Dear Grandma,

        

    Some days it's really hard for me to think of you without getting choked up, most days, actually.  I think that I'll call you and ask if I can freeze mushrooms, or to send me the family address list or any number of the random things I had always called you about and then I realize you aren't there anymore. 

     I still know your phone number for the house I grew up in on weekends and school holidays,  At least I'm pretty sure I do.  I programmed it into my phone about a year before you left and last Christmas, when I got my new phone, I finally deleted it.  I cried a little then.  It was like the last vestige of holding on to you.

      The last time I saw you was in 2003, I was traveling from Alaska to New Mexico with David and Jericho.  I didn't even have Aidan then.  I only got to see you for an hour or so.  I regret deeply not taking more time, not hugging you a little bit longer or helping you more, while I could.  You always had time for me, no matter when I'd call or what I needed.  You were always there.

     I find myself telling the kids stories about how I grew up and most of them include you in some form or fashion.  I smile when I tell them that you rarely let us play on the side of the park that had playground equipment.  They look at me with shock and think that you must have been mean, but what they don't realize is how our imaginations took flight climbing on the rock wall in the park off Lower River Rd or while we were climbing the hills in Gibson Park to play on the railroad tracks and venture through the tunnels that led from Gibson Park to Riverside Park.

      I used to get so upset that you wouldn't let us play on the playground at Gibson; you would only let us walk around the duck pond.  Now I realize that I saw so much more of my world because you did that.  I looked for duck eggs and chased seagulls and burned off so much energy.  I wouldn't have done those things if I could have played on the swing-set or gone down the slides.

       I'll never forget the first time I heard you say "how cool!"  It was about a duck doing something at Gibson.  I looked at you in shock, because "cool" was not a word grandmas said.  

The other day I told the kids about how you would go out in the "country" (all of Montana...:) ) and drop us off on the side of a dirt road and drive waaaaaaaaaaaay down the road and park, making us walk/run/goof around until we got to it.

 I'm sure some parents now-a-days would shit their pants with indignation, but we were outside in the sun. We were picking Black-eyed Susans, looking for grasshoppers and racing. We were being kids.  You gave us that.

      Along with just forcing us to use our imaginations and to be outdoors, you also taught me so many things.  At times the lessons seemed harsh, like when I went to you for a hug, crying, when I was 11 or 12, because Scottie had called me ugly.  You hugged me a little, but you pulled back and in your grumpy way you asked me if I was ugly.  When I said no, you said, "why cry about it if it isn't the truth?"  I have caught myself saying the same thing to my kids when they get their feelings hurt by others.  I know they don't understand now, through the haze of hurt feelings, but I hope that one day they will understand, like me.

     I will never forget the magic of your kitchen.  It wasn't that what you cooked was some epicurean delight, it was that it was where we lived.  Scott, Caleb and I all had our own place at your table and each place had it's own cutting board and we all helped cook.  We cut vegetables, measured ingredients, stirred pots, and watched in awe as you made muffins out of cornflakes, shortening, two eggs and a paperclip...wait, the paperclip was MacGuyver, but you were just as magic as he was.  You almost never measured anything and still food came out amazing.  I am not the cook you were, but because of you I am not afraid to try things with food and in life. In large part, because of you, I am not afraid to try new and unknown things.

      In the spring and summer we were always elbow deep in dirt.  We always planted the flowers at the church and maintained the beds.  We went to the cemetery and helped you lovingly plant beautiful flowers on the graves of your mom and dad.  I never saw you cry, but I know now that you must have been emotional every time you did it.  We also planted flowers on the graves of several of your friends.  Never did it occur to me how sad it must have been to be the one still here.  Not wishing for death, but having to go on without the ones you had been close to, wishing, like I do with you, that you could just pick up the phone and hear their voices.  You honored them by making their resting places beautiful.

      When I tell people now that I grew up playing in the cemetery and climbing the cannon statue in the military section and hoping with crossed fingers that the noises we heard (grasshoppers and bees) weren't snakes in the grass of the REALLY old cemetery that we'd tromp around in, they look appalled that anyone would consider the cemetery a place for kids.  But I thought the old headstones were beautiful.  I made rubbings and read the dates and you always taught us where to walk so we weren't actually walking "on" someone.  We grew respectful of those places.  They piqued our imaginations and in a way taught us that death was as normal as living and the dead were nothing to fear.

      I never did get the chance to tell you that I am sorry I called you the "mean grandma."  I don't think I ever said it in your presence, but I did say it.  There have been so many times in the past ten years that I have been grateful for your "meanness."  All those lessons, chores, and even the few spankings were well deserved and helped shape me into the person I am now, the person you will never get to meet, but I think you would be proud.  Oh the many transgressions my young self counted against you:  making me fetch food out of the deep freezer from your scary, dirt-floored basement, making me eat cooked tomatoes and squish raw hamburger into meatloaf with my bare hands, always making us do so many chores, making us clean the garbage that had blown in under the many pine trees in your front yard, even though the needles scratched at our arms and the ground smelled loamy, making us take naps and/or spend time being quiet in the afternoon;  so many horrible things you forced upon us! 

        I will never forget watching you crochet or that you taught me how.  I remember making yards of chain stitches with that giant ball of end pieces left over from your many afghans or potholders. All of my stitches were always differing sizes and tensions, but you were always so patient helping get the knots out or to learn a new stitch.  You even taught the boys, we all had a ball of yarn and a hook.  I've never gotten as good at it as you were, silently watching Trinity Broadcast Network, the occasional chuckle or "Amen!" coming from your direction and your fingers ever poised crocheting away.  Idle hands were never yours.  

      Today was a good day, Grandma.  I bought the kids a dictionary.  I bet if you were here that would make you smile.  I know that most people wouldn't understand how buying a dictionary could be such a bitter sweet event, or that it is even an event at all, but you would.  I was the child of oh-so-many questions.  why? what? where? when? and I never stopped talking.  I know now how trying that can be because I have my sweet child, Aidan, who is much the same.  And while I was an inquisitive child, you always tried to answer me or teach me to answer myself; hence the dictionary.  

       I will never forget the day you made me tapioca pudding.  (Oh my gosh how I love tapioca pudding!)  I asked you what tapioca was and you handed me a little spiral notebook and a pencil and told me to go look it up and write down the definition.  I'm sure I rolled my eyes and sighed that big indignant sigh.  It turns out that tapioca comes from the cassava root.  Once I knew that, I had to look up cassava.  I think I was 7 or 8 years old that day and in the years following that I filled up 3 or 4 of those notebooks with the words I didn't know the meanings of.   When I was a young adult, you gave me those notebooks.  I wish I knew what I had done with them in all these years of transient movement.  

       So today while shopping for a book on how to use Excel 2010 at my new job, I saw something that made me so excited.  I saw this beautiful dictionary.  No, it isn't the old beat up hardback on the bottom shelf at your house (I wonder if that dictionary is still out there somewhere.  What I would give to flip through the pages.  Would it smell like your old house?  Would I be transported back to the doorway of the guest bedroom huddled up at the end of the couch, with a little notebook and a pencil on my lap?)

It is shiny and new and has 35,000 words in it many of them with illustrations and now, when my kids ask me what a word means, I can hand them a little notebook and a pencil and say, " Go look it up and write it down," and even though they will have no memories of you (a fact that breaks my heart) they will still have a piece of your legacy.

       I know it is selfishness that makes me wish you wish you were still here with me and that you were still only a phone call away.  I think the hardest part is that after all the struggles I have had in the past five or six years, when you were always there, I am finally settled and life is so good and I wish you could see me now.  I wish you could see how happy I am and have that comfort in your heart because I know you prayed for me and hurt for me and wished mightily that life would be kind to me and that I would learn to be the strong woman that I think I now am.   I wish you could see these beautiful smart kids and that I'm actually doing a good job.  I wish I could come over and sweep your floors and haul your trash.  I'd give anything in the world to help take off your shoes or fetch you a "poppie" from the fridge and my heart hurts to know that there will be no more "pikinicks" or days spent cooking a holiday meal.  I miss my cards on every holiday with love from “Granny Grump.”

      I love you, Grandma Maida.  I hope that you went “home” and that somehow you are at peace.  I often wonder about your life and if you felt more happiness than hurt and took more satisfaction than disappointment.  Your life wasn’t easy and I know there were a lot of heartaches. I hope that you had more joy than sadness and that the love you always gave so selflessly rained down on you just as copiously.  For my part, I know you are missed and a hole has been left by your passing.

  If you are out there, seeing me, know that I am happy and rest peacefully knowing that all is well. 

  ~Darlene

The Women, they SPARKLE!!!

And no, I am not talking about vampires.  I’m talking about the women of Texas.  This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, I actually have a fair amount of admiration for the skill involved in coordinating the vast array of sparkly accessories so as not to be gaudy but, as in many works of art, to draw the eye across the entire body. 

The women of Texas are a breed entirely separate form the women that exist anywhere else in the world.  Don’t get me wrong, every other woman on earth is capable of the things I am talking about but, for some reason, there are just more women in Texas that do. 

Interesting quirks about Texas Women:

• They don’t have to use a “bump-it.”  They seem to be born with the knowledge of how to make their hair just do that.  Maybe it’s a genetic thing?  Regardless, the perfectly coiffed “Texas Bump” is at once a masterwork and a curiosity. It makes me wonder…should my hair do that?

<<<<She is OBVIOUSLY from Texas!

They glitter.  I am not joking when I say that the women of Texas sparkle.  Sure, their personalities are great, but I am meaning this in the most literal sense.  If their clothing doesn’t sparkle, they find a way to add it.  It often starts from the ground up.  For instance,  were you aware that you can buy lotion that leaves your skin with a light sheen of glitter?  I wasn’t.  It’s applied right after you get out of the shower, no matter where you might be going after said shower!  They get glittery acrylic nails…on their TOES!!!  Their fingernails send sparkling shimmers glinting off surrounding surfaces every time a light hits them, and even though you don’t want to, you stare.  Their shoes all glitter; regardless of the age of the wearer or the intended function of the shoe.  Often, I have seen denim with a smattering of glitter or a design in rhinestones.  You may think I am representing this as a negative, and in some ways, it is a bit much (I’m sorry, the glitter on your shoes doesn’t coordinate with the glitter lotion, glitter jeans, glitter shirt, or any of your sparkly accessories.  You do, however; make a lovely accessory to any disco….FAIL.)

They wear boots with anything and everything.  There isn’t an outfit that boots don’t go with.  And what’s really sick…they always look good.  Now, Heidi Klum may not agree with the wearing of one of these outfits, but I can attest that most of the women I have seen sporting these looks are gorgeous. 

The women of Texas are ballsy.  Maybe it’s the extreme nationalistic pride….OOOPS, STATE pride.  Everyone here thinks that Texas is the best place on Earth.  Many of the religions here have converted their biblical translations to replace the word “Heaven” with “Texas.”  Seriously, how many states do you see tattooed on people??  I mean it, type “Texas tattoos” into Google Image search sometime…

The women here are powerful women.  They are typically very driven and know exactly how to get what they want.  And the funny part is, most of them are really nice about how they do it.  I have never met a set of women so successfully achieve so much.  Their confidence never seems to waver.  They are from the "greatest place on Earth," thereby they are the greatest people on Earth.  It’s compelling and also tiring to see. 

When I moved here, I openly mocked the regiment of the “glitter” people.  I mean, I just didn’t comprehend the seeming “need” that drove them to such light-reflecting lengths.  I have fought my conversion into the realms of being Texan.  I laughed when people told me that I would convert.

The thing is, these women are beautiful and they are oh, so proud.  They wake up in the morning and regardless of their mood, they put on their sparkle and go out and conquer the world.  The are fastidiously hygienic, they smell good, and they typically refresh any space they are in with their subtle hospitalities and their confident optimism that "nothing can cause them to fail because they are from Texas.” 

I envy them the ability to go from waking up to Miss Universe in twenty minutes.  I envy perfectly applied mascara and the ability to walk in 5” peep toe stilettos.  I envy the ability to look perfect in sweats and ball gowns (though I have never seen any wearing both at the same time, I bet they could set a new trend.)  I envy them going to the gym, working out hard for two hours, and still having perfectly applied make-up that hasn’t sweat itself off.

While I may never become fully a Texan, I have found myself happy to live here.  I recently caught myself telling someone that I didn’t want their snow because I wanted my Texas sunshine back.  *GASP!*  I am a Montanan, and as much as I don’t have a tattoo of my home state among my collection of tattoos, I do miss mountains and rivers, however; I don’t much miss the cold.    And I must add that I will probably never have the ability to apply a perfect coat of mascara or an even glossing of body shimmer but, I do desire to have sparkly toenails (though not acrylic.)

I will never own 5” glittery peep-toe stilettos and my girlfriend and I both agree that my lack of most cosmetics is a good thing.  And I understand that this may disqualify me, for all time, from being a Texas Woman.  I can, however; accessorize my day with the accoutrements of  Texan Woman in training….

^^Bling Cup^^

Watch out world, this girl may yet be seen applying mascara waiting at the light!

They Cut Into Your What?!?!

      Last Thursday I had a fairly major set of surgical procedures done at the Texas Tech University Medical Center.  These procedures have lovely long names that make them much easier to deal with than the actual description of what the problem was too.  The procedures were called:  Posterior Colporrhaphy , Trans-Vaginal Tape, and Perineoplasty.  As you can tell, these were all correcting problems with my girly bits.

     I am typically VERY embarrassed to talk about this kind of stuff with anyone, let alone describing it on the internet.  The thing is, all three of the issues I had corrected were incredibly common problems; just not for women my age.  I am 31.  Along with being somewhat uncommon for women as young as I am, they are problems that no one addresses because they are embarrassing. 

     No 27 year old wants to tell her OBGYN that she can't laugh without urine leakage.  It's humiliating.  But wait, it's not.  Especially if that woman has had children or some sort of trauma to her pelvic area.  OBGYNs and Urologists fix this problem every single day.  There is a fix and you don't have to live with the potential embarrassment of wetting yourself if you want to jump on a trampoline or thrash about in a mosh pit.  

     I was 21 when I had my daughter.  While I was pregnant I suffered through horrific morning sickness (24 hours a day for 3 months) and the problems I just had corrected (10 years later) began.  Every time I had to run to the toilet and vomit I also wet myself.  The force of the heaving loosened the muscles required to hold my urethra steady.  Having her proved even more traumatic.  

     Prior to giving a mother in labor an epidural (the spinal medication that makes delivery much less painful,) the care-givers are supposed to allow her to utilize a rest room or catheterize her so that the baby isn't being forced past a full bladder.  With me, they forgot that step.  So I pushed for two hours against a very full bladder before my daughter was born.  During the delivery, my perineum was allowed to tear, rather than getting an episiotomy.  This is common when the doctor decides that the tearing will be less damaging than actually cutting through tissue to make room for the baby.  These two things are the causes of problems that women don't talk about, but should.   

     I am actually really embarrassed to be writing about them, but I suffered in silence for 10 years before finally going to someone and saying something.  It shouldn't be that way.  There shouldn't be such a huge stigma associated with issues in the reproductive organs.  How else are we supposed to be health conscious people if we can't even tell our OBGYNs about these problems?

    I was experiencing two major issues with my body.  Turns out, these are VERY common issues, but I was mortified to have those issues so I didn't talk about them.  You have to understand, I don't fart in the same room as another person, let alone discuss my periods, urinary tract issues, and most especially rectal concerns.  This is not something I do.  I have on occasion started crying out of humiliation when I have passed gas unexpectedly where others could hear.  These are not things I talk about...ever!

     When I finally decided enough was enough, I went to the doctor.  I told her that I leaked urine when I laughed, coughed, danced, hit a bump in the road, or thought about doing any of those things.  I also told her about the other problem...the really embarrassing problems, the problems I didn't even  want to talk to my mom about....poop problems.

     See, the problems I was having were caused by tears in the muscles of my vaginal walls.  These tears were caused by the pressure of having kiddos.  This doesn't happen to everyone, but it is VERY common to have it happen due specifically to childbirth.  The walls weren't torn through, just the muscles  so I had what amounted to a recto-vaginal hernia and a minor uro-vaginal hernia.  The first called a rectocele the latter a cystocele.  The rectocele causes the rectum to swell into the vaginal area which when trying to have a bowel movement, can cause problems. It gives the BM two potential routes to take rather than the one.   The rectum bows out into the vaginal area and dead ends, often making it necessary for the woman to insert her fingers into her vagina and apply rear pressure  to the herniated area to actually have a successful bowel movement.  Can we talk about inconvenient and embarrassing, and without a name, just describing the problem is a devastatingly horrific affair.  This is why most women don't talk about it, even with their doctors.  The cystocele (in my situation) was incredibly minor and the operation to fix the other problems I was having will probably fix it, so they opted not to do corrective surgery on it. 

     The leakage of urine was caused by what they call hyper-mobility of the urethra.  Which basically means that my urethra moved around too much because the musculature had been fairly damaged and so it was actually the easiest and most common of my problems to repair.  It was done by making two small incisions above my pubic bone and sewing a small strip of mesh down and around my urethra in a sort of hammock in order to provide the support necessary for my body to not leak.  THIS IS SO INCREDIBLY NORMAL.  The OBGYNs didn't even blink  when I mentioned it (with my face turned down in a low low whisper.)  

     The rectocele repair is also an incredibly normal procedure.  They simply find the weak point in the recto-vaginal wall, make an incision, pull the muscles back together (given they are flexible enough,) and stitch them into place. Then, they stitch the wall back together.  If the musculature is out of place too long, it can lose its elasticity and then they simply sew a mesh to the muscles and then stitch you back up and then the mesh heals into the muscles and reinforces the weak spot.  Thus, correcting the hernia.

     With me, the problems were all caused by having my daughter, but in a round about way.  Remember I mentioned them allowing me to tear rather than cutting me?  Well I had her and the doctor stitched up the tear (ten stitches,) and then sent me on my way.  My stitches didn't take/weren't done correctly/fell out...you name it.  I had no perineum.  Not good.  Where there was supposed to be a good two inches of muscle, fat, and tissue to reinforce my rectum, bladder, and vaginal muscles, I had less than a quarter of an inch.  So my gynecological surgeon (a saint and a prince) did a procedure called a perineoplasty.  He cut away all the scar tissue where I had torn and healed incorrectly and rebuilt my perineum.    This one procedure will prevent me from having to deal with these issues again (barring immaculate conception at which time I will be scheduling a c-section.)

     I have read that 11-19% of women will undergo one of these procedures.  If you consider that in a  critical light, that's the women who talk about it or who have the resources available to address it.  In actuality, the number of women who need the procedure or are symptomatic of the issues is probably much higher.  73% of women will have children.  These problems are primarily caused by trauma to the vaginal walls during child birth.  PLEASE PLEASE, if you are having these problems, you are not alone and there are ways to fix it.  If they are minor, there are even non-surgical options.

     I am only 9 days out from surgery and I am still in considerable pain.  There were a few trip ups, including being released too early and ending up in the ER because the swelling in my vagina had made it impossible for me to urinate so I had to wear a catheter for five days.  Then I landed back in because I couldn't have a bowel movement and they admitted me overnight and I had to have a soap enema (embarrassing, yes, but there comes a point where the pain releases you from all concern of embarrassment).  

     Truly, I am shocked that I am writing this (because I am the girl who doesn't fart in the same room as others), but I had no idea how common my problems were and I allowed mine to cause me angst for 10 years.  Though I will say, I mentioned the leakage to my doctor in 2002 when I had pneumonia and was coughing constantly and of course leaking constantly and he informed me that "women who are 21 don't have those problems."  (My response, "well obviously they do...)  These are normal problems for women.  Women who have had children and women who have had any sort of abdominal trauma.  

     As I was getting wheeled into the OR, the nurse told me that I would never regret having these things fixed.  She said that she had had hers done 3 years prior and now she could run around with her kids and jump on a trampoline without concern.  Another nurse informed me that she had had hers done 10 years prior and hadn't had a single issue since.  Still another nurse told me that I should come back and let her know how mine went because hers was scheduled the following month.  This proved to me, even more, that I wasn't alone and neither are you if you are experiencing these issues.  Someone needs to talk about it.  Someone needs to say something so that the ice is broken and it paves the road for others to say something too.  Be brave.

I Don’t Care if Gays Have Rights

All over the news and all over the world people are talking about America and the fight for gay rights and equality. I hate it. I spent a fair portion of my life being married and allowed to be an out heterosexual wife. Truth be told, I was never forced into a closet. Heterosexuals never are. When I was 19, I walked with my fiancé into a courthouse and applied for a marriage license and then on Aug 2, 1999 I got married. It was beautiful, simple, and I didn’t even really think about it. I certainly wasn't met by picketers assaulting me with blind, uneducated hatred.

We started reaping the federal benefits effective the day we were married and then, after each subsequent child, we received more benefits and the sick thing is, I felt like we were entitled to those benefits.

At 19, I wasn’t even aware of what homosexuality really was. I didn't really know that people were dying/had died. People have always just been people to me. I thank a phenomenally human mother for that. I certainly didn’t think I was gay. I never considered that there were citizens of the USA that were considered less. Maybe in my sheltered, cozy Montana life, I assumed that the civil rights movement was over and that everyone was equal…I mean all different races and sexes served in the military, races intermarried, and women held high level corporate positions? Surely that meant all Americans were being treated equally? I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I was and in many ways still am a highly uninformed individual. The things I know now would have shocked that cozy housewife I had so easily become. Women make significantly less money than men, races other than white are still a largely underrepresented minority in most workplaces and those that are represented are paid statistically different wages than the white males that occupy similar positions. Only recently have homosexuals been protected under federal discrimination laws and our transgender family are not protected at all in most states. Hate crimes are rising, homosexual children are committing suicide at enormous rates (really, is it surprising that life seems unlivable when one of the elements that make you who you are is constantly under attack?) Where are our protections?

I divorced my husband in 2008. I left because I was gay and because I was miserably unhappy living the life that we had. The 19 year old who thought her life it was paradise grew into the 28 year old, lesbian who couldn’t pretend that it was what she wanted it to be anymore. Little did I know that walking out of heterosexuality and into homosexuality didn’t just involve changing the gender of my partners. It involved politics and a whole world of people who all of a sudden hated me and thought I was an abomination.

There are people picketing military funerals and saying deaths in wartime are justified because the USA has gay soldiers. There are politicians saying that the gay soldiers that serve our country can’t be out and shouldn’t even be allowed to serve. Our own federal government won’t allow us to be married….but wait…

I don’t care that gays can’t marry and be federally recognized. I don’t. It’s that simple. I. just. don’t. care.

What I care about is that ANYONE can marry and receive a financial benefit for doing something that is basic and biological. It makes me mad that any group is singled out above any other. Since when does who I love need any government involvement? Would a straight woman love her husband any less if they didn’t get to file a married federal tax return every spring? Would the commitment a man feels to his spouse of 60 years be any less without a court document stating they are married? Is my love for my girlfriend invalidated because we can’t walk into a courthouse and have Big Brother validate it for us? No.

So why does the homosexual community care? Because society cares and society impacts our day to day lives. That’s why. Society decided and gave government the right to recognize something that is solely between two people (or two people and whichever God they worship) and to give benefits to said people based on that recognition and subsequently denying them to people who aren’t recognized.  Society gave insurance rights, federal tax rights, inheritance rights, and the protections incorporated into those rights to one set of people...heterosexuals.  If all of us had the same rights, no one would be marching about rights.

My not caring does not mean I am turning my back on the gay population and siding with the Republicans and right wingers who say we don’t deserve rights and that all social programs should be shut down, quite the opposite.

I think that United We Stand, Divided We Fall is a very important phrase. I don’t think anyone should get benefits for being married or having children. I believe that everyone should have the same access to wealth, provisions, growth, healthcare, and education. In the long run this will only serve to benefit our nation to allow access to these things. We will be healthier, smarter, and richer.

Unfortunately, we have to get ourselves out of the mess we have gotten ourselves into with all this intense governance or changing will be impossible. That is where the focus of politics should be, fixing the mess that we allowed them to get us into so that one day, we can be a better stronger nation. We voted them into office, this is our fault too.

Someday, I want to marry my partner. I don't want to receive benefits for it. I actually think that the benefits cheapen it.  I want to look at her and make a spoken commitment with the people we care about around us. I don't need Big Brother to tell me I am married and give me money as a reward. I will know I am married and so will she and so will those we hold dear enough to want them to share that with us.

Bully For You

Okay, so anyone who knows me, knows that I was the biggest bully target on Earth when I was a kid.  It literally took me years to get over being that kid and sometimes I still have issues with it.  Bullying is a crime.  It is absolutely horrible what children put each other through.  Every time I read yet another story about some torture a child lived through or killed him/herself because of, I thank the sky that I had the family that I had because I had the support I needed to get through it.  There were times I would sit in my room thinking about how much easier life would be if I didn't wake up.  I never considered suicide, but I surely contemplated not existing.

Now that I am a parent, I tackle bullying head on.  Both of my children know with certitude that there are two things I will not tolerate; cruelty and lying.  Not that I would ever have to be concerned with them being cruel, they are both very kind, very sensitive children.  They just know that if anyone says anything to them or does anything to them that I won't let it stand and they know that if they are the perpetrators there are hefty consequences.  My children will not be killing themselves because of bullying and they will not be causing those feelings in others.

That said, we come to the reason for my topic...I was bullied.  So many times in my life I have thought  "well, they just pick on me because they don't know me"  or "jerks, I don't wanna be your friend anyway.(yes I do)"  I never understood what made bullies take notice of me...until a couple of days ago.

I was speaking with a friend about family resemblences and telling her I had none and she didn't believe me so I decided to start snapping photos of my old photos.  Now I know why bullies noticed me.  I have no excuses for their behavior, but I was so tragic that it would be tough to not notice...

This is me watching fireworks...you might say "oh, she isn't tragic..." but I think this may have been the last non-tragic photo of my childhood.  As it turns out, the 80's were not kind.  What is really sad is that I remember dearly loving some of the clothing I wore and I remember looking in the mirror and finding the reflection not only passible, but attractive.  Seems I was deeply hair blind.

For instance:  notice this lovely mullet ensemble that I have going on here.  These were taken somewhere around the 4th grade.  I was Student of the Week (Which I will go into this selection process later on some time) I should have a respite from cruel cruel fate for being good.  Someone should have noticed I needed help before this point?  Maybe because it was the 80's everyone needed help?

         

As cruel as Fate seems to be with the hair and un merciful even in light of deeds done right, You would think the bitch would throw me a bone in the fashion sense department, but that's a big no too. (I was so much a lesbian even back then...it's amazing I wasn't tucking my green flannel into my teal skinnies.)  Observe my lovely fashion sense in this delightful photo of me...my glasses...and my sweatshirt...TUCKED IN!?!  There really should be a limit to the humiliating things you can do to yourself in one childhood, but it really seems that I applied for a permit to humilite myself and draw the eagle eyes of every bully within a 10 mile radius....

A FREAKING PERM!!!!

That's right, I got a perm.  WTH, Really?!?!  Had I not learned that in order to not get picked on you had to draw the attention aways from yourself?  No, here I am sporting a bright blonde poodle perm, a vivid yellow silk shirt, and bright red pants.  I am so a target.  I should have tattooed a target on my back.

I give no excuse to those children who hurt other children in anyway.  I hurt deeply when I hear that my children have been picked on. I will say that as a child, I had no idea what I did to deserve the cruelty that was inflicted on me and I know that as an adult several people have found me and apologized for the things they personally did to me.  It 's all good. people have to clear their consciences.  I have long ago forgiven.  After my friend Matt killed himself in our sophomore year, I hated so deeply all the people who hurt him and us and all the little nerdy, weak people.  That hate ate me alive and I had to let it go to become healthy.

I also know that my tragic physical appearance may have been part of what got me noticed, but my back-talking, trash-talking, overly defensive mouth is what made me a victim.  

Nowadays, I just kick it with my little nerdy kids and everyday I give them all the love and support I can so that they will have the internal strength to stand up against the things kids seem to inflict upon each other.  I hope that I have what it takes and am the mother they will need if/when things get tough.

We Make the Hipsters Fall In Love…

I love music.  Seriously, I listen to it all the time.  Sometimes I get fixated (like right now) on certain songs (Nemo by Nightwish) and other times I am totally random.  My iPod has 5 days straight worth of music on it and when I hit random, I literally could end up listening to Christmas music in April.
The reasons I like music so much are probably very similar to other peoples’ reasons.

• I can find a song or genre for any mood and any life event and that piece or sound will in some way affect me in the situation it speaks to.
• In the immortal words of Lady Gaga, sometimes I like to “Just Dance.”
• Sometimes songs bring back memories…good and bad.  I hear Lean On Me and I am immediately transported back to my high school friend's funeral.
• Some songs serve as reminders.  I will never hear “Love the Way You Lie” without a small amount of pain.
• Some songs make the day easier. (Nemo by Nightwish) 
• These are the song I want to write about today.  In particular, one artist.  Ke$ha.

Tonight, while waiting an extraordinary amount of time for four menu items in the Taco Bell drive thru, my BFF decided to shop radio stations to find a song she liked.  (Evidently Nemo by Nightwish was not an option at the time.  Sadness.)  In her search, we heard the starting bars of a Ke$ha song and she stopped the radio with a happy sigh and the comment, “I just can’t help myself, I like her.”
So, as the happy bubbly first verse is rolling its way from the entry ear to the ear it worms it’s way out of…Hot and Dangerous…blah blah blah…catchy beat catchy beat….blah blah blah…(incidentally, she has another song called Blah Blah Blah,)  I actually start listening to the words.  It’s a catchy song.  My BFF and I are doing finger calisthenics to the beat and then my favorite line in the entire song comes on…”We are who we ah-are!”
Am I the only one that sees/hears how hilarious that line is?  I mean, who else would we be?  Should the line read We Are Who We Aren’t or We Aren’t Who We Are?  I don’t know about any of you, but I am 100% who I am.  This phrase actually runs right along with the phase that was actually listed as one of the top ten over used phrases in America…It is what it is.  DUH!!!  Really, you felt the need to tell me that construction on the highway is what it is, which is (drum roll please)…Construction on the highway?  Seriously. 
It makes my brain hurt to know that the phrase “we are who we are” might potentially be empowering an entire demographic who may have thought they weren't who they were and that the road construction was in fact a monster truck rally.
While I truly do enjoy bopping along to Ke$ha, her lyrics leave me wanting.  (Wanting Jesus on my Neck-a-lace ace ace.)  If you think my literalism is bad for this song, don’t even get me started on Strawberry Wine by Deanna Carter.  She misses the loss of her innocence.  Ai Ai Ai!
In closing, I do want to express my appreciation for Ke$ha’s laser skillz!  You go wit-yo bad self Gurl!

Just an Intro

To those of you who don't know me very well, my name is Darlene and I am a fractal and random person.  I'm sure somewhere there is a 12 step program with my name (or diagnosis) all over it, but for now I am just here, chillin' in my padded room.
   I keep telling myself that someday I am going to start this fabulous blog and it will be so funny because it will be about...sparkly Texas women or pithy church signs or those strange shoes found in random places (now someone else's blog because she beat me to it without even knowing it was a race.) Regardless of what all my brilliant topics were going to be, I never started that fabulous blog...until now.
    I have always loved writing and when I was abroad, I kept a travel blog (adventuringimpossible.blogspot.com) and it was so fun.  So much fun that I decided the world needed me to keep another travel blog, but this one would be about traveling through life.
  Now, I know you're thinking (while you throw yourself dramatically onto the floor hands reaching out imploringly to the heavens..) "dear Lord, not another whiny, life is crap blog that I am supposed to find interesting!"
    This is not that, I can promise you...no, I will even pinky swear.  As if the act of actually curling pinkies with someone makes it a more valid promise than just saying it.  I believe fully that the entire reason we have pinkies is to validate our promises.  It serves no other biological purpose.  It can't even move with 100% independence.  Seriously, all it's there for is to give that added "ooomph!" to a vow.  Who needs to shake hands or sign contracts?  We curled pinkies!
    The things I can say may appear, with mini-digit crossing certitude, are references to parenting; I am one and I find it mostly hilarious, references to "the gays"; I am one and I also find it mostly hilarious.  Mostly though, I think you will find that I will just be writing about the small ironies I find in life and how very enjoyable they make my day to day existence.  If you find them interesting, cool.  if not...I cordially invite you to stop reading.