I'm so AWKWARD

It is so easy to go from cruising along at just about doing o.k and passing the time without all life's worries temporarily stuffed to the back of my mind, playing some mindless game on Facebook to pass the time until I can eat because Abbegayle is out late on a movie date, to feeling like a ball of lead has encased my heart and I really don't deserve to even eat the crackers on the plate beside me. Half an hour ago I was singing a song in the car on the way to pick up Abbegayle and Saul, somewhat proud of myself because I had not made a big deal about staying up until 10:30 to pick them up when I usually go upstairs at about six thirty, take my medication, and end my day by sitting in bed for a few hours before falling asleep. I pulled up outside the movie theatre and thought it was the cutest thing to see them sitting close to each other, leaning against the wall, sort of bobbing up and down like there was imaginary music, obviously having fun and feeling in tune with each other. They got in the car and I didn't want it to be all quiet and awkward so I asked about the movie and we talked a bit and Abbegayle asked if I had brought Saul the book she wanted to give him.
I had.
But I ran my mouth and when she asked if I had switched copies from her room I was honest and told what I thought was a funny story about giving Saul the best copy instead of the rather gross one which had water marks and even cheese fingerprints in it, which I would not give to anyone! I laughed. I thought they might have, but the back seat must have been a different atmosphere. A judging one. A shocked one. An embarrassed one for my daughter.
There was more small talk on the way to Saul's house and then when we arrived home, Abbegayle politely asked me not to make comments about disgusting things like cheese in a book because she had already had to tell him that he couldn't come over because our house is kind of messy and she needs to clean it up and he might think that is weird. 
I asked her what she might think or say if the person she most cares about actually says that her house is gross and she just looked sad and tearful and tired and upset and then asked me what I would do if one of her friends said our house was disgusting because they might.
I told her this was a big topic that we probably needed to discuss some time. Feeling ashamed of your own home. Feeling so concerned about your own friends not liking your house and them saying things about it. Feeling that I wouldn't let people over. I have not told Abbegayle people cannot come. I have asked her to straighten the downstairs computer game room. But I have not told her that she cannot have friends over. The downstairs, according to me, seems ok. Yes, the carpet is gross, we have a lot of knick knacks, there is dust, the wood is scratched, the couches are dirty, lots of things are worn and messy, but it has been set pretty straight by my standards. I am a little taken aback that Abbegayle feels it is not ready for her friends to see.
I get it. I know that some of her friends could be rude and judgmental. But then I think they should keep their opinions to themselves and grow up. Addy would never have said anything. Ali never said anything. Will never said anything. Those are kids of different ages who all came over or in Addy's case lives in a similar environment, and who just adapted to the place they visit and enjoyed the company they keep.
I want Abbegayle to have friends and company who enjoy her, not the carpet, furniture and arrangement of her house.
I know well how she feels, but i want to teach her at an early age that it does not matter. If you are living in a house every day that does not feel like a pig sty to you, just messy, then other people can cope. You just pick up a bit and move on and have fun.
The reason I don't see people is not due to the condition of the house. It is something else entirely. i am afraid of people, and friendships and interacting. The house, I have very little worry about now. Some, but I have a sort of "screw you" feeling about it. If I am not good enough, I am sorry. I really am. But I can't help you and I can't change right now.
I am worried that Abbegayle has reached a very sensitive age where she feels people will abandon her as a friend or even as a girlfriend if they see cat barf marks on the carpet, if they smell cat poop, if they see animal hair on the counters and floor, couch and table, if they see cobwebs high in corners that can't be reached, if they see the couch stains covered with blankets, if they see clutter, if the toilet bowl if not white, if the bathroom sink empties slowly and the back yard has things that need to be picked up and thrown away. 
She is right. All those things are there. But I simply don't have the desire or the heart to fix them or move them. I do a little here and there and things get done, but something is always ugly and unkempt. I don't know if Abbegayle will ever be comfortable bringing a friend over. 
But is that my fault or hers?
I think mine because I should provide her with the home environment that "most" teens in her school have. Clean, sparkly houses with upgrades and no dust.
In this area that is the norm.
Teens don't need to be ashamed of their homes because they are pretty and clean.
Most moms are not depressed and contemplating the date of their suicide.
Most moms don't feel defeated when they hear that they just embarrassed their daughter by mentioning a cheese print in a book they did not give to someone. Most moms would never say something so stupid. The cheese print wouldn't be in most mom's books. If it was, they would never mention it because that just isn't socially acceptable.
That is why I feel defeated, like my heart is encased in lead. I know I have a lot to teach Abbegayle, but my lack of cleaning, my lack of self esteem, and my lack of a plan for the future all play against me teaching her how to deal with every day fears about being judged by her peers.
I still feel that I know what to say, but it does not come across as credible from someone as "loserish" as me.

We have fire

So, I am wandering the aisles of Target today after forcing the Allied moving van to back up and let me out of the driveway, and figuring that it would be rude not to actually leave the neighborhood, and something unusual happens.
Not the part about aimlessly spending money because that was all I could think of to do to waste an hour or so away from the house. (I had planned to grocery shop with the ten dollars off fifty Target coupon, but the store was out of circulars, and the text failed on my "smart" phone.) Instead, I was trying to still spend money in a somewhat valuable way by going for items like dog food and vast quantities of toilet paper, and not being sucked in by free gift cards for products that are overpriced in the first place.
Anyway, I had made it to the aisle with the mattress covers to find something for Zachary's dorm room in the Fall, (hopefully this will head off a case of scabies) when I run into this woman who I assume is also shopping for dorm bedding. A Target attendant is assisting her and I overhear the words, "girl's bedding," "younger people," and "dorms." The attendant leaves and there stands a black woman with flowing pants, twisted braids tied back in a long pony tail, and a really snazzy pair of frameless glasses.....but she is obviously conflicted.
In her cart is a grey and white striped set of cotton sheets which she seems to be pondering.
"Getting stuff for the dorms?" I ask casually, about to mention that I am here to do the same thing.
She scrunches up her face, "no, for me," she says, "but I'm trying to go cheap, ya know?"
We start on the "how expensive everything is" small talk, and we both seem to share the opinion that sheet sets in general are over priced, that flat sheets are not entirely functional, but that it just sort of sneaks in with the essential pillow cases.
"Hey," she asks, "do you think the grey set is kind of....dull?" 
It is obvious that the grey set is just not doing it for her and the sheet set on the shelf behind her that she had just been told was made for dorms, not Moms, is what she is smitten with.
"Grey and white is pretty, but which one do you like better...honestly?" I ask.
She grins. "The Zebra. But what should I do?
"Easy. I ALWAYS get the one which FEELS best, the one which jumps out at me and just says it is my style," I tell her. "I don't care if someone tells me I'm in the wrong aisle, hey, we're young!"
I think crows flew off her shoulders and rocks fell to the floor.
"I'm SO glad you said that. I'm getting the Zebra!"
The decision made, we launch into a long conversation about wrinkles, (me) lack of wrinkles (her), yogurt and lemon facials which make your face immovably tight for about ten minutes. We wonder aloud if this would work as a breast lift? Butt lift? We talk about our daughters accepting us as free spirits and young at heart. We talk about aches and pains, physical therapy, joint medication, wearing what we want, feeling young but the body not cooperating, and she tells me that i will live forever with the spirit that I have. She tells me that she expects to see me dancing on my soon to be installed bedroom pole when I am eighty, even if I fall and can't get up.
We leave with a hug. Two total strangers.
Some people are so worth talking to. They pass by, a moment in your life, and the smile is a memory worth keeping.
And then I had to go and ruin it. As I left the store the thought invaded my mind as reality came sinking back into my life. How sad it is that this woman felt I have so much spirit and that this spirit will make me live forever. My smiles were fake. They were a facade that I am good at showing people in public when I know I will never have the responsibility of seeing that person again. It is sad that I smiled and nodded. I meant it when I believed in her own fire and determination, but as I left the store, I knew how disappointed she would be in me if she knew that I will end my own life. I will not live even close to forever. My spirit is not strong enough to keep me alive when my children are gone.

House Hunter Horrors

It really bothers me when a couple on House Hunters walks through some absolutely fabulous, turnkey
3500 square foot property with a fully fenced yard, pool, and wrap around deck, and uses the word "monstrosity" as they sneer their way through 12 + rooms, a fully finished basement, and a three car garage.
As in, "that back splash is a monstrosity."

Somehow, amid the gleaming stainless steel appliances, double ovens, giant island, butcher block, and double wide refrigerator, the wife is able to turn her nose up at a mosaic glass back splash, because "it doesn't suit her taste."
Meanwhile, the husband is busy questioning why the Brazilian hardwood floors have different colored pieces of wood in them.
Sir, Brazilian hardwood naturally comes this way and the variations are part of its rare beauty. Most people would give their first born child to step on Brazilian hardwood. You, found the plank which does not match.
That really bothers me.
It also really bothers me when the same couple takes offense at the choice of granite in the master bathroom, the fact that the tub is not jetted, the choice of tile, that they complain about the two story house having stairs which require "hiking," that they object to earth tones as a color palette, that they find only three full baths to be "an issue", and that the pool might be too hard to clean. They want outdoor space, but not this type of grass or this much of it, they can hear a train forty five blocks away, there is not a dedicated sun room to house their twin turtles, and the deck is brown. Nobody likes brown!

Listen. This house has every upgrade imaginable, besides the jetted tub, and to make up for that, a hot tub is installed next to the pool. It positively gleams with spotless new home luster. Forty acres of conservation land, never to be built on, back your 1.5 acre, fenced and landscaped yard, and the whole beast is located on a Cul de sac, under your massive budget. Yet one of you just doesn't get a good vibe from the previous owner's choice of curtains, and the other feels that a red front door just isn't for her.
My advice? Land, with both feet in reality. You are both in your mid twenties, when most couples are still living in apartments without a any kind of tub, eating dinner on the couch while they watch T.V because they don't have a dining area, selecting their clothes from hampers on the floor, and dragging those clothes to a shared washer and dryer down the hall.
It really bothers me that you two spoiled brats, are not!!!!

Biker Basic manners..or lack thereof

It really bothers me when I am surrounded by motorcyclists who place my vehicle in a cocoon of bikes amid their hundred fifty plus swarm.
Hey, share the road jack offs!
It bothers me more when said motorcyclists decide, for no other reason than to assert their power over the other vehicles on the road, to all switch lanes and force cars (myself) to a standstill because they insist on making the lane switch (with no signal) like a kid cutting the lunch line. 

This takes a while with one hundred fifty plus riders, straggling out over a couple of miles. 
So, our polite, lone group of cars, finally begins to move forward toward the next stop light after many of the bikers have decided to switch right back into the lane they just left, causing us to strike a pose on the shoulder for a good eight minutes or so. As thanks, they surround us at the light, doubled between cars, right up on our bumpers, staring into windows, closing in flanks on all sides so there is no chance of even the slightest movement without hitting a tire, boot, piece of expensive, gaudy metal, or possibly dislodging a biker from his or her seat. 
Perhaps this is the plan? To force an accident?
This goal not achieved, several of the bikers then jump off their bikes, leaving them stranded in front of cars at the stop light, and some in the middle of the intersection, so that when the light changes, traffic cannot move. They proceed to wander, seemingly aimlessly, around their ranks, talking to dreadlock man, mohawk helmet man (he appears to be all over the place), skull face man, and wheelie man. Nobody knows the point of this interaction. If it is to formulate a plan as to how to split the group and head their separate ways (I am trying to assume the best of them), they are surely doing it in the worst of all possible areas, and I have a feeling that they are fully aware of this juicy fact.
After much chat, strolling, general arm waving, hopping on and off bikes, a few light changes, and absolutely no communication with a single driver of an automobile of any kind, I see movement on the right shoulder as car owners begin to get frustrated and slowly plow their way past the standing bikers and their prized bikes which are closest to the shoulder. We creep past amid cranky stares, raised voices, and a couple of lude guestures. I am listening to my music and explaining to my daughter that at this point, eye contact or any gesture on our part which could be misconstrued as offensive is not a good idea. 
Eyes lowered, we finally clear ourselves or the impatient gang of bikers and continue on in our quest to purchase gas for my car and dark chocolate. As we make the turn toward Target, I am struck by the sheer number of Bikers now entering the freeway and bringing traffic there to a standstill also.
No chance I am following them. Ask me if I want to ride with this kind of motorcycle  gang?
No thanks.
A silly question enters my mind. "where are the good Police officers of Killeen to assist with this cluster fuck?
Ask me if I respect respectful riding. ????  Well sure thing!!! Group riding can be enjoyable for all.
But it really bothers me when it isn't. Yes?

My Slate is not Blue

I went with slate grey, which was supposed to have a lot more variation and blue in it than the roof I actually see on my house, but a roof is a roof, and I am not that picky. It is a vast improvement over the weather stained brown roof which someone sadly decided to match with "Hawkeye grey" siding. I guess a large section of the population is either colorblind (David, so I can completely forgive him), or simply has bad taste, so I can blame them forever.
The day of the roofing, no Amish farmers came over. Instead, a truck load of Mexican workers loaded with coke cans, shade hats, high waisted jeans, and plenty of Katy Perry music on a dust encrusted boom box arrived just before six a.m. I was awakened to frenzied hammering, yelling in Spanish, and boots stomping past my bedroom window on a sixty foot ladder. I hazily drifted in and out of sleep, assuming that this was indeed the roofers and not an armed attack from Ft. Hood.

They had arrived unannounced. No ring of the doorbell. No heavy knocking on the door. No phone call. The night before, there had been an almighty hail storm, so my dusty Dodge Caliber was steaming away in the garage and our driveway was clear for the first time since the last almighty hail storm, about six weeks prior. That makes a car in my garage all of twice in six years or so!
Anyway, the next time I drifted out of the haze of hammering and yammering, I peeped out the front window to see one of the Mexican roofer ushering an enormous rusty truck with an enormous rusty trailer attached, backwards up my ninety degree ski slope driveway. Immediately, a barrage of reject roofing material began to cascade from above. Old tiles, nails, tar-paper, and a peppering of empty coke cans and water bottles. within minutes, the trailer was practically half filled with lethal looking, sharp material which weighed it down to a dangerously chassy crushing level.
My car was trapped. Abbegayle's appointment, two hours away was a problem I would face one and a half hours from now after I had thrown the covers over my head and hidden.
My exit from the garage after hailing my Mexican foreman from the roof and grudgingly getting him to move the three thousand ton truck/trailer combo from my driveway into the cul de sac after much muttering, a five minute (twenty minute) smoke break, and some somber looks, was touch and go. I almost lost the mirror on the passenger side. A repeat of my trick with the late PT Cruiser. But I squeaked out and vowed never to park in the garage again....until the next almighty hail storm.
The roof, achieved in entirety in one day, an impressive feat, looks great. Not much blue, but then again, who ever said that slate grey SHOULD have blue in it? (Except the sample)

A sprinkling of mushrooms

So, the roofing signs are popping up all over Harker Heights like fairy mushrooms in little clumps after the rain. The signs are in clusters arranged by business; "Action roofing," "Colt," "Texas Star Roofing," "Navarro," and so on.

One hail storm and every other house in the neighborhood suddenly needs a new roof. 

I imagine this happens every eight to ten years. Well, the hail storms probably occur with more regularity, but it seems that the age of roofs in this area is pretty much on the same schedule. Another group of homes must be on a different schedule. Perhaps they will hit the next storm a year or so from now, and another crop of roofers will be out scouring the neighborhood for severe hail damage.

What surprises me is the supreme coordination between roofers and insurance assessors! The process is short and goes without a hitch. First the roofer appears, patrolling the neighborhood in search of a home owner in need. He/she scales a ladder to the roof, makes certain that there is evidence of "a bad hit" from the storm, then walks the yard to find out what else will fall under storm damage to help make paying the deductible worth it.

Example: "Those solar lights (smashed to pieces over seven or eight years of neglect) were broken in the storm, right?"
"Well, I have to be honest, no, they are just junk."
"You let me do the assessing young lady." Big grin!
"The shed door panel, storm?"
"uuuuhhhh..."
"Yup, as I thought, " (adds to list).
"Oh wow, your hot tub cover....that took some abuse!"
"oh my!"
"Don't worry, they'll pay you!"

..."and power wash you fence, some paint, my Goodness it got chipped up with all that hail. The garage doors, I see some hefty denting. Check out your gutters...you'll need all of those replaced, and all those screens on the South and West sides of your house.....let me take a look around some more...no worries!"

My home is one of the mushrooms.
It has sprouted a roofing sign.
I am picking a color this week.The only thing in question is the price.
To be continued.......

One HAIL of a storm!

We had the most enormous hail storm here in Central Texas about two weeks ago. It was violent, exciting, a little frightening, and an absolute wonder to watch!
I sat on the back porch watching huge grey clouds roll in from the west, faster than most storms. It was warm but the moment the first drops of rain hit the deck, the temperature dropped suddenly. I had planned to wait on the deck and watch for as long as possible, but this was no regular storm. Hell, these were not even regular rain drops! Each one was like a mini paint can chucked from the sky at a 45 degree angle. 
So, I ducked behind my screen door, left it open and watched from the relative safety of our back room and first miniature hail, then acorn sized hail, and then hail the size of golf balls pounded the deck, bouncing everywhere.
Oh shit! My car is in the driveway. I paid it off one month ago!
Christ, someone is throwing rocks at the windows! The storm is coming inside. This is exhilarating! What the fuck am I saying? This is bullshit! My house is about to be hammered to pieces and a tornado is probably on the way! 
The kids are at school. Oh God, not in the portables, I hope.Time check. Not time for the buses yet. If this shit is still on at 4 o'clock they had better hold the buses. 
Holy shit! Look at the pool. It is being shelled from Ft. Hood. Yep, they are definitely shelling the pool. Four foot splashes, non stop. Why the fuck did I fill it yesterday? This always happens. Man, but that is cool looking..get the phone, take a video...yeah, that's nice and fuzzy, Crap...just watch!!
So I had a pretty good time. It ended before school got out, I found our fence down and two small trees down, and figured, oh well, Texas weather, crapped on us again, but at least we don't live in Tornado alley! 
Then I get the call. A roofer in on his way. For what? To check the damage.
O-kaaaaaaaaaaaay.
I was wary. To say the least. I still see a roof.
He came, He examined, he walked the yard. He discussed deductibles. He discussed a new roof. He made an appointment to come back with a USAA assessor.
I decided not to get too excited....
To be continued........

Mentally ill does not equal evil.

Discussions take place in various forums about why people commit acts of violence in public places and whether on not these people are evil. Often the discussion revolves not only around whether or not the offender is evil, but whether they are evil or mentally ill.

It seems to me that too many people associate mental illness and the negative and tragic impulses which come packages with some, but not all mental illness, with evil. 

How then, is a mentally ill person supposed to feel or supposed to connect with others in society, when they know that so many already associate them with such an awful thing.

In reality, mental illness has no connection with evil. Neither do the acts of violence which a few mentally ill people commit. These people are sick and they have lost their battle with whatever disease they were fighting. Perhaps they were never treated. Perhaps they were treated but the treatment was not adequate. Perhaps the illness was not treatable. Mostly, they simply were not treated at all, or were not taking medication or seeing a psychiatrist, or even talking to someone about the disturbing thoughts which plagued them.

Mental illness is isolating, frightening, and sad. Mental illness does not often end in violence against others. Most suffer alone. Many hurt themselves. Some are violent. None, are evil.

I cannot give the magic answer as to how to help the many who suffer in silence. I do, however, think that it would be helpful to distinguish sickness from evil.

I think that it would be helpful to associate sickness of the mind with the same empathy we feel for sickness of the body. The pain is equal, and the results are as devastating.

I do think that it would help to not assign blame to those who suffer with mental illness. We do not blame those who suffer from cancer, heart disease, a broken limb, deafness, or kidney failure. When a person's brain and neural pathways fail them, is it their fault?

I do think it would help if family members would be as vigilant as possible to help notice signs of trouble in children, spouses, parents, and strongly encourage them to seek help, or get them help if they are too sad, too aggressive, too troubled to seek it for themselves. We take care of our families. Right? We do not ignore their pain even though it does not present in the form of a gaping, bloody wound.

Teachers, co-workers, friends and caregivers can look out for the signs also.
No, the signs are not always obvious, but if we all take the time and trouble to investigate signs of mental illness, they will become more apparent to us.

We can all, as a society, help prevent acts of violence. We do not have to like the attacker. We do not have to assume that every attacker is a great person who simply suffers from troubled thoughts. But we do need to get away from the idea that those who commit acts of violence are always evil and unworthy.

That person has a family. That person is worthy of love. That person's life went very wrong somewhere. Those who lived with them do love them. It is possible that their illness can still be treated. Maybe they need to be confined because they have now committed a crime, but maybe they need to be treated. Maybe their future quality of life is important if we can look past our fury and pain. I would not ask a victim of the crime to look past this, but society can be more forgiving if we judge a person to be mentally ill.
Not evil.

Children know how to say goodbye beautifully

Malaysia Air Flight 370 disappeared from radar almost three weeks ago. It feels like yesterday to me, but I am sure it feels like a lifetime ago for the families of the some 279 missing passengers and crew who the world is waiting to find.
If only we could provide those families with answers quickly in horrible situations like this. Immediately, when the plane went missing, I thought only of an airplane crashing into the ocean, into a hillside, and then being found the next day amid smoking wreckage or a giant oil slick and floating debris on the surface of the water with remains of the tragic event clearly evident to rescuers and those searching only to retrieve pieces of the plane.
But that did not happen. We, the viewing public, were told what the families waiting in airports and hotel lobbies in Beijing and Malaysia were told. We were told that the plane could not be found, that it had simply disappeared.
Even then, I thought that it would be a very short period of unknown. Surely something this big would be located with all out technology. Then I began to realize that the ocean is a vast place, and the sky is a vast, and the night is vast and empty for a plane flying so high at that hour. It is not so unusual to lose a plane in our vast world. But surely we will find it.
All the time I thought only one thing really. These poor souls are dead, and we must find them eventually. I had an eerie picture of darkness, of people sleeping, not knowing what was happening, hopefully being unaware of their fate. I thought possibly of hijackers, but I thought mostly of a malfunction or malfunctions in the aircraft. I considered the idea of hijackers forcing the plane into the ocean. Again, I hoped that many of the people were alseep, perhaps without oxygen, unable to fight, unaware that they were going to die, unafraid if only until the last second, if at all. I hope they knew nothing. I still hope that. This is the most terrifying picture. Someone, some artist must share the terrifying thoughts I had.

What I did not buy in to was the myriad of conspiracy theories ranging from slightly possible to absolutely ridiculous, which American News channels started to report even one day after the plane crashed, or went missing. I say crashed, because what else happens to a plane which disappears. It falls from the sky. It is broken into thousands of pieces. People die. It is a tragedy. No?
But CNN managed to come up with alternate stories. Hijackers who took the plane to a location and landed it, kept the passengers hostage to use as pawns in a future attack, perhaps when they had collected more passengers from more hijacked planes.
This theory began to grow and even seem real to people while I stared at my television screen is disbelief. 
There was the plane hit by a meteor theory.
There was the theory that the pilot and crew organized the event in a suicidal show of resistance against the arrest of a Malaysian government member for sodomy charges.
There was the theory that ongoing negotiations with hijackers were happening but we were not being told. 
There was the theory that the plane rode behind another aircraft in its radar shadow and landed behind that plane unnoticed.There was the theory that the plane landed on some remote runway somewhere without making contact with anyone.....for days. And days.

These scenarios are offensive and ridiculous and highly embarrassing to listen to. Can't we come up with better as a country to help people deal with their grief?
Children can:

Yes, we miss you, we love you, we pray for you, and we think of you. Our hearts are with you, and we wish you had not been hurt. We wish you had not died. We love you and will remember you. One day we will find you. 

Too many bags

I did not purchase the bag with the psychedelic arrangement of Coach "C"s all over it which made it so eye catching to me, and so pleasing, and so beautiful.

What I decided was that I "needed" the one I found a few days later with black patent leather straps and giant multi-colored poppy flowers. This one was more expensive, but I decided that if I was going to make a purchase so grand, perhaps I should get the one which I really liked, and not only that, the one with the most resale value. There were only two of the one I purchased available on Ebay, and it seemed that everybody else in the Ebay universe also wanted them. But as I said, I can sell it. Also, the final tipping point; the interior of the bag is a delightful, carnelian blue silk which should be worn by the children of royalty.

But then I saw the bag I had originally wanted, before the psychedelic "C"s. This one was also a poppy bag in silver and black with a red poppy scrawled on the side. Silver graffiti writing, the same two awesome pockets on the front and plenty of hang tags. That bag is now on its wag. Yes, I bought it. Some time soon I am going to have to think about selling them. The little push of life they gave me as I looked at them and bid on them has not even lasted until the second bag arrives in the mail. Yes, I like the giant flower bag, but not nearly as much as I thought I would, and I am already regretting noticing the listing for the silver and black one. Meanwhile, the silver smoke smelling one sits like a shamed puppy in time out. Or perhaps I am the shamed puppy. Yes, I think that is more apt.

I have created grief through purchase yet again, and to top it off, Roosevelt the bunny will be arriving to wipe away my tears with his knubbly grey legs, polka dot paws and lavender fluffy ears, filled with lilac and violets. I hope he can mend my heart. As always, he is "the last" thing I will buy to end my pain and anxiety.

                                          I already love you Roosevelt. More than any bag.

My end

It seems as though the only time I feel reasonably happy or perhaps, not completely like an anxious ball of semi-suicidal, self hating, self pitying, helpless, hopeless, itchy, sleepy, crap, is during the evening, when the lights are all on in the house and the sky is dark, my children are home, and I feel some life in my body. My thoughts don't rush at this time. I am not entirely obsessed with one thought after another at this time. I am able to focus on a couple of tasks without seeing my own death, seeing reasons for my own death, feeling moments of rage or unbelievable sorrow, or beating myself mentally for mistakes which seem so huge and impossible to correct.
I seem drawn constantly to thoughts of David and how he berated me over this and that and how it directly relates to something I am doing now. I am instantly that small, worthless person again and I want to hide forever under the covers. I cannot go out. I cannot face seeing anyone, even a stranger. Buying groceries can wait another day. Mailing things I have sold can wait another day. Washing clothes can wait another day. Taking a shower can wait. I have not showered for three days, four days, fives days. I spray myself with perfume. Perfume that I wish I could sell but I have used some already. I beat myself up because I was stupid enough to use it or like it too much.
I search through my belongings. It is getting easier to give things up. I won't need these things when I am gone. Usually this thought does not bother me and makes it easier. Then I had a dream. I could no longer talk to Abbegale or Zachary because I knew that the next day or week I would die and I wanted to do nothing but talk for ever and ever and say everything I could ever say to them, but the dream ended and I knew that I had no time left. My plan was too final. I was going to die. I was crying in my sleep.

Then I started searching instead for things to buy to make me feel alive. Coach bags. I found some. A temporary rush because a love of beautiful things came back. I told myself I could sell them. I have purchased two. The guilt is twisting me. I want the third. The number is lucky, sentimental, it is part of my obsessive compulsive world. I can't have four bags. My father liked the number four. It would be unlucky. I must have five and I own four now. I have to get the fifth. Or sell one of the ones I just bought. I twist inside again. I know the right thing to do. Sell. Don't let myself have things I don't need. I have become objective now that I am apart from David, but I still slip into a love of things which "keep me alive." But they don't.
I don't ever leave the house other than going out with Abbegayle. I don't work. I think about volunteering but I fear even that. I am an emotional mess. I would cry, fall apart, fall to pieces, fail, fail as I have each time I tried a job. I would dread the waking up, getting out of bed, facing people, facing myself. I would slow down, dread life until I quit and hid again.
What shall I do about this bag. The bag is now my life.

Perhaps buy it. End the misery. Begin the misery. Punish myself with the purchase because I know it is wrong, but it is beautiful. Have something beautiful for a little while and then sell it. Nobody to talk to about all this. Because it is crazy. I am crazy.
This is getting serious. This is serious neurosis and serious depression. This is bad. This is close to death. This is dreaming about death. This is planning death. This is stocking up for death in many ways. This is preparing for death and not feeling the fear that I should except for a momentary gut wrenching pain in a dream which tore my heart.
This is what nobody wants to read in a blog.

Ashley's Outrage!

This is for sure the color of outrage. It is the color of Ashley Wagner's wrath after she completed two nicely skated figure skating programs at the Sochi Olympic games in the past few day, but unfortunately, it is not a color that is warranted in any sane way.

Sure, everyone goes and has a little "moment" in their room and cries and wishes that the judges had seen them as the shining star that they imagined themselves to be and so exultantly felt themselves to be in the blurry moment immediately following a program in which they felt that every element was perfection, vindication, and glory. But generally, that fist pumping adrenaline rush fades to a slightly less inflated sense of ego, when the tapes are reviewed and one realizes that actually, those two footed landings and edge calls kind of took away from the perfection, the artistic attempt at portraying Delilah was more rock and roll than spin and float, and sultry crept into a program that didn't really call for it. Nobody can take away from Ashley's athleticism and enthusiasm, but just about everyone can take points away from her for social skills and an ego which pushes everyone else out of the room.

Figure skating scores are inherently subjective. But the scoring system has vastly improved, and is simply not as complicated, bathed in mystery, corruption, and deviant behavior as those who fall on the losing end of scores like to say. I was not taken aback by much that I saw in terms of scoring. I saw a Russian girl who skated her heart out with enormous technical skill, and who skated better than she had skated all season at a time when she needed it most. She recieved an inflated score, just like the other skaters in these Olympics did.  Everyone was blowing away their season's best. She deserved the same.

The delightful and delicate, beautiful skater from Korea skated with heart and with a joy which stole my own heart. But with one less triple. Her technical score was less, her component score more than the Russian skater. This made the difference and the young, 17 year old Russian skater won. I was overjoyed for her. What a wonderful win for her. There were smiles from all those on the podium. The Italian skater, a picture of grace. Gracie Gold, so close to a bronze proclaimed to be happy and proud and looking forward to the next Olympics. A picture of grace in fourth place.

So what is with Ashley and her sour face and sour words?
Not a good example of Olympic spirit. Not graceful in loss, or simply in competing and enjoying the experience. Instead, an example of Olympic wrath.

Note, 95% of the backlash against the scoring comes online from Korea from fans who wished the Yuna had won. More understandable. Fans. Non skaters. Love for their idol. Their hearts were in the right place and were broken for her.
Take note again, Yuna showed not a hint of antipathy in taking silver. She may have felt heartbroken, but she has not expressed either anger or ourage. She is a picture of grace, as are those in third and fourth place. It is better to smile, and even better for that smile to be genuine. Everyone loves a happy winner and a gracious runner up. Take heed Ashley Wagner!

Rockin' Out!

A few weeks ago I was called by one of the Choir board members with a special request to switch the awesome tickets I had for front row seats to Knight club, to even more awesome seats, a little closer to center stage. Although I was happy to do so, I was also curious, and just a little nostalgic about giving up the same seats in which I had practically lived the onstage  rock fest the previous year with my daughter.

I was told by the Booster club member that, "it wasn't a very big reason. It was just that "a kid who was going to be sitting in the seats we would be occupying, like to get up and down a lot, and might be better seated off to the side out of peoples way." I said that of course I understood. After all, "we must all make small sacrifices for the impaired," I thought. Yet when my daughter exchanged the tickets at school, she came home and told me that the "kid who would be getting up and down a lot and was being shunted off to the side, was none other than Mr. Haygood's son!

Not at all impaired. I wondered if Mr. Haygood knew that his son was being shunted around by booster club members!

At the concert, I had the pleasure of seeing the rowdy child in person. But strangely, I easily rivaled him in rowdiness and loudness and probably spent as much time out of my seat, shrieking like a teenager at a Beetles concert and generally blocking the view of those losers behind me who refused to participate in the sheer ruckus that is a full fledged rock concert, as the Haygood son.

I give credit to the boy for having crowd spirit, but I give myself credit for having as much, if not more. I had it last year and I will have it next year, whether or not "son of Tommy" is present. Knight club is a place to let loose, scream like a girl, sing the right or the wrong lyrics, clap with the beat or slightly off, and turn kids into celebrities. It is a day when obnoxious rules, and etiquette flies out the window. It is a day when seniors become rock legends. I won't be switching my tickets next year with anyone, and I may be sitting close to center stage again with my daughter.....unless she is one of the acts, which would be FABULOUS!!!!

Olympic Unity

Hello Winter Olympics 2014, Sochi, Russia! I am watching the opening ceremonies now, and so far there have not been any astounding and horrific incidents as predicted by CNN news for the past month and a half of reporting since Christmas. I mean, it is obvious that the area is not altogether a fantastic choice as far as security is concerned, but the way CNN news sees things, an attack of massive proportions is imminent  at least five times a day, and hardly an athlete or tourist attending the games will survive unscathed from Black Widow attacks, bombings, random attacks on tourists, and tubes of exploding toothpaste.

Perhaps I should not make light of the real danger which certainly exists. But it has been blown out of all proportion and talked about ad nauseam day in and day out on American news stations, until the American public is practically waiting, anticipating, expecting, possibly even slightly excited about, an attack of epic proportions which will make this a "games to remember."

I wish that the reporting would be kept to an objective minimum, and all vigorous reporting of terror be reserved for an actual attack. It is enough that people know there is danger and take precautions, but not walk about in a delirium of fear or guilty excitement for the horrors which may or may not occur.

One more rant. I do wish that CNN would stop reporting about Russia in such a sarcastic and immature manner as if we as a country are thumbing our collective noses at each and every misstep they take. They have too many dogs in Sochi. They poison their too many dogs. The water in the hotels is dirty. 3% of hotel rooms are not completed. The budget was 51 billion dollars. (Hell, that is freaking amazing! Don't know where that all went.) ANYway....Putin cuddled up with a snow leopard which was inherently ridiculous. Maybe it was, but need we mention it. Need we mention that "at least he kept his shirt on this time?" We are complaining that the area does not have enough snow, (looks like they managed) that the names of venues are unpronounceable, that seats are not filled, that the snowboarding course may or may not be too dangerous, that gays are to stay away from children. O.K, I get the complaints about violence toward Gay people, but I also feel fairly sure that Gay athletes and visitors will not be bothered or harassed. It more than sucks that the harassment goes on in Russia, but you didn't see us trying to fix oppression of poor people and village women in China, or shutting down sweat shops when Beijing held the Olympics. Let's face it. We just hate Russia, and we are not doing anything positive to change that relationship. Grow up folks!

What is it about Russia that makes our news casters so self righteous, sarcastic, judgmental, and snotty. Comments about Edward Snowden making a public speech in the opening ceremonies, graphics of Edward Snowden projected on our screens with the Olympic torch as snide humor. What is the point? To help US/Soviet relations? Obviously not.
My point is, the Olympics symbolize peace and togetherness. Let's just leave it at that and drop the sarcastic crap. 

Back to Stacking

Just how much furniture can be stashed in one room anyway? Especially one room which was supposed to become an "oasis of clean." The room from which I emptied bag after bag of trash and bag after bag of donation goodies, once stood fairly unoccupied, stark even, for perhaps a week while I rested my anti-hoarding muscles.


Today I stepped into the room to fetch something good to read, and recoiled as I realized that I had simply created an entirely different kind of crazy, and it had happened almost in an unconscious state, gradually, over the weeks since Christmas. Did I dissociate? Did my unwilling or unknowing body haul that collapsible craft desk back upstairs from the garbage pile in the garage and set it up in the corner of the room, blocking both a window and the door to the adjoining bathroom? Is that a fire hazard?


Scattered on said desk are the many piles of books through which I am now about to find my reading material, or perhaps I could chose from the books which loom over the top shelf of the desk I had originally intended to donate, but was convinced to keep, "because (my husband) might want it back again one day." Good God! It is a particle board and hideously ugly two story Walmart style apparatus which should really only be found in a hamster cage for purposes of exercise!


Much space on the craft table, (and under it) has been taken up with large, ugly storage containers, retrieved from my daughter's room when she cleaned out everything which reminded her of the third grade. So now, all the blankets which I cannot part from, but which cannot stuff themselves into my normal storage shelves for such items, have found a home in the pink and white, third grade wood and chalk board, wicker and ribbon, and purple plastic tubs glaring at me from atop (and below) the slightly bent craft table (missing parts).


The one piece of furniture that the room was actually emptied in order to welcome, has still not arrived, and the chances of its arrival are slim, for reasons which will take up another entry. The treadmill still resides in the garage at David's rental house, threatening to toss potential runners, or even joggers, off its elderly track by stopping mid-jog! In short, it is a danger to all but the elderly walker, so I am told.


I found something to read. I surveyed the chaos. I am formulating plan B. But for now, I have shut the door and turned my back on the......office?