeply offended.
So in about a week or two I will set this here blog to private.
IF you want to continue to read the deeply insightful and sometimes almost holy-in-their-power thoughts of Kaat Litter, please email me and let me know. You can't do it through comments because comments doesn't give me your email address. This means a little extra effort on your part and a whole lot less on mine, which I think we all agree, is really how the world should work.
The email is: meowkaat at hotmail dot com ...Only put together properly.
The answer will probably be Yes.
Not you, though, Snarkface Bitchhead Rotcrotch. You go play with your computer on some other "world wide interweb site".

P.S. By request, once the blog is private, yes I will post the real picture that photograph came from up at the top.... LOL but you are going to be disappointed, it is not a "rare and sexy cat creature I am pointing to".

I am still alive

2007-01-26T08:52:00.000-08:00

Alrighty then….. yeah I have been really neglectful of this here blog.

I make no excuses. I’m a lame ass.

I never said I WASN’T a lame ass, though. Keep that in mind.

It may become necessary to delete this Kaat litter blog. Not that it is really anyone’s idea of a great blog, but I thought it was a good idea until recently. Problem is that a lot of “real life” people, including, say, customers… find out I have a blog and they want to read it and then I have to carefully watch what I say or don’t say and the end result is a blog that is surface bullshit with little real honesty because I am afraid so and so might read it.

So if I never post here again, that’ll be why.

But in the meantime, all is well in the world of the Big Pussy. Yes that’s me, and I don’t know why you’re laughing.

Sickos.

I love them!

2007-01-14T22:35:00.000-08:00

I’m almost ashamed to write this post… but not really. Here’s the deal.

I LOVE NB.

Yes, I freely admit that all of my worries and freak-outs and the rumors and other assorted bullshit were needless, useless, and a waste of my very valuable time.

I really, really love my new bosses.

V and C are the ones I work with daily and they are such a fit with my weirdness and sense of humor, it’s got to be like a divine thing. I can’t imagine mere chance putting such strange people together.

I probably won’t have as many hours as I’d like, but I might, just might… go back to school.

Yep. Bitty, it’s me who always talks about it and never does anything about it.

That’s because I’m the Grand Princess of Procrastination.

For those of you who used to read my old blog, and know about my struggles… I just want to say that my health has never been better. I am actually getting well.

Maybe it’s the month for divine things… because as those of you who read know, it has been hell, and I thought it was where I was going to stay for the rest of my life.

Well that’s just about the limit on mysterious dramatic statements that look ridiculous in retrospect.

But I really am getting well.

Resolutions 2007

2007-01-01T10:24:00.000-08:00

pictured ....Kaat, in her imaginary new year's dress, wishing every and all blessings of the 2007th kind, on her happy readers and friends.

Ok, so... resolutions... Every year I do this and every year I try to remember not only what my resolutions were for the previous year, but if I did any of them. Answer, can’t remember and probably not, but I remain undaunted.

This year, the glorious 2007 will find me

-healthy

-sending a real live book to an agent, and failing that, to Lulu’s print on demand process… the word PUBLISH will be fulfilled

- Spring training to turn my body into a complex muscled machine again

-creating some kind of order out of the chaos of clothing (meant to be sold on ebay) that is slowly piling into mountain-type formations in my kitchen… in fact, the words “storage space” are so beautiful to me right now…

-enjoying my work, working to enjoy, having a fucking job I like in short

-keeping my blog(s) updated

Hehehe that last one was just a sop thrown to the few of you that read this drivel. Look, I’m gonna start posting regularly! I promise. I’ll be amusing and witty and fun! Please come back!

Isn’t the whole Blog Traffic Desire weird? I mean, most of the folks that travel through our blogs are doing just that- traveling through, not stopping, cruising on past without pausing. And yet we cling to each of those lil HITS like they are, well, hits… of something that makes us high and happy.

Last night I was working on El Lulu Livechat and it was 9 something my time, which makes it after the New Year in New York, where my current chat customer was from. He starts talking about the New Year and I’m all, yes, that’s strange that we are living in different times right now, and then he starts hitting on me.

I was so sad for this guy… I mean, he doesn’t know I look like a Barbie doll. He’s all asking me if I can just “talk” for awhile, telling me how nice I am, that I must be really cute… it was seriously sad. This guy is so lonely on the new year that he is going to lulu livechat and hitting on people he can’t see, in the hopes that their “female” name means they are really female… and it does not, by the way, I’ve been online as “Gene” and “David” both…. I was very, very thankful that regardless of present problems, I am loved and I have not been, and will not ever be, I hope… that fricking lonely.

As far as present problems are concerned.. welp, the NB has still not taken over. Apparently the papers and stuff are supposed to be signed on , let’s see, tomorrow. I won’t be there, I have a dr.’s visit-

(and for those of you in know on the doctor thing- thanks for your caring. I hope it goes well, too. I appreciate such support and love and all that happy crappy that I have undeservingly been showered with by you people who seem to like me even when I least deserve it)

so I am supposed to “talk” with NB on Wednesday. OB has supposedly told them my demands. I want to have about 30 hours a week at a certain hourly rate- no more of this bullshit salary that means I work six hundred thousand hours and get the same bullshit check, because why? Oh because I work for my FRIENDS and they will never do something underhanded and horrible like selling the store out from under me when I have worn myself out for their ungrateful asses. Oops… meaning NOT to do that any more… bitterness must be shelved, to later be turned into something constructive... like art. Maybe I can become a Mad Painter with all of my boxed up shit…. And by Mad I mean angry-mad. Heh heh.

Ok, well that’s it for me. I wish each and every one of you a happy New Year in which all of your hopes and dreams are fulfilled, in a wild way you didn’t quite count on, but like, just the same.

A Christmas Frickin Meme

2006-12-23T07:25:00.000-08:00

Meme from Patrick’s Pagan Place Of Blogging…

Wee lil Christmas tag… the idea is for other to come to your blog and check it out, then post their own on their site and tag others. As Patrick pointed out, this will shortly morph into what I wanted for Christmas, but what the hay.

You list the THREE things you want for Christmas
You list the THREE things you don’t
You tag people to make them frown and grumble at you and make “I hate meme” sounds

Ok, now here’s mine….

What I want for Christmas is…

health. With recent events, some so gruesome and potentially boring that I will not go into them here for fear of making some reader’s eyes fall out of their damn HEADS with the eye-jarringly boringness of it all…. I will just say that I could be a lot healthier. And if there was some fat guy in a red suit who would make a naughty little exchange , say, me on his lap in return for me having perfect health, well, I’d be all over that. Sit down, Santy, here comes your good lil girl, to warm your lap and put a twinkle in your lecherous old eye. hehehe. God, sometimes I’m sick. I really am. But at least I admit it.
I would like to have income stability. Note, I did not say “my old job, at the same rate of pay, etc. etc…” because as Bitty so wisely pointed out…. Do I really want to work for these new people? Um, not sure yet. So instead of one of those, “Be careful what you wish for, you may regret it, careful what you wish… you just might get it (sung like Metallica)”… I will simply say, the Christmas Spirits in their infinite wisdom know what the best path for me is concerning my family’s income and its steadiness or lack thereof. It may be that I need to get the hell out of Dodge (or Flower Hell) altogether, and those very spirits may be arranging it that I can do so. Or I might be there for another ten years….shudder.
I think this is where I’m supposed to put Peace On Earth or something like that. Does it count with the Intention Gods (Similar to the Christmas Spirits, only taller) if I realize that I’m supposed to do that? But to be perfectly honest, and when am I not, I ask? I have to say that more than peace on earth, I’d really like Peace in My House. This includes less worrying about my older son, less screaming and moodswinging from my younger one, jobs that fulfill and pay both my spouse and myself, and a little, just a little, spare time. Last night, Hubby and I watched a movie in bed, we were actually together for like the first time in five days, due to our respective crazy-ass schedules, and it was really nice. Kids went to bed without arguing or committing a homicide, house was quiet, heater was cranked (rare, but it happens sometimes without Husband noticing and I sure as hell am not going to point it out…. you can’t see your breath in here, gee Hon, better turn that thermostat down!) I had a pink lady apple – the one good thing about winter, my apples are for sale- and it was practically delightful. I was enjoying myself so much that I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting the fates to realize that I wasn’t stressing or freaking or feeling sick and come swooping down with a new bucket of shit to pour on my head. Yet it didn’t happen. I’d like more days, and nights, like that one.

Here’s what I don’t want for Christmas:

A nosy neighbor to move in next door. The kind that watches out the windows for any movement on the block, and you only see the curtains twitching. The kind that calls the cops when your car alarm goes off or your dog barks for longer than a minute. The kind that needs a life and a family, but doesn’t have one and so she/he takes it out on you. Yes, I already have a neighbor like that… that is my point. I don’t want ANOTHER one.
I really don’t want a coldsore any time before the New Year. In fact, from now on, I’d appreciate it if my herpes would like, make an appointment. Let me know when they are coming to visit, in advance, so I can prepare my lip like a guest room. “Ok, we will be there on the 28^th, and yeah, there’s going to be a lot of us this time, a good two, maybe three, big-ass blisters. So get ready for us, ok? And expect us to hang around for awhile, with that crap diet and bad health you’ve been running on lately, ok? In fact, a few of us just might renew our reservation and stay for two weeks.”
I don’t want my son to get arrested, in trouble, in a fight, in a pool of his own vomit, you name it, if it’s juvenile, and delinquent, I don’t want it on my kid. Not right now. I’m thinking about my son, his hulking overgrown self… when did it become ok for a thirteen year old to stand six feet tall and need to shave? When did this happen? And…Oh my God, I just realize what I should have used this space for… shit, ok, It’s not over yet, I can still do this… Christmas Spirits? What I really don’t want anytime soon (and by that I mean ten, fifteen years, at the earliest) is to be a fricking GRANDMA.

Ok, tag you’re it!

Nate’s Blog because frankly, it’s interesting, what that blog has to say

Portnoy because he is obviously hurting for some post material. Here, my friend, you can use this.

Orhan… just cause I like him and he’s a funny buddy.

Bitty, because I love her even though I know she’s gone for Christmas… she can be one of those after Christmas taggers.

And the next blog I find on the random blog button, because I like to live dangerously, and spread the joy of Christmas to perfect strangers who say, Who are you and Why are you tagging me? Welcome to the fun…. Rainbow Brite. And I ask you… how cool is it that I found HER on the random blog button?

Now I'm off to see the new Rocky movie. Don't you laugh! I laughed too, until I peeked at reviews and saw that they were excellent. yes, he's sixty. yes, it's the sixth one. yes, it is a ridiculous idea and... so the hell what? It's ROCKY. I'll go watch it just for the throat-swell of the music. You can expect my review shortly over on the page meant for that.
Now, happy holidays to all you lucky bastards who had the privilege of reading this post!

Smarter looking and with an idea

2006-12-05T23:00:00.000-08:00

...look at me. I'm THINKING. And I look like I'm getting good at it, huh? Reel proud like, I am, with the smirky smile and all. Don't you think I look so much smarter with my glasses on? I found this picture buried in a file from a while back when I had just gotten new glasses and the husband had to take a snap. It was actually titled "Smarter Looking". No, I'm not kidding!

Hehehehe... ok, so seriously, no..... wait. I have to laugh at myself again.

hahahaaaa... I'm frickin ridiculous looking, that's what. Now. Ahem.

I’m thinking about doing a "Best of the Blogs" book.

Huh? Why? You ask. Well, you know, there are so many times when I am sitting here on my computer and I just LAUGH OUT LOUD (yes for real and for seriously, just like I did up there) at something, someone, somewhere, has written. I want to put these all together in a lil’ book. I know, I know, I’d have to get people’s, you know, permission and stuff, but it’d be fun and it’d be a way for me to learn more about LULU… my high stress job that I need to learn more about.

Oh say what? Yes indeed, I gots this here part-time job, anyways. It don’t pay much, but it’s real interesting like and he hired me even though I talked a lil funny like this here.

Oh I’m not serious. I talked like a perfectly normal Barbie doll.

But despite that fact, he still hired me.

The place I manage is being sold on DECEMBER 29^th. Oh, you're right, that is only 24 days from now! Gosh! It’s so wonderful that my employers waited to tell me for so long, and that the date of the Big Change is just a couple days after Christmas. Guess what Santa's bringing me this year? A big old NON paycheck! Hooray! A NOTJOB! Woo-hoo!

Christmas.... sigh. Holiday of Hell for some of us. Great tidings of clothing and toys, clothing and toys…. Ok now I’m singing sarcastic Christmas carols. This has got to stop. But then again, my job’s gonna stop soon, so what the hell. Might as well go nuts. I think they feed you and keep you warm in the looney bin… OOPS. Sorry if I leaked bitter on the keyboard….

The end result? I need to learn all about Lulu and fast. I have discovered that what I know about lulu that I thought was a perfectly adequate amount of information turns out to be... not so much. In fact, I'm pretty damn ignorant. So. I'm thinking of projects to DEW. So…. I’m looking for publishing projects. I think a “Best of the Blogs” book would be great fun… hey maybe a comic book, with a post on one page, and a picture on the other… huh? Well, I seriously doubt anyone’s actually reading this post, but I’ll leave it up for a long time, so if you DO read this and you think this is a...

GREAT idea, way to go, Kaat! Get on it, people will want to contribute, and by the way, here’s my favorite blog post… OR....
Sucky, horrible idea, God you are so stooooopid. People will be offended at the very thought of you putting their creative genius into the pages of a book….

Tell me, would you? Either way. And if you’re a funny/great/intelligent/interesting …etcetera and etcetera… blogger and would like to submit a post toward my lil’ project, gimme a holler out, huh? The email’s really simple:

meowkaat@hotmail.com

Or artwork. If you’re an artist and would like to contribute- shout out that too, please.

It's not like I can pay anyone anything. But it's also not like I'll make a bunch of billions and chuckle over my neat little scam, either. It's just a idea and some people might want their stuff in print. Let me know what you think.

I’m waiting for your input.

Come on. Help me.

Holy Crap

2006-11-26T09:03:00.000-08:00

You know I’m a mushy person, right? That Hallmark cards will send me into weeping fits of nostalgia, that seeing a wedding movie will make me cry until I hiccup… that photographs like the one above make me bawl like a baby (only one that’s been born, not that’s in the womb, kicking it’s mommy with sharp-heeled little feet, making it impossible for her to sleep but instead urinating during all of the minutes she would have previously spent sleeping.)…?

Well, I got a little mushy this morning and a few tears may or may not have escaped my crossed-eyes when I read my emails and discovered that some people… some awesome, insanely great, online people, have sent donations to me via paypal. The Kaat Unemployed Blogger Fund. I’ve spent a long few days recovering from the holidays and trying to sort out the mess that is what passes for my “mind”. Sadly, I neglected my blog and email. But when I opened my inbox, there were these emails… and me saying WTF?

At first I was thinking it was a mistake, wondering why someone was sending me money and figuring out how I was supposed to get it to where it belonged. But then there was the whole, “Heard you were going to be unemployed...here’s some money, happy Thanksgiving” note. And then there was another. And another. Once I had my first impulse- kind of a panicky, must-send-this-back immediately, I calmed down and cried.

To tell you the truth, it made my heart hurt. It may have been because it’s always been a grinch-sized heart and seeing those emails made it womp right out of its normal size. Contrary to popular belief, a heart growing rapidly is not a pleasant sensation, although Disney has tried it’d damndest to make it look that way. One of the side effects, at least for me, is the mush factor. People being generous for absolutely no reason other than because they want to kinda has that affect sometimes.

I remember being a poor kid. When I say we were “poor”, I mean, we ate government cheese and canned meats. I can imagine those of you who know what that is groaning in sympathy. My mom worked several jobs at a time. A lot of my memories of her during those days were her coming home and falling splat on her bed and going to sleep, still dressed in her uniform. We ate a lot of leftover KFC while she worked there. I can’t stand the shit to this day.

A result of this was the determination that my kids would never go through that. And with Christmas merrily jingling right around the corner and the Unemployment Genie blinking its eyes at me, I was a little scared that this year that my kids’ Christmas stockings would be full of the equivalent of government cheese.

You guys, thanks. I seriously love you. Thanks a lot.