07:40:35

 

It didn't occur to me that if you make an emergency call and report that you believe your stepson is not alive, the news blotter might put it in the 'fainting' category.  Fainting... I wish.  

It took Kaleb four months to address me by name.  It was not lack of respect, quite the opposite actually.  This was my Kaleb.  Shy, silly, quiet, and he didn't want to lack the respect of saying someone's name without the familiarity of informal formalities.

In the wildest of horrible thoughts would I have ever imagined a few short years later, the girls and I would be sitting in a cold, laminate, fake wood, booth at Stewarts,  waiting for the coroner to take Kaleb's body away from his bedroom, never to be seen again.  Our Kaleb, ours...

I wondered if the person pushing the gurney with him, away from our home would imagine that just months earlier, Kaleb was gleefully excited when we pulled into a go-kart track in the bay.  He boldly stood at the window and almost ordered up (and paid for) an hours worth of racing for all six of us to the tune of $400 prior to myself interjecting and suggesting that we start small and not be impulsive.  A few months prior to that, he had hosted a day of mini-golf in Myrtle Beach, again, treating his family.  

This kid, this quiet gentle kid.  Best person to bring to the grocery store because he took his job of protecting me so seriously.   I was to carry nothing and it pained me to take that away from him so I would awkwardly watch him carry it all so he could say he did, even though he would never actually say it because that would be taking credit and causing awkward moments of recognition.

Two months prior to his sudden and abrupt departure, Kaleb's dad was sick enough to actually want to seek medical attention.  It scared Isabelle.  She retreated to her room to quietly cry.  I had to go down and collect them to leave and rounded the corner to find Kaleb embracing Izzy.  Calming her down, and for once, she was allowing him too.  Two years later and Isabelle said she forgot about that when I brought it up.  A quiet smile snuck to her lips as she thought about him. 

This is year three.  Three years and the cruel joke has not been undone.  He is still gone.

Kaleb.  His name.  Saying his name... hearing his name... a quiet, sacred prayer.  So much has happened since you left us and I often wonder what you would be saying and doing here in our new house.  Wondering which room you would have wanted and if I'd still find you sitting on Haeley's bed talking to her about things that you would talk to nobody else about.  

There is not a soul in our family that doesn't feel your absence like a dagger through the heart.  Insert soulful and inspirational closing statement here - I'd write it but I can't write something that I don't feel.

The angry little hamster.

I once wrote this poem for a person that I thought I loved.  Saying "I thought" because it is so irrational, me loving someone who was so hurtful and controlling of me.  Constantly in a theoretical jail cell with bars that kept me emotionally paralyzed, making me stay put and continuing on the hamster wheel that I could never bust off its tracks and move forward.

I sometimes look back at conversations and scream at myself for not pointing out the contradictions and hypocrisies of the lies that were being fed to me on a daily basis.  I've lost the time and continue to lose the time when I reflect on all the things...

I try to turn it into something positive in my mind.  How did that experience make me grow?  What did I learn?  How did this help me improve myself?  But the anger fogs my thoughts when I allow myself to go there.

Anyway, I came across this poem and was touched by my own words and pleased that I thought of them.  I wish I hadn't wasted them on someone so undeserving.

This life.

 This things that make me so happy in this life are so funny to me.  Organized spices and powders.  Making dinner for my family.  A glass of wine.  My damn dog, the most loyal being I've ever met.  School.  The epitome of safety, always warm, always filled with people who express love freely.

My grandmother is in her last days.  It is impossible to think about her not being here, on this world, being the center of us.  I was able to be with her last week for a few hours, just us.  I watched her sleep, I fed her some, but the best thing I was able to do, is talk to her.  She listened and it was natural.  Not like talking to someone like they are a baby... or thinking that because they can't respond you need to scream at them and dumb everything you say down... I just talked to her.  Talked about the place at the mall that you can go to, to get boba tea.  How I hate the little jellies but still order it... tapioca seems the most popular because they are black jellies and look pretty in the tea.. how the straw is thick and you never know when one of those big black jellies is gonna come flying up and choke you at any moment.  I talked to her about being a grandmother and trying to dig deep into my memory from when I was little to try and remember if she was as young as I feel as a new grandmother.  She chuckled.  

Her life, an amazing life.  Her house, built by her and her husband, her summer house, same.  They built their life from the ground up when it was the only way to do it.  They figured things out, knew what would happen before it happened, had a butt load of kids, created something from nothing.

Here she is, trying to stay comfortable until she meets him again, almost 40 years of separation.  I wonder what it would have been like had we been girlfriends rather than grandmother/granddaughter.  Would we have sipped on old fashions rather than her serving me buttered bologna sandwiches while I lay on her couch on my days home sick from school?  Would we have bowled together and I shared her trophies which would eventually find their way to dusty shelves in the basement?  Would we have digressed about our husbands and life's trivial situations, and laughed until we cried and pee'd a little?  I think so.  I have those kinds of friendships.. they are the only kind I look forward too.

So she lays there, and I sigh.  Will I lay there while my granddaughter talks to me?  I fucking hope so.  I really, really, fucking hope so.  I feel like my one day of presence isn't enough but I put myself in her shoes and can only hope for a nice day with my sweet granddaughter talking to me about boba tea and being a grandma herself.  I CANNOT even imagine it... but... I hope for it.

Indigo DeMarse with her great great grandmother Eileen Morrison

Danielle, Tracy, Bridget DeMarse with their grandma Eileen Morrison

Riding in cars with boys.

While perusing the options for a movie to watch later, I came across one of my old favorites, Riding in cars with boys....it has Drew Barrymore, so...nuff said.

I started it tonight after dinner and it took mere minutes before the entire family was captivated.  This movie covers a wide span of time of a single mother and her son and there are so many things that I relate to. 

uncanny resemblance, right?

Sometime I forgot significant moments and tonight's movie brought me back to a stray memory from when Luke was a toddler and I felt compelled to get it down before I forgot it. 

Jaime and I decided one evening to drive to Syracuse with our friends David and Jaime's now husband Jessie.  We were going to a battle of the bands soiree.  Tracy, as usual, was the dependent babysitter.  She never went with us anywhere during those times because her boyfriend was in county lock-up and she felt the need to sit next to the telephone 24-7 in case he called collect.  

We had an uneventful evening right up til we pulled up to Jaime's apartment at the end of the night where everyone's cars were parked on the street.  This clip in my story plays out in my memory in slow motion.  For some reason, as we were getting out of my car, I happened to be looking at David because he had a really strange look on his face.  If I could compare it to something it would be that moment between calm soda and the when the menthos hits the surface.  I hadn't even noticed that there were police cars by where we parked our cars.  I look back at Dave and follow his gaze down and across to the tires of his truck.  Every single rim on his truck was surrounded by a thick, yet flaccid coat of rubber.  In better terms, his tires were all devoid of air.  Jaime's Nissan Pulsar with the T tops.. her tires the same.  The police approached us inquiring on whether or not we owned these vehicles to which we all vacantly shook our heads yes.  We got lucky because people called the police.. two people, walking by, saw what happened... thank god.

Turns out Jaime had a slighty crazy neighbor, who we had the pleasure of watching be walked, cuffed, to a police car.  The neighbor, a woman in her 40s, completely random and definitely not a convict looking type woman, decided to take a knife and stab all of Jaime's tires along with Daves.  She told the authorities that her and Jaime had a disagreement about the level of noise coming from Jaime's muffler.  Jaime... the non-crazy one, let the police know that she and this neighbor had never said two words to each other and she had no idea what she was talking about.  

48 hours later, we are packing Jaime's uhaul.  Thats right.. she didn't feel safe, how about that?  The neighbor back at home from a short stint in jail didn't quite sit right.  Jaime and I, along with toddler Luke (3 years old), completely packed and loaded her things in and evening and a day.  Luke and I spent the night so we get get up early and finish up.  We went to bed exhausted and I woke up, slightly groggy, Luke got up before me.  Jaime is stirring, Luke is not with her.  Where, the fuck, is Luke?  Luke.... is outside.  I have zero idea what would compel Luke to do what he was doing, but, he was in the process of dragging lawn toys from behind the crazy neighbors house to her front lawn.  He must have made at least three trips before we found him.   There are many unknowns in what led up to this as Luke wasn't a reliable teller of his actions.  Like.. how did he get out of bed while sleeping with me without me knowing... or.... how did he get down the flight of stairs that required a bit more than toddler mobility and dexterity... like how the heck he was able to pull all these lawn toys to the front of a crazy ladies house without grabbing her attention enough to give Luke the same fate as Jaime's tires.  Holy, good god, grabber dabber, fricken scary.   

Those antics aside, this crazy neighbor did actually end up going to jail for years, but it was not for slashing tires.  It was for being an arsonist.  She started breaking into houses in the neighborhood and starting fires.  One of the houses being the one that housed Jaime's apartment, the day after she moved out.  She had a feeling, glad she trusted it.  The neighbor ended up getting caught when she was trying to start a fire at the house where her kids were spending the night.  The tires were nothing compared to the true scope of what she was capable of.  

Yep, so that happened... 

All it takes is one.

Imagine you are a sixteen year old teenager.  Lets make you female... You are attractive, street smart, book smart (but you have to work hard at it), and the child of a single mother.  Your upbringing was quiet, no drama.  Although your dad uninvolved, your mother always made it work to put a roof over your head, food on the table, and was consistent with her expectations.

Now imagine you met a boy, a really nice boy.  He works hard, brings home a steady paycheck, is skilled with fixing cars, and is a volunteer village fireman.  He is very sweet, likes you very much, and after you decide to enter into the boyfriend/girlfriend stages, he is all you think about.  Buying him the perfect birthday and Christmas gifts was a thing.  You spent hours upon hours at his house, get to know his family pretty well.  His siblings become your siblings, his friends become yours.  If this is how it is, and nothing changes, then you feel lucky enough to know that you might have found the person you might end up being with for life.

Several months into the relationship, there are some stumbling points.  He doesn't acknowledge your birthday, he starts to act jealous if he perceives any boys as 'checking you out', he demands to know the passwords to your social media as a requirement for trust.  You comply, why not? you have nothing to hide.  He starts talking about his ex-girlfriend, telling you stories about her, even describing events where she has spoken about you.  He wonders aloud if maybe she should be taught a lesson.  These hints start becoming more direct, some laced with the idea that you would be proving trust and devotion by teaching her a lesson.  It is not how you were raised and you are uncomfortable with his requests and choose to not comply.

The scale that balances happy times with stressful times begins to collect moments, stressful times is the heavier side.  You start to withdraw from the relationship.  Your mom is noticing what is going on and questioning you about it.  You decide that maybe you should step back, take a break, get things back on track in your life.  He doesn't agree.  He contacts your mother to speak with her about convincing you to stay with him, no luck.  This is where it starts to get complicated.  There is a point where the nice route doesn't get you what you want.  Your mother is not receptive to helping him convince you to stay in the relationship, after all, you are now seventeen, this is normal.  You are slightly horrified that he contacted your mother and decide to make a clean break.  He begins to panic, he starts tracking your location using social media, showing up wherever you are and acting as if you are still together (to which presents the situation that you feel that you have to reiterate that you are no longer in a relationship) and each time this happens, his reaction is more severe than the last time.

He begins messaging your friends.  He tells them that you talk about them behind their back.  He gives specific fabricated examples.  He describes text messages that he cannot provide screenshots, or any other physical proof of, but the seed of doubt has been planted and some friends decide to distance themselves from you.  He begins to call you and threaten to commit suicide.  You alert his mother (who tells him to go for it? you decide to give her the benefit of the doubt and chaulk this up to reverse psychology).  At one point his suicidal threats are so bad that you tell him you will stay with him out of fear of being responsible for his happiness, thus responsible if he chooses to hurt himself.  Two days into the renewed relationship, he starts demanding social media passwords, you end it for the second time.  He contacts you and tells you that he is going to crash his truck because life is meaningless without you, hours later he gets into an accident and blames it on icy roads to anyone who asks what happened.  This did not persuade you to go back to him.

At this point, he has started writing things on a social media platform (Facebook/Snapchat/Instagram, all of them).  Sad quotes about not being wanted, about girls who are not faithful, about broken future plans.  Although you have blocked him from seeing any of your social media, people start sending you pictures.  There are comments upon comments under his quotes, people that don't know you calling you a cunt, comments saying that you are a cheater (this one was written by his grandmother), it is completely out of hand and out of control.  You are now stressed enough that you barely can get through a day of school without bursting into tears over a new revelation that someone has brought to you about your ex boyfriend, stories he is telling them about false things that you have done.  He starts telling people that your mother is strung out on drugs, there is no stone left unturned for every faction of your life that he has impacted in some way.

A month after the break up you start to form a potentially new relationship with a boy you have known for a long time, it goes nowhere after your ex finds out and contacts him to fill his mind with more seeds of doubt.  This happens a second time a month later.  Few more months down the road, you start talking to someone but do not tell anyone for fear that it would get back to your ex and he would sabotage yet another connection that you hope to pursue.  Your ex finds a new girlfriend, she is the sister of a close friend of yours.  He starts showing up to your sporting events at school with his new girlfriend.  At these events he doesn't break his stare as you try to focus on playing basketball, it is palpable and people begin to notice.  Your coach mentions possibly having an administrator ask him to leave (it never gets to that - thank god).

Your close friend (and her sister) start to withdraw from you.  They both act angry towards you and your friendship become a shell of what it used to be.  They end up breaking up.

At this point it has almost been a year.  He begins dating a new girl (another person that goes to your school - he graduated from a different school district), at your graduation ceremony as you are walking down the hall, there he is walking towards you along with her family, you change direction and manage to avoid him.  The new girl he started dating and you are familiar with each other and have never had negative interactions.

After graduating, with no school events to be concerned about, your mother and you move to a new place out of town and things settle and the quiet is most welcome.  Your new relationship is still going strong and you have a great summer together.  You start working at Walmart as you attend  school full-time at the local community college.  Months go by before one day while working, you look up and see your exes girlfriend video recording you on her telephone while you work.  You turn and walk away.  You need this job and confrontation is the opposite of enabling yourself to keep it.  This happens a second time a few weeks later.  Then, a month after that, you are working and your exes girlfriend approaches you and begins to physically attack you.  She strikes you several times, some in the face, has you backed into a corner, and then disappears.  You have no means for defending yourself without risking your job and nowhere to go physically.  The police are called, a report filed, and thats it.  In this process, you are allowed to look at the video footage of the attack, standing about 10 feet behind your attacker is your ex with a cheshire grin on his face.

Less than two weeks later, before a court date or any notion of legal action happening, you arrived at the mall with your boyfriend when a truck comes charging directly towards your car.  At the last moment it swerves and then parks next to your car.  It is your ex, and his girlfriend.  Your boyfriend and you start walking towards the entrance of the mall with the girl yelling in your direction to stop so she can "talk to you".  You go into the mall and are followed from store to store by your ex and his girl.  The police are called, your  mother, horrified and worried, gets in her car and starts driving towards the mall.  They leave before either entity get there.

At this point it is nearly eighteen months since you had been in a relationship.  It took several weeks to happen before a stay away order is in place.  The court would only grant an order against the person who physically attacked you and not against the person who has instigated months and months of harassment with no signs of stopping.  With the physical attack being behind you for about 4 months, you recently noticed a couple of people at your work, vaguely familiar, watching you intently and in a peculiar way (again, yeah I know...) off in the distance you notice your ex and his girlfriends brother laughing hysterically.  The people were her parents.   With all of this being said, you have no idea when this will stop, you have decided you cannot keep recreating your life to work around any opportunity that he has to 'get you' in whatever way he can convince people to do it for him.  You would love to say this cloud has a silver lining.  "don't do what I did..." "really get to know a person..." "check for these signs...." none of those things sounds like things you would have listened to when you first starting dating him almost two and a half years ago.  You are sure at some point you will stop having to look over your shoulder or endure strangers calling you a "pussy" for not attacking this girl back at your place of work.  In a way, you feel bad for her, you know the things he says to manipulate people.  God knows what else he is having her do.

Now.. imagine those non-specific thing happens to you.  Your Aunt would be very shocked, horrified, and amazed with the decisions of several adults in this scenario.

The edges of Mother's Day.

I have learned to dislike Mother's Day greatly.  It is the day that I spend way to much time anticipating, what used to be, crazy amounts of disappointment.  It's so weird because if Mother's day was disappointing, you would think it would be due to the lack of acknowledgement on the part of my children, but that actually is not a thing - my boys are awesome and love freely and openly and do not neglet me in any way.  I don't speak of it much anymore, but I am effected deeply from a relationship I was in for many years, where the person used Mother's day as a platform to hurt me.  It sounds pretty dumb on paper, dumb that I allowed it to happen over and over, but - a few years back on this day, I would wake up and hope to hear a simple phrase come from the mouth of the person who was supposed to love and cherish me.  It took some years before I finally broke down and admitted that I was deeply hurt that he would not acknowledge or say "happy mother's day" on Mother's day, but he did admit (towards the end), that I wasn't the mother to any children of his, so why should he? 

I don't know how to explain what it feels like to have to cry and explain to someone why they should not just acknowledge the day as a celebration of motherhood, but that it might be even more important to teach the biological and non-biological children how to celebrate it also.  It is ruined when you have to ask for it.  It is embarrassing to have to ask for it.

I find myself trying to avoid the day all together because it is a day where there lies a pit in my stomach that feels like lead weight, because I have somehow allowed this negativity to evolve into the underlying feeling that I do not deserve it.  I can't seem to erase it no matter how hard I try to forget. 

The last Mother's Day prior to my hasty exit from said toxic relationship, (as i'm sure that it was also being anticipated that we were coming to an end), in an attempt to win me back or get me to rethink my impending departure, it was decided that we now celebrates Mother's Day and together with my younger son, put up a sign and got a couple gifts.  Despite what was to come, I betrayed myself and expressed happiness and acted as if this was normal.  It wasn't.  A few hours after my surprise Mother's Day acknowledgement, it was then inquired as to why I didn't acknowledge the efforts to make my day special by posting it to social media.  When I acted perplexed as to why this should be a thing, the response was "you mean I did all of this for nothing?". 

As I said, at this point, I just wish this day wasn't a day.  Last year, my older son living out of town and my younger son being on a trip with his dad, I was actually not as anxious about Mother's Day as I normally would be.  I began a new relationship with a person who is completely genuine and expresses love in the way that it should be expressed.  He took me on a day trip to Syracuse, we went to my favorite Market and had lunch, and it literally was one of the best days ever.  I don't know how many of these trips we will need to take for me to stop recoiling inside every time I hear the phrase 'Mother's Day'.

On the part of the other party, I hope, for the sake of any new relationship, that something was learned so that this is never a thing that is done to a person again.

the best Christmas

It wasn't because there were many gifts or much money.

Just Luke and myself in our two bedroom subsidized apartment.  This place was freedom to me because I could afford it, but at the same time, that was about all I could afford.

Now it is Christmas and Luke is maybe three years old.  I had one gift for him, cowboy boots.  That was it.  They were very, very nice cowboy boots.  I had guilt and sadness because I was failing him in the present department, but, he just did not seem to care.  We spent the morning opening gift, ok maybe it was like five minutes.  Then we headed over to my dad's house to spend Christmas morning with my family.

My dad was known for buying gifts for us girls that were, quite frankly, bizarre.  Crazy kitchen appliances that one would have very small use for, like food dehydrators, or waffle irons, or... I don't know.  Anywho, my dad's mother would send gifts for us to his house (she lived out of town) - and we also had a gigantic breakfast every Christmas.  If it was a breakfast food, he made it.

We sat down and ate breakfast around the living room floor (pow-wow style).  My dad would start handing out gifts.  This year, my grandmother sent us comforters, big, thick, soft, comforters.  How exciting, honestly, all of my blankets were dismal in comparison.  Tattered remnants of my childhood, too old to be amazing and too old to get rid of.  Then, my dad gave me his gift for me.  It was AMAZING.  No avocado scooping, coffee grinding, potato peeler.  No, this was far better than anything he could have ever purchased for us.  It was a 13 inch, television VCR combo and it was FABULOUS.  I didn't have cable, I didn't have a TV, I guess I didn't really have much of anything now that I think about it.  But I had this...

Usually on the way back to my apartment, I would be fighting the exhaustion of getting up so early and the carb fest at my dad's.  We got home, dug up a VCR tape, set up the TV in my room.  Unfolded that luxurious comforter from my gram, and fell asleep to the sounds of Ferris Bueller.  It was literally, the best Christmas ever.  I cuddled my Luke on my bed in this heavenly blanket and slept for hours... just to wake up and head to my other grandma's house for dinner.

the simple things.

It has been a little over a year since the last time I have confessed all of my life secrets in this little blog of mine.  I'm still here, rest assured.  I've been standing at home plate trying to knock all things I swing at, out of the park.  Finally, the universe's first string pitcher has thrown something that I somehow managed to see and recognize as the perfect pitch.

People say things that I think I understand, I think relate to, I think I have experienced -- then it is truly experienced and it's as refreshing as that first splash of water on your face after biking ten miles on the hottest day of days.

I hate to admit that I grew up a pessimist.  I remember being in elementary school, lining up on the risers on stage for a chorus concert.  My chorus teacher warned us against looking up into the stage lights, she said it would hurt our eyes.  I stared straight into those lights to prove her wrong.  I wasn't a believer.   My mother said that soda in the morning would give me a stomach ache.  Proved that one wrong.  Not a believer.  Eating before taking a swim...no cramps, nothing.  If you chew on your hair, you'll grow a big hairball in your stomach and it will have to be surgically removed...nope.

Someday you'll meet the love of your life and you'll know.  Seriously, now... come on.  I really wanted to be a believer.  Like if I pretended it could happen, maybe the pretend thing would actually turn into a reality... or some shit like that.

If I could tell my younger self something to keep me going when my mind was filled with dread and doubt about this life, my decisions, seeing the true intentions of people who I thought loved me for me and nothing else... I would say, "when the time is right, he will walk into your life.  He will surround you with his light and you will experience true happiness and genuine love.".

I have never trusted someone so fully and it is otherworldly.  He slows me down, listens, is completely tuned into my emotional state, and I have never loved someone like I love him.

I won't paint this as a happily ended fairy tale or something that is too good to be true.  I will say this though, I feel safe, I look forward to continuing growing with him, experiencing our life together, and am extremely optimistic about what the future holds for us.  I just want to be the best person that I can be, and someone who makes you feel that way is sui generis.  If you are lucky enough to find it, don't let it slip through your fingers.  I take zero of these moments for granted.

Falling off the balance beam.

I'm not a writer.  I wish I was.  I can't write songs, I can't write the way I would want to write, so I don't.

I've been thinking awhile about writing this post.  Writing about the end of a very long relationship, about feeling betrayed, and just about how tired I am in general.  So here it goes...

I remember the first time I felt depression.  I was in the 8th grade.  I expressed my sadness by not spending a whole lot of time getting ready in the morning, pulling my bangs and sides up into a partial ponytail, no makeup, hoodies... it passed, it always passes.  My entire life I have been known for my happiness, being cheery, funny, always relied upon to be fine no matter what circumstances were at hand.

So yeah, enter in 20 or 30 years of living, couple kids, couple marriages, and here I am.  Trying to give myself on honest take on who I am.  I realize and am aware lately, more than ever, all of the toxic behaviors I have engaged in, in the past.  For a long time I was not responsible with my physical body.  I ate without abandon, drank without abandon, basically did what I wanted.  I overstayed my welcome in relationships that were painted as loving when they were everything but.  I hated myself, but I didn't know that.  I did not do the hard things until this year, this particular year.

This year has been different for me in the sense that I have faced many inner demons that I have failed to acknowledge for as long as I can remember.  Who am I?

I am the girl who seeks love in the wrong places.
I am the girl who hides when she is depressed, wanting nothing more than to lay and cry and not know why.
I am the girl who is easily distracted.
I am the girl who will give you a hug, a genuine hug.
I am the girl who freely tells all of her friends how much she loves them.
I am the girl who justifies her bad behavior and believes her justifications when she should not.
I am the girl who did not cry at her grandfather's funeral.
I am the girl who is lost.  I don't think I will ever be found honestly, learning to live my life in a state of wander.
I am the girl who lost the ability to lie.  I can't anymore. 
I am a girl.  A really tired girl.

At some point, I will probably be able to elaborate more.  I hope I will be writing that blog post about how I found happiness within myself.  How I finally felt like I was worth something meaningful.  How I found my confidence, and how I shrugged off all of the negative things I constantly thought about myself.  I hope I figure this all out.

Pass the sour cream.

A short note to quickly explain how completely overwhelming it is, sometimes, being a teacher, a single mother, and trying to be perfect all the time, every single day.  Besides teaching, during the day in a classroom M-F, I also work in the evening teaching college classes at the Community College on Tuesdays/Thursdays.  Along with this, I spend many hours furthering my skills as a teacher as part of a NYS fellowship, last year I logged 120 hours, on my own time.  Basically, I am very, very, busy, making ends meet and making everything work.  Since my son was at his Father’s this weekend, I volunteered to spend my weekend at SUNY Plattsburgh with the NYS Fellowship.  After receiving a call very late Saturday night finding out that my son had a dental emergency, I rushed back early Sunday morning to pick him up and take care of the broken tooth dangling from his braces.  He and I then spent three hours shopping and running all over Watertown, then delivering to school supplies to reward the 86 students that were in my classroom the last day of school, with a surprise taco party.  I spent $170.  This is a glimpse of what my life is like ALL of the time.  It is never ending and every day.

Today, the last day of classes for grades 7-12, even though I got to school early, cooked the taco meat, cut the lettuce, put out the plates, drinks, and decorations,… I still managed to run down to my supervisor and ask if it was too late to give awards to the 7th/8th graders.  Every year I struggle with whether or not I should give awards because I have so many amazing students, when awards are given, I think more about the kids who are left out.  I think about the ones who don’t think they are good enough, I hate letting anyone down.  My supervisor said it was fine and to try to contact the parents asap.  I went back to my room, made all the phone calls, almost got everyone, the bell rings, students walk in, phones have to go away.  My students were ecstatic with the surprise taco party, they thanked me profusely and no one went hungry.  Fourth period came, I gave out my awards.  The couple of students whose parents I was unable to get a hold of, I made sure to whisper an apology to, as I was giving them their award.  I am definitely not perfect, by any means and will never claim to be.  I received an email that a parent called and chastised the secretary at school because I was unable to get a hold of her prior to the award ceremony, a secretary who has no idea or stake in whether or not I give or do not give an award and also has nothing to do with notifying parents.  The email also stated that the parent called back a second time to speak with my supervisor, again, to express her anger that she was not informed quickly enough.  I then, was made aware that the parent posted a picture of me on her Facebook, again describing in detail how mad she was that I was unable to get a hold of her in time.  Other people commented on her post, mostly in a negative manner towards myself.  I think this makes it pretty easy for me to say I will no longer participate in the awards ceremony, I was always weary of it to begin with and would rather do something on my own that can not be misconstrued as something negative.  Something that all of my students can benefit from and get the accolades that they deserve rather than just a lucky few. Although I really do want to apologize for not getting everything together last week like I had intended, and also apologize for trying to make it happen the day of the ceremony, I realize that had I just forewent the awards and stuck with just having a surprise taco party, this would have never happened.  Apologies should also be sent to all the people who try to find the good in a situation rather than turn it into something negative.  I am beyond thankful for the smiling faces that keep me coming back every day and am angry with myself for allowing a this bit of negativity overshadow so much love that was felt at our beautiful school, all day long.

With all this being said, my intention is definitely not to spread any negativity.  My intention is to help people understand how a simple post, a comment, a mean emoji, can feel on the receiving end.  For one act of perceived negligence, there are 200 acts of love, kindness, and understanding.  It is much easier to post nasty things and scream into a telephone at a stranger, than to just call someone directly and explain and try to understand their side of your story, no matter how big or small the situation is.   

I was that mom.

I didn't know what kind of mom I would be.  To be honest, I never had a plan for being a mother.  I never played "mom", I didn't dream about being a mother, I didn't have any desire until the day I found out I was going to be a mother at twenty years old.

So, there I was, alone, very young, in a huge city, baby in belly.  I didn't know how I got to where I was, but I did know that it was going to be hard and I would prevail.  The ultimate love, the unforgiving feeling that you have no control over the most precious being on earth.

You might be surprised at what this post is about.  It is not about how much I love Luke or how powerful our bond was and now, in his twenties, still is.  This post is about what I became when he left my arms from toddlerhood and straight into the waiting arms of his teachers for the next 13 years of his life in the public school system.

First of all, there is this possessive thing that happens when you become a parent.  These kids are created from your blood and bone, they are your DNA, your chromosomes, how could anyone not be completely devoted to their child?

That being said, I first started to see the signs of what was to come when Luke started pre-school at New Day Children's Center.  His teacher pulled me aside when I picked Luke up to tell me that he ran away from the group that day and into the church (which Luke thought was a castle).  I definitely understood why the teachers would have concern, they would have to chase him down and make him stay with the group.  He was a bit of a handful.  These types of interactions between Luke's teachers and I became the norm.  In kindergarten, he would have his card flipped on a daily basis.  First grade, Second grade, Sixth grade, his parent-teacher conferences would be something that I would dread.  I started to get angry.  Why couldn't they handle Luke?  What was it about my kid?  When we were home by ourselves, just him and I, he was perfect.  He behaved perfectly, was focused, helpful, had a huge heart.  I was getting so frustrated with the reports coming from Luke's school, every... single... day.

Now this is where I drop the revelation.  A.) Luke was gifted and bored, B.) Luke was dyslexic and acted out, C.)  Luke's teacher's didn't have enough patience, D.) Luke was bullied, E.) Luke was just being a boy (and boys will be boys right?), F.) Luke was, was, was....

You do realize that all of those revelations are not revelations, I wanted a revelation, I wanted a reason, any reason.  Any reason that would lift me off from this hook that I would dangle from anytime I was interacting with his teachers, reading a referral, getting the notes (written in vain) trying to get me on board.  The truth was... my kid was an asshole.  Seriously though, when my kid went to school, he did not act the way that he acted with me when I was home.  He was a smart ass, disrespectful, little asshole.  The shitty thing about this was, for years and years, I would walk into school to talk with his teachers and I would make excuses for him.  I would cover for him, yell at the teachers, go to the principal, complain about the teachers.  Lunch lady didn't like something Luke said, then she is a bitch.  Bus driver writes Luke a referral, well he is getting kind of old to be handling these kids, isn't he?  When I realized what my kid had become (sometime around the sixth grade), I was beyond horrified to look back and realize that all of those years I was standing in the way of the people who were trying to help my child be a productive member of his classroom, respected among his peers, and also impart to him that his actions had consequences.  Here I am thinking that I am being the best parent to my child when all along I was teaching him to never think he is wrong.  I taught him to victimize himself if he was called out for making poor decisions.

What happened in grade six did you say (or think)?  Well, at this point in my life, I had managed to put myself through school enough to obtain my initial teaching license, and became a teacher in a small k-12 school which I also enrolled Luke in.  I went from seeing my son only at home, to also being in the same building 24-7.  Those pesky teachers became my colleagues, and well, you now know the rest I suppose.  I learned the horrifying truth behind my child's behavior.  He wasn't bullied.  He wasn't dyslexic, gifted, bored,  and he definitely wasn't being a boy.  He was being an asshole and I enabled him.  I might even say that I made it much worse to the point where I could claim that I created this kid's behavior by taking away his consequences.

The next six years were not as easy as they could have been had I not been a wishy-washy mom-friend that I was at the beginning of all of this.  Luke was grounded a lot.  There was no grounding limit.  I recall having a conversation with my father-in-law at one point who told me that it is not abnormal for a kid to be grounded for their entire high school tenure.  "Do what it takes." he said.  Did I get tired of grounding him? yup.  Did it ruin some of the fun things that I wanted to do sometimes? yup.  Being a good parent required sacrifice.

Do I love my Luke more than life?  I do, so much.  I am so proud of Luke and what he has accomplished so far in his young life.  The sky is the limit for this beautiful child of mine.  He is so much like me, still has a great big heart, and is learning about life in leaps and bounds.  I still have to physically stop myself from hovering, even now, but I do and he is killing this whole 'adulting' thing.
Anyway.  I have wanted to write this post for a very long time.  Glad I got it out there.  Every time someone tells me that I did a great job raising Luke, I have to bite my tongue and spit something out like "oh, if you only knew....".

The Moth.

I have been a fan of the Moth Podcast for the past five years or so.  It started when my sister called me one day after listening to an episode of the moth on NPR.  I was an instant fan!  I combed the internet looking for episodes of the Moth to listen to.

Podcasts are great, they are modern day radio shows, all about the audio.  Even better, I have always loved stories and story telling.  In the sixth grade at Wiley Intermediate School (Watertown, NY), I won a trophy and honorable mention for story telling and forgot how much I loved it.  I want to say that there is some potential in me when it comes to being a professional story teller.

To my surprise and pleasure, my son Alex (9 years old), also loves the Moth.  They developed an app that gets updated weekly with new stories, every time that Alex and I go for a drive anywhere in the car, he ALWAYS asks to listen to the Moth.  I am not sure who loves the podcast more, Alex or myself.

One funny thing that happened a few years back one night, while I was making dinner and listening to the moth podcast on my headphones.  Usually, at the end of an episode, they announce that they will be coming to this town or that town in the near future..  Well.. by some crazy happinstance, they announced that they were coming to Clayton, NY!!!  Also, it was that night!!!  In like one hour!!!  I had partaken in a glass of wine (or two) while cooking so I called my friend Brandy and asked her to come get me.  I went online and bought us tickets.  Being the amazing friend that she is, Brandy showed up immediately and we headed over to Clayton to find out that I was off... by a week!  The following week I was there with friends and bells on!  I love the Moth.

This brings me to now, a few weeks back when I knew that I had a commitment in Plattsburgh, NY and also found that the Moth was going to be having a story slam nearby in Burlington, VT.  Always looking for ways to bring pleasure to my beautiful Alex's face, I bought us tickets.  Alex was beside himself with happiness the morning that I told him (the same day that the show was happening), and we just kept getting luckier and luckier as the day went on.  Parking spot right in front of the New Moon Cafe... we were accidentally an hour early... (so we WERE able to eat dinner before).. and then, the producers gave us to reserved seats in the second row!!?  I had some ideas floating around in my head, so, I figure I might go for broke and put my name in the hat.

I have to say this one more time, everything in life is sweeter through my son's eyes.  His excitement and happiness makes everything brighter and so much more beautiful.  Every time someone pulled a name from the hat, he would just... tense up.  There are ten slots for story tellers for the evening and five have told their stories, short intermission, then it is time to announce #6.  The hostess spills my name from her mouth and Alex just bounces up in his chair, you can tell... he cannot wait.  Later on when Alex and I discussed his feelings at this moment, he described it like this "well, I was thinking in my head "oh my god, oh my god, oh my god...." and was very nervous".  I swallowed, stood up, and stepped up to the microphone and this is what came out.... (on a side note, at the end of this recording, listen for the second round of clapping to hear Alex let out a couple of whoops for his mom).

a self reliant idiot.

I have been reflecting on myself and a slight flaw of my character that has been pointed out more than usual lately.  That is... my lack of ability to trust people to do things for me, or on my behalf, or just... delegation in general.

I hate asking anyone to do anything for me.  I pretty much keep finding myself at the door step of a mental breakdown from pure exhaustion rather than ask for help.

I have realized that this is a learned behavior beginning with the first job I was let go of because my son's father did not show up to pick him up and "babysit" him, from my place of employment so I could work that day.  For obvious reasons, I stopped asking him to help me.

I don't like owing people.  I don't like relying on anyone.  I just do not feel comfortable asking anyone to do things a majority of the time.  Most of all, I hate the feelings that I get that make my blood run cold, when on the rare occasion that I ask someone for help, they act put out by it.  Especially when they have found themselves on the receiving end of favors/help that I have offered to give and followed through with on more occasions that can be counted.

I don't really know how to get past this issue, I don't see myself changing.  For some reason, I could allow myself to ask for help and dig deep to find the trust that I won't be turned down or allow what I am asking to fall through, and it would be a success a thousand times.  But then there is the one time that I am let down, I beat myself up over and over for allowing myself to trust that person.

I fancy myself a pretty happy person a majority of the time, wanting to spread the love, spread the peace.  Lately, I have been feeling very let down, by myself and other people.  I hope I can find my way out of this hole sooner rather than later.

the era of judgment.

I come from a lot of things.  I have felt what it is like to be that family with a beautiful home, olympic sized in ground pool, pizza every Friday, and a butt load of presents under the tree.   I have also experienced being the family that uses a cooler as a refrigerator and watching my mother painstakingly sell off our beds to keep food on the table and the power on.  As a child, I felt what my parents wanted me to feel, loved.  I was not embarrassed about our situation, and because of that I think that a lot of people were unaware of how bad it was at times.

When I grew older and learned a few life lessons (good, tough, lessons), I found myself at a crossroads.  I was at a point where I needed to change my life and attempt to maximize my potential as a mother who provided in all ways to my son whom only had me.  I birthed a fully new appreciation for parents who have nothing but can make their children feel like they have everything.  We truly had very little, Luke and I.  We had each other and spent very little time dwelling on what we didn't have.  I never even considered public assistance in any way as a college student.  I literally let the power get shut off.  I did not even know where the office was or how it worked but with a little guidance, figured it out.  I was on assistance for almost the entire time I went to school for my undergrad degree, about six years.  This was from 2001 til 2007.  Right before the age of facebook and social ignorance.

I love facebook for the possibilities that it offers for people who don't have a lot of alternatives for socialization.  I love facebook for globalization, the world marketplace at your fingertips!?   Oh how far have we come?!  At this point, there might be more users that don't know a life without facebook and will never know the struggle!  Or maybe they will never know the feelings of not being judged unceremoniously, countless times, every day.

Maybe, possibly, I am walking around with rose-colored glasses, but, I don't recall ever hearing people in the 70s - 90s walk around openly judging other people if they were paying for food with food stamps.  Furthermore, I would not refer to them as "insert-your-town-name-here's finest".  Do you think they want to be on assistance?  Back then, food stamps were paper!?  Much more noticeable than a small piece of plastic that looks like a quick swiping credit card.  You weren't judged for being on medicaid, it just didn't happen.

People helped each other, it was a community where people cared more.  Now, I cannot scroll through my newsfeed, not one day without someone posting and complaining about how their "hard earned money is going to someone else"... I honestly, just don't get it.  If you are one of these people, someone who hasn't thought long and hard about who is on the receiving end of your post (whether they know it or not),  how would you feel if someone was saying this about your mother?  your daughter?  your grandson??  You can't say that they will never experience hardship in their lives, how would you know for certain?  Anything can happen and god forbid someone treats them or talks about them they way that some people so haphazardly deem themselves worthy enough to trash talk/treat others.  Get off your pedestal and go volunteer.  See what it is like to live the 'easy' life.

peace.  love.  and quit judging people.
 

the oil tank is full.

The oil tank got filled today.  Filled.  It is metaphorical really because the state of the oil tank mirrors the state of my life a lot of the time.  I think about a time where the thermostat was set to 55F because it had to be or else we wouldn't make it through the winter.  Tracy and I rented a farmhouse in Burrville and raised our children in the country like we always wanted to.  In the summer it was peaceful, starry nights, swingsets, big dinners, room to run, pet the cows.  In the winters it was cold and we were reminded that we could be doing better or at least if we could walk around our house without a blanket then we would be doing well.

I did not grow up in poverty.  I grew up more in the realm of latch key, salvation army, stand up for yourself or get walked on, and how to make something out of nothing.

It is funny how certain perspectives take place given some situations.  After having Luke and raising him by myself, we scrapped by most of the time with not a lot.  I was worried that Luke would know how broke we were, it was bad enough that he was a boy with only a mom, but add in poor and I would just feel down right guilty.  This all changed one day when he brought home a boy from school for a sleepover.  He was showing this boy our house and I overheard him saying "yeah, we are rich.".  I did a double take in my head and kept listening, Luke was telling the boy that we had a large house and I made good dinners.  It was the first time I was clued in to what Luke thought about our life and I was kind of shocked.  My view was half empty, his was half full, or, all the way full...

So, fast forward back to now, the oil tank is full.  It is cold out and we are no longer scrapping.  I think Luke still believes we are rich, at least that is what I assume from how many times he asks for money every week.  I am just going to bath myself in the words that bring me great comfort and satisfaction in this life...the oil tank is full.

the stylist.

I used to think that no matter what, there was no such thing as a bad haircut.

I had never seen one, so it just didn't exist.  Remember, this is the 80s and early 90s, so mullets were commonly accepted as a decent (business in the front, party in the rear) haircut.

I had been trying to grow my bangs out forever.  I basically wanted hair that resembled the girl on "Fast Times at Ridgemont High"

For the record, this hairstyle still appeals to me, braid and all.  

So it goes that I am trying to grow my bangs out so my hair is all one length and I share this with my younger sister, Jaime (11 years old at the time).  Jaime confesses that she too, would like to have hair that is all one length.  At this time, she has a longer style hair with bangs that reach the middle of her cheek.  I convince her that if she allows me, I could take matters into my own hands and give her the hairstyle that she desires.

I get the scissors, she sits.  I cut.  I cut more... I cut a lot more.  I do, eventually, create a hair-due that is all one length.  I stop and look at my handy work and cannot prevent my body from reacting with spasms of laughter that cannot be contained.  She hasn't noticed, the spasms are getting stronger...then laughter erupts from my mouth.  Jaime immediately reacts with a look of horror because she knows... I have created a haircut that would be categorized as bad.  I am not sure that I could have made Jaime look anymore unattractive.  

Now, this is where I attach a picture of Jaime from that time, but alas, you will be disappointed.  I am convinced beyond certainty that Jaime and my mother have a pact to destroy all evidence of that time in Jaime's life.  I know, for sure, that there exists somewhere, a school picture with Jaime and...the haircut.  I have searched high and low through my mother's boxes of pictures to no avail.  It is like the holy grail of old pictures.  Let's all say it together..."release the picture.....".

Anywho...Jaime obviously never let me cut her hair again and that was that.

Seasoned Travelers.

Alex and I decided to get out of town today, destination Canada.  Although the plan was to go around 11am, we didn't get out of town till around 2pm (booster seat issues).  One tension bridge and a smooth customs experience and we found ourselves cruising down the Canadian highway.  Kingston, Ontario was the plan.

I love Canada for dumb reasons.  A few being:

• When an ambulance has its lights and sirens on, everyone takes pulling over very seriously, no one seemed to capitalize on the fact that the person in front of them was slow reacting and used that to gain a few car lengths by speeding around them before they decided to resume their journey (which drives me crazy).
• McDonald's happy meals have really cute little tiny yogurts in them.  We discovered this when Alex dipped his hand into his happy meal box and came up with a spoon, to which he proclaimed "uh oh, I think I got the wrong order".
• Can we say no litter?
• In Kingston there are more sailboats in the water than there are cars on the road.  On a beautiful day like today, it is a super duper sight!
• Wolfe Island (which is rather close) has a gazillion windmills, no one seemed to mind what they look like, and there was not one sign that demonized harnessing the wind. (I, personally, love the look of windmills)
• The parking meters didn't seize up when I put American change in them, even better they registered as money and gave us time on the meter.
• Guess what?  My awesome sauce little prius has a button that you can push that changes the speedometer to kph in mere seconds :)

Alex and I had five possible places in mind that we could visit depending on how interesting they looked.  The most interesting (surprisingly to me) was the Canadian Penitentiary Museum.  I could see how this would appeal to Alex.  He loves Army things, guns, bad guys, good guys...the whole idea of being a policeman.  So, after lunch we head to the Canadian Penitentiary Museum.  This place is huge and on the water, there are look out towers at every corner, barbed wired fencing, and free parking (wooot!).  Alex and I are getting excited about how much there could possibly be to explore (I am thinking about all the steps I am going to fit in on my fitbit, he is probably fantasizing about locking his mom in a cell).  We pull in the parking lot and it strikes me how they are going all out to make this look real.  There is a sign that says they can search your car at any given moment...and a sign that says 'authorized personnel only'.  The only thing I cannot find is the freakin' entrance.  Alex and I are walking around the structure looking for an in.  We start trying handles and knockin' on doors, pretty much nothing.  I am kind of getting irritated at the lack of guidance (clearly poor customer service here).  We have one more door to knock on when I nab a grandpa looking passerby to ask for his assistance finding the entrance.  He just looks at me and starts laughing.  He says "Lady...this is a maximum security prison.  The museum is across the street.".  ooooops.

We high tail it back to our vehicle (parked in the prison parking lot), drive across the street to the REAL museum only to find that it closed 45 minutes before.  At this point I say to Alex, "honey, maybe we should head home and come back next week....", his reply was "ooooh mom, I'm not ready to go back to America.".  We drive around a bit more and then head to Gananoque.  In Gananoque, we buy Chinese food and books, by this time Alex was ready to go back to his home land.  We are trying for the Penitentiary Museum next week :)  wish us luck.

The Secret Keeper.

When I was growing up, I always had the innate desire to do the right thing.  I loved my childhood, my family, and school.  I never wanted to be in trouble and I never wanted people to be upset with me.  Which brings me to this tale, a dilemma between doing what was right and doing something that would please my dad.

Christmas in our house was a regal affair.  My parents pulled out all the stops, only to be outdone by themselves (and only themselves) the next year.  We had a huge living room in my childhood home and it would be completely wallpapered with gifts from floor to ceiling.  It was our holiday, completely magical.  My parents also included us children in the purchasing of gifts for each other, making us feel special to be in on the secret.  They would try to bring the element of surprise into their relationship with crazy Christmas presents that would be filled with humor and love.

It was in 1979 (I believe), when my mother purchased my father a sword for Christmas   This very medieval looking sword in a blue velvet sheath.  It was curved and pretty darn cool.  This sword was so long and so strangely shaped, that my mother had to create a customized box (made of several boxes taped together), and then she wrapped it and put a big bow on it.  I tried drawing this out and this was the best I could do:

This was such a big deal in our house.  My mother hemmed and hawed over this present, making sure everything was just right.  She loved the anticipation of my dad wondering what was in the box and having something to hold over him for the last five days prior to Christmas.  I, personally, loved being in on the secret and was just as excited as my mom.  So, a few evenings left before the eventful day, my mother set the box out under the tree.  As expected, my dad carried on and on about the strange looking present and what could it possibly be?  My mom just laughed and walked into the other room.  At this point, dad and I sat looking at the present, looking at the tree.  He turns to me and says, "Bridgie, what is it?  What is in the box?", I am playing this back in my mind in slow motion (my voice sounds like Andre the Giant) "It's a swooooorddddddddddd.".  My dad blinks, kind of dumbfounded that I actually spilled it so easy.  He grins and says something along the lines of the secret would be between us.

EXCEPT, it hits me the next evening when we are sitting down to dinner.  I start to have an anxiety attack.  I tell my mother I don't feel good and make up some excuse about hurting my thumb or something along those lines, something to cover up the true reason that I am teary eyed.  Finally I just say it... "I told him.".  My mother says "Hm?", and I say it again, "I told him.  I told dad his present.".  Now dad just sits there looking bewildered and somewhat innocent.  My mother starts to have a bit of a meltdown, "WHAT?!?!?!?  You told your dad about one of his presents?!?!", and then she follows that with something that only my mother would do.  She starts listing off everything she bought dad for Christmas  one by one... "The monopoly game? The robe?  The backgammon set?...", I just keep shaking my head no.  Mom spills the list in it's entirety and then, the very last thing she says...in a quiet voice.."The sword?", and I shamefully nodded my head.  In this moment, this interrogation period, my anxiety level fizzled like a balloon slowly losing air.  I felt better, my mother at some point traded her June Cleaver look for something a little bit more Cruella De Vil.  

I don't recall whether or not my mother was cautious about including me in on future "secrets", but the lesson was learned.  The only other recollection of this I have was walking into a conversation my dad was having with his brother on Christmas morning, laughingly describing my confession and my mother's spilling response.  That was my first experience with guilt.  It felt like crap.

taking the wheel.

I bought my first car before I got my driver's license.  It was an 85 Plymouth Reliant, four door, beige...a grandma car.  Luke is talking about getting his license a lot lately, he has six months or so before he turns sixteen, I still got time to mentally prepare myself for a new breed of worry.

My Aunt Linda taught me to drive.  When I turned sixteen, she and I worked together at a vending company.  We went on "route" everyday, collecting quarters, stocking cigarette's, and changing 45s on jukeboxes.  It was a ton of fun, I loved it.  She had the patience to teach me how to drive the work van.  It was a tricky standard, but I got the hang of it.    Every morning, we would meet at the garage, pack up the van and head out for the next eight hours of route.  If I got there before her, I would try to get as much done as I could, before she got to work.  One day, I got to the garage early, I managed to get everything ready before Linda got there so I decided to start the van and wait.  It could have been 10 minutes or so, maybe more... I didn't hear her come in, but there she was with a bizarre look on her face.  I say "Hey!   Mornin',...I was just about to take a nap....", she says "I bet you were.  Next time you turn the van on, you oughta open the garage door.".

I am so glad we don't have a garage...the apple doesn't fall far from the tree and I could totally see Luke doing the same thing.  :-/  Maybe I should find him a 85 Plymouth Reliant for his 16th birthday... haha.

a one woman party.

Tracy says she is renting out an entire bar next year for her 35th birthday.  She is renting out the bar and hiring a band, all on a Friday night.  I say to her, "how much do you think that is gonna cost?".  She says, "don't know...don't care...I'll pay for it with my tax refund."  She is being especially particular about the location.  All I know so far is... it won't be at Joe's, Fatboys, Micks, any legion, firehall, or VFW...it won't be outside in a field, or pavilion.  The location seems to be as much a fantasy as the entire idea itself.

She says she might not invite anyone.  She may just keep it all for herself.  The funny thing is... I can see this.  I can see the band playing, Tracy standing there with a cigarette between her middle and pointing finger, eyes closed, shifting on her feet side to side,.... just listening.

The reality is, she will rent the bar, hire the band, make a list of friends...then spend the entire night manning the door, kicking people out of "her party".

She has threatened me with her "one woman party" if I keep putting the idea down.  I was thinking that there is no way this is going to happen...dad'll be there.

Here you go Tarcccccy (that is not a typo)