The Heart of the House

 

            This blog  is a copy of the descriptive essay assignment  for my English 101 class. The assignment was to write a story from your life about your favorite place, season or vacation.  It seemed cheesy, and sentimental, but my story was about my bed.  I expected a good grade, but  I was wholly unprepared for the 100A++.  I was even more unprepared by  the note she had written underneath my grade. " This is the best descriptive essay I have read in my 11 years of teaching."  I am humbled. Not only by the note, but by the response of my friends and family that wanted to read my essay after  I posted a picture of the note on FaceBook.   Thank you. I love you.

  

                                    

                                        The Heart Of The House

 

     Most of our weekend mornings start the same way. Sunshine streams into a window, bathing the room in yellow light. I am rousing from the cocoon of blankets. The sound of snoring greets my ears. But it is not the snoring that wakes me, it is a giggle. These morning sounds, this light and this warmth, and even the smells of fabric and flesh create another living breathing entity. This Island of family is the very heart of our house.

 

    First, a small boy would play with my toes. Then he would launch himself onto the bed to sing his salutations. My eyes would blearily open, trying to to focus on the green eyes and pink lips that wanted to give me slobbery little boy kisses. I would then grab him around the waist and snuggle him into the warm blankets to hold him tight. Tickling and roughhousing would ensue, leaving us breathless.

 

   This was my routine for several years. The little boy grew. HIs early morning greeting now came after being woken by the gales of laughter from the curly haired blond toddler girl, seven years his junior. This was the little girl that would sneak up  on him and give him a raspberry on his belly. I could hear her chortling at the "pwbbbht" sound. Soon the four of us would be laughing on the cozy square of the king sized bed.

 

    Now a young man, the sandy haired boy occasionally follows his preteen sister as tehy are woken by the sounds of thumping tails and excited barks. They are greeted by the wagging tails and wet, slobbery kisses of te furry chow mix and the smooth coated , energetic pit bull. They fall into the huge bed that suddenly seems so small.The six of us play, tickle, hug, raspberry and wet Willie our way into the day.

 

   To them, it's just the weekend. My son and daughter do not realize I am measuring thier ever lengthening bodies. They do not know that  as we hug, I am inhaling the youthful scent of thier flushed skin. They are not aware that I know know these times spent in the smothness of red sheets will come to an end.These days of hiding in the fluffy grey comfortor are going to be but a memory of childhood past.

 

  I see the time passing by, faster every day. I want to grasp the slipping sand from the hourglass. I beg time to slow down. I'm not ready for thier childhood to be over. I'm not ready for this time to end. I will never be ready for the eventual emptiness. Our bed has always been the heart of the house. I don't want it's beating to stop.

   

 

   

 

 

 

A letter to myself at 16.

    What do I say to myself at 16 that would preserve, yet enhance the woman I am now? Because I can't go back, and I think most of the choices I made were good ones. There is not much I would change about my life today. I didn't know I was pretty, so I was busy  forming opinions and reading books. I was doing everything I could to survive my sophomore year. I  had a  really fantastic, committed boyfriend.  The only thing odd was his being a Pentecostal. I remember going to church with him a few times.  I still wore jewelry and make up there.  I was respectful, yet I was still true to myself.  God saw me everyday. I was not going to change the way I looked to please someone else.  I'm still the same way.  I had been that way since I could remember.

    




    School was not that bad. Going home was the worst part. Jeffery made that better. He took me home from school first. Then drop off my friends. Then he would come back to my house.  Most often not leave until after dinner. This was every day for 10 months.  We were 16. We were both virgins. He never pushed  to go any further than I was willing. He truly respected women, and in turn respected me. I was lucky to have him in my corner. I regret breaking his heart. 

                                                                        Easter, 1992. 16 years old


   OK, I take it back, there  are a few things I  would change.  I would tell myself to study harder. I would still be me if I would have made better grades. If I could have been a little less headstrong about Algebra.   I would tell that girl that she was really going to need to master all the math she could. I would tell her to go to sleep at night instead of reading.  No I take that back.  I would tell her to stop sleeping in class and skipping school to go shopping. I would thank her for the funny essays written in World History. I would thank  Coach Zachary for finding them funny. Instead , I was  being embarrassed when he read a few out loud, hoping other's would find them just as funny.  I would have paid more attention to Julius Caesar in English. I would have learned and recited Marc Anthony's Oration. 


  I would also have told that girl to stand up with her fists every time some mean girl made fun of her in P.E.. I would have whispered in her ear that one day she was going to love being a  D cup and thank her for wearing  great bras.I would applaud her  audacity to run and jump.  I would never let her sit in the bleachers wasting time. I would have practiced at being an athlete. I would have told her to love her body for the amazing machine it was. I would have told her to be careful of her food choices. I would have remained active .I would have gone to a few dances. I would have learned how to fix my eyebrows. I would have lost my virginity as planned on New Years. Sorry Jeffery. 

                                  defying grunge with big hair and lame'


 I would tell my 16 year old self to stand up  at home . I'm sorry I let my mother get away for trampling my self esteem. I wish I would have been strong enough to tell her I was none of the things  she said .  I was not lazy, selfish, a slut or a whore.  I would have recognized her for what she was: jealous of a pretty daughter.  She was  in her late 40's  and youth was fading for her as I was budding.  I would tell my 16 year old self I had done nothing wrong. 


  I would tell her that yes, it's OK to really love your friends. Staying in the area means that you will always have those same friends.  Hell, they are going to keep you grounded and remind you  of how much they love you even now. 

                             Kellie, Misty and Me. Friends since junior high, friends today.




I would let a couple of cats out of the bag.  I would tell her that I was going to have amazing children.  I would tell her that she would lose touch and then reconnect with  her old friends from childhood.  I would tell her that they admired the courage she had back then.  I would tell her that yes, they thought I looked great in my crazy ensembles.  I would let her know that they admired my creativity. I would also tell her she was going to survive, to become an incredible woman.  Wait, she already knew that.  She already was. 

Greed: a group blogging experience re post.

 I am an attention whore of the highest extreme.  I don't know how or why people put up with me.  I  prance around like a drag queen.  I  take  numerous pictures of myself bcause I  feel the need (as a former ugly duckling) to record every "Good Face Day".  I think I am the authority on all things fashion, food and taste.  Manners too.  I am  sulky if I am not complimented ten times a day. I must be everyone's favorite.  I  dominate  many  conversations.  I can't help it.  My opinion is the only opinion I care about!   I have my humble moments.  I don't mind pointing out my  mistakes.




    I want to  have  my funeral in the largest church in my home town. It has arena seating. It holds aproximately half the population of Minden Louisiana.  I  want it filled to bursting with people and flowers.  I need every flower in the tri state area.  Only thier sweetness  and beauty in masse can adequately  compare to mine while living .If  I don't have enough friends to fill every pew, hire me some.  I  want everyone who has ever come in contact with  to say a few words.   Make that deliver  whole orations to my  goodness, my beauty, my intelligence.   Someone find my second grade teacher.  She can wax poetic about my coloring skills and ability to tell right from left.  She knows I should have gotten that solo in our Cabbage Patch Kids program.  It doesn't matter that none of the other kids had one either.  Find the check out girl at Wal-Mart.  Our 30 second conversation about dog food changed her life! I know this! Pipe the program over a loudspeaker so those who could not fit in the  church  and sweltering outside can hear  these sweet words too!  Hire some Arabic women to wail and  rend their hair and gnash thier teeth.  Find some old Irish women to cry Oshon Oshon!  I want a few crazy black women to faint every time  my name is mentioned.  Let them come too on thier own. They may faint, but not draw attention to themselves!

   Pall Bearers: Find all my  far flung ex boy friends.   20 is not too many , is it?  Besides, they will be so  grief stricken it will take that many.  I suggest going  all the way back to Junior High.  It's not my fault they lost the love of thier lives when I left them! I could love only so many.  Bring thier wives too.  They will look lovely in  strait jackets and ball gags.  Make sure they are  facing  full length  portraits of me in my prime.  I need not one picture by my casket, but  a dozen to show my progression into  beauty.  Let these be life sized.  


    Music: I will need the Mormon Tabernacle Choir there too.  In place of  the name father, son, Holy Ghost in hymn, replace them with my name.  I am  sure JC and the Boys will understand. Dave Grohl can play at the graveside.  I need an acoustic version of "Everlong" played reverently.  I hope he can play through the  ocean of tears that turn the  whole thing into a great muddy mess.


  Ectetera: I want  the banks to close. They close for every other useless holiday like President's Day and Columbus Day.  I  won't be needing money that day. Why  should they be open? Also, I apologize in advance for the traffic problems from the procession  from the church to the gravesite.  I  expect it to be clear in about  two hours. To insure the proper level of congestion, I recommend everyone come in separate vehicles.  Teach your  14 year old to  drive if  neccesary. 




 These are my  final wishes.  Not too much to ask, is it?  In the end, we all want to know we were loved.   

The light at the end of the Tunnel... I hope it's not another train!

    The holidays are over.  I am so relieved.  Hell, 2011 is over.  There is not much about the last 4 months of it I will miss.  Jobs were lost and found and  the resulting chaos made for the leanest Christmas I have ever given my children.  My consolation? They really enjoyed the gifts they were given. 


The best part? The new year looks like it can only get better. The residents of my house have been paired down to 5 adults and 2 children. There is a division of labor and bill paying that works for all of us.  We have let go of the  members of our house that were causing  us friction.  We even cleaned off the dining room table .  Even better?  That's where we eat dinner!  Speaking of dinner, we are  all on a health kick with my chef husband, G, aboard! 


The jobs? G is back home and teaching at job corps.  I have much hope for him as he reaches out to those kids that  are looking for one last chance to make it good. Me? I have a new job in a new office.  I  am soliciting and collecting  small loans.  I actually get to get up from my desk and talk to people in the room!  I interact with the public, face to face!  I had not realized how much I had missed that!


There is a lot of new this new year.  I'm ready for the change.

Lighter side! Things in your apartment that send single girls running OUT the door!

  Being an Internet/Information junkie I love it when I stumble upon  a new site. Especially when it’s a relationship site.  Not only would I love  to write for one, but I find them to be great inspiration.  Kind of like Sex in the City in web page form.  I recently found  one such site http://www.howaboutwe.com . This may be my new guilty pleasure; especially when I come upon lists . You could call it “10 things about  cat burglars” ( found recently on www.mentalfloss.com )  I want to know those 10 things.  This particular list : “10 things that should never be in a  Ladies bedroom” along with  “10 things in  a dude’s room” http://www.howaboutwe.com/date-report/1119-10-things-ladies-shouldn-t-have-in-their-bedrooms   It  made me remember my  single days. These were on my list of “ewwwws”.

• Old Big Gulp cups, Pt 1. I once dated a guy who would fill one up and drink it for 2 days. I still shudder .
• Old Big Gulp cups, Pt 2. I hate it  if I ask for a drink of water and I am served in a take out /convenience store cup. Real grown ups have real glass ware.
• The pile of laundry in the corner.  It’s the weekend. you were hoping to get lucky. Me too. That’s why I cleaned my place. You never know.
• Empty alcohol bottles /Beer Pyramid on display.   I drink.  I have rarely turned down a party, even on a work night.  I don’t want to think this is all you do . Don’t make me judge you on your empty bottle of Everclear or Makers Mark
• Condom wrappers. Please let me hold the belief  that I am special. I don’t want to wonder  how long that wrapper has been on your night stand.  All I ask for is an empty spot to  put my earrings!
• Leopard Print Anything!  I once slept with a guy that had a leopard print comforter.  I teased him mercilessly.  To this day, anything  tacky and leopard print gets called by  his nickname. My husband  still gets a a sick  thrill out of this.
• Dead Plants.  Nothing looks more pathetic.
• Anything your  former  flames  have left behind.  Do I have to explain this one?
• General Filth.  Don’t make  me run out the door before you have gotten me to the bedroom.

It’s the weekend.  Who knows what will happen.  But treat your place like you do yourself.  Clean, buff and polish.  I did.

What an Atheist Believes .

 Here is a big shocker: I don’t believe in God.  I don’t believe in religion.  I also do not believe in censorship.  While the disbelief in censorship is no surprise, my disbelief in god surprises people.   The next question I get after “coming out” as an Atheist is  “What DO you believe?”




There is no short answer. There are many things I believe and hold sacred, sort of like voodoo. Each Atheist  searches their self and comes up with their own answers.  Often it is this search  that leads to their rejection  of the religion  of their  early years. This  also leads them to  the classification of their sacred symbols and holy places. Because each  one of is  us is different ,  mine may be different  than another Atheist.
I believe in the genuine  goodness of  people.  I have faith that given the chance, they will do the right thing.  I believe that we should all take care of each other. The good that  we put out comes back. I believe  together , we have the power within ourselves to do extraordinary things. I believe  in our right  to make our own choices from and decide our own paths.  I believe our power comes from within and  not from a higher power.  Because of this I believe also that we  are responsible for all  of our actions. 


 I believe  we should follow the universal  "Golden Rule : Do unto others" . Or as my friends and I like to say " Don't be an asshole".  This also lets me look at a person's behavior and decide  if I want to  forgive that person. My family are the only ones I love unconditionally.  I have no problem cutting someone out of my life.  Cross me, and you are dead to me. I give up on lost causes.



 I believe many things are sacred. My most sacred objects?  My family. My children,  G.   My home. These are my sacred cows and would sacrifice anything  for them.  Work.  I believe there is power in  working.  It does not matter the job.  It only matters that you work.  If you dig ditches, dig the best ditches possible.  There is a sacredness to serving your fellow man.

  I believe  heaven and hell are  places  of your own creation.  Your choices determine where you are at any given point. You are directly responsible for  your situation.  You are your own salvation
I believe each day  I have the opportunity to make the world a better place. I have only this day and no other.  When I am  dead,  it’s the end.  If I live on, it’s in the memories of my family and friends. Hopefully they will be able to say  I followed my own commandments and made the world a better place while I was here.

BFF 100 Celebrate like an Atheist!

In my last blog I got a little heavy explaining how and why I became and Atheist. Giving up a deity to worship and ask for assistance is a difficult change.  It can be a little lonely when you realize you are on your own.  But all is not doom and gloom. One of the best parts of Atheism is the holidays.  Yes, I celebrated the holidays.  They mean something a little different to me.  Let’s start with the big ones.

 Christmas:  The Christian Christmas marks the birth of the Christian messiah.  The month of December also marks Winter Solstice for my Wiccan friends and Hanukah for my Jewish friends.  December for this Atheist means Christmas in the secular sense.  

 Christmas decorations for us include Santa, but no holy family in their crèche. Tree decorations that started as a theme a decade ago have devolved into a mish mash of snowmen, snowflakes and cartoon characters.  These reflect our sacred tradition of getting one new ornament per year, per family member.   Friends and family are welcome to add their own.  The tree stands sacred as a living family history. It’s not uncommon to hear us reminisce about past Christmas’ as we decorate.  The presents, I hold these sacred as they represent our ability to fill our children with delight and restock their toy supply.  The opening of them is a sacred time for me, or at least it counts as sacred after I go back to bed!   The feast; this is the equivalent of my church ceremony.  The meal is our gift to our friends and family.  There is sacredness to sharing this meal, because we chose to spend this time together.  As for Christmas carols,  I am the one that listens to them with the children as we  drive to look at Christmas lights.  I will admit to being a huge fan of the more serious Christian Christmas songs for their drama.  I have always loved singing Christmas music.

  Easter of course is the other big one. While my friends talk about the passion play, Passover, spring solstice, I am gearing up for Easter bunnies, baskets and dresses.  I get to skip over the questions about why we get a basket of chocolate if the lord died but was resurrected.  I get to buy my kids more toys and new clothes, which is stressful enough with out having to explain the religious overtones of the holiday.  Easter dinner is the same.  It’s a huge dinner with friends and family that allows us to celebrate our love for them.

 Birthdays share the same concept.  We shower the birthday person with gifts and love.   It’s the same concept for anniversaries.  Our favorite holiday:  The first day that G is home from work.   These days mean shopping, presents, food, and parties. We prepare for them as laboriously as any other holiday. We accept these preparations as a show of love and celebration of our family. We know that other families, regardless of religion feel the same.  For an Atheist, any day can be a “holiday”.  The sacredness of celebrating our family does not need a specific day.  Every day with my whole family is a holy day.

An Everyday Atheist

                                                             

   When I was young, I was in church every time the doors were open.   I was there for Sunday school, Wednesday night services, children’s choir on Saturday.  I believed because I was taught there was no other way, but to trust and obey. There was a niggling doubt that all this was true.  I remember asking church elders for proof of God’s existence. I was told I had to “have faith”.    I was not satisfied, but knew enough then to be quiet. After all, Santa and the tooth fairy were real, even though I was beginning to have my doubts about them too.

  I accepted unconditionally during my teen years. Church was a haven from the day to day pressures of growing up in a single parent home.   Church was safer than school with it’s bullies and hierarchy of rich kids, hoods, hicks , nerds and those like me  who seemed to belong everywhere and nowhere.  Church was a place I felt important. I was surrounded by adults who could help me figure things out from not only a religious perspective, but a social and emotional perspective too.

  When I entered my twenties as single parent I did what most of the twenty something’s were doing: I went to bars and clubs to meet people my age.  I’ll admit to drinking, though it was not as heavily as some.  I learned my alcohol limits the hard way a couple of times. It was a fun way to spend a weekend.  I had grown up dancing with my older sister. This was more of the same.  The best parts of going out were the hours spent getting ready to go out with my girlfriends.   I had also met my boyfriend in the same arena. These relationships proved that you could find love, friendship and other good things in the dens of iniquity.  My best relationships have come from bars, including G.

      I began to question whether or not my being in these places was as sinful as I had been reared to believe. Surely sin could be found there, but sin could be found in church as well.  Growing up in a Southern Baptists church had taught me that one of the greatest sins was to dance. But dancing made my body feel good. Not just in a sense of desirability, but in an exercise sense.  I found places in the bible that spoke of drinking wine /beer at celebrations.  Was this not a celebration every weekend?  I took care of my son and worked every week.  I was not an alcoholic.  Again, I found no definitive answers after asking my pastor/stepfather.  “Because Jesus said so” didn’t fit into logical thinking.

  I also began to explore other belief systems.  I thought back to the ancient Romans and Greeks.  They had their god’s, as did the Norse, Egyptians and Indians.  They all believed in their concept of afterlife. These civilizations were convinced they were correct.  Would “God” allow only a chose few to be correct and go to his heaven, forsaking these ancients?   I realized that Christianity also adopted many pagan customs in order to convert new followers. It started to sound like a pyramid scheme.  I realized that religions main focus was to control the behaviors of the masses by offering eternal rewards or damnation for right or wrong acts.  It was the ultimate “wait ‘til your father gets home” threat.  Was I not old enough to make my own decisions on my own behavior?  

 But like most realizations, Atheism comes from an intensely personal place.  I looked at the world around me.  I saw so many natural disasters.  There were godly people in all theses places. Were their prayers for safety not important?   I looked at violent crime.  Were those victims prayers not heard?  Were they unworthy of heavenly aid?  For what purpose was their suffering?   I looked at the abuse in my childhood.  What had I done that made me unworthy of His protection? What purpose did it serve?  If he was my all knowing, all powerful heavenly father: Why had I not been spared?  

 If HE was able to calm the storms and bring back the dead, why did he not stop the hands and mouths of my abusers?  That was the final realization.  If he wouldn’t protect me, he was just as much at fault. If he couldn’t protect me, then he was not worthy of my loyalty and worship.  If he could or would not do these things, then why should I call him GOD?  

BFF Unchained Melody

    I looked  all over  YouTube for a punked out, gritty version of "Unchained Melody".  I searched through pages of links and  listened to scores of versions .I realized that for many bands, this song has some sort of sacredness. U2 was the only band with the balls  to  rough it up.  I love  U2.  I was hoping for Tina Turner , or  maybe even Janis Joplin.  I could have related.

    One of my favorite songs of all time is Tina and Ike's version of  Proud Mary.  But it's not just for the  song or the sound of it.  Watching  "What's Love Got To Do With It" in the 90's  made me  realize that sometimes you take a pretty song or sentiment and "do it nice and rough, instead of nice and easy".  Not because you want to be different, but because  you want to DO something different, but because  life's circumstances have MADE  you a little different.  Sometimes soft and pretty  just does not fit.  That's why I wanted a rough version and I'm not happy that U2  was still not rough enough. 

                                   

  Sometimes you know nothing but rough. It makes you develop a skin so thick that you can't trust or even relate to the nice and easy.  Soft and easy bores you because it feels artificial and saccharine.  It's terrifying. You can't  trust it.  You are not equipped to handle it.  But sometimes it would be nice.  If you can afford it.

   Love, especially long distance is  never soft.  You long. You hunger.  You stay busy at all costs.  You make really great friends with both lonliness and aloneness.   Anyone who has been there  knows the difference.  To hear such a beautiful song  that expresses all the vulnerability of long distance  can be too much to bear.  


  

Unlikely Role Models

                                                               

  Do you ever read diet books?  The lose 10 pounds in 10 days articles that promise  to make you younger , thinner, smarter?  Yeah, me neither. Ok, I have browsed through the menus.  But they don’t motivate me, even when the food looks good.   The second my head says DIET, my whole being revolts.  I just can’t do it. I hate thinking; this is going to be my last Double stuffed Oreo, pint of Ben and Jerry’s, Starbucks pastry.  In fact thinking about it just gives me a panic attack.   Summer is coming and I’ll admit, I don’t want to bare anything.  I also am starting to really hate the way the body I inhabit looks. But most of all, I am inspired by some unlikely role models.   

  I work in a call center. This means being tethered to a desk by a four foot cord and sitting for 8-9 hours per day.  Yes, I have my own desk and I sit in air conditioned comfort.  But also frustration and stress make a morning and afternoon trip to the break room vending machines seem like an appealing change of scenery.  These vending machines hold the typical assortment of chips and candy bars. We have drink machines, a sandwich machine, even and ice cream machine!  This is nothing compared to having monthly potlucks and a Starbucks in the parking lot.  With all the abundant bad food choice and little exercise, most of us gain weight.  The longer you work in call center, the heavier you become.  Also, your idea of what normal body size looks like becomes skewed as Venezia jeans from Lane Bryant become the norm for everybody instead of Miss Me. 

It’s not the skinny women that motivate me to take a walk at lunch or to grab a smaller hot chocolate. It’s the really big women.   In my first call center I sat next to a lady that brought a rolling cooler to work filled with cheese and chips and cupcakes and several meals. Granted we worked 12 hour shifts.  Watching her eat motivated me to walk around the campus at lunch and climb the stairs on breaks.  I was afraid I was going to become her.  Fast forward 5 years to another call center, another crop of lovely, large ladies.  Like the one with the backside that juts from her back  at a 90 degree angle, or the one that  seems to be kicking herself in the gut every time she raises  a knee.  Watching her walk is enough to make me hit the door at full speed to walk the parking lot a few times. Especially on days when I had planned to sit at my desk, eat my lunch and blog.

Oh, and  BTW, I'm a size 16-20w.   If I make you feel like  exercising, I'm glad I could serve as inspiration!

                        

 Who are your unlikely role models?

With or Without You

     





     Every woman has been the star of her own romance, her own love triangle. We have our Romeo's and Paris', Ashleys' and Rhett's, Jacob's and Edward's.   The terrible thing? What we really want is to create a mash up of the two to create our perfect man. 


 I remember one such summer. Only  in this story,  the gentlemen have the most common names in the modern era.  I had been greedy, I had wanted and hurt them both.  One of them was a gentle giant I could take into the city, take to museums, blend into polite society without worry of his committing a faux pax. He gave my intelligence more credit than I did. I saw with him a comfortable life,  blonde children, and snow.


 The other?  A cowboy as simple and ernest as the mud on his boots and the pearl snaps on his shirts. He understood my need to breathe country air and  drive  old back roads. He understood and loved cans of beer drunk from aluminum cans in dive bars. With him I saw a future of  cotton dresses worn on porch swings, humid nights and  dark eyed babies . 


 I had discarded them for another chance at the wedding ring that had never fully left my heart. After shattering that illusion I chucked the ring , and  now I wanted my  true loves back. I didn't care  which one.I was grateful for whatever they gave me.  Funny thing was I more faithful to the both of them my last single summer than I had been when I was with them.  I had behaved badly , and they were  giving it back to me in spades.  I thought I was going to die , as I slept on my own bed of nails every night.    The pages of my  diary  bled with my shredded dignity. My hands were tied and my heart was torn.  I waited. 

 I waited longer as that summer  turned to fall, then winter.  The human heart can only take so much.  I gave up on the cowboy and settled for being friends.  Summer came round again , and my giant was leaving for  the Black Hills and a future  where I could not follow. I wondered how I would live, his ghost was everywhere .

     Salvation came in a dive,  clean of the ghosts of lover's past.  He had been reared in the city, but could not hide his country heart. Suddenly I realized he was the perfect match for me.  He combined the qualities I loved most from my former loves . He brought qualities I could not have dreamed. He folded me into his life until I could not remember my life before him.  The wait was over. No more stony eyes, no twisting thorn in my side.  I was  whole .

Help me win a $3,000 college scholarship. Vote for my essay!

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The pretty girls are listening.....

I went  to my favorite karaoke  bar last weekend. I wore my "Jack (Daniels) Lives here"  T shirt, some flats and a pony tail.  It was a spur of the moment decision and I did not feel like making a fuss.  I wanted music,  friends and an ice cold Wood Chuck hard cider.


   Around  eleven thirty a group of girls having a batchelorette party came in. They were young and gorgeous and fun.   Their vibe got the party started. Soon other people started coming in and the place filled . Being on my own for the night, I  drifted from group to group and eventually found myself  in the courtyard of the bar.  I sat down to talk to an acquaintance.  On the low brick wall by the entrance was a group of  guys . They were watching and commenting on girls as they walked in.  We heard an odd sound coming from the wall as a group of girls came in.  The cause for the noise? A very tall girl came in wearing jeans and flip flops  was causing a stir.  She must have been at least  6' and was not rail thin. She stood head and shoulders above her  high heel wearing friends.  As they  passed the wall, I heard a string of negative comments directed at the girl.

   I've seen  this and worse in the form of  banners on trucks  saying " No fat chicks"  and facebook status'  asking why  ugly girls are convinced that they are beautiful.  I see  and hear these sentiments and it pisses me off.  But  I would be lying if I wrote  that this was new behavior.


   I had a similar experience  in the  last days of the gay 90's.   I remember going out almost every night with  my girlfriends.  We would spend  hours getting our hair and makeup just right. We bonded over  the requisite  manicures and pedicures.  Who could forget the necessary disco naps?  I remember our  air kisses blown at our reflections and our  exclamations that the guys we would meet that night  were not worthy of our beauty!

 We cruised the floors together and separate, with my main hangout being the  Karaoke part of the club.  I was friendly with the dj's  here, even having  my own nic name.  I felt as comfortable  there as I did my own living room I remember seeing  a couple of very attractive guys one evening. I approached them with a smile and flirted with them for a few minutes.  We found out we had a couple things in common.  Everything seemed to be going well until one of the men pulled a napkin from his pocket. Written on  it was a telephone number and a girl's name in swirling  script.  The  "I" in her name was dotted  with a heart.  My  face fell a little . The guys at the table assured me I was prettier than the girl who had given her number  and I knew, a piece of  hope.  I watched him shred her number into little strips into an ashtray.  To my horror he grabbed one of the club's matchbooks, lit one and  tossed it into the pile of shredded napkin.  Both guys laughed at the silly girl who had thought she was pretty enough.  I knew then that my number , if given. could meet the same fate.   At the very least  I was no longer interested. In trying to be  funny I saw  thier true colors.   I left thier company  as quickly as  politely possible.

 Even though this happenend over a decade ago I'm still shocked  and saddened.  But as a warning to  all the foolish  and mean  guys in groups of more than one : Remember the pretty girls are listening. We  are not impressed by your behavior.

 

BFF Cant Buy Me Love?

      Money can't buy me love.  But it can allow me full immersion into this  smoky club, where  I can be  enveloped by this throng of bodies. The sound coming from a baritone sax  can reach my bar stool from a hundred feet away. It can fill my ears to take me  to another place where the music is loud enough to create pockets of isolation , allowing me the privilege of looking into my long stemmed martini glass and not having to make conversation with those around me. 

  It is too loud to force  more than a shouted plea for an acid green appletini, no sugar on the rim of the glass please... no grenadine or cherry. I want a  twist of lemon .  I like alcohol flavored alcohol. This is a smooth, silky goose. I need that tiny citrus kick.  After watching my bartender flamenco with his shaker and watching the flourish of the liquid lust  swirl into a glass chilled to be as cold as my heart. His lifted brows ask if the first sip was good enough.  My lowered  eyes and raised glass answer the question as I smile my reply.  He leaves to answer the next shouted drink order. The  the smell of limes protruding from the neck of" dos Coronas, por favor" tickle my nose and cause me to lift my eyes and take in my surroundings.

 These exposed brick walls soar high above my head to reach a punched tin ceiling. They anchor the iron staircase with it's ornate railings and it's narrow mezzanine that swarms with a human parade going from the main floor to the throbbing dance floor on the second level. I see ingenues with their  belted a-line dresses and tiny sparkling clutches. I see the danger girls in their skin tight leggings , exposed shoulders and high platform caged shoes.  Interspersed with these era spanning girls are the popped collar boys in their fitted  graphic tees  with velvet burn out and too tough sneer.  The occasional hipster with disheveled hair , thick black framed glasses and  skinny jeans weaves his way through with a studied nonchalance , edging towards boredom.

 I sit here, on this bar stool, perpendicular to the bar and  let my senses feast . My tart cold drink, slides it's way down my throat as I inhale the perfume of bodies, smoke and the mingled cologne of the surging human mass.  The smoke of countless cigarettes fills my nostrils and clings to my hair and clothing.  It will one  of the few things to touch me intimately tonight.  It's  only competition is the urgent pounding of the music.  Being easy, I let both of them have their way.  With my pocket of isolation, I may as well be the only one in the room.

 Another appletini later, the band packs up and the atmosphere changes. I draw the last drops into my mouth. I pay my tab and thank my  kind host for a  lovely evening.  So , no money can't buy me love. But it  can afford me  these moments to be alone in crowded places. It gives me  this unexplainable peace and enjoyment.  When your love is miles away ,it's amazing what 12.50 will get you.

I'm back.... what this really means.

    I'm back.  But what do I mean by that? It's notjust my return to writing, blogging or even hanging out with the knuckleheads I love at Mantana.  It means for the first time in a long time I am back to feeling like myself, a self I have not seen in almost two years. It means I am almost  all the way through a depression I thought would  never lift, and I would be stuck there, forever.

   I am Bipolar. I also have PTSD.  Only the ones I love and trust the most know the reasons for my PTSD.  But I'm not afraid of admitting  being Bipolar. It runs in my family as sure as diabetes runs through others. The more light that can be shed on this mental disorder, the less stigma it will have.  I work every day to control my behavior. One thing I can point out: while I may be "high" and feeling invincible I am fully aware of the possible consequences of any bad behavior. I just don't believe the consequences don't apply to me, because I am Sherri Jean Hunt Smith. When I'm "High" or "up" ( I hate the word manic.  It's too much like maniac) the rules just don't apply to me.

  But it's the flip side that I have been struggling with for  the past two years. What is the downside of the high, of the up? Depression. It started slowly. At the time I was a stay at home mom. It was normal for me to spend a good part of my day taking  naps and surfing the internet.  I would stay up into the night , writing, blogging. I got into a couple of facebook games like Farmville and Cafeworld.  My house work started slipping and my daughter was sometimes late to school.  No one noticed how far I was slipping since G was working in Arizona and I was still in Louisiana.  Most of my contact to the outside word was through friends or  strangers in  places like the grocery store or the bookstore. It's easy to get a boost from those places, but it doesn't last long.  I also started live in sweats and t shirts.  This was not my usual  standard of dress.  People around me accepted  that I was a stay at home mom and wanted to be comfortable.

  I thought going back to work would snap me out of my funk.  I went to work for a telecommunications company as a customer service representative. With the high sales quotas and a supervisor I could not stand, ( let just say if she was on fire , I would bring marshmallows to  make s'mores)  I sank deeper and deeper.  I began wearing  tshirts and jeans to work.  I stopped  wearing full face make up. I stopped  wearing  even eyebrows and lip gloss.  I stopped combing my hair.  I was dead inside. 

   G was home, and he did everything he could.  Where work had  been my solace for years, safety and security was now found in my home and family . This was an epic paradigm shift. It may be the only good thing that came out of this  time.  G and I celebrated 10 years together that summer,  and I had never loved him more.

   I could not leave my job as it was needed  to pay the bills . G's job in Arizona had come to a halt as the recession crept into most of the homes in America and my beloved G was forced to run a fast food restaurant.  There seemed to be no end in sight. This was just my life.  I was sad.  But it went deeper than that. I was just existing. 


   Luckily a change at work was coming.  We were changing from sales to collections.  This meant  no sales and a new supervisor.  I  could make the collections quotas. I went from being an underachieving sales agent to a fervent collections agent.  I made and exceeded my  work goals.  I trusted and respected my new supervisor.  I even got to travel for my company to assist with a conversion.  To make things  even rosier, we moved into a new house .  The friends who had been sleeping on my couch finally had their own rooms and we became the Bo-Hilly's.


  Bigger news came withing weeks of moving. G was able to go back to off site catering. Even better  almost all  of the Bo-Hilly's went with him, leaving me to hold down the fort with the help of a female member of the Bo-Hilly.  Things were looking up financially, but without my G , I fell apart again. I started having panic attacks  at work.  They became daily occurrences.  Before, my panic attacks had been  less than one a month, though they had been  more frequent during the previous year.  I was perplexed.  Things were getting better, so why was this happening now?

 Luckily, the telecommunications company where I work has excellent insurance and a program that allows employees  up to 8 free sessions with a counselor.  I was mailed a list of counselors. I'll admit I chose the one with the  best address.  That was  all the way back in November.  I  now have once a week session with a very nice therapist. 

 Digging out of this depression has been some of the hardest work I've ever done.  Every week I  sit on a couch and cry my eyes out as I explore an issue I have buried. Facing yourself in the mirror to find out why you are self destructive, angry and sad  is scary.   With the help of my therapist and my willingness to do my weekly homework is helping me get through and get better. 

 My goals are a little different, and it's sometimes insane when I look  at a list that includes things like "wear a real outfit" "wear make up" " Practice good sleep hygiene".  I have a mirror on my desk at work. If I don't like the way I look ( a very good indicator to how I am feeling) then I have the tools to change it.  It's these elementary steps that are helping me to beat depression.

 This is how I know my therapy and other work is effective: I look more like the "Me" my friends and I know. I'm back to living in high heels.   I'm back to being a  redhead.  The internal radio station clicked back on a few days ago. I am writing. I am writing again.


 So yes, I'm back. " Back" is a huge accomplishment.  "Back" feels so good.