patterns of messes.

Walk your talk, or you're useless.

When I was a little girl, I was terrified of men. I don't know why I was afraid of them. I just remember being very nervous around men. I remember having to try on shoes and not wanting to, because the shoe salesman was, well, a man. And I remember walking by the bus driver on my first day of Kindergarten, shaking, because the driver was a man. And feeling oh so proud of myself for riding the bus every day after that, in spite of the male presence.

Why was I afraid of men? Where did I learn to be that way? Was it because of my dad's big, booming voice? I don't remember being afraid of my dad. Maybe skittish when he was angry or seemed angry. I don't know. I just remember always being afraid of them.

Yet, as I grew up, I preferred to play with boys than with girls. Maybe this was because there were more boys than girls in our neighborhood. Maybe it was because I just found boys more interesting than girls; not necessarily more fun, just more interesting. Girls are dramatic and emotional creatures; I could never really understand them, though I'm dramatic and emotional myself. But I never took my dramatic emotions out on other people, like girls tend to do, so maybe that was why. And boys seem to be straight shooters; most boys will just tell it to you like it is. If they have a problem, they say so or they punch you; problem solved, let's go play Star Wars guys.

I appreciate that. I used to not to - my insecure ego would get its panties in a wad. But as I've grown older, I really appreciate honest feedback; I just wrote a note on a recent evaluation thanking a boss for it...I never mind honest feedback that's trying to be helpful, and help me grow in whatever I'm doing. And I'm fairly adept at recognizing feedback that's there to help, and feedback that's just put out there to check off that feedback was given.

I think I've written here before about how dads of daughters should hug them, tell them they're beautiful, and say I love you. It's because I think that when girls grow up, they go looking for their dads to fall in love with. Even if they grow up lesbian. I think all girls go looking for their daddies, in one form or another. And if your dad didn't hug you or tell you you're perfect as is or say I love you, then maybe you grow up a little terrified of men. Maybe you grow up looking for a man you can MAKE say I love you, hug you, and tell you you're beautiful. 

That's been my pattern, at least.

When it comes to Y chromosomes, I prefer big and strong like my dad, but also someone who seems damaged in some way. Someone I can make say I love you, hug me, and tell me I'm beautiful. The problem is, my dad did love me (just never said it), did hug me (in his heart), and did tell me I'm beautiful (in his actions). But in my grown up life, what that did to me was to cause me to go diving for men who aren't available in one way or another, men who will either make me feel beautiful and then go completely wonky and cold on me...or men who will say they love me and then try to cage me. So I end up with men who won't say I love you...or they'll say it but try to control me. 

It's depressing, Internet. I'll just be honest: it's very very depressing. These men end up leaving me in an emotional wreck of a tailspin, where I either hate myself (once again) for giving them too much too soon and end up compromising my integrity...or they end up making me incredibly angry and resentful, and end up losing my sense of self.

And the thought of going out there again, into the fray, as a 43 year old woman who's, quite frankly, growing more and more exhausted of humans and their exhausting issues, is really exhausting. 

So. Question. When do you know you're ready to deal with that crap again? Wading through the lost, the tired, the damaged, the con artists? People tell me I need a good year or two to recuperate and heal from a broken marriage, that that's what a separation period is for - to make the divorce part more focused, to make the looking for new love part more rewarding. But what if the marriage was always broken, from the start? And what if the last 3 years in the broken marriage WERE the separation? And what if the healing and recuperation and self-discovery took place in those 3 years? When I left, it wasn't in anger; there wasn't any kind of I've HAD it!! moment, where I packed bags furiously and slammed my way out of there. This was a slow burn, a gradual process.

And other people tell me not to go looking for it; it'll find me. But doesn't that seem lazy? And what if what shows up is more of the same? Am I doomed to living alone forever? (I will not get a cat, I will NOT get a cat!)  

Also, now that I am out on my own, I kinda like it. I miss so many things about being with someone else, but I also really like being on my own. I like the quiet (when Miss M's asleep). I like not having to ask permission. I like not having to be on a team and follow the team rules, even when I disagree with them. I like not feeling judged and criticized. I like not having to hear how I'm a diamond...in the rough. I like not having to be anyone else's mirror but my own. 

But I will also be honest and tell you I would like to be physical with another human being before menopause or whatever. I'm still relatively young, with a healthy libido, and I would like that. But here's the problem: I'm picky. I don't want it to be with just anyone. I want someone I genuinely like, but I also have to be able to trust them not to use me; someone who's not got nefarious intentions...but has a sense of the nefarious about him. (How's THAT for fucked up, Internet? Wonder how many smooth criminals I'd get responses from at an internet dating site that announced: Be kind of nefarious and dangerous but not. Internet dating seems like a depressing meat market; so I'm sure telling someone to bring me danger but be safe about it isn't playing into that psycho mess at all.)

The thing is, I don't like romance. Quite frankly, I think romance is contrived and stupid. I'm sorry but I do. Men complain that women complain that chivalry is dead and then they say: Well, you ladies made it that way! Bullshit. What women SAID, men, was to stop infantilizing us. So I don't mind men holding open doors and letting me go first and walking on the side of the road that'll make him get hit by a car and not me...but pulling out chairs is a bit much and placing a napkin in my lap will make me give him a WTF look and ordering FOR me will get a glass of beer thrown in his face. 

But romance? That's...meh. Chocolate? I eat all of it in one sitting and hate myself...thanks for making me hate myself. I once had a man bring me a teddy bear...I. No. Just no. NO STUFFED ANIMALS. Why not just bring me a Barbie doll and her Dream Playhouse while you're at it. (Who decided stuffed animals were romantic? I want to hit them over the head with one.) Flowers are nice and all, but they die and why not just go for a walk in a botanical garden and enjoy them instead. People who think flowers are romantic are the same kinds of people who'd drag down stars from the constellations if they could, and not even think about the fact they were missing the whole point of their beauty, not to mention the fact destroying, literally, light years' of history. 

Candy or fruit bouquets? Gag. Sappy cards? Eh. I'm not into rhyming poetry, non-sappy/funny cards are cool but they better have a handwritten note inside of them that's not sappy. And I'm not into jewelry, I'm not into....okay, fine. Yes. Yes, I am into jewelry. But only from men I've grown very close to, so I won't be forced to take it to a pawn shop to get its energy out of my space when they betray me and I can't have that piece of jewelry on my person anymore.

And that's my biggest issue: I have a terrible, horrible skittishness about being betrayed. It's happened so many times. Where you let someone in, and then they show you that you let the wrong person in. They go cold or weird or wonky or say they'll call and then they don't. That's when I realize: Ah, yes. There you are, Dad. Still can't fix you and me, can I?

So my problem is that I end up with versions of my dad: men who aren't available either emotionally or physically or both...men who like to tell me who I am or what to do and try to cage me or control me...or men who use me and toy with me and then leave me in an emotional tailspin. For the life of me, I can't figure out the last kind because my dad was the utmost honest and most loyal human being I've ever known. He once accidentally broke a neighbor's mailbox in my presence and I watched him struggle with his moral obligations, and then do the right thing. He knew I was watching. 

What I don't want - in any human being I bring into my space, my life, right now but specifically a man - is someone who'll betray me. Whether it's tossing me aside, or trying to isolate and cage me, or just using me. I don't want that; I have so many things to deal with right now, I simply cannot handle someone else's fragility or chaos on that level. And people who use other people are the most fragile of all, by the way; the using of others is to make themselves feel far more in control than they actually are. 

What I mostly want right now is someone who's kind, smart, irreverently and ironically funny, confident, secure, and available. If he's tall and a Creative on top of it, most excellent. If there are blue eyes and a UK accent involved, I'll know there's a God (or maybe a small Martian with a really kick ass remote control). 

But that's all with a caveat, because I'm not even sure I should be looking for somebody right now. I mean, I'm having a hard time managing to keep my living room straight; would managing a relationship be any better?

I'm pretty simple. I don't ask for much out of life - I just want to raise a strong, happy girl and do work that brings me peace and purpose. ....have I told you I write letters to the Universe regularly? Because I think once you write it down, once you put it out there, that which you seek will seek you. The Universe will conspire to bring you exactly what you asked for (so be careful what you ask for...which is why I've decided to keep my requests very very simple). So that's all I'm asking for (are you there, Universe? It's me, Amy): help me raise a strong, happy girl, do work that brings me peace and happiness, and maybe send me a kind man who won't cage or use me. Please stop sending me people with Y chromosomes who try to cage or use me. And I suppose if I had to pick between people who try to cage or use me, I'd pick the people with a cage....because I can at least escape from that. The worst thing in the world is to feel tricked by someone who said they weren't going to trick you. Bad form, tricksters. Bad form.

At any rate, that's where I'm at on the man front. Probably better to be alone for awhile. But eventually, I just want someone kind who's smart and makes me laugh. Oh, and! He should be good at swearing. I think people who know how to use the word "fuck" creatively are the most honest kinds of humans. 

On a related side note, I just finished Season 1 of Breaking Bad. I totally get Walter White. And I love this show because of its complicated, messy human nature issues. And because of Bryan Cranston who, in interviews, makes me smile hard. I'd be okay with a Walter White (maybe without the meth lab)...he's a mess, but he's an honest mess. Be a mess, but have a damn good reason. Is my motto. And walk your talk. That's my other motto. (I actually have about 10 million mottos. These are just today's.)

the good, the bad, the ugly.

Internet, I've had a WEEK. My exhaustion is exhausted. 

First, The Good:

O. M. G. I got the class from Cutesville. I mean, seriously. The other day, one of my little boys who looks like a little, aged man walked by our door holder every time, bowing formally while saying, "I thank you, sir. And good DAY to you, SIR!" And every time he did it, I wanted to hug him to me because he kept making my whole freaking day. 

Then, one day, one of my little girls who can't read to save her life spent about 10 minutes weaving a lovely story about a pet chicken in Mexico she once had. Her grandma wanted to kill it and eat it for dinner, and she threw herself onto her grandma, begging for mercy, thus saving the chicken's life. But the best part was at the end of her chicken story. Because she stopped to make sure she didn't have anything else to add and then announced, "And that's the end of my chicken story." And flounced off. No, really. FLOUNCED.

And my storyteller heart just about exploded with joy. 

I have a little girl who looks JUST like the girl who plays Riley on Girl Meets World. With the same personality to go with it. Every morning, she floats into my room, basically going: "I love my teacher, I love my friends, I love my school, I love my school work, I love my breakfast, I love my LIFE!"

These kids. Oh my god. THESE KIDS. I've taught for 20 years, and I think this is, like, the pinnacle of my teaching career in terms of dream classes. And their handwriting doesn't suck! Some can't read, some can't write, but they can art like nobody's business. I can totally work with this. Totally.

Now, The Bad:

I am not a leader. 

But you knew this.

I have people, GROWN people, I am working with who need me in ways my own 6 year old doesn't need me. Which, listen. I'm a giving person. I know it's overwhelming. I know it's exhausting. We're all tired here. So let me see what I can do to help you. But also understand: I have my own workload, too. We're all under pressure. So every little bit you can do - get on our school's shared files, go to the district website, go ask those other veteran teachers down the hall...anything, please. And THEN come to me. 

This morning I walked in at 7:35 AM, 5 minutes before the bell, and had to deal with two grown ass people's needs. And then another came in looking for Social Studies ideas. And then another came in looking for little readers to print. To which I just want to scream: I KNOW AS FUCKING MUCH AS YOU DO!!!! I NEVER ASKED TO BE IN CHARGE!!!!!! 

But I'm a people pleaser, and so I just swallow and smile and go: Don't know. Can't help you. Nope, don't have enough to share. Nope, can't give you that, I'm using it. Sure, yeah. When I get some time. Okay, good luck with that. Oh, absolutely. Do whatever you think is best. You're the professional. (and the fucking adult.)

And last, The Ugly:

We do this thing every year in my class, at some point, when emotions run high and people are forgetting that we're a family at school. I make each kid a heart. I ask them what their hearts look like right now - white/pink/red/purple/perfect. I make them write the names of all the people they love most on it, as well as our class' names. Then I make them take the heart and crumple it up as much as they can, and I make them stomp on it. They have a lot of fun doing this. Then I tell them to bring their hearts to the floor and tell them to open them up. What do the hearts look like now? Crumpled/ripped/destroyed. So I tell them to see if they can smooth out the hearts as much as they can, or if they can just maybe get some glue or tape and fix the ripped up parts. Do as much as they can to make their heart look like it did before we crumpled them up. At the end of 5 minutes, I bring them back and ask them if their hearts look better. Some say yes, some say no. Then I ask them if any of them were able to get their hearts to look as clean and perfect as before we crumpled them up. And they all say no. When hearts get hurt, you can smooth them out and tape or glue them back together, but they will never be the way they once were.

I think this is a good lesson for all of us, no matter your age. 

Because I've had some really mean things said to me over the last week. But I've also said some pretty mean things to some people over the last week. I'll admit: I'm pretty goddamned angry. I don't know about what or why,actually. I say it's men, but really it's I don't know. I just feel really, really angry. I do know the following are all the things that will 100% make me come out like Belle Star, guns ablazing, if/when I realize they're happening:

*Feeling defined
*Feeling manipulated

*Feeling confined

*Feeling used

*Being told I owe someone anything

*Assumptions and presumptions about who and what I am, from people who aren't me and don't live in my brain

*Excessive demands from other grown ups 

*Douchebags in general

And then I start building walls. And after my wall is nice and high, all bricked up nicely, I go away. Bye. 

That's all very coded, I know, and I bet you're wondering if I'm drinking (maybe, maybe not, but maybe). But I'm angry, and I'm wary. But mostly, you know what I figured out since moving to my own place on June 15, 2015? I don't need anyone else but me, myself, and I.  And if that makes me some kind of Olive Kitteridge, then I shall wear that label with pride for the next 50 years and you'll have to pry it out of my cold, shriveled hands from my coffin. 

But I have a stinking cute group of kids to hang out with all day, and they're making my 5:20 AM alarm going off a hell of a lot more bearable. Otherwise, I'd be considering panhandling for a living right about now. It's that dire. (And NO I don't care if you think I sound overly dramatic! I AM overly dramatic, and that's how it's going to be until I can balance out this stupid shit.)

social media & politics are ugly bedfellows.

If I felt more comfortable with you--okay, not necessarily YOU you because I'm sure YOU are totally fine and trustworthy and not a scary stalker at all, I mean the world wide web and other humans at large--I'd open up my very private, personal Facebook page just so you could peruse the messy human that is me. Not that I don't expose my mess a lot here...but on Facebook, you get a lot of personal pictures to go with the messy living out loud (which, by the way, is also the title of my all-time favorite movie for grown ups). (You can also get some of my personal pictures on Instagram, but I don't link up to that much here since it's usually just me trying to be very Artsy....or document my child's oddball behavior so I can use it against her when she's 15.)

So typically, I shy from controversial political topics on social media. I find internet arguments futile and counterproductive to the overall advancement of humanity. Plus also, one way to make me roll my eyes way to the back of my head is to constantly post controversial political topics on social media but specifically on Facebook (full disclosure: if you post controversial political topics on Facebook and I happen to agree with the opinion expressed on that topic, my eyes don't roll back at all...I will fist bump you for it, but only in my head and/or by clicking the like button). In this way, I maintain my dignity and can be passive aggressive, all at once. Win-win! 

Seriously, has anyone ever changed their opinion based on a Facebook post? And do arguments on the Internet ever resolve, with one side agreeing with the other?  I've never witnessed it happen. I think people really just needed an area to spout off their opinions(god knows I do, why do you think I have a blog?) and the Internet turned out to be a good tool for that. What's happened, though, is that it's turned us all into people who aren't really interested in the other side's talking points, because everybody's convinced THEIR talking points are The Infallible Truth, the end. In addition to social media, we also have polarizing media outlets and their online platforms that encourage that. Also, you can Google your point of view and find 100 websites that back you up, and if I disagree with you, I can Google and get 100 other websites that prove you wrong. The world is just nutty these days--lots of information, but then there's the questionable usage of it. Holy god, don't even get me started on the "facts" posted on Fox Nation and such. Those guys keep factchecker.org and snopes.com totally busy. 

Can I tell you a quick story about how people USED to bombard other people via social media, before there was the Internet? Here is my story:

My grandfather, my dad's dad, who everyone called Papa Joe because he was a stern man, a quiet man, but also a decent man, liked to drink and socialize at bars. All the time. As in, he had many talents, but the bar thing was sort of his obsessive hobby. So what Papa Joe would do is, after work, he'd go to his 1950s version of Facebook (aka a local bar) and slide onto a bar stool. If there happened to be a stranger sitting nearby, Papa Joe would strike up a casual conversation with that person. Then, Papa Joe would lead the conversation into a political debate, based on whatever topic was the hot button of the day. Papa Joe would figure out what side the stranger was on, and then immediately start arguing for the opposite side...even if Papa Joe agreed with that stranger. The argument would continue for however long, usually until the stranger got so mad he was about to punch my grandfather, and when it got to that point, Papa Joe would laugh, clap the fellow on the back, and say, "I'm just yankin' your chain. I agree with everything you said. Let me buy you a beer." 

In that way, my grandfather paved the way for the Internet. He sparked ideas, ran his own discussion forums, built content. He grew an audience. He got friended all the time. People retweeted his thoughts, and Liked what he shared, but they did it 1940s and 50s local bar style (meaning, they bought him beers, he bought them beers). Papa Joe was the original Mark Zuckerburg and the 4 creators of Twitter, all rolled into one person. Except he was 10,000 times less geeky and he could build his own house. And play the piano and the trumpet at the same time. And he knew a lot about electricity and hunting his own food. I suspect those guys don't know how to do any of that, which is why they just built social media platforms for people to argue hot topics of the day on.

Except, somewhere along the way, something went awry. (My suspicion is it happened when sociopaths, aka trolls, got online. Sociopaths and internet trolls: mucking it up for everybody else, since 1996.)

You know what else is really weird to me about social media? Tweeting in general...I've been researching the how and why of Twitter, because I want to understand. I'm up to over 200 followers, and we all sort of follow each other because she follows her and so I follow her too and then he follows me and I see that he follows her and her and her, too, so I follow him and...I think that's how it works? I still don't know. Generally, I follow back if something about the person connects for me--when someone follows me, I always visit their twitter page,and sometimes links they put up there about themselves. If I think: yeah, I could hang out with you for a bit in real life, I follow them. What makes me sad is when I get an auto Direct Message after following someone back...isn't that like buying someone a beer and them trying to sell you a watch in response? But my strict policy is to block people I can immediately see are spammers...or hookers. Businesses trying to build a base I'll let slide, but spammers and hookers? Gots to go. (I get a lot of hookers for some strange reason. Maybe Olaf photo bombing me in my current picture is too provocative.) 

Also (and mostly), I'm pretty sure I'm still doing it wrong because I think I'm not interacting enough--I've gotten more followers, but I'm still too shy to interact with them. I know how to, but about what? And if they're having a conversation with someone, I guess I'm just supposed to butt into it and give my thoughts on a conversation that didn't even involve me? In real life when that happens, I'm usually all: Hey, uh, this is an A-B conversation so C your way out of it, particularly if it's a sensitive topic. But nope, not on Twitter, it seems--nothing is sacred. Which is why I can see I'm doing it wrong. You just have conversations (about what?) in public with strangers. In front of billions of other strangers who are watching/listening in and sometime butt into your A-B conversation and suddenly make it a C-D-E-F-G-H-I-JKLMNOP conversation. And nobody's even buying anybody else a beer. Or anything! 

Lands, this is the same feeling I get when I've just met someone and now I have to find something to talk about, make small talk. Or I'm at a party and I'm nervous about interrupting a conversation that's already under way...I don't want to be rude. In real life, this is always so much easier to do if beer or wine is involved. Is there a Twitter bar people like me can pony up to? (Ironically, I don't have an issue replying to celebrities' tweets--I think because they never respond, so I still feel like I'm shouting into thin air and no one is paying attention to or hearing anything I'm saying. At first, I was all: Oh god, what if he sees this and thinks I'm a dweeb? Or: Oh god, what if she reads this and blocks me? But now I don't think they see anything I write to them, and so I just talk to them like we're bestest of friends. ....which is really weird, too, because we are not friends. We are strangers. They could be completely famous psycho twats for all I know, and I just tweet all my thoughts out loud to them, in front of other not-famous psycho twats. Twitter, you are the most bizarre social media tool ever, and if I didn't have such an addictive personality, we would no longer be speaking. But I can't quit you, and so here we are. You're like Christian Grey and I'm that girl Don Johnson and Melanie Griffiths' daughter plays in the movie, except I'm not sure if that's a good analogy or not since I refuse to read that book and not because of the content but solely because of the writing quality. Listen: don't tell anybody--we have to keep all this on the down low til I'm ready to come out of the closet about you...or someone stages an intervention.)

Wait! Where was I? I started this blog post with a planned route in mind, and now we're completely lost. This is why GPS is a better invention than social media. Let's see...Twitter weirdness, social media, Papa Joe antagonizing strangers, politics...oh, right! So anyway. There I was on Facebook, posting about politics and I got kapowed! And thus. I learned my lesson, lesson learned (until my next hormonal/PMS phase). I tried to educate people with some data/facts I Googled about Ferguson, in an effort to stop the racist pictures in my Facebook feed as well as the even more racist ensuing commentary beneath those posted pictures, which were of looters and such. Who knows where these pictures even came from? Many of the subjects in them sported hairstyles from 1995. (And don't white people ever steal? I'm certain they do. This reminds me of the time our house was robbed several years ago by Caucasian, middle class meth heads. And when I'd start to tell people about it, they'd almost immediately make a comment about illegal immigrants or blacks. Nope, I'd tell them--our looters were just little ol' coked up honkies, sorry to blow up all your prejudiced assumptions.)

So someone I genuinely like, who makes me laugh and laugh when I'm around him, but has politics far right of where I exist came and commented under my reality facts article. And of course I was overly hormonal and tightly wound that day. Could not do it; simply could not engage on any level. This person and I once had a lively, spirited debate on gun control that, while infuriating on a certain level, was respectful and humor-filled and ended on a positive note. 

Wednesday was not that day.

First off, I'd been at the mall surrounded by a lot of women wearing designer jeans with sequins on the back pockets; these people are always passive aggressive and massive triggers for me. (I think I've written about what interactions with people like this do to me.) And a handful of these people were rude and passive aggressive to my child and my niece and nephew simply because they were being children, and I was all: HEY! Only I get to be rude and passive aggressive to those kids! Not you--LEARN THE RULES. And secondly, I was recovering from some serious PMS hormones. And thirdly, I have a shitload of stuff happening in my personal life right now that has me on edge most days. So he said some stuff, then I called him a name, and he poked at me some more and when that happened, you guys! I could literally feel my tightly wound rage starting to unravel. So I begged for mercy. Fortunately, despite being a gun-worshipping ultra ultra right wing freak, he views me as a big sister and has a sense of humor. And I've doted on him for  years, and I have a sense of humor and so now we are okay. And thus I learned not to venture forth into those shark-infested waters ever again. Until I see more racism in my news feed on a super hormonal day when I'm really feeling out of sorts...which, I suppose, are precisely the days I should take an Internet break. sigh. One day I'll get it.

Really, that whole experience reminded me why I decided to stop following CNN and other news outlets on social media; my brain knows I need to know about what's happening on the planet, but my heart is begging it not to. For now, I'm listening to my heart because my blood pressure can only take so much.

You know what else the internet and Twitter and Facebook don't help people with at all? Good eye contact. I think if you're going to argue with someone, you should have to look them in the eyeballs the whole time. This always sends me into fits of giggles, which means no one--not even me--ends up taking my argument seriously, and we all end up dancing to the Bee Gees on the dance floor (there should be a dance floor, everywhere you go). Which is how it SHOULD be on the Internet: after an online argument, everyone has to upload YouTube videos of themselves dancing to the Bee Gees on the Internet dance floor.

Here, I'll start us. This is my favorite Bee Gees song, of all time. I want it played at my funeral, actually...after Barry Manilow's stuff, of course. Nobody can stay mad at anyone as soon as this song starts to play:

thanksgiving dysfunctional therapy stories (plus some jokes).

A Thanksgiving joke from Miss M to all of you:

What kind of turkey opens any door?

A Moose-Turkey! 

HAHAHAHA! Get it?! It's a moose but also a turkey! And it can open all the doors!

We also discovered this Thanksgiving that the word "poop" sends M into peals of giggles, every single time. Like, you can just look at her, say "Poop," and she's on the floor peeing her pants with laughter. I let her know the UK word for toilet is "loo" which, of course, rhymes with "poo" and this sent her into even more hysterics. ("Poo in the loo! Loo in the poo! Poop in the loop! Loop Poop!" I sense I'll eventually regret sharing this knowledge.)

She's sitting next to me as I type this, and has requested I share one more Thanksgiving joke with all my readers, should there be any:

What kind of cheese can open any door?

A POOP CHEESE! 

Get it?! It's funny because it's cheese...made out of Poop! That opens all the doors! HAHAHAHA.

Hoo. Boy. Somebody stop her. (My sister in law remarked at dinner, and I happen to agree with her, that six year olds are still very much like drunk people. To all the 1-6 year old people out there: you're drunk, go home.)

I saw lots of bitter humor pictures on the internet about celebrating National Steal Land and Native American Genocide Day and all that, which makes my inner namby pansy left-winger cringe with guilt. But really, angry fellow liberals: that's only 1/100 of why we celebrate this very American holiday. This holiday is SUPPOSED to be about being with people you love and reflecting on what you do have and gorging yourself on obscene amounts of food. Or, you know, ordering an extra large pizza and drinking a lot. However you choose to celebrate.

I have lots of things to be thankful for--a ridiculous, silly girl...a family that instigates far right wing political talk just so they can sit back and laugh at me...a life of privileged conveniences in which I never have to worry about being deported back to the foreign slums I escaped from with my very life and/or being gunned down in cold blood on the depressed streets of a St. Louis-area suburb...you know, just the regular things. (That last part was for my conservative family/friends reading this--stop poking me with your Rush Limbaugh sticks of death. Love you! Hugs!) I'm also thankful for good friends, laughter, and those every-now-and-then moments when I really feel connected to this weird, crazy planet and its inhabitants.

I have a lot of friends who are struggling with health issues right now, or deeply worried about family members who are struggling or losing battles with health. I am thinking about people I love who experienced their first big holiday today without someone important. Those firsts are always the hardest, I think. I am thinking about each of them but also the people who still have their important people but are worried they won't for much longer or, even worse, know they have limited moments left and this may be the last Thanksgiving. I am sending all of my love, and all of the biggest, strongest light and love I can muster to them. It's hard to be a human. Maybe because it's so heartbreakingly fleeting. Be thankful for every drop, every second you are given. Drink it all up, breathe it all in. Give thanks.

............Hey--do you want to hear a family holiday story (I promise: no jokes with poop or moose are involved)? There are tragic elements to it, but it makes me and my brother giggle...now that the pain has subsided. The title of this story is:

It's Thanksgiving, Goddamn It!

Once upon a time, there was a girl. (Me, the girl was me. This story is about me.) After graduating college, I moved to Yuma, Arizona (there's an excellent movie with Russell Crowe and Christian Bale based on that town that was filmed almost entirely in New Mexico, which I find very strange since Yuma has perfectly good desert--what the crap, Hollywood?) At any rate--I'd been living in Yuma and because it's hard to be a Kentucky girl stuck in the desert, I was finally able to escape and make my way back to land with green hills and four seasons.

So it was my first Thanksgiving home in three or four years, and me, my mom, my brother, and my dad were all sitting around our Thanksgiving table and feast ready to have our small nuclear family celebration just as we had for decades. The table was loaded down with obscene amounts of food, all the Thanksgiving place mats out with the good china and silverware on them, and my mom had placed a small glass of grape juice (an aperitif if you will) on our plates. The idea was: say the grace, drink the juice, dig in.

So my dad starts saying the grace--I don't remember what he said. But at the end, my mom goes, "Bill, you forgot something." And my dad goes, "Huh?" (My brother and I were also going: Huh? Because he'd kind of covered all the major thankful checkpoints.)

And my mom goes, "Amy." And my dad goes, "What about Amy?" (And here, Amy--that's me--starts to go: Oh god. Oh god. Here we go.) And my mom goes, "Well, this is her first Thanksgiving back with us. In three years." And my dad goes, "So?" And here, my mom starts to get annoyed and upset which should have been my dad's Big Red Flag but my dad was fairly oblivious to Big Red Flags, of any kind.

So then my mom goes, "Well...you didn't tell God 'thank you' for bringing Amy back so she could have Thanksgiving with her family again." And my dad goes, "Well...GODDAMN IT!!! How was I supposed to know that, Goddamn it?! Goddamn it!!!" And he threw his napkin onto the table.

(Looking back, I now see my dad was embarrassed for having forgotten. And, being raised by the generation he was raised by and being the way he was in general, he was not the touchy-feely kind of dad who apologized and made amends...he was the "Goddamnit, Are You Friggin' KIDDING Me?!" kind of dad, the "How Is THIS More Important Than The Fact Obviously I'm Thankful She's Home Again Do I Really Have to Pray About It Out Loud For Christ's Sake??" kind of dad. But you know: 20/20 Hindsight.)

So my mom is very quiet. The whole table is very quiet. God is quietly planning on how best to exact revenge on my dad for saying GODDAMN IT over and over and over again. And then my mom jumps up and leaves the table to run to the bathroom from which we can all hear her very loud sobs.

My dad, my brother, and I all sat in silence at the table. After several minutes, my dad sighed, got up, and disappeared to the bathroom. Two minutes later, he comes back, sits down, and starts scooping food angrily onto his plate. "Eat," he said, pointing to the food. "Your mother is probably not coming back to the table."

But nobody can eat like this. Have you ever been in one of these situations? Nobody can eat.

Anyway, the three of us are now awkwardly sitting in silence, staring at a feast going cold on our plates, listening to sobs from the bathroom. Finally, my dad breaks the silence and goes, "Did I...At any point, did I say ANYTHING rude or inappropriate to your mother at this table?"

Lord, that was a hard a question. A damned if you do, damned if you don't hard question. My brother and I stared diligently down at our plates, as if they were the most fascinating things we'd ever encountered. After many strained seconds of silence, my dad yelled, "Answer me, goddamn it!"

I looked up at my brother. He refused to make eye contact. And so I swallowed and I took a deep breath. Somebody had to be the sacrificial turkey this Thanksgiving, and so it would be me. It was one of my bravest moments, ever. I'm not kidding.

"Actually," I started quietly, staring at my plate while fear clawed at my belly, "It wasn't what you said as much as how you said it."

"Well, goddamn it!!" my dad said. And then he got up from the table, stomped out the door, and we heard his truck start and then peal out of the drive, down the street. My brother and I were now alone at the Thanksgiving table, looking at piles of food that would--hopefully--make decent leftovers tomorrow, even though they were salted with bitterness and our mother's tears, with a side of Goddamnit gravy.

My mother's sobs continued from the bathroom, though they were softer now.

"Soooo," my brother said after awhile. "What are you thankful for this year?"

"Oh, I'm thankful I didn't say the grace this year. What are you thankful for?"

"Oh, I'm thankful that we didn't have dinner guests."

And oh, weren't those two wonderful things to be thankful for, that year! (Eventually, my mom came out of the bathroom and sat at the table again, and we did eat. And eventually, my dad did decide driving all the way up to the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania without telling anyone that's what he was doing or where he was going may not be a very smart idea, and so he came back.)

The End

Every year at Thanksgiving, I remember this story. I miss my dad, every Thanksgiving, because Thanksgiving has never been, and will never be, the same now that he's gone. But every year at Thanksgiving when I remember this story, as much as I miss my dad with my whole heart, it also reminds me of another reason we have Thanksgiving: it keeps psychiatrists and counselors and other mental health professionals in business. (No, I'm very serious: talk therapy can really help you get some of this stuff out...so that NEXT Thanksgiving you don't own the problems. DON'T OWN THE THANKSGIVING PROBLEMS. Okay?)

Now. Get some sleep, sweet friends, so tomorrow you can go to the mall. Because tomorrow is Black Friday, and Mall Shoppers aren't going to bring out ANY of your dysfunctions at all. (I'm just being sarcastic, silly goose--Mall Shoppers will bring out dysfunctions you didn't even know you had. Trust me: I was just in one on Wednesday afternoon, and I've only just now stopped eating my feelings. Thank god it was Thanksgiving, and there was a reason to eat.)