In 29 Hours...

(*Warning! This is going to be some disjointed and incongruous blogging!*)

I will be on a plane, headed home. This makes me giddy with joy!

In five hours - if I can stay up that long - I will be checking in to our flight, so as to get the best boarding options.

In about a half-hour, I'm gonna get back on the cleaning/packing/cleaning wagon, so I'm as ready to go as I possibly can be.

Twelve hours ago was the end of my first-of-six weekly copy writing classes. This shit is so balls deep and the participants were AWESOME! I'm a little bit sad we weren't in an actual class together (it's all on line); but, by the same token, I'm sure if we were all in a physical class, because we're all zany freakazoids, we'd freeze up and the rapport wouldn't have been as tight.

These are some amazingly talented folks. The moderator and instructor, Ash Ambirge is so ridiculously awesome, it's really hard to come up with anything more creative to describe her. She's sixteen kinds of spectacular. She demands that you live out loud, fearlessly, and chase every dream -- pipe or otherwise -- as if it were your last day on earth.

Suffice it to say, I'm so excited I might just pee my pants!

Even though I always say that I'm going to do this or do that on this blog (and rarely come through), I am going to try to get the class assignments up here. At the very least, the exercises are giving me some blog content to put up here.

Aaand....

About 30 hours ago, I was at a tattoo/piercing shop, checking another item off of my life list. I got my nose pierced. It'll piss my parents off royally -- and I may even get threatened with a firing, but it's worth it. Here's why:

1) I have a good nose for a piercing. There are a few features that I was blessed with, and a good nose is one of them. It's well shaped, well proportioned and symmetrical enough to pull it off.

2) I've wanted my nose pierced since I was 18. At the time, though, I had to choose between getting my eyebrow done or getting my nose done (even though I dig piercings and tattoos, I don't like overdoing them. OK... I've overdone the tattoos, but at least I'm not buying crack. Amiright?), and I opted for an eyebrow ring.

3) Piercings are not permanent -- unlike tattoos. Once this heals up a bit more, I will be able to take it out for work and other occasions that require a modicum of professionalism and decor. While I shouldn't mess with it for at least 8 weeks, I know how my body works and I should be able to mess with it just fine in about four weeks.

4) I'm 34 years old (ACK!). I should not have to not do something that, in all reality, is relatively benign because I'm worried about how my parents are going to react.

4a) My parents should also not be dictating how I live my life. See the whole being 34 thing. See also: I'm the good kid.

5) And really, in comparison with my siblings, I could probably tattoo half of my face and still be considered the "good kid".

6) Seriously, nobody has reacted to my nose ring. Not even friends that have seen me on a fairly regular basis. Nose rings are just that... well, common. It's a tiny little stud and, once the piercing heals and I can take the piercing stud out, it's going to get even tinier. Which is kind of my point about it being benign.

7) I spend a lot of time examining my pores (I'm mildly obsessed with squeezing the crap out of them). The older I get, the bigger my pores get. I seriously have pores that are bigger than the hole the piercing will leave. Which is traumatizing in its own right.

8) If my parents are going to freak about a nose ring, they probably should've freaked about the sparrow I have tattooed on the middle finger of my left hand. If that was only mild disapproval, they probably should STFU about the nose ring. 

9) At the end of the day, it makes me happy. It's not alcohol. It's not drugs. It's not sex with random strangers. It's such a small thing, but it makes me feel as if I'm being more true to myself.

And, at the end of the day, being true to oneself is the most important thing.

My mom often says that my generation feels like they're entitled to happiness -- which, to her, is unrealistic and silly. But she's not exactly correct. We don't feel like we're entitled to happiness. We're willing to work our asses off for happiness because living a miserable existence just isn't worth it. It isn't worth the sperm it took to make us, the labor it took to deliver us into the world, or all the bumps, scrapes or bruises it took to bring us to where we are.

We don't expect hand outs. We don't expect a free ride. We do expect that, if we're willing to pay our own way, and it isn't hurting anyone, to live the life we want to live; to work a job that doesn't make us loathe waking up every day; to dream big and live bigger.

After all, we're only allotted so many trips around the sun. We need to make the most out of every single second.

This is going to get complicated. Maybe. I hope not. OK, it totally will.

And I'm not at all talking about this blog post. Or the blog title which, frankly, was really fucking cumbersome.

But in other news, half my street has no power because a transformer blew because, apparently, transformers can only take so much "being under water" before they go kaput. Why was the transformer under water? Because I'm currently sitting in a tropical storm. OK, I'm not actually in the tropical storm (I'm sitting in my house), but the Tampa Bay area is getting its ass kicked by a bitch named Debby.

Which is, ironically, my boss's name though not spelled the same way.

So, half of the county I live in is currently under evacuation orders. Driving north, south, east or west is a bitch and an exercise in "don't get pulled into a sinkhole" because, apparently, I live in the Sinkhole Capital of the World.

Because Florida sucks.

Which is why I'm going home for a week-long visit next week. YAY!

In the interest of saving money on a hotel (because, at the time, I was told that my one aunt (who I usually stay with when I come home) was selling her house and staying with the other aunt 'til she, the first aunt, found a house she liked), we're going camping. Which makes me happy to no end. The Boyfriend™ is afraid that we're going to get eaten by bears. I had to explain to him that it's not the bears you have to worry about; it's the mountain lions (and no, I'm not being cute. That's actually true). Frankly, I'm worried about the ticks. This will also be The Trolls first camping adventure.

So far, all we have is a tent. So I just ordered a bunch of "camping supplies" and am having the shipped to my nana, for us to pick up when we get to Massachusetts. Of course, my nana doesn't know this yet. I'll have to try to remember to call her tomorrow to let her know to expect a big-ass box on Friday.

I just hope that I got all the right stuff, otherwise I'm going to have to go spend more money on more camping stuff that we probably won't use again until next year. Why? Because Florida sucks and nobody wants to go camping in 98-degree heat (with 1000% humidity).

But... I'm GOING HOME! And that's the most important part. I'm so excited, I might just pee my pants! I am going to absorb as much grandmother love as I can possibly contain and whatever I can't contain, I'm going to put in tupperware for later. And I'll get some Troll time. And we'll have some family togetherness time which will light a fire under our asses to move back  home.

So, yeah. It's gonna be complicated. In a phenomenally good way!

So I'm the Mother of a Teenager Now

Today is The Monkey's 13th birthday. I'm forgoing my usual sobbing over his baby books while wondering where all the time has gone tradition in an effort to embrace the sweet melancholy of being a mother.

Because, seriously, being a mom is heartbreaking.It's not the work, or the asshole comments that kids make (and they make a ton of them). It's not the wretched table manners or constant interrupting. All that's sort of part of the package deal -- take the good with the bad. What's heartbreaking is that these quite-literally-pieces of you grow up. And every year that they grow older, if you've done your job well, they need you less and less.

If The Monkey's birthday is any indication of what his teenaged years will be like, he'll be OK. There will be way more asshole comments, but there will be plenty of moments of pure "Oh my God! He is such a good person."

Of course, now that he's a teenager, he's holed up in his room completely ignoring the rest of the world. As long as he doesn't get all Emo, and comes out every now-and-again for food and bathing, I'm OK with that. It's the natural of order of things. While he's being teenaged, I'm editing photos from my trips to Alabama.

Here, have some love:

This store is growing a tree. Inside of it.

REALLY artsy downtown Opp, AL. Believe it or not, people DO live in this town.

Opp, AL. Entering downtown

This is Alabama for you.

Ooo... artsy train lights.

Ooo... more artsy train station stuff

Dowtown Opp, AL after 5 PM. The whole place shuts down at 5. I'm not kidding.

This was the height of high tech and the next town over from Opp.

The fates, you should not tempt them...

Remember how I said it could be worse? Apparently, the fates took that as an engraved invitation to deliver a crappy week my way. A run down:

1) An employee on my staff's nephew OD'd last Monday. This meant that...

1a) I had to do her job on top of mine. Not a big deal, usually, except that we were already really short staffed.

2) My step-grandmother ended up in ICU on life support, suddenly and unexpectedly. Which meant that...

2a) I got to watch her die on Friday night. This was not a good thing at all and, in my opinion, should be illegal (the watching someone die part). But she was surrounded by people that love her, and that is a good death.

2b) The Trolls experienced their first wake. The Monkey is not a fan. It was very difficult for him. The Nugget, on the other hand, was a trooper and sat right by his Papa.

3) I got news that the nugget did not pass his FCAT, ergo did not pass third grade. He sobbed. It broke my heart. It's for the best, really, because he just wasn't ready for fourth grade (as much as he thinks he is).

4) Apparently, I blew through a red light on Mother's Day and the Pasco County Sheriff's department were very happy to collect my $158. I got the ticket on Saturday. The curse of Mother's Day continues...

5) The Boyfriend™ and I got into a tiff. It was by no means our worst fight, but it was enough to send me over the edge.

6) Our washing machine broke.

7) Our dishwasher does not actually wash dishes. It just bakes on food detritus and water film. Which means that...

7a) I have to wash all the dishes by hand.



OK Universe. I get it. It can and will get worse. I have had my quota of worse. And bad. And suck. And horrifying. And annoying. And crap. And blah. I will gladly accept good, and fun, and wholesome and loving and everything is awesome with the world. Yeah, I'll take plenty of that.

I'm off to Opp, Alabama today to lay the grandmother to rest. Opp has about 6500 souls and is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it town in the middle of some backwoods. I'm hoping for some good photography moments, but I'm not holding my breath. I'm also going to be stuck in a car for eight hours with my errant sister, whose behavior makes tattooing the side of my face look tame in comparison.

So, Universe? We're even. I'll take that goodness now.

I told you - NO WIRE HANGERS!

There are a few blogs I subscribe to for inspiration, aspiration, laughter, tips, tricks and ideas. I love these women bloggers and can not wait to grow up and be like them.

One blogger, in particular, Amanda Blake Soule is an amazing woman. At least on blog. She makes it a point not to put her family not-goodness on line, choosing to use her blog space to chronicle all the wonder that is her life with her family on their homestead. The good stuff looks really darn good, if I do say so myself. And she and her husband, Steve, seem to have a symbiosis that is rather breathtaking in its honesty and simplicity.

Here's the thing: As much as I admire Amanda and all that she stands for; as much as I want to be her and have that kind of magic mothering instinct, I'm just not wired that way. I am not the kind of mother who can let her children leave scraps of paper all over the place (though I do it). I am not the kind of mother that gently explains the ins and outs of life, or coddles the sick or injured.

In my house, unless you're dying, broken or on fire, you better not be crying about an injury.

I am not the kind of mother who humors children's interruptions. In my house, I will very un-politely tell the child to shut up and find something else to do, because grown ups are talking.

I never was a co-sleeping kind of mom, either. Past the age of three, The Trolls were far too old to spend a night in my bed.

I bottle fed, used disposable diapers and let The Nugget fall asleep in his high chair (more often than I care to admit). Both my boys were c-sections.

I tried flash cards and labeling everything in the house, but I just didn't have the patience to keep teaching a toddler how to read. The Nugget didn't learn to tie his shoes until he was seven.

I swear, I yell, I spank. I don't make The Trolls brush their teeth all the time. I let them leave their room a mess, and only sporadically enforce other chores.

I refused to vaccinate The Trolls until they were school age and I had to (because I couldn't claim religious exemption, what with my not going to church and all). I usually make them eat organically, except for candy. And the sweet tea. And occasional adventures at Dunkin Donuts.

I ship them up to Massachusetts every summer so I can get a break (all the while, my heart breaking until they are safely home with me), where their Loli will feed them anything and everything they want.

We have date night, and prayers and books. We snuggle - all four of us - in bed just about every night. I mostly make them do homework, and we have family dinners just about every night. There are no video games or TV during the week.

So, while I am not perfect and will never be SouleMama, I do my best. My kids seem pretty OK, for now. But just in case, I already have therapy funds set up for them.

Why yes. Yes, I DO kiss my mother with this mouth.

Not that you can tell most of the time, but I was raised with manners. I know which fork to use with which course, and I know how to set a table. When out to eat, I usually remember to keep my elbows off of the table. I know that you're never supposed to talk about money, religion and politics in mixed company. I know when you're supposed to stop wearing white (and when you can start again). I know that when invited over for a dinner party, you should always bring a bottle of wine and/or a dish to share (and you're never supposed to bring the leftovers home with you). I might not make Miss Manners proud, but my mom's pretty happy with the way I turned out.

Except when it comes to thank you letters.

I don't know what it is about writing a thank you letter that makes me so bad at it. Maybe it's the forced politeness. Maybe it's because I never have postage stamps or good stationary. Or maybe it's my flaky nature that makes me inclined to forget things easily. Whatever it is, it's usually months after I receive a gift that I get around to sending the letter.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm not grateful. As a rule, I'm phenomenally grateful for the gift and the thought, and gush to anyone who will listen about the awesomeness that I received. I just forget to gush to the giver of the gift.

So, I know it doesn't technically count, but here are my thank you letters:

Uncle Brion:

You have no idea how grateful I am for your presence in my life. You keep me young with every box you send. Your generosity speaks volumes about your selflessness. Because, seriously? You send your 34 year old niece a Christmas gift and birthday gift, without fail, every year. You even remember to include gifts for The Trolls -- one of whom you've never laid eyes on. In short: you're awesome in ways that I can't even begin to describe.

I suck at thank you letters (as I'm sure you've noticed but have never pointed out). But don't let that be a tell. Those boxes mean the world to me. Actually, it's not the boxes -- you could send an empty box and I would be grateful (but please don't. You have the best taste in gifts. See? I'm awful!). It's the love that's in there. It's the thoughtfulness. It's the support and the belief you have in me. Please know that I feel all of that for you, too.

So thank you for being indulgent. Thank you for being tolerant. Thank you for everything.

Much Love,
~S

Nana:

Every day that I still have you in my life is a day I'm thankful for. You have taught me so much and been so supportive. You haven't always liked all of my choices, but you've been there, right behind me, every step of the way. You are my anchor. Thank you for YOU because YOU is an awesome thing and because you get me, I don't even need to finish this sentence in any coherent way.

And thank you for the birthday cashola. I know I cashed that check quickly, but wasn't so quick to get the thank you letter out. It's because I suck at thank you letters. That isn't a reflection on how you raised me -- because you did a good job. I'm just a space cadet (I blame Dad).

Also, thank you for not doing the near-death routine that Dottie's been pulling. I know you're 83 now and are officially at the age you promised me you'd live to. But if it isn't too much trouble, could you hang around for another couple years? I'm not ready to let you go. I don't think I'll ever be ready to let you go (what's a ship without an anchor?). So, I guess you're just going to have to live forever. But you're superwoman; living forever shouldn't be too hard for you.

I'll be home for a visit soon. I'm going to squeeze you. I'm also going to take pictures of you. And I'm going to spend endless amounts of time telling you how much you mean to me and how damn grateful I am for you. Make sure you have extra batteries for your hearing aids. You have fair warning.

Love 'til bursting,
~S

Dorothy Ann:

Woman, you better quit with the near death shit. Yes, I know you're my grandmother and I shouldn't use the word "shit" in your presence, but if you can start swearing then so can I. I also know that I shouldn't start any letter to you with "woman." That was rude of me and I apologize.

But seriously, you can stop with the almost-dying. You aren't allowed to die. You are allowed to not be in pain, and if you have to die in order to not be in pain anymore, then we'll have to figure out a different way to keep you from being in pain. But if you are going to die, you need to wait until I can get back home and squeeze you. And take lots of pictures of you. And listen to your life story.

I want you to know how much you mean to me and how much I love you. I suck at being a long-distance granddaughter, which is why you always had to come and pick me up. Every-other-weekend, you'd make that awful drive to pick me up and bring me back to your house and feed me breakfast in bed. Until I was seventeen. Actually, no. I was eighteen. You didn't get mad when I wet your bed when I was five; you just flipped the mattress and said "accidents happen." You didn't get grossed out when I puked all over your bedroom floor because I'd had too many Halloween cookies. You just got me in the bath and cleaned up the mess.

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that you've always supported me. You've always understood me -- in ways that few other people on this planet do. You kept me safe and made sure that I felt loved. 

So, hang in there you stubborn old thing. I'll be home soon for a visit. You better take an extra percoset, because there will be squeezing. And I'm not going to let you kick me out at 7 PM. You're just going to have to be a night owl.

Love you to the moon and back,
~S

Insert long suffering sigh here

So I had every intention of hanging out in the studio all day. Then The History Channel sucked me in. This is why TV is bad.

I also had every intention of cleaning today, since our house is in that lovely half-way-packed stage that makes people inclined to live like slobs. Between our room and The Trolls' room, we're starting to look like an episode of Horders.

The fact that I keep making television references ought to tell you that I've been watching entirely too much TV lately.

Speaking of cinematic badness, don't see Dark Shadows. I was absolutely champing at the bit to go see this movie. It's Tim Burton! It's Johnny Depp in a Tim Burton movie! I love Tim Burton with a love so fierce that it must rival Helena Bonham Carter's. I settled in to my too small movie theater chair, with my large tub of popcorn, The Boyfriend™ by my side, prepared to be wowed. I left disappointed. Actually, I left the theater more than disappointed; I left feeling let down.

So it's a weekend action packed full of let down. Which, I suppose, is the nature of the life. I mean, not all the time. But some of the time we're all going to be let down.

The cleaning didn't get done.

I eventually got into the studio, but felt no creative compulsion (I blame Tim Burton).

Dark Shadows left so much to be desired that I want the two hours of my life that I spent watching that tripe back.

It's insanely hot right now, and the air conditioner unit in my car is broken.

Monday is the day-after-tomorrow, and I have to go back to my day job.

In the grand scheme of things, my list of let downs isn't so bad. And I guess that's the point of this whole blog: it could be worse. It could be a lot worse. I'm grateful that it isn't. The house will get cleaned. I'll have another creative stint that will rival Picasso. The weather will cool back down; and shortly after Monday is another Friday that I can look forward to.

... I don't know if Tim Burton can recover from the travesty of a movie he created, but I remain ever hopeful.