Deja Vu of a drunk… RIP Hermie

I love Facebook.  I would venture to say it touches on a mild “addiction” — it is usually the first thing I check in the morning, and the last thing I do before bed.  I can use it for productive reasons.  I can be prepared for road closings and inclement weather, and I can find these things out without checking multiple sources.  There is local and world news, and other informative news stories I might not otherwise know about through mainstream or traditional medias. I can use it for fun – to play games and take silly quizzes.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve always wondered what kind of dog I would be or how well do I realllly know 70’s music lyrics.  I can use it to research (what day does school start again?? Where can I get THE BEST root beer floats? What is the name of that thing with the thing that I use for the thing, no, not that thing, the other thing??)

Not only do I love posting things myself – but I love reading the stuffs other people post.  I love the diversity of my friends list.  I (literally) have crackheads and cops – priests and sinners – a political range from anarchist to pastafarian – vegetarians and carnivores (i don’t think I have any vegan friends? I might, but my page is open for any friend of a friend to comment though) – award winning athletes and completely content couch potatoes – people who proudly “don’t vote” and people who hold offices – …

I have something in common with all of them (even the vegans :D) and they with me.  I am motivated to post things that pertain directly to me personally and things that I know my friends would appreciate — some overlap.  There are also things people don’t talk about; like growing up with a drunk for a step parent – that I know pertain to me and probablydefinitely  some of my friends.

Right now I should say – I KNOW “the correct term” is “alcoholic” –someday, when I write a different story, from a different perspective, I will be sensitive to “the other side”.  Believe it or not – I DO empathize with the addict.  I really do.  I get that there’s a physical need (an actual physical NEED) — but that is for another blog – this is the one from the perspective of former 10 year old with no concept of that  – who shouldn’t have had to have a concept of any of this.)

Today, a friend posted a story about hermit crabs.  Seems harmless enough – right? Then, I remembered “Hermie”.  My sister’s hermit crab.  I had forgotten all about him. ((This is not a pity story – it’s a deja vu story.)) In my thoughts of the dear departed Hermie, I wondered if his demise was a typical drunk thing, or if it was specific to “our drunk.”  Hermie was flushed down the toilet while he was still alive.   Days earlier my sister had been ordered to “get rid of it” – she was 8, what was she supposed to do with it? So she kept him hidden under her bed.  During the day while drunk step parent was at work – she would have Hermie out playing with him (as much as you can a hermit crab). She would sneak fruit and other treats to feed him.  Once she found a bunch of dimes in a pay phone coin return.
((::waits for the kids to go google “pay phone and coin return”::))
She used the money to buy him some dried worms from Sue’s Zoo pet store.  That doesn’t seem like much – but back in those days you could get 3 or 4 candy bars for that same dollar and change,  you could get a HUGE ice cream cone, or at least 2 sodas.  For an 8 years old girl, spending your money on worms instead of ice cream — well,  you have to love a hermit crab to give up an ice cream like that.

Some memories play out like a movie – where – you remember every detail, as if it were happening all over again.  You remember the smells, the sounds, the words of the conversations, the feelings and all the events in the order they happened.  Other memories are like a slide show — you don’t remember every specific aspect or technicality.   You remember bits and pieces of the story with maybe a general feeling of remembering fondly or not so fondly – The memories that are snippets – for me – those are the “forgotten memories”, the ones that come back when I hear a story about hermit crabs or see a drunk yelling at his wife and kids at a fast food restaurant.  These fragments, short little slideshows – these are the memories that “didn’t really matter” – I mean, of course they mattered.  They  just don’t matter enough to consume my life with remembering every detail about them.  Other memories, like seeing your mother set a bed on fire so you could run from the house during a particularly violent argument – those memories, while they don’t “consume” me — They are easier to remember details.

My sister had Hermie for almost a whole year – she had won him at the fair.  It was THE BIG prize for throwing ping pong balls into the fish bowls.  Everyone tried to win that crab. But it was my sister who got the grand prize.  She was so excited.  He lived that whole summer and through the fall, winter and spring.  I dont’ remember what caused drunk step father to order her to get rid of Hermie.  I do remember asking all our friends in the apartment complex if they could take him.  She was giving everything- His house, his extra shells, the food she bought.

She cried.  A lot.  No one could take him.  The day Hermie died was like any other day.  It was early summer and it stayed light out until late.  Our bed time was 7:00 pm.  It did not matter that we could still hear all the other kids outside playing.  It did not matter it was still broad daylight out.  The drunk step parent said BED TIME, so, it was bed time.  To this day, I’m not sure why he came in our room.  But he did.  Hermie was under my sister’s bed, in the index card box that was his home at night.  Drunk step parent heard the scratching.  Of course, we both said we didn’t know what the noise was – and of course – he looked.  With the details being fuzzy – I remember a lot of anger on his part, a lot of sadness on my sister’s part.  Her, begging and pleading to let her keep him, begging and pleading to give her another chance – Him blustering about whatever tangent he was on at that moment — which honestly could have been anything – MAYBE that day he was going to be “a good guy” and let us back out to play with our friends, maybe he was going to yell at us because our friends were playing too loud, who knows.  (yes, I know, it had nothing to do with us, and you know it had nothing to do with us, but in his drunkin mind, most things, everything, whatever things – were our fault.)

I remember him saying this was her fault, as he flushed Hermie,  because he had told her to get rid of him.  I remember —  of course thinking what a gigantic dick head he was — but I remember being so hurt for my sister.  Actually, I was a horrific bitch to my sister, which I still feel immensely guilty about, still, now, even today.  I remember being so hurt for her, and with her.  She loved that stupid crab.  Even though i didn’t show it as much as could have – as much as I should have, I was heartbroken for her — I remember most about that day, besides the re solidification that drunk step parent WAS actually, in fact, a gigantic dick head – my sisters heart being broken, like I had never seen up til that moment. This memory is a deja vu for me — a snippet – a slide show.  I think, for my sister,  It’s a movie memory.  A memory burned in, complete with smells, and sounds – A recollection that shaped her – one that just doesn’t come to the surface when she reads a friend’s post about hermit crabs.  And just like “Facebook friends” don’t talk about growing up with a drunk – even though it “overlaps” – families don’t really talk about it either.

i’m 47 years old – i AM 47 years old – I am 47 years OLD

I went to get ice cream the other day — they were out of chocolate sprinkles.  The girl working asked if I wanted rainbow instead.  NO! I don’t care that I’m 47 years old – chocolate and rainbow sprinkles are NOT the same! They are not interchangeable.   I can’t even believe she would suggest such a thing and obviously had no business trying to sell me ice cream.  Once, when I was in ShopRite – a little girl was zig zagging as she walked down the meat slash seafood aisle.  Her mother looked down and told her to knock it off.  The little girl respectfully pointed out that she could only step on the white tiles in the black and white floor.  I don’t understand how any parent can not know this unwritten childhood law of supermarket shopping.  It’s right up there with not stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk.  I was actually very sad for that kid who’s mother did not remember this basic rule and would not let her continue with the plan. Someday, that woman may have a broken back from her kid stepping on the crack – or a broken spine because her daughter stepped on the line – and she will have no one to blame but herself.

Last summer I won so many concert tickets — Buckcherry – Crosby, Still, and Nash – Journey – Cheap Trick – Fuel – Boston – Steve Miller – Candlebox –  and so many more … I met so many cool people at those shows;  like I always have since my very first show — Twisted Sister – You Can’t Stop Rock n Roll Tour 1984 at the Mid Hudson Civic Center in Poughkeepsie NY.  I am so lucky to have been born when I was.  January of 1968. I have seen hippies, punk, and disco – I have seen 8 tracks, reel to reel, compact discs, and mp3.  I saw bell bottoms being worn in the 70’s, 90’s and now again (they may change the name -bell bottom to flair leg to mermaid leg … it’s all the same).

I’m 47 years old.  I can remember thinking, “35 years old is ancient, you might as well be a hundred, it’s almost exactly the same.” — yet somehow, as I get closer to 100 – I realize, not only am I grateful for every single year but that there is no such thing as grown.  There is only growing.   A friend recently tagged me in an article he posted on his Facebook page about how former metalheads grew up more “mentally well adjusted” than the kids who listened to other genres of music. It’s funny – that I’m 47 years old – I remember “meeting people” over the CB radio – and now 40some years later I”m “meeting people” on the internet.  I think of the people who are 100 now and imagine what they have seen in their lives. Do they want to deny themselves any of the years they have lived? If 35 is old… if 47 is old – what is 100? Pretty friggin awesome if you ask me.

I don’t understand why – especially women – deny their age.  I am 47 years old.  I WANT all of those years.  There are none I want to give  back to make myself younger.  I read all these stories about how women in their 40’s don’t give a crap what people think.  I never gave a crap.  Now, people will say – “Yes you do, or you wouldn’t have to say you didn’t” — except – I mean — I obviously dont’ want people to dislike me – I’m not a psycho – but really … if you don’t like me (ESPECIALLY for a non reason or because “you heard something” or because your friend doesn’t like me) well — no, I have no use for that.  I don’t care what you think.  I’d like to think that I was ahead of my time — that my peers have finally caught up in the “this is me, take me or leave me.”  And then I wonder how, a person can claim to be “grown and mature” and not like someone because their friend doesn’t.  I guess childish adults are another blog – this one is about this adult – who is admittedly “immature” and doesn’t pretend to be otherwise.

I’m 47 years old – that means … Ive seen shit, man I’VE SEEN THINGS!!!! I KNOW you don’t interchange chocolate and rainbow sprinkles — I know that it means you don’t step on the {color set by the child at the time of the encounter of the multi colored square} tile in the supermarket — I know that it means you reach out to “the kids” because reality is reality – in 1968, 1984 in 1999 in 2015 people have NOT changed — then I think – maybe it’s because “i’m metal” – maybe it’s because the outcasts knew there were no grownups.  Maybe metal kids saw through the hypocrisy of “grown up” because — well — Twisted Sister were “grown up” – Judas Priest was “grown up” – Alice Cooper was older than all of them and he was definitely NOT “mature.”  Maybe it’s because I felt those “grown ups” understood.  They remembered what it was like to be a teenager and they obviously must have been in on the big secret of “not caring” what people thought.

As I write this out – I can’t help but notice my own hypocrisy.  I talk about “grown ups” as if I don’t know, I am one ((and it kills me to write that out loud!)) I mean – I am 47 years old, I know I’m not “a kid”.  I know, in every analogy of life … whether it’s “the path” or “a hill” or “a journey” – I know that I’m on the descent; the second half of my “growing up”.  I also know I want these years and I am grateful for them.  That’s the theme here, right, that I’m thankful to be older -every day for every day?  I graduated, probably at the bottom of my class.  I had no intention of investing my youth in school work.  I had a life to live and it wasn’t in the walls of a high school. Actually it was, because that’s where my friends were – but as far as “the institution” itself, I had no interest in learning, being there, or paying any kind of attention.  I did the minimum that was required to pass with a 66 average and got the hell out!  My graduating class’s salutatorian passed away our 2nd year out of school in a boating accident, while away at college. He wasn’t the only one – there are a few of my old classmates who haven’t made it this far.  There have been a few (too many) who have recently passed away – from “the usual” things “old” people die of … accidents, cancers, heart attacks, suicides…

Which year do I want to give back to take some numbers off my age? The year we skipped school (more than once) and spent 6 hours at the Ponderosa All You Can Eat Steakhouse?  2-3 cars full of friends, wasting the day in the buffet, smoking cigarettes, talking about boys, and what we were going to do after we graduated? No, I want that year.  What about the year, when I was far too young, to get pregnant with my daughter.  No, I want that year too.  Would I give back the year my grandpa died? No, because to give it back would still be one less year I had to spend with him.  There was that one year I got my car repo’d.  Yes, I still want that year too, and the 2 years before that I drove around in my first “new car” — well — no, you can’t have any those years back either.

Youth thinks they have a 100 years and that it will feel like one hundred years – Age knows, those years last for one second. Youth thinks old people don’t know anything – old people were young a million years ago and this is a different world now.  Age knows, people don’t change, but age is forgetful.  Age says things like “we weren’t this disrespectful when we were young” and “these kids today…” — what I like to remind my peers, is that, there were no “good old days.”  We are 47 years old.  We were born in the 60s!!  A decade definitely NOT famous as a mellow and calm or “respectful” era.  We were kids in the 70s – cocaine, punk, Kent State,  Charles Manson, and birth control  (were these the years kids were “decent and respectful”?).  We became of age in the 80s! I do NOT want to give back ANY of the 80’s, totally, fer sure, gag me with a spoon – I LOVED the 80’s!! But I’m not about to claim we were sweet and proper. It was the birth of the PMRC – my metalhead years!  The years WE WERE “these kids today”!!! How do we forget that? Please, my peers – DO NOT forget that!

The man who coined the phrase “Never trust anyone over 30″, just turned 75 years old. I heard he’s still a community activist.  I bet he wouldn’t take back any of his years either and I’d bet he is proud and happy for every one.   I am 47 years old.  I want all my years.  I want my peers to want their years.  I want people to ask “how old are you?” and every woman to proudly say *the number* with NO shame!, with no hesitation, with no reluctance or waffling! SAY IT! Say I AM 47 YEARS OLD and I want every one of my years.  I want as many more as God wants to give me … and as long as I have the ability to remember (most) of the previous ones, –as long as I am able to know you can’t change rainbow and chocolate sprinkles, as long as I am able to remember you don’t step on the black tiles in the checkerboard floor, as long as I am able to control my bodily functions, I want many many more!!   And I’m not giving any of them back!









The Shape of My Damage – Kintsugi

I don’t cry in front of people- it means I’m “a baby” and I’m weak,  at least that’s what I was told.  I don’t talk about the things closest to my heart, like my kids or my deepest fears, I don’t talk about the shape of my damage – because people will use those things against me to hurt me.  BUT – If you cry in front of me, or tell me your thoughts and dreams – it means you trust me and that you are strong enough to have an open heart.

I become weirdly attached to my possessions; my clothes and tchotchkes – because as punishment my most prized stuff was often thrown in bonfires. If I throw them out it means they meant nothing to me either.. BUT – every few years I clean out a bin or closet and I find something I forgot I had. It’s like my own personalized thrift store.  I AM getting much better at throwing away the “junk” and keeping just the important things. I got rid of all the Jordache and acid washed jeans (no matter HOW good they DID look on me back in the day…) and kept the one pair all my friends signed one day after finals. I remember sitting on the front lawn of the high school  —  Joe, Charlie, Carl, Eddie, Bobbie, Andrea, Kelly – “I hate jocks” “Sex Pistols” “POWARE” {punks on warpath anarchy rules evolution} “Plasmatics” a random “I heart Japan”, which, I’m sure, at the time, meant something – all permanently recorded in black marker like a denim time capsule. I still have a long way to go in parting with things though.

I’ve never read any of the classic books like Tom Sawyer or To Kill a Mockingbird because I would be punished if I was caught reading.  If you read for fun when you were young, I’m almost jealous – I couldn’t even imagine the joy of reading without the fear of “getting caught”.  BUT – nothing is stopping me from reading them now, although, I’m sure it would have been more meaningful if I had read them during my formative years.  I was 40 by the time I heard of Hunter Thompson and only recently read Animal Farm and Brave New World – it’s the best kind of second childhood! Finding new thoughts and ideas for the first time, well after I thought I was all done growing.

I distrust most grown-ups and authority figures – I question their motives – I wonder if they are the ones who go home and kick their dog and beat their kids…. because it’s NEVER the ones you suspect — so EVERYONE is suspect!  …and even though I AM loud and opinionated – when faced with said grown-ups and authority figures, I sometimes become like a 2nd grader being sent to the principal – almost afraid and VERY uncharacteristically insecure and self conscious. BUT -I don’t see adults as automatically deserving of respect.  “They” are all hypocrites – every single one! I might be fearful or insecure but I’ve only recently come to realize (even though I don’t like it) I AM one of “them”.  I love to see kids stick up for themselves against adults. I have the odd? nice? UNIQUE! perspective of vividly remembering what made adults seem like douche-wads when I was young.  Mostly, treating kids like “non-people”, like their opinions and feelings and their (however limited) experiences don’t matter.  Why do grownups forget how awful it was being young? It was ONLY “the best time of our lives” because we have 40+ years of perspective. It sucked! Other kids were horrible, grownups were horrible, we had raging hormones that we had no concept of, we are expected to “act” like adults but still treated as “children”.

I (mostly) love the analogy that children are like clay – that we mold and sculpt them with everything we impress upon them – the good and the bad! We leave a mark, we shape them. I say “mostly” because unlike clay, people have will and spirit and can help shape themselves.   I can’t completely buff out the dents that were imprinted upon me and I wouldn’t want to.  I like my perspective and I wouldn’t be able to see things the way I do if I was impressed upon any other way.

Kintsukuroi or kintsugi is the Japanese tradition of fixing broken pottery with gold. I like that idea.  Instead of seeing my shape as “damaged”, I see the “mistakes” fixed with something beautiful.  I had no control of the damage that was put on me, but I can fill it in with something beautiful.  I am a gold filled, cracked pot! I can’t think of better way to describe myself.

I might be damaged because I don’t stick up for myself, but the gold I filled it in with let’s me loudly and vocally stick up for a child.  I might be all scared with a polka dotted pattern of randomly sprayed drunkin’ fighting and violence but the perforations have been filled with gold.   The broken part of me thinks, putting stuff like this out there, it’s too much information, it’s none of anyone’s business.  Nobody gives a crap because everyone is damaged.

The golden part of me knows … There is a “grown up” somewhere, right now, who had a shitty childhood and feels damaged.  They tried to fix it with clear glue, so they would “blend” – They don’t see why they are perfectly broken, why they should embrace the cracks. There’s a kid somewhere -RIGHT NOW- being wronged and NO ONE is listening, no one sees what’s right in front of their face, no one wants to “get involved”.  Maybe, someone does see, but they don’t know what to do, because they don’t trust other adults either. I put this out there for the ONE kid – who MIGHT read this – and KNOW – he is being shaped and molded and maybe even “damaged”, but if he keeps his will and spirit, if he knows that he can fill the damage with gold  – so he never gives up on himself.  Even if it breaks my first rule – of not putting my damage out there.

Humans, Compassion, Policies, Lawsuits and Independent Contractors

I have a big mouth, I’m unsophisticated and I’m juvenile.  It’s gotten me trouble more times than I can count, for as far back as I can remember.  Now, as a grown up –I shudder even typing those words– I sometimes don’t know when to speak up.  I don’t know whether, it’s the immature me “fighting authority” or there really is something “not right”.   The thing is – I don’t even “fight authority”.  I do not follow ANY rule or policy I don’t agree with. I’m just as happy to quietly disregard it, rather than fight, so when I do speak up, I feel pretty confident that I’m not wrong.

I actually have another blog that goes some length into what led up to me becoming the temporary crossing guard – a position that is STILL AVAILABLE by the way (tell a friend!)! Check the media links, the blog titled “why this is important to me”  and my disclaimer.

While every responsible entity (the school, the police, the town, and the village) all believe it’s a horrifically dangerous intersection – NO ONE wants to be responsible for it. They are going to such great lengths to distance themselves from the position, that I am not even employed by the school, the police, the town or the village – I’m an independent contractor.

This blog is a “Tales From the Intersection” inside an “I Am Bee Mice Elf”  to make sure everyone understands that these are MY words and observations – me as MaryAnn (parent, human, tax payer and person standing in the rain) NOT as MaryAnn (the independently employed crossing guard standing in the rain).

During my short stint as a lunch lady (employed by the school) I learned there were some things we (employees) shouldn’t talk about, mostly things that could appear unfavorable about the school if taken out of context.  Of course at that time my area of interest was food and the cafeteria because that’s where I spent my days and saw what was going on.  Now, I’m standing outside in the rain, employed by myself, so my area of interest is traffic and pedestrian safety.  All the while, my main concern, my reason for giving a crap, is because of the kids.  I could care less about meeting government requirements for a balanced lunch if it meant one kid throwing away an apple that another kid would have enjoyed eating. I will “steal” the apple destined for the garbage, and give it to the kid who will eat it, and “THIEF” being permanently added to my employment record is something I can live with.

So now I find myself – again – in a position of shaking my head and thinking this is the reason I don’t want to be a grown up.  If grown ups can reason and rationalize why you should leave people outside in a tornado because of policy – then I don’t want to be a grown up and I won’t follow the rules.

Monday there was a tornado watch (meaning conditions are favorable for one to form, as opposed to a warning which means RUN AND PRAY!)  School was let out at regular time but after school activities were canceled. My shift is 2:15 – 3:15 in the afternoon with the school dismissing at 2:35.  As the winds were picking up and I could see the black clouds rolling in, I thought I would pack up a little early – all the kids were supposed to be gone and the parking lot was mostly empty.  At 3:00 I walked over to the school building where an employee was outside.  I asked “are all the kids gone” (explaining that I was probably going to head out).  He said yes, except for the two kids waiting for their parent.  I called to the girls sitting on the steps to see if they needed to use my phone to call anyone.  They said no, their mom was on her way.

Now, the big gray and black cloud is completely overhead, the wind starts picking up and it’s raining gigantic drops but only a few every few seconds.  I asked, “if it gets any worse can they go wait inside”   –NO, once they leave the building they are not allowed back in, the school is closed.”  I said, “I don’t want to just leave them here.” —Now the wind is blowing out of control and the sky just opens up dumps sheets of  huge heavy rain drops – I was soaking and completely saturated through, literally within seconds!!  People were making mad dashes around us, running for car and cover.  So we stood there for maybe 2-3 minutes – the girls on the steps and me in the parking lot  … and then their mom pulled in.

I’m glad the mother got there when she did – I was scanning the parking lot looking for a ditch to huddle in if a saw a funnel cloud approaching – yes, I’m dramatic – but this is what goes through my mind when there’s a tornado watch – WATCH for tornadoes – the conditions are favorable. I later posted about what happened and I did it in a public forum.  I posted out of concern. NO, there was NO tornado.  YES, the kids mom came right away. NO, no one was hurt, maimed or killed. …But – what if the mother had been hung up in traffic?  What if we DID see funnel clouds?  I posted because I am a human being who was concerned for other younger human beings.  It was suggested I speak to the principal of the school and see what the actual policy was and take it from there.  I didn’t get a chance to do that as I was approached first thing the following morning.

I was confronted by a person who was upset by what I had posted.  I was informed to “speak to him in the future before posting things like that”  I was informed that my version of the events didn’t happen the way I explained them.  The purpose of his “talk” was clearly to reprimand me and not to inform me of what the proper protocol is when leaving children in dangerous weather conditions.  After I finished my shift, I went into the prison after passing through multiple doors and buzzer systems, oh sorry typo… I went into the school, yeah, that’s it.. the school – I asked to speak to the person who confronted me earlier.   I needed some clarifications and wanted it known that I had NOT posted to make anyone look bad and the events as I explained are EXACTLY what happened.

The end result of the conversation was that he wouldn’t be opposed to letting children back in IF he saw funnel clouds but he’ll have to take it on a case by case thing.  If something like this happens in the future I should instruct the kids to go to the youth center or “the pizza place.”  Each potential disaster will be taken on individually.  In the event any children are left behind, the general rule is that — NO! They will NOT let a child back in the school.

This answer might appease some people.  Some people are okay with kids being left outside in hazardous weather conditions .  They understand policies and laws. I’m a human being.  I can’t accept “we’ll cross each bridge when we get to it.” — When should I start knocking on windows and steel doors in the hopes that someone will hear me to buzz us into the prison? Should I wait until I see funnel clouds? What if that person is gone for the day? Who else is authorized to disregard “the policy” and let people wait in the vestibule when the funnel clouds start forming?  I pass this on so in the event of a natural disaster… if you can’t find your middle school student – check “the pizza place.”



We’re All Alone Together – I’m out on a Day Pass

I hate doing housework.  Not that housework itself isn’t reason enough to hate it, I usually wind up thinking … well not so much “thinking” as listening to the angel on my one shoulder converse with the devil on my other– It’s more like… eavesdropping on myself.  Sometimes I blast my stereo to drown them out, but sometimes they’re really entertaining.  Oh yeah – and before you get all worried and think I forgot to take my medication, I don’t think Satan actually lives on my shoulder or in my head, and there are no angels there either, I ASSURE you – it’s just what I call them –you call them whatever you want – Yin and Yang, peanut butter and jelly, Sylvester and Tweety … just know, I am not a danger to myself or others.

Today, the devil was telling the angel how we’re all alone in this world, while the angel professed we are all in this together. So while I was sorting laundry and defunking the bathroom this is what was going on.

Devil: We’re born alone, we die alone.

Angel: We’re born from love and there’s always someone who loves us.

D: You’re naive. Are you trying to tell me anyone has ever felt exactly the way you have? Are you trying to tell me, every person alive has someone who care about them? This is why we can’t be friends, that’s ridiculous.  Some people are assholes, they deserve to be alone and unloved.

A: Maybe they ARE assholes because they’ve been left alone and feel unloved.

D: So you proved my point – we’re all alone.

A; You don’t see a difference between being left alone and being alone?

D: If we were together, and one of us left we’d all have to leave, because… well – we’re together.  Just the simple fact that someone could be left alone, once again proves, we are alone.

A: Being left requires an action, just being doesn’t.  Not having people around you means you are left alone, either you left, or they left.  Being alone means you’re by yourself you stand ALONE.

D: whaaat the fuck are you even talllkkking about?! If you are left alone, you are by your SELF – ALONE!

A: Okay than, what’s his name?

D: Whose name?

A: The guy who’s alone.

D: There isn’t ONE guy! There’s lots of people!

A: There’s lots of people alone?

D: Exactly! By your own definition! You said  something like not having people around you means you are left alone being alone means you’re by yourself. There are lots of people alone by themselves.

A: It means there are a lot of people alone who don’t know they’re together – No one left.

D: If they are alone it means someone left.

A: Nope. If they are left alone it means someone left, if they are alone it means they are by themselves and no one is by themselves. .

D: You’re talking in circles.

A: You’re listening in circles.  You’re connecting the end of being alone to the beginning of being left alone.

D: How can I not?

A: You are hearing, when a person is left alone, they are alone – AND – you are saying by that reasoning, they can never be left alone, because we are together.  What I’m saying is once they are left alone – that’s the end of that – they are NOW together with the other people who have been left alone and therefore they are all together and not alone… They just don’t know there are other left alone people.

D: I hate you, this is why I moved all the way to the other side of the shoulders.

A; It’s okay, you’re not alone.

Nine Twelve to Nine Ten

imagine if your entire town was wiped out in a fire set by arson

THOUSANDS of your brothers and sisters were killed

HUNDREDS more horrifically scarred from helping survivors




from picking through body pieces and parts of their neighbors and friends

and then told FUCK YOU when they ask for help with their healing


just the ability to die debt free of medical bills

and you SEE these people EVERYDAY

you FEEL the sadness EVERYDAY

but once a year

other people

want you to live in the ruins of the town


and see pictures of the destruction

and hear the names of your neighbors


and relive the horror

second by second


so YOU don’t FORGET

until next year

as if you could



((I think we should let people “remember” any way they want – if that means spending a peaceful day media free with people they love – if it means riding a motorcycle to Washington – if it means moments of silence – if it means a reading the names of those lost – if it means praying – DO IT – but, Jesus!! Do we have to judge the way other people mourn or honor?? If YOU really believe it’s “us against them” then why would you look at your own as people to fight with? hate begets hate what the fuck is so hard to grasp about that – EVERYTHING isn’t a FIGHT – THAT’S what got us what we have!!!  let’s FORGET world peace and try for peace on our own back yard – and if we can’t get that on 9/11 from other Americans then, God help us all, just bomb EVERY selfish angry piece of scum human off the face of the earth and at least give the real animals on the planet half a chance!))

If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other. ~Mother Teresa 





Mom of a Daughter? Mom of a Son? Mom of Human Beings.

I was just very recently introduced to the expression “rape culture”, by a 15 year old girl who thought it was her job to school me on why I’m a “misogynistic pig who clearly hates her own gender.”  What did I do? What did I say to warrant  this very passionate presumption about my entire character?  I said “You should drink responsibly, and not the point where you will have no control over your own actions.”  I suggested if a girl wanted to get fall down drunk she should have sober friends to keep an eye out for her.  That’s what friends are supposed to do – because you could fall and get hurt, you could pass out in the street, you could choke on your own vomit and die — OR someone with bad intentions could use the opportunity to take advantage of your situation.  So rather than explain why I’m not a misogynistic pig who clearly hates my own gender, I’m going to embrace it.  If thinking that people should take responsibility for themselves and their own safety, (even and especially FEMALES!) makes me any of those things, than I accept that that’s what I am.

I almost titled this blog “Mom of a Probable Rape Victim – Mom of a PROBABLE Rapist” because that was the “cliff’s notes” of the conversation.  One of her exact quotes was  “Instead of telling me not to get drunk, tell your son not to rape women.”  Every male is just a predator, waiting to attack any woman the second he gets a chance and girls should be on their constant guard (by hating and bashing men and boys, not so much by NOT putting themselves in a place where they could be beaten and robbed by a person of either sex looking for an easy target).

INSTEAD of telling ME not to get drunk, tell your SON not to rape women? Where do I even begin with the complete and utter wrongness that is this quote.  FIRST OF ALL– i WILL tell you NOT to get drunk! You are 15 years old!  and – I don’t NEED to sit my son down and instruct him that he should not have sex with an unwilling participant.  He is raised in a way, every single day, so that “not raping someone” is a given in his common sense of humanity and decency.  Even though you believe he would just as soon slit your poor helpless female throat just to get a piece of that, I assure you, he would still hold the door for you (and not expect a thank you from your highness) – although, I do suspect from the rest of the conversation. that you would not only, not say thanks, but probably yell at him for being sexist in thinking you couldn’t hold your own door because you’re a woman.

You would think, that right there, I would have known it was a pointless conversation.  Clearly this WOMAN has learned everything there is to know about me and the entire male population in her fifteen years of life – yet for some reason I had not learned MY lesson and the discussion continued…. So I ask, “Let’s say I agree with you and all men are just rapists in waiting – do you think they should be arrested and brought to justice if they succeed?” – “Well of COURSE I do, but rape is a very under reported crime, most of the time the girl doesn’t even call the police.”  — “Well!?!  Isn’t another awesome reason NOT to be incoherently drunk! If you can’t even walk, if your senses are so impaired that you can’t even put one foot in front of another, how can the police, or anyone else, trust your account of the incident?  You won’t make a good witness, they won’t be able to bring it to trial.”

wait for it…


“So you’re saying I would deserve it?!?!” — THAT is what she took from my question.  I wanted to think she was alone in her non sequitur, but several girls in the conversation were as equally appalled at my apparent suggestion that, it’s justifiable to have sex with a girl who won’t be able to testify against you.  –That’s when I realized there would be no reasoning with them.   We were having two different conversations. They were discussing what happens in their little world.  A world where you can dangle kittens in front of {what you consider to be} hungry wolves and think it’s solely the wolves responsibility to maintain the sanctity of the kitten.  I was discussing letting your kittens out to play when you know they are in a safe environment, around domesticated wolves and sober people whose physical and mental abilities aren’t compromised.   I was discussing the responsibility for the safety of the kitten being with the owner – especially KNOWING some people DO look at those kittens as prey.

They don’t give you a book when you leave the hospital with a baby.  “Raising Girls for Dummies” or “The A-Z Encyclopedia of Bringing up Boys” – I don’t recall any specific lesson that I gave my daughter that I did not give my son (potty training aside).  When my son was younger I used to put his clothes in the dryer for a few minutes to warm them up ((I didn’t do it for my daughter because we didn’t have a dryer in our house when she was young)).  My friends would give me the biggest load of crap for that.  “You’re spoiling him for all other women,” they would say – but I want my son to hold out for a woman that will put his clothes in the dryer when it’s cold out – I’d also like to think I’m raising him in a way that he would do the same for her or even make her a sandwich if she’s running late for work.  I want my daughter to be treated respectfully and to treat people with respect.  I want that for my son too.   I do not want my children taking advantage of anyone, and I don’t want them taken advantage of.  I don’t want those things for them because they are MY kids — I want those things for them because they are human beings.

I hope the smart, albeit misguided young lady from our conversation is never a victim, and I also hope she learns that she IS responsible for herself, her actions and her own safety –  I hope if she doesn’t learn those things, that she has sober friends who will stop her from walking away from a party  or bar with someone she doesn’t know.  I hope if she doesn’t learn those things that her sober friends wont let her drive.  I hope that if she grows up to be a mom, that she realizes boys are not born evil, males don’t have a secret gene that makes them incapable of controlling themselves and that you don’t raise boys and girls differently, you raise them to be responsible human beings.

Cheaters, Crappy Parents and Facebook

“Facebook causes too much drama.”  This is the number one reason given when you ask a person why they don’t have a page.  I don’t think Facebook “causes” anything, although I do concede that it does help aid the drama that exists without Facebook.  Just like, I don’t think Facebook “makes” people cheat, although, it does make it easier (as did the railroad, women entering the workforce, cb radios, and any other situation a cheater could use to their advantage).  Used properly, it’s the perfect “public relations” outlet, except to insiders who know better.

Most people use their page to share things as they would in real life, in the same way as they present themselves at work or at organizations they’re a part of.  Some people use their page to only post “the best of the best”.  A quick google search on “Facebook depression” will yield countless news articles describing how everyone else’s constant good news makes “normal” people seem “not as happy in comparison.”

The next time you see a “I LOVE MY WIFE MORE THAN FOOTBALL!!” post, or a “Look at this new tattoo with my kids names on them, they’re my whole wuurrrrllldddd.”  I don’t want you to shut your laptop screen and think “oh, he must really love his wife” or “gee whiz, what a good mom!”  I want you to consider WHY this person posted that.  Did he say he loves his wife to inform us of that, or to convince his own wife?  WHYYY does she have her kids names tattooed on her? Because she loves them? or because she’s trying to convince them she does? or maybe even trying to convince herself?

I, right out and unapologetically ADMIT, as soon as I get home from meeting you, I’m going to search for your Facebook page.  I’m not about to propose that I’m constantly being sleezed on, but I can tell you, EVERY time it’s happened, “His” page has always been devoted to his wife and kids!  One time, that particularly stands out was when I running and “he” ran behind me the whole way making nasty comments, which I laughed at and brushed off, in spite of the fact that they were pretty offensive (and I am farrr farrrrr from easily offended… faaaaaarrrr!!)  I set my best running time ever trying to stay away from him, so I looked at it as a plus.  A few days later I was informed that he would be moving away and this might be my only opportunity to “get some of that” (which I do recall the EXACT line he used was “it’s available”).  Needless to say, I did NOT take that “once in a lifetime opportunity”.  To see his Facebook page, you’d SWEAR he was devoted husband of the year.

Your kid got an A, he was so proud to show you during your 1 hour, chaperoned visit.  By all means post away because it’s not like you can share your joy and excitement WITH THEM every single day.  How else are they supposed to know you care! You NEED to post it on Facebook.  How ELSE is EVERYONE supposed to KNOW you LOVE your kids IF you DON”T post it publicly??  These are the parents… if you didn’t know them – Everyone is out to get them or they had a “hard life” — they don’t tell you they don’t even have custody of their kid.  They don’t tell you they spent all their money on crack and that’s why the mother took them away. That’s a nice tattoo, DAD, of your kid’s portrait… don’t you think they would have preferred diapers and formula? You have 3 kids under seven years old, 3 baby daddies, you don’t have custody of 2 of them because your current boyfriend (daddy #3) can’t afford them, and their dead beat dads don’t pay.  They live with your mother, but I’m sure glad you posted how they are “the world” to you, how you would do ANY thing for them (except stop giving them siblings, or get a job, or tuck them in every night…)  Thankfully, we all have that status to verify.., you DO love your kids.

There are people who genuinely love their spouses and children and feel the need to keep everyone constantly informed of that.   I can almost 100% assure you though, if a man is so inclined to only be happy via his wife, he is not going to hit on you.  Parents who only post about their children’s accomplishments, I feel bad for them (and their kids).  Those parents have the bar set pretty high, I really hope the kid can maintain those standards.  Eventually though, those children will be grown and then, what is left of the parents who know no other happiness except through their children?

OF COURSE we ALL post about our happy times! We all post when we have proud MOMENTS.  If you ONLY post about that, I’m sorry, I won’t believe half of it.  IF your life was THAT good — if your kids are the second coming of Christ, if you’ve never had a bad day at work, if your life is sooooooo joyfully good and free from any stress and turmoil, you’re lying.  I’m sorry, you’re life doesn’t have to be complete shit for me to believe it, but your kids are not THAT good, your husband DOES piss you off and NO JOB is “stress free” I don’t care how much you love it, that is NOT the way life works.

Well then, WHO is this about??  As I always do, I’m going to say “It’s about whomever it applies to.”  Did you read this and identify? Then all I’ll say is, if the shoe fits…. Use this as an opportunity to learn and grow and become a better person.  If this isn’t about you, then take this as a reminder to “consider the source”.  When someone NEEDS to constantly publicly proclaim their love and adoration, you have to wonder why and who it’s for.

White Trash and Niggers

It is said that children are like clay.  All our actions and words will mold that child into the adults they become.  The less than positive impressions we make on them will forever be the scars they show to the world.  Charles R. Swindoll said “Prejudice is a learned trait. You’re not born prejudiced; you’re taught it.”  It’s funny, the things we teach our kids to fear or hate because of how those things were impressed on us when we were children, taught to us by our own parents.

This picture has popped up on my Facebook newsfeed several times now.  While I have not seen anyone “defend” the family in the red SUV at Tim Horton’s, I know there are people who agree about “dirty bikers” and cross the street or hold their pocketbooks and children a little closer when they see these “dirt bags” coming.

dirty biker

Original Link as far as I know. 😀

To the family in the red SUV at Tim Horton’s today.
Yes I am a big 280 lbs guy with motorcycles and a full of tattoos, I am a welder, I am loud,
I drink beer, I swear and I look like I would eat your soul if you stare at me wrong.

What you don’t know is that I have been happily married for 11 years, my kids call me daddy, I am a college graduate, my mother is proud of me and tells everyone how lucky she is to have such a wonderful son, my nieces and nephews are always happy to see there m’nonci Luc, when my daughter broke her arm I cried more than she did. I read books, I help people, I go out of my way to thank war veterans and I even cried at Armageddon…

So next time I smile and say hi to your little girl and you grab her and tell her “No no dear we don’t talk to dirty bikers” remember that even tho you hurt my feelings this “dirty biker” would be the first person to run into your burning house to save your little girls gold fish so she wouldn’t be sad!!!!

Maybe you feel “justified” in your prejudice.  Maybe you use the term “nigger” because a black person done you wrong.  Maybe your “white trash” neighbor was a drunk who beat his wife and kids and kicked his dog.    These are the things that were impressed upon you, and that is the scar you want to give your children.  Hey, they’re your kids, you can screw them up any way you want.  The thing is, the only thing that makes your impression “truth” is your belief in it.  What? Well, if I don’t think bikers are white trash, it’s because it was not impressed in my clay, it is not “truth” for me.

MY “truth” is, when my family needed help, the only ones who could, or would, do ANYTHING, were “white trash” and “niggers”.   After many years of living with a physically and emotionally abusive alcoholic, my mother met one of the greatest men I will ever have met in my life.  The joy and elation was short lived, as, he was diagnosed with cancer and went through chemo until the day he died after an agonizing, painful death.  His adult children proved to be (without exaggeration!) the physical embodiment’s of Satan on earth – going so far as to shut the gas and electric in the house we were living in and calling the insurance company and telling them not to pay my mother the piddly, just enough to bury him, insurance policy because his cancer was a preexisting condition.

My mother, was working full time, getting NO child support, and raising 2 teenage girls and a tween, completely on her own.  Struggling single woman living alone with 3 young girls is prey to real scum bags (aka NOT “white trash bikers” and “niggers”) – the perfect opportunity to exploit and manipulate someone in need.  THE BEST part is that, we were far from “in need” of anything this particular scum bag could give us.  We had each other, we had family who would never let us fall, and we had “white trash” and “niggers” to back us up.

It started with the whistles and cat calls from his house to ours.  He was the park manager and he lived in the trailer across the street with his wife and kids. (yeah, yeah,,, go ahead, a defensive white trash blog from a girl who lived in a trailer — fuck you, I had a roof over my head and it was paid for with dollars from an honest days work, and there’s NEVER any shame in THAT!) …. He would whistle at my 15 year old girl friends.  He would tell my mother she could skip the lot rent for “favors in lieu of”.  He had a key to our mailbox (in case we moved out in the middle of the night with our key, or some dumb shit like that,)

We called the police – he didn’t break any laws.  We called the park owner – they’ll “talk” to him.  Of course he denied it – his wife and kids backed him up.  He would have his friends come over and sit in lawn chairs facing our house (so we couldn’t, and didn’t want to, sit outside), he would get his daughters young friends to try and pick fist fights with us (as if he was fighting us vicariously through them and they couldn’t press charges because we were all underage, not that we ever took the bait.)

ENTER: “white trash” and “niggers”… on motorcycles, in classic cars, in old white trash beater cars, on foot — they popped the trunks of their cars to display arsenals of rifles, handguns, shotguns — maybe a machine gun and grenade or two ((the statute of limitations have long since expired and they were probably legal then, it was the mid 80’s)) They sat on our porch, on their bikes and in our house.  By the time the trail of road dust had settled and beers were being cracked open — across the street, blinds were closed and curtains were drawn.

The next day, when everyone had gone –  the scum rose to the top — “What are you gonna do now? Your biker friends aren’t here! Your nigger friends aren’t here?”   So that night…. and every night – until the day they moved out, quickly and unexpectedly, a month later – our “white trash biker” and “nigger” friends came over and protected my family. I firmly believe – you always find exactly what you’re looking for.  What I find is that class has NOTHING to do with money and “nigger” is usually used by the white people who define the word.

Dear Carlos Danger

I am not in your constituency.  I am not your peer or your friend.  Actually, I could NOT care less about you personally.  This is completely for my selfish purposes – but I assure you – it is 100% beneficial to you as well.   I truly want you to take your “lessons learned” and apply them to your life as well as your politics.  Buuuuut…. I want you to use the REAL lesson you learned, not the lesson you want us to think you learned.  Not the canned, dry, flat, rehearsed, publicist dream lesson, but the life changing, eye opening, I GET IT lesson.  The lessons that truly make you a smarter, if not better, person.

First and above all we learned, we’re never really sorry for “the deed” we are apologizing for.  We’re sorry we got caught.  I say we because, let’s be honest… well… he who is without sin…  As many a silly man before you has learned, the downfall is not in the cheating, it’s in the gold digging tart you cheated with.  Anthony Weiner was ahead in the polls, the public was well on it’s way to forgiving him… and then…. up pops a tart.  Your statement to the press was “I told you there would be more.”   —>The lesson you thought you learned was, if you give full disclosure in the beginning, people should be forgiving when they prove to be true.  The lesson you should have learned, stop fooling around with toaster pastry!  If you’re not smart enough to find a woman who has just as much to lose by getting caught, than at least have the common sense and decency to sext your wife. This is where most men fail.  They go looking for Oz over the rainbow when it was in their own back yard the whole time. Your wife is a filthy whore! It’s okay, trust me, she loves it! Send her juicy messages about how you can’t wait to get home to soap up her dirty little body in the shower and give her a good spanking!  If your wife really is the “wear granny panties and only put out on your anniversary and Christmas” DON”T run for political office – I guarantee you will go looking for it elsewhere, and with all that pent up not gettin any she has built, I don’t want to be near that fan when she lets it go after you’re caught.

Part of Anthony’s undoing was his own screw up -a self induced accidental “disclosure”- The lesson you thought you learned was “make sure you check your “To:” carefully before you hit send. The lesson you should have learned: There is NO privacy. NONE! Not anywhere. There is no “delete.” There is no “undo.” If it’s on an electronic device it is “out there” and it is retrievable. ((In the natural course of events– don’t start sending me crap “what if I throw it in acid??”)) I also appreciate politicians who “get it done” – I just wish more people were in office who “got done” what I think is important, and not so much the laws that say we shouldn’t feed the homeless. If you are elected I want you to use your powers for good and not waste my time telling me what size soda I’m allowed to posses in the movie theater (but that rant is for another day and another blog). We NEED someone to watch the watchers. If you are elected I want you to realize there are people out there that can and will use your information against you. They will take it totally out of context and use it to their end to ruin you. “You” of course, being “us”. I want you to fight these types of laws. I will ALWAYS vote “third party” so this is no endorsement for Rand Paul either – but when he fights for the freedoms of Americans to not be killed by unmanned drones in our sleep with no due process, I want you to stand with him. I want you to realize the power you have to fight for the people. The people who like to send naked pictures of themselves, and get back naked pictures of grown women, the people who like to look up crock pot recipes and shop on-line for school supplies. Encourage whistle blowers who are fighting for our privacy rights. Repeal laws that make people afraid to speak up and pass laws that keep your politician peers out of our underwear!

Carlos Danger! I think you know these things already. You’re a pig! I like that ::wink wink:: You are far more “real” than your doppelganger Anthony. I would vote for you in a second!

Anthony Wiener, you’re an insincere self serving politician. You had a good thing going. I would and could fully support you, except for one thing. You apologized for something you shouldn’t have apologized for. You weren’t sorry for e-wanking, you’re sorry you got caught.