This is my life... it is what it is

My childhood was terrible.

2011-04-25T16:29:00.000-07:00

How do you forgive yourself? I mean, after you go through the steps of self forgiveness? Pray about it, ‘let it go’, know that you did the best you could, ask for forgiveness, try to be a better person…. yada, yada, yada. The thing for me about forgiving myself is that most days, I do feel that I have forgiven myself. But then there are the other days.
You can fuck over every person in the world and find a way to forgive yourself. But if you did the wrong thing as a parent, it’s something that is so, so hard to let go of. And possibly, we are not suppose to let go of it. It may be the thing that keeps us doing the right thing because of the memory of doing the wrong thing.
To add to the complication of the wreckage that is my life, I have to really be careful not to live in the ‘I’m a bad parent’ world too much because the kids will feed on that. They will allow me to carry their mistakes by saying that they make them because of the horror that was their childhood. ‘I am the way I am because of the way you raised me’. If I had a nickel.
There was some bad stuff. Bad choices, bad memories, crazy, insane, drunken chunks of time. Bad, bad stuff. I guess what makes it hard to forget is that the kids remind me about it, usually, during a disagreement. So it’s hard to bury it when the kids are holding shovels.
Lately, it’s all just too much. On one hand I feel guilt. On the other hand I feel, honestly, like I don’t give a shit. I feel like, okay, I was a bad mother. Give me the tattoo, or the final grade, and let’s just say it is what it is so I can stop torturing myself. It’s all true. I did all those things. I’ve done what I can to make it right. The thing is that when you are the one that was wrong it’s not up to you when the people on the other end decide to put down the shovel. It’s up to them. And until they do, I feel like I can’t shake this feeling. And it’s not as if they don’t have the right to feel what they feel. They do. But am I allowed to bail out of the feelings without permission? To say, okay, hang on to that as long as you need to, but I have shit to do and naps to take? I can’t spend the rest of my life feeling like a failure. I have to move on.
If I move on and say your stuff is yours, that may be the thing that makes some of the insanity stop. You know, when you have to claim your own choices, you try and curb it. When you say, ‘I do this shit because of my parents’, it’s easy to keep doing it. But when you have to say, ‘I did this because I made this choice and have no one to blame but myself’, carrying the weight of your actions makes you want to stop making those choices. But I’m thinking that the kids aren’t going to come to that until I stop feeding in to the ‘my childhood was bad’ routine. Until the day that I say, ‘Yeah. My childhood sucked too. Everyone’s did.’
I myself did not grow up on a fairy boat. And still, I have gotten a thing or two done in my life. I am a published author and I can’t even fucking spell. So I’m going to pull myself up, and you pull yourself up, and this is how the day will look. Some days will be great. Some days will suck. I will make more mistakes and so will you. But we can wake up everyday and do the best we can.
I still don’t think I have figured out how to forgive myself. The plan is that I will start with a nap, and then go from there. When we get married they have that line where the priest says, ‘In good times and in bad times, in sickness and in health’. They say that because marriage is a forever concept. It’s a shame we don’t get that deal as parents. All we know as parents is that the nurse hands you the baby and she may as well say, “Don’t fuck this up.” Well, I fucked it up. So where do we go from here? I have no idea. But I will figure something out when I wake up.

The Waterfall

2011-04-09T20:34:00.000-07:00

I don’t remember the name of my third grade teacher so for this writing, let’s call him Mr. Hot.
Mr. Hot and I loved each other. I was ten and he was thirty something and we had chemistry that was undeniable, like a fire that could not be extinguished.
As Mr. Hot spoke to the class I would day dream about how many babies we would have and I also wondered, where do you get these babies? I know you go somewhere to pick them up, but where?
One Halloween, I went dressed up like a Go Go girl. I guess it’s the equivalent of a whore outfit, but back then it was called a Go Go girl.
I’m in class, watching Mr. Hot eat grapes as he sat at his desk. He gets up and writes the names of each day of the week and then the name of a student. This was the chalkboard duty assignment for the week. If your name was on one of the days of the week, that meant you had to stay after school and clean the chalk board and the erasers. I see Friday and then my name. That is when it really sunk in. Mr. Hot is going to ask me to marry him on Friday. Oh my god. We would probably go straight from the school, after the erasers were clean, to pick up our first baby.
Because of the age difference, I knew we would not get automatic support from my mom and dad. But the thing is that we loved each other, and that’s that. You could not stop Mr. Hot and I from loving each other and getting the babies. I had a feeling that I would have to change to a different class because I can’t have my husband be my third grade teacher because he would give me guaranteed ‘A’s’. But if that was the only thing in our way, besides my parents, and possibly the police, I was willing to make the move to another class.
Thursday night, I spend three or four hours trying to decide what outfit I wanted to be proposed in. It could be anything I wanted because my mom was at work before I went to school. I went with my Halloween Go Go girl outfit.
I walk in the classroom. Tie died t-shirt tucked in to my black pleather skirt. Black fish net stockings and black pleather boots, that’s right, up to the knee. My hair was the finishing touch that would send Mr. Hot’s love completely over the edge. I had invented a hair do some time back. I thought this hair style would catch on and soon everyone in the third grade would be wearing it. But, I was the only one that followed my own fashion craze so I only wore it on special occasions. Like the day your third grade teacher is going to ask you to marry him. It was called the waterfall. I would flip my head over and get all my hair and tie it in a pony tail on the top of my head. Then I would pull the strands down in a circle creating a ’waterfall’. I was Lady GaGa, before Lady GaGa was Lady GaGa.
I felt pretty great about the look as I sat at my desk just waiting for the end of the day. One boy asked me why I was dressed like that. I told him it was something he couldn’t understand as I flipped the waterfall, one strand of hair whipping me in the eye and making it water.
The end of the day the bell rang. I felt a nervous thud hit the bottom of my stomach. All the kids were filing out of the classroom and I walked up to the chalk board to begin my duties. Mr. Hot was walking around the room picking up this and that and I guessed he was probably nervous about the proposal. Ask me Mr. Hot! I will say yes!
At this point, his fucking pregnant wife walks in. Are you kidding? No. I’m not. They kiss and he says, “How was your day?” She says, “Good. I’m tired though. Maybe we can order a pizza for dinner.”
Either, he is married and his wife is pregnant. OR, he loves me and was going to propose marriage to me when his pregnant cousin, that he happens to feel comfortable kissing on the lips walks in and ruins everything.
That was the first time I experienced a broken heart. As I walked home, no matter how many different ways I tried to convince myself that kissing your cousin is something that people do, no, it just didn‘t seem like a ‘hello cousin‘ kind of kiss. Mr. Hot was married. The son of a bitch was married. She was in her thirties and so was he and later they are going to eat pizza. How do I go on? I will never love again.
I laid on my bed and cried. For like fifteen minutes. Then I went in the back yard and tried to find lady bugs for my collection.
The next Monday at school I was not as happy to watch Mr. Hot eat grapes. Then the same boy that asked me about my Go Go girl outfit said, “I liked your hair on Friday.” So I wore the waterfall everyday after that and that boy followed me around the playground. Sorry Mr. Hot. I have to move on. Our love was a roller coaster. First math, then English, constant homework. With the new guy all I need is the waterfall. Which I still believe will eventually be a big hit in the hair world.

This is my life... it is what it is: Swear on mom

2011-04-01T17:34:00.000-07:00

This is my life... it is what it is: Swear on mom

Mama Lia

2011-04-01T17:05:00.000-07:00

Mama Lia lived down the street from my grandmother. She was really, really old. Probably in her nineties. She was big on the bottom and wobbled when she walked. She wore bright flowered dresses and it seemed like she had an endless number of these flowered dresses. The houses on my grandmothers street, including my grandmothers and Mama Lia‘s, were about 500 square feet. It was as if someone took one large room and put up walls to make it a miniature house.
Me and my cousins, Janelle and Jackie, would go visit Mama Lia when we were visiting our grandmother. When you walked through the little gate in front of her house it was only about two more steps to her screen door. We could see her sitting in her chair and she would see us and scream with excitement. Then she’d do the thing that old, bottom heavy people do when they try and get off a cushiony chair. That rocking trying to get out. After about five rocks, she finally gets enough momentum to hurl herself out of the chair and opens the door, smiling.
We would sit and she would talk about people we didn’t know but we pretended we did because right next to her chair was a drawer filled with candy bars. After about an hour of hearing about Helen in Lubbock and Frank in Oklahoma City, she would open the drawer and give us our candy which was the equivalent of payment for a mental health provider. It was usually that simple. God forbid she was squabbling with Bernice from Waco or Martha from Deming. We could be there for hours and at some point you don’t care about the candy bars and you just want out.
Back then that was how old people were. Little kids and their parents didn’t have to be afraid of what insane, inappropriate thing they would do. We talked to everyone, including drunk men and they never did one bit of harm. It was a completely different time. These days that conversation would never happen. “Where’s Tommy?” “He’s in the house of the old lady that lives down the street. Don’t worry. She gives him candy.”
Mama Lia was a lonely, old lady, that’s all. She was so happy to see us and sad to see us go, walking out the screen door with candy bars in our hands.
Aside from visiting old people that our parents and grandparents did not know, we also walked to the shopping mall.
We would walk for a long time through neighborhoods. One after another, we’d walk. Then we get to the only freeway in Albuquerque at the time and there was a tall chain link fence so that children, like ourselves, can’t go running around on the highway. But on one adventure we found an actual tunnel that let out in to an arroyo that was on one side of the highway. Then, another tunnel to get to another arroyo, then another tunnel that dumped out to the edge of the parking lot of the mall. An arroyo is like a very dangerous ditch but it’s concrete and really wide. The tunnel ran right underneath the freeway. The exciting part about crossing an arroyo is that at any second, at and time, water could come flooding and rushing down the arroyo and in to the tunnels. So if you were going to cross this way to get to the mall and risk your actual life, you better really want to go the mall. If the water came, there would be no possible way to escape it. This is why before we began to make our way across we would stand on the edge and think about it. That’s not to say that thinking helped. We never once said, “This isn’t safe. We better not do it. Now that I’m thinking about it.” We always went in the arroyo, in to the tunnels and before you knew it we were looking at handbags and shoes.
We didn’t have any mall money. Ever. So we did what normal ten year olds do. We begged for change all day long and made a bunch of money every time. Me, Janelle and Jackie. We took turns. Jackie sucked. She was the worst liar in the history of lying. I made a mental note that if I ever formed a street gang or girl band to not include Jackie because she would have us locked up and sent to prison with the smallest level of pressure from the authorities. I loved her, but she did not have the rebel gene.
It was almost a competition to see who’s lie and the acting out of the lie would succeed. If it didn’t work you had to think of a better lie. You had to really give it up to the strange adult if you wanted the change. They would look down and smile at how pathetic you are and pat your head and hand you the change. The lie that never worked? I lost my parents in a fire and I need to eat at the food court. The one that worked every time? I need bus money. By the way, that line still works. I can’t say how many times I have given a person money for the bus. And when they say bus, they mean Bud. Whatever. I’m happy to help.
So, we’re doing our thing. Making quarters hand over fist. Mainly me and Janelle while Jackie stood there with her hands over her face saying, “Oh my God. Oh my God.” I walk over to a lady and say, “Mam. (in a complete Oliver Twist way) Uhm. I can’t find my mom and I need money for the bus to get home. I think she left me here on purpose.” Who knows why that worked. She smiled, patted my head and gave me the change. Ten year olds are notorious for not being all that bright so I walk away, I am no more than two feet from the lady that gave me the quarter. I see Janelle has dumped all our change on a washing machine in Sears. There is about thirty dollars in change on the washer as I flip the quarter on the top of the pile and say, “I got another quarter!” I didn’t even have the chance to turn when the compassionate, giving woman that had tears in her eyes when I told my story of abandonment, spun me around and pointed her finger in my face. “You are a disgusting little child. Give me my money.” I fished a quarter off the mound of change and handed it to her. She says, “I bet your mother did leave you here and I do not blame her one bit.” And she huffed away. Give me my quarter? Are you fucking kidding with me lady? Even after I give you your quarter we will be chewing gum and riding the medal horses out side for the next six hours. That’s what we usually did. There was a horse ride in front of Sears that had three horses on it. The three of us sat there on the horses for hours putting our beggar money in the little slot. Did we feel bad? Not that much. We had pockets filled with gum and candy and the horses went around and around.
Well the day with the lady, our conscience unexpectedly struck us. It may have had something to do with the fact that my Uncle Cecil, Janelle’s father, worked at the Sears where we did most of our begging and had been informed by his boss, via the angry lady, that his kids were panhandling in the large appliance section. We got in a ton of trouble and got thrown out of Sears by my Uncle. We hung our heads and very sadly walked to the tunnel knowing we disappointed someone we loved, with pockets filled with money. Our pockets were so full that we could hardly bend down to run through the tunnel.
We were walking back through the neighborhoods and we came up with an idea so we could repay our debt to society. We decided to give all our money to Mama Lia. She’s poor. She needs money. But we knew Mama Lia wouldn’t just accept the money because she was too filled with pride and gin.
So we quietly stood by Mama Lia’s house far enough so she wouldn’t see us or she would want to talk about her family and we had to get home. In front of Mama Lia’s house was a bird bath. Our ten year old heads decided we would dump all the coins in to the functioning bird bath. The water swirled around and it even had a little waterfall for the birds to enjoy. It was pretty. So, we dump the change and we walk away feeling like children of God before we could see the change go down the drain of the bird bath. Excuse me heaven! It’s us! Let us in!
The next day we are walking down the street and see Mama Lia outside by her bird bath. We’re thinking that she is probably really pumped up about the fact that she is suddenly rich beyond her wildest dreams. But, no. She’s cursing. She’s pulling the coins out with a knife and cursing.
We walk up using our beggar acting skills, pretending we did not ruin her bird bath.
“Some dumb ass put change in my beautiful bird bath! It’s clogged and broken.” She’s wearing a white dress with giant daisies on it. “Who would do something so stupid?”
Me and Janelle glare at Jackie as she begins to open her mouth, then she covers her mouth with her own hand and that seemed to work.
We all tried to help and get the change out but it was futile. From now on the birds would be dining elsewhere.
Aside from completely destroying her bird bath, I think us girls took a tiny piece of Mama Lia’s loneliness away. Even though we were in it to get a candy bar. But we learned something that day. We learned not to dump change in a bird bath and we discussed it the following weekend when we were begging for change in front of JC Penny.

48

2011-01-29T12:13:00.000-08:00

48. The year I was 48, I experienced the greatest growth and inner turmoil because of it. Something happened. I have always been a sort of roll with it kind of person. If you said something I didn’t agree with, I just smiled and nodded. If you said or did something that hurt me personally, I still smiled and nodded. Then, almost as if it happened overnight, I began saying things like, “What did you just say?” Then, well, you know how that goes. I started to draw thick lines in the sand. Because of the 47 years of biting my tongue, if you crossed that line, I responded not only to the current offense, but everything you have ever said or done that pissed me off. You know, getting it all out. Sometimes if I was really pissed I would blame you for things that other people had said to me. I could blame you for the economy, the war, and hungry children.
I had stood my ground with people before I turned 48. But it was always with people that didn’t matter, like, bosses, or people I knew for ten minutes. I never dug my feet in with people that mattered. I always chose to remain silent so my life could be quiet and the most important part, so people would like me. Especially family members. A family member could say the most outrageous, hurtful thing and I would smile and nod. Because god forbid they decide they didn’t like me. By my silence I have agreed with things about my character and personality that were so insanely wrong but I suppose I didn’t feel I was good enough to fight for.
I think that many of us get a title when we are young and it sticks with us until we draw that line in the sand. I was the stupid, ninth grade drop out, alcoholic, drug addict, bad mom, I could go on. The thing is that I do have seconds, sometimes days, of all of those things that used to accurately describe me. But it’s not how I live my life. I had to really think about whether the people around me were giving me the above description, or was I giving it to myself? Was I hanging on to the me that I was 30 years ago? Did people not see me this way at all and I was projecting it on to them? What I found is that it was a bit of both. They hung on to some things and so did I. But I had to be the one to fix my brain and in doing that the people around me would see me as the person I have become as oppose to the person I used to be.
I have pissed some people off. I have set up boundaries in my world which is something I have never done before. Some people didn’t believe in the new me and they thought my boundaries were dumb. They rolled their eyes and took a step anyway, knowing how I feel, then the new me began to spin like a top. And when I say spin like a top what I mean is that the idea that I was being ignored, as I have already been ignored for 47 years, would push me so far over the edge that I would scream until my face and right arm were numb.
See, it’s easy when people know your boundaries. They say, “Oh, well, she’s really weird about that so just don’t do it.” But getting the boundaries set up when you’ve been smiling and nodding for 47 years is a big angry project. With some people it doesn’t come natural. When you say to a person, “I’d rather you not come in my house because you completely fuck up my vibe.” It doesn’t go over as well as you would think.
At some point toward the end of that year, my boundaries and feelings started getting the respect they deserved. Thank you sweet Jesus. Big changes at my house and it is a beautiful thing. My house and my heart are quiet and nice. The people I have in my life today are the people I want in my life. With some people, I have taken a time out. I needed to put them on the back burner and that also gives them time to be away from me. With these people it’s not a permanent thing. It’s a time out for them to get used to my new great personality. I believe they will come around.
There are other people who, well, fuck them. They have never shown any indication that they are doing what we all do everyday and that is to grow, and change, and do better and become the people that god brought us here to be. They are fine with being total fucking douche bags for the rest of their lives. And the most insane thing is that they want YOU to adapt to THEM. They say, “Well, this is the way I am.” Really? You mean that every person on the planet works their ass off every single day to be a better person and you want me to accept that you have been the exact same toxic, insane person for 25 years? Can these people at least try? Just try? I am wrong everyday. I make horrible choices all the time. All I expect from any person is that they TRY. Walk toward better. That’s all. My life is short. I’m old. I can’t waste energy and time on the ‘this is the way I am’ people. Plus it just pisses me off. Why can’t I say, “This is the way I am.” Because I’m not 4.
My husband has been the most affected by the new me. He routinely says, “Oh, Jesus, not another boundary.” Last week I set a boundary where I said that there will be no more drinking the orange juice out of the container and putting it back in the refrigerator. We aren’t apes. Put it in a glass. Some boundaries are more important than others.
So it was a year of amazing growth and my new personality is pretty awesome. It was a spiritual, mental, and emotional explosion. It reminds me of that scene in The Color Purple when Oprah Winfrey ‘wakes up’ at the dinner table and begins to laugh and says, “I am back.” That’s me. Oprah Winfrey, with the one eye swollen shut. I am back. I wonder if in that scene, she was 48.

Swear on mom

2011-01-11T09:55:00.000-08:00

My mother in law passed away about fifteen years ago. All my life I have heard people say, 'Swear to god'. Or, 'Swear on the bible'. If you swear on God or the bible, it is suppose to mean that even the most habitual liar would crumble. Jesus has the power to make the roof fall in on your head and kill you for the lie. You could say to someone, "Are you sure he is telling the truth?" "He swore on the bible." Ah. End of story.
My husband and his family have a whole different twist to forcing the truth out of a person. Swear on mom.
In my husbands family you do not lie if you are swearing on mom. You just don't do it.
It's usually my husbands sister Cheryl. Everyone will be arguing back and forth and then Cheryl's voice rises above the crowd and she brings the hammer down, "Swear on mom!"
The room becomes abruptly quiet. You can hear a pin drop. The wind begins to blow and the sky turns black. Sometimes, you can hear scary ghost noises in the background. The lights flicker. She puts her hands on her hips and stares in to the accused's eyes. "Swear on mom." He lowers his head and contemplates his choices. Either, tell the truth and remind people that you are an idiot. Or, swear on mom. The pressure of telling the truth is so intense if you decide to swear on mom, you get confused and begin confessing every lie you've ever told.
Cheryl takes a step toward the hostage and asks again. This time in a firm, confident voice. "Swear. On. Mom."
The big fat liar does not lift his head but he does lift his eyes. After a deafening silence he says, "I colored my hair." And the crowd goes crazy. Swear on mom worked again. And is he serious? Did he really think no one would notice that he looks like Elton John?
I love my sister in law Cheryl. She is one of my top two 'go to' people to get something done. But there are people who lie, and there are people that tell the truth no matter what. They say, "Hey! It's the truth!" Cheryl tells the truth. She will look at someone and say, "Are you serious with that shirt? Did you just get off the Love Boat?" She's like an insult comic but she's not on stage, she's in her kitchen. But unlike an insult comic she will actually wait for an answer. "Hello! Did you play shuffle board with Captain Stubbing and Julie? Was Gopher there?"
I didn't have the swear on mom deal in my family. We did the traditional, 'If you tell a lie Jesus will know and you will burn in hell for eternity'. So we lied all the time. I mean, define hell? And when is that going to happen if it actually happens? I think I'll stick with my story.
I grew up in constant threat of the horrifying things Jesus was going to do to me if I sinned. If you ever question if something is a sin, if it's awesome and fun, it's a sin. Then at a young age I figured something out. I could go to confession and confess all those sins and the slate would be wiped clean. So why not live my life like hell on wheels? Then, right before I pass away I will get everything forgiven and go to heaven with the suckers that didn't put two and two together with the clean slate deal. This is actually how I currently live.
Some people start out with the truth and then the jazz the story up to such a level that it becomes a lie. They add some really gross descriptions and say someone was screaming, "Help me! Tell my children I love them!" While they twirled around in a parking lot engulfed in flames. Really? You saw that? Then they continue to add, "Then the flame from her dress lit a truck on fire and it exploded. There were three people in the truck and a cat." Wow. What actually happened was there was a garbage can in front of the store that was smoking and an employee walked out and dumped a bucket of water on it.
Then there is the omitting of the truth. I have mastered this. What I like to do when someone asks me something I don't want to answer is say, "Excuse me? I didn't hear you." This gives me time to think while they ask again.
One of the biggest lies I tell is about food. Me and my daughters go to expensive restaurants and then when my cell phone rings, and it's my husband, I say we are at McDonald's. We all know to say this. He says, "I don't know how you guys can stand to eat at McDonald's so much." I say, "Excuse me? I didn't hear you."
We all lie about one thing or another. Does my ass look fat? Do you like my new hair color? Do I look old? Did you try to poison me? All day long.
I will do anything to avoid hurting someones feelings, even if I have to lie. I will lie to say something to someone that is not true so they will be happy. If I get a grouchy checker in the grocery store, I will tell her how beautiful she is. Even if she looks like Shrek.
I have sworn on the bible, swore to God, pinky promised, swore on mom. All those times I was telling the truth. Mostly. Okay, sometimes. Whatever, rarely.
I tell the truth when it matters. To me. And only if I am guaranteed that no conflict will come from my confession. I will tell the truth when it is not going to make me look bad. I will be singing a song and if I don't know the words to part of the song, I will pretend I'm busy during that part. Or I'll yawn or cough. As if I'm saying, "I know the words, it's just that I'm yawning right now."
So yeah. Honesty is the foundation that I've built my life on. Honesty and dirt. Mainly dirt.

This is Bullshit

2010-12-21T18:42:00.000-08:00

I don't typically walk away from depression better than when I went in. Coming out of the fog is a struggle but you can actually physically feel with it when it begins to lift.
I've been in it for months. The last few days, have been better. Much better. This time, I mentally unraveled a gift that I did not even know I needed to find.
Don't you just get so sick of the cheerful people? The people that talk in bumper stickers. They have a saying that relates to whatever you're feeling. "Hey, Dina! It takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile!" Or, "Hey, Dina! Don't call it a problem! Call it an opportunity!"
And that's how we all live our life. Stay positive! Dismiss any negativity! Turn the lemons in to lemonade! Glass half full! You choose your level of happiness! Okay, so, we do this. All. Fucking. Day. For months and months.
So I say to myself, "I'm not feeling it. I have a lot of questions. I have questions for God." God and I have gone toe to toe on many occasions and I want to know what his take is on my mom.
This is the dialogue to God in my brain when I began to feel depressed. Why has my mom's life sucked? She is your biggest follower. She is the kindest person on the planet. Why was it not in your 'will' to give her one small break in her life when she has devoted her entire life serving you? Why do I look at my mom and it crushes me to she her watch these people on the religious channel who clearly have been given so much, and yet for my mom, you gave her nothing? She prayed and still prays all day long everyday? And she can't get one single break? I don't get it. I look at my mom's hands and think about all the babies she's held, all the hugs she's given to so, so many people. All the dishes and laundry she's done. I can see right now in my head the thousands of times I have seen my mom's hand raised in worship during a Church service.
And I say to God, Really? So she will be rewarded when she gets to heaven? Well that's where me and mom part ways. I want some shit right here on earth. If it is not in your will, you need to do some editing because I want you to lay it down. I want to be chin deep in shit. Chin fucking deep.
When I finish my rant on God then I start with myself. I am stupid. I can't spell. I have been a disappointment to myself and others every single day for 48 years. I'm not funny. My writing sucks. I don't even know how to cook? What am I even doing here? I'm sure there are other people in this house that can do laundry and check the mail.
I roll around in this until I am in small pieces. Until I can't breath. Day after day, for months. Then one day I think, "What if I don't get the answers? And worse! What if I don't get any shit? Then the smaller things come up. What if I really am not funny or a good writer? What if I do suck in general?" Then there is a silence. A calm. A small piece of me processes the information. And with each thing, I think, okay then. Then another thing, that's a drag, but okay. Not funny? There are a lot of unfunny people. Horrible writer? I wouldn't be alone there. What about my mom? Can I accept that I may never have the answer? If I'm going to get out of this bed and put some clothes on, I guess that's my answer. It's not my question to ask. I guess that's between mom and God.
Here is where I discovered the gift. We're all walking around being really super positive and happy. When I became depressed, it was like opening a gate and letting the wild horses loose. They ran and bucked and they were really pissed off that they were locked up for so long. But after some time, they stopped running. They ran it out and stopped to eat grass. That's when I came to the conclusion that things are the way they are. There is good, there is bad. There is happy, there is sad. I am not always going to have the answers. I may not be funny and I may not be a great writer, but if I wanted I could give myself a break. I have the right like any person on the planet to say, this is bullshit. I have the right to list all the things in my life that I think suck. But I also have the right to go ahead and shave my legs and put on deodorant. Read a book, watch a movie, go ahead and join the living. I'm like the tired horse eating the grass.
What an amazing feeling to have all that noise quiet, peaceful, and serene. But I had to go through all that pain, energy and sleep to come out on the other side with the gift of acceptance. Accepting all the things about me and God and mom. I don't have to be thrilled with it, but I have to accept it and carry on down the road. And if down the road I find out that I am funny and I am a great writer and I'm not a stupid hillbilly? It's just another great gift.
The only area where God and I are still at an impasse is, I am firm on wanting to be chin deep in shit. An IPAD for my suffering? If that isn't in your will I don't even know who's chart you're looking at.

I am a huge fan

2010-12-19T17:46:00.001-08:00

When going to a job as a corporate employee, just know, that you will be swimming in oceans of cheese. They have corporate 'slogans' and sayings that they will announce the first day you show up. At first, you look at these corporate people and notice they have glassy eyes and corporate wet brain. It's something all corporate people have. They look in to your eyes, short of saying, "Pretend that I don't sound like a complete fucking idiot right now." But to work at the job, you must swim, in the corporate cheese.
At my old job there were billions of gallons of cheese. It was constant. I worked in a grocery store where the big bosses thought they were rock stars. When in reality, they were just old, fat, bald headed, fucks. The grocery store was their life. It was their world. When in reality, they were making someone else a shit load of money. The big bosses would come in with gel in their hair and tell the store boss, with gel in his hair, that we needed to be reminded constantly about the slogans and sayings. If we missed one of the slogans, we would have to say the slogan over the intercom to pump up the other employees. Things like, "If you shuffle your feet, you may miss a greet!" Even typing that made me throw up in my mouth a little.
It's corporate work. There are people in corporate offices, some of them, women, with sensible, pressed outfits and half inch black pumps and they have two looks. Angry and angry. Then there are the corporate men. They also have two looks, the 'I'm fucking the girl in the deli' look. And the 'Jesus is my lord and savior' look. BTW, these two looks are on the same man. When angry and Jesus merge, this is where the ideas come from. Huge corporate buildings filled with people with glassy eyes and starched shirts. They are robots. They back stroke through the cheese and think of ways to make the cheese 'cheesier'. They think of ideas, because they are the idea people, to strip the employee's of their remaining dignity. 'What if we say that if they miss a greet that they will have to wear something like a party hat, but instead of it being a party hat, it could be a enormous engorged penis, standing straight up on the top of their heads? Yes. Someone send a fax."
The one thing for sure is that even with all the above, there is no shame in swimming in the cheese to buy cheese. But the moment the slogans begin to make sense, get out. That doesn't mean the next place you go there won't be more cheese to swim in, but possibly a better cheese. Like mozzarella, or feta. You'll be floating in your new cheese and you'll look up and there will be a new group of fat, fuck, wet brain bosses and you'll realize in corporate life, there is no escape.
There are rules in life, at home, at work. We are suppose to follow these rules. But when you leave your job, your anus shouldn't hurt. Unless your job involves some sort of study on anus pain. (I wonder what that pays?)
I am currently swimming in Hollywood cheese. The thing that sucks about Hollywood cheese is the leaders of the cheese smile and talk real kind. They also have slogans like, "I love your work, really." Or, "I am a huge fan." Then they do a line of coke off their Coach wallet. The softness in their voice, before the coke, makes you really think, "Wow. This could be really great!" They smile at you with their insane white teeth and then they begin to swirl their head around, "Who do I have to fuck to get a drink around here!" Then, as you're driving home without any warning, your anus begins to hurt.
I swam in the corporate cheese for entirely too long so now my tolerance for the Hollywood cheese is nonexistent. I am almost 50 and the best I can do is float on a hardened cheese like Velveeta.
If you are young, or even younger, if there is something you want to do in your life, do it. No matter what bullshit people tell you, there is a REAL window in life. The window where you make something happen or you don't. When you hear of people who did great things when they were 50 or 60, it's like five people. I'm not even kidding. Five fucking people succeeded at some great thing, and then they dropped dead. I waited and it may turn out to be one of my biggest regrets. We all say, oh, there's time, I'll work on it tomorrow, I'll get to it. I promise you that TOMORROW you will wake up and be 50 and you will know you missed the window. You not only missed the window, there is no window and there is a giant swamp cooler shoved in there as you fan yourself with a piece of paper, saying, "Sweet baby Jesus! It's a hot one today!"
I believe in people. I believe people can do great things. But to be great, you have to actually DO something great. You have to do it. Talking about it doesn't make it happen. I get messages or emails from people who say they're going to write a book. They tell me about the book and you know what I say? "I love your work, really. I'm a fan." And I'm not even a cheese leader! This is a sad world.

Matthew Austin Lennon

2010-12-17T17:36:00.000-08:00

When you had a baby, did you really have any idea what you were doing? It's sort of a thing you have to jump in to and learn as you go.
I had my first baby when I had just turned 18 so let's just say, I had a lot of shit figured out. I read a pamphlet in the doctors office and it was filled with helpful 'mommy tips'. I read it, didn't even take the pamphlet with me, just read it in the office. I say that because if I would have at least taken the literature with me I could have referred to it when I ran in to a situation.
The first situation came when I got my baby home to my parents house. What do you do with the baby? So, I showed her around the house, "This is the living room. This is the kitchen. Out that window there is a cow."
When I had my first daughter, my baby's daddy's mom, Nana, said that if I pulled the bottle straight out of her mouth and she made that suction noise, that could collapse her soft spot and suck it right in to her head. So the proper way was to lean the bottle out sideways until she stopped sucking the bottle. The fact is, I never believed that to be true because if it were, where are the people that this happened to? I have never seen a person with the top of their heads completely dented in like a meteor crater. I have never said to someone, "What happened to the top of your head? Oh. Collapsed soft spot. Your mom didn't know? So sad."
So if me and Nana were having a disagreement about something and she would be saying something to me that I didn't like, while I'm feeding my baby her bottle, I would look right at her and intentionally pull the bottle straight out of the baby's mouth. It would make this loud 'THUP'. Nana would immediately react, "Oh my god! No! The soft spot!! You could kill the baby!" For the record, I loved Nana. She was amazing to me and my daughters and I think we may have had a total of two disagreements in the many years we knew one another. There may have been more, but everyone knows that you don't argue with Nana. I think that is a worldwide 'Nana' deal. To argue with a Nana is a loose, loose. 'Grandma', you may get away with some shit. 'Nana'? You'll start confessing shit from six years ago.
These days young parents are just crazy. My oldest daughter, the one that I used for the soft spot bit with Nana, she is going to have a baby in the next week or so. (Her head is completely round, by the way.) She's putting the headset on the belly with music for the unborn baby. Reading to the belly. Singing to the belly. Are you kidding with me? You are going to be a parent for the rest of your life! Take this time to just let the belly do it's own thing.
The hospital room where my grandson will be born is called a 'family room'. That means that your entire family can come and have the baby with you. Beds, accommodations, I think they may serve drinks or opiates. And this is for however many people you want? When I had my daughters, I was in a delivery room that the hospital also used to deliver office supplies. I'm having a baby and they are rolling boxes up a loading dock and chatting, "Hey Bob! Did you ever get that tranny replaced? Can you sign for this?" The doctor puts down the jaws of life he's using to pull the baby out with. He's signing the paper, "I just don't know if it's worth it to put a new one in that old truck." Hey! Medicine man! Focus!
My daughter has the best health insurance in the country. I was, there is no other way to say it, a welfare mom. When you have a baby on the state money, they cut out all the frills. Like water. And air. They deliver the baby, spray the baby off, hand it to you and say, "You are free to go. Good luck with that." They may cut the cord, they may not. You may be able to pull the baby around Wal Mart by their cord for as long as need be. I mean, yeah I get it. I actually didn't expect more. But now that I see how it is when normal people have a baby, wow! It really is a beautiful day! I'll have a sandwich and an Ambien!
What I find is that every single parent has some sort of terrifying tip for you. "Make sure you burp her or the gass will build up and her liver could explode. That happened to a friends baby."
Everyone has something. Too many blankets may kill the baby. Not enough blankets, bye-bye baby. Cold formula has bacteria. Sianara' baby. Hot formula? You can have more children. Holding the baby wrong could kill the baby. The fabric of the babies clothing could be a silent killer. Dog hair, silent killer. Lead base paint? It could not only kill the baby, it could kill every single person in the house and possibly a couple of neighbors. Also, a silent killer. Adios' bambino. And why? It's because of that total fucking I don't give a shit attitude that parents have. (That last line was a joke and I wish I didn't have to include this information but sometimes people take me seriously and I have no idea how to process that in my brain.)
This is what I know for sure. If the baby is crying, pick up the baby. I know that you can hug and kiss a baby as much as you want. They are helpless to stop you. Do it now because when they are about seven, that crap will stop especially with little boys. Hugs and kisses interfere with their activities. When you tell them you love them and they are only one week old, they know what that means. When a small baby smiles at you, thats the first way they express that they love you. When they spit up on your clothes, your couch, your bed, whatever. It's what they do. When they do not want you to sleep, you are not going to sleep. They come in to the world and it is their world. As it should be. The best case scenario is that when a baby gets here, he or she has a circle of people waiting for them and already loving them before they even get here. Isn't it grand to be a baby? Having a baby around just makes everything better. It's like having a flat screen TV or an IPAD. I am very excited to meet my grandson Matthew Austin Lennon. The thing is that it is hard to be a parent and we all do the best we can. It's like the old saying about parenting. "Don't let the time do you. You do the time."

Christmas

2010-12-16T17:47:00.000-08:00

This is the conversation I just heard from the neighbor children in reference to the Christmas lights on the houses.
Sister, about 5 years old. "Oh, look! The entire community is all lit up!"
Brother, about 6 years old. "It's not called a community. It's called a neighborhood."
Sister, "So what."
Brother, "Remember! We did this last year and it really works!"
Then the brother, for whatever reason looks up at the lights on his house, cups his hands over his mouth and says, "Echo! Echo! Echo!"
Sister does the same thing, "Echo! Echo! Echo!"
Remember being little and waiting for Christmas and how it was the most exciting thing ever! My parents had this Ceramic Nativity scene. It was small. But the thing that made it an insane mystery was that the little wooden crib was empty. Then on Christmas morning, the baby Jesus would appear laying in the crib! You know, because Jesus wasn't born until Christmas morning? I remember coming around the corner and there was Jesus! And where there was Jesus, there was presents!
On my research for this investigative journalistic piece of work, I asked my mom, "Where did you guys keep the ceramic baby Jesus until Christmas morning?" After about 15 minutes of mumbling, "It seems like we didn't have a very good system on that. We put Jesus in different spots. Some years, we would have to look for him because we couldn't remember where we put him."
At some point, the baby Jesus's head was busted off because of what my parents called our 'rough-housing'. Several ceramic icons were injured, but not to the level of the baby Jesus. The head was glued back on but the baby Jesus just didn't look right.
I remember another Christmas where we were doing the Christmas pageant. You know, with all the biblical celebrities. Mary, Joesph, the wise men, Jesus. I was so excited about my part. It wasn't a speaking part. And if my memory serves me, it was the only non speaking part, but it was a very powerful moment and I was going to deliver it with such depth that the audience would gasp at the emotion I brought to the character. I believe the actual character was written on the script as 'Walking Child'. I had practiced ahead of time for weeks. All I had to do was carry a 'challis', that had pretend wine in it, down the center isle of the church and set it on the alter. Then walk back. That was my part. That was what I practiced. I still have no clue what part the glass of Chard had to do with the birth of Jesus but I was just honored to be involved.
Right before I am going to rock their world, my nose begins to bleed. Then I faint. The Priest, an amazing man, Fr. Gene was looking over me fanning me with something. Turns out I didn't have an understudy for that role. They grab some kid wearing a vest and shiny black shoes out of the audience and say, "Take this and set it on the alter." The rage made my nose bleed more that this fucking amateur random kid was stealing, let's face it. The role of a lifetime. It was complete bullshit. Not just anyone could be 'Walking Child'. It was a role not unlike that of Meryl Streep in Sofie's Choice except we were not in Germany and there was less bombing in the background.
The main thing I remember about Christmas when I was a kid was, well, the utter disappointment. Sorry mom and dad! But the only time you really got in the game was the year you bought us bikes? And the other year that you got the boys chemistry sets. One year I got an easy bake oven. That was the year I realized that nothing in my life was going to work out. The easy bake oven came with ONE cake mix. And they didn't sell them. So you bake one little cake? It's over. The toy is not only no longer fun, there is no function for it. I tried to make it in to a Barbie house, which is what I actually wanted. I would pretend it was their hotel. I'd lay them on the racks. Then take them off the racks. That was it. I took the actual rack out and then the Barbies could sit in there like they were on a bus trip or something. You know it takes three minutes to eat your little cake the size of a bisket, then you realize you were completely screwed by Fisher Price. I spent the day mumbling, "Bullshit." My brothers thought this was hysterical, "Hey, Dina! When will the cake be ready!" Me, "Fuck off." I was ten.
But what was the real idea of Christmas? That little baby Jesus. In the manger. Surrounded by the wise men, one of which had an arm broken off and the sheep with one ear. With Mary and Joesph in all their glory looking down at the baby Jesus. And the baby Jesus looking at them. With white glue on his throat and his head cocked to one side. That's what it's all about. The birth of Jesus at a Marriott in Dubai. I haven't read the bible in a while so I could be improvising that last part. But it's the traditions that create the love at Christmas. For me, it was that Nativity scene. For my kids, it's the Coach purse. We all have something that makes the holiday magic. For some kids, it's standing in the front yard and saying, "Echo! Echo! Echo!" I hope they heard some sort of echo. I wonder if when they grow up they will take their children out to the front yard and teach them to echo. I think it's a really nice idea:)

Nut Job

2010-12-14T18:52:00.000-08:00

I am depressed. There you have it. I wrote about depression in my book, although the depression I felt then was much more severe than what I feel these days. I had to be hospitalised for that time period and ever since then I have an actual phobia of depression. Because I know how bad it can get. I'm not even close to that feeling, but I still fear it. I feel a twang of it and it frightens me.
For me depression doesn't have a specific reason. It just comes over me. Most of the time I can shake it. For example, there has only been three times in my life I can look back on and say I was definitely depressed. The other thousand times, I could walk it off and soon I would feel better.
This is how I spend my day. I wake up in the morning and I feel like my heart is completely broken. Why? I have no idea. It's just a sadness the minute I open my eyes. It fades when I drink my coffee with my french vanilla creamer and smoke. This activity actually creates a beautiful warm feeling. But then the sadness comes back, over and over through out the day. The sound of my voice makes me queasy. The way I look makes me queasy. Any task, even the small ones make me feel overwhelmed. It's a huge task to have to put on regular clothes. I sleep most of the day away and when I'm not sleeping, I'm sitting on the couch watching the Housewives. Any region Housewives. From one coast to the other, groups of pretty women with wigs and nails and tans, ALWAYS with a glass of wine in their hands. I know I don't own the market in sadness or problems, but these ladies, sweet baby Jesus. Their problems are so random and insane. They start each episode with a beautiful woman in a great dress saying things like, "New York is my playground and if you don't want a piece of me, get out of my sandbox." Or, "In New Jersey, I am the queen of my castle. Diamonds are my lover. Don't hate." They are all living in houses that 'Bravo' built.
I just published my first book. So all of this is so confusing to me. Shouldn't I be walking around feeling really accomplished? Every single review has been amazing. But because of how I'm feeling, reviewers use words that make me feel like a fraud. Like 'inspiring' or 'courageous' or 'strong'. What? I have to spend three hours to convince myself to eat a piece of toast. Sometimes, I can't even bring my self to go through the energy involved in making toast. I eat a piece of bread. Then I lay back down on the couch in my pajamas.
I find myself looking off in to space for long periods of time. Just thinking about it all. And also, thinking about nothing.
I knew something was off when I got a giant life size poster. OF ME. And while I liked it, I don't feel I felt more than like. People that know me, know that one thing that would make me feel really high on me is a god damn life size poster OF ME!! I looked at it and while it was really hot, I didn't feel connected to it. It had so many of the 'words'. Inspiring, brave, all those words that make me wonder who the hell they're talking about. I would have felt better if it said, "Meet the author! She's medicated!"
Typically when I'm feeling low I can go walk around the bookstore. My book isn't in there as I haven't sold 45 million copies yet. So I find myself walking around and look at how many situations vampires can get themselves in to. It's un- fucking real. Huge area's committed to vampires and their high jinks. I think Stephanie Meyer is at this second writing, "Dale, the office vampire comes around the corner to find Patty, the vampire from sales...." Or the god damn Harry Potter corporation. Isn't Harry Potter about 30 by now? Then are we going to devote an entire section to the Potter offspring? The Peter Potter series. Fuck man. I don't need an entire section. One god damn book and you can put it anywhere. Then I leave the book store more pissed off than when I went in.
That's another side effect of depression. The short fuse symptom. These are the things that can make a depressed person snap. People talking. People walking slow. People breathing, in and out. People who tell long stories. People who walk or talk or bend or spin.
I know it will pass and very soon I will inspire the shit out of someone. But I will say this. No matter how shitty I am feeling, I do try to smile at people even when I'm not feeling it. I say hello. I tell them their children are cute, even when the children are not in any way cute. I say thank you. I let cars merge.
Tomorrow is another day. I have my creamer waiting for me. I have to stalk people on Facebook and pretend that I am really pumped up about me. One thing I don't seem to loose during a depression is my skill to bullshit. Thank you God. If I'm still bullshitting, I'm still in the game:)

The people on the shore line

2010-09-26T20:54:00.000-07:00

We are drowning. I am drowning with you. To show you how much I love you. I love you so much I will gasp for air with you. Because that's how much I love you.But there are others... on the shore line. Waiting for me to get their lunch. A nine year old little boy that wants to ride bikes and laugh. He can eat a whole pizza by himself but he likes to share with me. He smiles.I can feel your hand slipping, away, and away. My heart is in a million pieces. I think it may be selfish to save myself. You may think I didn't love you. I can feel your finger tip and the water moving us further apart. We are suffocating. Together. Because that's how much I love you. Do I love you so much that if you continued to fall, I would fall too?Little boys always want the bike to go faster. Faster and faster. I tell him to be careful. He ignores me smiling. I kiss him. I love him too.I am drowning. For me to come up and out of the water, I have to let you go. I have to let go of your sweet hand. I need a breath. One big breath. I can see the sun shining on the top of the water and it calls me.The people on the shore call me. They want ice cream because that's a thing that people want. Nothing more. Nothing less. It's a simple choice. Chocolate.I just want you to know that drowning with you serves no point. It won't fix it. It won't fix you.So I will ride the bike and laugh and look at the water and waves and turn away. Because that's what we do after we almost drown.... turn away. And with that we have saved ourselves. But wow, I love you. I really, really love you. I'm sorry.

When I Am Not Here

2010-07-19T19:42:00.000-07:00

This has been on my mind for weeks. No, there is nothing wrong with me. I went to a funeral and now my mom is not great. So the idea of 'mortality' is on my mind. When you have to plan a funeral for a person, there is so much to do in a really short amount of time. So, I'd like to make it easy for my Family and friends....
I would like to be cremated. I do not want, I don't care how much money I have, to spend ten thousand dollars on a cushioned box. I want someone to go to Ross Dress For Less and go to the housewares area and find me something that could double as an 'ern' that's fun, yet, subtle. Some of the items in Ross are questionable. Like don't put my ashes in a pig cookie jar where the pig nose is a handle to the top of the jar. Have some taste.
Although I want to be cremated, I WANT TO BE BURIED! PERIOD! I don't want my daughters walking around the house having a laugh about something and then look up and there I am in a pig cookie jar. So they stop laughing, like, "Oh, so, there's dead mom. Great."
I want good music and I want it playing when people are walking in the 'place' so they don't sit there acting nervous and uncomfortable. Pink, Keith Urban, Rascal Flatts, Cat Stevens, Ricky Lee Jones, Michael Jackson, James Taylor.... you know what I like. If you could wedge in 'Prince, Raspberry Beret', that would be great. Crank it up.
Now... during the service they do a thing called a 'Tribute'. That's where someone walks up and talks about how blessed the world is that you were here. I have taken the time to write my own so no one has to say weird things about how I lit up the room and shit like that. So typically a family member would read this...
MY TRIBUTE
So, if someone is reading this, well, (long dramatic pause) I am no longer here. I'm not thrilled to be in this position, but it is what it is. Jennifer, April, Carly and my new son Michael... I love you guys. Know that you don't have to be unhappy. Know that there is a whole happy way to live out there waiting for you. Go get it. John. You are the love of my life. Till death did us part. To my siblings and nieces and nephews... thank you for loving me and thank you for all the laughs.
For those people I've hurt. Well, sorry. For all the people that I don't like and don't like me. Nothings changed. You were a douche bag while I was alive and you remain a douche bag in my death. I will take my complete disgust at the sight of you to my grave. And being that it's obvious that I am getting to heaven first, because you are sitting there and I'm in this pig cookie jar, the first order of business is to go to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and throw your ass so hard under the bus your head will spin. Just know that every time you slip on some ice, there is someone in heaven laughing their ass off. By the time you get to heaven, the Lord will want no part of you and know what a bullshitter you are.
Also, don't anyone go being all sad. I am in heaven. I win. The conditions of my life on earth were so ridiculous, that I earned my place in heaven. Heaven is a great place. They say it's like Vegas. And I know some people in heaven, so don't be sad. Well, I guess you could be sad for a little while just out of respect, but don't over-do.
I have had a life of laughter. I have had a great time. I have been lucky. And please come to my reception afterwards. U2 will be playing. (I understand if you can't pull that one off) I love all of you guys. Well... most of you. That's been my time.
THE END

Now, it will probably be 39 years before someone has to read that, but it's done. I may tweak somethings before then, but for now it would be good enough in a pinch, which death usually is. And I know this is hacky, but in my death, I won't care about being hacky. I want my headstone to read... "I told you I wasn't feeling well."
I think that covers it. Again, it will be a long, long time before this plan will need to be put in to action, but someone needs to make sure this shit happens.
Until then I will cry a little and laugh a lot...:)

ONE WEEK LATER.....
If by chance, John (my husband) we have won the lottery or are swimming in money there is one thing I never did in my life that I could actually implement at the departure party. I would like my ashes sitting on a half moon that will be dramatically lowered from the ceiling while the song 'If I Could Turn Back Time, by Cher, blasts through the grieving people. I want the half moon to be glittery, bedazzled and a real show stopper. That way it would be so dramatic that people would say, "Oh my, it's Dina's ashes sitting on the moon in that jar. This is the best funeral I have ever been to."
Also, and not a big thing if you can't make it happen. A few days ago I saw a 7 or 8 year old little boy wearing a tshirt. It had a photo, of the Lord Jesus Christ (our personal savior) and right under Jesus was a photo of a man throwing a gang sign.... then of course the whole RIP and a date. I'd like that. Something people could just throw on and wear to Wal Mart. That's it for now. But I think I've really covered the main things..... Love you and I think this whole thing is really gonna be a lot of fun! Way, way down the road!

Brownie

2010-06-30T16:13:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid we lived in a house in New Mexico. This was the only house I remember ever living in that had a washing machine. Not washer and dryer, but a washer, then the clothes would be hung on the line
in the back yard.
The washing machine had a big, black, hard, rubber tube that went from the back of the washing machine, through a hole, hand cut through the back door, and then it stretched out to the field behind the house. So the water would come out of the back of the washer and go through the tube and go in to the field. UNLESS, it was really cold. In that scenario, we would all be whittling or folk dancing, then hear a rushing flood of water coming in to the house because the tube was frozen. People would run from all directions of the house to turn off the washing machine. But by that time, most of the floor was under about an inch of water.
My room, was a living room, or common area of the house. I was 19 and had my little baby in her crib in the middle of the house. People would walk through my 'room' to get to other parts of the house. I would put my finger up to my lips as people would walk my direction, "Shh. Did you not see a teen with her infant trying to sleep on a bed in the middle of the living room? Damn man."
Because the location of my room was right next to the elegant laundry room, I was usually the first one to hear the flooding of the washing machine. I would run fast and pull the nob and say, "Fuuuuuuck!" Then we would mop for about three hours. When I say mop, I exaggerate. We didn't have a mop. We used towels that would now need to be washed. It was a system ment to break us and kick our asses every single day. We will not be broken.
So if God had mercy on our souls, and we actually got to wash a load of clothes, we would then hang them on the line in the yard. Another catch. Winter in New Mexico can be really, really cold. So when you went out later that day to remove the dry clothing, they would be not dry AND they would be frozen solid. You could stand a pair of Levi's straight up and lean them against the wall. Frozen solid. So the clothes would be laying on chairs and tables all over the house. Clothing everywhere. It was common to eat a bowl of cereal in the 'V' of an arm pit of a shirt laying on the kitchen table. When you sat on the couch, most of the time your back rested on drying towels or jeans and there was always a pile of soaking wet towels sitting by the washing machine.
When I was a kid, I really didn't have any idea we were hillbilly, gypsies, until one Christmas. We were in the Goodwill store. My mother picked up this little brown stuffed animal puppy. She said, "Oh! This is cute, don't you think?" I look at it, "Yeah. Who's that for?" She says, "For the 'needy' people." I thought, thank God because it has a huge stain right on it's back.
Christmas morning, I wake up, open my gift, fucking brown shit stained dog. I was about seven. I thought, "Holy fucking shit. We ARE the NEEDY!" I didn't want to name the dog because I didn't plan on keeping it. But at some point I started calling him 'Brownie' because that's what color the stain on his back was.
I complain about my life. I have a washer, dryer and a mop. I write and look out at the pool. We don't have any money, but our not having any money is so different than my parents not having any money. When my parents didn't have money, it was like complete darkness. I mean, we didn't have any electricity. That kind of dark.
I kept that stuffed dog for a long, long time. It seemed like no one wanted it. Actually, no one did want it so I had it for years. I was in my living room/ bedroom with my baby Jen, I heard the flooding, I jump up with the infant in my grasp and run through the water and pull the nob. I see the water rolling down the step of my room, where 'Brownie' was tucked in a corner. It was like slow motion... holding a tiny baby and running, screaming, it echoed... "Nooooooo!" By the time I get there, the shit stained dog was soaking wet. I put it on a window ledge to let it dry. Frozen solid. Eventually, it dried, but it had a bad smell. So now it's stained AND it smells. Good bye Brownie. We had quite a run, you and me. The shit stained dog and the little girl from the 'needy' family.
So my life is different thanks to my husband who works like a dog as oppose to my father who drank like a fish. My husband complains because he says I'm doing to much laundry, and the electric bill is going up. The other day I said, "Can you hear yourself? Can you see who you're talking to? I don't do laundry! Unless we run out of clothes! And you think I'm doing chores behind your back? Hello!"
Oh... Brownie. I miss you.

Uncle Cecil

2010-05-23T18:19:00.000-07:00

My Uncle Cecil and Aunt Sherry have been married for oh, 100 years or something. They have always fit one another so perfectly and they have had a lifetime of laughter. I am a comic and I have seen EVERYBODY. (I'm a pretty big deal) There is not one person alive that is as funny as my Uncle Cecil. Aunt Sherry has been his audience all these years and is his biggest fan. At any gathering, Aunt Sherry would say to Uncle Cecil, "Tell that one story..." He would tell it and she would laugh as if it was the first time she heard it with tears rolling down her face.
Growing up all the family holidays were held at my grandparents house. No one missed it. My Uncle Cecil and Uncle Dean would go back and forth telling stories and acting out events for the entire day. They were so, so funny that half the time we would be falling on the floor holding our stomachs and hurting from the laughter. They went on and on. I know they had challenges in their lives and things that had broken their hearts. But for those days, they had a captive audience and we could not get enough. Of the thousands of comedy shows I've seen, I have still never laughed as hard as I did during the Cecil and Dean Show. And the fact that they could go on for five or six hours of non stop halarity, was amazing. And this was EVERY gathering, they were on fire. As a comic I have thought hundreds of times about a story that Uncle Cecil told and think, why couldn't I do it? Uncle Cecil has a certain thing. His body language, his facial expressions, his timing and just the way he talks. He is the only person that can do him. The thing that is clear in my head is that Aunt Sherry continued to laugh. Now, for the married people, okay, he says the funny thing, but that's it. You don't want to hear that thing again. It doesn't matter how funny it is. How many times has a married person said, "Hey, tell that one story..." Most people I know are saying to their spouses, "Jesus, don't tell that story again. You're killing me with the stories." But Aunt Sherry would give him her complete attention and he would act the whole thing out and tell the story as she laughed holding her stomach and laughing as if it wasn't the fiftyith time she's heard it.
Uncle Cecil loves Aunt Sherry so much that he has spent his entire life making her laugh. And Aunt Sherry has spent her life laughing. I can't think of a better way to spend a life. How often do you hear of two people like that? Married people. Not often. If you have spent your life making the girl of your dreams laugh, you did good. Really, really good.

What it feels like...

2010-04-28T19:13:00.000-07:00

This is what it feels like. You are in second grade. You do alright with your grades, your classmates. At home your parents think you are the most beautiful person alive. You are a second grader that someone would glance at and think, 'Cute little girl'. But, something is wrong. You're little so you don't understand. But you can feel that you are not like the other kids. They like you, but you secretly don't know why. Everyone around you acts like you blend, so you try to blend.
You grow older, and still, you just don't quite fit. You don't get it. You don't feel connected to other people. But you play along. You're in High School and you really can't let anyone know you feel this way. You never feel comfortable. Some days your skin crawls. You're nervous. You feel moments of panic like you are gasping for air. But no one can know because you're still blending. You look around and wonder what the secret is. Why am I just never quite good enough? You have to act normal and be the person people think you are. Not this shaking, frightened teenager. What it feels like is the feeling you get when you are under water. You know that little bit of panic right before your head surfaces? You walk through your school, or your home, or the mall and you feel different, and not in a good way. You can feel the pressure on your skin. And you have to get out. Because you're suffocating and not one person has a clue. You're hanging out with friends and someone has something, a drink or a drug. You give it a try for the first time. You will never be able to take this back.
You can feel your body coming up out of the water and you take a huge breath of air. You can feel the rush of relief. You can feel the warm sun on your face. You want to stretch your arms out and scream because you're not dead after all. For the first time in your life, you can breath. And it is fucking amazing after an entire life of suffocating. You suddenly, for the first time in your life, feel... like other people. You can breath. You are not just you, you are more you than you've ever been. You don't feel high, you feel like everyone else. Your skin stops crawling. You're not in complete panic. You are for the first time in your life.....alive and safe and calm.
The fact is that people who are not addicts do not have this reaction to drugs or alcohol. Normal people have a few drinks and feel a little floaty and think, that was fun. Or take a pill for an injury, (I know, but this is why normal people take pills) and you feel kind of happy and silly. An addict or alcoholic's brain chemistry reacts completely different. A drug or a drink is a life changer. You have saved your own life. It's an awakening from a life spent in loneliness and fear. And once you've surfaced, above the water, your brain will never let you forget it. From that moment on your brain says... get it, get it, get it, get more, get more, and it never quiets. It is relentless. It is bigger than you. It's so loud it's deafening. To tell an addict or alcoholic to stop is the equivalent to saying, "Go back under the water."
Making the choice to go back under the water is an impossible option. An addict will do the most horrifying, demoralising, immoral act to avoid going back under the water where they will no doubt die.
So what do we do? We must learn to live above the water without the drugs and booze. To feel the sun, and stretch our arms out and embrace and love life. We don't have to go back under the water... but we must find that tiny flame that burns in all of us and help it grow until that fire is so big, the stalking voice in our head, shuts the fuck up. Until then, you must protect that tiny flame because at the end of the day, it will be the only thing to build a new life on. And because we don't quite fit in our skin, it's like holding a candle in the wind. The fact is that I am still struggling. I had six years in sobriety. Then one day I didn't anymore. One day, I too, will accept that big breath of air...I will choose life. One day I'm under the water and the next, looking for something to pull me out. I can't self destruct to such a level that the little flame blows out. I can still feel the little flame in my heart, but I'm cupping with my hands with my back to the wind.
It's a life time deal, if I'm lucky, which most people aren't, I will be around to not only come out of the water without help and feed my fire, I will feel peace. I will also be laying on a raft with little pieces of gauze between my toes and be tan like the Kardashians.

Lemon Tree

2010-03-02T09:18:00.000-08:00

I have been phobic as far back as I can remember. You know that cartoon where the 'coyote' is standing on top of a speeding train and the train goes in to a tunnel? Then the coyote's outline is smashed in to the concrete arch above the tunnel? As a child I would wonder, what if I am standing on a train and I don't duck fast enough to go through the tunnel? This was actually possible in my head.
I'm afraid of everything. I trace it back to the second grade.
My second grade class went on a field trip. We were all sitting on the grass in a big circle, somewhere, drinking lemonade. I took a big gulp from my straw and I swallowed two or three seeds. I thought this was very interesting and said the the little girl sitting next to me, "I just swallowed some lemon seeds." She looked at me straight faced and said, "You're going to grow a lemon tree in your belly." I looked dead in her eyes and said, "So." Then I turned around and began to completely panic. I thought, oh my god! A lemon tree in my belly! Help! Someone help me!

I spent the rest of the field trip imagining the process of the lemon tree that was now growing in my belly. How fast will this tree grow? Will the branches poke out of my skin? Could I trim the branches so I could wear regular clothes and continue going to a regular school? Would the lemons be edible? Would my parents be embarrassed by my condition, yet, pleased because my lemons are so tasty?
When I got home from the field trip I went immediately to my mother to tell her the news. I was in complete panic. I run through the screen door and go to my mother grabbing her shirt. I look up at her and say, "I swallowed some lemon seeds." She continued doing whatever she was doing.

I am now desperate, "Mom! I swallowed some lemon seeds! A girl said that I am going to grow a lemon tree in my belly!"
In my entire life there has been one time I needed my mother to be sure of something and this was the time. I needed her to be firm and confident and absolute. She looks down at me with a smile and says, "Oooh. I don't think so, honey."
I don't 'think' so? Good god in heaven, I'm might be growing a lemon tree in my belly. You don't 'think' so, but you can't be sure? I sort of need you to be sure about this. I needed something to the effect of, "That is the silliest thing I have ever heard! Of course you will not grow a lemon tree in your belly!" But, no. She didn't 'think' it would happen, which of course means, you may be growing a lemon tree in your belly.

I lay flat on my bed with my hand on my stomach waiting for some activity. Some movement. Something. The scent of lemons. Something.
Weeks went by and there were no indications of any foliage growing in my stomach. But for months, any stomach ache was clearly from the lemon tree.
The rest of the second grade I avoided the girl that informed me of the lemon tree in my belly. I felt she knew something the others didn't. Some sort of Voo Doo. Any interaction with her would only bring bad news.
By the third grade I began to believe I had food poisoning from dented cans. And off I went from there. Fear of flying. Fear of driving. Fear of all sorts of things. But it all started with the lemon tree.

My favorite drink in the world is the Lemon Lime Slush from Sonic. I drink one everyday and most days I swallow a few seeds. I feel no fear. I only enjoy the deliciousness of my beautiful drink. Until it dawns on me that one of the workers could be disgruntled and may have put poison in my slush. Or my car could suddenly ignite in to flames. Or I could be car jacked. I'm having chest pains. Great. This is just great.

Excerpt from my book... Everything I Never Wanted To Be...

2010-02-17T11:27:00.000-08:00

There is actually a reason I picked this song. When Carly was very small she would take me in to art stores and tell me about Vincent Van Gogh. I grew up in a trailer eating spam.... so I wondered.... who is this kid? She's my girl...

I was doing the Funniest Mom in America at the Laugh Factory in LA. So they announce my name. I get this burst of energy and run up on the stage like I normally do. I grab the mike, and… nothing. I stand there, staring at the audience and the audience is staring back. You could hear a pin drop. The longer I stare, the longer they stare. Finally, some young girl in the front row screams, “Booo! Get her off!” I’ve been doing this for eighteen years! What the hell is going on! Nothing! I said nothing! I see my daughter Jennifer in the back of the room half standing like she may jump on the horrible screaming woman.
It seemed like seven hours later, a joke came out of my mouth and I got rolling a little bit, but the damage was done. I was officially not the Funniest Mom in America.
My daughter Carly has been in and out of drug treatment facilities since she was thirteen. Every time she goes away somewhere I have a routine. I go through her room and search for anything drug related or search for drugs that she may have left behind. We have a laugh these days because Carly says, “So. You’re looking for drugs I’ve left behind? I’m a drug addict, mother. We don’t leave drugs behind, especially if we’re going into treatment. We do all the drugs. We don’t save drugs back for later. If I have drugs, I do them. All of them. If I had my way we would stop for more drugs on the way and I would do them in the parking lot of the treatment center.”
I’m fumbling around going through her things piece be piece. I look in books, shoes, jacket pockets, DVD cases, I look in holes in stuffed animals. I see a box in the top corner of her closet. I open the box and see piles of papers.
I shuffle through them and see cute little cards, letters from friends, funny little notes from her old life. ‘Dear Justin. Do you like me? I like you. If you don’t like me it’s okay. But I will not be your friend.’ Ribbons, stickers and glitter line the bottom of the box.
Then I find this. This list of what Carly feels about herself. I read and my heart begins to beat really fast. Towards the end of the list I have to blink to allow my tears to roll down my face because I can’t see.
The last few years I had thought it was a stage. Just something she was going through. It was a nightmare that I was going to wake up from and It wasn’t as bad as I thought. Now I sat there, still staring at these pieces of paper and for whatever reason I couldn’t move my eyes away. I sat still looking right through the page.
I was holding in my hand the truth. There are a million ways to get to the truth. The shittest way to find the truth is to stumble upon it accidentally while sparkly glitter falls all over your lap.

Carly simply could not stay clean. She would use meth to get off heroin and then use heroin to get off meth. Of the three times she was in intensive care one of those times was a suicide attempt. She came to me and told me she couldn’t live the rest of her life as a drug addict and she was going to kill herself. I didn‘t know that shortly before she told me this that she had already taken every different kind of drug she could get her hands on. Heroin, Xanax, Oxycontin, Fentanyl. Anything and everything. She had a variety of drugs in the house and had taken everything.
I have become so desensitized to drug use that I would feel so much better if I thought Carly was high all day and having the time of her life. The fact that her drug use made her so sad that she didn’t want to be alive anymore breaks me in half.
I get her to the emergency room, she tries to tell them what she has taken but she can hardly speak. They immediately admit her. They had a nurse sit by her bed twenty four hours a day in case she went into cardiac arrest. Three days into her stay she began having seizures. It was a horrible thing to watch. I asked when the seizures would stop and the doctor said they may stop, they may not. It depended on what level of damage she had done to her brain. She would be fine and then her head would fall all the way back as if her neck would break and her eyes would flicker. She couldn’t talk. This happened every half hour or so.
I slept in the hospital in a chair next to her bed. Late one night she woke up and I looked at her. She looked like a little girl. A pretty, pretty little girl. I could see her face and striking green eyes in the dark room from the light coming from the lap top the nurse sitting next to her bed was using.
She was slurring but told me, “I wish I was like other girls. The girls that go to the mall. Or to the movies. They’re all bright shiny stars. And I’m like this. I don‘t have a best friend. I don‘t have any friends.” She rolled over with her back facing me and began to fall asleep and mumbled, “They’re all bright shiny stars.” I could feel my heart break into a billion pieces.

What is my book about?

2010-02-16T10:27:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, in a land, far, far away, Phoenix Arizona, there was a family...
Mom sat on the couch and drank beer while dad smoked marijuana and they raised three beautiful daughters. The two oldest girls grew to be teens and in an odd twist of fate, they began to drink beer and smoke marijuana. The little one didn't, because, she was little. So, mom had a Oprah light bulb moment and stopped drinking beer. Then dad had a light bulb thing that he claims has nothing to do with Oprah, and quit smoking marijuana. But the children were not interested in not drinking beer and smoking marijuana, so they continued until the little one began drinking beer and smoking marijuana. So as the mom and dad are having these light bulb moments, all the children are drinking beer and smoking marijuana. The older one was not satisfied with the beer or marijuana so she began to use crack and heroin because it's more bang for your buck. Then the older one got the light bulb, and she quit taking everything including aspirin. Then the little got bored very early on and she began using meth and heroin at the age of fifteen. The mom had quit, the dad had quit and the oldest had quit. But the little one and the middle one are still having the time of their life. Then, the little one quit. But the oldest one started back up. The middle one quit and then the little one started. The little one quit again and then the mom started. At this point, even the dog was on probation. Then the dad started, but then the mom and dad quit. The oldest stopped, then started, then stopped then started and eventually everyone in the house had a warrant and the shit was hitting the fan on a regular basis. The mom's old, sick mother came to live with them and the middle one has a son with Cerebral Palsy and the two of them watch as people quit and then don't quit. The family lied to the grandmother and told her that all the activity was just one of her hallucinations and she believed them.
This is a story about a family, in a land far, far away, Phoenix Arizona, that at some point the people have quit and not quit every substance known to man. And will they ever all quit at the same time? Everyday is different, isn't it? Stranger things have happened.

Mother of the year... me.

2010-02-15T18:12:00.000-08:00

I don't think a person can be all good or all bad. That also applies to parenting. Moms and dads can not be amazing parents every single day. There are people like me, who have made huge mistakes. Gigantic, horrible mistakes. When you have lived the way I have, or did, it's a very heavy weight to carry. The knowledge that if you had done better, your children, the people you love the most, would be emotionally better. Their lives would be better. They would be happier.
But I can't LIVE in that. The other side of the coin is, I've done some good things as a mom as well. There has been times that I have really 'wowed' the girls with my motherly skills.
What I'm trying to say is this. To quote Oprah, "When you know better, you do better." I hope my girls know better....

I wish people would start asking for help....

2010-02-12T09:05:00.000-08:00

There is so many misconceptions about drug and alcohol addiction. I have heard since I was four that addicts use various chemicals to 'numb' the pain or take away their problems. There is nothing 'numbing' about getting high or drunk. It's actually quite the opposite.
Here's the scenario. You don't have a job. You don't have any money. Your wife has left you and taken your kids. You have a warrant because you couldn't afford to pay a traffic ticket and you can only find one of your shoes. You drink, or take a pain killer or smoke heroin and this is only possible because you have friends that will 'take care of you'.
Ten minutes later. I love the world. I can see my wife and my kids in my head and they are so beautiful. I don't have any money but it's okay because I'm not hungry anyway. I feel great. I am attractive, intelligent, I can lift heavy things and I can do math. Look how beautiful that highway over pass is. My shoe is awesome.
You aren't 'numbing' your feelings. Your feelings look completely manageable while you are high. Everything is not only okay, it's fantastic! You are suddenly alive with amazing, beautiful feelings and you are thrilled to be a part of the human race. It's extremely stimulating, not numbing.
Here's another idea that is completely wrong. Addicts are the people you see walking down the street mumbling obscenities. Actually, addicts are your wife. Your kid. Your brother. Most addicts can completely function in day to day life in such a way that not one single person would suspect they are high. And they can maintain this for a long period of time. Sometimes years.
When you go in to a restaurant, a pretty young girl shows you to your table. Then a perky waiter comes to your table filled with energy and explains the specials. Then there's the guy that fills your water and tea and the chef that is preparing your food. And finally, there is your date, that you are sitting across from, staring them right in the eye. There is a solid chance that at least half of these people are in some way altered. Yet, they hold a completely intelligent conversation, they are efficient while doing their job, and they all smell terrific. Does this mean that most people in across the country are drug addicts or alcoholics? No. But it does mean, if you change the chemicals in your brain too many days in a row, you are well on your way to walking down the street mumbling obscenities. Because NO ONE maintains forever.
Twelve step programs work. When an addict or alcoholic is struggling to stay clean, a twelve step program can be the connection to others that will help them stay on the path of sobriety. It could be the thing that saves their life. But if you are addicted to alcohol or drugs to a level that you need to be in a facility to get additional medical treatment or emotional help to begin to recover past detox, that is a whole different thing.
"All you need to do is ask for help." This is the biggest lie ever told as far as recovery and treatment and it continues to be told.
We live in the greatest country in the world. We are the 'elite'. But in regard to drug and alcohol treatment, we act like wealthy families that have a drug addict son that they are ashamed of so they put him 'away' somewhere so people don't find out that something has gone terribly wrong. Because he brings the family shame. So he's put somewhere where he can't humiliate the family and tarnish their reputation.
That has become the American way. 'These people', the drug addicts and alcoholics, we can't say there is a problem because we are America. Do something with these people. Put them in a room somewhere and lock the door and punish them so that we can continue to present ourselves as the 'elite'. We are the rich family that will do anything to avoid addressing the actual problem because it would cost money.
If you are fortunate enough to be a part of the 'elite' and you come from a family with a mound of cash, yes, you can get help. Every door in every treatment facility from LA to New York will be thrown open for you and they may have a parade in your honor because you 'asked for help'. But if you are poor, you can NOT get help. You will at some point go to prison or die because you are poor. When the commercials come on the television with photos of a beautiful treatment facility that is urging you to call them with that concerned supportive voice, if you are poor, they are not talking to you. They are talking to people who have a boat load of money and that is not you. You are not going to treatment at the facility on the ocean. You are not going to treatment at the facility in woods with horses and streams. There will be no parade. You are going to prison, or you are going to die. Twelve step programs work and if you really want to be clean, that is your absolute best bet. But don't think even for one second that a treatment facility is going to open the door to you. It will never happen. The playing field is not level and it never will be. Poor people are not valued in our society so if you die on the street of a drug overdose, eventually a city truck will come by and scrape you off the pavement as if the world never needed you in the first place.
So, for the people all over our country that ask themselves, 'Why don't they just get help'. That's why. Because there is no help. There is no help. I could write that forever and I don't think people would ever really believe me because they saw the commercial. The 'come and get help on the ocean' commercial? The only thing a poor drug addict is going to get on the ocean is more drugs. Enjoy the veal.

I'm a filthy, criminal, leper.

2010-02-07T18:29:00.000-08:00

My husband had a heart attack almost a year ago. So he quit smoking and began to eat lettuce and sticks. I am completely supportive of this change because I want to keep my husband, so, okay. I, on the other hand, could not be more unhealthy. I smoke. Shut. Your. Filthy. Mouth. Was my husbands heart attack not enough to make me stop? Apparently not. My father died of cancer. Still, not enough to make me stop.
So my husband has completely changed his lifestyle. I have not. I start my day the exact same way each morning. One piece of toast and a half a cup of orange juice. The only function that the toast and OJ serve is to line my stomach for the impending carnage. Two cups of coffee, followed by two Excedrin, followed by a medium Red Bull, followed by, a twelve pack of Coke throughout the day. For lunch, a piece of cheese and two more Excedrin with a Coke. Dinner, three spoons of rice and a croissant with a Coke. At bedtime, a Snickers bar washed down with a Coke. Right before I go get in my bed, I stand in the backyard and smoke a cigarette like a filthy, criminal, leper. There you have it. The day is done and I feel great.

So John gets approval from the heart doctor to workout so he joined a gym. He has a trainer. A person he gave money to in exchange for torture. Hey, give me the money. I've been torturing you for years for free.
So I'm standing outside, where I spend a better part of my day, smoking and eating a Snickers bar. I take a bite of my chocolate treat, a drink of Coke, a drag from my cigarette. John walks out in his 'workout clothes', eating a carrot. I am wearing 15 year old jeans and a Corona t-shirt. I look like a crack whore after a big weekend. He says, "Hey! On Valentines Day my trainer is having a bring your sweetie workout class! What do you think?! Great, right?" I look at him and take a drag of my cigarette and then I look behind me hoping he is talking to someone else. Not that I'm not going to be his 'sweetie' on Valentines Day, but are you really asking me to go to the gym? On Valentines Day? You know where else they're having a bring your sweetie party? Macy's.

How do you tell your husband that you don't want to go to the gym because they don't allow you to smoke in there? How do you say, for me it's smooth sailing physically? Now if the mental health community threw a bring your sweetie party, I would sign up. I've got to get out of this. He says if I loved him I would go to the gym for the lover class. I said, if you loved me, you wouldn't make me prove I love you by going to the lover class.

I miss the good old days. My youngest daughter has her birthday on Valentines Day. So somewhere in the day, I would bring my daughter in, stand her in front of him, point at her and say, "Happy Valentines Day." I mean, I gave him a human. How can you top that? A sweetie workout party at the gym? Have you completely lost your mind? I love my husband and I know he wants me to be healthy. But I'm afraid I'm like an old car. If you start to screw with things, it'll break down. I'm fine. I consume so much caffeine and cigarettes in a day that it is probably a felony. I like the way I live.

I have an idea for a sweetie party and it ain't at the gym my hot little friend. That's right! Potties heah!!!! (Pookie, Jersey Shore) Now THAT's a Valentines Day party. Me, you and an ice cold Coke.

I heart Phoenix

2010-02-07T08:53:00.000-08:00

Last week I went to Albuquerque. It is so cold in Albuquerque it is just wrong. I was walking downtown and the snow was falling and there was a slight breeze which froze my face. I'm thinking in my head, who lives here? Why would anyone do this to themselves? People are walking around like it's normal with children. Small children! In that temperature!
I am sitting in my car with the heat on high and watching people. They are talking and laughing and the kids are acting just like frozen little kids, still playing and running. It's insane! I have never been so cold in my entire life.
I came home to Phoenix where the temperature is normal. In Phoenix, 110 is BBQ weather. Anything under 70 is completely unacceptable. We will close the schools, the roads and the banks.

But don't misunderstand that we have our own problems. Last year I had to put on a sweater. It brings up so much stress because, do I have a sweater? Where is my one sweater? Bring the children in doors and lock the place down. I take the little babies to the window and say, "Look at how the pool toys are moving on the water. That's how cold it is out there. Stay here with me where you are safe."
Last week it rained. You have never seen an entire city freak out when the rain comes. The news channels are flashing back and forth in a frenzy, "It's raining in Scottsdale! I hope you didn't just wash your car!" I'm standing in the kitchen as my husband is glued to the television. I say, "What's going on?" He says, "They say it's still raining." Then he looks back at the TV and shakes his head in horror. I'm wondering if we could qualify for federal aid to compensate for the cars that are now no longer shiny.

The summer is the best time in the world. 115, not a breeze or cloud in sight. At the beginning of the summer we say, "Sunny day! Again!" Towards August we say, in a very depressed way, "Sunny day. Again." At the end of the summer it amounts to who will win. You or the sun that is beating down on you like an abusive grandparent. The news people say the same thing each day, "It's a hot one." The next day they say, "It's a hot one." They look depressed and sunburned.
I look out the window at the neglected pool toys sitting on top of the water motionless. Not one person in the pool for the last month because the water is like a hot bathtub. I look to the sky. Not one cloud in sight. But I still love it.

I do not like to be cold. I'd rather be stuck on the highway with a flat in 115 degree weather than have to feel a chill. There's a reason I live in Phoenix, and it's not the football team.

6 HOURS LATER....
Really, Dina? The sun is beating down on you like an abusive grandparent? That is the most retarded thing I have ever read and the thing is... I wrote it. Some days, I'm right on the money, at least I write well enough that a sentence doesn't bother me ALL DAY LONG. Like an abusive grandparent? What? Really? Who says that? Where did that come from? That, right there, will turn my 8 readers into 3. I apologise to everyone involved. Dina. Go take a nap. Like an abusive grandparent. Jesus, I said it again.

Comments left on my blog....:)

2010-02-01T21:07:00.000-08:00

I just read down some of my older posts and have noticed some awesome people have posted great and supportive responses... I am sorry I didn't read down sooner. Thank you all for the love. It amazes me that complete strangers will comment and say such kind a supportive things. Just know I love you and appreciate your support. :) Dina

Guess how wide a Jetta is?

2010-01-31T12:29:00.001-08:00

Last night it took me about a half a hour longer to get to the Tempe Improv because every single road anywhere near the club was closed, including the freeway. I raged and eventually got there.
I'm leaving, after the second show and it's almost midnight. On an typical night, I'm in bed by ten. When I have a comedy job and there is two shows I am up much later which can be a struggle stay alert, but I make it and begin my 45 minute drive home.
The construction was overwhelming. Cones and wooden barricades and orange flashing lights everywhere. I see an arrow, move to this lane, another arrow, not that lane, that lane is closed, another arrow, hey come over here, just fucking with you, this lane is also closed. I have to get on the freeway and there is blinking orange activity there as well. BUT, there are two cones by the on ramp separated just the exact size of, well, a car. They were separated the exact distance as the size of a Jetta, my car.

So, I enter the ramp and I finally feel calm because I am away from all the construction. I am apparently smarter than the other drivers. I enter the freeway and it dawns on me that the freeway seems to be really quiet which is odd because it's midnight on a Saturday. Then I notice another interesting thing. It is not only very quiet on the freeway, I am actually the only person on the freeway. I look in my rear view mirror, I'm looking out the windows, just darkness, and, me. Now the panic attack begins. I am driving on a closed freeway. I'm thinking, "What about the cones? They were spaced just enough for a Jetta?" The cones deceived me. Cones lie all the time. You know how you can tell if a cone is lying? Their lips are moving.
Okay, so, I am going to prison, this is what I'm thinking. But I'm still driving because there is no way off, no other ramps, there is no way out. I look up ahead and I see there is a wooden barricade lit up with orange flashing lights ahead and it is heavily spread all the way across every lane of the freeway. So I slow down, slow down more, until I am stopped, on the freeway with my lights on the barricade, alone. Because, of the spacing of the cones.
I am now in full hyperventilation mode. I think, quickly Dina! Turn the car around and speed back to the ramp where the whole thing started. But then I would be going the wrong way on the closed freeway. I would be illegal, on top of illegal. Is it more illegal to drive backwards or drive the wrong way? I don't know. Which story do you want to tell the judge? So I immediately put the car in reverse and drive backwards for several miles. I'm doing everything in my power to drive cautiously as to not attract attention and yes, I'm driving backwards but, I'm doing a good job. I think I may get time off my sentence if I could say, "I was driving very careful and I was staying in the lines and I understand that I was driving backwards but my car was actually facing the correct direction." You know, maybe they would be more supportive of me in court.

I get to the ramp and back my way down, get to the cones and very carefully back through the little fuckers, I back my way out. And then I began to drive the way the other cars were going, hundreds of cars, which by coincidence, were all going the same way, a completely different direction than I had previously gone. I was apparently the only one that was sucked into the cones, screaming 'Come this way! These people are stupid! You are the smart one! And your car is the perfect size!'
After I was with the others, I began to laugh so hard tears were falling down my face. I called anyone that I thought would be awake. I did not get anyone on the phone. I laughed the entire way home.

The moral of the story is this. They say, 'trust your gut'. I say, 'Do NOT trust your gut.' AND do not trust the cones that a guy in a city truck threw out his window at the entrance of the closed freeway because he is in a hurry to go to go see Avatar. How far apart were the cones? The exact size of a Jetta. My car.

Moses

2010-01-29T09:53:00.000-08:00

So my grandson was in the hospital for a few days getting some tests done. Moses is nine and he can't speak. He has seizures. They were testing for a particular kind of seizure activity that if he had, he could take medication that may help him be able to talk. So his mom and the rest of the people that are madly in love with Moses, we had a flash of hope that possibly he would speak at some point and his life would be easier. So he spent two days with about fifty 'Leeds' glued to his head to monitor his brain activity. The doctor comes in yesterday morning and says that Moses does not have the seizure disorder that they thought he may have. But he also says, he understood that we had hoped he could eventually talk, but we did not want him to have this disorder. He said it would involve a whole other pile of problems that would make Moses's life very difficult. That he might have been able to take the medication and speak, but the seizures would become horrific as he grows and it would cause him to be very sick a lot of the time. The Dr said that the seizures he would begin to have would be intense and often and could cause additional brain damage. So he would be able to talk, but his quality of life would not be good. Okay. We feel so, so relieved that he does not have this problem. But as the day rolls by, we are again faced with the fact, Moses may never speak. It's upsetting. Because we really did that bit of hope. Then I guess we quickly accepted that this is what it is, and Moses is perfectly fine exactly the way he is. He is perfection. And after hearing of the complications of this disorder, we are so thankful that he doesn't have it. Don't misunderstand and don't feel sorry for him. This kid can communicate just fine. We are all learning sign language and Moses is very good at it. He is a very typical nine year old. When you are getting on his nerve, he points, as if he's saying, 'Walk away from here, just go, you're bothering me.' Or he'll put his finger up to his mouth and tell you to be quiet. If he doesn't want to do something he will shake his head no and if you insist the thing has to happen, he will run to his room and slam the door. When you open the door he will look at you, shake his head no, and point for you to leave. On the other hand he is the most loving, sweet, kind little boy that I have ever seen. Moses is the center of our family. Every decision we make is based on Moses. So, now we're home and he is home and we are back to our normal life whatever that is. He is seriously the best little boy in the universe. We are so, so lucky.

You are REALLY getting on my nerve

2010-01-25T19:16:00.000-08:00

Okay, I'm one post behind so I must write this one to keep my New Years resolution. What do I write about when I can't think of anything to write about. What happens in this situation is I am left with whatever is on my mind. In other words... my feelings. Jesus, Christ, help us all.
I have three daughters. My oldest Jennifer has grown out of her 'my mother gets on my last nerve' stage. Thank god. My other two, have not. So it doesn't matter what I say, I will drive one of them to the brink.

Is it me? Is it the tone of my voice or the pitch of my voice or the words that I'm saying? Is it my outfit? Is it the weather? What is the problem?
This is how I look at it. When mommy had to bail you out of jail, I drove down to the pissed stained tank and took you away from there, buttercup. I have pulled one of you out of a crack den at the risk of being shot, but my pumpkin was in there so a mommy does what she has to do. Never mind that your dog is shitting all over my house and eating all my furniture. And you know, you snuck a cat in the house without my knowledge, hid it from me and because I'm allergic to cats, I spent weeks thinking I had a brain tumor because my eyes were swollen shut. "What's wrong with me? Why are my eyes swollen shut?"
"I don't know mom. Maybe you should go... outside."

I'm not going to worry about the fact that I say good morning and you grunt. I'm not going to worry about the fact that I say any words and your response is, "Mom! Stop!" When I actually don't even know what I said right then. Remembering back, I think it was something really antagonistic like, "How's it going?" I am actually beginning to flinch when you are in the room. My beautiful angels, now possessed by something scary. I say, "I love you sweetie." This is always met with something to the effect of, "God, Mom! I know already!" Is it that I said 'sweetie'?
And sometimes, I don't even have to say anything. Sometimes, it's simply me breathing, in and out, that hurls them over the edge. They way I'm sitting on the couch. The way I walk. The way I laugh. The way I drink out of a cup.

Just now I had to dress and put my mother to bed. Every single thing she does drives me over the fucking edge of the universe. She says, "It's cold in here." And I'm thinking, is that your last complaint for the day. Good god I hope so.
And now I think, oh my god. I will always grate up their spine. One day they will be tucking me in to bed thinking please don't use anymore random words today. I can not answer one more crazy question. Go. To. Sleep.

From now on, I will only call them by their first names. No, sweet pet names. I'm going to cut back on the words like, "Your hair looks great." Or, "I love those jeans." You know, all the fight starters. We need to communicate without speaking. Just nod here and there until they grow out of the 'my mother drives me crazy' stage. I know they love me, it's not about love. It's about me, opening my mouth for any reason to say anything at any point. Love has nothing to do with it. And by the way, you kids are not getting on my final nerve at all. Living with you is like living at Disneyland. I'm having the time of my life. Fucking kids.
(I'm caught up now... na-na-na-na)

The queen of dogs

2010-01-25T12:13:00.000-08:00

The way I grew up, there were animals everywhere. Dogs, cats, cows, pigs. On beds, under beds, outside, inside, animals EVERYWHERE.
So when I became a grown up, I did not want any animals. To be honest, I'm not a fan. But when you have kids, you have to have animals so the kids don't grow up and shoot up a mall and say it was because you didn't let them have a dog. Okay, so, here, have this dog.
We got our dog 'Squirt' about 13 years ago from the pound. She was malnourished and there was no question that whoever had her last was beating on her because she would cower when you walked by her.

Squirt would also never go to the potty in the house. I think it was some sort of fear. And I don't mean like a normal potty trained dog, I mean if we weren't home to let her out, she would not pee on the floor. We would feel so horrible if we got caught up somewhere and got home and she would be there, waiting, to go out. I would try to talk to her like she is a human and say, "Squirt. If we don't get home in time, go potty in the house. It's okay." To this day, she has NEVER gone potty in the house.

Squirt went to the pound because someone found her wandering around in the desert. After she lived with us for a while, she stopped hiding and cowering and got better and fatter. Squirt went from walking around the dirt in the desert to our house where she sat on the couch that was next to a big window. She would put her arms crossed on the arm of the couch and look out the window as if she was adopted by Oprah.

For Squirt, coming to live with us, and be feed, and kissed (by John and the kids), and played with. I think Squirt felt she had won the lottery. And that spot on the couch? If Squirt felt moved to to look out the window at that moment and you were sitting there, you moved. She is the dog version of Lady Diana. She'd jump up, cross her feminine dog paws and look out the window.
John had a boat and Squirt would go on the boat and sit right where the wind would blow her fancy ears back and I knew she was thinking, "I am the queen of dogs!"
So years and years have gone by. In this last year, Squirt moves very slow. She has been getting very sick. Took her to the vet, 800 dollars, Squirt is very sick. She has a list of things that old dogs get. Took her back to the vet. 400 dollars. She is still sick and she is not getting better.

So here I am, not a fan. Not an animal person. BUT... it's Squirt. She's not really a dog. She's sort of this tiny, midget human covered with hair. She is OUR tiny midget person.
I don't know. I know she is getting sicker and it feels like confusion. The concept that Squirt, the queen of dogs, would ever not be walking around the house hurts my heart. Because like I said, she's not a dog. She's, a girl. She has a really pretty pink collar. She also has pretty purple barrettes which she doesn't wear because I think it hurts to have to wear barrettes.

So I'm thinking the new medicine will help. I'm thinking she will get better. Because if you took a photo of our family, Squirt would be in it. Looking just like the queen of dogs. Or, a midget covered with hair.

Funny people...

2010-01-24T19:04:00.000-08:00

I have had the privilege over the past twenty years of being a comic and watching the funniest comedians in the world. I mean, seriously, the funniest people in the entire world.
I have worked with and laughed with at least a thousand stand up comedians. People that are amazing on stage, but off stage even more amazing. I have spent countless hours sitting around back rooms of comedy clubs talking about traumatic circumstances that have brought these people to a place where the only way their life makes sense is to make others laugh. I have also huddled in corners with other comics and laughed so hard, I have actually wet my pants. Yes, I did. People that are so naturally funny that everything they say either makes you smile, or laugh so hard the club manager tells you to keep it down.

I have not only had a life filled with laughter, I have sought out laughter. You get on the plane, or in the car, or get on your feet, and you go where you know funny people are going to be.
I have seen comics that are so good at what they do that I can't even laugh. I watch, and think, "Wow. I suck."
I have also seen some bad comedy. I mean... bad. Comedy that is so bad you actually feel sick for the person on stage. You feel uncomfortable and if you have a heart at all, you can't even watch.
In the middle of the comics that are brilliant and the comics that shouldn't ever tell a joke, even at a BBQ, there is a beautiful, fascinating process that helps a comic evolve possibly into a genius, but most likely, they become a really great comedian.

They pace the back of the club looking down every now and then at their notes. They mumble to themselves, walking, back and forth. Every other comic in the universe has done it and we all know, leave that guy alone. They know they are almost up so they take a quick glance at the page and up they go. It's going to happen or it's not. They get off stage and take another look at their notes and access what's going to happen with this bit or that bit. As they do this other comics may say, "When you do that one thing, you should try this, or that." Then they have to think about that and if the idea can save the bit, or if it's going to get shoved back in the notebook because most of the time you're thinking something about this is funny but I don't know what. They're dead jokes, but, one little line can bring them back. For me most of them stay dead because of the fear that if I got the same response twice, which is silence, I will have to double my anti depressant. I have found most comics are like that. You can go up and completely tear the walls down, but that one little line doesn't get a laugh? You suck.
Another thing that's common with comics is that you can make every single person in the room laugh so hard their white wine is spraying out of their nose, but that one fucking guy that WILL NOT even smile is the ONLY person you can see.

You come off stage and people say, 'great set', and all you can think is, 'Please. It was not a great set. Did you see that guy?' Now people are saying great set and you know they are clearly lying because if I was really funny that fucker would've laughed. Why am I even a comic? Then you watch the guy and he gives the same dead look to every one that goes up, but that doesn't matter. And you know where the I don't think you're funny guy ALWAYS sits? The front row, glaring you down with those beady, angry eyes.

Sometimes people like this will actually show you how unimpressed they are by you that as your speaking they read menus or literature that is on the table. The only way to handle this is to tell the comics that are going up after you so they can address them during their set, and by the way 'hacky' lines are fine in this situation. Something like, "Hey, man. You're at a comedy show. Tell your face."

For twenty years it has been an honor to work with some of the greatest comics from all across the country. But it has also been an honor to work with really funny people just beginning their journey in to the art of stand up comedy. It's great to see a veteran comic go up and completely rip the room apart. But it is also so cool to see a brand new comic nervously tell a joke, and it works. You can see the almost surprised look in their face while they are still standing under the lights.

And that one laugh begins a life of getting on the plane, getting in the car, and walking to find where the laughs are. Good times.

The Happiest Place on Earth

2010-01-17T12:02:00.000-08:00

We took a trip to the ‘Happiest Place on Earth’. Disneyland. As a family we decided to take a trip and grandma would decide where we would go. Grandma, my mom, was 72 years old. We said, “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?” She thought for a minute and then said, “Disneyland. I have never been to Disneyland.”
We were driving in two separate vehicles so I printed our itinerary and maps and put a copy in both cars. We had to take mom’s toilet and her wheelchair so I shoved them in the back of the Jeep and three people had to push it closed. We put our grandson Moses in one of the cars and off we went. To the happiest place on earth.
After getting lost in Los Angeles for three hours, every person in our caravan began to melt down, “What idiot printed these directions!” I turned and looked out the window and began counting all the payday loan locations and noticed the Burger King had bars on their windows. We are not in Oz anymore.
We arrived at the hotel, exhausted, not one person speaking to one another. Someone bring in Grandma’s toilet. Bed time. Go to hell. No, you go to hell.

The following morning it’s time to go to Disneyland! After a good nights sleep we made up and drove across the street to make the magic.
It seems like a thousand dollars later, we were in! Mom was smiling. We were all smiling! This place is magic! It’s almost 100 degrees but that’s okay! Everything is glittering and colorful!
I push mom through the gate and say, “Here we go mom! We‘re at Disneyland!” I may have gotten about ten feet when mom’s wheelchair very abruptly stopped and lurched forward almost hurling her out on to the golden brick road. I look down. Tracks. There are train tracks? I look ahead and realize there are train tracks EVERYWHERE! To get mom’s wheelchair over them we all have to lift her because the wheels get wedged in the track. My husband John and I look at each other and without saying a word we know we have just entered hell.

Every few feet we lift, then push for about thirty seconds, then lift. We are lifting the wheelchair with mom in it and we hear the trolley making it’s way around the track. In the nick of time, we get her off the track and the trolley passes with smiling people waving and having the time of their life. John and I stare at them with sweat rolling down our faces.
The lines on the magic rides were about forty minutes each ride. I understand why they sell three day passes now. If you want to ride several of the rides it will take three days.

Lunchtime and my grandson’s face is beet red. Mom is also getting sunburned. I slather both of them with sun block as I did before we left. We are sitting in some sort of fairy restaurant after waiting for over an hour. Moses refuses to eat. I tell him to eat his Fairy burger! He has a screaming attack right in front of all the fairies. Now his mother April begins to loose it and now I’m going to loose it and I don’t give a shit what the fairies are thinking. One hundred thirty six dollars later, lunch is over. The fairy’s are not sorry we’re leaving.

We trek back out to the cruel streets of Disneyland. The fun Disney characters are everywhere. Moses does not appreciate them one little bit. He cries every time one comes close to us and I try to wave them off ahead of time but they come anyway. Moses screams, I smile and tell them they are doing a great job. The characters don’t talk, they just do fun, silly body movements. I raise my hand to stop them and they put their hands on their enormous belly’s as if they are laughing and walk away in their giant outfit.

We all have first degree burns. The only ride in the magic kingdom that mom could get on was the ‘It a Small World’ ride. Because she’s in a wheel chair, and because God had mercy on us, we didn‘t have to wait in line! The entire family got on the ride. So here we go to see the world! We enter the tunnel and we are immediately hit with the most beautiful cool air and we all realize our day just got better.
It turns out it is not as small a world as you think. This ride goes on forever, which was great. It was a fun ride with all the different countries and the music and air conditioning. Good times.

We come back out of the tunnel and pull up to the ‘ride guy’. We begin to stand and he says, in a really flat voice, “Wanna go again?” We all look at each other confused. Mom says, “Yes! We do!” Off we go back into the air conditioned tunnel. Four times. We went through four times. That’s how long it took to lower our body temperature to a almost normal level.
I am desperately looking for a tree to park mom under. I find one tree. There is about sixteen Japanese people standing under it. They look like they are wedged into a crowded elevator and each one of them had a camera hanging from their neck. There is no way in.

I stand in line for about half an hour to get water, lots of water. Some to drink and some to dump on my families heads to save their lives. Nineteen dollars later, I get the water. Moses is bright red and he is crying in that miserable way that children do when they have really had enough, sobbing, snot running out of his nose, rubbing his eyes. I am leaning down and he is standing rubbing his eyes and his snot on my shoulder, as I pat his back, “It’s okay sweetie. I know, I know…” My face fixed to the ground as I comfort him when I see two enormous brown furry feet step in our space. I look up, and it’s a giant character. He waves. All I could say was, “Please. Step away from the child.” He did the same thing as the other characters do, the hand on the belly laughing thing and shuffles away.
I looked at my family and I could sense that the big people could actually have some fun if they didn’t have to worry about lugging around a tried, sunburned baby and a old lady in a wheelchair. I told my husband to take us back to the room. And trust me, it was no sacrifice on my part.

Me and mom and Moses got back into our room and it was truly magic. We cranked up the air, ordered room service, striped down to our underwear and climbed in the big beautiful bed. We were all thrilled. We ate cheese burgers, chocolate shakes and watched TV. It was the best part of the trip. The three of us fell asleep for about three hours with the nice air conditioning blowing on our sunburned skin. Aaaah… life is great.
The other’s stayed at Disneyland until late in the night which was great. They continually called saying, “Are you guys ready to come back?” I could see Moses sitting in his bath playing so peacefully and mom watching something on TV eating ice cream. I said, “I don’t think so. Really, we are fine.” Later in the evening, Moses and I took a walk and went swimming. It was nice and calm and fun.
I put mom to bed in her little bedroom attached to our room. I was covering her and her window shade was open. Outside her window you could see Disneyland.
Right at this moment they began a fireworks show. I said, “Look mom. A fireworks show!” She watched as she lay in her bed and I called Moses in and he jumped up on the bed between me and mom. Moses was pointing and smiling. Mom was smiling. There was complete silence, just beautiful, brilliant flashes of light and color filling the sky. The three of us lay there, hypnotized, each explosion greater than the last and sometimes it felt like the fireworks were coming down on top of us. I looked over at my mom. She looked happy. It seemed like this is what she came for. The show went on for about twenty minutes and we watched all the way through. When it was over, I closed the shade and pulled the blanket over mom’s shoulders. She said, “That was the best fireworks show I’ve ever seen.” I said, “Me too.”

My mother has Parkinson’s Disease and she takes so much medication. These days it’s not possible to have a real connection with her. She has been so sick it’s like she’s a different person. Dare I say, it’s difficult to find my mom anymore. But right at that moment, I felt a connection to my mother. It was me and my mom watching the fireworks. It felt like we were both present for the first time in a long, long time. It was a moment I’ll never forget. It was magical.
I don’t think moments are the things in life we plan on. Like getting married or having children. Moments are the seconds that happen when you aren’t expecting it. Those are the things you remember all your life. Little snapshots in a life, that you can see as if it just happened. I went to bed grateful for that little bit of time with my mom and I remembered just for a second what she used to be like.
You know where the happiest place on earth is? My house. My bed. We got home and it took six weeks to heal from the effects of Disneyland. We put the toilet back in mom’s bathroom and unloaded her wheelchair. I was happy mom went to Disneyland and she has an eighteen dollar coffee cup to prove it.

People always say, ‘You have to go to Disneyland. At least once.’ I agree. You have to go at least once. It’s the happiest place on earth. True story.

Raising Children

2010-01-16T17:31:00.000-08:00

We were raised by sheep. But back in those days, everyone was raised by sheep.
The parents that raised me and everyone else I knew didn't have Dr. Phil ideals.
They way kids were 'raised' was a simple thing. You feed them, they got bigger and then one day, they're all raised.
Little Tommy is too active? Have him go shovel horse shit. Cute little Mandy has a low self esteem? Who cares. We all do.
We rode in the back of trucks, on the highway, often switching seating positions as the truck moved at sixty miles an hour down the freeway. If you were bored, you could always throw a rock at someone. We played tackle football on the dirt road and we never even considered stopping the game when someone was injured. If some bloody kid was limping off, we would try to make them feel better by yelling, "You're the biggest baby! You aren't even hurt! Go cry to mom you baby! You're like a girl!"
The girl comment only worked on boys.

We didn't have drug or alcohol rehabs. Our parents did it the hard way. They had to keep drinking. It was common to walk down the dirt road at night and see an old man sitting in his backyard by a fire he made out of a wooden chair singing, "To all the girls I've loved, before..."
We lived on a plot of land with four other families. All the families had kids that were our age so it was a giant bunch of aimless youth, all hyperactive with low self esteem. It was a religious community called 'Cristo Rey'. We all parked our trailers, or mobile homes on the land and the adults lived a Godly life while us kids, ran around the dirt streets like a wild pack of wolves.
The absolute center of our little world was, the ditch. Every single thing we did in our day involved, the ditch. Meeting a friend, walking on the ditch, throwing things in the ditch. Trying to fish something out of the ditch. And of course, the popular, pushing someone in the ditch.

We would have family from other places come visit and the adults would say, "I hope those kids aren't by that ditch." The real question was, "If the kids aren't by the ditch, where in the world would they be?"
Let me explain the ditch for those of you who have lived a charmed life. The water in the ditch was muddy and stinky. It reeked. Some areas of the ditch rushed with water and other areas stood still with a layer of toxic film. The ditch was taken over by bugs, mosquitoes, lizards, snakes, spiders, anything that could bite you lived in or by the ditch. This didn't bother us one bit. If you went to bed at night and you hadn't been bitten at least twice during the day, you hadn't lived a full day.

There were things about living in this time that makes you sad for today. For example, we were small kids, but we could walk the roads for ten hours a day and never worry about 'stranger danger'. We would leave in the morning and explore the world, via the ditch, until sundown. Then we'd walk in the trailer filthy, stinking and starving.
Me and my best friends Jeanette and Patricia would meet halfway on the ditch. It was easily five miles to their house but that's how you got somewhere if you planned on going somewhere. You walked the ditch. We met each other about ten times a week. Overweight kids were almost unheard of in those days.
The ditch had enough space for a car to drive down it but it was tight. You'd be real careful or you'd end up with a truck upside down in the slimy water. The number of times I remember seeing a giant tow truck pulling someones truck out of the ditch is too high to count.

There were secret places in various locations on the ditch path. Hiding places. Who were we hiding from? Army soldiers. Vampires. The ditch witch. The ditch witch came out to the ditch at night while we slept but during the day we could look for her foot prints or look for the children she had murdered, although we never knew of an actual child that had been murdered. Yet.
I remember so clear the feeling, walking to meet my BFF's. Perfect weather, no fear, walking alone, singing something. We had nothing as far as things you buy with money. But I don't know of any group of wild kids that had more fun than we did. There was no limit to our adventures. Everyday we had fun, got bit by something and got hurt. We didn't know then that this would be the time of our life. I spend five years with dirt in my hair but we all had dirt in our hair, dirty nails, torn up clothes and shoes. At that time it wasn't about how you looked, or smelled for that matter. It was about playing, being a kid, getting into everything that wasn't nailed down. No boundaries, just fun and an occasional trip to the ER.
These days you can't even allow your child to go in the front yard without your constant supervision. Kids can't stretch out their arms or their imagination. It completely sucks. It's not fair. And I don't care if they have cool things like Ipod's or the Wii. There isn't a better feeling in the world than fishing a lone shoe out of the ditch with a long stick as everyone screams in support. You hook the shoe and lift, very slowly, so slowly. Then, almost falling in, you grab it and the audience cheers as you stand there holding a slimy, toxic gym shoe, smiling like you just won an Emmy. That's a Kodak moment! Too bad, we didn't have a camera.

The real reason I quit the grocery store...

2010-01-15T11:05:00.000-08:00

I have been writing something or another thing my entire life. I have always wanted to 'be a writer' as a means to put cheese in the refrigerator. I don't need a ton of money, just enough for cheese.
So I had two jobs. One, taking care of my elderly mother. For the people that have done this, they know how exhausting and mentally draining it can be.
The other job was checking groceries in a grocery store which I won't name, but I am now officially out of that job.
Because of many, many family problems at home, the checker job was difficult because there were so, so many times I would have to be off or leave work. So I drove them crazy on my end. Most of the time they were not in any way sensitive to a very traumatic situation with a family member. Returning to work my life would be hell, until the next situation that required my absence. So, it was an even trade. I drove them crazy, but they were bastards and deserved it. Well said, Dina.
I'm glad I'm not there anymore, but I pray that someone is watching over my beautiful friend from India. I was her protector. One day I saw her sitting alone on the bench outside. I walked over to her, a sixty something year old woman from India, she was crying. I asked what was wrong. She said that she was speaking Indian to a customer that was also from India and the store manager told her that when she spoke her native language, she sounded like a dog and then he began to howl and bark like a dog. In her thick Indian accent she said, through her tears, she was 'so embarrassed.' She refused to tell anyone for fear of retaliation from the boss. This is the place I left. This is a common story. Myself and the people that work there have hundreds of them.
The stress of work and mom and everything else was giving me panic attacks. Mom was getting sicker and required more from me each day. My checker job was a menial job therefore I was treated like a pig. I never got used to it. I mean, I understand I am a checker, but I have walked a million miles. I have paid in a different pot and deserve to be respected the exact way I respect you. No more, no less.
The panic attacks were growing and I also had writing on my mind.
So now that I am not employed at this shit hole, I can write the real reason why I made the decision not to go back. Ever.
This grocery chain has a thing about line lengths. You can not have more than two people in line, ever. Great concept, right?
I had a front end manager, the person that is in charge of the checkers and baggers, who was no so good with other humans. Especially, women humans. He told me not to 'step off my little black mat', you know, the one behind the register? He said for me not to step off it. Okay. So I stand there and don't step off the mat. He told me not to cross my arms, to stand up straighter, he told me I talk too much, he told me to smile bigger. Are you getting the idea?
I'm standing on my black mat as I was told to do. It was sort of busy. With no warning, as all women know, I start my period. I think, 'Crap'. I'm scanning and smiling bigger.
I call my master to my register and quietly say, "I'm have a female issue and I need to go to the restroom." He says, "It's too busy." And walks away. I wait a few minutes, scan more things and then turn to him and say, "I really...." He interrupts me, "I already told you. Not till we get these lines out." I said, "I can't control this." He said, "You better figure out a way." I turn back around and now, ten minutes later, I can feel a REAL issue. I wait a few minutes and I feel desperate. He is on the register behind me. I call him from my phone, he picks up the phone, I say one word and he hangs up on me.
I am sorry to be so graphic, but at this point, I can feel the blood rolling down my legs. I am standing there and I feel like a sixteen year old. I feel completely humiliated. I start having anxiety and I think I'm going to start crying. The customer is standing there looking at me and I blink and a tear rolls down. The customer says, "Are you okay." I say, yes.
I call a higher up manager who is on a register and has another manager bagging for him. I am now enraged. I tell the manager I have to get off this register right now because I have a girl problem and to tell the manager bagging for him to come and get me off. He hangs up the phone and tells the manager that's bagging for him to come and get me off. I stand there and listen and THAT manager says, "I ain't getting her off." I feel the moisture on the tops of my socks.
With a customer standing in front of me, I flipped my light off and walked off the check stand and hurried to the bathroom. I stood in the stall, cleaning and crying and thinking about health insurance and crying more, and my husbands heart condition and oh my god, but I knew I had to suck it up. Health insurance. I could hear 'weirdo' calling me over the intercom in his angry voice. I cleaned up the best I could, threw my socks away and walked back to my check stand and flipped the light back on. I did not speak another word that day. I was so completely enraged, I could not speak one word. I was told by the front end manager never to do that again. He says if he tells me I can't go to the bathroom, then I can't go to the bathroom.
I decided to take a three month medical leave. The day came, three days ago where I had to go back and stand on the black mat, or not. I chose not.
I will not be degraded and if I am degraded I will respond with fire. I will not watch other people be degraded which was common at this job. I blame the company itself for employing these kinds of people. At this company, me taking care of my mother was somehow a character flaw. It was fucking bizarre.
Now I have one job. I take care of my mother. And I go to the bathroom whenever the fuck I want. Sometimes I'll go to the bathroom even if I don't need it just because I CAN. And I smile bigger. And I don't slouch or cross my arms because I'm too busy writing and dancing. And the best part is that I am not surrounded by fucking bastards all day. Life is good. Let's all go to the bathroom as a show of solidarity that you can not treat people badly. No one is above anyone else. We are all people and we all deserve to be respected.
Thank god I'm gone. But I loved my coworkers. They are beautiful, amazing people and I think of them everyday....
My point is... I have one job.
And how will I respond with fire? I am still not sure. But when you smell smoke, 'Honey! I'm home!"
There are no photos because nothing about this is amusing. It STILL pisses me off.

Sunny side up!

2010-01-14T09:06:00.000-08:00

I'm really wanting to do something new and fun for my upcoming comedy jobs. I play the guitar and by some weird twist of fate, my baby daddy walked in with a new acoustic guitar for his woman. It's black and it's hot. So, what to do. The biggest problem is that I haven't played the guitar since I was forced to at church. It was me, my sister, two brothers and my dad. We were the house band. And together, sitting in from of the congregation, we blew the fucking roof off.
So, I think I remember six chords. But the six chords I know are really good, main chords.
I looked up some songs I could do and here is the list.
Row, Row, Row your Boat
This land is your land
Folsom Prison Blues
and Steppenwolf, Born to be Wild

So, quite a selection to choose from. I was practicing and one of the angels walked in the office and said, "I can not wake up to this." I said, "What about Folsom Prison Blues?" She gave me a stare, shut the door and went back to her slumber.
Fucking kids wouldn't get 'art' if Vincent Van Gogh painted on their ass.
So another thing is t-shirts. Every comic I know has a t-shirt to sell after their set. Some of them suck and they STILL walk away with hand fulls of cash. It's insane! I need one. I have contacted my graphic artist team, (my sister in law) and she has begun what will be a t-shirt that will, I'm thinking, be sold all over the world. Or, I will sell five after my show and that will be gas money. Whichever way will be perfect.

Other comics sell DVD's of their set which is a great idea. But I can't put that together because I can not stand the sound of my voice. It's raspy and agitating. There is only one thing worse than hearing my jokes on a DVD. Wait, actually there is nothing worse than hearing my jokes on a DVD. For me it's just a bad idea. I have heard other comics DVD's and I like them. But I just can't do it.
One thing I have never seen is a comic selling cupcakes or sweet treats after their show.

That's a new idea. Cupcakes are hot right now. If I made twenty and sold them for five dollars a piece, that would be... a lot.

Or homemade Tamales that I would have to buy from someone who made homemade Tamales. Two Tamales for seven dollars. These are just ideas but I think I'm on to something good. People coming out of a comedy show are usually intoxicated, right? Fried eggs. The grease soaks up the liquor and so they can drive home safely. I'd have to get a frying pan and a source of heat, and a spatula. But I'd make that money back by selling the eggs.
So it's a new year and I'm ready to make some changes! I'm ready to do some big things! So if you come and see me on the dusty comedy road, bring your sense of humor! AND your appetite!

Glamor is what I'm about.

2010-01-13T18:47:00.000-08:00

What I'm thinking about today is the next two weeks. I have a comedy date in Tucson, two nights at Laffs Comedy Club. I love this club. The audiences are always ready to laugh and it seems to take little effort to make them happy. I have worked this room for twenty years and most of my memories are delightful. I do remember on one occasion walking in to the comedy 'house' and found my comedy com padres sitting on the couch smoking pot out of an orange. I was proud of them for finding a healthy way to get brain damage.
There is a girl gay bar next door to this club and back when I drank I would go with the gaggle of Laffs people to the gay bar and we would get our freak on. These days I get my freak on in the kitchen and my grandson cries.
Then I come back and my grandson goes into the hospital. Moses, has Cerebral Palsy. He can't talk. So, the doctors think that as he sleeps he has little seizures and by the time he wakes up, he's unable to speak. So he's going in the hospital for a week. They take him off his medication to induce seizures and they monitor his brain. Then they find him a better medication that will prevent him from having seizures at night.

Then... maybe, he will be able to talk. My boy is nine and it would be a huge blessing if that could happen. If it doesn't, then it will be okay. We will take him any way we can get him. But it is huge for our family, so, he will be there for a week.
Part of that week, I will be at The Improv for four nights. Love The Improv. Beautiful room. Beautiful people. Great laughers. Good times. I'm praying that while I'm there, my head isn't too consumed with Moses. We'll see.

Then I have to make a trip to Albuquerque. Yucky trip. One of the beautiful angels has a court date. I hope I'm not coming back alone which is very possible.
And while all this is going on someone has to take care of mom. I decided we will all take turns. The family likes me to arrange their schedules and tell them what they are doing and when. It's what I do. I'm the mutha.
So by the time I come home from the court trip I will have another pile of events and I'm sure they will be equally as glamorous as the ones listed above.

Note to self... Take antidepressant.

I Heart Books

2010-01-12T15:57:00.000-08:00

I was thirty two years old when I read my first actual book. It's not that I couldn't read, I just didn't want to read. I didn't get why people would choose to read a book when there was so much beer around. I don't even remember the name of the book but one day I checked it out in the library.
I got home in the evening and at three in the morning I was still reading. I finished that book the following day and went back to the library and got three more. Three days later, I went back and that's how I began loving books.
I had a book a day habit for a very long time. I was so fascinated that people actually thought these stories up in their minds and how brilliant they must be to be able to do this.
If I begin a book and the book is good, I don't stop reading the book. I will go to the bathroom or make a sandwich but other than that, every book is a one sitting book. That's my process. If I'm going to read a book, I'm going to read the whole book.

The thing that will make me close a book and annoy me is too much 'description'. I think some people would say that, me, as a writer, I don't have nearly enough description. I can't stand it. I do not want to read three paragraphs of you describing a tree trunk. It hurls me over the edge.
Writing in a vivid way is a gift and I don't know if I have this gift or not. I tend to write in a way that I guess is sort of sharp. I mean. Just say the thing. My feeling is, don't fuck around for three pages to get to the point. The point should be aggressive enough that the person reading feels like you've just thrown up on their shoes. Say the thing already. I don't want to 'ease' anyone into the point I'm trying to make. Because, in the end you are saying the same thing. People are going to agree or not and it won't matter how much you've watered it down. In my head this makes sense.

I love books. I love buying new books. I prefer new books to new shoes. I am very weird about my books. You could borrow money from me and I would probably forget about it. But a book? I will be up at night thinking about the fact that, my book is at your house and not on my bookshelf. I don't like lending out my books. People say, but you pass them along so other people can enjoy them. No, no, no. They are my books. Just step away from the bookshelf. I don't even like the kids to borrow my books. I walk in their room and see a Starbucks cup sitting on one of my books and I get dizzy.
I like hardback books. I LOVE hardback books. I love the way books smell. I love looking at the covers of books, and judging.
And the bookstore, I love the bookstore. I wish I was married to the bookstore. You know the beautiful way the bookstore smells? I could stay in there all day. The bookstore plays music that makes you feel warm and safe and calm.
I want my book in the bookstore. I love books. Books make me feel like warm cider on a blistery cold Montana night, as the wind howling through the big, sad, oak tree that is bending as if it's back is broken, almost saying, "I bend, but don't break, in the howling, crisp, heaving, rageful, Penelope Cruz type weather." At least, that's what I hear the tree saying.

I'm coming out of the closet

2010-01-10T09:40:00.000-08:00

I have read back over some of my posts and have come away with the feeling that I may be giving people the impression that I quit my job to 'become a writer'. Because that is not accurate.
I have been a writer all my life. While I scanned groceries, waited tables, bartending, threw a paper route, and was a maid at a motel. Always writing.

But all of those writings would eventually end up in a pile in the closet because I could never allow myself to think, 'I could be a writer'. I wrote all these years because I loved to write. Even though I was the only one reading my brilliant work, I still felt satisfied when I placed it in the closet.

My father was a writer. He never published his book. My father passed away and right now his book sits in a box in my closet covered with dust.
My brother Patrick wrote a book. It's a good book but even Patrick's book sits in another box in my closet. My closet is filled with treasures.

Right here is the reason I wrote my book. My youngest daughter Carly was a full blown heroin addict by the time she was 15. Because she was 15, we could not find her help. I had made, just a guess, almost a thousand phone calls to get her help. But the medical community could not grasp that such a young kid was really a chronic drug addict and without help she would die. I couldn't get ANYONE to hear me.
Health insurance companies tell lies about the reason they won't treat your child. The one that enraged me the most was that my child was the exception, and not the rule. That Carly's experience was very uncommon. And yet these kids were EVERYWHERE! Every facility Carly has been in has been OVERFLOWING with 80 pound, sick, sick 15 years old kids. But insurance companies turn their heads and pretend that they aren't getting phone call after phone call from desperate parents. I had one medical help line counselor ask if I had tried 'taking some privileges'? What the fuck are you talking about! She has sold all her privileges for heroin you fucking nutcase!!!"
As my screaming began to pay off and she would be admitted to some youth facility, I saw other young people, so many of them, exactly like Carly. These kids were everywhere, from all different parts of the country. From rich families and poor families. The process for a young teenage addict was, and still is, five or six days of detox, and then send them back out on the streets. They are told to get counseling. Counseling for a heroin addict? Are you out of your fucking mind?

But drug rehabs for young people are uncommon and the ones that are out there involve enormous amounts of money. So the kids coming from family's with large sums of money, get help. The poor kids, go out and over dose on the streets. And if you met some of these kids, the idea that they will not survive out there, completely shatters me. Beautiful, funny, and so, so intelligent. Kids with so much to offer the world but the only thing their future holds without help is jail and death. It absolutely fucking kills me.
I met a family that was signing over their parental rights to the fathers brother because he lived in Canada and the young girl could get treatment there. So she would get treatment but have to be away from her parents during such a painful journey.

So I begin writing my book, while I'm scanning groceries all day. As I write other elements come up. My alcoholism, my father alcoholism, my two other daughters alcoholism and drug addiction and it became a book about a big crazy high family, all either with a pending court date or a warrant. An entire house of staggering people. I stood on that check stand and did what I was told (for the most part) for ten years. For the last two and a half, I wrote my book.
There are events in my book that are so painful and dark it is difficult to edit. But most of the book is humorous because there is nothing funnier than a drunk person looking for their shoes.
So, I have always been a writer. It's just that this is the first time in my life I have the self esteem to say, I am going to write because I'm good at it. That's what I'm good at. And that's what I'm going to do just for a while. And my book will get published.

I'm not going to put it in the closet. No more paper in the closet.

Will you be ready at the end of the world?

2010-01-08T19:01:00.000-08:00

So I'm a writer. I'm sitting in the office with the door shut writing. I'm 'working'.
I have gotten mom up and dressed and feed. I have given my grandson his seizure medication and breakfast. I have reminded John for the third time to take his heart pills.
Okay, now I can do the thing. Mom strolls in on her walker. She says, "The dog pooped under my bed."

I don't have a dog. The girls have dogs, but they aren't available to clean the shit our of moms room. I remove the poop, gagging, running outside to the can on the curb, gagging, and gagging. I close the lid and lean down with my hands on my knees trying to regain my dignity. I walk back in the house and mom is waiting there to greet me and says, "I'm cold." I turn up her heat.
So, I'm writing. I'm focused. My grandsweet walks in. Poop, running all the way down his legs.

Has your child ever pooped to such a level it would be easier just to get another child? It would be easier to just move? My second run in with poop this morning. I take him in the backyard and hose him down. It's not abuse, we live in Phoenix. It's 75 degrees. Then I put him in a bath. Crisis handled.

I'm back in the office. The door bell rings. I feel completely irritated and walk to the door. I open it and a virginal twenty something is standing there smiling like he just got released from the fucking loony bin. Jesus. It's the Mormon boys. He smiles and says, "Good morning! We were in your neighborhood..." I stop him and say, "Nice of you but not today." He asks if he can leave some literature. I say yes, because that's what I have time for. He hands me the thing and I shut the door. The front reads, "Will you be ready at the end of the world?" I'm thinking, 'Ready for the end of the world? I can't even find my socks.'

I walk back to the office. The phone rings. I answer and the lady says, "I am so and so and I am calling about a debt. Is Dina Kucera in?" I say, "She is... deceased." Complete silence at the other end. I say, "Can you take her off your call list." I hang up.
Mom is ringing her bell. I walk into her room and she says, "I'm hot." I turn her heat down.
It's lunch time so I feed everybody Froot Loops. I go back in the office and I am still in my pajamas. I sit, staring at the little line on the page blink on and off. I have some Hershey kisses for desert. The thing is still blinking and I'm starting to feel like it's mocking me.

I stare aimlessly out the window and I see the dog, shitting on the grass. Now, my third shit experience today. I wonder why dogs don't care about the fact that they are straight out taking a shit right in front of you. They don't care who's watching. They just crouch down, and, there you go. They shit. Number two for those of you who don't have the strength for the word shit. Numbero, dos.
I walk in the kitchen to get a Coke because the kisses made me thirsty and I see John's pill box, where his pills are still in place. I take them out and physically hand them to him and watch him swallow them. By the time I get back to the office, mom is standing there again, "I'm cold." I think in my head, 'You are fucking killing me'. I turn up her heat.
The Froot Loops didn't quite get us to dinner, so I go to the drive through at MacDonald's. I say my order and I say, and a Coke.

He repeats my order and says, "And a diet Coke." I say, "No, a regular coke. Not diet." The guy actually says, "Whatever. Diet, regular." I get up to the window and say, "This is regular Coke?" He says, "Yeah. Or diet. I'm not sure." I taste it, it's diet. I say I want a regular Coke and he says, "So... you want me to... exchange this one, for..." I say, "Call your manager." He says, "I am the shift leader." A half an hour later I drove off with a regular Coke. Whatever.
I get home and I am really planning on making some headway on my writing. Mom has had an accident and I won't go into detail because I won't humiliate my mom even though she'll never read this. But, my day has a theme. I took her in the backyard... okay no I didn't, but that would be funny. I get her back to her chair and she says, "I'm hot." I pretend to turn down the heat but I don't. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me four times, shame on me.
It's night and everyone has gone to bed and I know everyone in the house has had a bowl movement. It's been a successful day in terms of the colon. I write and write like these people aren't in the next room. I'm alone, still in the same pajamas, my music is playing, it's a beautiful thing.
I go to bed and look up at the ceiling and think, "I wonder if I will be ready for the end of the world?" I think I will. I mean, when is it? And what do I have to bring? What do you do to 'get ready'.

I guess as long as I shower each morning that will at least give me a head start when they sound the bullhorn. Which leads me to another question. Are they going to sound a bullhorn?

Big scary monster

2010-01-08T16:33:00.000-08:00

It’s not always peaches and herb in ‘living your dreams’ land. Today, I run from those childhood demons that we all have. Some demons are little and you can just kick them and they limp away. Other demons are giant and you have to run as fast as you can so they don’t get you.

Because if they do, who knows what will happen? Will they eat you? Will they cause such a disruption that you don’t get out of bed and you can’t function, much less take care of the people who need you?
So you run for your life. You run from a monster.
For me the demon is ‘everyone’s misery is your fault’. This demon has been nipping at my ass since I was nine and my grandmother told me that my father drank because ‘I was a difficult child to raise’. So, I looked around, saw the carnage from drunk dad, and thought, “I did this?” Of course I grew up and the concept was silly and I knew that I didn’t cause my fathers constant drinking. I was not that powerful.

But there is difference between knowing and really, really, knowing.
So I’ve spent my adult life trying to move in the direction that the people around me want me to move so they will approve of me. I need them to like me and think I’m fun. Because if I walk off the line of what they have in mind I will make them unhappy and the demon will show up and swallow me. And if god forbid something horrible happens in their life, it would be because of me stepping off that line, and if I wouldn’t have stepped off the line, everything would be okay. Like, if I had gotten a ‘C’ instead of a ‘D’, my dad wouldn’t have gotten drunk and spent all the grocery money.

So here we are. I’m going to be a writer. I’m going to live my dreams. BUT, if things go badly, it will be me that will carry the ‘whatever’. Financial problems, medical problems, problems buying the cheese, whatever. This is why it is not a light decision to ‘live your dream’. Oprah makes it sound easy. But it’s not.
My making this decision feeds the demons. It creates that voice in my head that says, ‘If you do this, some people won’t agree. It will make some people unhappy.’ For me that’s like inviting the demon to climb all the way up my ass.
The demon is so scary and consuming for me that I have to keep it at bay so it won’t kill me. It’s a common thing for people to use alcohol or drugs or pie to keep the monster at a distance. The thing that is detrimental to you is at the exact same time your salvation. And the bad things blend into the walls and everything is okay.
Tuesday is dooms day. Go back to work, or do not go back to work. My childhood demon has me by the throat telling me that I shouldn't dare upset anyone. For me it’s very real. I know sitting here right now that I am not going back to work. I know I’m going to really piss a few people off. But for the first time in my life, EVER, I am digging my feet in and I am not going to sacrifice myself to make people smile.
So to my scary demon and those people who don‘t approve, fuck off. To get me to halt my living my dream mission, you will have to eat me mother fucker. I’m a writer.
(PS… I used the term ‘mother fucker’ in my last two writings. I love saying it and I love how it looks on the page. BUT, I don't know how I feel about having this cute baby so close to the foul language. Don't look up baby!)

God? Why are you torturing me?

2010-01-07T08:58:00.000-08:00

God,
I'm coming down to the wire on the last chance to go back to that hellhole. God, I can't GO BACK!!!! I just can't! I want to 'do the right thing', but, what is the right thing? I bring in enough money from my other jobs to feel I am doing my part. I'm not a slacker, God. I'm a worker bee and have been since I was sixteen.

I don't want to feel regret. I don't want to spend the last years of my life sitting in an electric chair watching Golden Girls, thinking, I wish I would've done this, or that.
Let's say, by some really bizarre turn of events my book never gets published? I have to at least feel like I gave it every chance. Right? Did you really bring me to the earth to scan salami? Really? What's wrong with you God?
At my shitty job I talk to other 'team members'. They are twenty. They are going to school to do this or that. As they should. Somewhere along the line checking groceries became the thing that I would do forever while the people around me made plans and goals for their life. And I would check groceries and smile and just be thrilled to be a part of the magic called life. I shouldn't expect more because I'm too old. It's over. I made choices in my life including sitting on the couch and getting drunk for over twenty years and now, I'm reaping the rewards of that choice. I can't get that twenty years back.

So, God, this is how I feel. It's never too late to do that thing that makes you feel alive. It's not over until I say it's over. And it ain't over bitches. I will continue to write until my beautiful book that I wrote by opening my entire heart, is on the shelf. AND... there is a good chance that I will write another. And maybe another.

And I'll be on the cover of Time magazine laying on a tropical beach with a big hat holding a non alcoholic drink with an umbrella in it. I'll be wearing sunglasses that make me look interesting and mysterious. I would also like to have little pieces of gauze between my toes, although, I don't have to have that to make the vision work.

So, God. Can you make it happen? You turned water into wine, getting my little book in the bookstore shouldn't be that big of a deal. If you do it, in my speech where I win some sort of writing award I will thank you. But that's IF you get me published. IF.
Thank you God for all the people you have placed in my life to encourage me and push me forward. And thank you for Redbull.

I know now that Redbull is your way of saying, "Hey! Walk faster!" Thank you, thank you, thank you... Amen.

Will write for food

2010-01-06T19:21:00.000-08:00

What do you do when you need support from someone you love, and they just won't get on the boat? I do not know. The method I'm utilizing right now is trying to keep my distance so their shitty vibe doesn't splatter on me.
People don't have to speak a word and we will give another person a certain feeling just standing next to them. A 'vibe'. The way someone smiles or their facial expressions. One person can smile and you feel relaxed and feel that they're are probably kind. And yet, another person can smile and you automatically think, 'Bi-polar, Serial killer.'
One thing that completely flips my switch is the 'mopers'. They suck all the air out of the room. Their heads are fixed to the floor like their necks are broken and they shuffle their feet as if it takes every ounce of their strength to walk to the refrigerator to get a Snack Pack pudding. I can not stand it. Either be depressed, as we can all be at some point in our life, or walk it off.
I get the idea of depression as I won an all expense trip to the mental ward. Eight days.

I had the time of my life! All that was required from me was to lay in bed and read. Are you serious? I may be mental more often! When they were releasing me I tried to tell them I should stay longer. (I had two more books and plenty of vending machine money)
I told a friend of mine that his wife was nice. He said she was just 'acting' nice. Well, isn't that what we are suppose to do? How many times have you been having a conversation with someone and the story they're telling is the most god awful boring thing, and it goes on forever! The suns coming up, the suns going down, and they are still droning. You're thinking, "Please God let a car drive up on this sidewalk and at least kill me." But you look them right in the eye and act like this is the most interesting thing you've ever heard, "Really? You lift some really heavy things!" It's what we do. We act nice and then walk away wishing we had that twenty minutes of our life back.
So I'm really focused and wound up about my new life as a writer as oppose to my old life as a depressed, sobbing, hostage.

I'm explaining this to a 'moper' and he says, "Yeah, but, how the hell are you going to make money until you sell your best seller?" And I don't have an answer. I say, "Well, I'm a comic. I'll book some jobs." Long pause as he stares at me. "What? I will? And so many people have published books. Why can't I? I mean other people have done it, right?" He says, "Who do you know personally that's published a book?" I say, "John Grisham." Mopey, "You don't know John Grisham." I'm feeling slightly defeated. "I don't know anyone personally, but, you know the bookstore is filled with books. This isn't a new idea." This is where I feel the meltdown coming over me. I say, "And you know what? I don't care who has or who hasn't got a book in the god damn bookstore! I could care less! All I know is that my book will be in the bookstore! And if I were you, I'd be nice to me now because the day will come when I won't allow you to scrape gum off my shoe! I'm a writer, mother fucker."
He actually looks at me and says, "You're a checker in a grocery store. You write on the side. In your time off. Like a hobby."
"Not anymore. Now, I'm a writer. That's what I do."
He says, "Okay, well, it will be handy to have a writer around. You can write our 'we will work for food' sign."

Aaah! Living the dream! Fighting for the right to live the dream! And by the way, we aren't going to live in our car or starve. Mopey has money. He has enough money that he does not have the right to mope. Knock it off or you will be the star of today's blog. Get on the boat because it's sailing with or without you...

John ruined our trip to Vegas.

2010-01-05T16:17:00.000-08:00

I'm working my checker job and it is sucking every ounce of life out of me. I've been there ten years. There is not one single day that I didn't look up at the roof and pray it would cave in and end the torture. It was similar to being a prisoner of war.
I knew I had to quit. It had to happen. But at what point was someone going to say to me, "Quit that shitty job!" NEVER. The shitty job had me stuck in it's evil web because they offered free health insurance. Free. Can you imagine? So I stayed. And stayed. Look at the roof, scan some things, look back up at the roof.

Here was the other thing. Every part of my body is pulled or twisted or torn from lifting things. Giant cases of water, 50 packs of beer, and on and on. All day. I'm 48. Things started to hurt and not stop hurting. My knees are destroyed. My neck, shoulder and back are always hurt. I got to a place where I could not physically do the menial job anymore. My body was falling apart. But... health insurance. I decided I was going to quit. My husband and I were always in good health. Why not. Then I could work on my book. Yes. I'm quiting. But I won't tell my husband until I actually do quit. We are going to Vegas for a few days and when we get home, I will simply not go back to work.

John and I are in Vegas. He doesn't feel good. I tell him to lay down and rest and I walk around the corner to run a beautiful hot bath. I walk back around the corner, ten seconds later, and my husband is clutching his chest and soaking wet with sweat. I called 911.

We went to the hospital in an ambulance. That hospital said his condition was too serious and they needed to send him to another hospital. They loaded him in another ambulance.
He had a stint put in. He has another blocked artery that they said they couldn't fix. He also has a clogged artery in his neck and another in the calf of his leg. He's clogged up. I called my shitty job and told them my husband was in intensive care and the manager said, "I really don't think I can cover your shifts." Oh, really you stupid fucking ballsack? Call the zoo. Get a monkey in there. I'm not a surgeon. I'm a grocery store checker. And this guy was younger than my kids. If he had been standing in front of me I would have kicked him in the ass.
I digress. So we come home from the heart attack trip and I know I have to go back and scan for a long, long time. There is a good chance I will die clutching a head of lettuce. But a heart attack? We have to have health insurance. Forever. Or at least until one of us dies.

Now my depression and anger is through the roof. My husband is very sick. My mom is very sick. My daughter is in rehab. My other daughters should be in rehab. I cried on my way to work and I cried on my way home.

This is one thing that John's heart attack taught me. Tomorrow, my life could be over. OVER. And I will be angry that I didn't have to nerve to even try because I continued to say, tomorrow, then, tomorrow. Tomorrow is today.
It's been nine months since Johns heart attack. He is on 11 different medications. His Dr appointments are now three months apart and I have investigated other ways to keep our health insurance. We could make it happen. We would have to pay, BUT it could work.
John frustration is, 'If you just went back to work, we wouldn't have to pay'. My frustration is, 'I want to publish my book. I want to be available for more comedy work. I want to write'.
I do understand his fear but I don't want us to spend the rest of our lives living in fear. He needs to do his thing. I need to do my thing. God didn't bring me here to be a checker. To be honest I don't know why God brought me here, but I know it's not to scan spam until I'm 70.
So, darling, I love you. But I can't go back. Right now I'm putting it out into the universe and saying, I quit. I quit because I'm a writer, not a checker. I have faith. Have faith in me. John, we will be okay.

Moooooooooooooooooo

2010-01-05T09:30:00.000-08:00

If you have something you want to do in your life that doesn't involve following the herd, know ahead of time you are going to get the shit kicked out of you. Veering off from the herd pisses people off because they also want to veer, but they are afraid.
I have been with the herd for many, many years. Most people feel comfortable and stable in that situation. I, on the other hand, never felt comfortable. I felt depressed and angry. But I did it so I didn't feel irresponsible. I have a family, three daughters and my husband, you do what you have to do. Now, my girls are grown and I'm thinking, goodbye herd.

I do feel you have to be strategic. I have been a comic for twenty years and have been writing all my life. I have spent over two years working on my book at night when everyone was taken care of and sleeping, while working and taking care of mom and all the other things in life. I wouldn't advise anyone to just quit their job and 'become' a writer or comic. You should put in years and years of groundwork on your craft and have some kind of foundation before you even consider quitting your job. And if you write in the hours you can steal from life, for years, and eventually something of substance together, goodbye herd.
Here is another thing. I have spent years calling my book, 'my project'. Or saying, "I wrote a little thing." Something about actually saying "I wrote a book." Made me feel fear of being ridiculed. Or made fun of. Or people rolling their eyes and making me feel like I was too stupid to write a book.

You know what? I wrote a book. I wrote a fucking book. It's not 'my project'. It's a book. I wrote it. I will get an agent and it will get published. And you eye rollers will buy the book and I'll spend your money on bullshit I don't even need.
I left the herd because I wrote a book. What do I do?

I'm a writer. There are zillions of writers. I'm one of them. And I really, really like it.

I think I'm open that day

2010-01-04T10:36:00.000-08:00

Yesterday me and my handsome grandson went to the bookstore. I love the smell of the bookstore. I love the music, the billions of books and the calendars were fifty percent off. Love it!
I got a new 2010 weekly planner. I got home and excitedly entered my upcoming dates. There are three so far. One, my grandson going into the hospital for a procedure. He will be in the hospital for a week. Two, one comedy date. One. For the whole year. Three, my daughters court date in Albuquerque.

Is this the date book for someone as awesome as me? It must be because that's what it looks like. I am so fearful to loose it because whoever finds it would feel sorrow for me because, well, I don't need a date book to remember those three things. And only one of the things is a part of my 'living my wildest dreams' mission.

When people decide to live their wildest dreams do they have various writings on everyday of their date book? Should I rethink the whole wild dream idea? Should I go back and check groceries even though I can't physically do the job anymore? I think I should call it 'Living my creative dreams' as oppose to 'Living my wildest dreams'. Because wild implies that you have more than three things in your date book. Unless those three things are, one, I'm on David Letterman. Two, I'm on The View. And three, Having lunch with Meryl Streep.

2010 is the year I will get an agent, get a publisher and get my book on a shelf somewhere. It has to happen. I have faith and hope. And I have a really great book. And the day I get an agent, I will write that in my date book. I will do the same when I get a publisher. And the day my book is physically on the shelf of the bookstore? I don't know if I will have times to write that event in my date book as I will be screaming and dancing and jumping and spinning. I guess I could enter that the following day.

I easily have six hours of material.

2010-01-03T09:54:00.000-08:00

I had a falling out with a club booker. This is a common story for comedians. They thing about this guy is that I really liked him. He is also a comic and makes me laugh, always.
Disagreements with people are usually a thing happens, then it gets bigger and rolls down the hill like a giant snowball that can't be stopped. Then you can remember what the argument was about, but you don't know how it came to this.
Comics have a real, honest connection. There could be a comic that you can't stand, BUT, if that douche needed help, you'd be there. It's a bond that happens without a conversation. You could say, 'You're an asshole', but if someone in the audience is disrespectful while the asshole is doing his set, that audience member will verbally get his ass kicked by every comic that goes on after. Other comics are our 'people'. You don't even have to personally know the comic. Comics trash each other because it's the nature of the art of comedy. But we won't stand for people out of the comedy loop trashing a comedian. And it doesn't matter how much they suck. We will roll up our sleeves and come to their aid.

So, I had this disagreement. The club booker/ comic offered me a spot with one of my favorite comics, Brian Bradley. I walk in the club, and it was as if the whole thing never happened. We had a great night. It takes so much energy to be pissed off at people. I like this guy. So we had a great comedy night.
First show I go up and it was really fun. I hadn't been up in a while so it was a bit of a struggle but it worked out.

Every time I go up I try and do a new thing. And when comics say 'a new thing' that means something they have done four or five times and the bit is getting worked out. I did a couple of new things, and they worked well. The audience doesn't realise that to get a new joke, it's a process. Re-working, re-wording, and in the end you have twenty new seconds. BUT eighty percent of the time, it's this bit isn't going to work so you move on to another new thing. So headliners have spent YEARS, twenty seconds at a time, getting forty five minutes of material. It takes a long, long time to have a solid chunk of comedy. People always say, "That guy always does the same material." Of course he does. When you think in terms of creating a performance twenty seconds at a time? It takes YEARS!
And when a comic has been a comic for two years and he says he has two hours of solid material? Bullshit. You mean you can TALK for two hours. I myself, can talk for six hours non stop. I do it everyday.

Second show was strange. A really quite, polite audience, with pockets of repulsive drunk women. If only they would have talked to me, I might have been able to make something from it. But they talked really loud to one another. 'You know who I saw! Sharon Bell! I haven't seen her in years! Where is the waitress? I need to pee. Do you like my purse?' Jesus Christ, kill me. I had a beautiful woman in the front row quietly say to me, 'Just ignore them'. So, I did. I don't like hecklers. And I don't like tables of people that are heckling each other.
I left after my set to make the long drive home and I don't have any doubt that Brian probably cleared things up and sent them home crying. Tears are the first step in pulling your head out of your ass.
So, while I wasn't thrilled about my second set, the first one was good. The night was a great one overall. Re-friended a good friend and told some jokes. Life is good...

An exerpt from my book... 'Bright Shiny Star'

2010-01-03T09:46:00.000-08:00

I was doing the Funniest Mom in America at the Laugh Factory in LA. So they announce my name. I get this burst of energy and run up on the stage like I normally do. I grab the mike, and… nothing. I stand there, staring at the audience and the audience is staring back. You could hear a pin drop. The longer I stare, the longer they stare. Finally, some young girl in the front row screams, “Booo! Get her off!” I’ve been doing this for eighteen years! What the hell is going on! Nothing! I said nothing! I see my daughter Jennifer in the back of the room half standing like she may jump on the horrible screaming woman.
It seemed like seven hours later, a joke came out of my mouth and I got rolling a little bit, but the damage was done. I was officially not the Funniest Mom in America.
My daughter Carly has been in and out of drug treatment facilities since she was thirteen. Every time she goes away somewhere I have a routine. I go through her room and search for anything drug related or search for drugs that she may have left behind. We have a laugh these days because Carly says, “So. You’re looking for drugs I’ve left behind? I’m a drug addict, mother. We don’t leave drugs behind, especially if we’re going into treatment. We do all the drugs. We don’t save drugs back for later. If I have drugs, I do them. All of them. If I had my way we would stop for more drugs on the way and I would do them in the parking lot of the treatment center.”
I’m fumbling around going through her things piece be piece. I look in books, shoes, jacket pockets, DVD cases, I look in holes in stuffed animals. I see a box in the top corner of her closet. I open the box and see piles of papers.
I shuffle through them and see cute little cards, letters from friends, funny little notes from her old life. ‘Dear Justin. Do you like me? I like you. If you don’t like me it’s okay. But I will not be your friend.’ Ribbons, stickers and glitter line the bottom of the box.
Then I find this. This list of what Carly feels about herself. I read and my heart begins to beat really fast. Towards the end of the list I have to blink to allow my tears to roll down my face because I can’t see.
The last few years I had thought it was a stage. Just something she was going through. It was a nightmare that I was going to wake up from and It wasn’t as bad as I thought. Now I sat there, still staring at these pieces of paper and for whatever reason I couldn’t move my eyes away. I sat still looking right through the page.
I was holding in my hand the truth. There are a million ways to get to the truth. The shittest way to find the truth is to stumble upon it accidentally while sparkly glitter falls all over your lap.

Carly simply could not stay clean. She would use meth to get off heroin and then use heroin to get off meth. Of the three times she was in intensive care one of those times was a suicide attempt. She came to me and told me she couldn’t live the rest of her life as a drug addict and she was going to kill herself. I didn‘t know that shortly before she told me this that she had already taken every different kind of drug she could get her hands on. Heroin, Xanax, Oxycontin, Fentanyl. Anything and everything. She had a variety of drugs in the house and had taken everything.
I have become so desensitized to drug use that I would feel so much better if I thought Carly was high all day and having the time of her life. The fact that her drug use made her so sad that she didn’t want to be alive anymore breaks me in half.
I get her to the emergency room, she tries to tell them what she has taken but she can hardly speak. They immediately admit her. They had a nurse sit by her bed twenty four hours a day in case she went into cardiac arrest. Three days into her stay she began having seizures. It was a horrible thing to watch. I asked when the seizures would stop and the doctor said they may stop, they may not. It depended on what level of damage she had done to her brain. She would be fine and then her head would fall all the way back as if her neck would break and her eyes would flicker. She couldn’t talk. This happened every half hour or so.
I slept in the hospital in a chair next to her bed. Late one night she woke up and I looked at her. She looked like a little girl. A pretty, pretty little girl. I could see her face and striking green eyes in the dark room from the light coming from the lap top the nurse sitting next to her bed was using.
She was slurring but told me, “I wish I was like other girls. The girls that go to the mall. Or to the movies. They’re all bright shiny stars. And I’m like this. I don‘t have a best friend. I don‘t have any friends.” She rolled over with her back facing me and began to fall asleep and mumbled, “They’re all bright shiny stars.” I could feel my heart break into a billion pieces.

Self Publishing...?

2010-01-02T09:24:00.000-08:00

I can't count the number of people that have told me to 'self publish'.
This is how I envision self publishing. You write a book, you give someone a small pile of money, they put your book together, then they mail it to your house.
This is a good idea IF you have a large following of people that will buy your book. But if you are a housewife, that only communicates with her children and husband, you won't even make back your self publishing money.
I completely understand why people self publish and there has been days where I think, 'I should just self publish this mother fucking pile of paper and get it the fuck off my god damn desk.' Because that's how I talk. But...

I have a vision and as childish as it sounds, this is my vision. I want to walk in the bookstore, with my husband and girls, and see my book on the shelf. It can be one copy tucked in the back corner behind better books. I want to pick up my book and say, 'I did this.' Then I will dance and laugh and scream at how awesome it is that my little book is sitting on the shelf. There is a good chance that I will tell strangers in the bookstore that I wrote this book. I did this. Then hold the book up next to my face and smile.
It's very difficult to get a self published book into a reputable bookstore. I know, everyone knows the list of people that have self published and did so well their book made it on to the shelf. Very famous authors and very rare occasion that a friend or family member did really well with self publishing. But the fact is that this is a small handful of people. There are another million people that have self published that are now using their self published book as a door stop. They have boxes of books, the book that they put their heart and soul into, in unopened boxes in the garage.

It is not my vision to simply have a book I can hold in my hand or send to family and friends. I believe my book deserves a place on the shelf. That's what I believe. That's my vision. I think that's the vision for most authors, but they become discouraged and impatient. They believe they will be part of that handful of people that find crazy success in self publishing. So they don't give their work what it deserves. It seems they come half way down the road and then give up. And I really, really understand that feeling because getting published is soooo hard. Getting an agent is soooo hard. Publishing a book is more difficult than having a baby. I understand, it's been a long, long road with no light at the end of the tunnel.
But, because of my vision and because I want better for my little book, I would rather it sit in piles of paper in my closet, rather than not allow it to be what it deserves to be. One copy, sitting on the shelf.

There are some amazing self published books. And then there are the others. Because you must remember every person in the world can self publish a book if they have three hundred dollars. I had a friend that self published a book called, 'Cat Accessories'. I could self publish a book called 'Everything I know'... three hundred words, two pages, 29.95. I saw another friends book. It was called, 'Be Jealous of my Life'. I could write a self published 'Trilogy'. The first could be, 'Do you like Purple?' Then book two in the trilogy, 'Why don't you like Purple?' Then book three, 'You are right, purple sucks'. Then I could do all the colors, 'Do you like Eggplant?' You get the point.

So, I will not self publish my book. At any point. I have to do the bookstore thing with the kids. It's on my bucket list. I'm not going to take the chance that I'm not in that handful of literary geniuses.
It can not be said better than a statement my nineteen year old daughter said to me on a day of overwhelming discouragement... Don't quit right before the miracle.
I'm thinking whoever wrote that phrase did not self publish. Just saying.

I'm a writer

2010-01-01T08:46:00.000-08:00

I don't usually make New Years resolutions. But this year I've decided, in the effort to be more disciplined, to make a commitment for this year. I am going to write a blog every day about my journey into getting my book published. I will also write about my travels in using stand up comedy as a way to make an actual income. I don't need a large quantity of money, but some money would be nice.
This year will be about creativity. And pursuing my wildest dreams. Becoming a published author.

You must know that both of these endeavors are not new for me. I have been a comic for twenty years but I have always worked a full time job as I got stage time where I could. I take care of my mother so I still have to balance mom with any comedy work, but not having to ask for time off of a job is going to open up more opportunities.

I have worked at so many comedy clubs as a bartender and talked about comedy with comedians as I took the trash out and served them more drinks. And there's nothing wrong with that, as long as they are funnier than me. When you have a comic that has a closing bit where he drinks a Bud Light in three seconds as the audience cheers, then says to me, "Hey, sweetie. Can you get me a Bud Light?" I'm thinking, "Do I have to clap while you drink it?" Big giant unfunny baby.
Like most writers, I have piles of stuff that I have written over the last fifteen years sitting in my closet. Good stuff, bad stuff, ton's of stuff. I started writing in High School. I got straight F's in Jr. High and High School. Except for journalism. Always an A in journalism.

Since those days so long ago I have written millions of things. Things for various newspapers, sitcom scripts which never got me a job, sketch comedy scripts, just a lot of things. A lot of really funny great things. And a lot of really sucky things. I read them now and think 'I wrote that? Horrible.'
I spent two years writing my first book. I have spent almost another year trying to get my book published and trying to get representation. It has been an exhausting, disappointing road.
A long that road I have had 'people' or 'angels' that push me forward telling me to carry on. I don't know what I did exactly to get these people in my corner, but I'm not going to question it. I hope one day I can be for some frustrated author what these people are for me.
This is what I know so far. Agents are actually not horrible. I have had the pleasure of corresponding with many. They are kind and funny and encouraging. Not ALL of them, but most of them. They love me... but not enough to sign a contract.
So I will set my book 'Bright Shiny Star' aside and write something different and creative to clear my head. This blog. Everyday.
A warning. I want to be truthful about this experience so I have days where I am not cheerful and light. Some days, a mental evaluation may be in order. Hopefully not, but you never really know.

So, 2010, a year for creativity and living my wildest dreams. Writing and being funny. Let's begin.

Dreams

2009-11-07T11:58:00.000-08:00

I am currently off my job for awhile. So I am diligently working on my best selling book. How do I know it will be a best seller? Trust me.
My mother lives with me. In all the memories I have of the way things went, my mother's life has sucked. If you ask her, she says she has been blessed 'abundantly' in her life.
I'm lying in bed the other night. I'm thinking about how I get to have this dream of being able to sit and write my book. Thanks to my husband who works constantly, he won't stop, I've tried. He had a heart attack, he stopped, for ten seconds. He is a 'worker' and he has been a 'worker' since the day I met him. John works. Period. A few days out of work and he flips his lid.
Can you imagine? I get to write my book. Good book or bad book, I actually get to sit at the desk and do it. Because of John.
So I lay in bed looking at the ceiling and think about my mom. You see, my dad was not a 'worker'. He just wasn't. He did the best he could I'm sure, but he was nothing like my husband. So I wondered if my mom had a dream. If there was something special she wanted to do in her life, but she couldn't because she wasn't married to someone who could carry her through.
The next day I ask her, "Hey, mom. In your life, was there ever anything you dreamed of doing? Like art, or singing or dancing?"
She said, "I dreamed a lot about having milk and bread."
I paused. I stared at her and she stared at me. That was it. I was hoping for this really rich story. Something amazing and interesting that I didn't know about my mother. All she ever wanted was milk and bread.

Back then, that's how it was. They didn't have Oprah. They didn't believe dreaming of something better could be enough momentum to make it happen. It was about lifting their heads above the struggle long enough to catch their breath and then going back under.
I sit at my computer, posting this and even now the constant guilt about not being at work consumes me. Not enough to pass up the chance to dream my dream, but still stressful.

My sister in law Valorie and her awesome hubby Alberto. They are Tango dancers. They have won numerous awards for the way the glide across the dance floor. Making it look so simple and natural. They have danced their way all over the world.
They teach Tango. There are probably a thousand people or more that can go and dance as people watch enviously as they do each twist and turn, because Valorie and Alberto taught them how to make it magic.
Valorie and Alberto are an example of awakening that place in your spirit where your dreams lay quiet, waiting. I don't even think they have considered what they do as 'living the dream'. I believe they are people that believe, that is the only way to live. There is no other way. They design, write, teach, dance. This is their life. A life that most people would fear. What about the 401k? What if we don't make enough money to buy the tuna? They are an example of embracing the gifts they've been given, therefore, the tuna gets to the table.
Every step, every turn, they live in an emotionally wide open space. Nothing is impossible. Dream your dream. Don't invest in fear. And that's not to say there aren't struggles within pursuing your dream. But the problems seem to be the same as people who are fearful of making that leap and work forty hours a week. Be smart, because of the tuna, but make sure the person that you came to the earth to be, and the gifts you've been given, don't get lost so far down in your heart that you can no longer pull them back up.

I think again about my mom. All she dreamed of was milk and bread. Then I think of Val and Alberto. I imagine them step by step, one beautiful movement, moving to another. Beautiful. Free. So I will write. And not live in fear. At least for today.

Visit the Vamp... Valorie At...
www.visualvamp.blogspot.com

The gays are trying to take over the world.

2009-11-05T10:46:00.000-08:00

My beautiful daughter... She's here and she's queer.

A million years ago, someone coined that phrase. The Institution of Marriage. They also say, 'protect the union' of marriage.
I have been married twice. My first husband drug me through the house by the hair when I was seven months pregnant. He verbally battered me and had sex with every woman he met. Not exactly the spiritual experience I think of when people utter the phrase, 'the institution of marriage'.
Before my daughter came out as a gay person, she was married. Her husband relapsed on crack and ended up in prison. They dissolved the union.
There has been more times than I can count where a family member or friend has married a complete fucking terrorist. And the union can not be stopped. They love each other. I sit watching the legal joining of the man and woman and think, 'This should be illegal'.
Every single day you can pick up a newspaper and read about some man or woman with in the 'institution of marriage', stab the spouse to death as they sleep.
You can also read, daily, about husbands and wives walking out of the union to be with the person they have been having sex with for the last two years. And out of this affair, is a two year old that has been kept a secret because daddy is in a 'union' with someone else's mommy. This isn't something 'sacred' and hasn't been for seventy five years.
This is the million dollar question. What exactly are we 'protecting'. Why are people pretending that marriage is this spiritual unity that needs to be preserved? Some times it is. But most of the time, it's just NOT. You want to preserve something sacred? Go save a whale. Adopt a kid from an orphanage in South Africa. Focus on you and your life and the people you love. Because that is what God wants. He wants us to love one another with all of our heart. And if you love someone that is the same sex as you, love them with all of your heart.
This is what I say and it makes sense to me. It's all about your 'picker'. If you pick a serial killer to join you in the institution of marriage, you're going to get what you get. Pick an amazing person to spend your life with. Man or woman. The problem is your 'picker'. Not which part you pick. Let's preserve that idea.

It's my party and I can cry if I want to.

2009-11-05T07:38:00.000-08:00

This is Mark Twain. He was a genius.
My frustration level is rising. Please join me at my poor me party. You are invited.
I wrote a book. It has taken two years. I have contacted 64 agents. 64. That's a relatively high number. What I got back was many great responses. 'Love it, but not for me', 'you are hysterical, but not what we are looking for', 'Your style of writing is amazing and unique, but...' I could go on. I really could. There were about twenty of those. Every one just short of 'I will be your agent'. All the responses felt like they were saying, 'I'm sorry, but I just want to be friends. It's not you, it's me'.
So I settle back in to the chair and re write the entire thing. Now it is better than it was which I didn't think was possible. I'm not bragging, I'm just saying.
Here is the core of my frustration. Last night driving home from the grocery store after spending 200 dollars, I remembered that years ago, I was a 'finalist' in some sort of Disney Fellowships for a television pilot I wrote. I'm driving and I thought, 'Oh yeah! I forgot about that!' I forgot about that because since then, I have become the Susan Luchi of 'finalists'.
I was a finalist for America's Funniest Mom, not once, but twice. Finalist. No tamale, but still a finalist. I was a finalist at a comedy thing for one of two people from the west coast to compete against two people from the east coast. West coast! Didn't win, but was a finalist. I should be excited and grateful that most things I enter, I am usually a finalist. I have entered stupid things, finalist. If I am sitting at a baseball game and a fly ball comes directly at me, it will hit the tip of my finger and fall right in to the hands of the drunk guy behind me. If you win something by being the hundredth person, I am number 99.
This doesn't include the number of contests (usually writing contests) that I want to enter but guess what? The entry deadline was YESTERDAY. Not last month! YESTERDAY! Well, yesterday isn't today, is it. Fucking, fuck, fuck, mother fucking fuck. Don't shake your head at me, you know you think that a few times a day.
Okay, so I'm kicking around the house yesterday, irritated, frustrated, swimming in my sadness. My youngest daughter Carly asks what's wrong. I say, "I've queried 64 agents. I've re written the thing a thousand times, my proposal sucks, my book is stupid. I'm tired and I'm thinking I should just self publish the piece of shit so I can get it off my desk and move on to something new." See how fun I am?
Carly sat silent for a moment and then said, "Mom. Don't quit right before the miracle happens." I think this kid can really turn the juice on when she wants to.
But then I think about it. I think she's right. I like my book. I think other people will like my book. And one day, I'll walk in the bookstore and it will be on a shelf and I'll say, "I did that."

So, today, I will re write my shitty proposal, and I guess, contact 64 more agents. By the way, the poor me party is over. You have to leave. I don't know where you're going... but you can't stay here! (That was for my bar people)
PS... Yes. I do have to say fuck that much.

Okay, I'm back. I've had a few Redbulls. I've decided that I'm not only going to get a better attitude, I'm going to write the living shit out of this book and all 64 agents from NY to LA are going to buzz around their offices and say, 'We didn't pass on that, did we?' Yes, you did my fancy friend and now heads are going to roll. I'm going to re write my crappy proposal with such passion that it's going to make 'The Passion of Christ' look like 'Spongebob Square Pants' And trust me! I have no idea what that even means! So save up! My book will be on the book store shelf, hardback, and it will cost 27 dollars and be worth every dime! And it will be on the NY Times best seller list, probably in the number two spot, but I'm fine with that! I just want everyone to know, the wheels are turning, and you know what happens when the wheels turn? Agents from all across America will have tire marks on their expensive jackets! (I hope agents don't read this) There will be so much paper involved in the printing of my book that loggers will have to work overtime. Their bosses will say, "They need more paper because of that lady's book! We have to cut down more tree's!" The logger will say, "But I have to get home to my wife and kids!" The boss will say, "Your wife and kids can go straight to hell! This book has to be on the shelf next week! They need more paper!" The logger hangs his head and begins climbing the tree with his chainsaw and he wonders. When will they have enough paper? You get the idea. And one more thing. Redbull is the new black.

Losing is a feeling, not an event.

2009-10-09T16:47:00.000-07:00

I see a little boy, six or seven, wearing a baseball uniform. I ask if he played a game. He said yes. I asked if he won. He said, "We don't have winners or losers." I thought, oh yes you do sweetie. Your parents are lying to you.
I look up at his father and he says, "They just have fun playing the game without all the completion." What?
When I was a kid, we had winners and we had losers. Period. Sometimes you won. Sometimes you lost. The key is finding the thing that you win at the most. Wondering if you would win or loose WAS the fun of the game.
Mentally handling 'winning' was easy. You smile and coast through your sweet life until the next challenge. If you were deemed a 'loser', your brain went into automatic 'wait until we meet again, I will annihilate you if it kills me'. It's called competition and it is something we face every single day of our lives. You may be six or you may be sixty, we all crave that feeling of winning.
When I was in the ninth grade I was a gymnast. There was another girl on the team named Andrea. We were in constant competition to beat one another. I could not miss one day of school because Andrea might learn a great stunt while I was out. One day Andrea said to me, "Your socks are inside out." This provoked me into channeling Nadia Comanichi and becoming the greatest gymnast that cafeteria has ever seen. Shortly after that, still in ninth grade, I was pregnant with my first child and quit school which a another story. But who really won? Andrea? I think she went on to college and got a law degree. Big deal Andrea. Your Donna Karen dress is inside out.
My point is that it's wrong to try and shield the kids from any sad emotion.
They don't have winners or losers?
You can not function in the world without knowing how to respond to losing. It's the same as hearing the word 'no'. It's everyday of our life, it's a part of our life, it is life.

A sports guy said, and I quote, "Show me a good loser and I'll show you a loser." You know who had this attitude? Nadia Comanichi. All the greats! Michael Phelps! Robert Downey Jr! Bea Arthur! They all wanted to win! And they did! Michael Phelps didn't say, "I just have fun flipping around in the water in my speedo." Are you kidding? He said, "I will win."
So let's get out there! Get that parking spot! (In a courteous way) Take your place in the grocery store line! (If it is truly your turn) Whiten your teeth and smile at everyone! Never allow your husband to win an argument! Wake him up and remind him you won the argument! Let's get out there and kick some ass! Because guess what! There are winners! And there are losers! And unless I have to paint a picture or make something out of clay or balance a checkbook, I am a winner! I won! How do you like that Andrea!

Vearing off course

2009-10-08T10:28:00.000-07:00

The truth is a gray area. There are a million different things that take place before you say the one sentence that sums up the truth. The truth is mixed in with laughter, tears, trauma, rain, snow and heat. Then there is the truth. I face the truth about me, that one sentence, that I confess to myself and only myself, I think about other people who have the one sentence that defines them. He robbed a bank. He's a heroin addict. She's a prostitute. There were a million things that took place before these people became that one sentence that is their truth. That doesn't forgive that moment where we jump the tracks. But it reminds us of what it was like before we made that leap and became that statement of the truth that defines us. And it all makes perfect sense.

Dale and Misty

2009-07-02T17:37:00.000-07:00

Celebrity breakups are always announced the same way. 'So and so are divorcing but they still care deeply for one another and have enormous respect for each other'.
White trash breakups usually end with hostages and hunting rifles.
Divorcing is an expensive venture. Even for poor people. By the time a poor couple decides to divorce, somw shit is going to burn down. The relationship has to get so bad that the in the end one of the two are going to jail.
A couple of years ago I heard a story about a woman that had told her husband she wanted a divorce. So he put sedatives in her tea and tried to put her lifeless body through a wood chipper. A FUCKING WOOD CHIPPER! How pissed off could you be to want to put someone in a WOOD CHIPPER! Apparently she woke up because of the noise of the wood chipper and rolled off the belt and escaped. Here's the fantastic part of the story. They reconciled. They worked it out. Are you kidding with me?
Okay. He had an affair. He doesn't keep a job. He wears women clothes on occasion. All of these events you can somehow talk yourself into thinking, okay, well, I guess I can let it go. But try to put me through a wood chipper?
And what happened when this woman staggered through the front door and hubby realised she didn't actually go through the wood chipper? I see a cop car parked on the dirt in front of the trailer with a bullhorn yelling, "Dale! Come on out of there with your hands up! Common Dale! Let Misty and the babies go!"
Dale screams out of the window, "I ain't comin' out until Misty says she loves me!"
Misty screams, "I ain't gonna say it Dale! You trying to put me through that wood chipper was the last straw!"
"I said I was sorry, Misty! Ain't you never made a mistake!"
"I never put you in a fucking wood chipper Dale!"

So they work things out. Ten years later at a family event Dale says to Misty, "Hey baby! Remember when we went to Disneyland and you wet your pants on Space mountain!" The family erupts in laughter. "That was hysterical! Or what about the time we were in church and you decided to take the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior and you start walking up and you trip and fell in the isle! Man, I've never laughed so hard!" Misty says, "What about that time you drugged me and put me in a wood chipper?" They all die laughing as Misty continues, "I'm there on that conveyor belt like, hey! Where am I! Holy crap! Dale's tryin' to put me in a wood chipper!"
But things are bad for Dale and Misty. Misty is continually bringing up the past. The wood chipper. Every argument Misty brings up the wood chipper. Dale rolls his eyes, "Why do you always have to throw the wood chipper in my face?"
"It could be because, you put me in a FUCKING WOOD CHIPPER DALE!"
I don't have accurate information as to the end of this story. I don't know if Dale and Misty are still married. But if they divorced, I'm sure they didn't tell family that they care deeply for one another and still respect each other.
I can only wish for a great ending. That Misty eventually said, "Dale. I put sixteen Xanax in the Budweiser you just drank. There's a grain elevator with your name on it."
It's not what happened I don't think. But it would be a tight, put a bow on it sort of ending to a breakup story that started with a girl and a wood chipper.

Hey, God. Spread it around.

2009-06-23T15:28:00.000-07:00

Who made this table? I'll give you a hint. NOT DENISE!!!

John and I went to visit Carly in rehab this weekend. Great weekend. Got in touch, got spiritual, got honest, yada, yada, yada.
When we go to Tucson we are so fortunate to be able to stay in our dear friends guest house way up in the hills. It's freeking beautiful and peaceful and I would like to never leave. John and I have known these people for twenty years.
Okay, so, the wife, Denise. Denise is as gorgeous as she was twenty years ago. I know people always say that, but in her case, it's actually true. She drinks a lot of wine so we're thinking she's actually pickled. I on the other hand I have aged like a normal human.
Denise is one of those women that doesn't really know how beautiful she is so that makes her more beautiful.

So that should be enough, don't you think? Beauty? Who needs more? Denise cooks all our meals when we stay with them. I don't mean grill cheese. I mean 'chicken a la red wine marsala' with basil and tomatoes that she's hand picked from some hill in Spain. Then she makes the salad dressing. 'Tomato a la burberry, something, something'. She prepares a different dish each evening. I say, "What can I help with?" She says, "Oh, nothing. This dish is so simple. You relax."
Okay. So she's beautiful and she can cook. They own a comedy club and we walk through the doors and I notice since my last visit there is beautiful art work covering the walls. I said, "Wow. This looks amazing!" Denise proceeds to explain how she painted each piece of art in the garage and how painting isn't really her thing but they needed something on the walls so, I guess give her a paintbrush. What?
We go back to the hills and I demand that I am doing the dishes without question. I'm washing and I see this wildy fantastic ceramic bowl. I'm carefully washing it thinking it was probably expensive and I don't want to break it. I carefully turn it over and written on the bottom of the dish it says by Denise B. At this point I hang my head and turn to her and moan, "You make your own dishes?"
The point I'm making is could God spread it around a little? Why heap all the beauty and talent on a few people. If someone is short, make them really funny. If someone is bald, give them lots of money. On the other hand, if someone is beautuful, give them a constant toothache. Or if a person is a gifted artist, maybe they could smell bad.

It seems like God is in the people making factory and Jennifer Aniston comes down the belt and he takes his bucket of beauty and talent and dumps a shit load on her. Then Danny Devito rolls by and God walks away to check his facebook.
I'm just saying that God could spread the magic sauce a little more evenly.
John and I are about to leave Tucson and I set my drink on a table. After I set it on the table I ask for a coaster because in my head this order makes sense. Denise says, "Oh, please. That table is so old. I made it when we lived in Germany." I laughed and said, "Of course you did. We all made a table or two. In Germany. Sure."

Scanning Beef

2009-06-11T21:11:00.000-07:00

I get to work and I sit on the tiny bench which is the only place in the giant parking lot designated for smokers. The lepracy bench. I light my cigarette and 'random man' passes by. He says, "Good morning. The Dow is down thirteen points." This man always has a fact or information to give me. He comes in two or three times a day and he's a very nice man so I act really interested. "Thirteen points? That is ridiculous."
I go in the store and I start scanning things. Millions of things. It never ends. I scan about a thousand things and then I look at the clock, I've been at work five minutes. I look down, scan more, and wonder what point my life veered this horribly off course. Then I remember and keep scanning.
I say to the customer, "Two dollars and twenty nine cents." She says, "What! What did I buy!" I hear this twenty times a day. I say, "Well. You bought cheese." She screams, "You may as well be robbing me at gun point!" I think, for cheese?
The next customer, "No, no, no! That was ninety nine cents! Go look at it!" I do. It's three dollars. "You're robbing me. I'll shop somewhere else!" I secretly pray she doesn't go shop somewhere else.
The next customer walks up smiling about the previous customer. He says, "Some people are crazy. I know because I did your job in high school." A teenage girl walks up on her cell phone, acts like I'm invisible, then says, "Thanks sweetie." The girl is younger than my kids.

Random man has finished his shopping and walks by and says, "Did you know that Koala Bears eat rubber?" I say, "Really? Rubber? That... is... crazy." He says, "Yeah. See you tomorrow." I look at the clock. I've been at work ten minutes.
I scan for two hours and then I go back and sit on the bench for ten minutes. Not eleven. Ten.
I light a cigarette and a customer walks by and he shakes his head, "You should not be smoking. My brother smokes and now he talks through a tube in his neck and urinates blood." I have absolutely no response to this.
I see he's holding a plastic bag with a giant bottle of scotch. I think I should tell him that he shouldn't drink that because my brother drank scotch, then he lost his wife and kids and now lives in a asylum shitting his pants all day. But I don't say that because I'm a christian. Thank you God he finally walks off. I have two more minutes.
I walk back in the store and the manager says, "Finally. You were gone for like thirteen minutes." I'm thinking, kiss my ass, but I say, "Wow. Really? I'm sorry. I must have lost track of those three minutes."
I get a huge order and ask a bagger to help me. He walks over with his pants sagging down halfway across his ass, as he's texting on his phone. The groceries come down the belt and he stares off into space dropping things in the bags. He has two speeds. Stopped. And slower than fuck.
I feel really irritated. I end up bagging most of the order myself. I look at the clock and I've been back from my thirteen minute break for five minutes. Eight hours later I walk out the door and run into random man and I say, good night. He says, "They say that in Detroit unemployment is up thirty six percent." I say, "Thirty six? This is insane. Okay, well, have a good night." And I drive home with every single ounce of life completely sucked out of me.

Nine years. I have been scanning Bologna for nine god damn years. The only possible way in hell that this will not feel like I've completely wasted nine years of my life is if I'm ever in my wildest and most insane dreams on Oprah and she says, "I wonder what Koala bears eat?" I will immediately say, "Rubber. They eat rubber Oprah."

Carly Hustle

2009-06-11T18:27:00.000-07:00

My youngest daughter is in a drug rehab for the fifth time. My husband and I are getting desensitised to the whole thing. Carly is a heroin addict. A beautiful, talented, funny, soulful heroin addict.
We are used to Carly being gone somewhere, in some treatment facility, in detox, or whatever place we could find to hold on to her so she wouldn't use.
But I have fleeting seconds where I feel a sting in my heart. I think 'take me'. I wish it were that simple. Please, take me, take me. Let her get old and have a great life. Let her have memories of laughing and fighting and crying.
Let her have a little baby and a husband and a little crappy house that they live in and laugh in.
I love to think of Carly calling her sisters and complaining about the things in life. The kids are driving her crazy, the husband is driving her crazy, they don't have enough money. Planning trips to the beach and going camping. Screaming at the children, "I said not to get in the god damn water!" Because her mouth is like her mothers.

I want her to call me crying because her kids are teenagers and they're crazy. I want to comfort her and tell her it's going to be okay and that I love her and I'm so proud of her.
I want to be in the front row when her kids graduate from high school and watch her smile with overwhelming pride.
I want to be there. I want to hear these things. I want to see these things. I want to feel these things in my heart.

Even to write this makes my stomach sick. I feel like my insides are shaking. But I navigate my day by being funny. Thinking funny. Acting funny. Always funny. This is how I protect myself from my heart breaking into pieces. It protects me from the reality that she may never have that life, or any life. She may. But she may not. I miss her.

Pudding

2009-06-10T17:03:00.000-07:00

If someone said to you, if you use drugs you will loose your family, your job, all your money and your dignity but your legs will feel like pudding. Do you have any idea how many people would choose the pudding? Most of the people I know.
To a normal person this isn't even something to think about. But with addicts, we could go back and forth for hours. 'My family'. 'Pudding'. Hum. What do I do here. Our minds become consumed with figuring it out. At the end of the day, there we are. With legs that feel like pudding.

I know my brain is wired for pudding so I have to focus on everything I do or I'll end up behind a dumpster. For me it could happen so easily. I would go see my pharmacist 'Julio' at his office that is actually located on a sidewalk downtown. I'd try using some small talk with him, "Hi Julio. And how's your family?" Julio would just get angry, "I said give me the money, I'll give you the pills, then you walk away. Don't fucking talk to me." What happened to good 'customer service'?.
Drug addiction is only funny if your a drug addict or alcoholic. It's like if your a particular race, you can talk about and say funny things about that race. Addicts and alcoholics can make fun of each other as long as you're in recovery. I have a friend who said to one of my family members, "Hey! I hardly recognised you without the ski mask!" This family member got the idea one night, legs like pudding, he went to the grocery store, got a bottle of expensive vodka, put a ski mask on and ran out.
God knows I'm not one to talk about bad behavior. When the kids were small I woke up one morning and found that my car was gone. You know, this is typical for alcoholics, you call friends and try and find your car. So I call a friend and she says that I gave my car away at a house party. What? She said I went out to the glove box of my car and came in with the title and signed it away to some stranger. I said that I would never do that. She said she tried to stop me but I told her the guy was real sweet and he was having trouble getting back and forth to school. Apparently it was more important that the stranger got to school than it was for me to care for my two small daughters as a single mom.

I eventually got my car back but do you know how I got to that place of giving my car away at a house party? One thought. 'My family'. 'Pudding'. All the chaos and bullshit in the entire world begins with people who have legs that feel like pudding.

What if the hokey pokey is what it's all about?

2009-06-09T18:15:00.000-07:00

I'm stopped at a red light and the biker in front of me has various things attached to his jacket. These things are the equivalent of bumper stickers because he has no bumper. The one that caught my eye was 'If you can read this, the bitch fell off'.
Most of the time I keep my beliefs and feelings in my head unless I put them in a blog. It is interesting that people put their beliefs on the back of there car. Bumper stickers. So I can get to know you while I drive behind you.

I saw one that read, 'After we rebuild Iraq can we rebuild our schools'. I like it. Not enough to paste it to the back of my car, but I like the idea. Another one said, 'Obama is not my president'. Clearly someone without a television.
One of my favorites is 'Hugs, not drugs'. Hugs clearly couldn't hurt. What about 'Hugs not high cholesterol'? God almighty I want the hug idea to work.
Then there are the people who REALLY want to share. They put everything they feel on bumper stickers on their car. On ONE car I saw 'Abortion is murder', 'WWJD', AND 'Protect the union of marriage'. Okay, okay. Calm down. And thank you for assaulting my eyes with your passion.

On a truck I saw a collection of feelings, 'NRA', 'I don't have an alarm, I have a Smith and Wesson', and then one of those silhouettes of the girl sitting down with her leg up real sexy. It seems that the guys that have the sexy sitting girl are always driving alone.
The one bumper sticker I loved said, 'God bless the whole world, no exceptions'. I love it. I wouldn't put that on my car but I would put it on my jacket.
This one I really like, 'Well behaved women rarely make history'. I still won't put it on my car but I love the badly behaved woman that would. Then I wonder if this is the 'bitch' the man lost off the back of the motorcycle. She could have a bumper sticker that says, 'If you can read this, I got tired of my hair being blown to shit on his motorcycle'. It could happen. It's a freeky freeking world.

The only bumper sticker that I have ever seen that I would think about putting on my car read, 'What if the hokey pokey IS what it's all about?' I mean, what if?

Happy

2009-06-08T16:24:00.000-07:00

Let me first say that this is my life. My husband recently had a massive heart attack. My oldest daughter is rolling in and out of sobriety. My middle daughter, well, I feel she drinks too much but it's a touchy subject. My youngest daughter is in a drug rehab for a heroin addiction for the fifth time. She is nineteen now and has been using since the age of thirteen. I take care of my mother who has Parkinson's Disease. She lives with me. My grandson is eight and has Cerebral Palsy. I'm in love with him. My point is I don't say things from a perspective of living a fucking sweet ass life. I'm been in the trenches and some days I still visit the trenches.
Someone said to me, "When will I be happy?" I said, "Maybe tomorrow."
Happiness isn't a constant state unless you are mentally ill. One day you're happy. The next day, unhappy. So if you're looking for permanent happiness, it's not going to happen without medication. Because that's life, right? Happiness isn't permanent. It's moment by moment.

Just like 'love'. I've been married for over twenty years. Most days, I'm madly in love with him. Other days, I want to stab him with an ice pick. Love is another feeling that we strive to have twenty four hours a day. And then when we're let down we run out the door because the 'love' feeling went away for ten seconds. Be patient. Stick around. Love comes back around.
The same thing applies to feeling sad or upset. Unless you've been diagnosed with some sort of depression, sad or upset with go away. It not a permanent feeling. People say, "Now my whole day is ruined." No it's not. Ten minutes of your day is ruined. The rest of your day was actually pretty good. Why focus on that crappy ten minutes?
What are you going to feed? The beast that's making you feel like shit? Or the happiness? Because if you pay attention, you're feeding one or the other possibly without even realising it.

I'm not a doctor or even a very bright person. I dropped out of high school in the ninth grade. But I have learned to hang on to the happy feelings as long as I can. I can't do this all day everyday because the 'ice pick' idea continues to flash through my head as I'm sure it does his. But I try. I try to be 'happy'. When will you be happy? I don't know. Tomorrow. The next day. The day you stop feeding the beast. Soon I hope.
Caution: I am not a doctor or motivational speaker. I am a checker in a grocery store. If you like being pissed off, carry on.