Category Archives: Reflection

Cracking the shell on 2013

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I (gasp) made some resolutions this year. And you know, for the first year (ever) they’re not things like lose weight or write a novel.

Nope. I’ve decided I’m ok with the extra girth I’ve apparently taken to raise. I’m not unhealthy. I’m cutting my losses.
As for writing, I do want to do more. But I’m not creating it as a goal to guilt myself with. It happens when it happens.

My resolutions are more…me. More in line with what will really make me happy and not with what I feel is expected of me.

I resolve to love the ones I call mine. My kids. My family. My husband. To love them without condition and without question.

To give more.
To expect less.

And basically to be happy with being me. With all that entails.

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Almost Christmas Confessions

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This is hard to write. Hard to admit, I guess.

In the grand scheme of things – all the horribleness that has assaulted the innocent in the past week – it’s nothing. Less than nothing, and for that I am so grateful. I forget (on a daily basis) how lucky I am.

Still.

Selfishly, self-centeredly, I don’t want to admit this. I feel like by being honest and putting this out there that I am inviting disappointment. All of those who have said they were so proud of me, all of those who have told me I was doing the right thing, I feel like this is just a great big middle finger to that.

I got my grades yesterday.

I failed a class.

The rest of them I passed, and that’s about it.

I am not used to this.

Last semester I was on the Dean’s List. I was so proud of myself.

And now, this.

The class wasn’t hard. It just required effort. And the hard truth of the matter is that I didn’t give it the effort.

It was my first semester working and doing school, and I thought it would be cake. School, work, kids. No problem.

I was so cocky, and now because this is my own fault I feel like I’m not even really allowed to be upset over it.

I may never finish school. And it’ll be my own fault.

I remember Christmas

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I am now embarking upon my 33rd Christmas season.
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I’ve never been a Christmas nut, but I enjoy the season. I enjoy it more now than I ever have, although that probably shouldn’t be the case since now I have to worry about presents and money and Santa Claus.

Still.

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Every year I am bombarded – often when I least expect it – by waves of memories I haven’t touched since the last year. It’s like I stockpile stuff and only think of it once a year – some of them aren’t even Christmas memories. Maybe it’s a getting-older thing, saving up good thoughts for times they’re needed.

But still, I remember.

I remember my Grandaddy Wilkes and how he always bought boxes of Andes candy. I would subsequently eat them, row by row. God only knows how many calories were involved.
I remember rides to Selmer and plastic mistletoe – always in the same spot.
Shining silver and comic paper gift wrap.
Black Friday shopping to buy all my presents from my Mimi – only to have to wait until Christmas to open them up.
Hiding under a green blanket while my mom and dad pulled all the presents out of hiding.
Sweet potato pie, even though I hated the very idea of a sweet potato.
My mother always making my sister and I pose for some weird ass photo outside by the mailbox or in a chair.
Mom’s Santas.
The smell of the attic – the smell of the ornaments.
Peanut butter rice krispie treats.
Ham. Always ham.
Chicken and dressing with a shitton of sage.
Neverending, persistent and endless renditions of “Mary Did You Know?”
Max’s first Christmas and putting a bow on his head.
Playing board games with Dan’s family into the wee hours of the morning.
Josh dressing up as Santa when the kids were small. Max was convinced Santa had found him.
My first Christmas with the Steens, my first time ever to have a stocking.
Josh’s grandmother and how she always bought my kids the perfect presents.

There are so many things.

Things to love about now.

Maybe this year I won’t forget.

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Almost beyond conciousness

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The world is the same as it always has been, I’m sure.

Maybe it’s just my perspective that changes. I see things not through rose-colored lenses…but green, and grey, and blacker than black.

It makes for much a different scene each time.

As for me, no news tends to be good news I suppose. Life is how it has grown to be, and I have no complaints.

In light of the fact that it is November, many of the people on my Facebook friends list (which is not as plentiful as it once, was, thanks to more than one sizable purge) have decided to bombard me daily with their various thankful thoughts. I understand this sentiment even though at the basest level I disagree with it (hell, people, be that thankful all year long), and in reading just the first few days I’ve realized something huge.

Every night I go to sleep with everyone I love and care about the very most under one roof. This, as a divorced and remarried mom, is almost unheard of. I don’t have to wait to see my kids – I see them all every day. I see the two people who gave me my babies (and I see that as a good thing) every day. We operate as a unit, as a family.

I love many people – but the people I love the most (besides, you know, my mom and dad and such) are always right here. They’re always mine. And that is huge.

So there’s my November thankfulness.

I suppose it was a noble try

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This is probably going to come across in the wrong way, but I am nothing if not honest. I see no need to change that now.

What, I might lose some friends? Line up, everyone. Let me count you so I know who goes missing.

Yesterday was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. Apparently the whole month of October is appointed as an awareness month for this issue, which is great, but October the 15th is the special day appointed for memorial and acknowledgement for those of us who have lost little ones.

This is delicate. For anyone.

I have not made a secret of the miscarriage I had in 2008. I don’t bring it up often, but it’s there. I acknowledge it. I think about it more than I ever thought I would. I don’t say that in a macabre way, but it’s true. I think about it enough to know that Lucy’s brother (at some point I apparently decided he was a boy) would be about four now. When I remember him I don’t think about the pain and the terror and how certain I was that I was not going to live – I think about how much he might look like his daddy. I think about T-ball and Transformers. I think about how much would be different today.

And then I don’t think about it for a while. It’s how I process.

But yesterday, since it was an appointed day, I thought about him. The him that never really was.

Some local people had put together a vigil/memorial service type thing for the evening. I decided to go, because I wanted Josh to take pictures and I never really go in for stuff like that. I took a sedative in preparation for being around people.

We went.

I didn’t really know what to do initially, but I went to a spot where it looked like stuff was happening. I signed a book on a lovely little table, I got a lapel pin with an angel, I got a piece of paper to write on – which I would later attach to a balloon. The sentiment was lovely, and I could tell that the people in charge were well-intentioned.

For some reason, there was a group of high school students there…community service? Helping? I don’t know, but they were there. Fine, great, not my business, right?

Except they were obnoxious. They were loud and they were oblivious and they totally killed whatever mood there should have been.

Whatever, man. I live and let live.

The chick in charge (who, incidentally, I used to work with at McAlister’s Deli and is now apparently a pediatrician? Good for you, girl. Your pants were awesome.) took a microphone and welcomed everyone. She went over why we were all there and what was going on.

Then people started talking. It was almost like being at youth retreat, where folks would find their way to the front and get all emotional and you could tell they were so sincere and it just pissed you off because people weren’t paying attention to the sincerity. No? Just me?

Well, it was like that. These women were spilling their hearts out – their loss, their mourning, how they still hurt – and Suzy Sweet Sixteen five yards away from me was texting with Johnny No Nads about letting him get to second base (fine – I made that part up, I don’t know what they were talking about).

It made me so angry.

I was there to mourn a loss. To remember a time my life changed forever. To think for just a few minutes about what could have been. And I couldn’t do that.

There were Bible verses and prayers. Whatever makes it easier, I guess. I just wanted to leave before I vomited from everything I felt.

The talking ended.

We let the balloons go. I watched a jillion pink, blue, and white balloons – all with little messages attached – disappear into the night. So many emotions. So much hurt attached to every string.

It was the one moment that was just as I’d expected. Everyone simply stood and watched as the memories flew upward into the sky. It was worth it for that moment.

I appreciate what went into the evening. I am grateful that there are those who know how I feel, even if I’m sorry that has to be true.

reasons I jump on any superfood, and my latest effort.

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I have always, like most people probably, been intrigued by the concept of a superfood.

An elixir. Drink of life that (preferably) wasn’t virgin’s blood. Something that gave me energy and increased cup size while boosting my metabolism and slimming my waist.

I ask for so little, right?

Let’s see, what has it been in the past? All these things that have promised me everything my heart desires?

Green tea. Not bad.
Local honey. It’s just too messy to put into everything, but damn it’s good.
Olive oil.
Canola oil. No joke – it was supposed to lower my set point or something. Not that I remember. Or even know what a set point is. I just know I consistently drank shots of oil for at least a few weeks.
Coconut oil.
Cayenne pepper.
Fish oil.
Chia seeds.
White vinegar.
Cinnamon.
Cloves.
B vitamin complex. I even had some weird kind of sublingual solution.
Prenatal vitamins.

I could go on.

Recently I’ve started keeping a look out for miracle foods and pills again, because I’ve stacked on some significant weight. I thought I was just feeling bloated because I’d been slacking off the running, but during last week’s firepee extravaganza I had to break down and go to the doctor, where I met reality – the cold and ruthless bitch.

Turns out my “bloated” equaled about 25 pounds in less than six months. I was torn between tears and rage when I was on the scale.

Really, I had changed nothing. I have never been one to subsist on leafy greens or say no to a cupcake, but aside from a portion of my life where all I ate was chicken casserole with macaroni and cheese, I have never weighed this much. It’s no wonder all my clothes were/are miserably uncomfortable. Seriously – maternity pants. And my baby is two.

So of course, when I mentioned my weight gain to the nurse practitioner, I expected a lecture about exercise (duh) and eating right (duh). When I mentioned that I was on an antidepressant, though, I got none of that. Word up.

Turns out I’d never bothered to consult Dr. Google about my crazy pills, and they were most likely the weight gain culprits. I’ve since changed meds and have already dropped a few pounds (yeah – just since last week), but my weight dilemma has led me back to the superfood chase.

So now, I present to you my latest harbinger of youth and joy:

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Apple cider vinegar.

It’s a bandwagon I’ve dabbled in before, with not really much result – mainly because the stuff is so vile that stomaching it day after day is terribly daunting.

But I’m doing it. I have no clue what to expect.

ProcrASStination.

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Basically, people, I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking through the past month.

 

Really.

 

Even yesterday, when I had plenty of work to do at, you know, actual work – I stayed home with a whiny toddler and firepee thanks to being female and having, apparently, a short urethra. *bows to the TMI audience*

So I could have done schoolwork, right? The geneaology paper that is due today. Or the research paper that is due tomorrow. Both are still barebones and need work.

Instead, though, I spent the day watching Big Love on demand, flushing out my system with echinacea and vitamin C, thinking about the past and the future and how to best go about making pumpkin muffins.

So what did I accomplish? I lessened my infection, I think. I pondered what my hair would look like a la Ginnifer Goodwin in Season Three. I made the muffins. I vacuumed the floor. I did work a bit on the papers.

 

I can’t say I made much eternal progress in anything yesterday. Except the muffins. They were amazing.

 

 

Being legitimate

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Someone had to know I would broach this. It was inevitable.

 

In an interview aired this past Sunday, Todd Akin, a Republican candidate for Senate in the great state of Missouri, made this statement when asked about his feelings on abortions resulting from rape circumstances.

“First of all, from what I understand from doctors, [pregnancy from rape] is really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down.”

He really said that. Really and truly.

 

Now, let me start by saying, as a woman – he has no right to an opinion. Really. I don’t get all up in his scrote and he’s never carried a baby, so we should just agree to keep our politics out of each others’ crotches.

And secondly, as a rape victim – fuck you, Mr. Akin.

Legitimate rape?

What are the other kinds? Illegitimate? Imagined? Maybe she didn’t say no loudly enough? Maybe she was “asking” for it?

I realize that people are falsely accused of rape. I know that happens, and it is a sad thing to know that someone would abuse such a delicate area for whatever reason.

But the majority of rapes (60-68%, according to a quick Googling) go unreported, and do you know why? Because of douchebags like Todd Akin. Because the first thing asked of anyone claiming rape is not, “What can I do?” not “How can I help?” it’s…..”Well, what happened?”

Because its not enough to be taken advantage of. It’s not enough to be violated. It’s not enough to matter so little that you don’t even get a choice in what happens to you.

You have to justify. You have to prove what you’ve claimed. It’s no wonder that women and men in staggering amounts just choose to opt out. Why prolong things and expose yourself to embarrassment…criticism…shame?

It happened to me. And just because it wasn’t a stranger in a dark alley doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. It doesn’t mean I deserved it. It doesn’t mean I hurt any less. It doesn’t make it any less legitimate.

 

So while Mr. Akin sits in Missouri with whatever opinions he wants to have about situations he will never face, I will try with all my might to let everyone know that things like this are not okay. It’s not okay to trivialize someone else’s hurt. It’s not okay to make blanket statements when you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

Help a little more, talk a little less. I think that’d do some good for everybody.

 

Winter is coming?

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It’s such a strange time of year.

 

Still summer, but not really. And not fall. Sweaty thighs in jeans and goose pimples in too much air conditioning. Summer seems over and (if the Starks will pardon me) winter seems that it will never come.

Things are happening, though. The kids are growing and school is chugging along. When my classes start this week it will (fingers crossed) be my last fall as an undergrad – which makes me almost giddy.

It almost feels like I should be quiet, contemplate the changing seasons or some other poetic shit, but the truth of it all is that I just feel old. I feel old to look at my kids, at my place in this point of time. And I feel like I’m waiting for something. Like the breath before the blow.

All God’s creatures – except the ones we smash

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I am a helper. I see someone in need, I want to help them out.
Even if I don’t like them.
Even if they don’t like me.

It may be some sort of complex, but if I have it in me to assist someone in any way, I want to do that.

Just to read what I have said thus far sounds kind of braggy. I swear I don’t mean it that way. Lots of times I’ve not thought before I offered to help someone and it’s turned out terribly. Like, “Sure you can borrow my refrigerator/rocking chair/video camera, I don’t mind at all!”

Except then it takes effort to make the swap or the donation. Pickup and delivery and interacting with human beings who aren’t accustomed to my baby-powdered hair and yoga pants (baby powder is what I put in my hair when I don’t have time to wash/rinse it, and often always I go overboard. So if you ever see me with a white powdery scalp it means I tried to give a shit and it just didn’t work out). And then I resent myself and the other person for the whole time.

So over the years I have learned not to be quite so generous when I offer help, unless fully prepared to do what needs to be done.

Last week, my coworker Mandy needed some help.

Mandy is one of the coolest bitches in the world and we have a blast working together. We’re a lot alike and we do pretty well. So of course when Mandy needed help I wanted to help her.

Here is the situation:

Mandy doesn’t like bugs. I don’t either, for that matter, but I can usually handle the smashing and otherwise dispelling of undesirable creatures. So when Mandy came in after lunch one afternoon talking about the terrible bug that was in her car at that very moment, I thought why not help her out. How bad can it be?

Turns out, pretty bad.

I shit you not. This creature inside the car was half horsefly, half dragonfly, half bee, half possessed little girl from The Exorcist.

Seriously, it had her eyes.

I see this thing and suddenly all my resolve drains away. I was armed with an orange flyswatter and nothing else, and jesushellmoses I was pretty sure this Jumanji bee creature would take one look at my wimpy ass arm and attach itself for dear life just because it could.

Not to be swayed, though, I proceeded to poke and swat at the increasingly-angered insect. I’m not sure what my plan was exactly, just to rake him out of the window so he could get away, maybe to get lucky and get a well-timed strike in? Not likely.

So there we were, two shrieking women in the middle of the sidewalk, me inexplicably jabbing in the car door with a flyswatter while Mandy coached from the other side of the windshield – “There it is! He’s over here! He’s mad Emily, oh he’s mad.”

Of course a passerby was going to take pity on us. A passerby who was covered in tattoos (he even had one of those spiderweb elbow things) and weighed at the most 100 pounds soaking wet stopped to see what our problem was. He then handed me his presumably new license plate, took the flyswatter, and killed the skulldemon hell bug.

For real. Just like that. Bip, bop, dead.

He then took his license plate, acknowledged our thanks, and went on about his way – which turned out to be three cars down where he proceeded to slimjim his way into a vehicle we could only presume was his.

He got the benefit of the doubt.