the morning after

make america great again!

that's what we keep hearing.

you know what?

COOL.

LET'S DO IT.

america's favorite pass-time is pinterest and upcycling, so let's do it! take the old ideas, our new abilities and knowledge, and let's do this shit.

put wood shop and mechanics back in schools with all the CAD tools and drafting tools. encourage kids to create, build, expand.

make art and band and choir required elements again: help them see the beauty in everything around them with new cameras and drawing pads and use communities as their art canvases. help them find their voices in poetry and sound and share that with the WORLD online and in app stores and viral videos.

teach kids home ec- how to make a nutritious meal, help around the house, be independent. let them search pinterest recipes and craft ideas. let them grow local ingredients together, build their own community garden and learn how to use it.

teach kids to THINK and work instead of how to take tests. make the process and the effort the goal instead of the final score. encourage ALL types of learning. implement all the tools and resources available in the classrooms.

make it so kids who want to can go to affordable college and the ones who don't can still make a good living.

make a living wage so one parent can afford to stay home again.

make block parties and community gatherings regular events. teach people to help their neighbors.

AND HEAR ME:

i didn't say teach the white kids. i didn't say help your straight neighbors. i didn't say teach the kids who we think have a shot at making it further.

I DIDN'T QUALIFY ANYTHING.

there's a reason for that.

HELP. ALL. YOUR. NEIGHBORS.

TEACH. ALL. OUR. CHILDREN.

HELP. EVERYONE. SUCCEED.

we have better tools now. we have better knowledge now. we have experience and things that we know work.

i'm stitting here listening to coworkers gloat over how "that woman" lost and all the bullshit that goes with it.

DON'T LET THAT BE THE VOICE.

band together. help each other. make THAT the voice.

what was the main saying in the election? don't be complacent, go out and VOTE!

there's a reason for that- people get used to it being good. they forget how hard thousands of people worked to make things happen. obama didn't just show up to office with all these ideas in his head that he made happen. people had fought, bled, cried for years to get representatives in the house and senate. they had worked at the lower levels to get ideas and referendums and laws in place to pave the way. obama didn't have a magic wand: he had YEARS of people building a platform for him to stand on.

so let's start building another platform.

when kids have only ever know marriage equality, they are going to forget how hard people worked to make it happen and not be prepared to defend it like we will need to now.

when people are always fed and full they forget the fire that an empty belly can stir.

it. sucks.

we're all tired. we've been working FOREVER. many will want to give up.

but we can't.

make it great again. teach kids. build communities. make families thrive again.

BUT DO IT WITH THE NEW TOOLS AND NEW KNOWLEDGE WE HAVE.

DO IT FOR EVERYONE.

now is the time to band together. now is the time to build a new platform.

start today.

the vanessa behan crisis nursery always needs help.

crosswalk for homeless teens always needs volunteers.

odessey support center for LGBTQ kids will never stop needing allies and love and support.

go out and meet your neighbors.

go out and help someone.

go build a link. a link will be come a section. a section will be come a new platform.

it's 4 years. it's high school again. it's a bad john hughes movies that didn't end the way we wanted it to.

we all survived it before, as much as it sucked.

we can survive it again.

did i do it rite?

life is full of firsts- first roll over, first tooth, first steps, first words, first haircut, first day of school, first heartbreak, first school dance...all small rites of passage in their own way.

each is a passage way onto becoming something-

when you have your first period you're on your way to becoming a young lady.

when you have sex for the first time, you've transitioned out of childhood.

when you get your first job you're on your way to financial independence.

when you move out of your parents home you're on your way to establishing yourself as a member of society.

all these things. the basis of a thousand cliches, rom-com movies, how to survive raise a teenager self help books.

we need to know the right way to do things, the right way to commemorate, the right way to mark the passage of another milestone on the grand journey of life.

and there are people that are amazing at that. ALWAYS the right card for the occasion. the fully planned celebration. the poignant thing to say to commemorate the perfect photo finish memory.

and then there's the rest of us.

those of us hanging on by the skin of our teeth, no fucking clue what we're doing or how to make the correct scrap book about it.

you know the mom that remembers every school picture day and then makes an 18 year photo album with all the pictures neatly tagged and chronicled?

I'M NOT THAT MOM.

there's a box upstairs in my bedroom- it's full of albums of school pictures, important school papers, report cards, certificates, award. my mum saved them all those years and put them into an album for both my brother and i.

swim certificates, school papers, pictures, trophies...it's all there

i have a box somewhere with i think a *few* of my kids school papers and classroom pictures. maybe a few classroom certificates or awards. i have one of their impossibly tiny baby boy blue "i was born at mount carmel hospital" shirts and socks somewhere.

honestly not sure which of the two it belongs to.

i've never planned the big, themed birthday party. i think i remembered to put their names in their baby books. i make it to almost all their school events but i'll be damned if i can produce a picture of even half of them.

you know the saying: "no one is totally worthless, you can always be held up as the bad example." 

THAT'S ME. as many cliches as there are for the perfect moments, there's also the cliches of the train wreck moments.

THOSE ARE MY MOMENTS.

losing your virginity: it's supposed to be sweet and tender and that moment with the boy you really like that you've been dating forever. It's supposed to be cutely awkward and that moment you're going to remember forever.

oh shit, i remember mine alright.

16, sophmore year, a guy i had a HUGE crush on that intentionally put effort into forgetting i existed. i found out he was moving and thought i'd try one last time to catch his attention.

the whole thing start to finish was maybe 2 minutes and went something like this:
me: so i heard you were moving.
him: yup.
me: well, if you want to have sex before you leave...
him: ok. take your pants off.
*awkward fumbling and removal of just enough clothes*
him: ready?
me: ow, that really hurts.

and i haven't seen him again since.

no cute awkwardness. just awkwardness. no romance. no sweet tender build up. just enough to technically not be a virgin any more.

then there's the first time i *ACTUALLY* had sex.

followed 9 months later by giving birth.



i graduated college twice and didn't walk in either procession.

i got married at a place called "The Hitching Post" by a minister that had ironed on pictures of his grandkids inside his suit jacket.

my divorce was a fairly simple affair (ha ha ha...he had two mistresses.  IT'S FUNNY PEOPLE).

i moved out and took everything that was either mine at the beginning or that i was currently paying for on credit, filed the papers, and 3 months later a judge officially declared me divorced. no war of the roses. no screaming arguments that ended with, "...AND YOU CAN TALK TO MY LAWYER."

i've been through some terrible rites of passage- attending the funeral of your parent before you're 30 is not a moment i would wish on anyone. 

i'm still not sure i did that right.

is making jokes during the hour and a half long procession about stopping for road trip snacks the right way?

DON'T GET YOUR KNICKERS IN A TWIST. we didn't actually stop. too many logistics in stopping a 2 mile long procession for snacks, even if the store was having a 2 for 1 sale on doritos.

besides. we kind of all decided giving a ulogy with dorito dust on our black clothes may be a little uncouth.

we weren't monsters.

well, maybe i'm not a total monster, but i am the person that joked about once and twice baked ashes from the same family being different colors as we spread them in the ocean.

same family, different colored ashes. you can look if you don't believe me.

i don't do things the right way. i never have.

i don't have the cute stories wrapped up in a bow.

i'll be the mom at graduation *just* remembering i forgot to send out senior pictures and announcements.

i'll be the mother-in-law that forgets an heirloom gift for the bride.

i'll probably get my first letter from the AARP and get a paper cut that lands me in the hospital some how ending in a hip replacement.

maybe there is no RIGHT of passage. maybe that's why the spelling is wrong.

back to basics

a few weeks ago the ladies of my book club encouraged me to sign up for a weekly writing prompt.

and so i did (i promise, i'm working on this weeks prompt).

THEN, like the true assholes they are, these amazing women bonded together and signed me up for a winter writing intensive course (be ready for a deluge of posts in december!).

jerks.

WOULD YOU JUST STOP BELIEVING IN ME AND ENCOURAGING ME ALREADY??

they presented me with THE PERFECT CARD:

it is filled with the. most. supportive and AMAZING notes that made me cry and snot all over my self, and they were of course right, it would have been better at the restaurant across the street instead of at the book fandango surrounded by strangers. BUT THERE WERE FREE BOOKS AND A HANDSOME AUTHOR SPEAKING.

SO.

to my ladies: (huh, that sounds creepier than expected)

to the ladies of "read me" (less creepy. better)

i present to you, my first short story. written, illustrated, and bound by yours truly circa 1986.

note the staple marks on the CORRECT side of the pages...well, correct when you're 6 and left handed anyway...


without further ado, The Little Bear, by Sherry Miller

i will have my actual writing assignment up later today.

thank you to all of you who read this weird little corner of the internet. thank you to those who believe in me and encourage me to write. i'm getting there.

it's a mystery

in a strange moment of bravado, i signed up for a weekly writing prompt email.

yesterday the first assignment arrived, early in the morning giving me plenty of time to get started and write something amazing and poignant and creative.

but i just stared at it.

i'll just take some time to think about it.

which i did. honestly. all day. i even bought new journals. and a new pen.

SEE HOW PERFECT THEY ARE FOR ALL SORTS OF CREATIVE THINGS??

i even went to a nice, quiet bar for a drinking and writing session. write drunk, edit sober, publish posthumously, isn't that how it goes?

and i did. i wrote. i wrote some starts, some ideas, different directions i could go.

but i keep coming back to the same one. the same idea. BUT I DON'T WANT TO WRITE ABOUT IT. it's the hardest. it's the most real. it's the most painful.

it's also the most dark, the most depressing, the heaviest one.

I DON'T WANT TO START OUT A NEW WRITING TRACK ALL SAD AND MOPEY!

but i keep coming back to the same idea and there's something to that trust your gut thing. so. here it goes.

this weeks writing prompt:
"write about a personal riddle- fact or fiction- something you will never know the true meaning of."

i don't know how or why my dad died.

i'll never know. 

i could ask a LOT of questions.

i could rattle some pretty high up cages.

i could get into some DEEP, DEEP conspiracy theories.

but i'll never know the truth. i'll never know how. i'll never know why.

for anyone playing a little catch up, in August 2010 my dad died in a house fire. total loss. 3 people killed. house was gone. everything was gone.

BUT WAIT- DIDN'T YOU JUST SAY YOU DON'T KNOW HOW YOUR DAD DIED? YOU JUST SAID HOUSE FIRE.

yeah. technically a house fire.

3 people: my dad, his wife, another young state trooper staying with them while he build a house.

1:15ish am: a phone call to 911 that the house was on fire and they were trying to get out.

none of them made it out.

of a 2 story house. with plenty of windows to crawl out of.

with stairs that literally led straight out the front door.

with a large basement slider for the officer staying down there.

an officer who had just graduated first in his academy class for physical fitness.

not only did they not make it out, they had to use cadaver dogs to find the remains and then dental records and bone marrow to identify the bodies.

how could they make a call but not get out? not even one of them?

how could a fire burn so hot and so fast that in the short time it took agencies to respond they had to use dogs to find the remains?

how could the complete and total house be GONE. not a cross beam, not a joist, NOTHING left, but the garage 5' away is still standing and the grass in the front and back lawn didn't even singe?

they investigated.

by they i mean a bunch of acronyms.

people with a few tricks up their sleeve.

like one of the guys that investigated the oklahoma city bombing.

and no one knows.

no. one. knows.

no gangs took credit for it. no accelerates were discovered on scene. no household appliances were under recall.

i waited a year. i waited until the gag order was released off the case.

i waited until the investigation had been completed and released.

official report said: "NO KNOWN CAUSE."

i'm sure someone knows. i'm sure an investigator somewhere has an idea. i imagine somewhere there's a file with more than a cover sheet that says "NO KNOWN CAUSE" with a stack of black papers behind it. 

maybe i haven't asked the right person.

maybe i haven't asked the right questions.

a mystery is only a mystery because we haven't asked the right question yet.

and i could ask questions. i could call my brother over and over asking if he knows something i don't. i could ask the people that were there in town while they investigated. i could dig around and find old coworkers, old commanding officers. i could demand to see files. i could...the list goes on and on.

but it won't change the ending of the story, will it?

even if i get the answer it isn't like the prize would be my dad coming back to life. if i ask the right person the right thing and get the key in the lock and get nicholas cage to follow the trail to the secret underground cave in mount rushmore my dad isn't going to be waiting at the end of the chase for me.

and what would i do with the information?

what if it was a gang hit? am i going to vigilante and take on the mexican drug cartel?

what if it was the illegal immigrant drunk driver that came back after being deported and threatened my dad and threatened me and my dad took out a restraining order againt?  am i going to find random guy and ask for him to be deported, again, since it worked so well the first time?

what if it was some conspiracy theory game plan tied to the younger officer just getting off service as security at the governors mansion? am i going to wade into whatever cover up already got three people killed and go all olivia pope scandal on them?

whatever happened, why-ever it happened.

i don't need to know. it's my mystery. it's a part of me. it's a part of my story. not all stories have a happy neat tied up ending. this one didn't.

what i DO need is to go forward from where that story ended.

i'm working on loving my house that my dad provided for me.

i'm working on being ok with knowing there won't be new memories. there won't be my dad walking me down the aisle. there won't be any more christmases. there won't be my dad at my kids graduations. there won't be four generation pictures with great grandkids. there won't be family reunions. there won't be the scary "meet the parents" moments.

but there will be moments of knowing my dad is never gone.

there's moments of chewing on my knuckles while i'm driving when i'll suddenly start laughing remembering my dad doing the same weird thing.

there will be calling my teenager "son" when i'm particularly frustrated with him the way my dad used to do to my brothers.

there will be the reminder every time i get my hair cut that my dad was just starting to grey at 55 and there was no sign of thinning on the horizon.

there will be times i look in the mirror and see an expression that is all too familiar.

there will be endless, obnoxious crying at john denver songs from now to the end of time.

there will be me saying "yup, my legs go all the way up to my hips" like my dad once said when  he noticed my gangly stork legs as a teenager.

i will call my boys both fuzz nuts until they're grown adults with children of their own.



i don't know. i won't know.

maybe some day i'll take my giant dog that looks shockingly like scooby doo, get a mystery van and go investigating.

or maybe i'll just  have some scooby snacks and sit on the couch staring at my dog imagining we're going investingating.

i think the second option is more likely. it has snacks.

uniforms

this is going to be a rant.

i'll just get that out of the way now.

this is going to be a one sided, opinion heavy, curse word filled, angry, mean, probably offensive to some, rant.

now that that's out of the way...

listen up fake ass bitches:

WHEN YOU SAY YOU LOVE A MAN IN UNIFORM, DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE SAYING? 

i am SICKENED. absolutely sick. hateful, mean, angry sick when i hear about women who think it's "so hot" to date a soldier, cop, firefighter, EMT because they "love a man in uniform" only to break up because they don't like the job, it's too stressful, the hours are shitty, deployments are too hard, whatever.

LISTEN YOU FUCKWITS: "loving a uniform" is a fucking fetish. go to a god damn costume shop and cream your panties all you like.

if you date a man in uniform, KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS.

do you want to know what that means?

it means the job is stressful, the hours are shitty and deployments are hard.

you want to date a cop? guess what, that means missed dinners because a shift went long when they had to scrape a human being off a highway after a drunk driving accident.

you want to date a firefighter? that means worrying each call that a backdraft doesn't happen, a structure doesn't cave in, a tree doesn't shoot off like a bottle rocket, the fucking wind doesn't shift directions.

want to date a soldier? that means months alone while they're on deployment. that means regulations, rules, codes. that means being at the fucking whim of the US government.

it ALL means dealing with some form of PTSD at some point. it means shitty, and i mean SHITTY days of coworkers dying, dealing with the worst of humanity, things that can't ever, ever be unseen.

even on the BEST POSSIBLE DAY it means going to the aid of people who are having a shitty, shitty day. the cops and firefighters don't respond when everything is going right. soldiers very, VERY rarely are deployed to places where things are peachy keen jelly bean.

i am SO SICK of hearing:
"we got divorced because she doesn't like me going on deployment."
"we split up because she didn't realize how stressful the job is."
"i can't be with him because he misses all the important events because he's on shift."

AS IF ALL THAT ISN'T ENOUGH, they get to deal with public opinion, lack of resources across the board from pay to supplies/necessary personnel, stigma, macho-ism (the thin blue line is a thing) AND, the cherry on the fucking top: increased risk of  suicide.

it's shifting, it's starting to change. there's a huge push to let soldiers know they can ask for help dealing with what happens in the field, but there's still a lot of stigma. it's still a hard thing for cops and firefighters.

i mean, for fucks sake, even fucking trump decided to open his shit hole and vomit out that "...military suicides happen to troops who 'can't handle it'."

you know what? THEY CAN'T.

THAT'S THE WHOLE POINT.

NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO. THIS IS SOME GRADE A FUCKED UP SHIT THAT NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO DEAL WITH.

ESPECIALLY not alone. we need to help them, have help available to them.

no one should have to deal with scraping another human being off a roadway. telling a child their parent overdosed. pulling a charred body out of a burned building. watching a fellow soldier be blown apart inches away. 

BUT THESE PEOPLE CHOOSE TO TAKE THAT RISK.

and the very, VERY last fucking thing they need is to be dumped on. by politicians, by partners, by ANYONE. they don't need someone with a fucking megaphone mouth calling them weak or bashing them on the 5:00 news. they don't need a dear john letter in the middle of combat. they don't need to return home from deployment to a voice mail from a divorce attorney. they don't need someone who walks away because they miss dinner or have been working long shifts.

they need support systems. stigma free help. partners that don't run away when the "hot uniform" feeling wears off.

i'm the great-granddaughter of a constable. i'm the granddaughter of a cop. i'm the daughter of a state trooper. i'm the sister of a sheriff's deputy. i was married to a volunteer firefighter. my mom ran dispatch for fire crews for several years.

i have blue blood back 4 generations.

guess what that means?

it means divorce (or several). it means being glued to the tv dreading a phone call when you hear "officer involved shooting" on your brother's shift and beat. it means getting a few precious hours with your dad during your one week a year because he's working. it means stopping and sending up a prayer during the hot beautiful summer weather because you know fire season is happening. it means knowing mom will be gone another 4 weeks because they don't have enough crews to get a line around the fire. it means waking up at 4 am when the pager goes off and making sure boots and gear and coffee are ready to go out the door. it means making 100 sandwiches when the red cross hasn't been able to respond. it means bawling your eyes out whenever and where ever your hear amazing grace on bagpipes because you've been to too many funerals where that's played.

you want to love a fucking uniform? good. great. go to fucking spirit halloween store and love them all you want until store employees ask you to leave.

you want to love the person IN the uniform? that's a whole different story.

leave it to beaver

what do you do when you have a traditionalist mindset with non-traditionalist circumstances?

for a kid who didn't watch tv much growing up, i have a very firmly implanted idealistic trope of what a "typical family home" is supposed to be.

i never watched leave it to beaver but i'm oh so familiar with the cookie cutter: mom, dad, boys, charming rancher on a quiet street, general shenannigans and tom-foolery ensue.

when i watch those types of shows one thing always stands out: how DONE everything is. the yard is landscaped. the living room furniture is a matching set. the house is all set up and DONE.

WHILE THEY'RE STILL RAISING YOUNG KIDS.

HOW?

i remember my dad telling me, YEARS ago, that setting up a house takes time. no one moves into their first apartment all ready to go. you start out with milk crates and assemble-it-yourself-furniture. over time you slowly replace the milk crates with a kitchen table and chairs. the press board furniture slowly becomes pieces that arrived in once piece- REAL furniture. you slowly hand down the hand me downs and get your own BRAND NEW couch (or several if you have furniture a.d.d. like me). 

THAT part i expected. but for some reason with my house it's different- i expect it to be finished. NOW. and i get endlessly frustrated at waiting to be able to afford different things.

what do you mean i have to PLAN to put in carpet? HOW MUCH is redoing the upstairs bathroom going to be? why can't i just PUT IN sprinklers? how much longer before the front deck actually falls apart before just threatening?

i feel embarrassed to have people over and i'm endlessly apologizing for the half finished state of things.

watch out for the back deck, it needs redone so there's not such big gaps.

sorry about the living room floor- best to keep your shoes on so you don't get a sliver.

oh, when you take a shower downstairs the hot is cold and the cold is hot.

when you lock the garage door you have to close it then push it back a little because it's leaning and not lined up right.

i know people say that when you're done with ALL your house projects it's time to move. and i know that as soon as you get the sink fixed the dishwasher goes on the fritz. OH, and the washing machine is leaking. OH, and the outlet upstairs quit working. OH, and the roof is at the end of life. OH, and the hot water heater needs replaced...

I GET IT.

i was up on the south hill this weekend, the "rich" section of town. there's BEAUTIFUL homes all owned by people my parents age. AND THEY WERE OUTSIDE WORKING ON PROJECTS.

so, what's my issue? why do i put so much pressure on myself to have everything done, barely 5 years after moving in, when people who have been in their home for 20+ years still have projects they're working on?

when am i going to learn to cut myself a little slack?

even growing up- it wasn't constant, but there were always projects being budgeted and waited on. the crappy sidewalk took several years to get around to replacing. at one point my mum ripped out all the flower beds and put in white rock. we built a storage shed in the back yard. re-tiled the bathroom shower. built a coat closet in the living room. added cabinets to the kitchen and cut in a dishwasher. redid some carpet/removed some carpet. switched from a pellet stove to a gas fire place. replaced washers and dryers. my own home growing up was never "finished."

in leave it to beaver or the brady bunch the kids are young and everything is already done. my mom bought her house when i was 9.

hell, even "newer" shows (showing my age now) like tool time or family matters or full house- the kids were all young but the house was already DONE. they already had the grown up furniture. they already had the fully equipped garage. all the pictures on the wall. the big back yard with a swing set and beautiful green grass.

and for some reason i think mine has to be.

i know i'm not a double parent household. i KNOW i'm not a double income household. i know that things take time and planning and budgeting. i now a complete bathroom remodel takes time. i know that installing carpet isn't cheap. i know that landscaping takes YEARS for the plants and the grass to fill in the way you want it to. i know that. I KNOW ALL THAT.

but i still struggle.

i often wonder when i'm going to be the gown up that i grew up with. 

when am i going to be able to take everyone out to a big family dinner? (uh, duh, your kids don't even have spouses yet, calm your tits.) when am i going to be the nice house on the block? when am i going to be the destination house with the big summer bbq's and people stopping by all the time?

and then i take a moment and LOOK at ward and june cleaver. look at mike and carol brady. tim and jill taylor.

they are not 35 with an 18 year old.

i started EARLY. i didn't have my 20's in college figuring things out and getting my shit together. i had my 20's with kids and making it up as i went.

maybe if i had waited until 27 or 30 to start having kid i would already have a house lined out and sorted. i would already have bought the furniture instead of diapers. i could have spent time landscaping instead of driving to practices and friends houses and school events.

don't get me wrong. NEITHER WAY IS WRONG.

i personally think waiting til you're older and more established to have kids is much, much smarter, but then i look at it and i woudn't have the energy now to keep up with them...maybe that's because they sucked out all my 20's energy. ha. six one way, half a dozen the other.

end of the day, second verse, same as the first: i just need to quit judging myself so harshly. give my self room to breathe and BE. i'm not *supposed* to be anything. i'm not supposed to have the perfect house. i'm not supposed to have the perfect decorating. i'm not supposed to have the perfect lawn. i can work towards those things. i can allow myself space and time and not feel like a failure for being perfectly normal. body, house, kids, whatever, i really need to learn to chill the fuck out and let myself just BE.

the mother's curse

i hope you have a child JUST. LIKE. YOU.

how many times do i remember my mom saying that?

guess what? i think they're both like me. but in very different ways.

last week the oldest spawn turned 18.

i'm officially the parent of an adult.

WHAT???

i still struggle with him. well, a one sided struggle anyway. he's still shutting me out.

i was talking to a good friend about how the kid and i have struggled over the years, where we're at now, and she laughed and said "are you sure it isn't because he's just like you?" or some version there-of.

she pointed out that he's wicked smart and very artistically gifted. later that same week, one of his grandparents echoed the same vein of thinking.

i'm some version of both those.

the oldest spawn also happens to be very opinionated, very outspoken, very passionate, and VERY stubborn.

well.

huh.

something about apples and trees.

then there's the "little" spawn.

"little" as in he looks me square in the eye now and long ago passed me in shoe size.

oy.

he's been on a campaign to get his ears pierced this summer.

after getting over my horribly sexist knee-jerk response of "...but that's for girls!" i asked WHY he's so hell bent on getting them pierced.

"because i'm tired of looking boring. i want to try something new and feel more like myself."

again with the apples and trees.

the small spawn and i had a discussion at the end of his counseling session a few weeks ago about why i push him so much to do certain things- meet new people, try new things even if you don't think you'll like it, go places even when you think you won't have fun.

spawn to counselor: why does she make me do things she won't even do?

me: BECAUSE I DON'T WANT YOU TO BE LIKE ME!

i see so much of myself in him- the not great parts. he already makes up other peoples minds for them. he already convinces himself of things before they've even happened. he talks himself out of things because he knows he won't have a good time or he won't like it.

HOLY CRAP GET OUT OF MY HEAD.

i could never ask that person out, i already know i'm not their type.

i shouldn't go to that concert, i won't have a good time.

i shouldn't hang out with that group of people, i won't fit in.



neither one of them may look like me, but holy crap are those my spawns.

so now the trick is: how do i teach them to cultivate and enhance the GOOD parts of me and recognize and mitigate the not so great parts?

who the fuck am i?

i'm having a medium to large identy crisis as of late.

i have these certain ideas in my head of what things are in relation to what they look like-

you know,

stereotypes.

you know what i mean? the hollywood casting sheet versions of people?

moms of teenager: middle aged, frumpy and tired with a boring neglected haircut and personal care routine.

moms of sports kid: sweater sets, khaki capris, mini-van full of sports gear and snack packs.

single mom: frazzled hot messes in yoga pants or painted up baby-daddy hunter.

country music fan: sleeveless tee shirt (or flannel shirts), home make jean shorts, dirty lifted 1980's rust bucket truck with rebel flag proudly displayed.

office manager: lumpy, middle aged, permed bowl cut, bargain discount suit, sad cat lady.

people with visible tattoos: bad ass artistic types or a member of a biker gang.

writer: obscure reference quoting, deeply intellectual, jacket with elbow patches, sipping camomile tea, glasses.

i am all of these, but i am none of these.

i don't know who or what the fuck i am.

how the fuck would hollywood cast me in a lifetime original movie?

i'm not a path forger. i'm not a trend setter. i'm not cutting edge ANYTHING.

maybe it's not so much an identity crisis it's more of a perception and acceptance crisis.

while sitting around the house this weekend like a slob, binge watching netflix parked on the couch after the kiddo headed to summer camp i started to wonder about what some of the other youth group kids have been saying to him, about how they perceive me and our home life.

he's been told a few times that he's living in an "unsafe and unhealthy household" because, from their religious standpoint, i'm not what a good mom "should" (fucking hate that word) be.

to some of the youth staff and youth group, a "good mom" is completely straight, married to a man, no tattoos, no cursing, no drinking, no piercings, "natural" colored hair, sunday morning, wednesday evening prayer group attending mom.

when they look at me, hell, when anyone looks at me, first appearance is anything BUT that.

i'm guessing (purely theoretical as no one has actually ever said anything to my face) when people look at me i can be a bit...intimidating? off putting?

i am not petite. at all. throw in a few visible tattoos, piercings, half shaved head, blue/purple hair...i joke that i'm totally fine walking around downtown any time because no one wants to mess with the plus sized tattooed chick. street kids don't ask me for cigarettes, people don't bump into me on busy streets, there's generally a pretty comfortable bubble that surrounds me wherever i go. 

my brother asked me after the last tattoo: who i was rebelling against and when i would stop?

i'm not a rebel. never have been.

i got my cartilage pierced in college 17 years ago because there was a girl that graduated with my brother (gennessee, super cool name) that was gorgeous and cool and she had one, so of course i needed one. i got my nose pierced after my divorce because it was something _i_ wanted to do and my divorce was all about getting away from someone that told me what i could and couldn't do.

ok. maybe a *bit* rebellious. more reclaiming identity than rebellion.

my tattoos are a version of story telling, not rebellion. they're pieces of me and what i believe and what i've been through. my hair- who the fuck knows. why not cut it and change it? i LOATHE looking in the mirror and seeing boring and frumpy. i work VERY hard to maintain my shallow, superficial appearance. always have. i suppose when you have a mother that only points out flaws you think that's all ANYONE can see and you desperately want to fix it. i don't want to be a lazy, people of walmart joke. i don't want to be known as the girl with the perpetual ponytail. i don't want to be the mom living in yoga pants and a sweatshirt. i want to look nice. i want to look well kept and polished. to me, in my super shallow vanity smurf mind set, having colored hair or a non-standard hair cut shows that i put time and attention into it. it's not the same ignored/neglected haircut from the last 100 years. it shows i'm trying. i keep up the color. i try stupidly hard to do a style every day. i make it a point to get a haircut or change when i find myself using alligator clips more than a few times a week.

BACK TO THE POINT. if i ever pretended to have one.

I LIKE ME. for the first time in a VERY long time, when i look in the mirror I LIKE ME. funny how shaving off 3/4 of your hair can change your self perspective so much. I LIKE MY FACE. like, REALLY like my face. for the first time i don't qualify what i see: oh, you look nice with your hair pulled up this way. oh, you look nice with your make up done. oh, you look nice...WHATEVER.

i keep waiting to look in the mirror and have my usual range of "yuk" to "well, this is as good as it gets" reaction, but it hasn't happened. I LIKE WHAT I SEE. i feel like myself for the first time in a LONG, LONG time. not to sound trite or cliche, but maybe for the first time ever. i like my face. i don't feel like a drag version of my brother. or a passable version of myself. I LIKE MY FACE.

but.

there always has to be a but.

i can't figure out how liking my face blends with the rest of me. and it's the dumbest fucking thing EVER.

can a person with this haircut wear western boots?

WHAT THE FUCK DOES HAIR HAVE TO DO WITH SHOES?

but do you know what i mean? can "edgy" and "hick" co-exist? bullshit like that?

how can i be all the things that i am but not BE any of the things i am?

the amazing women of my book club were very quick to call bullshit when i brought this up- they reminded me that punk rock got it start in bluegrass. i am woefully under-educated when it comes to things like the history of CBGB which stands for COUNTRY, BLUEGRASS, BLUES (*headdesk* moment). OF COURSE PUNK AND COUNTRY CAN GO TOGETHER.

i know, in my head, that for every stereotype there's a thousand people that break that stereotype. i know writers that don't live in a secluded cabin in the woods. i know other moms (even ones of teenagers, gasp) that aren't stuck in frumpyville. i know people with tattoos that aren't societal degenerates. i know stereotypes are as wrong as often as they're right.

i think i just need to get the fuck over myself. tell that little (huge) virgo voice that needs a crisp, clean, precise label on everything to just shut the fuck up already. quit fucking worrying about what other people see or think. THEY AREN'T THE ONES LISTENING TO MY THOUGHT SHIT STORM AT 3AM. and if i like myself and quit fighting myself, that shit storm gets so much quieter.

funny thing that, IF I LIKE MYSELF AND QUIT FIGHTING MYSELF MY SHIT STORM OF SELF HATE GETS QUIETER.

whoda thunk?

so, to wrap up, today's lesson? just fucking love yourself already.

i'll accept my award for captain obvious statement of the day now.

quit worrying about stereo types and what i think things *should* be. quit worrying about what people i've never even met think of me. quit trying to be what some article or google image search has tried to convince me i *should* be. stop analyzing myself to the millionth degree. stop with the lists and reasons other people should hate me. stop with the lists and reasons why _I_ should hate me. i don't have to be happy. i threw that in at first then realized that's putting a lot of pressure on myself. i can be healthy and not "happy," i can have off days and still self care. i can change my look and still like myself. i can gain/lose weight and still be ok. if i am or if i'm not someones expected idea THAT'S OK.

i just need to be healthy. i just need to keep liking me. just as i am (thanks bridgette jones).

i just want a hair cut...

i have stupidly thick hair. we've always had a hate-hate relationship.

there is ZERO risk of me going bald outside medical reasons or radioactive spider bites (was spiderman bald, or was it just his outfit? i know deadpool was bald...).

my hair has always been...something. let's take a trip back in time:

back when it was manageable

so long. so blonde. even a bit of curl

second grade. LOVED this haircut. mum HATED it.

5th grade: year of the glasses AND the bad perm

8th grade: the era of hot rollers.

senior pictures.

i can say i tried it at least?

YOU'RE WELCOME.

oh man. so many train wreck pictures. so hard to just choose a few.

but HAIR. i grew up in the era of apple pectin shampoo and conditioner by the gallon from shopko and mom would add water to the conditioner when it ran low to make sure to get all of it. we had ONE curling iron in the house...the kind with teeth that feathers as it curls (or snarls up so you're scared you're going to have to cut it out). i DID have a crimper. super 80's. but growing up my hair was...there. i guess. i tried to do things with it, but if i washed it, it was wet and frizzy ALL DAY. if i didn't wash it, it was greasy and limp. if i hot rolled it, i looked like a brunette version of annie. if i slept on pink sponge rollers...i can't even go back to that dark place.

hair has been hair.

i tried the 90's flip out style which did NOT work well with my OCD and need for perfection (that was a brutal drivers license). i've tried short, long, hilighted, permed, colored, natural...PURPLE even. i've tried layering, thinning, asymetrical cuts, the reverse mullet (long in the front, short in the back). i have blow driers, flat irons, curling irons, curling wands, curlers, hair brushes, bobby pins, banana clips, hair combs. i have studied every "how to" when it comes to beach waves and simple manageable styles, all to no avail. i couldn't rat my hair if you handed me a costco size white rain and the best ratting comb.

currently i'm stuck in this not long, but not short, but not straight, but won't hold a curl, always dry and flaky but still oily and gross with split ends purgatory.

so now i'm venturing into the unknown: pixie.

maybe.

if i can get over hating myself.

the sound track in my head sounds something like this right now:

listen fat ass, your face is approximately the size and shape of a water balloon that's about to burst. not to mention all the acne scaring. and, let's not forget, current acne. you KNOW that if you get a pixie, it will show ALL of that. you can't hide your family jowels behind hair when there is no hair.

you know fat girls look terrible in pixie cuts. ok. maybe not all fat girls, but YOU will.

you think you'll be able to manage it more when it's short? that's what you thought when it was long. it will be super easy to braid or twist or style and go! how did that work captain alligator clip? YEAH. QUEEN OF FRUMPYVILLE. that's right. you think short will be any easier? sure, it may dry faster, but you still don't know how to DO hair. it will still look like a hot train wreck mess. AND your fat face will stick out and look like a DOUBLE train wreck.

you can't pull off a pixie. that's for people with CUTE faces. not people that look like a twin to their older brother.

you can't pull off a pixie. that's for young girls.

you can't pull off a pixie. YOU JUST CAN'T.

and what about when you want to grow it out? WHAT THEN? DO YOU KNOW HOW AWKWARD IT WILL BE?

there's SO. MUCH. HATE in my brain hole right now that it makes tina fey scripts look cuddly and loving.

and the pictures. OH. MY. GOD. THE. PICTURES. i can't imagine anything to draw. i can't imagine pieces of art to create. i can't imagine what remodeling or rearranging my living room would look like, but HOLY SHIT CAN I PICTURE HOW BAD A PIXIE CUT WOULD LOOK.

i'm fully, 100% convinced that i will look like a gremlin and a light socket had a fat adult baby. ONE HUNDRED PERCENT.

the pictures in my head are TERRIFYING. it's like every bad selfie vacationed in Chernobyl then mistook deadpool's oxygen deprivation chamber for a tanning bed.

BUT I'M GOING TO DO IT ANYWAY.

life is too short. so what if i look terrible? it's happened before, it will happen again. and i'll have plenty of pictures to show grandkids in the future when they're living on mars in their space suits and don't have to worry about doing their hair.

i'm sure the self hate will be raging away all weekend and through the actual haircut on tuesday. but, you know what?

there's always hats.