Category Archives: Life

Said in the Silence

Life, loss, Prose

I. You’ll never know this, but in the car I always trace confessions against your skin in lazy circles, like

People carved their names into my bones when I gave them a home there.

and

It made me so weak I broke my spine and called it a sacrifice for love. Maybe sometimes people weren’t right for me but I still tried to save them from themselves. I think it may have broken more than a spine.

and

My armor is crumbling; you’re starting to settle in just under my skin and it’s scaring me because I don’t think I’ll ever mean to you what you would to me & I want to be wrong, but I don’t think I am.

Or, simply:

I want to be wrong.

II. Your head bobs to the music and fingers tap the wheel. I watch out of the corner of my eye and pretend I’m not fascinated by your habits. You reach over, graze my arm. You touch a scar you don’t know is there. My hand slips up your sleeve to keep my next confession more hidden.

I have more than skeletons in my closet. There are monsters that howl & ghosts that haunt me. Sometimes they get too loud – the door breaks open & I have to let it hurt & bleed in ink until they quiet and I can lay them to rest again.

and

Before I wrote on lined pages in notebooks I cut lines into my skin, but I’ve lived so many lives since then it seems like it was forever ago. Until it doesn’t.

You change the song and settle back again, your gaze skittering along my skin. Prickling. I know you’re taking in my measure, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve already dissected the anatomy of every failure, every hard decision I’ve ever made, every time I felt like I wasn’t good enough for whatever reason.

I trail letters down your arm as I pull my hand back to me again.

Go ahead & try to read me. I’ve picked through my own history enough to feel like a scavenger. I won’t ever hide that my conscience is scarred enough to glow in the dark from all the old wounds.

III. We get to where we’re going. You park & I stare out the window like I wasn’t just watching you. I glance over when you don’t say anything and you quirk an eyebrow, reach over and squeeze my hand. I trace words into your palm, like

I hope I’m more than ego boost. I hope you see me the way you see stars at night, or good music. I hope you see me like my own kind of magic.

IV. I open my hand inside yours. The size difference is almost comical. I stretch my fingers against yours as far as they would go, then slide my hand until our fingertips touch. You watch & don’t say a word. I make little circles, and say things like

I think you’re going to hit me like a freight train and it’s going to hurt. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to take a hit like that anymore

and

I wish you’d give me somehing other than a ride, give me something from inside your head, do I even mean anything to you other than a way to kill some time because it’s not feeling like it.

V. I hop out and watch you leave. My fingers drift to my collarbone, where I can feel the bone under my skin. There are things I don’t even say out loud to myself.

Don‘t set yourself up like this. Don’t let him under your skin when you aren’t under his, don’t make a home for him in your bones when you’re already brittle. It doesn’t matter what he makes you want when you don’t make him want the same.

Don’t break your own heart. Stop while you’re only halfway to never going back.

and

Sometimes you can’t get people out from under your skin. Especially when you don’t want to.

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Apparently My Husband Didn’t Realize What He Signed Up For

Hilarity, Life

By now, you all know how I am and how circumstances conspire to the point that I wind up somehow injured or humiliated in a way that normal people don’t ever have to deal with. It’s inevitable. I’ve learned to just roll with it over the years because hiding and crying about it isn’t my style.

People, women especially, seem to hate getting older and actually admitting to their ages. Me? Please. I’ve managed to survive 33 years so far.

It’s been a challenge.

I’ve got two girls, 6 and 12. A few weeks ago, the oldest broke her pinky toe because she forgot exactly where her bed is located in her room (hint…same spot it’s been in for over a year…) and a couple of days ago my youngest pulled her own stunt.

There’s nothing that makes your stomach sink faster than looking at your caller ID and seeing that your child’s school is calling you. It’s even worse when you answer and can hear your six-year-old screaming and crying in the background. Apparently, her class got an extra recess at the end of the day since it was so nice out. A couple boys were playing tag and came my daughter’s way. She turned and then ran full force into a pole, mouth first.

It did not end well for her, the poor baby. She busted both lips, had to deal with a lot of swelling, and knocked out one of her front teeth. Luckily, it’s a baby tooth so she won’t wind up looking like a munchkin redneck. Right now she’s missing two other teeth that came out the usual way, so she’s looking pretty funny anyway.

This was taken the next morning, so you can imagine how bad it looked right after. She kept complaining about how her top lip kept “overflowing” her bottom one.

Of course I immediately came and picked her up from school, and since there was only five minutes left to the day they also released my oldest so I could take them both home. My husband had come with me, so we’re driving back home and trying to cheer up the youngest by telling her stories of how we’ve gotten hurt too.

I noticed my husband was being really quiet, so I look over to see what’s going on. He’s slumped over, holding his head in his hands and looking panicked. “Oh my god,” he’s muttering.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I mean, I’m about to panic myself, thinking his sugar has dropped or spiked or something.

He shakes his head. “It’s just that there’s THREE of you.”

“….yeah, babe. It’s not like I surprised you with them or anything…”

“WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!” he wails.

I can’t help but bust out laughing. “Dude, I tripped over a crushed can in your yard one of the first times we met. There’s nothing you can do but buckle up for the ride and be prepared.”

He continues shaking his head and looking shell-shocked.

I can’t really feel sorry for him at this point. We were together for four years before getting married. He has seen firsthand how things just happen around me, and it’s hard to feel pity for him when I know how much free entertainment he’s getting out of this deal.

At least life is never boring with me.

Scaring Jehovah’s Witnesses While You’re Trying to Stalk the Mailman

Hilarity, Life, Uncategorized, , ,

Amazon is one of my biggest guilty pleasures in life. You can get on there, pile all these things into your online shopping cart, check out, and boom, they ship it right to your doorstep. It’s amazing. No more getting dressed and running to eight places only to find out no one has it, no cashiers secretly judging you while you check out, and no making accidental eye contact with people crazier than you or trying to avoid people you’d rather not talk to. It’s amazing.

According to the almighty Amazon, a package I ordered should have arrived yesterday by eight.

It didn’t.

Being a time-sensitive shipment, I contacted amazon and let them know if it hadn’t arrived by morning, I would need a refund so I could go to a store and buy what I needed. The next morning, I get up and drag my tired ass to the post office.

The package had arrived, but it was out with the carrier. The same carrier who won’t leave my packages at my door like most do…probably because they’re annoyed by my love of amazon and are tired of lugging me packages and have decided to pay me back by making me pick them up in person. The post office will be closed by the time the carrier makes it back with the package, so I can’t pick it up later and no, they can’t call the carrier to see where they’re at so I can meet with them for it.

My only option is to go find the carrier myself and get the package. They helpfully told me a general route area for me to wander around in looking for someone they really couldn’t give me a description for other than they will be carrying a mail bag and be dressed for the weather.

Yay me.

So I’m off to stalk the mailman in this area. I’m driving down a main road, looking for the mail truck or the mailman himself, and see a young, clean-cut looking man with a black official-looking coat on, a messenger bag, and a black toboggan with the little poof at the top and a small symbol on the front of it.

I immediately jerk my car to the curb, roll down the passenger window, and yell, “hey!” a little louder than I’d intended, but it worked. I got his attention. He jumps way up in the air and dashes over the other side of the sidewalk in a hurry. Whoopsie.

“I’m so sorry to bother you like this, but I’m desperately trying to pick up a package and they said it was out with you.”

The guy looks at me like I’m absolutely bonkers. To be honest, I don’t blame him. I can now see that the symbol on his hat is the Jehovah’s Witness sign.

I panic. I admit it. All I can do is yell, “Sorry, go on about your business!” and swerve back into traffic while laughing maniacally. Because what else can you do when you’ve scared the poor guy half to death over something he has no idea about?

So I’m back on the hunt. This time, I see the mail truck pulled over to the side of the road so I just pulled in behind it and I’ll just wait for him to come back to the truck. Great plan, right?

Except the truck suddenly lights up and takes off before I even have a chance to scramble out of my car.

Shit. So I hit the gas and follow it, taking a right at the light and sailing along behind it.

I’m not so lucky at the next light. I hit red and start cussing, keeping my eye on him so I don’t lose him. Fortunately, he turns into the parking lot of the store right after the light and gets out to go inside. Yes! Some luck after all!

Only…not. Because as soon as I pull in and get behind him again he hops back into the truck and takes off. So we’re back on the road and I’m following him again, only this time it’s through a residential neighborhood and he’s making all these turns and I’m just trying to keep up and not die while I’m living my life like some bumbling idiot in a spy movie.

Finally he pulls over, so I jerk to a stop behind him and rush to his window just in case it’s a trap to lure me into feeling comfortable. I walk up to his vehicle and politely tap on his window to get his attention.

At least that’s what I thought I did.

Judging from the way he jumped two feet into the air and ducked down in his seat, and from my crazy-haired and wild-eyed reflection in that window, I don’t think he perceived the situation the way I did at first. He looked more like he was considering throwing his wallet at me and crying until I went away.

But in the end, after scaring some poor religious guy and the crazy car chase the other guy didn’t even know he was in, I got the package.

Thank you very much!

To “Me Too,” or Not to “Me Too”

Life, loss, Uncategorized, ,

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, I’m sure you’ve seen the sexual assault/ harassment posts going around on Facebook. Tons of women (and I have seen some men!) have raised their hands in a show of solidarity to show just how prevalent the problem is and to support each other.

This post is not for them. While their ability to put it out there is admirable, this post is for those who still aren’t brave enough to do so, who fear repercussions for one reason or another, or simply just don’t feel like sharing a vulnerable moment in their lives with so many people they aren’t comfortable with.

This post is for those who are staying silent rather than joining in the sharing. Whose fingers are numb and frozen, who can’t breathe when they think about it.

Whatever happened, it’s ok if you don’t want to tell everyone. If and when you share your story, you should feel comfortable. Safe. Even if the words feel like glass leaving your mouth and you feel like you’re raw and bleeding when you’re done speaking, you should feel safe.

You matter. Your story matters. Whomever you tell that story to matters. It’s a tough thing to open up and make yourself vulnerable, and it’s ok if you don’t do it on Facebook and put it out there.

You survived whatever happened to you.

You are still putting one foot in front of the other every day.

You are still breathing.

Those things matter, too.

Marriage and the Antibiotic Olympics

Hilarity, Hospital, Life, loss, Marriage, Uncategorized, , , ,

I’ve mentioned before how the Mr. has been struggling with his health, especially over the last year. First he had digestive issues and then he developed a diabetic ulcer on the ball of his foot that he’s struggled with for nearly a year now. He took as much sick time and short-term disability as he could from his job, but eventually it reached a point where his job felt forced to let him go and he lost his insurance. Trying to get insurance through the state (my job does not offer any health insurance) has been a whole other herd of lions to fight, and in the meantime, he was unable to keep receiving the medical care he had been getting and things got bad for him – and then they took a turn for the worst.

He wound up being hospitalized for three weeks, guys. Diabetes, bone infection, and sepsis are no joke. They will take your body and hold it hostage. The man has been through so many powerful antibiotics that I almost believe he could be immune to herpes at this point.

When a bone becomes infected, there isn’t much they can do. Even with aggressive antibiotic therapy it can still spread and spread quickly – even to your blood. And since your blood goes everywhere in your body it is extremely dangerous. He wound up having the second toe and some of one of the long bones in his foot amputated and was still so septic he had to remain in the hospital for an extended amount of time.

So much time that we wound up spending our very first wedding anniversary in the hospital. I had a grilled ham and cheese sandwich and a piece of cheesecake, in case you were wondering. It was delicious.

It was also not at all how I expected our first wedding anniversary to go, you know? Not that I ever put too much thought into my expectations for it, but still. Everybody always hints around that when you get married your relationship changes, but I didn’t really expect mine to. We had been together for four years beforehand. We had weathered serious issues in that time – the death of his father and subsequent family turmoil, a child custody arrangement on my end, moving in together and job changes. Getting married never mattered much to me but it was so important to him that it became important to me as well. It was less than two months later he developed the ulcer and the issue continued to snowball from there. I certainly didn’t expect the “in sickness and in health” portion of those canned wedding vows to become so front and center so soon.

And while those canned wedding vows may be the standard in wedding ceremonies, I am still me and I still have my shining sense of humor that has gotten me through the many shitty hands of cards that life has dealt me over the years. This whole experience has taken its toll on the Mr., and it breaks my heart to see him so down.

So I made it my personal mission to make him smile in some way every day. The man is my best friend and he puts up with all of my shenanigans and special quirks. He knows my house may be messy, but by god my towels will be folded just so and put in a certain place in the closet. He knows I like sweet, cold things just before bed and that I will always throw my leg over his in my sleep, almost like I’m afraid he’s going to jump up and make a run for it. Losing a toe and some bone? That’s ok, babe. It doesn’t change a thing about how I feel toward you. I’m still going to treat you the same and make fun of you just as much. It’s how I show my affection.

And with that in mind I contacted a friend of mine who makes shirts upon request. And BAM, these beauties came into fruition:

 

 

I know that second one has a small print, but it says “You can count on me, but only to 19!” šŸ˜‰

Everyone who snickered at me when they said marriage changes things was absolutely right. That man is stuck with me now, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

The Pasta on the Floor

Hilarity, Life, Uncategorized, , ,

With school having started back up now, I am determined to cook more meals for my family. It sounds great, but half the time I’m running around like a crazy person and then I realize it’s time for dinner and I dint have a plan for it.

Yesterday I decided to make my chicken pasta – one of the girls’ faves and there’s aways leftovers to heat up for lunch the next day. I was excited. I went to the store, got my ingredients, came home, and got busy. I’m frying bacon to crumble, I’m cooking chicken, I’m even chopping veggies up to make the Mr. his own meal since he’s diabetic and can’t have all the carbs pasta brings to the table. As soon as my chicken gets done I throw my pasta in to boil while I crumble bacon and shred chicken. I make my sauce and toss is the whole shebang in a pan and sprinkle on parmesian cheese so it can bake for a bit and all the flavors mix together.

Twenty minutes later, the small wafting through my apartment has me drooling. I’m done waiting. So I throw open the oven, grab my potholders, grab onto my pan…and proceed to slip and flip the pan upside down as I pull it out. I now have pasta all over the bottom of my oven, all over the oven door, and trailing onto my kitchen floor.

The Mr. hears all of the commotion and comes running, worried I injured myself, and finds me staring blankly at this disaster and trying not to cry. I see him, panick for some weird reason, and reach down to grab my pan. I immediately throw it back down because, of course, it’s still blazing hot from being in the freaking oven.

I am the reason we can’t have nice things. Also, our pizza last night was delicious, thanks.

RespiteĀ 

Life, loss, Prose,

People want so desperately to wipe the slate clean, start over with no past. Like there’s no history clinging like a second skin, no memories playing repeat of past mistakes and regrets so powerful you can taste them on your tongue like icing.

I want to remember everything.

I want to remember all the times I ever felt alive with the people who are now dead. I want to remember crooked smiles that lit up the world like sunshine. 

I want to remember this vast world of infinite possibilities reduced to a moment, a piece of time where everything was perfect. 

But you can’t have all the good without the bad, the other moments where it felt like your soul was sliced down and made into glass. When you shattered and lost pieces. You may come back together, but you’ll never be the same because some were lost. Pieces were stolen. People were careless; people were so busy trying to collect their own pieces they didn’t realize they were crushing yours beneath their feet.

I want to remember those moments too.

When it tasted like blood in my mouth from trying not to beg and half-moons lined my palms from clenching my fists when I was just trying to hold myself together. All the times I tried not to cry, all the times I hated myself for looking weak. 

Because those moments are precious too. Those moments led to growth, even when the growing pains wormed into my bones and I couldn’t catch my breath.

Every moment has led to this one. This moment isn’t perfect, but I can see every strand, every decision (mine or not) that led to me being right here, right now. A person able to withstand. Survive. And smile.

Just a Little Bit of Prose

Life, loss, Prose

Just once I’d like to lay my head down and go to sleep. Sleep without the play play play pause play of constant loops in my head and all the conversations I never had with the people I should have burning in my throat.

I need to go to San Fransisco. I need to see my unbiological brother and sit by the ocean smoking cigarettes and listening to waves until we finally break down and start talking about all the ghosts that haunt us because he gets it. He gets how people are there and you watch them spiral down and no matter how hard you try to hold on you’re just left with splinters and bleeding onto pages. 

Because even though it hurts like hell to relive the worst moments in your life, sometimes it’s the only way to fall asleep and make room for dreams.

It Was Beginning to Look a lot Like Unemployment

Finances, Life, Work,

Holy Bejeebus, it’s been a rough few months. There was the wedding and finally being able to relax a little bit, but of course life kicks you right in the lady balls when you least expect. Darrick’s grandmother passed away right as I was transferred into a different department at work and he developed a sore in his foot (one of the most dangerous things for a diabetic) right within a few days’ span. When he finally notice something was wrong, he already had angry red spikes going almost up to his knee.

Darrick spent a few days in the hospital getting pumped full of antibiotics and wearing special leg booties that squeezed at intervals to encourage increased blood flow, then was released just in time for trick or treat. He’s been put off of work ever since because he can’t stand eight hours on an open wound.

Finances have been tight, but we are making it thus far. Unfortunately, being transfered at work for me was incredibly hard on me. A few months back they had asked me if I would be interested, but I wasn’t. Shipping is easily one of the most stressful areas of the place and will eat your life if you let it. I didn’t want to work all of those hours! Not with my two young girls. But then they cut my materials planning job, so it was either make the move or be without a job for the holidays.

And when you put it that way…

But oh, it’s been rough. You’re thrown in the fire and trying to figure it out. Every customer wants shipments made in a particular way with particular paperwork done and sometimes sent to particular people. Don’t get me started on overseas shipments! The whole department was dropping balls left and right while we juggled around each other trying to figure out our places. I was so stressed I had trouble eating and sleeping and just existed in a state of anxious, balled-up nerves, only to be told I should know more and be better at my job.

I almost walked out twice. The only thing that kept me there was being the only working parent at this time, and even then it was a close call. Darrick actually sat me down one night and told me how this job was affecting our family. My four-year-old said I never come home before bedtime, I would snap at my ten-year-old to the point she felt lile she couldn’t talk to me, and I didn’t laugh or make jokes anymore. All I would do is come home, eat, and go to sleep.

I refuse to be that person anymore. Family is my number one priority. I’ll work in McDonald’s 50 hours if I have to if it means we’re happier. I don’t care.

It flipped a switch for me, really. I had been so terrified of doing something wrong at work that I was afraid to do anything at all. So I just dove in. I restructured my tasks throughout the day and I’m leaving as close to my 8 hours as possible now. I’m doing my best, and if it isn’t good enough, then that should tell them something because I am not a slacker and everyone around there knows that. I’ve never been one to shy away from difficult or overwhelming tasks, which is why I tend to get the crappier jobs no one has previously done correctly. Sucks for me, but ok.

Since I’ve made the changes in my attitude and restructured things, it seems to be doing a lot better. I hope it stays that way!