War Paint

I remember as a child watching my mother put on her lipstick as her final step in gussying herself up for my father when they went on the rare date night. In my young eyes, my mother transformed from “Mommy” to some beautiful strange woman. With MAGIC! Her “crayon” changed her lip color! I remember her facing me and smiling when I told her she looked so beautiful - like Barbie. I also remember her fury when I had gotten into her same “magic crayons” and painted my own face. I decidedly did NOT look like Barbie…it wasn’t until years later that I understood my mother’s fury. My step-mother was the kind of parent that liked going into bedrooms to snoop around and didn’t latch my bedroom door. My little sister, at the tender age of 3, decided that my posters needed to be touched up a bit. Apparently Jordan Knight looked better with “Wine” on his chest and my little sister ruined a $5 tube of lipstick (this was back in 1991 - $5 was a lot of money to a teenager back then). My father’s response to my fury over the destruction of property and invasion of privacy?

“Make up is a waste of money and it doesn’t make you look good.”

Not gonna lie, even now, umpteen million years later, that hurts. I always thought I looked pretty when I put on make-up. No one ever said anything contrary to what I thought - and believe me, the bullies at school would have said something about how I looked. They always did. But, if my dad, who never really lied to me and was usually always right, so he was probably being truthful and right in this case. Wasn’t he?

So I stopped wearing make-up except for special occasions, like Homecoming or Senior prom. I was never asked on dates, so outside of those two events, or me and my girlfriends messing around during a sleepover with our Caboodles, I didn’t wear makeup regularly. I figured Dad was right, especially since I went through high school without a boyfriend. Not even the most desperate of my older brother’s friends tried to get with me - although my friends were fair game, apparently. So I just stopped wearing makeup altogether.

And I didn’t until I had my first date with my late husband over a decade later. Again, I thought I looked good. My little sisters thought I looked good. My dad thought I looked good. My date didn’t look at me funny, so I thought he thought I looked decent enough. That wasn’t enough for me to wear it day to day - I liked sleep more than I liked looking good back then (a 3am wake up with a work start time of 4am kinda made me wanna catch necessary sleep). It wasn’t until years later, when my late husband and I were going through a rough patch, did I start wearing makeup regularly. Every woman goes through this with her man - prettying herself up to get noticed. And in typical fashion, it fell flat. When asked about it, my husband said he didn’t like me wearing makeup. I asked why, because he seemed to like it when I wore it while we were dating. His response?

“You looked like a hooker.” Not gonna lie, that hit harder than anything said to me. And I just gave up wearing makeup. Years later, I don’t remember the reason why, I started wearing it again - except it was more subdued. Like, just mascara. Then as time wore on, eye shadow. Nothing too dark, too dramatic - hell, half the time no one knew I was wearing makeup. Oh, I looked good - my eyes are my best facial feature (having long eyelashes and big ol’ doe eyes helped) and I felt better about myself. I soon began using darker colors - to which my husband would grouse about. “Why are you wearing makeup?” he would grumble as I left the bathroom in the morning. “You know I think you look fine without it.” I would ignore him, but one day, he said particularly venomous; to which I responded (rather haughtily, if I’m to be honest), “I don’t wear makeup for a man. I wear makeup for ME.”

And that became my go-to phrase whenever someone asked why I was wearing makeup - which happened every time I did. I guess going “au natural” was so much my thing that no one could fathom why I would wear makeup.

When my husband passed away, I continued not to wear makeup. Mainly because runny mascara and eyeliner while at work isn’t a good look for anyone, much less a person that didn’t want her emotions to be known. Which that in of itself is kind of fucked up because everyone knew I was a new widow - they all were part of my husband’s last year on earth before the cancer took him, so it wasn’t like they wouldn’t have known why I was crying…

But I digress! We’re talking about makeup here. On Halloween that year, I wore makeup for the first time in I don’t know how long. It wasn’t your usual Halloween makeup, but for me, it was. I posted it to Facebook with “Most everyone will be wearing makeup today - I didn't want to be left out” I even wore lipstick - something I hadn’t done EVER, mainly because I could never find a shade that didn’t make me think “you’re being whorish.” I felt good. The colors I chose weren’t my usual colors; my foundation wasn’t too mis-matchy with my skin tone and I learned that lipstick didn’t need to be full strength to look lovely. The only thing I didn’t like about the whole ordeal was the fact that I still couldn’t master the art of concealer - the redness under my lash line from crying the night before was still visible, but all in all, I looked gorgeous.

I continued to wear makeup on and off throughout the following year - mainly just for playing around with it. But work began to speed up and playtime was reduced to “Holy fuck, I need sleep” time. Soon, I was back to just wearing it for a special occasion. Usually Halloween. But I noticed that when I did have enough time to put on a full face, I felt better about myself; I felt pretty. I was more confident (until the radio played a song that reminded me of my late husband and I had to remove myself from the store); I was more outgoing (joking with absolute strangers is not something I usually do). I felt more like me, even though it wasn’t really what I looked like. And that was when the ingrained insecurities set in:

“Make up is a lie.”

“You don’t really look like that.”

“You look fine without makeup.”

Why is it always the men telling us women that shit?

Anyhoo, fast forward through my previous relationship. I wore makeup on our dates - not that he noticed nor did he even comment on it (and sometimes I looked damned good). As the relationship spiraled down into the crapper, I wore it more and more often trying to get his attention. The one time he did notice he asked, “Why you wearing makeup?” It was his tone that triggered the insecurities, so instead of shouting, “Cuz I’m trying to get the attention of an idiotic mook who can’t seem to tell when his girlfriend is horny and really wants to get laid,” I just shrugged and said, “Whenever I get depressed, I wear makeup. I’m fine.” After the implosion and the drama of the breakup, I started wearing make up as a “fuck you dude, look at what you threw away,” but it became more. I used it as armor - never again would I let someone that close to me, see me as I truly am. It’s not what I wanted, but it was what I told myself; no one was going to see my naked face again. Then it morphed into something else. I don’t know when it happened, or how, but good lord I felt feminine. Like any male is my plaything and I could have the pick of the litter. It kinda helped that I was on dating sites and apps and wasn’t agonizing over male company. The compliments were shallow, but goddamn! For someone who never really heard how beautiful she physically was, it was an enormous ego boost!

Then something happened that totally blew me away. When I looked in the mirror, just as a passing glance, I no longer saw the 230 pound girl I used to be. I saw a fine looking middle aged woman who didn’t look anywhere near 50 years old. This gorgeous woman was staring back at me with a smirk, her makeup totally on point and her clothes making her look hot as hell.

Oh yeah…I’m a MILF. Maybe all those compliments weren’t shallow after all.

As the week’s post breakup continued, I never left my house without some noticeable type of make up on. It didn’t matter if I was having a night on the town, going grocery shopping, or just working around my chicken yard; I had my face painted. People who hadn’t seen me in years, and are used to seeing my naked face, would comment on how nice I looked. One friend even exclaimed, “Damn, if I weren’t gay, I’d bang you!”

Not going to lie, when a gay friend says that about you it makes you feel pretty good. Our discussion continued as we talked about the merits of cosmetics and why people want to wear it. I said it was war paint just because I was butthurt over my recent breakup. My friend agreed but added, “It’s not just the world you are fighting, ladybug. It’s yourself.”

He was right. Make up, for me, is protection against myself; that bitchy little voice in my head that plays every little insecurity I have on repeat. The same bitchy voice that screams derision and ridicules my every waking moment. When I wear make up, and I hear that little voice, I just look into the mirror and smirk.

“Bitch please. I’m a fine ass woman and I can kick your ass, so shut the fuck up.”

So I guess even at a young age, sitting on the toilet watching my mom apply her makeup, I was right. Make up transformed my mommy into a fierce warrior that slayed demons and monsters that dared to speak ill of her. And as I apply my own lipstick, I can feel the bitch in my head shrink further back into my mind. She knows I’m coming for her - I’m tired of hearing her bullshit constantly and am looking to end her shit once and for all - so she stays hidden.

Yeah, makeup is powerful stuff - even if it can’t outright kill our demons, it sure does shut them the hell up for awhile.

Look It Up

“There’s no such thing as a stupid question.”

“There’s no such thing as a dumb question.”

We have heard these statements throughout our lives. One is false. The false one denotes the lack of basic thought while the true statement indicates a lack of education in an area. Even though the words have become interchangeable in our society, there is a huge difference between being dumb and being stupid. The word dumb means an individual is unlearned; they know nothing about the topic being discussed or how to perform an action. For example, I have a tenant who gets irritated that I always seem to be able to get “more for less” - he is basically brain dead in financial matters, just as I am brain dead in technological matters (the internet is fueled by fairy dust and is delivered to the house via rainbows). Neither is a bad thing - we are just unlearned in those subject areas. Dumb also indicates a willingness to LEARN the subject matter being talked about. If there wasn’t a desire to learn, the “dumb question” wouldn’t have even entered the mind. Asking “dumb questions” shows curiosity and a wont to understand something or someone. For example, my tenant asked why I thought ten pork chops for $10 wasn’t a good deal. I showed him how he was spending damn near $4 a pound for the chops that way and I just spent $2.99 a pound for a family pack of assorted chops - Kroger doesn’t put the weight of those 10/$10 chops on the package, so you have no clue what you’re spending per pound and usually you’re getting hosed for the convenience of the chops being in one package. I had gotten several nice chops for dinners and several pork steaks to use for stir fry or other meals - I saved damn near $10 on the assorted package and was able to have proteins for several different meals, reducing my cost per meal. My tenant was dumb in the way to shop for food - he is, after all, only twenty years old - and he learned a smarter way to shop for pork chops.

Now, if he still gets the 10/$10 chops he’s just plain stupid. Stupid means you knew better, but did it anyway. A stupid question means you could have thought about it, but you chose not to. Stupid questions are just that - stupid. They indicate a laziness and mindlessness mentality. People who ask stupid questions (and we have all done it) are basically saying, “I don’t want to think about this too much; please do my thinking for me.” A stupid action is basically the same thing: you knew there was a chance for rain today, but chose to go outside without an umbrella. Complaining about how you got soaked in the downpour only validates the fact that you were stupid.

I bring this up because I am noticing that with the advent of technology - specifically search engines - being stupid has become a way of life for most people. Especially with the younger generation who have basically grown up around a plethora of research materials that any I would have given my first born child for when I was younger and in school. I live with three 20-somethings. Do you realize how many cooking questions I get from them IN A DAY? Just this morning, one asked about how long to thaw ribs so he could cook them up for Thursday night. It could have been because I was still half asleep, but I just looked at him and asked, “Were you dropped on your head as a kid?” His question was BOTH dumb (because he is very unlearned in the most basic of culinary art), and stupid (because he was up most of the night ON THE INTERNET and could have looked up the question himself). Of course he defended himself and his question - to which I completely shut down because if someone like me can figure out how to put in a toilet using the internet, someone like him was more than capable of finding the answer to how long it’ll take to thaw 4 pounds of ribs. I can feel myself becoming more and more like my mother and father…

Look it up.

Thing One, Thing Two, the Idiot, and Me

Over the summer, I rented out the bedrooms in my house - the last one rented towards the end of August. All young 20-somethings. When I pretty much had my foot out the door with my ex, I had started moving my stuff back to my house and I promised the youngsters that no, I wasn’t going to be taking anyone’s room. The first weekend was…emotional. Things weren’t done that should have been done and I, having the bitch back, laid down the law. No more fucking free rides. EVERYONE pulls their own weight. I’m not cleaning up after other grown ass adults anymore; I’m not cooking for other grown ass adults unless I wanted to; and even though I birthed one of the tenants, I was not anyone’s mom. I was a landlord/roommate and I wasn’t going to fall back into my dumbass habits. To prove my point, I made myself very scarce for the first week. And probably made the oil companies extremely rich with all the back-roading I did.

Mainly because I was going to kill one of them. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. One seems to think that everyone but him is responsible for cleaning up after his ass - I nipped that shit in the bud really quick. One seems to think that shouting while playing video games is the best way to be heard…at midnight. One seems to think the kitchen is an all-night buffet and one of them - I don’t know who - has some serious bathroom issues, and he walks like a herd of elephants. Not going to lie, I lost my shit that first week. Even made a divot in the grass from the nuclear bomb that exploded around me.

It’s now almost been two months and I will say, although these kids still drive me nuts, they aren’t that bad. It’s probably more of a generational thing that’s driving me insane. They talk weird. Everything is abbreviated, everything is shortened. I don’t know why they think suspicious needs to be shortened to sus, but they use it like it’s an actual word. They slur their words - didn’t their parents teach them to enunciate when they spoke? I’m forever asking them to repeat themselves. To pay them back, everything I talk about with them always comes back around to sex - I’m a master at it. Initially it was too easy. My son wasn’t affected by it - he’s used to me using sexual innuendo. But the other two? Let’s just say I don’t think the local school board would want me to teach sex education class…it would take longer than a day. I will say, the “virginal” two are getting better - one is even semi-shocking me with what comes out of their mouth.

It’s been an adjustment for all of us, that much is for sure. I have no problem wrapping myself into a towel after a shower and going to get something to drink in the kitchen before I finish getting dressed. The two unrelated ones stopped mid-conversation, turned beet red and stammered their half-hearted protests. I defended myself as I grabbed my drink - I’m in a towel, guys - and I noticed one giving me a side eye as he turned his head. The door was opened and I plowed through in my usual fashion. “Darling, you couldn’t handle this body, so don’t bother fantasizing about it.” Which led to more teasing from the other unrelated and jovial back and forth. I took pity on the youngster and haven’t walked out of the bathroom in a towel since.

Another adjustment was the differences in sleep schedules. I am usually in bed by 10pm - and that’s on a night when I don’t have an early appointment the next morning. All three kids are night owls. Which is typical for the gamer community - which my tenants all are a part of - and I understand that. Except I like to sleep naked - if not totally nude, then at least in just my underwear. That makes my mid-night bathroom run a bit tricky because any second a young person could come tromping down the stairs and get an eyeful. It wouldn’t bother me - I’ve become somewhat an exhibitionist over the last couple of years - but I really don’t want to be responsible for therapy bills. In that regard, I told them all that they need to get whatever they wanted to snack on or drink from the kitchen by 10pm and if they see something they didn’t want to see after that time, that was their own fault.

However, the biggest adjustment for me is the different maturity levels of all three individuals. I have never said I was the perfect parent, nor have I said I was a perfect person, but good God! Some of the things these kids argue about, some of the things these kids do…I just wanna smack ‘em upside the head. They’re good kids, just…they are still learning the ropes of adulthood. Like understanding that a job is something to pay your bills, not necessarily something you’re passionate about. Like understanding that when rent is due, it’s due - no ifs, whys, or wherefores. Like understanding that laundry should be done no less than once a week and bed linens need to be washed at a minimum of twice a month. Like, understanding how to make basic foods like box macaroni and cheese - seriously, how can anyone screw that or Hamburger Helper up? Sometimes, when I get frustrated with them I have to take a breath and remember that they probably didn’t grow up like I did - with the weight of the world on my shoulders and a newborn baby (I know my son didn’t - I was a helicopter parent and never let him know failure for 19 years of his life). I try to remember to give them grace and understanding, especially when it comes to their opinions on things - I was their age once and thought I was going to change the world too - but some days…

Anyhoo! The soap opera that has become my life has introduced new characters to the story. Characters that I fondly think of as “Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum, and the Idiot.” These are my roommates. Twenty-something gamers.

God help me…

Companion?

Why is it every “man” over 40 who happens to be single wants a companion? The definition of companion is this: a person or animal with whom one spends a lot of time or with whom one travels. Another website explains it this way: Whether it's travel or dinner or card-playing, your companion is the one who does it with you.

So all you middle aged “men” are looking for that? That’s a FRIEND! A person you hang out with and do things with. You don’t have any friends? Well for fuck’s sake, go to the bar and hang out with people until you find a guy that clicks!

OH, you want a woman for a companion. Why? What can a female companion provide you that your guy companion can’t? I mean, you hang out with him, watch sports with him, you play cards with him, you drink with him - HELL, you can even travel with him. Why does the gender of your “companion” matter?

@cherrywine1949

Companions are for boys. Partners are for men. Which is what women want.

♬ All That Really Matters - ILLENIUM & Teddy Swims

Because you “men” are looking for someone to have sex with - without the commitment an intimate relationship brings.

And that’s how I differentiate the men from the boys. A man wouldn’t use the term “companion” to describe a friend with benefits type of relationship. A man would straight out say, “I’m looking for someone I can do things with and fuck. You interested?” because a man knows what he’s looking for. A boy leads a person on with “I’m looking for a monogamous committed relationship” bullshit when all he’s wanting is a fuck buddy. A man isn’t interested in wasting anyone’s time with the stupid games people play at the beginnings of relationships. A boy loves to play the stupid game of being “hard to get” by not returning messages or flat-out ignoring you in public. If a man is interested in a committed relationship, he will say so, and when you are in one with a man, he will let the entire world know you are his woman. A boy will say you’re “boyfriend/girlfriend” once you have sex with him, but he refuses to let anyone know - he introduces you as “his friend.”

Sadly, men are hard to find and boys are a dime a dozen. I’ve had three serious relationships in my 47 years and I can say that not a single one of them were men. However, I did meet a man once - he was forthright in what he was wanting. Unfortunately it wasn’t what I was wanting at the time and we parted ways (no, it wasn’t my ex). So, I know real men exist and the world is not filled with just the little boys that are pretending to be “manly men.” Let me clue you boys into something: Most women aren’t looking for “companionship.” They can get that from their friends without all the drama. And most know that “companions” are for having fun with - doing things together that wouldn’t be as fun to do alone. No, they aren’t looking for companionship. They are looking for a partnership; not necessarily requiring a ring and a marriage license, not necessarily an equal partnership (different arrangements work for different people); but at the core of it, it’s someone to have fun with AND someone who will have their back when the shit hits the fan. A companion will take care of themselves first. A partner will take care of you first and you will do the same for them. THAT’S what most people are looking for.

So, keep sending me the whole bullshit, “I’m just wanting a companion to get through this life” nonsense and I’ll keep blocking you. I’m looking for a MAN. I’ve had my fill of boys.

Sorry, Not Sorry

Apologies. We have all been raised to say we were sorry for whatever transgression we commit towards another person - well, most of us have been raised that way. Frequently, we were made to apologize, even when we felt we shouldn’t have to - like, punching a brother for throwing a Princess Leia action figure down the storm drain; in 1980. Yeah, I was forced to say I was sorry for it - I wasn’t in the slightest bit, but getting my ass beat with the belt when my dad got home wasn’t something I looked forward to as a four year old. Thus began the lesson of apologizing just to apologize so the ass is able to sit in a chair. Later, we are taught to say what we are apologizing for, and we try not to do what we did wrong again. I noticed during my monthly bleed cycle when I would get irrationally angry over any minor inconvenience, and I would lash out. When I was called out on my behavior (mainly by my father who was tired of his mild-mannered daughter becoming a rage-fueled sociopath for a few days every month), I said I was sorry for throwing temper tantrums because of my period and I would try not to do it again. I would ask myself when my “angry time” would be coming, “Would this normally piss me off if I weren’t hormonal?” If the answer was no, I let the annoyance go. If the answer was yes, I unleashed the fury of hell and damnation. Most times, especially during my Walmart years, the answer was yes - I can forgive dumb, just not stupid. Outside of Walmart, the answer was no - socks being left in a couch CONSTANTLY is an annoyance that requires and eye roll, not nuclear fallout. By acknowledging my actions with the apology to my father, I was able to recognize when I was repeating the same anger pattern and correct myself.

However, this self awareness behavior was not taught to everyone, apparently.

Case in point: I had told someone I knew extremely well that I was sick and the individual bypassed what I had said and tried to cajole me into going out. I had just gotten done understanding that most of my life I have felt unheard, and the fact this person was essentially being a pop quiz on my ability to recognize whether I’m being heard or not, I called them out on their behavior. They said sorry.

And then they made excuses for their behavior. Honestly, I shouldn’t complain. I was able to bring the bitch out and control her, so the situation was a two-fer win situation. But it got me to thinking - how sorry are you when you don’t recognize what you did wrong and you’re making excuses for your behavior? If you don’t recognize the action you are apologizing for, how do you know if you’re doing it again? As a emotionally mature adult, recognizing what you did wrong, acknowledging what you did wrong to the offended party and trying not to do it again IS the apology - the words “I’m sorry” is just the preamble. In the case of my friend, the apology could have been along the lines of, “I’m sorry for not hearing what you were saying when you said you were sick. It was thoughtless of me and there’s no excuse for it. I’ll try to do better. I’m sorry. Still friends?” And then following through with the “do better” part. I’ve gotten so many apologies over the years and the same damned pattern repeats like its a stuck damned record. Most of the time, I just don’t bother with the person anymore. If you’re sorry for doing something, and you keep doing it, then you are most certainly NOT sorry. Oh, I’ll forgive you. I just won’t have anything to do with you. My peace is far more important to me than having someone in my life who refuses to acknowledge when they have done something wrong and refuses to correct themselves.

If that makes me a bitch, then so be it. I’ve been called worse.

Me, a Stick, and Balls

As a young teen, freshly graduated from high school, my mother worked as a bartender in our sleepy little town’s only bar. It was most decidedly not a nightclub, nor anything upscale. I’m pretty sure if it were in a big city, it would be classified as a “dive bar.” The windows were darkened and dusty on the outside, the siding dingy and in need of some repair. The patch of ground in front of the doors was considered the parking lot - with the exception to the spot next to the stairs going up to the apartment above the bar - that was reserved for the tenant that lived upstairs. There wasn’t much grass, no outside seating area that I could see (or remember) - nothing like what we have now because of the “no smoking” laws - and the interior was not a whole lot better. Oh, the bathrooms were clean and the jukebox was in pristine condition (that was the only way bars had music for those of you who have never heard of a jukebox), but the tables and chairs were not the best. I don’t think a regular bar stool is supposed to double as a rocking chair, but at least the pool table felt was well taken care of. The interior windows had the neon lights flashing the different beers that were served, the bar had nicks and chips missing from the surface - presumably because of a bar fight - and the mirror behind the bar had a huge crack that couldn’t make up its mind on where it wanted to go. Definitely not a place for kids to hang out in.

Guess where I hung out at during the summer after I graduated high school?

My mom was the bartender and tenant that lived upstairs, so when I stayed the night at her house over the weekend, she would let me hang out with her at work for a bit before people came in. I was given carte blanche to do whatever I wanted to do when there weren’t any customers. I discovered I enjoy playing pool. I sucked at it, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. I didn’t know how to actually play the game, though. I just knew to hit the white ball into a ball with colors and make them fall into one of the various holes on the side of the table using a stick taller than I was (I was 5’2.5” back then) - Mom didn’t explain much more than that.

I got really good at sinking that white ball within the early hours of the bar opening. I had finally sunk ONE ball - the 8-ball - along with the white ball when a customer had come in. It was the store owner from across the street and he saw I was struggling and gave me some tips - like, not holding the stick like a baseball bat.

Well, excuse me! I happen to like baseball and am pretty good at it, thank you very much. Pool shouldn’t be much more different - its hitting balls with a stick, same as baseball. While the older man enjoyed my indignation, he explained the distinction between games that have you hitting balls with sticks; such as golf, baseball, cricket, pool and beating a man. I added that last part when he was done explaining, much to my mother’s embarrassment (she was the one that said I could keep playing with him in the bar and I was her most embarrassing child, so not my fault) and his entertainment - he knew I understood what he was saying. He continued to give me more pointers and thus started my love of the sport.

As time went on like summers usually do, my small circle of friends and I would go to the bar early to play pool, and even though I scratched more than not, I was getting better at playing. Then the bikers showed up. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. I was raised to never judge a person by their appearance, only by their actions, and those bikers (who were Friday night regulars according to my mom) were probably the most awesome people I had met. Big men with tattoos all over their arms, decked out in leather vests, bandanas and riding boots; women in low cut tee shirts, windblown hair, and attitude to spare. Loud, boisterous, fun-loving. And kind. The women gave tips on which of my features I should draw attention to because, to quote one, “You got the goods, girl. Show that shit off!” and the men gave tips on how to improve my pool game.

They were also my babysitters when the bar got busy and crowded. I used to say I was the only girl left at the bar when closing time came to prove that I was not considered a pretty girl by any stretch of the imagination (a throwback to the song “Don’t the Girls All Get Prettier at Closing Time”), but I truly think it was because the bikers were cock-blocking me. If I was at the bar waiting for the pool table to open up, a big burly biker would sit next to me and chat with me about school and life plans. Now, this guy was about twice my age (at 18, I would have said he was 60, but he was probably more 45-ish), with a weathered, tanned face and a beard/mustache combo that would put ZZ Top to shame. He always wore a tee shirt with the sleeves cut off with his leather vest and the tattoos on his arm…why is it ALWAYS a naked woman? Any of the twenty-somethings that would approach while I was talking to my mom would get a look from him and would scurry away. When I was playing pool with my friends, ANY of the young bucks that would try to flirt with me would be met with one of the other bikers running interference while one of the women would show me a better way to do something in the game. I had grumbled about it to one of the women and she said, “Darlin’ that boy was interested in one thing and it wasn’t pool.” Easy for her to say as my friends were having a grand time with his friends - my friends always left before closing time and they were never alone…

It was through the bikers and my interactions with them that led to me finding that I played pool better when music was playing. One night I was having a crappy round of pool play. I couldn’t sink anything except the cue ball - it was really pissing me off. Someone had said not to worry, my form was good. I was just having a bad night. Then one of the ladies played “Third Rock From the Sun” on the jukebox and all of a sudden, I was frigging Fast Eddie Felson! My friend, whom I was playing against, thought it was a fluke. We started another game without the song. I couldn’t hit shit. We played the song and I was a character from ‘The Hustler.’ We did it again, this time we started the game with the song playing. The results were the same - I was Minnesota Fats, but with a vagina! As soon as the song stopped, my game tanked. My friend and I did this experiment so often that night even my biker babysitters were getting pretty sick of the song and us hogging the jukebox. So my friends and I would sing the song - yeah, that didn’t last long. And the results were mixed. Me and my friends were very scientific like that.

But, as with everything in my life it seems, things I enjoy doing had to be set aside for adulthood and responsibilities. I had played pool for two years and hadn’t played since. Oh, it was something I enjoyed, but being a single, working mom didn’t afford many opportunities to play. Getting better at pool wasn’t something I gave up - it was something I set aside for more pressing things. When my I found my late husband’s pool cue in our closet, I asked him if he played. He did. I asked if he was any good at it. He said he was fairly decent. I asked…no, I begged if he would take me to play and help me get better at the game. He said he would. He died 10 years after he said he would play pool with me - never once taking me to play and never once agreeing to my suggestion of pool date nights. When I met my ex and we were in the “get to know each other” stage, I had told him that I liked to play pool. He had said he enjoyed it as well and agreed that going to the bar to play pool would be a fun date.

He never took me. Oh, we went to the bar. But he never really expressed a desire to play the game. Or he was maybe thinking I would be all “little girly girl” and grab his arm and get all giggly and excited, saying let’s play pool and because I didn’t, he thought I was blowing sunshine up his ass. I wasn’t - I don’t blow sunshine up asses - but it’s a possibility that’s what he thought because I tend to let the man take the lead when it comes to the whole date thing. I could have gone by myself, but between him, my job, my kid, my house; I just didn’t have the time. So I basically let that part of my bucket list go - getting better at a game I enjoy isn’t something I’ll be able to do.

Then my ex forced me to exit stage left. And I’ve been playing ever since. I have noticed I play better when music is in the background, so I’ve taken to listening to my Spotify music while I practice. I also noticed that goddamned stroke took some of my pool knowledge so I literally have to re-learn everything. Thankfully, my muscle memory wasn’t taken and my fingers are taking a hold of my late husband’s pool stick just like they used to. I did discover that his stick is much longer and heavier than the bar pool sticks, but I’m determined to get good at the game using my late husband’s barely used pool stick. Mainly as a “fucker, this wasn’t so hard to do with me, you prick” - as you can see, I’m still dealing with grief from his death three years later. It’s also as a reminder to myself to not count on the man I pick to partner with to keep his word. No, I don’t need a man to teach me the finer points of holding the stick, or positioning my body over the table, or showing me just how hard to hit the ball; but it makes it more fun and it brings me closer to him because he knows it’s important to me. And because it’s important to me, it’s important to him.

And finding a man that thinks like that is something I probably won’t be able to do in my lifetime. I’m wondering if I should put that on my bucket list?

If You Want Him, Take Him

So this woman named Carol, came into the gas station I now work at. Apparently, this woman is obsessed with calling me out on how I don’t like her. It’s not untrue. I don’t like her. Mainly because her aura and vibe just hit me wrong. But, given the fact that most of my interactions with her have always been when I was working (in a customer service oriented job), I have treated her no differently than I do any other customer. This time was no exception - I treated her with cordial friendliness. It’s not that I want to be friendly with everyone I meet; cuz I truly do not like people. It’s because I’m PAID to act that way. I have no choice but to bite my tongue and not tell someone they’re a fucking troll. Honestly, today when I called her ‘hon,’ I didn’t even know who was at the counter - I was fucking doing my job and making pizzas. All I saw was a body. When I saw who it was, I didn’t change my tone, facial expression or anything else. As I said - I treat all customers the same.

I asked if her refill was 32oz. She said it was 30oz. Well, we don’t sell 30oz refills, so I said I would give her the 24oz refill price. I tried that - it didn’t work. I grumbled about the machine giving me issues (it had all day) and that’s when she started her “I know you don’t like me” bullshit. I was thinking, “Bitch, please. I’m not being nice to you - I do this for everyone,” but I kept my mouth shut and as Carol kept yammering on about how she knows I don’t like her (like, who the fuck cares?), I hit the 32oz refill button, gave her the total and wished her a good day. You wanna fucking start shit, you can pay the higher price, you stupid twat.

Once she paid and her card cleared, I turned back to what I was doing, totally forgetting her existence, when she came back pursuing the fact she knows I don’t like like her and I don’t have to act like I do. It was the same fucking shit the battleax did when I was at Dollar General and I told her the same thing today as I told the geriatric moron then: I treat every customer the same way - whether I like them or not. Carol popped off and said, “Oh, so you pretend.”

WELL LOOK WHO JUST CAUGHT UP! If I don’t pretend, and you call and whine and act like the manipulative cunt you truly are, then I would lose my job. I ain’t old like you - I’m not old enough to live off of Social Security, and I have too damn much pride to mooch off of the taxpayers by being on SSI. So, yes, you fucking bleach blonde BIMBO! I’m fucking PAID TO BE NICE to people I don’t like. If you really want to know what I think of you, stop by my house like you did last fucking year to whine and moan because my neighbor down the street supposedly lied to you about where he was. Then, because I’m not paid to be fucking nice to your skanky ass because I’m at home, I’d tell you the following:

Carol, I didn’t like you BEFORE he moved to town. I didn’t like you the first time I waited on you at Dollar General. I didn’t like you the day you fucking put me through the Spanish Inquisition after his and my first date WHILE I WAS ON THE FUCKING CLOCK (seriously, who asks their cashier about what they like to do in their free time just to say, “Oh, we don’t do that?”). I didn’t like you when you asked if the neighborhood kids were my grandchildren. I didn’t like you when you stopped at MY HOUSE to b itch and moan about how he lied to you and how he was with you when he wasn’t with me (do you honestly think I didn’t fucking know?). Carol, I have NEVER liked you, as a customer or as a person. Other than my interactions with you leaving a poisonous taste in my mouth, you don’t even appear on my radar. Like, EVER. You drive by my house and I see who’s coming down the road, and then I go back to what I’m doing - all I fucking know is the person driving the four-wheeler is someone I don’t have anything to do with or, I DON’T FUCKING LIKE THEM. My dislike for you has absolutely NOTHING to do with him. I even TOLD him I don’t care if you two remained friends, but he shouldn’t expect me to go out of my way to be nice to you. You are a fucking psycho hose b ease and I want NOTHING to do with you, so he needed to let me know when you stopped b y so I can make myself scarce - because I loved him that much NOT to control who his friends were. Since he and I are no longer together, maybe you should focus your efforts on winning him over (if you can) and “take back your man.” At the very least, get fucking laid cuz your obsession with how I treat you while I’m at MY JOB is getting tiresome.

Oh, by the way, I will continue to treat you as I do every other customer because I am very good at my job and I’m not going to let a venomous, manipulating cunt of a snake cause me to do otherwise. So the next time you show up on my shift, buckle up cunt-cup cuz I’m going to show you just how much I despise your black soul - by killing you with a smile.

One to Quiet Many

I have been very open about how my brain operates - the fact it goes eighty thousand miles a minute; every thought jumbles together; and the voices that all sound like me, constantly speaking every. single. thought. All of the time, the noise doesn’t stop. If you want a mental picture of what it’s like, imagine a roomful of people - hundreds of people - each one yelling on the phone and to each other, with a death metal rock band playing their music in the background - but at full blast. Throw in a few sirens in there and you have what goes on in my head every single day. I honestly can’t tell you when I noticed my brain was a cacophony of voices, but it’s been like this for as long as I can remember. The one time I mentioned it to my father, he dismissed me and said never to speak of it again - probably because he was worried I had schizophrenia like his brother had. I’m not worried about having schizophrenia much - none of my voices are telling me to hurt anyone or myself. They are all just shouting to be heard; kinda like 14 kindergarten classes wanting the one teacher’s attention.

It’s exhausting constantly performing triage with every. single. thought. It’s caused many an argument, and many times got me into a lot of trouble. Music helps drown it out some and talking to myself helps me keep my focus, but nothing had ever quieted my mind.

Then, one Michigan autumn day, I met Jen Fer-Fer at the beginning of the new school year. We were like souls - both misunderstood by those around us; weird, strange “girls-that-weren’t-quite-girls.” We were both outcasts, essentially; neither of us belonging to a “click,” but able to converse in between the “clicks” without too much trouble. We were wall-flowers - neither of us liking the limelight…no, we both hated the limelight and the attention that brought on our introverted heads. We both had the same warped, dark sense of humor. We delighted in the same things - both of us were avid readers (although Jen was much smarter than I). We also came from less than stellar homes. As our friendship grew, I noticed my voices weren’t as loud. They faded into the background, like the roaring wind dying down into a gentle breeze. The cockeyed way I saw things had become more clear - there was no way I was going to be able to parachute off of the roof of the house with a sheet. In a way, my world, which had always been ruled by chaos, became orderly and centered. I hadn’t noticed that until recently. I enjoyed every minute we spent together in school, at my house, at her house. SHE was the person I would rather spend time with over anyone else. Jen Fer-Fer was…no, IS more than my high school best friend.

She is “my person.” The one I went to when I had a problem, the one I vented my frustration to, the one that gave the greatest piece of advice exactly when I needed and how I needed to hear it. The one in which I confided all of my dreams and fears. The one who would be honest with me if a dress made me look like a frigging hot air balloon (I swear, I’m burning those Homecoming pictures and never buying a dress without her advice again). Lol, she’s the person who would give my homemade Valentine’s Day card to my crush because I was too chicken to do it myself. Yep, Jen Fer-Fer is “my person.”

Now, before y’all get dumb, let me tell you, I am weird. When I say someone is “my person,” that most certainly doesn’t mean I’m gonna have sex with them, or marry them, or whatever. “My person,” to me, simply means the individual is the one I want to spend time with. Me. A person who dislikes being around other people wanting to spend time with another person.

Let that marinate for a second… I don’t like people. People exhaust me. Their vibes tend to stick to me and if they’re having a bad day, then my day goes downhill. Even when I try to shake it off, it sticks like a smelly fart in a bathroom with no exhaust fan - don’t ask how I know that. Working in retail gave me puh-lenty of reasons not to like people in general, so when there’s one I prefer to be around, that’s “my person.” Whether it’s reciprocated or not, “my person” isn’t exhausting to me; their vibe doesn’t stick on me and make my day worse. When I see or hear from “my person,” even just for a minute, my day always seems better and brighter.

And it never goes away. I hadn’t seen, nor spoken to Jen Fer-Fer for years until we found each other on Facebook. The messaging back and forth catching up on the years we had missed from each others’ lives was just like when we were in high school writing notes to one another. My late husband always remarked that I was in a better mood whenever I got a message from her - or when she caught his “pun disease” and posted god-awful dad jokes on my timeline. When I visited her on the way back home from West Virginia, I was kind of nervous that she wasn’t “my person” anymore.

I don’t know why I worried about it - Jen Fer-Fer and I were still thick as thieves in my mind. I didn’t want to leave when I had to (stupid job). I wanted to hang out with her; make sure her hubby is indeed the man she should be with (as is a high school best friend’s job to ensure the heart of bestie is not broken). She is still “my person.”

But she’s not the only one I have. I have one other. Actually, he was the one who had got me thinking about the phrase, “my person.” He was venting about how he didn’t like people when I joked, “What about me?” He said, “You don’t count as people. You’re my person.” Y’all, my soul was touched when he said that. No one had ever called me “my person” - they called me plenty of other things (some not flattering), but never “my person.” I said as much to him and said, “I call them “my center.” I don’t have too many, but they always seem to make my world less lopsided. You’re the second one.” Oh, yeah, we had a GREAT night that night.

I still feel the same way about him. My day feels brighter when I see him, my soul feels a touch lighter (though still confused - I think I’m to be cursed with a confused soul for the rest of my life). Whether he feels the same about me, I don’t know. Like I said, my feeling towards “my person” doesn’t diminish; it doesn’t fade. And if it’s not reciprocated, that’s fine - as I’ve said, I’m not everyone’s cup of tea; but, they’ll always be “my person.”

SO! If you have someone that makes you feel like your chaos quiets, and you would rather be with them than your own family, tell them they’re your “my person” and tell them why - for whatever reason that makes the individual your person. And speak it from your damned heart! Don’t just tell it to someone to get laid - for fuck’s sake as if THAT hasn’t been done before…

Keys

House keys. Most people don’t give them second thought about the key to their front door - except when it goes missing. They loan it out to people who watch their pets while they are away, bring the mail inside, water the houseplants - that kind of thing. Typically it’s given back when the owner returns and loaned out again, to a different person perhaps, the next time it’s needed. There’s nothing odd about it - it’s been done since the invention of door locks.

I don’t do it. For me, my house is my sanctuary away from the outside. Behind my locked front door is my world; untouched by others who want to “change",” or “correct,” or just be all judgy about my refuge. The only place on the planet I can be myself; where I don’t have to worry about if I’m frowning too much, or being too quiet, or being too loud, or being too anything, really. My house is the only place I have that I can be . To me, someone seeing the inside of my house is as if they are taking a glimpse into my soul; the very essence of who I am. The people who are given a key to my house isn’t just to water the plants and it’s taken back. The key to my house, to my sanctuary, is only given to those I want in my life and to know the REAL me - not the one of a thousand masks I wear every day. I don’t need to use all of the fingers on my hand to count how many people fall into the category of “Key Bearer.” It sounds pretentious, but there it is - I’m a weirdo.

Because of the way I view the giving of house keys, when I am told to keep a house key “just in case,” I don’t take it to mean that I have it for an emergency. I take it as the giver wants me in their life, to see and know their own imperfections; to know the real them and not the mask they wear when they interact with me. I do not take receiving another’s house key lightly. I feel it is a humbling privilege to be allowed access into another’s life, especially when the other isn’t so crazy about people (kinda like me), and they feel comfortable enough - no, they trust me enough to want me to know them and not betray them. Given the fact that trusting people is hard for me, I feel that it must have been hard for them as well. As I said, I do not take the privilege lightly.

Which is why I was devastated when he demanded I give him his house key back. Oh, I didn’t let the devastation show on my face at the time. I was far too angry with him when I pulled it off of my key ring and threw it across the room - but I was heartbroken. He didn’t want me in his life anymore; he didn’t trust me not to betray him (though I have no clue as to why). It’s also why I changed the locks to my house. I never got my key back from him, and if someone doesn’t want me in their life, there’s no reason for them to be in mine.

I will say, it’ll be an extremely long time before I give my house key to someone who isn’t living in my house and paying rent. Once bitten, twice shy.

That seems to be the recurring theme of my life…

Time Promised To No Man

I replaced a toilet and toilet supply line shut-off valve today. A toilet, that was supposed to have been replaced six years ago by my late husband - he even made me promise not to do it while he was at work. It wasn’t like I didn’t know how to replace a toilet - between my 12+ hour a day nanny job during the week, cleaning my dad’s house and doing some of his chores around said house on the weekends while the sister who lived with him sat on her ass and watched television, and cleaning my own house in between while my late husband worked an 8 hour day and played video games all day on his days off and my teenage son did school and video games - I didn’t have the time to replace it, but my late husband knew me well. Even if I had forgotten because of the stroke, there’s always YouTube University and he would have gone to work worrying what he was going to come home to. So, I made the promise eagerly so it wouldn’t be something I had to fret about among the eighty thousand other things.

Welp, it never happened. And five flushing mechanisms, four flappers, a gallon of CLR, and finding out the shut-off valve that “doesn’t shut off anymore” later, there is a new valve to the supply line and a new toilet where the old one stood. It took two trips into Manhattan and one to Clay Center (both about half an hour trips each way), a lot of cussing - “I am so fucking sick of men and their fucking promises only to have to fucking do it myself when they ain’t fucking around!” - and me tossing the old toilet out of the back door onto the patio in fit of rage - “He fucking PROMISED!” - and asking my son if it was my idea not to get a new toilet when we renovated the bathroom for the second time because I was sure I had one picked out - but i am a stickler for staying within budget, so it could have been me who decided not to replace the toilet back then. “He said no, because he wanted the one with the heated seats and dual flush - it was $300 back then.”

That bit of memory recall didn’t help my mood in the slightest.

I guess my anger, even my irrational anger taken out on the poor old toilet who had served and lived well past its prime, is I don’t ask people to do things I’m perfectly capable of doing myself. I ask them to do it because I don’t have the time to do it and if all you’re doing is leisure time, there’s no reason why you can’t help out - especially if you insist on doing the task.

But that wasn’t the end of my anger. After I turned the old toilet into a jigsaw puzzle of ceramic pieces (this was after the second time of going into Manhattan - I HATE traveling in that city), I saw the convoluted way my late husband had installed the toilet closet flange (that’s its official name - not the “ring thingy that has the screws sticking out of it,” apparently), and placed all the different things needed because the waste drain pipe (another piece of necessary nomenclature, by the way) was below the floor. Why he didn’t bother extending the drain pipe, I do not know. I had left the project when the floor was torn up and he had said, “WOMAN! Go get me a sandwich,” when I asked why he was doing something a certain way. Oh, I got him back for that one. He got his sandwich - I am a good wife, after all. He got bologna and cheese - neither had their wrappers removed and the plate was tossed in the dirt with a, “Here’s your fucking sandwich.” Not gonna lie, I was disappointed the sandwich didn’t flop onto the ground, but that would have just been the cherry on top. After that, I left him to his own devices on the renovation project.

Seriously, when I ask why you are doing something a certain way, I legitimately want to know. If it’s because “that’s just how it’s done,” which was my late husband’s go-to response, rest assured, you will get an alternative way of doing it. I’m a huge believer in the adage, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” Before PITA gets on my ass, I would never skin a cat - I’m just using the phrase. I just know there’s about a hundred different ways to do something, some of which are faster - just not necessarily safer - so by explaining it to me like a three year old, I fully understand why you are doing it a certain way.

Anyhoo, I had known the pipe was lower than the floor prior to replacing the toilet, but the Frankenstein’s Monster I came across I did not know about. Oh, I figured out how to correct it with what I had after watching YouTube and using common sense and a bit of creative deductive reasoning. But I was cursing up a storm - the inner Feminist had been unleashed and when you pair her with the Bitch, they are unstoppable. They can accomplish anything. They’re just both really, really angry. At men. All men. Actually, anything with a penis. Except dogs. Male dogs get passes because they’re furry and cuddly. Humans, not so much. Thankfully my helper (who has a penis) was understanding that I wasn’t mad at him, because once I got that damned toilet in place, the screws on the flange were juuuust off centered. He remembered the toilet was like that before and what needed to be done (slight adjustment of screws) and we had the toilet seated. Putting the tank on was easy and then it was time for the water test.

Now, I can do plumbing. I’m just not very good at it. Doing a couple of trips to town to get parts I needed or forgot is the norm and usually it takes a few tries to finally stop all the leaks and life can continue on. I was prepared for that - to a point. One trip to Manhattan to get the stuff I would need at 8:15am, then a trip to Clay Center to get the shut-off valve I had just discovered I needed at 10:38am, then another trip to Manhattan around 12:30pm to get the proper frigging supply line because the shut off valve was the wrong size and ALL of the supply lines I had were faucet supply lines (who the fuck knew that toilet supply lines and faucet supply lines were two different sizes…) - that was not planned on because it had never happened that bad before. So I went down into Spider King’s domain again (I had to shut the water off when I discovered the valve was broken) and shouted for my helper to flush the toilet. Given how my entire day had gone, I was expecting a frigging waterfall under my house - my helper frantically shutting off the new valve, scrambling to get towels to clean the leaks coming from the tank and toilet. No lie, that was the imagery filling my mind as I descended the ladder. I was pretty much to the point of “Fuck it, you whippersnappers are gonna see how it was in the old days of pissing and shitting in a bucket.”

Not. One. Leak. And now, four hours later, still no leaks. Honestly, I don’t attribute the lack of leaks to my abilities. I attribute it to my late husband, who decided to visit me while I was in Menard’s getting the proper supply line. I could feel him smile at me and patting my shoulder. I heard him whisper full of confidence, “You got this.” To which I silently replied, “I love you Kristopher, but fuck you.” And I felt his chagrin. No lie, I do believe my late husband asked God for a favor because there should have been leaks - I know my talents and no leaks is suspicious. I’ve already made plans to visit the Spider Kingdom next weekend to adjust the jacks under my house - I think shimmying my ass towards the bathroom to check and make sure is a good idea.

My point in telling this tale is two fold. First, the amount of shit that is needed for household plumbing is fucking ridiculous - make all the shit the same and leave it the fuck alone. Not all of us can afford plumbers. The second thing is for any men who read this: When your significant other asks you to do something, please, for the love all that is fucking holy, get it done. ESPECIALLY if you know, have a suspicion, or even think she’s perfectly capable of accomplishing the task. She’s not asking you because she doesn’t want to do it - cuz, let’s face it, us girls do not like being damsels in distress. It’s because she doesn’t have the time and is asking you for your help - if you would take the time away from your phone, your computer screen or your television. If you can’t get to it within the week, just let her know when you plan on getting to it. Don’t just tell her you’ll do it, then you up and die and she’s stuck with the repairs - believe me, it’ll happen.

It happened to me.

Perfectly Imperfect

I’ve recently been told that I am too open; that I should be careful with what I tell people and what pictures of myself that I post online. I’ve been told by both my husband and ex that I’m too nice; I’m too kind; I’m too giving. I’ve been told that I’m too harsh. I’ve been told that I’m too sensitive. I’ve been told that I’m a colossal bitch.

I’m always “too” something. I’m sure the people who told me these things thought they had my best intentions at heart, but honestly, I don’t think they truly did. I think they were more threatened by the listed “flaws” because it’s what they do not have.

Yes, I am an open person - especially now - and I honestly don’t see a problem with that. If you ask me a question, I will answer it. There’s only 3 things I won’t tell you and that’s my social security number, my bank account number and my mother’s maiden name - and the first two are simply because I don’t do numbers well and don’t have them memorized. The pictures I post online? What about them? It’s my face on a dating app. How are people going to recognize me when we meet? We both wear white roses? That’s cliche and kind of dumb. Are you talking about the nudies sent to husbands and boyfriends? What’s wrong with that? I’m not running for political office - which, sending nudes to an SO shouldn’t be a bad thing for election campaigns - and it usually cheers them up from a shitty day. Do I care if they show everyone? No, its my body, not my heart or soul. Are you worried about recognition and safety? Like, someone would recognize my face in a crowd at Walmart and decide to do nefarious things to me - is that what you’re worried about? Really? I’ve spent 47 years on this planet and the only person to do something to me without my consent was a handsy uncle - do you really think I’m worried I might get raped by a complete stranger? I know I’m going to catch flack for this, but I’m going to say it anyway: You can’t rape the willing. I like sex. If someone held a gun to my face and wanted to force themselves on me, I would take all the fun away and probably start talking dirty to them while pawing at their pants to get to the goods. I’m not stupid - I don’t go down dark alleys or “shady” sides of town - and I trust my intuition when it comes to my safety. I spent 45 years being cautious of everyone and everything. I’m tired of doing it. If I’m open with who I am, then that’s less time spent yakking about myself and more time getting to know them. If I’m open with what I think, then that’s less time spent wondering what I meant by what I said - cuz God knows I’ll explain it a thousand times over. I talk most things to death. If I’m open with people, then they know who they’re dealing with - and what they are getting themselves into - and there’s less chance for misunderstandings.

So, for those of you who think I’m too open - bite me.

I’m “too nice,” “too kind,” “too giving” for several reasons. Number one, I’m kind, not nice. “Nice” means I did you a favor, now you do me one - I was nice moving a tenant down here. I expect to be paid back in cash or in favors. “Kind” is when you do that with no expectation of someone returning the gesture, or doing anything to repay your kindness - I was kind when I paid for a stranger to get her tire changed at Walmart so she could get home for Christmas. I didn’t know her name, she didn’t know my address, so there was no way she could pay me back. I will say I am more kind than I am nice because I was raised with the notion of “make them owe you” which, having that mindset led to much disappointment in my young life because rarely was I ever repaid for my good deed - even by my own family. So, when I do something you would consider nice, please know that I have absolutely no expectation of you owing me anything unless it was something we agreed upon in advance of the act. I’m “too kind” primarily because this world is severely lacking kindness and instead of complaining about it, I guess my soul decided to do something about it. Kinda the whole “Pay it Forward” mentality. Well, the world hasn’t gotten kinder, but I’ve been blessed with so many acts of kindness - all of which I certainly don’t deserve - that I’m going to continue doing it. Maybe one day, the world will become more kind. Secondly, I’m “too giving” for a couple of reasons; the primary one has more to do with self-preservation than altruism. I give as much as I can for the simple fact that if something were to happen to a person, and I could have prevented it, I would never forgive myself. So, I will do everything I can, for as long as I can, to help someone - most times to the detriment of my own mental health - but living with guilt is far worse. I continue to do this until I can no longer help them because they are just taking advantage of me. I know this, I see this, and I walk away. Unless you are family. Then I basically have a mental breakdown, give you one last chance to pull your ass up out of the hole you found yourself in and if you don’t, I walk away leaving you swinging by the rope you just hung yourself with. I do this so I can live with my conscious, not because I’m a “giving” person. Oddly enough, the ones who have said that to me were, and are, the recipients of my giving nature - yet, they both complained about it as if it were a flaw.

Well, if my kindness and giving nature are flaws, then they are flaws I don’t want to change in myself. Both are intertwined, both are necessary for my spiritual and emotional well-being. If you don’t like them, feel free to keep walking - neither one of those “flaws” are ever going to change, so eat a bag of dicks.

I’m too “harsh”… I am generally a laid back person. However, there are two things I have a hard time swallowing: stupidity and hypocrisy. Y’all see why I despise the American government and religion, now doncha? Hypocrisy is something I have lived with for 45 years of my life and I cannot abide by it - I WILL call you out on it, and I won’t be nice about it. It was a MAJOR source of contention between my father and I, then between my late husband and I. The whole, “do as I say, but not as I do” thing - yeah… Right now, remembering things is making my blood boil. I don’t ask anything of anyone that I myself am not willing to do, and if I see that I am, I correct my actions and apologize - my apologies are never just words; I actually become more mindful of my actions so that I don’t do it again. And nine times out of ten, I don’t. But when I’m confronted with someone else’s hypocrisy, I become exceedingly harsh and usually combative. My late husband faced that whenever he complained about how much time my son was on the computer. My husband was rarely off of his computer - the only time he wasn’t playing his video games was when he worked his job or I whined about spending time with him. Again, not what he wanted to hear.

Stupidity gets a harshness because stupid is you didn’t think about it, or you knew better, but didn’t care. For instance, me climbing a tree at 47 years old. Did I honestly think I wasn’t going to pull something? I didn’t think about it, nor did I care. I fucked around and found out - I wrenched my shoulder. Usually, if it’s something stupid that was done, and it’s something I had done myself in the past, a person usually gets a pass or a chuckled, “Dumbass.” How could I give someone the business if I did the same thing at their age? Usually the harshness is saved for political and religious tripe that most people don’t stop to think about before they engage their mouths. That’s when I get kind of shitty.

I can’t say I’ll change that flaw, but I know it’s been curbed greatly. I’ve learned that Forrest Gump’s momma was right - Stupid is as stupid does. I’ve accepted that stupidity is a part of the human experience and only give grief when someone asks if they were being stupid. Then all bets are off and it’s open season ;)

My being too sensitive…well, yeah. Duh. I’ve always been an emotional person. I’ve always felt things deeply. Words hurt me just as bad as actions do, except actions leave bad ass scars. Words leave festering wounds. The thing is, because I’m sensitive, I can usually read your mood before you even know what you’re feeling. I know when people are annoyed with me; I know when people are angry with me; I know when someone is fixin’ to pop me in the face. These are things I learned as survival techniques - its a by-product of growing up around domestic violence. You learn to read a person really quick to know if they’re safe or not. My “sensitivity” has also played more in my ability to trust situations and people more than anything else (except Buddy - if he barks excitedly at you, he likes you and that means you are a good person and worthy of me at least giving you a chance). Being sensitive isn’t a flaw - it’s a gift; and one I don’t intend on squandering.

If you think I’m too sensitive, then find a glory hole in a cactus and fuck it, cuz I ain’t changing that one.

The “bitch” usually happens when I not only draw the line in the sand, I fucking carve it in the concrete below and it gets violated. It’s told to me when I feel the boundaries I’ve set have been violated by a person. For example, a significant other letting me know where they are at when they aren’t home at the time I was expecting them to arrive or be. It has nothing to do with “keeping tabs” on them - they are full grown adults and can come and go as they please. Its so I don’t worry about them and it causes emotional stress (being a worrier is a flaw I would like to fix in myself because worry denotes a lack of faith); should I make enough dinner for them, or should I just make enough for me and worry about them being angry with me because I didn’t make any for them; or, should I lock the door when I go to bed hoping they remembered their house key, or leave it unlocked and sleep with one eye open in case someone other than them walks in (that’s happened before and scared the fuck out of me). When I brought this up to my husband, I was accused of acting like a bitch - I was being controlling and clingy. No, I explained to him why the boundary was there - besides, its just common decency to let your spouse know if you’re coming home or not; especially when you demand she do the same thing. That wasn’t the thing he wanted to hear, apparently. When I had my stroke, the bitch was locked up; for which I’m sure most people were grateful for, especially my late husband. Except…I wasn’t the same person. In situations I would have lost my shit in, I didn’t - he never realized I was looking at the situation from an objective viewpoint and from that vantage point, I could see how BOTH my husband and son were wrong and I calmly pointed it out to them. Oh, I still expounded on my opinions - but only on topics I was passionate about. My late husband wasn’t really crazy about me after the stroke because I “was not the strong, independent woman I married.” My father wasn’t all that crazy about me either because I would call him out on his bullshit - he had a plethora of narcissistic tendencies and I would point them out to him (mainly because I saw the same traits in myself pre-stroke and didn’t want my dad to go through what I went through). So, as to the “bitch” I am damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I think I’m gonna say she’s a flaw that I should only use when it’s necessary to show the individual that they are about 30 seconds from a beat down by a crazy woman.

So, if you think I’m a bitch, also know “I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother; I’m a sinner, I’m a saint; I do not feel ashamed.” - Meredith Brooks. Best song EVER.

Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad

Making friends isn’t something I do well. Upon meeting me, you will find me quiet and reserved - most people would say I am shy. People who know me well would laugh at that. Once you know me, I am not shy. Truthfully, when I first meet you, I’m getting a read on you. Don't ask me what I’m reading - I have no idea, but my picture is next to the definition of the phrase, “What are you eyeballing?” No lie. That’s been asked of me many times - think I might respond with “Seeing if I can tolerate your presence” when I’m asked it next.

Once I find your presence acceptable, that doesn’t mean I just start talking. Oh, I may make a comment on the clothes you are wearing, or on your shoes if I like them, but usually I’m still quiet. You see, I don’t know if I like you enough to engage in conversation. Peopling is exhausting for me. Even conversing with my own son can be too much, so I conserve my mental batteries for people who are important to me. I just met you - outside of being a human being, you aren’t’ that important to me, and I’d rather converse with my child for three hours talking about Minecraft than talk to an absolute stranger - don’t test me, I’ve done it.

So, now there’s the small talk. I hate small talk. As I’ve said, conversing with people drains my mental batteries and small talk, in my mind, is a waste of time and energy. Talking about the weather is pointless - we both have eyes and access to weather reports. Discussing the weather is stupid. If you want me to engage in conversation, ask my opinion on something important - but be prepared for an opinion you may not like - and we can talk about that. For me, the energy I put forth for conversing with people needs to be worth it. Asking me what type of movies I like to watch, or what kind of music I like to listen to can be asked in text messages; talking about how you and I view the world? Now THAT’S worth the energy. Why? Because that shows more about a person than what movies or music they enjoy.

So, having said all that, I have done something I have sworn I would never do. I feel silly having done it; it’s not natural or organic. It reeks of desperation and not to mention the stigma surrounding it. PLUS, half the time it’s filtered - and as you know, I am done being filtered. I’m strange, weird, crazy, profound and perfectly imperfect. I have my flaws. Some I don’t like - I’m working on correcting them. Some I adore - I ain’t changing those flaws for anyone. I don’t like going out to crowded places (I despise grocery shopping and haven’t set foot in Aggieville in years); I tend to keep to myself and keep close to home, so whenever I do get overwhelmed and need to leave in a hurry, I don’t have far to go until I get to my sanctuary; and while I tried to change the “house mouse” aspect of myself, I found that I rather like my quasi-solitary way. However, sometimes I get lonely, and although I do have friends, there’s not that many - and they have their own lives to live (meaning they aren’t waiting around for me to get lonely and actually WANT to people - they know it doesn’t happen very often).

So, what did I do?

I joined a dating app.

Now, before you throw Two to Tango at me, I am truly looking for friends to do stuff with. I tend to get along better with men than I do women in friendship - most of the female friends I’ve had tend to get butthurt when I don’t call or visit them enough - and for most of my life, I’ve been in the “friend zone” or “sister zone,” meaning I gave the guys great advice from the female perspective and kicked their asses when they got too big for their britches. However, with every romantic relationship I’ve had (a whopping THREE serious relationships), I had set aside the male friendships so as not to court trouble - avoiding the appearance of impropriety and all that. And once my husband died, any friendships I had with his friends fizzled to nothing - especially when they realized I was not interested in having sex with them (they were like brothers to me) nor was I interested in a romantic relationship with them.

Assholes.

Anyhoo, I opened an account, specifically stating I am looking for friends. I am not opposed to the “with benefits” part, because, let’s face it - I like sex. A lot. And I’m not so innocent that I don’t understand I have “needs.” But I do NOT want a romantic relationship and all the messiness with that because I am NOT ready for it. There’s been a few that I find funny and could hang out with, but I have seen more pictures of penises than a porn casting director. However, as nice as the pics are, I cannot bring myself to having sex with just any ol’ person. For me, there needs to be a connection - which I had stated on my profile, if the dick pic senders would have bothered to read. At the time I typed the profile, I had no idea what that connection was - thinking someone is attractive isn’t enough for me to get hot and bothered. As I spoke with various individuals over the last two weeks, I pondered what that connection was. What was it about my son’s biological father (my first serious relationship), my late husband, and my current ex (I’m fairly certain there will be more in my future - I’m not everyone’s cup of tea) that made me want to shag them? Each man is very different - especially in their personalities, ages, looks, professions - yet there were similarities. However the similarities weren’t what made me want to be with them - for fuck’s sake, I can swing a damned hammer and build shit (doesn’t look professional, but then again, I am not a tradeswoman). What was it that made me take the plunge and jump into the bed with them?

It was trust.

With my first, it was trust that he truly thought I was attractive (something my 20 year old mind hadn’t had all throughout her teenage years). With my late husband, it was trust that he would love me no matter how weird I got (everyone knows I’m a strange duck), or how badly I acted or screwed up (which I did frequently, but I admitted my failure - always said I wasn’t a very good wife to him in the beginning; rectified said failure and learned from my mistakes) because I always felt like the love others had for me was conditional. With my current ex, it was trust that he would accept me for me - my flaws and my strengths. Something I have never had in my life - acceptance (aside from my inner circle - all 4 of them). Trust is the connection I need.

And it’s something I don’t give freely. Trust, for me, is the bridge from being a friendly acquaintance to being a friend. Everything else - like acceptance, love, and loyalty - is built on trust. My first cheated on me - apparently he thought me losing weight was a bad thing and I wasn’t attractive anymore. My late husband wanted me to not only change the flaws I wanted to change (constant anger, holding onto grudges, impatience), but the ones I liked as well (independence, a trusting heart, seeing the good in people). My current ex couldn’t accept me as I am, I guess - a flawed human trying to be better. My first, I just left - he broke my trust and I wasn’t willing to forgive him for it (not like he was apologizing anyway). My late husband - I can’t blame him. I, too, tried to change him in the beginning of our marriage until I realized I was the problem, not him - then the stroke happened and that’s when the wheels started coming off of the wagon. But, his last year of life, we both learned that love was unconditional, and once we accepted that, we were in a pretty good place before the cancer affected his brain. With my current ex, he threw me out of his life as if I were trash. I don’t know exactly why, and I’ll probably never know. I’m going to venture a guess and say it’s because we are both broken in the same way - except I know I’m broken and I’m trying to fix the parts I don’t like about myself where he is happy with himself. That is perfectly okay - laudable even - and I don’t begrudge him for it. I just didn’t know his communication style as I said in Two to Tango.

So! Long story short (or as my son would say, TLDR): If you want to get with me, you have to earn my trust. And right now, I’m inclined to not to trust many individuals. I’m trying not to paint all people with the same brush, but when you get burned as many times as I have…well, once bitten, twice shy ain’t just the name of an album.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

I was just asked where do I see myself in 10 years - “What do you want your life to be like” is what was asked specifically. Honestly, I don’t see myself alive, but then I didn’t think I’d live past 40, but here I am!

Thirty years ago, I had big plans. I was going to become a journalist. I was going to be an investigative reporter that would put Geraldo Rivera to shame. Riding on the fame I garnered from that, I was going to become a news anchor that made Tom Brokaw and Barbara Walters look like amateurs. I was going to be a best selling author - Stephen King would be my biggest fan. I was going to find the love of my life, have some kids all by the time I reached 50.

Clearly that didn’t pan out.

Twenty-five years ago, holding my newborn son, my life changed and so did my plans. I looked down at his scrunchy face as he slept peacefully in my arms and whispered, “It’s just you and me, kid.” My plan was to raise my son with love, kindness and patience. No longer was I interested in finding a husband - men were slave masters in my twenty-one year old mind. They expected the woman to work 40 hours a week, cook, clean, perform their “womanly duties,” take care of the children and tend to the man’s every whim. If that isn’t met, war was declared - at least it was with my son’s biological father. I was determined to raise my boy to look at women as equals - not a mommy to clean up after them, not a body to keep their bed warm - but a human being just as worthy of the respect and dignity he is shown. My plan was to return to work in retail and climb the corporate ladder - what else could I do? I didn’t have a college education (there weren’t many programs for women like me - I wasn’t on welfare) and retail was all I knew.

Well, that was half-assed accomplished. I would love to say that I raised my boy with love, kindness, and patience but it would be a lie. I discovered I despise children between the ages of 8 and 12 - they’re worse than toddlers, who do not know any better, so teaching is called for. Preteens? A punch in the face is what they need. They’re little assholes who still act like toddlers when they don’t get their own way and CLEARLY know better than to test mom. My sisters were the ones that showed me that I hated the preteen years. I went through this with my three younger sisters (the youngest is 5 years older than my son) so I knew what I was going to face. My son fucked around and found out plenty of times, and because I was both mom and dad, I had to be especially harsh. However, I worked at Walmart - kindness left that company LONG before Sam Walton died and my patience died a horrible death (and I’m not a very patient person to begin with) when dealing with stupidity day in and day out at work. I had absolutely no patience left when I got home and got a sit-rep from my father on the stupid bullshit my son would pull. Surprisingly enough, during that time, I met Kristopher, my late husband. He had the patience of Job with me. During our courtship he got the “Nine Faces of Sue.” I was up front with him - I was looking for a father for my child and someone I could spend the rest of my life with. I didn’t want to get married. I didn’t need a piece of paper and some holy man to tell me who my heart belonged to. But I wanted someone to help me raise my son because I was getting close to selling the boy to the gypsies and having zero regrets for doing so. It was Kristopher’s idea to get married - and because I loved him, I agreed.

For 9 years, our plan was to work long enough to retire, sell our house, buy an RV and travel around the country fulfilling our bucket lists in our retirement. If only the American health care system wasn’t as shitty as it is. Kristopher had ulcerative colitis since he was 12, and it was only getting worse the older he got. By the time we got married, I had already drained my life’s savings ($10,000) to clear his past medical and financial debts. When his medications weren’t working and the doctors wanted him to use Remicade, the boondoggle that is our health insurance system caused me to put the cost of the drug on my credit card - it was $2,000 (that was our out of pocket - it only went up from there). Kris needed the drug every 8 weeks - that’s $16,000 every year, plus the yearly $2,240 prescription drug cost for his other medications on $52,000/year salary from two people (Obama’s bullshit healthcare crap only caused everything to increase in price - not the decrease he promised). We tried to recover from it, and we were making headway once Kristopher moved to Smithfield and I became a live-out nanny. The plan was to get all the medical bills paid off, get his student loan paid off, get the cars paid off and his credit card paid off and shredded. We hit every single target. Then we got the cancer diagnosis in 2019. Kris died three months and five days after our 10th wedding anniversary.

So, our retirement plans didn’t work out.

After Kris died, I threw myself into my job - I had a lot of catching up to do if I want to have a decent nest egg because, let’s face it, the U.S. Government isn’t going to let anyone from Gen X onward to retire. We weren’t baby-making factories like our parents and reduced the future tax pool - damn us to hell for knowing we can’t afford 10 kids. I wanted to get my savings back up - that was my only goal for 2021. I couldn’t think any further than that. I knew I wanted to be a store manager of the Dollar General I worked at - it was the next logical step for me in my retail career. I spent the rest of 2020 and most of 2021 with that mindset.

Then I decided to get a tooth pulled and because I couldn’t afford to see my doctor while paying for my husband’s cancer treatment in 2019 and 2020, the dentist advised me to go see one. Usually when a dentist says that, there’s nothing wrong with the tooth, it could very well be your heart. And, since I did have a stroke in 2016 and hadn’t taken my medication in over a year because we couldn’t afford the extra cost during 2019-2020, it was a good chance there was a problem with my heart. All the money I had saved and planned to save from my inheritance after the house and renovations were done was gone by the end of 2021. HOWEVER! That didn’t alter my plans - I was still working towards becoming a store manager and I was able to save little by little.

2022. The year that the entire fucking country lost its shit and decided Biden was responsible for the inflation that happened and continues to happen today. Oh for fuck’s sake! BUSINESSES WILL NOT SWALLOW LOSSES!!! Shutting the country down in 2020 caused an ENORMOUS amount of profit to be lost and those businesses that didn’t go under during the pandemic were going to recover those losses. I saw this coming when I got the blood money after Kristopher died; it’s why I didn’t buy all the gizmos and gadgets I wanted to get but didn’t need. It’s why I didn’t take my car into the dealership to have it looked over for maintenance. It’s why I paid off the house as soon as I did - I didn’t want to pay more than I had to in interest. I was hoping Russia wouldn’t do stupid shit, but, well, it’s Russia. Then all hell broke loose on the economy. In May of 2022 I had lost all hope of EVER getting a decent amount in savings and decided I would just focus on the store manager position. THAT fell into the shitter when the current store manager decided because the economy took a massive hit, her retirement took a hard hit and she wouldn’t be able to retire in 2022.

I gave up on making future goals. It’s pointless. They never work out either through my own stupidity, hubris, or just the universe fucking with my head. I stuck to making short term goals and plans; like, what am I going to make for dinner when I get home, or I should mow the yard this weekend since it’s going to rain Monday. Making long term plans…it’s frivolous. Even states in the Bible not to do it because tomorrow isn’t promised to anyone and you wasted all that time planning instead of living. I was feeling pretty low when I had a conversation with a customer at Dollar General about life.

“Life was intended to be experienced, not tolerated.”

Two days later, on a weekend when I was overwhelmed with life and all the B.S. it brought with it, my ex mowed his way into my life. The world didn’t end when I accepted his help (accepting help is difficult for me) and when he countered my offer of beer as payment with a dinner, those words echoed in my head. I accepted to his dinner proposal - when I wasn’t as busy.

That was when I started making plans. Not financial plans. Not professional plans. Life plans. I still want to hike Pike’s Peak. I still want to learn how to ride horses. I want to sky dive. I want to publish my works. I want to go into a hot air balloon. I want to see the ocean and feel the sand (is it different from the Great Lakes? I don’t know). I want to live life as full as I possibly could. I wanted memories that I could hang onto as I’m on my deathbed and smile as I relive each one in my mind. I didn’t care about money - I just want enough to keep the lights on and food in my stomach. I wanted to live life without overthinking it - just take the fucking leap. If you fall on your ass, just get back up and go again. I had decided I would enter this new mindset with a new ‘do, manicure and a pedicure (never had those done professionally before) for my birthday. It was a waste of money because I wouldn’t be able to maintain my new hair color, I worked retail and had the worst hands and feet (told ya, I ain’t no girlie girl - they get washed and nails clipped. That’s it); but it was the experience of getting pampered that I wanted.

Aannnd the universe decided to implode on me as it usually does when I make plans for my birthday. I never got the experience. My soul was weary with my plans always going to shit. HOWEVER, after soul-searching at my sister’s that July 4th, and realizing I had treated the kind neighbor who had mowed my yard horribly before I had left (we weren’t even dating at that time) I decided I was going to rectify my actions and alter my mindset from defeatism to optimism - the universe can suck a bag of dicks if it thinks it’s going to keep me down. I set a date with him for dinner. I hadn’t been on a date with a man since I don’t know when (I’m sure if I look on my Facebook post it’ll say, but I don’t have that kind of time to look) and I didn’t even know THIS one’s name, to boot! As our relationship continued, my son decided to move to West Virginia and I had no clue what to do with my house (by this time, I hated being in that house, especially by myself). I didn’t want to sell it - I even joked about turning it into a whore house on Facebook (which is probably why the cops keep going by). The house, while I didn’t like being there alone, is literally the only thing I have of value other than my charm and good looks (I’m still pondering the whorehouse idea). I wasn’t going to sell it. But even though there was no one living there, the money to keep it insured, keep the property tax payment current, the water hooked up, the heat kept on - it was draining my finances. I planned to rent it within the year, room by room (because my daddy didn’t raise a fool - I know just because things are going ok in a romance doesn’t mean they can’t go south quick). Getting the crap out was a different story. Work was being idiotic with the trucks STILL not arriving on time, and then Dollar General Corporate decided to pass the buck to us at store level on pricing errors. They made this “pledge” mandatory for employment, so I walked. Without having a job to fall back on.

Not the smartest move I made, but it certainly was the riskiest. Fortunately, I still had my retirement plans through Walmart and my various other employers (including Kristopher’s retirement plans). I cashed out my personal retirement plans and made the decision to use that money to hold me over until I got a new job. That was the plan. I refused to go back to retail - I’m done breaking my body for pennies. I wanted to work in an office - preferably away from people because people are stupid. And I kept getting rejection email after rejection email all summer - I was underqualified for office assistant jobs. I spent over half of my retail career in management - how is that underqualified? During all of the rejections and job applications, I continued with my original plan of just experiencing life as full as I could. I published a short story on my encounters with the “Spider Kingdom” during 2022 and was working on a romance novel in addition to putting the novel I wrote in high school into a more permanant format (a bunch of notebooks isn’t really good for posterity). I started this blog. Life was going as I had planned. Finally. I was in a good head space to actually make plans that would stick. I planned on raising chickens for meat - everyone around here has eggs for sale, but to my knowledge, they all buy their chicken meat at the grocery store. Even the meat locker doesn’t sell home grown chicken. And I know firsthand how to raise, slaughter and butcher the birds. My plan was to start small in July and increase production as word spread. I even aquired old cabinetry that I planned on repurposing into chicken houses.

Then the break-up. Once again, that stupid quote from Robert Burns’s poem “To a Mouse” comes back into my life.

To answer the question “What do you want your life to be like in 10 years”

As I said, I don’t think I’ll be alive at 57, but if I am, this is what I would like my life to be like:

*More fond and fun memories than heartaching ones. Despite recent events, there were more fond and fun memories of my relationship with my ex than heartaching ones.

*More successes than failures (cuz let’s face it, I ain’t got that great a track record, lol).

*Many amazing friends that I made on my own and won’t be afraid of losing if I break up with a man.

*To have completed my first bucket list and started the second one.

*Quiet. Cozy. Happy.

And if I do die before I hit 57, I want to have LIVED life instead of tolerating it.

Two to Tango

My daddy had a saying - it takes two people to fight or argue. Neither one is at fault and both are to blame. I never fully understood what he meant by that until recently as I recover from my recent heartbreak. My objection was he didn’t communicate with me and he used a trigger to manipulate me - that’s why I was so angry that night. But as I read through my journal all week and contemplate everything that happened throughout our relationship, he WAS communicating, just not in a way I understand.

I don’t read between the lines in personal relationships, so people need to be straight up with me. Yes, it might hurt my feelings or make me angry, but truth is rarely nice or pretty; truth just is. He communicated through his actions, which had I known how to interpret that communication style, I would have saved us both a shit ton of time and maybe we could still have been friendly with one another. I’m not at fault - I’m built the way I’m built through experience and how I’m naturally wired. He’s not at fault - he’s built the way he’s built through his experiences and how he’s naturally wired. The fault doesn’t lie with either of us.

But, we are both to blame. I told him long ago to be honest with me, to tell me things straight up; to be blunt. Throughout our early days, I got the feeling he was getting tired of me hanging around and I reminded him that if he needed space, to just let me know. I assured him my feelings wouldn’t be hurt - hell, I get sick of being around me sometimes - and I would give him the space he needed. He had said everything was fine between us, just work stuff, yet his actions dictated differently. I didn’t pursue the matter and he didn’t change his actions. And because neither of us were communicating to the other properly - from me resorting to the passive aggressive nonsense of moving my stuff out while he was gone from the house to have him finally hear what I was telling him, to him using a trigger to have me finally hear what he was telling me - we are both to blame for the break up.

I know I still love him - love isn’t a light switch that can be turned on or off. If I didn’t love him, I wouldn’t be confused on why he couldn’t just tell me he wanted me gone - I just wouldn’t care one way or the other. I wouldn’t have spent the three days after the break up so angry - I would have been like, “Next!” I love him. But, I know that I can’t be in a romantic relationship with him - or anyone else for that matter - until I can unlearn some of the toxic things I’ve picked up over the years. Things like picking up hobbies I have no interest in, just so I can spend time with someone I care about - doing whatever they want to do, even though I hate doing it (playing first person shooters or Magic: The Gathering), yet they don’t join me in my hobbies because “they don’t like doing it.” I need to unlearn that. Things like only eating things the other likes and never eating what I like (I never thought I would miss vegetables or liver this much). I need to unlearn that. Things like not letting my fear rule my thinking - past experiences or not. It’s not fair to paint everyone with the same brush, and as much as I tried not to, I wound up doing it anyway. I need to unlearn that.

Not only do I need to unlearn the toxic traits, I need to really spend some time rediscovering myself. Before I had a stroke, before I even met my late husband, I was a fiercely independent woman. There was nothing I couldn’t do, or figure out how to do - it was a trait my father encouraged (until I rebelled at the ripe old age of 33). Even after I married, I was still a very independent woman - so much so it was a source of contention between my late husband and I. After my stroke, though, I had gone from independence to dependence. I was still determined to get most of my brain power back, but my late husband, through the goodness of his heart, I’m sure, coddled me and soon I became more dependent on others. I need to get my independence back - my sense of ‘I got this shit.’

Maybe once I unlearn the toxic traits and find my bad ass self again I’ll find a man for a partner. Until then, the most I’m looking for are friends - with benefits, maybe - and for now, that’s all I want.

The Birds and the Bees

School is back in session around the country and for those of you with 4th/5th/6th graders you know what’s going to be coming home this year. Sex Ed permission slips! Yay! Do your children a favor - do not use made up names for body parts and let them know what happens after they reach a certain age. Why? Here’s my story:

****cue Law and Order music****

BUM BUM

AUGUST 2022

So, here’s a very real frustration for me: the uterus.

If you were born with one, you go through the beginnings of you life without a care in the world - you don’t even know what it is because your parents give you some dumb story about cabbages and storks because of the shame religions and prudes put on human reproduction. You go into the fifth grade thinking your mom ate cabbage and that grew a baby in her tummy and she needed to go to the hospital to meet the stork so she can get your baby brother.

Then the teacher plays the video…

Oh, HELL NO! I’m gonna bleed? From my PETUNIA?!? What kind of messed up shit is THIS? Do the boys have to bleed from their ding dong? No? Then what the HELL! Waitaminute, I have to shove a wad of towels in my pants, and your only concern is for me not to flush it down the toilet? I’M BLEEDING OUT! LIke, THOUSANDS OF GALLONS of blood once a month, and everyone is ok with this?!?

Grown ups are stupid. I ain’t bleeding. I’ll just cross my legs together like when I have to pee. That doesn’t work? Well why the hell NOT? Because it isn’t connected?!? IT’S IN THE SAME PLACE! I wet my pants, it’s on my underwear; if I bleed, it’s on my underwear. See? Same place.

…What the hell is a vagina? I thought THAT was what I was peeing out of! So where is the pee coming from?

I was sent home with a note for my parents. And my step mother had “the talk” with me. Not the in depth talk, like exactly how babies are made, but the functions of the female body and all the wonder that it is.

It’s crap is what it is. Getting little things that stick out of your chest only to get them caught on door jambs, which sends THOUSANDS of needles shooting throughout your chest and you swear you’re dying because you KNOW you tore your baby booby right off of your body and you’re bleeding down the front of your shirt. Wake up one morning, and you have a frigging vertical mustache growing between your legs - scares the shit out of you when you first see it because you think a mouse or a tarantula got into your underwear. Not to mention hair in your armpits! Nothing like stealing your dad’s razor and scraping it off only to get blindsided by your smell. What the hell DIED in my ARMPIT, and why didn’t I smell it before? Oh great, now I have to wear DEODORANT?!? Why can’t I just leave the hair so I don’t have to smell it?

…What’s a hippy?

Over the summer into sixth grade was the worst summer I ever had. My boobs sprang up over night from little speed bumps to frigging grapefruits. I was given a hand-me-down bra and told to wear it. What kind of contortionist do you have to be to put the damned thing on?!? I swear, I dislocated my shoulder TWICE before I said forget this crap. I did the clasps and pulled it over my head like a shirt. I didn’t know the point of wearing it; it was like wearing a tank top. Why would I need to wear this contraption when a tank top works just as good? Sure as hell wouldn’t have dislocated my shoulder trying to put it on, that’s for sure. The bra stayed in my underwear drawer.

That summer, my mom had bought me a new outfit and after digging the bra out and putting it on at her demand, my uterus, who had been so quiet for 12 years, decided to introduce herself to me. In front of my mom’s new boyfriend - whom we were meeting for the first time. I don’t know who saw it first, him or Mom, but I noticed I felt wet all of a sudden - like I peed my pants. I looked down and saw the black and white polka dot shorts were changing color - specifically, red. The shorts were ruined. I ran into the house bawling, not just from embarrassment, but the fact the new clothes I had just gotten permission to wear on the first day of school the following week was destroyed. My mom came to check on me and I told her I hated being a girl - boobs and periods were stupid, bras were dumb and I just hated all of it. My mother’s words of wisdom?

“It gets worse.”

Kill me now. Mom wasn’t kidding. Apparently my uterus’s introduction to me was so shocking to HER, that she didn’t speak to me for TWO WHOLE YEARS. That’s right, I had my period once when I was 12 and didn’t get it again until I was almost 15. And my uterus was shy - my periods were so light, a pantyliner was all I ever needed, if I needed anything at all for the three days it lasted. They were so light, my dad and step-mom thought to reassure me that it was normal not to have my period until I was 16 - I guess they thought I felt bad for not having it after an episode of The Cosby Show when it was Vanessa’s turn at “woman’s day.” I informed them that I already knew that and explained my periods to them. That was when I would come home from school and find a pile of used pads on my bed. Not heavily used, but enough for me to know they were. But not by me. Toilet paper shoved in my underwear was enough to handle my periods. A single maxi pad (that was all that was available to me back then) would last me the ENTIRE TIME - I wasn’t about to wear a pad for three days straight.

Over the following months, my uterus became more comfortable with me, and my periods became heavier. The toilet paper trick wasn’t working anymore. I wore a maxi pad for the first time during the summer after I turned 16. Gross. Nothing like feeling like you’re wearing a frigging soggy diaper all day. And the SMELL! I was reassured no one could smell it, but every time I sat 'Indian-style,' on the floor, I caught the whiff of dried blood and death. I was too afraid to change it - I didn’t want a pile of heavily used pads dumped on my bed - so I took to spritzing perfume 'down there' until I thought it would be ok to change the pad.

Changing the pad was an unpleasant adventure in of itself. Remember the mustache between the legs? There’s nothing quite like the feeling of your pubic hair getting YANKED OUT when you change the pad because it got stuck to the tape…somehow. To this day, I have yet to figure out how that happens. I had had enough of this crap. There has to be a better way…

Tampon commercials to the rescue! No odor. No leakage. You can do ANYTHING when you use tampons!

I’m sold. I sneak into my parents’ bathroom and swipe a couple of my step-mom’s tampons. If only I stole the instructions too…but the commercials show the girls talking with their friends about tampons, so that’s what I did. I learned a lot. Like a vagina is actually called 'the fuck hole.'

…The what now? The hole guys put their dicks into and make you pregnant.

Ewww! GROSS! They PEE with that thing! That’s never happening to me…

My friend’s further instruction was just as informative. You just stick it in the fuck hole and you’re good.

…So, it’s like a plug? SWEET!

No. Not sweet. PAINFUL. And confusing. How is the plastic enclosed cotton supposed to absorb the blood? And how in the hell am I supposed to wear CLOTHES with this thing hanging out of me?!? I figured out how the applicator worked and the pain on inserting the cotton plug further hurt immensely. Why in the hell would women use these things?!? Taking it out was worse. Nothing like grabbing a few pubes with the string then YANKING the tampon AND pubes out. Not to mention there wasn’t much blood in or on it. Worthless. My friend asked me about it days later and I told her it hurt.

Apparently I lost my virginity. To a tampon. That’s why it hurt because losing your virginity is supposed to hurt. I didn’t even know I HAD a virginity! That was when I decided to keep those kinds of questions to myself. Like most things, I’ll figure it out or research it myself. And that worked for awhile. I still wasn’t crazy about having a uterus and the fact she never stayed consistent. Some months were light, some were normal, some were heavy. Always 3 days long - to the hour, that’s how punctual my uterus was when she stopped throwing her hissy fit. She wasn’t very punctual on WHEN she threw her fit, but as long as I knew when it was gonna end, I was good. Me and my uterus got along fine.

Until I turned 38. It seemed my uterus was forgetting what she was supposed to do. When I missed my period, I freaked out - Kristopher did NOT want biological children - and the last time my uterus didn’t speak to me, I was pregnant. Three pregnancy tests later, my uterus screamed and the red river flowed like a frigging dam broke. This was during the time when EVERYONE was out of tampons and pads. Kristopher came home with pantyliners and thought HE was going to convince ME that they were pads. I shoved the box in his face - PANTYLINER in feminine script across the bottom of the brand name. He had to squint to see it and then proceeded to vent how feminine hygiene manufacturers did that shit to make the men look bad. I was back to shoving half a roll of toilet paper down my pants. Kristopher took to sleeping in his office - God forbid any blood got on him while we slept…

*** I feel the need to interject this thought here. Men are frigging STOOPID when it comes to menstruation. They don’t want kids, yet fear the blood time when it shows up. DUDES! If she’s bleeding, she’s most likely NOT pregnant. If anything, those of you who don’t want kids should be treating your bleeding women as QUEENS during the blood-letting. Yeah, she may be cranky - just give her chocolate or whatever else is her favorite treat - and tell her how beautiful and majestic she is cuz if you had to go through it, you. would. die. ***

Anyhoo, the whole period thing got worse after my stroke when I started taking my blood thinner. I didn’t know human body could expel THAT much blood without passing out, much less not dying. My tampon and pad budget increased because I had to use BOTH just to keep my clothes from getting ruined. Not to mention that I had to relearn my impending doom cycle all over again! Which put a HUGE dampener on my sex life - if you can’t predict the cycle, it’s a crap shoot as to when it’s safe to not bother with protection; and since I had yet found a condom that didn’t make me itch or smell gross from my nether regions, I was basically in a loving, yet sexless marriage. Well, we had Bill Clinton’s version of not having sex, but it wasn’t like before.

My uterus and hormones took 2 years to even themselves out and become somewhat predictable. Again, all normal according to the doctor. I got a second opinion. I went to WebMD - which I should have done in the first place and saved myself the $85 office visit (and that was WITH insurance). Another year and me and my uterus were in sync once again; I knew when she was going to throw her hissy fit for not having a bun in the oven. If I wanted to beat Kristopher or my son to death for eating the last of my favorite cereal or using the last of the body wash, my period was 2 weeks away. When I was feeling especially amorous and Kristopher took to locking himself in his office, I knew I was a week away from the blood bath and needed to make sure I had enough supplies.

*** I think I’ll inject this thought here for the ladies. Now, I know I have no scientific basis for this, nor do I have a degree in human biology, but I seriously think that when a woman is exceptionally flirty or sensual, when she normally isn’t, it means she’s ovulating. It kinda makes sense since reproducing is an instinct; we ARE, at our core, animals, and when a female animal is in heat, it means she’s ovulating. Just my opinion, take it for what it is. ***

After Kristopher died, obviously my periods became wonky again. I hadn’t taken my medications for over a year which made my periods more like what happened in my twenties and thirties (to which I would like to point out, no ill effects to stopping them cold turkey and no stroke from not taking them - I serious think my brain had no idea what to do when I wasn’t at DefCon 1 all day like I was at Walmart, just sayin’). Since I wasn’t feeling poorly physically, I wasn’t worried about it.

Until Christmas last year (2021). My uterus decided to give me a present by refreshing herself TWICE - once to start the month off with a blood bath (my usual time) and again two frigging hours after I buried my cat on Christmas night! Nothing like rubbing pounds of salt into open wounds… I started 2022 thinking twice a month was going to be my new normal (I frigging HATE that phrase) and practically stockpiled tampons and pads. February rolled around and I realized I hadn’t heard from my uterus - which made me panic like I did last time until I realized…I havne’t had sex in 3 years. I cannot POSSIBLY be pregnant - and no, I am not the proper vessel for the anti-Christ, so no immaculate conception. After the idiotic self induced heart attack, I just went about my life when in April, I noticed I hadn’t touched my supplies.

I counted the months. Four. How many months do I have to go to be done with this shit? I saved myself some money and Googled. Twelve. 12 months until I hit menopause.

I told my uterus to keep her big trap shut.

In May, my uterus threw the biggest temper tantrum ANY living creature could throw:

*Excruciating lower back pain - the kind that requires 3 heating pads, a purring cat and the fetal position just to find relief. I had none. I did squats and back arches behind the checkout counter and the remaining cat was NOT a snuggler so I was SOL when I got home from work.

*Abdominal cramps - the kind that felt like a white hot poker was stabbed through one side of your gut, and just for good measure, raced back and forth like you were being cut in half with a dull saw blade. Only women who experienced normal birthing contractions would understand what that is. I did not have normal birthing contractions, nor had I ever experienced ANY type of menstrual cramping. I had to ask my little sister - who is 14 years younger than I am - about them cuz I thought I was going to die.

*Screwed up bowel movements - the kind that, even though you have eaten NOTHING for a day and a half, somehow your intestines felt a purge was necessary. With the explosive kind of gas warfare to boot. Even the DOG wouldn’t come near me! I was the pooping-est, fartiest person alive. Thank God I still had candles left and I had two days off from work so my uterus could get it out of her system.

*Feelings of affection - the kind that if there was a man in my life, a locked door wouldn’t have helped him. Hell, a locked door surrounded by anti-personnel mines, a fire breathing dragon, acid spitting spiders, and a horde of flesh-eating zombies wouldn’t have stopped me from getting to said man and having my unspeakable, lustfully wicked way with him. I can tell you, cold showers do not help with that feeling so whomever came up with that idea - you’re an idiot.

And that was all BEFORE my uterus unleashed a red river that rivaled the one in Egypt during Moses’s time! Two weeks. TWO WEEKS of heavy bleeding. So heavy I went through a regular tampon in an hour and my overnight pad was soaked through. So heavy, I started getting dizzy. I called both my cardiologist AND my primary doctor to see if my medication was causing the blood flow (which it had when I initially started the blood thinner in 2016, but didn’t when I started again in 2021) and was it normal. My cardiologist said to keep taking the blood thinner (crap); and my primary, after performing more tests (well, the ones I could afford anyway), more pap smears, more looking into the cavern that is my vagina, found nothing wrong. The primary did say my blood tests showed I was becoming anemic and I was slightly malnourished. What was my diet like?

Coffee. Coffee was my primary diet with a smattering of veggies and chicken tossed in for variety - along with pizza, cuz lets be honest, I have to have SOMETHING unhealthy. Both doctors told me to eat more and my primary said to take a one a day. My cardiologist loosened up diet restrictions - instead of 3 ounces of red meat a week, I was able to have it twice during shark week. I was told by both of them that if I was still bleeding uncontrollably after 24 hours to get my butt to the ER. Yeah…not gonna happen. I bought the Flinstones vitamins because the grown-up ones make me constipated, more supplies and some hamburger. I popped the vitamin as soon as I got to my car and made the juiciest hamburger I’ve ever made - which is to say it was ran through a warm room (it was very rare). My uterus continued to vomit blood like a dying vampire, but the dizziness was gone, so I wasn’t worried about it. I called the doctors to give them a sit-rep two days later; while still heavier than what I’m used to, my period was manageable and the dizziness was gone outside of the usual vertigo I get when standing up too quick. Three months later and I’m still getting my period for two weeks out of the month. Maybe. Who knows anymore. I asked my doctor at my checkup if this was normal.

“Yup. Sucks, don’t it?”

Why is it every female of menopausal age DELIGHTS in telling me how this stage of my uterus’s life isn’t unicorns and rainbows? What I find annoying about this whole process is NO ONE SAYS ANYTHING! Sure, you’ll send us home with permission slips for our parent’s to sign allowing you to tell us we’ll be bleeding for most of our lives when we’re in the 5th grade, but you won’t tell us what happens when our bodies are done making babies? Because that’s certainly not pertinent information…

PRESENT DAY:

Seriously folks, explain the whole damn thing to them. Its vagina, or clitoris. Not petunia. It’s a penis, not a dick, ding-a-ling, one-eyed snake… why do we have so many names for a penis but one for a vagina? This is BIOLOGY. These are our BODY PARTS. There is no shame in your kids knowing the names of their body parts - even when they shout clitoris in church (trust me, they do it for shock value). There is no shame in our bodies and it’s high time society’s puritanical standards get loosened up for a nano-second.

Left or Right?

Two weeks ago I was figuring out what spice I wanted to put on the bullet I was about to eat. I wanted out. I had just told my only child that if he didn’t uphold his side of the deal he made with me, I was going to kick him out - I’ve never said it to him before, and I was certain he was going to fuck around and find out how serious I was being. Kicking my child out, possibly never seeing him again or him dying from something happening to him on the streets - I couldn’t bear the thought of it, and it would be my fault. I was a shitty mother and coddled my son. I didn’t allow him to make mistakes; I didn’t allow him to fail or learn from his failures. Oh, there was discipline - he’s been grounded I don’t know how many times in his life - but the second he became a nuisance to his grandfather or step-father, it was always suggested to un-ground him. And to keep the peace (I had balked at the notion of “shock parole” and was met with hostility), I gave in to the demand. I’m not excusing it because at the end of the day, I’m his mother. I failed him - by moving him back into my home; by not following up; by making excuses for him to myself. Lies, really, because I know how lazy he can be - typically doing just enough to get away with not doing a good job, or screwing it up so he doesn’t get asked to do it again (this trait has GOT to be ingrained in male DNA because every male in my life has done this to me). So anything that happens to him once he becomes homeless is on MY head. Because I didn’t raise him right, and because I kept telling lies to avoid doing what I knew I should have done as a mother.

I wanted out. I had a stressful week starting with my vagina puking out my uterus. I sat on the toilet to pee and the red river flowed as it had never flowed before. Which surprised me because my period had finished up a week prior. I thought a miscarriage, but kinda have to have sex for that (I hadn’t gotten laid since before my last period) and there was absolutely no pain involved. It doesn’t really matter what’s wrong with me - it’s not like I can afford to fix it anyway, even with insurance (gotta love the American health care system) and all the doctor will say is “Oh, that’s normal at your age.” I know there’s something wrong with me - cancer or something, because let’s face it, I don’t exactly live the most pure of lifestyles - not gaining weight while increasing my food intake and decreasing my activity level is a clue something ain’t right, I don’t care what my blood tests show. Even if it is cancer, there’s nothing I can do about it - no would I, because I believe in accepting the consequences of your choices. I know cigarettes can cause cancer; my father, mother, maternal grandparents, and numerous aunts and uncles died of cancer. I knew the risks when I made the decision to keep smoking. So I had been living my life as if each day was my last. And was faced with the judgmental opinions of others. I was tired of everyone CONSTANTLY telling me how disappointed they are in me. In addition to the “red river,” my sinuses weren’t draining and putting so much pressure on my jaw, that my ears were hurting. Thursday night I was doing whatever I could to get the pain under control so I could sleep since I had to get up early the next morning to get a car part and take my car to the mechanic to get it fixed.

I wanted out. I thought my boyfriend and I were in a pretty good space as far as our relationship went. Until Friday afternoon when I came home and his pissed mist hit me full force. I asked why he was so angry at me and he said he was having a bad day. Now, I grew up with passive aggressive anger - I’m even guilty of using it myself - and I can tell when someone is angry with me. Especially whenever said person stomps through the house, knowing I’m in there, but walks normal as they go outside. Slamming cabinet doors is an indication as well. I wanted to ask him why he was so angry with me; I wanted to apologize for the mess I had left that morning and explain why I didn’t get to it like I usually do; but his pissed mist was strong. It was the kind that if I had said one little word, I was gonna get a punch in the face (he’s never hit me, but others have in the same scenario so I was erring on the side of personal experience). I agonized over what to do when I saw he had left his .22 pistol on the counter.

I want out. I’m tired of everyone thinking I’m perfect and when I fall short it’s hell.

I want out. I’m tired of having to be the bad guy when someone isn’t even trying very hard.

I want out. I’m tired of having things pop up that I can’t get fixed because healthcare is stupidly expensive.

I want out. I’m tired of my uterus. I don’t even want it anymore, but I can’t do anything about it because of the stupidity that is the religious Reicht.

I want out. I’m tired of giving grace and understanding to people who just take advantage of it. I’m tired of putting trust in people just to have them stab me in the back. I’m tired of being completely honest with people only to just have them use it against me. I’m tired of having a sense of integrity and fairness that gets thrown back into my face as if I spit in theirs.

I want out.

I picked his gun up as he slammed the door going back outside. I cried as I heard his diesel start up and pull away as I walked up the stairs into his attic. I could barely breathe from sobbing so much as I put the gun barrel towards my mouth. I have no alternative. I can’t live with myself if I have to forcibly remove my son from my house. I can’t live with “Him” if he refuses to talk to me and tell me why he’s so angry with me. I can’t live if I can’t even make enough money to survive. I can’t live in a world where I can’t be myself without judgment from the people I care about. The only option left for me is death.

“Please God. Please. I can’t hear you anymore. Please, tell me what to do. I can’t keep going on like this. He hates me, I can’t kick my son out, no one will hire me. Please! Tell me what to do!” I took a deep breath and angled the pistol so the bullet would kill me instantly and not leave me brain-dead with half my skull missing). I squeezed the trigger.

I guess here is where y’all that that was when God decided to talk to me. I could never remember which way the safety worked on the pistol, no matter how many times “Him” showed me. I lowered the gun, sobbing still, but with resolve. The headache I had been feeling all week had subsided. The bitch that was locked away finally escaped her cage. I stood up, dried my tears and walked back downstairs and tossed the gun on the island. I knew I was at a crossroad. And something I had told my tenant when he kept bringing in “free” junk that he never did anything with popped into my head. The bitch whispered,

“If it will not serve you in your current goals or future plans, let it go. It does you no good hanging onto it.”

It was something I had said when I had gotten rid of things from my house last month during a garage sale. None of that stuff would serve me in the next chapter of my life - why do I want to keep it? But, does God really want me to treat people like that? I ignored the advice - mainly because it was from the bitch and she’s the most vile, hateful thing on the planet. I gave my word to my son he had the month of September to straighten up or get out. I told “Him” if he couldn’t understand why the house was messy that day when he got home, I’d have my stuff out by the following Tuesday. “Him” never showed he understood, nor ever talked to me about it. I missed my word with “Him” by two days - if his ass wouldn’t have come home early both days, I would have had everything out.

That’s not true - I wanted him to say something so we could talk about it. Not so we could salvage the relationship, but so we could at the very least remain neighborly.

That mindset backfired horribly.

After this last week with the break-up with “Him,” moving back to my house, dealing with what hadn’t gotten done that should have gotten done A LONG time ago when my son moved back home, to having a hormonal temper tantrum last night because I couldn’t get comfortable to sleep, to treating my son and another tenant like shit because of it after waking up this morning to find my stuff thrown on my lawn (stuff that “Him” wouldn’t let me take out of the house), to me losing my wallet and accusing “Him” of stealing it; to me agonizing over whether to apologize to “Him” for the accusation (I found my wallet) I realized something. Yes, the bitch may be out, but something she rarely cared about is something I now hold dear - integrity. If I make a mistake, I own up to the mistake; I don’t make excuses or blame someone else. Not gonna lie, it took me 10 minutes to text “Him” that I found my wallet and I apologized for accusing him of stealing it - it would have been easier to just ignore it all instead of swallowing my pride and owning up to a fact that “Him” knows very well. I would lose my head if it weren’t attached.

SO…the crossroad I’m at right now is this: Do I want to learn to control the bitch and only bring her out when necessary, or let her run rampant leaving destruction in her wake? How do I want to spend my life as a PERSON? Do I want to be the Walmart bitch for whatever time I have left? That route won’t afford me much longer to live, to be honest - way too stressful always watching your back, thinking everyone is going to fuck you over. Or do I want to be the doormat that I’ve been for most everyone for the last six years? That route didn’t do my dad much good with my youngest sister.

Is it possible to combine the two?

The fact that I felt better when I apologized to “Him” for accusing him of something he didn’t do and when I apologized to my son and tenant for taking my anger at a situation out on them (which is something the bitch would NEVER do - she apologizes to no one), I think I’m going to try combining the two.

I hope this is the last personal development crossroad I come to. This shit is getting exhausting.

The End

I have lost my army.

No, they didn’t die. I lost custody of them. By way of a break-up. I’m sure the story going around is I abandoned them, or I didn’t pay for them or their belongings - which is NOT entirely true. I never asked for a tiny chicken coop to be bought - I had plans for repurposing old cabinetry - and I never asked for a bigger coop to be made. I only asked where can I put a bigger run since it was his property. I still planned on repurposing the old cabinetry. I bought the chickens - I have the receipts. I took care of them - the entire frigging town has witnessed it. I bought their feed, both initial and subsequent food stuffs (layer feed was recently purchased - not by me - and can’t be fed to them for another three or four months) - I have the receipts. I bought their necessary grit - I have the receipts. I was the one that took care of them while they were in the house during the hot times. I was the one who checked on them every two hours for food, water and to give them greens, iced treats. What I didn’t buy was the initial pine shavings - I was going to use shredded paper. I was actually getting ready to shred another batch when I got a text about the purchase.

So, yes, I paid for them. They are mine. However, it was his idea for putting a fan outside for the hotter days (he purchased it - the second one is mine). It was his water usage that went up in for their care (chickens go through lots of water when they are young - mainly cuz the dingbats scratch at the dish, or they knock it over when they try to jump on top of it to play “King of the Mountain”). It was his electricity usage that went up for having the fans run 24/7 too keep the chickens comfortable.

Even though I was vehemently told I was no longer allowed on his property, I have driven by often to check on the chickens - they are still alive and looking well. And despite the fact that the chickens were my idea, and despite the fact he hates my guts, he is still continuing to build their “Big Bird Barracks” (he calls it a “chicken shack”) - at least I am assuming so since I can hear him pounding away at it and it’s still standing. It’ll be a nice home for them - roomy and with every amenity a chicken could want. I just hope the chickens don’t expect him to communicate with them like I did, because I can say from personal experience that ain’t gonna happen. I do miss my chickens - even though I think they are all roosters. They were my sanity - my contemplation spot on life when things started going downhill. But I know he will take care of them.

SO…this is the end of the chicken army story. Gonna say it was much shorter than I thought it would be and not nearly as exciting. Hell, even the spiders at my house right now are all like, “Nope. Ain’t messing with this woman - I don’t care how much the King is offering in bounty.” I still squish them - they’re in my house. And I’ve taken to killing the ones that look like brown recluse or black widows outside. Usually I leave them because outside is their home. Not anymore. I have no regard for where they are. If I’m working in that area, they better scram before my boot drops on their ass. I am going to say the war has definitely ended. And as with all wars, there is no winner.

Strange Days…

Something I’ve noticed during the last couple of weeks is how the spiders are getting smaller and smaller. And they’re showing up in weird places. I’m not talking about more in underwear drawers or coffee machines, but just the most odd places. One hitched a ride on my windshield into Manhattan - he was just chilling on the lee side of the wiper blade. How the little bastard wound up INSIDE my car is what puzzles me because I closed the windows when I went into the store and the little shit stain was sitting on my steering wheel when I got into the car.

“Oh my God, you drive so frigging SLOOOWWW! How hasn’t ANYONE been able to deal with you?!?” ~hence why I squished it. It was rude.

He’s a smear now. And really, I’m not interested in having any “Benedict Arachnid” as a spy for the Spider Kingdom. It wasn’t like it did me any good last time, so I’m not wasting my resources.

The spiders are even getting into my garden! Well, that’s not unusual, really, but when they encompass ENTIRE tomatoes in their webs - tomatoes that are perfect for picking and using - it’s a bit suspicious. I almost let the army loose in the garden to annihilate the eight-legged freaks. “Him” said no. The last thing he needed was seeing me running around his half acre trying to catch three chickens with most of the town camped outside to watch the show.

Don’t mess with the ‘maters…

“Him” knows me entirely too well…

So I will have to wait. And continue slaughtering spiders. For those of you who adore spiders, save me the whole “oh they kill bugs” nonsense. They do not. We have flies all over the place, we have lady beetles all over the place; and my garden? Grasshoppers Galore (sounds like a Bond movie ho…). So, no. They do not do much of anything to mitigate the other insect infestations. They even allow the grasshoppers to copulate for DAYS on end - right in front of them! Frigging voyeurs…

I’ve also noticed how Nibbles has been getting much more vocal lately. Her meows are even starting to sound like words like “mom” and “food.” It’s typically in the morning right before I get out of bed. If you want to know what it sounds like, watch the ‘Family Guy’ episode where Stewie gets extra clingy with Lois. Some mornings I just want to punt Her Royal Ass across the room. But I don’t. She’s just doing what a cat does. Now, the one I don’t understand is Buddy. He’s gotten more growly and more barky over the last few weeks, for now reason. Even when “Him” is out of town for the night on a job, Buddy has never been this bad. And because Buddy is more growly and barky, Nibbles doesn’t seem to want to have anything to do with him - they have been the best of friends since Buddy was brought home a month after we took her in, so it’s odd. She’s taken to spending her time in the spare bedroom and only ventures out sporadically - usually two hours before meal time.

It’s all just…strange.

Army of White

So this past week, the temperatures have been hovering around Satan’s-butthole-after-a-wet-fart degrees here in Kansas. For those of you unfamiliar with Kansas weather and Satan’s butthole, let me just tell you its frigging HOT. And wet. There is so much humidity that you need to grow gills just to breathe. And because of that, graduation of my soldiers’ basic training has been postponed. Meaning it’s too damned hot to get the bigger coop built and to let the birds run loose.

BUT! I did give them names. Sassy’s death reminded me that life isn’t promised to anyone or anything so rather than wait for the ceremony of graduation and releasing them into the big barracks with their names spoken out loud by their commander to give them legitimacy, I gave them names as I chucked them into the inside pen we fashioned for the week. May I present to you Frankie, Pearl and No-Name (I call her Bitch, but I have littles who frequently visit and their mother frowns on them cussing - poor kids).

Left to right: Frankie, No-Name, Pearl

Frankie is named such because I seriously think “she” is a “he” because the personality is very dominant, the comb is much more pronounced, and as you can see the waddle area is much more red than the others. The name “Frankie” is also uni-sex - it’ll work for both boys and girls, so if I’m wrong, no harm to how the soldier identifies. Frankie was (and still is) the biggest of the soldiers with his stocky frame and posture. He don’t slouch, that’s for sure.

No-Name (aka Bitch) is named such because her personality hasn’t quite come through yet, but she does like pecking people. Not as in, “oopsie, I pecked your finger by mistake when I was getting the grass” kind of pecking either. She purposefully pecks fingers and likes to play it off as an accident. She mainly does this when I’m trying to move her from one area to another, so it could be her way of saying she doesn’t want to go. No-Name was the smallest of the troops when I brought them home, and after Sassy’s death, she seems to be taking over her comrade in arms namesake.

Pearl is named such because she is all white. Not a speck of blonde, black, gray, or anything in between is in her coloring. She’s also a prissy soldier, in the fact she keeps herself pristine. She grooms herself constantly and carries herself with a quiet confidence. Like, she knows she’s a pretty hen and makes no excuses for it. She owns her prettiness. On the other hand, she’s also a bit of a klutz, but that trait has only surfaced recently - I’m hoping she outgrows it.

And that’s the army. Nothing too exciting this week since the temps are ungodly hot and every living thing in Kansas is just trying to survive the heat until next week. I do have to clean their pen today. That’ll prove interesting as Nibbles has taken to sitting outside the temporary barracks, faking like she hasn’t been trying to get under the door whenever I walk by.

Am I the only one who thinks my life has turned into “Animal Farm?”

Sassy

This week has been a sad week for me and my army. After a mysterious illness passed through the barracks, one soldier passed away in her sleep on Tuesday night. My only guess is it was food poisoning as the littlest soldier didn’t get sick at all (the others bullied her away from the snacks). I was certain I had cleaned their barracks thoroughly, however my troops like hiding their rewards and I haven’t found all their hiding places. As their commander, I nursed them as best as I could. Two made it. One did not. She didn’t make it to graduation, but I had a name already for her.

Sassy

The name described her well. She had no fear of man nor beast. When my bodyguard, Buddy, would follow me to the barracks and get too close, Sassy would stand at attention and try to peck him through the wire.

Buddy was not amused.

Sassy would even peck me, her Commander-In-Chief, when I tried to shepherd her into the barracks so I could get them new ground to scourge…I mean forage in. Whenever there was fresh grass offered, Sassy was the first one there and she would buffalo her comrades to get to the dandelion leaves first. Whenever something new was offered as a reward…I mean, treat, Sassy was the first one to taste it.

Her adventurous spirit gave me many a “shake my head” moments. Two weeks after I drafted the troops…I mean, brought them home, Sassy was the first to jump on top of the mess hall…I mean, the feeder. She even taught the other trainees to do it. Any stick that wound up in the barracks, Sassy would use as a perch and taught the others how to hop on it. Of course the moment I tried to remove the “perch” I got a few pecks on my hands.

Despite her attitude towards myself and Buddy and her penchant to boss her fellow soldiers around, Sassy also had a soft side. When the illness started with the first soldier, Sassy kept the it company as they rested in the afternoon. When the sick soldier slept, Sassy would sit next to it, alert and on edge, ready to attack any who dared to ambush her sick friend. She did the same for the second soldier who came down with the illness. Even when she was starting to get sick, she would stand guard over her comrades and peck my hand as I nursed them to health. Her feistiness and adventurous spirit will be missed by us all.

There may not be a post next Saturday as that is the day the soldiers have their final training mission before graduation…I mean, the chickens will be moving into the Big Chicken coop and they’ll have their first taste of free-range.