Private what?!?!

Private. All in all it’s a good word. A word to describe something that is not our business. “I’m sorry, that’s private” is an acceptable, (good manners even) answer to a question you do not feel comfortable answering. Privacy is something we all enjoy; fences, curtains, window tinting and even clothes are purchases driven by our love of keeping things private. It is under the banner of “private” that an industry is growing, this industry is dangerous and counter-productive. It is the “private sector” business label given to industries that should NEVER be private.

Halliburton is a private sector contractor that has made billions going into war zones and paying their employees to set up military camps, wash uniforms and pay their workers more than the military to do it. And our government pays for it, Halliburton is contracted through the pentagon and our defense budget pays them to do these things. Making money off of war and becoming politically powerful in the process. I have not said anything so far that cannot be reasoned and argued logically, because doing what you do best and making money at it is the American way. It is fully within the rights for any American company to make money, hire employees and as long as they are treating their employees fairly and staying within the confines of the law they can just go right ahead and do that. But what happens when wars end? Does Halliburton go back to building swing sets instead of military camps? Washing nurse’s uniforms instead of fatigues? They are certainly capable of doing these things, but will they make billions doing it? No. It is in the corporation’s best interest to keep doing what they are doing now, contracting in war zones. This is where the corporate political power becomes scary.

America has roughly 5% of the total global population, and nearly 25% of the incarcerated population.

Can you imagine how many prisons we have had to build in the last 30 years to keep up with this? Prisons are expensive to build, expensive to maintain and in high demand. Solution? Private sector prisons. Wait…what? There is an industry that profits from the building, maintaining and managing American prisons? Yes. It would bankrupt the budgets of states to build, maintain and manage prison facilities. Well, it leaves a bad taste in the mouth but we have to do what we have to in order to keep our streets safe, right? Sure, except when you notice that the freedom of information act doesn’t apply to private companies. And then you add the political power corporations now have in our government, you realize we now have a “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine” situation between our government and corporations that is leaving the interests of the people completely out of the decision making process.

Seems a little skeevy to me. Wonder why there are inflated sentences for simple possession charges? This is why. Wonder why we haven’t even looked at what other countries are doing to keep crime down and their citizens out of jail? This is why. The notion that there is an industry profiting from imprisoning our citizens is gross. What regulations are in place to hold private sector prisons to keep the constitutional rights of prisoners in mind? And how many of those regulations are they able to use their political power and money to sidestep?

This is not how developed nations conduct business. We are lucky to live in a society that can speak up about such things, we just need to become aware of them to have the opportunity.

31 things from 31 years.

The 31 things I have learned in 31 years:

1.    There is a blissful day where you wake up and stop giving a fuck about what others think of you. There are glimpses of this day when you are young, but somewhere between 26 and 29 you drop that load and throw your middle fingers in the air. It’s a great day.

2.    Just because you are a parent doesn’t mean you have to become YOUR parents. This is a lie parents tell their children so they don’t have to feel guilty for passing on their toxicity to you.

3.    When your kids get old enough to make their own toast you will have cinnamon flavored butter, forever.

4.    An education is expensive, but it pays for itself.

5.    Marriage is hard, dating is harder. Be nice to your spouse, you can’t expect them to be perfect and accept your faults simultaneously.

6.    There is no possible way to get the first piece of pie out in one piece or not burn the first pancake. Having a dog will help you discard the evidence of this.

7.    Grow as much of your own food as you can, factory food is an oxymoron. Google it.

8.    Watch one documentary a month, about something interesting. You will, in turn, be more interesting.

9.    Have pets, and care for them like family because chances are, they will treat you better than most of the people you know.

10. It takes too much effort to keep up a lie. Honesty is easy, and better in the long run.

11. “The Jones’s” don’t give a shit about you, stop trying to keep up.

12. Stay rebellious. Just because you have a 401k doesn’t mean you have to become a normal suburbanite dick.

13. Get fired up about a cause. Somewhere between job interviews you lost your passion to change the world. Get it back.

14. A great way to learn about another culture is through food, get cooking!

15. Teach your children about the wonder of life, how big the world is and how to speak fluent sarcasm.

16. Vegans are assholes, but they are on to something. Try it for a month and make your own decisions.

17. If the people around you all look like you, get out of your bubble and change it up.

18. Have enough respect for yourself to not go shopping in your pajamas.

19. Success is not what your bank account says; it is measured in how peacefully you fall asleep at night.

20. Ask “how are you?” honestly, while looking someone in the eye and listen intently to their response. Guaranteed you will be only person who has asked them that not in-passing today.

21. Laugh! For shits sake, life isn’t that hard!

22. Know how to take a compliment and give an insult, both without looking like a pompous ass.

23. Your heart will be broken at some point, but it’s ok because a mended heart is stronger than the original.

24. Sing loudly in your car. Especially when you’re in a bad mood.

25. Weird old-timey remedies really do work.

26. It’s easy to live cheaply: don’t buy stupid shit.

27. You are special and fantastic, but not better than anyone else.

28. Don’t be that driver everyone hates.

29. Ask for help when you need it (ok, so I am still learning this one).

30. Take your mascara off before you take a shower. Forgetting this will make your husband and children run in terror from the “weeping witch”.

31. Stand up for yourself. Not in a Jersey Shore style bar brawl way (have some class), but don’t let others steamroll you.

LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL, ENJOY IT!

The Temporary Orphanage

When did the notion begin that helping out someone in need was too financially or emotionally expensive? A little over a year ago our house/property had the population of: five adults, three kids, eight dogs, four cats, seven horses, four goats, one sheep and one turtle (RIP Tiny Tim).

A single mom friend of mine needed a place for her and her daughter to stay, this was a no-brainer. I won’t go into the reasons she was in need of a place, it’s not my story to tell.  She stayed for about eight months in our basement, gave us a few bucks when she could and since I cook as if I am feeding the fucking Brady Bunch no matter who is coming to dinner she and her daughter cost us nothing.

A few months after my friend moved into the basement our neighbors across the street lost everything. A middle aged couple who struggled most of their lives to make ends meet, the husband’s trade was seasonal and the wife was unable to work. When the husband lost his job they became instantly homeless and had no idea what to do with themselves and the only things they had acquired that gave them any joy: their animals. I had got to know the couple and all their animals because the wife and I were both housewives, smokers and talkative.

When our neighbors lost everything they said they would have to sell all the animals and live in a RV camper trailer on a campsite somewhere. They didn’t know how they were going to do it, but they had no choice. Our house sits on 20 acres that my city-born husband and my city-born self have no idea or no intention of doing anything with. We offered them a place to put their animals and the trailer. They plugged into our electricity and paid for what was used, and although the husband was sometimes headache-inducing and not my favorite person they cost us nothing. After almost a year they were able to save enough to find a place for them and their animals.

We literally didn’t do anything but offer, nothing.  Helping isn’t a burden. We were in the right place at the right time and knew what we could do. It is wrong to think that donating to charities is the only way to help someone in need. Charities are amazing, but our economy has made it impossible for the middle class to donate. We need to stop thinking that this is the only way, just know what you can do and be open to it. You will be amazed how easy it is!

My Dad

It’s been a while since I blogged last. Because I really don’t like talking about myself…no, really. Part of the reason I don’t have a job right now is because I do not have any self-promoting interview skills. “Tell me about yourself.” “Uhhhhhh, I like work. I want money for spend on kids toys and tattoos.” Even for something like this, which is just a journal really, it’s hard for me to sit down and write it out. I do feel better after writing about something that is especially heavy, so this one is going to be looooooong. My apologies.

Yesterday was hard. It would have been my Dad’s 67^th birthday but he passed away in August of 2009. In early November of 2008 I got a phone call from his girlfriend Debbie who told me that my Dad was in the hospital and they amputated his leg but he doesn’t know it yet and he is confused. I think it needs to be explained that Debbie is the dumbest person I have ever had the displeasure to meet, she makes me cringe but I keep my mouth shut because of my Dad. What she doesn’t tell me during this phone call is that my Dad has actually been in the hospital for over a week by this point and he is in so much pain from the amputation that they have had to keep him sedated, his kidneys are failing and he is getting frustrated at the doctors for not explaining what is going on. When in reality the doctors and nurses talk to him whenever he is coherent, but he doesn’t remember all of it. What Debbie also forgets to tell me is that she accidentally called my Mother first and told her what was going on (more on that in a sec).

At this time my husband and I were in a bit of a rough patch, he was working graveyard and it was putting a strain on our marriage. I was afraid that he would be blasé about my Dad being in the hospital and wouldn’t want to make the drive to Las Vegas. But, I was wrong. I woke him up to tell him what was going on and the only thing he asked was where the kids were going to be when we went down. The only option we had at such short notice was my Mother, which didn’t make either of us happy (she gets her very own post at another time). I did not find out until we were in Vegas that my Mother already knew all about what was going on, she pretended that this was the first she heard and agreed to let the kids stay the night. We had to be back to pick them up in the morning, we didn’t have the money for a hotel room.

At the hospital I stopped the head nurse and told her who I was and that I wanted to know exactly what was going on. She was the one to tell me that he had been in the hospital since a few days before Halloween, that he came in with a flesh-eating infection on both of his feet that was made worse by diabetes, they had to amputate his right leg above the knee but were able to save his left foot. His kidneys were overwhelmed by the infection, diabetes and the shock that comes with surgery and they didn’t know if they would resume regular function yet. This was my Dad’s first diagnosis of diabetes, even though he probably was diabetic for years – he hadn’t gone to a doctor since 1985. We sat and talked to Dad every time he woke up until it was clear that he was out for the night, he was so glad to see us and was pretty coherent.

I went down many more times to see him while he was in the hospital, he was finally released in January of 2009. He was getting really good at maneuvering himself in and out of his wheelchair, in and out of bed and could shuffle on one leg a little. Whenever I talked or seen him after he was released he was so positive about his progress and so proud of how strong he was getting. After my begging and pleading he agreed to let me find him a place that was near me so he could be close to the only family he had. He wanted to wait until fall, so he could save a little money and finish his physical therapy with the therapist he was used to. He was getting excited to walk again and to move closer to me and his grandkids.

I was at a friend’s house babysitting when my phone rang on August 7^th, I ran outside before answering to make sure I could hear him and have a smoke. I answered the phone “Hey Dad!” and was expecting to hear his laugh and “Hey sweetness, how are ya?” Instead Debbie was on the line and told me that my Dad had died and she was sorry to call but the Vegas medical examiner was there and needed to ask me a few questions since I was the next of kin. After getting off of the phone with the medical examiner who told me that her preliminary cause of death was heart attack, I called my husband. How he understood anything I said is still a mystery, then I called my friend whose kids I was watching. Then I sunk onto the edge of the concrete porch with my bare feet in the grass and the cigarette that I had forgotten to light.

Most of the ordeal has blissfully or forcefully faded to a blur now, except this: I know what my Dad would have wanted as far as his funeral arrangements go. He had no savings, no life insurance and no plans. He doesn’t give a shit about what happens to his body now that he has left it. I know that he would have told the funeral director to let the state pay for it, he worked his whole life for not much so the state can do this for him. He would have freaked out if I paid for it, and I didn’t have the money for it anyway so I made the decisions as my Father would have wanted them. A few days later my husband was on the phone with my Mom, who called and I refused to talk to anyone yet. She offered to pay for it, my husband told her that I had made the decisions and I didn’t want to go thru that again so the arrangements stay the way they are – period.

By the time my Dad passed away my husband was working day shift again and we had made it out of our rough patch, he stood firmly at my side while my world caved in around me. His anger at what happened 3 weeks after my Dad’s death still impresses me. I got a phone call from my Mother while I was at home and was trying to get back to some sort of normal. She and I had a tentative truce since Dad died, I had hope that we were coming to an understanding. Then she told me that my Dad’s remains were cremated and ready in an urn she picked out and everything was paid for-and-rainbows-and-unicorns-and-you’re-welcome. (!!!!) She had called the funeral home and made the arrangements herself, AFTER I made the arrangements and AFTER we told her not to, without apology (to date). The funeral home gladly took her money because then they wouldn’t have to wait for the state’s paperwork.

Whatever her intentions were, we told her not to. Now every time I look at my Father’s urn in the living room, I think of her too. Making his arrangements was the single hardest decision I have had to make thus far in my adult life, but I did it. And I did it in a way that would have made him proud, I don’t know if I can forgive her for fucking it up. My Dad was the one person that loved me no matter what, never hesitated to tell me he loved me and how proud I made him. I miss him terribly.

A little about me

I am full of conflicting beliefs. I believe all living things have a right to live, except spiders. We have fly swatters now so they really aren’t needed and spiders seriously freak me out. I am pro choice, which also conflicts with my ‘right to life’ stance; to further contradict myself I would not personally have an abortion. I couldn’t do it – at least I don’t think I could, I will not speak for my potential frame of mind if I were impregnated by a rapist. But I am not arrogant enough to force my decision upon anyone else.

I hate people that hate people. Yup, you read that right. Racists, homophobes, religious extremists and anyone that is pro-genocide can go right ahead and kiss my ass. You hate an entire group of people? Well then I hate you, how you like ‘dem apples? Granted, my hate is not nearly as loud and definitely not as violent as theirs, but it’s there and it makes me happy.

I am pro second amendment rights, but see no need for guns capable of killing a dozen people in a matter of seconds to be available. You want a gun for protection? Fine, here is a muzzle loader circa 1760, all the protection you need and no risk of drive by’s. Automatic weapons in my opinion are for cowards and homicidal maniacs. Let see how many blind rage shootings there are when you have to pack powder into a barrel.

An environmentalist SUV driver. An activist that refuses to picket. A psychology student that can’t handle listening to people that always whine. A suburban housewife with a punk rock soul. A cynical optimist. The list goes on and on, I am a complicated woman that leads a simple life, and I like it that way.

Our Son and Our Bond

It’s amazing to me how the human body holds memories. Completely separate from my brain my body becomes tense and anxious every year at this time. Eight years ago on this date was the last day I would be pregnant with my first child. I was already a week passed my due date and my obstetrician had finally convinced me that my body was not going to go into labor on its own. I felt a little defeated when I accepted that fact, like my body had let me down. I wanted to play out that scene in every movie featuring pregnancy, where I wake in the middle of the night and announce that it’s “time” and my husband comically runs around in a panic. Which would not have happened anyway, my husband is not one to panic.

Since my labor was planned my grandfather was able to be there, he drove 9 hours at the age of 83 to be there for me and meet his great-grandson. I will always be grateful that he made it to both of my children’s births. He made it into the room when I was in labor with my son just in time for me to projectile vomit from an allergic reaction to one of the induction medications. I seen his cowboy hat out of the corner of my eye enter then immediately exit the room, to which my husband said teasingly “you know how to clear a room honey”.  My allergic reaction was the first of so many unexpected complications, when my water broke we found out that our son had already passed his first bowel movement. Not uncommon with overdue babies, the hospital made the preparations to clear his nose and throat of the sticky substance.

Also unexpected was how big he was, after two hours of pushing, oxygen for me and a dropping heart rate for him the doctor used forceps as the last option before we would have to go for a c-section. The forceps worked and all 10lbs 2oz of our son came into the world. The Boston-born respiratory therapist exclaimed “what a bruisah!” and she worked over him to help him breathe normally. The first few hours after he was born went by quickly and just like a typical birthday should. I was able to hold him for about 20 minutes between doctors and nurses checking oxygen levels and other things, everyone was so positive around me that when six hours after his birth when they told me that his lungs were not drying out as expected I had a hard time understanding/accepting what they were telling me. The pediatrician we chose for him had a stellar reputation and arrived at one in the morning to assess the situation. I will always hold the upmost respect for him for not pulling any punches and saying it was time for my baby to go to a specialty hospital.

 I had been awake for a full day when we boarded the life flight plane, the whole way I watched the nurses take turns squeezing the bag in rhythm, breathing for my sedated son. After arriving at the hospital and dozens of strange machines, wires and tubes attached to my son, no one had time to answer my questions. Like the hospital we came from, everyone was positive and encouraging, they talked a lot yet said nothing. This is when the head nurse from the plane came in and told me unceremoniously and with strange fascination that he had never seen the machines at such high settings, and we would be “lucky” if he made it out of the hospital. At that moment I never wanted to hurt anyone more, if I had any control of my body right then I could have killed him.

As it happened we were lucky, and the nurse was right, those machines had only had to work as hard a few times to bring a baby back from the brink. After three torturous weeks we were able to turn the machines off and hold our son again. A total of five weeks passed between his birthday and the day we were able to bring him home. Five weeks of constant stress, major lows and small victories. In those five weeks my husband and I built a foundation for our marriage that has yet to be shaken. There is nothing that we have gone through since that compares; arguments, stress, the things that would cause other relationships to falter or crumble are small bumps for us. Now every year at this time we get to celebrate the “bruisah’s” birthday and another year of our bond that was born along with him.

Rough Day

My daughter’s nickname is Minnie; she gave it to herself because she had issues saying her name when learning to speak. She is my diva, my dancer, my artist, my light on dark days and the person who drives me to the brink of insanity at least once per day. She doesn’t know that of course, but she is thin skinned, emotional, argumentative, stubborn and draining. In short, she is an extreme version of me. I might have been exactly the same at her age, but I don’t remember.

I am an only child, and no, I was not spoiled. I know, I know, all only children say that as adults; but I have proof: My father was an only child, he was a navy brat and I mean BRAT. Both of his parents dotted on him as if he were king, both he and my grandfather admitted to his level of spoilage. My mother has a brother that is 7 years older than her, my grandmother had many miscarriages in between her two children and had almost given up having a second child when my mother came along. She was spoiled as well, as was told to me by her and all of her side of the family. So, I had no chance as it is apparently impossible to be the spoiler when you have been the spoilee.  As a teenager both of my grandfathers independently apologized to me for spoiling their children, who in turn treated me like the hired help.

As far back as I can remember, my mother and I have never got along. I loved being alone in my room, where she would leave me be for the most part. I have promised, and so far succeeded in not being a parent like mine. Minnie loves spending time with me, and I love it too; but lately she has started being my shadow. The suggestion of playing alone in her room brings an emotional meltdown. She hates being alone. Now I think I need to address the obvious: she is not afraid of anything in her room, she is not attention starved nor is she a brat. She is well behaved, well mannered and knows the meaning of ‘no’.  I do not give in to her when she argues and she does not have me wrapped around her finger.

My family is lucky, I get to stay home to raise our kids and focus on my education, my husband has a sweet schedule that is 3 on/3 off, so he gets to be home half the time. We make a point to spend time together as a family, we are not perfect by any means but there is a lot of love in our home. So, cut to this morning, when we were running a few minutes late; I like to have both kids ready to walk out the door 5 minutes before we have to. This actually happens about 30% of the time. I am the first to admit that I am not a morning person; I am grumpy and impatient for the first hour of the day. The fourth time I asked Minnie to put her socks and shoes on was the exact moment we had to leave, so I yelled for her to “put your damn shoes on so we can go!” Like I said, I’m not perfect.

I have to drive a mile down the road for my kids to catch the bus, one of the cons of living a country life. On the way to the bus stop I hear Minnie crying in the back seat. I told her I was sorry for yelling but she needed to do things the first time I asked so I don’t have to yell about it. She cried harder, so I asked her what was wrong and she said “I just think that you will cut off my head with a knife”. My head spun.  I have never said anything remotely like that to her, or around her. She doesn’t watch violent TV and she doesn’t know violent people. What the fuck is going on?!?!  My son and I had matching jaw-dropped looks of disbelief. After telling her that there was no way that would ever happen I asked her to please stay home from school today and have some girl time with me. She agreed.

After a long talk she told me that she has bad dreams a lot. Not about monsters or other imaginary scary things; she dreams about who she knows doing scary things. Some of the dreams she has are vivid enough that she has a hard time distinguishing what isn’t real. At 5 ½ years old, that is understandable. I have no idea what to do for her, and I feel like a failure because of it. Now I feel extra horrible for asking her to play alone in her room because she was driving me nuts. If I couldn’t separate my real family from the scary psycho family of my dreams I wouldn’t want to be alone either. If she keeps having these dreams I will find her a counselor to talk to. I have worked so hard to give her the loving, spend-time-together-family that I didn't have and she still ends up thinking everyone hates her just like I did? Is the universe that cruel? Well one thing is for sure, I'm not gonna stop looking for ways to help her until I get my carefree diva back.

Hide and Seek

I jogged yesterday. This might not seem like a big deal, but it is to me. I used to love to run, as a kid I ran everywhere all the time. And in a desert that was consistently 115 degrees, you have to run for the love of it. I ran and ran until I turned 12, which is when I developed breasts. By the time I was done with 6th grade I had a solid B cup and I was a skinny kid. It happened so fast, I had no idea how to handle it. My love of running now earned stares, whistles and vulgar comments. Grown men scared the hell out of me, boys my age wanted too much from me and the girls in my school all hated me. I stopped running. One afternoon I was walking to the store and a large truck pulled along side me and a man that did not speak very good english asked me how much I would charge for some company. It took me seemingly forever to figure out what the hell he was talking about, because I wouldn't stop walking and talk to him he figured it out before I did and drove off. When I got to the store I went straight into the bathroom and cried.

My mother was no help during this time, it was the early 90's and thankfully baggy clothes were in but mom didn't like this "gang banger style" so instead bought me clothes that were made primarily of spandex. Then accused me of loving the attention and why don't I stop thinking about boys and act my own age, while wearing the neon spandex she bought me. I had no one to talk to about this, I stopped running or leaving the house unless I had to, so I gained weight. It took me until my mid-twenties to realize that I hid myself with fat. But no matter how much weight I gained, my breasts were still my most prominent feature and by the time I lost my virginity at 15 I wore a D cup.

During high school my self esteem was in the toilet, and after being seen as a sex object since before I knew what sex was, I went with it. When I did say no it was only because he was a friend's boyfriend, old enough to be my father, I heard he had a STD, ect; not because I should say no to save my self respect. So here I am now, at 30 years old, with a husband that loves me and does not see me as a walking pair of tits but I'm still hiding. I am terrified. I am heavier now than I have ever been because I know that my self respect isn't much better than it used to be. The possibility of being seen as a sex object by men other than my husband scares me. I have never had to say no for my own reasons before. I am heavy now because I don't have to try to say no to a question that isn't asked. 

I should be confident in my marriage and myself to know that I can handle....blah, blah, blah. Here's the truth: I too damn old to being hiding like a pussy. I have a daughter that thanks to me and my sister in-law she will never be on the itty bitty titty commitee, I owe it to her to respect myself and be the supportive mother that I didn't have. It's not about me anymore.

Vegan dreams vs. Bacon cheeseburgers

I want to be a vegan. An animal rights aware, B-12 deficient, can't find a restaurant to eat at, immune system of steel, tofurky eatin' mutha fucka. I know the horrible things that go on at factory farms, I know about the mass amounts of hormones and antibiotics being injected into farm animals, I know that many of my health problems will be exponentially better if I give up animal products. I also unfortunately possess the knowledge that bacon cheeseburgers are ridiculously delicious, and the thought of never having one again brings a feeling of mourning.

My immune system sucks. I get every single cold and flu that comes within a mile, and I get to be sicker than most with it. I believe this is because my Mother is a germaphobe and kept me in the house (literally) until I went to kindergarten. Every soap in her house was antibiotic and I was rushed to the doctor after every sneeze. Oh, the screaming fights we got into when I had my own children and did not make every effort to turn my home into a sterilized germ war zone. But my way worked, I took my kids out in public when they were infants (gasp!) and my kids get sick a lot less than I do. So, a logical thought process should lead me to do whatever I need to do to strengthen my own immune system. I stopped using antibiotic hand soap but continue to eat factory farm raised meat. DUH!

A few months ago I gave it all up, all at once. Without planning for it. Without cutting things out one at a time, without figuring out how to cook the enigma that is tofu. Without bracing myself against commercials that feature close ups of bacon cheeseburgers! My first vegan attempt lasted all of two weeks. Everything I cooked was edible, not good but edible. I am a damn good cook. The size of my husband's and my waistlines are testament enough to that, so after two solid weeks of 'meh' food I threw up my hands shouted "fuck this!" and went to buy some goddamn cheeseburgers.

Now that it has been long enough to think it thru, I want to try again. I will cut one thing out every time I go grocery shopping, every two weeks. I will try one vegan recipe per week and ignore my husband when his critique is "needs beef". My culinary ego needs to succeed at this, and my brain needs to win the war against my awful eating habits. Besides, garden burgers with bac-o's are good too.