Besides, she cherished her privacy. It gave her the opportunity to "self-medicate", away from the prying eyes of her Mother or her husband's satisfied look that said, "see, your no better than me". Or the disgust and disappointed look in her adopted daughter's face at the realization that the one woman she was supposed to count on was nothing more than a junkie.
It was never her intention, when she started taking Tylenol with codeine, and eventually, percocet, to become a drug-dependent pill head. Like millions of others, it just happened.
However, she had to admit, for numbing pain, dulling hopes and forgetting about that piece of her heart that was, conspicuously, missing, they worked wonders.
The fog they created in her mind, thirsting for the solace of forgetfulness, was easily granted by these little white pills. The heavy limbs, the extra sleep and the glorious lapses between conscious and unconscious thought were amazingly accessible through a simple sip of water followed by a swallow. She could ask for no more and, at the price they paid, expected nothing less. Regardless of the self-loathing at the junkie she'd become or any future physical concerns that could be associated with constant pain-killer abuse, she needed them to go on, to live.
"What's for dinner?", the kid asked, bounding down the stairs, despite her warnings, two at a time.
"Chinese ... and be careful, you'll kill yourself.", she said and hoped the kid would believe her concern.
"Again", the kid replied, ignoring her again. "I don't want Chinese".
"What can I tell ya ... then don't eat".
"Why didn't you cook?", the kids voice climbed a couple of octaves, in hopes her husband would hear. "You haven't cooked all week".
"Didn't feel like it", she said, barely containing the resentment and rage that welled up inside her at the thought of this spoiled, disrespectful 12 year old, who actually expected her to move and, can you imagine, cook.
This kid had the best of everything. The finest clothes, the best education and, most important, at least, one loving, caring parent that she, totally, took for granted. How dare she try and make her feel guilty ... feel anything?
"You don't have to get nasty", the kid said, her voice climbing even higher as she loudly stomped her way back upstairs, two at a time.
"And you don't have to be such a bitch", she wished she could say, but thought instead.
She knew if she had said it out loud, there was a change that her husband would hear and start arguing, yet again, naturally choosing the kid's side.
She also knew, she'd scream if she had to listen to, "She's just a kid ... cut her some slack", one more time.
She lit another cigarette, rocked in her chair and sighed. The smoke filled her lungs, it's toxins invisible, but deadly, much like her life. And, just like the animosity that surrounded everyone in her family. She couldn't remember the exact moment everything changed, but she, certainly, knew why it changed.
The phone rang it's mandatory two times before the answering machine, acting as a screener for all those people she had long ago left behind, picked up. Acting on it's own, yet again, her anticipation rose along with her hopes. Maybe this time it would really be Mary. Maybe, she had found a way to call or maybe, had someone call for her. Time stopped at the sound of the beep.
"Hello ... hello... pick up the phone. Alright, later Dude". It was only her husband's business partner.
She never learned and knew she never would, even though, there would be no phone call.
It had been four months and if Mary hadn't called yet, than there was no reason to hope that she ever would or ever could, for that matter.
The motion of the rocker soothed her. She closed her eyes and tried to remember.
Waking up at the crack of dawn, preparing breakfast, getting them ready for school, and than filling the day with all those little tasks most people find mundane, but she relished. Cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry. There was a pride to be felt in doing these things well, with love, for her family.
After they came home from school, she gave them a snack, something small, and helped them, the best she could, with their homework. Then dinner, some T.V or video games, a shower and bed.
Once in a while, Mary would fall asleep on her queen size bed, entrenched in her husband's large arms. Safe and secure, she looked like a doll wrapped in the big down comforter.
The therapist once told her, Mary had said, it was the safest place in the whole wide world.
She smiled at the thought and the truth it represented. There was a time, locked in her husband's arms, she knew no harm would ever befall her.
They had both been wrong.
END OF PART 2 - PART 3 COMING SOON!
Friday, April 22, 2011
Is fighting throughout your life, a life?
Hey folks, sorry it took me so long to update. You know, I thought I could do this, I really did. I figured working 3 days a week, would give me plenty of time to work as the "Tampa Bay Buzz Examiner" for the lowest paying online site in the known world, and pour out my heart on this page, at the same time. Now, I'm not so sure. I'm just so tired all the time. But, is that from working on getting my name in print and getting my soul in check or is it because of the tremendous amount of work it takes to deal with the other life-draining forces in my life (my husband, nieces and nephews). I just don't know.
I mean, as writers, we have to admit, part of the attraction, beyond exorcising the demons that have laid hidden and dormant so long in our psyche's, is the possibility that we will see our name in print, point to ourselves on some top ten list, or just touch somebody who feels the words, as we do. But, at what point do we say, you know what, I know I'm good ... I know I can write ... but, I'm just tired of waiting for someone else to recognize it?
You know what, don't listen to me. Take as long as is necessary to attain your own individual goals. I'm just pissy from fighting all day with my husband.
It just seems like I've been fighting and pushing at barriers in my life, for soooo long, that I just don't know if I can do it anymore.
Now wait, don't start calling suicide prevention lines. Shit, I'm way too chicken for that. I'm just tired of fighting.
Tired of fighting my husband over ever second that I'm not paying attention to him, tired of dealing with a family that is soooo needy, sometimes it feels like I'm pulled in 20 different directions and tired of having to justify this need in me to express myself some other way than working, cooking, cleaning and worrying. Is it so terrible to be good at something and need to pursue it, even if it leads nowhere? When does your life become your own, or was it ever?
Anyway, sorry to bring your asses down, but that's just how I feel. I am not stupid. I realize, that being the child of an alcholic, whose family was as dysfunctional as anyone in a Tennessee Williams play, gives you some type of psychosis that makes you prone to depression and, actually, prohibits you from enjoying your own life. No kidding, I read this in a real book!
But, realizing that does nothing to put your life right, to make happy memories that can sustain you and take you through to the end. I'm tired, alright. Tired of being unhappy, but, mostly, tired of not being able to enjoy a pretty good life, because of something I had no control over.
Who knows, maybe I need a psychiatrist. Nah, hell with that. I hate shrinks. Always have, always will. Ever since family therapy where they bared my father's soul all over their cheap beige carpet in front of his 7 year old daughter. But, that's a story for another day.
I mean, as writers, we have to admit, part of the attraction, beyond exorcising the demons that have laid hidden and dormant so long in our psyche's, is the possibility that we will see our name in print, point to ourselves on some top ten list, or just touch somebody who feels the words, as we do. But, at what point do we say, you know what, I know I'm good ... I know I can write ... but, I'm just tired of waiting for someone else to recognize it?
You know what, don't listen to me. Take as long as is necessary to attain your own individual goals. I'm just pissy from fighting all day with my husband.
It just seems like I've been fighting and pushing at barriers in my life, for soooo long, that I just don't know if I can do it anymore.
Now wait, don't start calling suicide prevention lines. Shit, I'm way too chicken for that. I'm just tired of fighting.
Tired of fighting my husband over ever second that I'm not paying attention to him, tired of dealing with a family that is soooo needy, sometimes it feels like I'm pulled in 20 different directions and tired of having to justify this need in me to express myself some other way than working, cooking, cleaning and worrying. Is it so terrible to be good at something and need to pursue it, even if it leads nowhere? When does your life become your own, or was it ever?
Anyway, sorry to bring your asses down, but that's just how I feel. I am not stupid. I realize, that being the child of an alcholic, whose family was as dysfunctional as anyone in a Tennessee Williams play, gives you some type of psychosis that makes you prone to depression and, actually, prohibits you from enjoying your own life. No kidding, I read this in a real book!
But, realizing that does nothing to put your life right, to make happy memories that can sustain you and take you through to the end. I'm tired, alright. Tired of being unhappy, but, mostly, tired of not being able to enjoy a pretty good life, because of something I had no control over.
Who knows, maybe I need a psychiatrist. Nah, hell with that. I hate shrinks. Always have, always will. Ever since family therapy where they bared my father's soul all over their cheap beige carpet in front of his 7 year old daughter. But, that's a story for another day.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Life as I knew it (part 1)
"What'dya want for dinner?", she said, as she, precariously, rested her cigarette in the overflowing ash tray that sat next to her bed.
"What're you cooking?", his reply reflected his total disinterest.
"Whatever you want".
"I don't care ... pick somethin'".
She wanted to scream at the monatony of a conversation they repeated daily and the stifling boredom that had become their only form of communication. Instead, she took a long deep drag on her Marlboro, turned over, and looked around her room.
Through the smoke, her eyes found the collection of expensive porcelain dolls, dust-laden and haphazardly arranged on the entertainment center, that had once meant a great deal to her. These were not your everday dolls. Each one was a limited edition, complete with its' own "certificate of authenticity". Back when it mattered, her husband would buy them for her all the time.
She used to admire their intricate detail. Especially, their individual and distinct facial expressions. Each one was unique, but, it was always the Mother and child dolls that she loved the most.
The way they gazed at each other with such adoration. It was almost, as if, she could feel their bond.
Now, their hair messy and matted, their outfits dirty and stained, she saw beyond the illusion. Now, cold and lifeless, they mimiced her existence in almost every way.
"Maybe I'll just order", she said. Her eyes welled up, but her gaze never wavered.
"Whatever"
"Yea ... whatever". She clenched her teeth. If she had to continue this farce one minute longer, she'd pull out the .22 he kept hidden in the closet and blow her brains out.
But, for now, she reached for a slower, and much preferred, method of self-destruction. She lit another cigarette.
She barely noticed whether the match was still lit or whether it had hit it's intended target as she got out of bed, made her way through all the clutter on the floor and put on her sweat pants.
"Chinese it is", she said and glanced at her husband, hoping, yet again, he'd look up from his comic book, just once, and acknowledge the fact that she was still, somewhat, alive.
"Sounds good to me. Get me some fried won-ton."
Not even a glance.
"Oh ... don't forget to ask the kid what she wants", he said casually, turning another page in the gripping saga of good vs. evil.
"Sure", she lied and left the bedroom. That he cares about.
She walked down the stairs and knew she had to let it go. There was no way she'd get into that again and there was also no way she'd ask the person who couldn't decide what shade of red lip-stick to wear, to choose through an entire Chinese menu. God didn't make that kind of patience. And, he or she, especially, didn't make it for her.
Once upon a time, she used to cook. She enjoyed preparing large meals for her family. Pot roast with potatoes and carrots, homemade lasagna, or their favorite, chicken soup with Matzo balls, made from scratch.
They loved them all and she loved making them.
But, that was back then. Back when she still cleaned, still washed, still cared.
On the phone, the woman at the chinese restaurant read her mind. She'd ordered so often from them, that they, automatically, knew what she wanted and where she lived simply from the sound of her voice. She preferred it this way. The smaller the effort, the better.
After she hung up, she sat in her favorite rock in the living room, the one her husband said she loved to wallow in. She knew, to some degree, that was true, but even more than the misery which had become her constant companion on this never-ending journey, she simply loved the quiet.
The other members of her family were, probably, in their respective rooms, electing as always, to ignore each other at all costs. Either that, or the kid would be in the toilet, prancing and preening in front of the mirror, pretending she was anyone else and hoping, above hope, she was somewhere else. Her Mother, unless the soaps were one, would be watching a Barbara Streisand movie for the 100th time.
Whatever they were doing, it didn't really matter. She had nothing to say to either of them. As far as she was concerned, the war could wait.
"What're you cooking?", his reply reflected his total disinterest.
"Whatever you want".
"I don't care ... pick somethin'".
She wanted to scream at the monatony of a conversation they repeated daily and the stifling boredom that had become their only form of communication. Instead, she took a long deep drag on her Marlboro, turned over, and looked around her room.
Through the smoke, her eyes found the collection of expensive porcelain dolls, dust-laden and haphazardly arranged on the entertainment center, that had once meant a great deal to her. These were not your everday dolls. Each one was a limited edition, complete with its' own "certificate of authenticity". Back when it mattered, her husband would buy them for her all the time.
She used to admire their intricate detail. Especially, their individual and distinct facial expressions. Each one was unique, but, it was always the Mother and child dolls that she loved the most.
The way they gazed at each other with such adoration. It was almost, as if, she could feel their bond.
Now, their hair messy and matted, their outfits dirty and stained, she saw beyond the illusion. Now, cold and lifeless, they mimiced her existence in almost every way.
"Maybe I'll just order", she said. Her eyes welled up, but her gaze never wavered.
"Whatever"
"Yea ... whatever". She clenched her teeth. If she had to continue this farce one minute longer, she'd pull out the .22 he kept hidden in the closet and blow her brains out.
But, for now, she reached for a slower, and much preferred, method of self-destruction. She lit another cigarette.
She barely noticed whether the match was still lit or whether it had hit it's intended target as she got out of bed, made her way through all the clutter on the floor and put on her sweat pants.
"Chinese it is", she said and glanced at her husband, hoping, yet again, he'd look up from his comic book, just once, and acknowledge the fact that she was still, somewhat, alive.
"Sounds good to me. Get me some fried won-ton."
Not even a glance.
"Oh ... don't forget to ask the kid what she wants", he said casually, turning another page in the gripping saga of good vs. evil.
"Sure", she lied and left the bedroom. That he cares about.
She walked down the stairs and knew she had to let it go. There was no way she'd get into that again and there was also no way she'd ask the person who couldn't decide what shade of red lip-stick to wear, to choose through an entire Chinese menu. God didn't make that kind of patience. And, he or she, especially, didn't make it for her.
Once upon a time, she used to cook. She enjoyed preparing large meals for her family. Pot roast with potatoes and carrots, homemade lasagna, or their favorite, chicken soup with Matzo balls, made from scratch.
They loved them all and she loved making them.
But, that was back then. Back when she still cleaned, still washed, still cared.
On the phone, the woman at the chinese restaurant read her mind. She'd ordered so often from them, that they, automatically, knew what she wanted and where she lived simply from the sound of her voice. She preferred it this way. The smaller the effort, the better.
After she hung up, she sat in her favorite rock in the living room, the one her husband said she loved to wallow in. She knew, to some degree, that was true, but even more than the misery which had become her constant companion on this never-ending journey, she simply loved the quiet.
The other members of her family were, probably, in their respective rooms, electing as always, to ignore each other at all costs. Either that, or the kid would be in the toilet, prancing and preening in front of the mirror, pretending she was anyone else and hoping, above hope, she was somewhere else. Her Mother, unless the soaps were one, would be watching a Barbara Streisand movie for the 100th time.
Whatever they were doing, it didn't really matter. She had nothing to say to either of them. As far as she was concerned, the war could wait.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The lies we tell ...
“Mrs. Rivera”?
“Yes”, I lie, not fully knowing why I answered to that name from the past.
“It’s Detective Jones, from the 73rd Precinct. We have Mary here. She wants to come home”.
I could feel the silence, made so much more palpable by the rapid beating of my heart, as he waited for my answer. The problem was, my answer was just another question, “What home”?
She was two when we met. Bright and beautiful, with the biggest brown eyes I had ever seen. Her dark hair, the same chestnut color as mine, was naturally curly, with ringlets that framed her face like a Botticelli angel.
I knew from the moment I held her in my arms, that she was mine. But, she wasn’t, not really.
Mary and her 6 yr. old sister had been abused and neglected, left for days in the same dirty diaper, by their drug addicted, 16 year old, biological Mom. We would be their 3rd foster home and, hopefully, their last.
The social worker explained to us that the state was in the process of terminating the Mother’s parental rights to the 6 year old and she would soon be free to adopt. Legally, things had not progressed as far for Mary, but they saw no reason why things wouldn’t go the same way. Everyone involved was certain, given the bio-Mom’s track record, that the girls would never be separated and we should treat them as our own.
Nothing was easier. Since we could not have children, naturally, we poured all the love we had to give into the girls, who soaked it up like dry sponges that hadn’t felt water in years.
Their birthdays were always catered affairs. Theme parties where everyone dressed as princesses or Disney characters, complete with clowns, magicians and, one year, Barney, the Purple dinosaur, who sung his signature song with Mary on his lap.
Christmas’s were, also, special. Each year we’d have a real pine tree with ornaments that the girls had hand-made, candy canes on it’s branches and so many different lights, it would take hours just to sort them all out. By the time we were done decorating, the house looked like something out of a Rockwell painting.
Of course, we knew, monetary pleasures were not what the girls craved. Love, as the song says, was all they needed.
It was all we needed, too and despite the nightmares, always about going back to their biological Mom or the temper tantrums, normal for children who have been shuffled around since birth, they were happy and we were happy.
6 years later, sitting on a hard wooden bench, etched with the names of those who have worried and agonized before us, we waited for a stranger to make a decision that would change our lives forever and tried to do what we were told, since the legal proceedings for Mary began, which was, plan for the best, and prepare for the worst. Or, at least, we thought we did.
Two weeks after that day, as I drove Mary to the same foster care agency where we picked her up all those years ago, something we saw struck us both as hysterical and we laughed and laughed forgetting for the moment that this was the last time I would make this trip and the last time I could be considered her Mom. I thought about how much we shared and the true joy she brought into my life. Trying not to cry, was one of the hardest things I have ever done.
For awhile, we tried to stay in touch for the sake of the girls, but it was like jabbing something sharp into an open wound and took weeks to recovery in between attempts.
In our longing to have children and the fervor with which we fought to stay a family, we had failed both girls, miserably.
The older child, adopted by my husband and I, while still fighting for her sister, could never come to grips with why her bio-mom wanted her younger sister, and all her subsequent children, but never wanted her.
She would remain with us, until she reached 18, decided she could no longer live with our rules and moved out with her boyfriend. I see her now and then on Face book, but any attempts at communication is always met with privacy settings.
Mary returned to her bio-Mom, but could never forgive this stranger for taking her away from the only parents she had known and loved. Eventually, she was placed in a group home for troubled children, where, last I heard, she had been raped and tagged a habitual runaway.
I heard once, while on the run, she had tried to find us, but her biological Mother destroyed anything we had given her, including our address and telephone number, so she was sent back.
Now 6 years later, the Detective on the phone still waited for my answer.
During what seemed like hours, but, in truth, was mere minutes, my mind went through all that had happened in my life, since Mary left. The troubles with her sister, my husband’s business failing and his, subsequent, heart attack. My own prescription drug addiction and the emptiness, with me always, that the pills could never fill and I heard myself give the only answer I could, “I’m sorry, Officer, but Mary doesn’t live here anymore. Maybe, you should call her “real” Mom”.
“Yes”, I lie, not fully knowing why I answered to that name from the past.
“It’s Detective Jones, from the 73rd Precinct. We have Mary here. She wants to come home”.
I could feel the silence, made so much more palpable by the rapid beating of my heart, as he waited for my answer. The problem was, my answer was just another question, “What home”?
She was two when we met. Bright and beautiful, with the biggest brown eyes I had ever seen. Her dark hair, the same chestnut color as mine, was naturally curly, with ringlets that framed her face like a Botticelli angel.
I knew from the moment I held her in my arms, that she was mine. But, she wasn’t, not really.
Mary and her 6 yr. old sister had been abused and neglected, left for days in the same dirty diaper, by their drug addicted, 16 year old, biological Mom. We would be their 3rd foster home and, hopefully, their last.
The social worker explained to us that the state was in the process of terminating the Mother’s parental rights to the 6 year old and she would soon be free to adopt. Legally, things had not progressed as far for Mary, but they saw no reason why things wouldn’t go the same way. Everyone involved was certain, given the bio-Mom’s track record, that the girls would never be separated and we should treat them as our own.
Nothing was easier. Since we could not have children, naturally, we poured all the love we had to give into the girls, who soaked it up like dry sponges that hadn’t felt water in years.
Their birthdays were always catered affairs. Theme parties where everyone dressed as princesses or Disney characters, complete with clowns, magicians and, one year, Barney, the Purple dinosaur, who sung his signature song with Mary on his lap.
Christmas’s were, also, special. Each year we’d have a real pine tree with ornaments that the girls had hand-made, candy canes on it’s branches and so many different lights, it would take hours just to sort them all out. By the time we were done decorating, the house looked like something out of a Rockwell painting.
Of course, we knew, monetary pleasures were not what the girls craved. Love, as the song says, was all they needed.
It was all we needed, too and despite the nightmares, always about going back to their biological Mom or the temper tantrums, normal for children who have been shuffled around since birth, they were happy and we were happy.
6 years later, sitting on a hard wooden bench, etched with the names of those who have worried and agonized before us, we waited for a stranger to make a decision that would change our lives forever and tried to do what we were told, since the legal proceedings for Mary began, which was, plan for the best, and prepare for the worst. Or, at least, we thought we did.
Two weeks after that day, as I drove Mary to the same foster care agency where we picked her up all those years ago, something we saw struck us both as hysterical and we laughed and laughed forgetting for the moment that this was the last time I would make this trip and the last time I could be considered her Mom. I thought about how much we shared and the true joy she brought into my life. Trying not to cry, was one of the hardest things I have ever done.
For awhile, we tried to stay in touch for the sake of the girls, but it was like jabbing something sharp into an open wound and took weeks to recovery in between attempts.
In our longing to have children and the fervor with which we fought to stay a family, we had failed both girls, miserably.
The older child, adopted by my husband and I, while still fighting for her sister, could never come to grips with why her bio-mom wanted her younger sister, and all her subsequent children, but never wanted her.
She would remain with us, until she reached 18, decided she could no longer live with our rules and moved out with her boyfriend. I see her now and then on Face book, but any attempts at communication is always met with privacy settings.
Mary returned to her bio-Mom, but could never forgive this stranger for taking her away from the only parents she had known and loved. Eventually, she was placed in a group home for troubled children, where, last I heard, she had been raped and tagged a habitual runaway.
I heard once, while on the run, she had tried to find us, but her biological Mother destroyed anything we had given her, including our address and telephone number, so she was sent back.
Now 6 years later, the Detective on the phone still waited for my answer.
During what seemed like hours, but, in truth, was mere minutes, my mind went through all that had happened in my life, since Mary left. The troubles with her sister, my husband’s business failing and his, subsequent, heart attack. My own prescription drug addiction and the emptiness, with me always, that the pills could never fill and I heard myself give the only answer I could, “I’m sorry, Officer, but Mary doesn’t live here anymore. Maybe, you should call her “real” Mom”.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Sometimes adulthood is scary ...
Something happened last night that I feel compelled to write about. You see, about a month ago, my niece and nephew came to visit me from New York. They are both young adults and just like their other four siblings, they are always welcome in my home.
Now, if you have ever spent "any" time in my home, you would know that I only have one rule ... no drinking ... ever! You don't have to contribute any money to the house, you can eat whatever you want and cleaning is your option, depending on how long you want to root in your own garbage (I don't clean anyone else's room). Just follow that one rule, and I'm cooler that an icicle on a hot summer day.
Last night, that rule was broken. And, broken to such an extent that I had an immediate and uncomfortable flashback.
When I was growing up, my Father was an alcoholic. He wasn't a mean drunk ... not by far ... but he was an annoying drunk. Singing, crying, repeating himself before he fell down somewhere and passed out. My sister and I, both very young at the time, would hide in our room, under the covers of our bed. It wasn't that we were afraid of him, we were afraid of not having any control of the situation. It was a feeling of helplessness and hopelessness that I thought I would never feel again. Especially, after my husband swore off all alcohol 1 year into our 25 year marriage. Last night brought all that back to me.
This morning, after puking all over the spare bathroom (no I WON'T clean that either) my husband and I spoke with my nephew. We explained our one rule, once again. Only this time, we told him, the next time would be it ... end of the line, shit, shower and pack your bags. We'll drive you to the nearest Greyhound station.
Do I feel bad about my ultimatum? No, I felt worse last night under the covers. Do I love him less? Not possible. My nieces and nephews are the children I never had. They mean the world to me and I love them unconditionally.
So, I guess what I'm trying to say is ... Drinking sucks! My nephew disappointed me, but I know he's better than his behavior. And, lastly, I wish I could do my childhood over and make all the nightmares go away. But then, come to think of it ... why would you read my stuff anymore.
Now, if you have ever spent "any" time in my home, you would know that I only have one rule ... no drinking ... ever! You don't have to contribute any money to the house, you can eat whatever you want and cleaning is your option, depending on how long you want to root in your own garbage (I don't clean anyone else's room). Just follow that one rule, and I'm cooler that an icicle on a hot summer day.
Last night, that rule was broken. And, broken to such an extent that I had an immediate and uncomfortable flashback.
When I was growing up, my Father was an alcoholic. He wasn't a mean drunk ... not by far ... but he was an annoying drunk. Singing, crying, repeating himself before he fell down somewhere and passed out. My sister and I, both very young at the time, would hide in our room, under the covers of our bed. It wasn't that we were afraid of him, we were afraid of not having any control of the situation. It was a feeling of helplessness and hopelessness that I thought I would never feel again. Especially, after my husband swore off all alcohol 1 year into our 25 year marriage. Last night brought all that back to me.
This morning, after puking all over the spare bathroom (no I WON'T clean that either) my husband and I spoke with my nephew. We explained our one rule, once again. Only this time, we told him, the next time would be it ... end of the line, shit, shower and pack your bags. We'll drive you to the nearest Greyhound station.
Do I feel bad about my ultimatum? No, I felt worse last night under the covers. Do I love him less? Not possible. My nieces and nephews are the children I never had. They mean the world to me and I love them unconditionally.
So, I guess what I'm trying to say is ... Drinking sucks! My nephew disappointed me, but I know he's better than his behavior. And, lastly, I wish I could do my childhood over and make all the nightmares go away. But then, come to think of it ... why would you read my stuff anymore.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
New Article for you and the Examiner
Good evening devoted readers (thanks again to both of you). I've just posted a new article to my other website (see link attached or go to "my other job" in the sidebar).
This one is for all those health conscience folk out there. And, later, I'll write for my normal followers who don't give a crap about the last few years of our lives. Especially those who appreciate the value of a good Big Mac, Whopper or ... dare I say it ... McRib. Don't forget those last few years are really only good for two things ... shitting and drooling. See ya soon.
This one is for all those health conscience folk out there. And, later, I'll write for my normal followers who don't give a crap about the last few years of our lives. Especially those who appreciate the value of a good Big Mac, Whopper or ... dare I say it ... McRib. Don't forget those last few years are really only good for two things ... shitting and drooling. See ya soon.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Exhaustion thy name is ... me!
I'm tired ... genuinely tired. After working my regular 9 -5 job as a Health Information Technician (or medical records paper pusher, as I like to call it), I can hardly see what I'm typing. So, if something doesn't make sense, forgive me ... my head is in a fog. And a worse fog than usual.
When I decided to go back to work 5 years ago (after a 15 year absencse) I didn't think I could do it ... both physically and mentally. 5 years later, my mind is shot and my body is wearing down by the day, so I guess I was right.
Let's be honest, I was born to be a Queen. I have royalty in my DNA and through some strange mix-up, when the world was created, I got robbed. Sometimes, I watch these celebrities in their multi-million dollar homes, with their servants at their "beck and call" and I can, actually, close my eyes and see myself in their place. It's almost like a previous life. Like I really messed up something awful in a past life and had to start all over, at the bottom, when I was reincarnated. It's not fair.
And now, besides the 9 - 5, I've started writing the blog again, as well as, my work for the Examiner.com (see the link "my other job" in the side bar). I figure I have a good 5 years of pushing myself to my limits, before I give out or the people I work with just shoot me. I guess they can only take so much of my constantly sunny disposition (see past posts) ... lol.
But, I really don't have much choice. Finances being what they are, it's either this or the poor house. Sorry, sometimes I forget how old I am. For those youngsters, who stumbled upon this and can't stop reading about the train wreck I call my life, a poor house was a place where local cities and towns would send the destitute and people who can no longer pay their bills. In general, not nice places.
I do have one other option, but my husband is not really enthusiastic about it and discourages the suggestion everytime I make it. My idea is for my husband to become a male prostitute and sell his ass and I can be his pimp. Believe it or not, we do have some experience with this, but that's a tale for another day. But, like I said, despite his dashing good looks and magnificient butt (imagine a combination of Kevin James and "The Rock", minus "The Rock"), he still rejects the idea. Who knew he was such a prude.
But, my life has always been like diarrehea. It comes, and comes and you go and you go, until there's nothing left and your completely spent. You feel okay when your done, but just wait, before you know, the cramps will come again.
When I decided to go back to work 5 years ago (after a 15 year absencse) I didn't think I could do it ... both physically and mentally. 5 years later, my mind is shot and my body is wearing down by the day, so I guess I was right.
Let's be honest, I was born to be a Queen. I have royalty in my DNA and through some strange mix-up, when the world was created, I got robbed. Sometimes, I watch these celebrities in their multi-million dollar homes, with their servants at their "beck and call" and I can, actually, close my eyes and see myself in their place. It's almost like a previous life. Like I really messed up something awful in a past life and had to start all over, at the bottom, when I was reincarnated. It's not fair.
And now, besides the 9 - 5, I've started writing the blog again, as well as, my work for the Examiner.com (see the link "my other job" in the side bar). I figure I have a good 5 years of pushing myself to my limits, before I give out or the people I work with just shoot me. I guess they can only take so much of my constantly sunny disposition (see past posts) ... lol.
But, I really don't have much choice. Finances being what they are, it's either this or the poor house. Sorry, sometimes I forget how old I am. For those youngsters, who stumbled upon this and can't stop reading about the train wreck I call my life, a poor house was a place where local cities and towns would send the destitute and people who can no longer pay their bills. In general, not nice places.
I do have one other option, but my husband is not really enthusiastic about it and discourages the suggestion everytime I make it. My idea is for my husband to become a male prostitute and sell his ass and I can be his pimp. Believe it or not, we do have some experience with this, but that's a tale for another day. But, like I said, despite his dashing good looks and magnificient butt (imagine a combination of Kevin James and "The Rock", minus "The Rock"), he still rejects the idea. Who knew he was such a prude.
But, my life has always been like diarrehea. It comes, and comes and you go and you go, until there's nothing left and your completely spent. You feel okay when your done, but just wait, before you know, the cramps will come again.
Monday, April 11, 2011
I'm Baaaccckkkk!!!!!.....
Well, I'm back. Sorry, I've been gone so long. Life has a way of sneaking up on you and taking away any spare time that you might use to write about your life. I gotta say, though, I was reading through some of my old posts and, wow, it's amazing how some things change and some things stay exactly the same. Like addictions. I've come to the conclustion that, cliche or not, I have the worst addictive personality. You show it to me, I like it, I abuse it. As we speak, or write, I'm, currently, addicted to oreo cookies, ices in a cup, rasberry jelly rings and fruit salads. In no particular order. I can't tell you why. I just am. As for the million dollar question ... "What's been going on lately"? Well, lots. First off, I moved to Florida 7 years ago. After the business failed, New York (the second love of my life) simply became too expensive to live in and we had no choice. So, for 7 years, I've found myself in Largo, Fl. God's waiting room. Land of all things old and stores that close at 9:00 pm. Good God, let me get rich. I really want to die in NEW YORK ... CONCRETE JUNGLES WHERE DREAMS ARE MADE OF, THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN'T DO, NOW YOUR IN NEW YORK, NEW YORK, NEW YORK!!!! I'm sorry, did I slip again. I miss my home. The place that made me ...me. My little girls are no longer little and no longer mine. The older one, practically, emancipated herself at 17 and we never hear from her at all. The younger one, my baby, well, after she was given back, she couldn't bond with her bio-Mom (surprise ... surprise) and kept running away. Eventually, she was put in a group home, where she was raped and spent the rest of her days till she aged out at 17. Now, she's a Mother herself and I pray for only good things for her. May all the horror in her life be over-shadowed by the love, laughter and happiness yet to come. Please God. My husband and I are well and coming up on our 25th wedding anniversary. Or, as he puts it, the time he could have used to kill someone and have been out 10 years earlier. Ah, love. We are going on a cruise to the Grand Cayman and, though, we've been fighting like cats and dogs, I'm, secretly, looking forward to it. As for my ... ahem ... career, well, I'm still working on that one. Over the years, I've been printed in so many local newspapers there's too many to name. However, currently, I've been writing for the St. Pete Times (see the prior post) and for the examiner.com, Tampa edition. I still believe I have the "Great American Novel" in my bones, but I think I'm still too scared to put it to paper. What I have always felt, and still feel, is that my writing can affect someone ... anyone. That my words might touch someone whose felt the same way, experienced the same experiences or shared some of my misfortunes and, perhaps, not feel so alone. I hope that with all that I am. So, because of that, and, even though, I may take time off, I will always come back to the words. The words of others kept me sane when my childhood was scary and fill of insane people. Words help me to feel, when my addictions do their best to take away all feelings. And, words, got me here ... to you guys, to those who read the words, feel the pain and still come back. So, you keep coming, I'll keep writing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)