Friday, October 2, 2015

There Is A Storm Coming....

It's almost your birthday again Momma. October was always your month. The weather has changed  from summer and there is a chill in the air, and in my heart. There is a storm coming. One that I cannot fend off alone.

As I go through the motions of eating, I cannot enjoy my dinner this night. In the wake of the taste of grief, everything tastes bland and lifeless. I close my eyes to try to savor the sweetness. It is no use. Everything is bitter. I feign happiness for my sweet, innocent daughter. But there is no happiness  for these tired eyes on this night.

There will be no calling her grandmother to brag on her latest achievement at school, nor any inviting to tomorrow's soccer game. There will be no laughing at horrible school picture faces or the resounding cacophony of my child's voice bouncing off of the walls of Granny's house. Your home  is no longer. It remains, but is falling into disrepair much like the unkempt weeds that grow across your gravestone, both too long unvisited. The house and your grave both hold hollow echoes of you and a cherished time gone by.

A time that held the greatest love of all, as the late Whitney Houston sang. A love I will cherish all of my days and one that I could never forget. A heartbreak that my heart cannot ever truly begin to heal. A loss so tragic that somedays, on the raw days, my mind still cannot begin to fully comprehend.

But comprehend I do. I have no choice. The chill sweeps outward from inside. A cold, suffocating wave envelops me as the tears run unchecked down my face. The realization has set in that my memories are all that I have. There will never be any shiny new ones. This is the fourth year that I have replayed the same worn memories over and again in my head. There will never be any more memories than what I have at this exact moment. I am heartbroken. Yet I have a lifetime full of memories, but it is not enough. It is never enough. I want more. I want more of you. But there is no you anymore, only what I carry in my heart and my mind.

I close my eyes and remember. One at a time I take out my cherished memories and replay them in my mind's eye. Mommy and Daddy kissing, the last hug on our visit before your final hospital stay, you imploring me to never let my three year old, now seven, forget you. Birthday shopping with you that last year to bring you into the technological age, and your birth date on a sticker from our last ever shopping trip on my computer tablet, a mere six weeks before your journey was at it's end. Precariously sealed in time with scotch tape, my attempt at preservation. Preservation of the proof of a precious memory. Something physical from that last birthday with you. Something that marks a specific moment in time and says that she was here. You were here together. You were with me this day.

On a day that I long to hear your voice, I close my eyes and try to replay it in my head. Only this time, I cannot recall your voice immediately. My eyes fly open, my breathing becomes labored, and I start to panic. The tears fall unabashedly down my face, as I try to remember your laughter, and I cannot. Time stands still. I can hear my heartbeat in my throat, as I  desperately play memory after memory in my head. I can almost hear your voice. But I cannot find your laughter. It is on the edge of my remembering, just out of my grasp. No, no, no my inner voice screams, you cannot have lost her laughter. It's in there, just remember. We have to find the laughter! I cannot lose another piece of her. I am hysterical on the inside as my grief ridden brain desperately searches for the laughter, her laughter. My mother's laughter.

The emotional storm rages as I desperately search my mental archives for the laughter. I find it, and as I replay the memory in my mind, there is no sound. It is as if the sound has altogether been stripped from my memory. I continuously wipe the tears from my eyes and face in an attempt to keep my daughter from seeing the storm raging within me, that is leaking out of my eyes.

Another piece of her lost today as another little piece of me died. I have lost my mother's laughter. "It was all you had of her, how could you lose it!", my mind screams at me. "But it's been so long since I have heard it..."another piece cries.  I am so very weary. So tired of all of the grief. So tired of the maelstrom of swirling emotions. Grief, guilt, loss, sadness, depression, exhaustion, bravery, strength, selfishness, and loneliness. Tired of feigning excuses tonight for the little one so as not to have to explain myself, and stir up her grief as well as my own. Trying to control this storm that always rages within me just below the surface, threatening to break free.

There is always something constantly reminding me of you; a familiar smell, a rainbow or a butterfly, or your favorite colors. Eating dinner on your favorite color purple plate, just to feel closer to you when I feel the storm coming.

I miss you Momma. Just like storms that reach their shore, they rage awhile and then they are no more, so is my grief. At least kept at bay for a little while.

Good night Momma, I love you!

     -Your cherished daughter

Friday, September 11, 2015


I must say I never post rants of any kind. That being said......Tonight I AM LIVID that the the 4 major networks teamed up to air the 'Think It Up' Public Education Initiative. To beg for money from the public that already pays 
MORE than enough taxes to fund an excellent public education system, but has yet to allocate billions more on EDUCATION, our kids, their future, and the future of our country, rather than on political agenda. Shame on whoever was behind the idea to mass beg the public for more money for education, and completely ignore the fact that it was the 14th anniversary of the worst terrorist attack on our country in history. I am sadly disappointed to turn on any of the 4 major networks and find Justin Beiber leading the country away from our promise to 'Never Forget'! I have been looking forward to the 9-11 specials all day long, to watch the first time with my 7yo daughter... to share this all important day and it's meaning with her, only to find our country having the wool pulled over our eyes... And blindly being led away from the truth. 
We should 'never forget' because the threat is very real and has moved even further into our country. The enemy is among us. Hate and discrimination is being promulgated, turning us against our own countrymen. I am disgusted and feel that this is sacrilege akin to treading upon our flag. It is blatant disregard of this all important marked day. It is trampling on the memory of all those that lost their lives in the attacks on 9-11-2001. It is disrespectful to all of the survivors, the families of the lost, the heroes of that day and the days that followed, and all those that were affected or touched by this tragedy

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

The Waiting Game

The last time that I was in this waiting room, was with my mother, months before her death. Countless hours spent over forty plus hospitalizations in this very hospital. Many surgeries for mom and dad, cancer, two open heart surgeries, digit removal surgeries, and surgeries to debreed and clean out infected wounds due to diabetes. I have lived through female surgery to remove an ovary and a fallopian tube, given birth, and had my uterus cleaned, scraped, and burned. I have had the middle of my remaining fallopian tube cut out and tied on both sides to prevent more pregnancies and miscarriages due to female problems. I almost bled to death two weeks after my mother died, which was two weeks before Christmas. I can handle anything, but what is killing me, is that I cannot handle this for him.

I have quite the pedigree in personal hospital time and hospital waiting room time and etiquette. I know that surgeries often run longer than estimated, that anesthesia can take longer than expected to take affect, I am aware of every possible time extender and complication. I was raised in a home of medical professionals. I know what to expect. I know when to worry. Knowledge is not power in this case. My heart and my nerves are not listening to my calm, cool and collected brain.

I have never been on this end of the waiting. I have been the granddaughter, daughter, niece, daughter in law, granddaughter in law and friend.
I have never been the wife. 

I have never had to endure the ticking as a wife before. Countless seconds turn into minutes with each tick of the second hand. Endless waiting for the surgeon to come out and talk to me, to let me know my world is still intact. Each second an eternity past when the surgeon told us he would be out to speak with us. Agony... The waiting. 

Tick, tick, tick...forty-five minutes past the  estimated two hours. My brain has kicked into overdrive. There must be some difficulty or complication. I am struggling to hold back the tears, drawing quiet strength from my father beside me.

His last words to me were if you should need help with the life insurance, call my boss. She can help you. Tears, streaming down my face held in check until these words crack my carefully constructed shield of bravery. I am reduced to tears by the man I love most in all the world, as he tried to prepare me for the worst possible outcome of his surgery.  He was more nervous than I have ever seen him, as he waited for the surgery that however minor, will make him whole once again. Allow him to return to life and work and walking.

Wy haven't they come out yet? Did something go wrong? De he have an unforseen allergy to add to his list of many? All of the worst case scenarios play out in my mind, all the what if's while we, us, and our family hangs in the balance, playing the waiting game.

Saturday, August 22, 2015

Fixing My Pipes

My landlord had scheduled an appointment during our vacaton, to rip out our bathroom floors, move the sink and cabinet, and the toilet, in order to fix the bathroom pipes and rebuild the floor that had sustained water damage due to a leak.

Turns out he needed to come in the week before our vacation because the problem suddenly worsened. I was not pleased that the appointment was moved up.

The landlord and his contractor came in, started the job, and made every effort at expediently finishing everything in one day. They were there from daylight until dark, and got everything finished except the trim work, which he would finish while we were away. I was thankful that it was taken care of quickly. 

We went to Florida, came back, the rest of the summer passed and it wasn't until one day while I was searching for something under that bathroom cabinet, that I made a horrifying realization.

I digress. 

When informed that the landlord would be coming in the next day, not on vaction as scheduled, I was in a rush to pick up and clean my house. I was more worried about picking up the playroom and baskets of laundry, than I was the bathroom they would be working in.

I picked up dirty clothes and dusted, and moved the things off of the sink in the master bath, but never once did I think to clean out the cabinet under the sink. Where they had to move the cabinet and sink out into the bedroom, they had to either, A-remove the contents of the cabinet, or B- the contents fell out and they had to be picked up.

Why, you ask, would this be so awful that I refuse to ever look my landlord in the face again and to avoid him at all costs?

Because I forgot what I had hidden away in that bathroom cabinet. I forgot that my husband left the boxes of our new bedroom toys in the master bath floor, and one day when my child needed to use the potty, I hurriedly stuffed the boxes away under the counter from her innocent eyes.

Yes, I forgot to clean out my sex toy
boxes before the landlord had to move that cabinet. So either he had to take them out, or pick them up when the cabinet was moved, because everything that was under that sink previously, boxes and all, were organized in a nice little bag. AND I NEVER ORGANIZED THEM! 

Let's take this a step further if you will. The contents of the boxes were haphazardly stashed in the master bath mirror that does not latch all the way. The mirror that is directly over the cabinet, that covered the trap door in the floor to under the house, which gave them access to the pipes. 

Picture with me, this image that I cannot get out of my head. 

They start banging on the linoleum on the floor, to pull it up, which jolts the mirrored cabinet door open, and dildos come raining down onto their heads. They replace the toys. They resume working, having to pound on the floor to get the trap door open, which jars the mirror open, and causes the dildos to come crashing down on their heads again. They replace them. They then spend countless hours pounding and banging and fixing my pipes, while being pummeled, banged, and pounded from above with the very instruments that frequently fix my, ahem, pipes. The following lyrics have been playing on repeat in my head; It's Raining men, hallelujah, it's raining men......or plastic parts of men! The irony is not lost on me. 

The horrifying realization that I spoke of earlier? It comes from the realization that two someone elses on the planet unequivically know your exact level of kink. Have seen , and have in all likelihood, touched, and have been pummeled by your kinky toys as well.


Saturday, August 15, 2015

The Commando Cook Episode #1

My hubbie, the chef who was born to cook, has had a wee accident rendering him unable to bear weight on his left foot for an unspecified amount of time. Not only is he unable to work for the moment, but unable to cook as well. Sooooo... I am left with a daunting task, cooking. It is unenjoyable to me. To eat is glorious, to have to cook is the ninth circle of hell for me. 

Since our family is depending on me to avoid starvation, I find myself forced to explore the kitchen. And all the foods. I said to myself, "Okay self, we have to do this, have to figure it out. I have avoided learning how to cook since forever, and now the time has come to woman up. So since I am involuntarily forced, you know not winning the lottery and all, allowing for the hiring of an actual chef who enjoys tasting this, a pinch more of that, I might as well make it enjoyable! Or at least get a cutsey pic in my sweet apron!" Says the girl who has burned grilled cheese, almost killed my toddler and myself by leaving the gas stove on while taking a nap, and who has caught butter on fire.

So it is here we find ourselves dear 'Snappers! In this mostly foreign universe, the kitchen! Waaaay out of my comfort zone! I need liquid courage, some Framboise Lambic! But no, then I would probably screw up dinner, because of my bad case of Look! Squirrel! No grown up drinks for me! This whole deal makes me uncomfortable!

Why couldn't I just bake my way through the next few months? Or make kid sandwich, fruit and veggie cartoon characters or scenes? I seriously rock at those! I make a mean set of apple-peanut butter-marshmallow teeth! I regularly make marshmallows pops, and witches brooms too! Why oh why must I learn to cook actual food???

Well piffle! Let's get on with it then! On tonight's menu is chicken noodles/soup. I am following the directions... I am
actually cooking! And... I am cooking commando. Screw skivvies! Least I will be comfortable while I try not to screw up this cooking thing! Woot woot!

I am happy to report that tonight, the second of four nights of me running the kitchen, that I fed five people.........

It's a miracle! I can make tacos, omelets, spaghetti or pasta with meat sauce, and anything that comes in a box. Outside of that, I am pretty much useless in the kitchen.

The first night, I made tacos, and they were good.
The second night, I made spaghetti.I inadvertently used the pour not sprinkle side of the giganto size sea salt, and guess what? The seven and forty one year old choked it down. Love their hearts! There was enough salt in the pasta to create another ocean! And usually I make good pasta.
The third day I made a box dinner of creamy chicken alfredo. The noodles were like shoe leather before it's worn in. The sauce was goopy and sticky. It was disgusting. My husband ate it, but I had a nice salad. I couldn't stomach the yuck! 
Bless his heart!
Today I made homemade chicken and noodles/soup. And it was good! Really good! And you know whats even better? I didn't kill hubbie the dearest, my bff, her kid, or his best friend! And they liked it! They actually liked it! 

And I got a super cute selfie to commemorate the occasion! 

 Our first Redneck Dinner Party that I cooked! Aaawww! Rainbow Fiesta Wear in the yard with the besties! Because... crutches and porch stairs. And mismatched chairs, glasses, skeeters and a half gallon of Sailor Jerry! Woop woop! Cheers!  
And here is my cute commando cheffing selfing!

* stay tuned for more episodes of the Commando Cook, coming soon, because I am stuck in the kitchen for my forseeable future*

Hugs and Kisses, 

Friday, June 26, 2015

Reflections from the Road

 I am headed to the beach with my six year old and my father. Vacation therapy. 

This has become our ritual as the years pass since we lost my mother. In her death, I have found a new best friend and confidante. We are closer than we have ever been. I am still his cherished and spoiled little girl, as is my daughter. She is close with her Grandpa, and they also share a special bond. One that only they have. She is her Grandpa's girl. Just like I have always been my Daddy's girl.

As has become our tradition, my Daddy drives and I am lulled to sleep by the constant wave like twists and turns of the West Virginia Turnpike. The constant curves rock me like when I was a child, in the car with my Mommy and Daddy, and little brother headed to the beach. The beautiful and majestic mountains that I love turn into the scenic overlooks of Virginia.Virginia runs into the flatter land of North Carolina, which eventually turns into the long stretch of the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Hatteras, we are almost there! I always feel safe and secure when we are with him.

This was the destination of our first beach trip after we lost my mother. This will be our fourth trip with my father to this paradise. It is the place where I broke my leg, where my baby learned to swim, a place to relax, to slow down and enjoy each other, to heal, to figure out life without my mother, and to enjoy our island away from home. I have so many fond memories and pictures of this culturally rich little island. I hold it and them close to my heart.

So again, just for this week, every year, we can escape and play like children in the sand and surf, or at the pool. We can fly kites without abandon, and build the sandcastles of our dreams. My father is helping to teach my little one just like he taught me all those years ago our family's beach traditions. We are also helping to teach her the importance of family, working hard so that you can play harder,  and to always stay a kid at heart! She has also learned that we are very blessed to be able to share these beach trips with my Daddy, because not everybody gets to go to the beach every year, and life is fleeting. 

We are also blessed with a husband and father, the calibre of my Daddy, that graciously shares us every summer. To my husband, I am forever grateful for his constant understanding of our needs.

These vacations to the Outer Banks of North Carolina have meant so much to us all. They have allowed us all to appreciate family more in the here and now, and to let my father and daughter(and me) develop memories that will last a lifetime. Children bring such joy, and our vacations are so fun and filled with joy and love. Grandpa and his little conspirator against Mommy. 

So we are off to the land of pirates, treasure hunting, seafood, long pool mornings, longer beach afternoons, Blackbeard, Teach's Hole, 

Ocracoke Island and the ferry, the sandy beaches, the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, 

the Bodie Island Lighthouse, the Ocracoke Lighthouse,

 Rodanthe, Waves, Salvo, Avon, Buxton, The Chicomaco Life Saving StationMuseum, The Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum, sandcastles, kite flying, The Wright Brothers Museum,

and new and wonderful memories.

So life goes on. Life changes, but it goes on. You appreciate the here and now, and look back fondly. And every year, I look back as I take this drive with my father and daughter to our favorite beach. As I am lulled into a sleepy, dream like state by all the gentle curves, I look back on all that was, where we are now, and how far we have come. I remenisce, shed a few tears in rememberance as I reflect on life and loss, and am humbled by the man that is my father, the beautiful girl who is my daughter, and the strength I have witnessed in both of them. I am beyond blessed to have the love of these two amazing individuals, and the close bond we all share.

Thursday, June 4, 2015

Dear Mr Presumptuous Swim Team Dad

Dear Mr. Presumptuous Swim Team Dad,

     I have a few things that I would like to cover with you regarding my child.

     A-She is six years old and very impressionable. Swim team should be a positive experience. It is suppose to be fun! She does not need an adult, the parent of a fellow swimmer telling her," that's okay, you can work harder next time." That statement implies that she did not work her butt off this time. She was proud of herself. Who do  you think you are to tear her down? Great job! Way to go! You did it! would all be acceptable responses to cheering for or congratulating my child. Do not ever take it upon yourself again to bring your over zealous need for winning to my child's world. Fuck up your own kid. M'kay cupcake?

     B-It is her coach's responsibility and her coach's responsibility alone to 'coach' my child. Unless I decide otherwise.

     C-It is her coach's responsibility to teach her proper stroke technique, or mine. Not yours. Do not make that mistake again. Unless I, in my infinite wisdom, ask for your expert opinion. Which will never happen. Even if hell freezes over. Wow! Can you imagine that? Not even then.

     D-Never mistake my politeness as an invitation to openly denounce my child's performance in front of her teammates, the opposing team, and all of the parents, grandparents and cheerers on,and then take it upon yourself to 'coach' her publicly immediately after her race. You are a lucky man that my husband has the patience of a saint. And that I was at the ribbon writing table, writing ribbons. Single her out again, I guarantee it will not be overlooked.

      E- Never mistake this pretty face for a stupid one. I, nor my child, needs saving from our less than desirable quantity of coach to kid instructional time, by involving you, to personally single my kid out for coaching. All by yourself. Are you sensing a lot of 'I' statements in here thus far? Good, your catching on!

You are not Michael Phelps. PERIOD
 Obviously you feel the need to offer your un-solicited assistance to a vulnerable little girl who may have been doing the breast stroke a little less than perfect. I would strongly advise you to keep your opinions, techniques, and snide comments to yourself from here on out. Are we clear?

You may have been trying to make a genuine attempt to help my child, but for reasons A-E stated above, you are not qualified nor welcome. I have three words for you in three versions;

Time, place, appropriateness
Not the coach
Go Fuck Yourself

                 Pissed Off Mama Bear

***Those of you who have a six year old that plays any sport know, that criticism, at the ripe old age of six, is taken to heart. It can shape a child's love for or hatred of the entire sport.  I stated above that they are so very impressionable at this age, you have to be so very careful in what is said to children.  We need positive role models, than encourage rather than tear down. Not perfectionist, hard core parents that are no real help to the child.

 First and foremost, we always tell our daughter to have fun. We also teach her that winning is not everything. That being said, I would also like to state that at the six year old level of swimming, in our league, no marks are taken off for technique, improper stroke, flipping over during backstroke, etc. At six, they are learning. Thank goodness for my husband and I reaffirming her awesome effort, or she may have gotten down on herself and wanted to quit today.

 So why this man took it upon himself  to publicly ridicule and attempt to humiliate my child is beyond me. I am very careful not to say anything to her, to upset her delicate six year old sensibilities. What makes him think that he has that right?***