Let me first say that this is my life. My husband recently had a massive heart attack. My oldest daughter is rolling in and out of sobriety. My middle daughter, well, I feel she drinks too much but it's a touchy subject. My youngest daughter is in a drug rehab for a heroin addiction for the fifth time. She is nineteen now and has been using since the age of thirteen. I take care of my mother who has Parkinson's Disease. She lives with me. My grandson is eight and has Cerebral Palsy. I'm in love with him. My point is I don't say things from a perspective of living a fucking sweet ass life. I'm been in the trenches and some days I still visit the trenches.
Someone said to me, "When will I be happy?" I said, "Maybe tomorrow."
Happiness isn't a constant state unless you are mentally ill. One day you're happy. The next day, unhappy. So if you're looking for permanent happiness, it's not going to happen without medication. Because that's life, right? Happiness isn't permanent. It's moment by moment.
Just like 'love'. I've been married for over twenty years. Most days, I'm madly in love with him. Other days, I want to stab him with an ice pick. Love is another feeling that we strive to have twenty four hours a day. And then when we're let down we run out the door because the 'love' feeling went away for ten seconds. Be patient. Stick around. Love comes back around.
The same thing applies to feeling sad or upset. Unless you've been diagnosed with some sort of depression, sad or upset with go away. It not a permanent feeling. People say, "Now my whole day is ruined." No it's not. Ten minutes of your day is ruined. The rest of your day was actually pretty good. Why focus on that crappy ten minutes?
What are you going to feed? The beast that's making you feel like shit? Or the happiness? Because if you pay attention, you're feeding one or the other possibly without even realising it.
I'm not a doctor or even a very bright person. I dropped out of high school in the ninth grade. But I have learned to hang on to the happy feelings as long as I can. I can't do this all day everyday because the 'ice pick' idea continues to flash through my head as I'm sure it does his. But I try. I try to be 'happy'. When will you be happy? I don't know. Tomorrow. The next day. The day you stop feeding the beast. Soon I hope.
Caution: I am not a doctor or motivational speaker. I am a checker in a grocery store. If you like being pissed off, carry on.

Comment And Interact »

comment 

I'm stopped at a red light and the biker in front of me has various things attached to his jacket. These things are the equivalent of bumper stickers because he has no bumper. The one that caught my eye was 'If you can read this, the bitch fell off'.
Most of the time I keep my beliefs and feelings in my head unless I put them in a blog. It is interesting that people put their beliefs on the back of there car. Bumper stickers. So I can get to know you while I drive behind you.
I saw one that read, 'After we rebuild Iraq can we rebuild our schools'. I like it. Not enough to paste it to the back of my car, but I like the idea. Another one said, 'Obama is not my president'. Shhh. Leave it alone. They don't know and I don't want to be the person to tell them.
There are the short fun ones. 'Mean People Suck'.
Or, 'Evildoer'. One of my favorites is 'Hugs, not drugs'. God bless America I want this so much. I want the hugs to work. Hugs clearly couldn't hurt. What about 'Hugs not thugs'? Or 'Hugs not high cholesterol'? God almighty I want the hug idea to work so bad.
Then there are the people who REALLY want to share. They put everything they feel on bumper stickers on their car. On ONE car I saw 'Abortion is murder', 'WWJD', AND 'Protect the union of marriage'. Okay, okay. Calm down. And thank you for assaulting my eyes with your passion.
On a truck I saw a collection of feelings, 'NRA', 'I don't have an alarm, I have a gun', and then one of those silhouettes of the girl sitting down with her leg up real sexy. It seems that the guys that have the sexy sitting girl are always driving alone.
The one bumper sticker I loved said, 'God bless the whole world, no exceptions'. I love it. I wouldn't put that on my car but I would put it on my jacket.
And my favorite, 'Well behaved women rarely make history'. I still won't put it on my car but I love the badly behaved woman that would. Then I wonder if this is the 'bitch' the man lost off the back of the motorcycle. She could have a bumper sticker that says, 'If you can read this, I got tired of my hair being blown to shit on his motorcycle'. It could happen. It's a freeky freeking world. See, that could be a bumper sticker.

Comment And Interact »

comment 

If someone said to you, if you use drugs you will loose your family, your job, all your money and your dignity but your legs will feel like pudding. Do you have any idea how many people would choose the pudding? Most of the people I know.
To a normal person this isn't even something to think about. But with addicts, we could go back and forth for hours. 'My family'. 'Pudding'. Hum. What do I do here. Our minds become consumed with figuring it out. At the end of the day, there we are. With legs that feel like pudding.
I know my brain is wired for pudding so I have to focus on everything I do or I'll end up behind a dumpster. For me it could happen so easily. I would go see my pharmacist 'Julio' at his office that is actually located on a sidewalk downtown. I'd try using some small talk with him, "Hi Julio. And how's your family?" Julio would just get angry, "I said give me the money, I'll give you the pills, then you walk away. Don't fucking talk to me." Excuse me for being friendly.
Drug addiction is only funny if your a drug addict or alcoholic. It's like if your a particular race, you can talk about and say funny things about that race. Addicts and alcoholics can make fun of each other as long as you're in recovery. I have a friend who said to one of my family members, "Hey! I hardly recognised you without the ski mask!" This family member got the idea one night, legs like pudding, he went to the grocery store, got a bottle of expensive vodka, put a ski mask on and ran out.
God knows I'm not one to talk about bad behavior. When the kids were small I woke up one morning and found that my car was gone. You know, this is typical for alcoholics, you call friends and try and find your car. So I call a friend and she says that I gave my car away at a house party. What? She said I went out to the glove box of my car and came in with the title and signed it away to some stranger. I said that I would never do that. She said she tried to stop me but I told her the guy was real sweet and he was having trouble getting back and forth to school. Apparently it was more important that the stranger got to school than it was for me to care for my two small daughters as a single mom.
I eventually got my car back but do you know how I got to that place of giving my car away at a house party? One thought. 'My family'. 'Pudding'. All the chaos and bullshit in the entire world begins with people who have legs that feel like pudding.

Comment And Interact »

comment 

My youngest daughter is in a drug rehab for the fifth time. My husband and I are getting desensitised to the whole thing. Carly is a heroin addict. A beautiful, talented, funny, soulful heroin addict.
We are used to Carly being gone somewhere, in some treatment facility, in detox, or whatever place we could find to hold on to her so she wouldn't use.
But I have fleeting seconds where I feel a sting in my heart. I think 'take me'. I wish it were that simple. Please, take me, take me. Let her get old and have a great life. Let her have memories of laughing and fighting and crying.
Let her have a little baby and a husband and a little crappy house that they live in and laugh in.
I love to think of Carly calling her sisters and complaining about the things in life. The kids are driving her crazy, the husband is driving her crazy, they don't have enough money. Planning trips to the beach and going camping. Screaming at the children, "I said not to get in the god damn water!" Because her mouth is like her mothers.
I want her to call me crying because her kids are teenagers and they're crazy. I want to comfort her and tell her it's going to be okay and that I love her and I'm so proud of her.
I want to be in the front row when her kids graduate from high school and watch her smile with overwhelming pride.
I want to be there. I want to hear these things. I want to see these things. I want to feel these things in my heart.
Even to write this makes my stomach sick. I feel like my insides are shaking. But I navigate my day by being funny. Thinking funny. Acting funny. Always funny. This is how I protect myself from my heart breaking into pieces. It protects me from the reality that she may never have that life, or any life. She may. But she may not. I miss her. Jesus fucking Christ take me.

Comment And Interact »

comment 

I get to work and I sit on the tiny bench which is the only place in the giant parking lot designated for smokers. The lepracy bench. I light my cigarette and 'random man' passes by. He says, "Good morning. The Dow is down thirteen points." This man always has a fact or information to give me. He comes in two or three times a day and he's a very nice man so I act really interested. "Thirteen points? That is ridiculous."
I go in the store and I start scanning things. Millions of things. It never ends. I scan about a thousand things and then I look at the clock, I've been at work five minutes. I look down, scan more, and wonder what point my life veered this horribly off course. Then I remember and keep scanning.
I say to the customer, "Two dollars and twenty nine cents." She says, "What! What did I buy!" I hear this twenty times a day. I say, "Well. You bought cheese." She shakes her head and hands me the money.
The next customer, "No, no, no! That was ninety nine cents! Go look at it!" I do. It's three dollars. "You're robbing me. I'll shop somewhere else!"
The next customer walks up smiling about the previous customer. He says, "Some people are crazy. I know because I did your job in high school."
I think I'm not going to get a normal person. A lady walks up on her cell phone, acts like I'm invisible, then says, "Thanks sweetie." The girl is younger than my kids.
Random man has finished his shopping and walks by and says, "Did you know that Koala Bears eat rubber?" I say, "Really? Rubber? That... is... crazy." He says, "Yeah. See you tomorrow." I look at the clock. I've been at work ten minutes.
I scan for two hours and then I go back and sit on the bench for ten minutes. Not eleven. Ten.
I light a cigarette and a customer walks by and he shakes his head, "You should not be smoking. My brother smokes and now he talks through a tube in his neck and urinates blood." I have absolutely no response to this.
I see he's holding a plastic bag with a giant bottle of scotch. I think I should tell him that he shouldn't drink that because my brother drank scotch, then he lost his wife and kids and now lives in a asylum shitting his pants all day. But I don't say that because I'm a christian. Thank you God he finally walks off. I have two more minutes.
I walk back in the store and the manager says, "Finally. You were gone for like thirteen minutes." I'm thinking, kiss my ass, but I say, "Wow. Really? I'm sorry. I must have lost track of those three minutes."
I get a huge order and ask a bagger to help me. He walks over with his pants sagging down halfway across his ass, as he's texting on his phone. The groceries come down the belt and he stares off into space dropping things in the bags. He has two speeds. Stopped. And slower than fuck.
I feel really irritated. I end up bagging most of the order myself. I look at the clock and I've been back from my thirteen minute break for five minutes. Eight hours later I walk out the door and run into random man and I say, good night. He says, "They say that in Detroit unemployment is up thirty six percent." I say, "Thirty six? This is insane. Okay, well, have a good night." And I drive home with every single ounce of life completely sucked out of me.
Nine years. I have been scanning Bologna for nine god damn years. The only possible way in hell that this will not feel like I've completely wasted nine years of my life is if I'm ever in my wildest and most insane dreams on Oprah and she says, "I wonder what Koala bears eat?" I will immediately say, "Rubber. They eat rubber Oprah."

Comment And Interact »

comment 

John and I went to visit Carly in rehab this weekend. Great weekend. Got in touch, got spiritual, got honest, yada, yada, yada.
When we go to Tucson we are so fortunate to be able to stay in our dear friends guest house way up in the hills. It's freeking beautiful and peaceful and I would like to never leave. John and I have known these people for twenty years.
Okay, so, the wife, Denise. Denise is as gorgeous as she was twenty years ago. I know people always say that, but in her case, it's actually true. She drinks a lot of wine so we're thinking she's actually pickled. I on the other hand have aged like a normal human.
Denise is one of those women that doesn't really know how beautiful she is so that makes her more beautiful.
So that should be enough, don't you think? Beauty? Who needs more? Denise cooks all our meals when we stay with them. I don't mean grill cheese. I mean 'chicken a la red wine marsala' with basil and tomatoes that she's hand picked from some hill in Spain. Then she makes the salad dressing. 'Tomato a la burberry, something, something'. She prepares a different dish each evening. I say, "What can I help with?" She says, "Oh, nothing. This dish is so simple. You relax."
Okay. So she's beautiful and she can cook. They own a comedy club and we walk through the doors and I notice since my last visit there is beautiful art work covering the walls. I said, "Wow. This looks amazing!" Denise proceeds to explain how she painted each piece of art in the garage and how painting isn't really her thing but they needed something on the walls so, I guess give her a paintbrush. What?
We go back to the hills and I demand that I am doing the dishes without question. I'm washing and I see this wildy fantastic ceramic bowl. I'm carefully washing it thinking it was probably expensive and I don't want to break it. I carefully turn it over and written on the bottom of the dish it says by Denise B. At this point I hang my head and turn to her and moan, "You make your own dishes?"
The point I'm making is could God spread it around a little? Why heap all the beauty and talent on a few people. If someone is short, make them really funny. If someone is bald, give them lots of money. On the other hand, if someone is beautuful, give them a constant toothache. Or if a person is a gifted artist, maybe they could smell bad.
It seems like God is in the people making factory and Jennifer Aniston comes down the belt and he takes his bucket of beauty and talent and dumps a shit load on her. Then Danny Devito rolls by and God walks away to check his facebook.
I'm just saying that God could spread the magic sauce a little more evenly.
John and I are about to leave Tucson and I set my drink on a table. After I set it on the table I ask for a coaster because in my head this order makes sense. Denise says, "Oh, please. That table is so old. I made it when we lived in Germany." I laughed and said, "Of course you did. We all made a table or two. In Germany. Sure."

Comment And Interact »

comment