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Month: February 2006

Grey matter or something like that

Grey matter or something like that

While going through my nightly ritual of pushing, shoving and kicking time to stop showing up all over my face, I noticed a very light hair just to the left of my part.  I leaned closer to the mirror and took a closer look.  Highlight?  No.  Looks different from a normal highlight.  Oh for the love of granny grabass, it is a GREY hair!  Grey!  I yanked that puppy out.  (I know.  You pull it out, it will bring back 6 of it’s bitchy friends to talk over your scalp. Form a coup and then it is all out warfare.  Or is it warhair?)

I didn’t yank it out in anger.  I didn’t yank it out in frustration.  I yanked it out in excitement to race to show my husband.  “Look!  I am old like YOU!  Look!” But sadly, I dropped it.  Do you know how hard it is to find a grey hair on cream colored carpet?

So instead, he got to hear this story that you are reading now.

Yep.  He reacted about like you are now.


I think that says it all.

Too bad I have an appointment with my colorist next week so any trace of a grey hair will be eradicated.  But it was there.  I can now officially blame my children for turning me grey.  That rocks!

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HALT A place that sucks to be in!

HALT A place that sucks to be in!

Every year around this time I get a bit wacko.  I should see it coming.  I should know it is on it’s way and prepare.  But do I?  Never.  You see, I am coming up on my “sobriety birthday” and it always makes me a bit squirrelly.  There are some things every recovering addict knows to look for.  (Although, rarely do they when they need to!) One of the phrases (or in this case acronym) is HALT.  Things to look for that mean you could be on a super icy slope to a slip.  In this case, HALT.





Check. Check. Check. Check.

Unless you are an addict, the feeling is so hard to put into words.  It is a restlessness.  A feeling of being caged in and feeling like you don’t fit into your own skin.  An addict who is struggling and jonesing for something to fix it can be an insane wreck.  It’s not that I want a fix as in drugs.  But a fix as in “fix this feeling now!” Nothing works.  There is a searching for the right combination of things to make the restlessness go away.  But there truly is nothing that fixes the feeling.  You begin to look way back into your using days and remember how the pill took care of the jonesing.  But you know that is not an option.  Not even close.  So you stay restless.  You try to fill that feeling with anything and everything that might make you feel less caged in.  Destructive things or creative things or even healthy things.  None of it really works.  The jonesing feeling stays.  And gnaws at your gut until you feel it will eat you alive.

Exhibit A:  Me.

This year we add on the grief of missing Mom.  Add on that my doctor in his infinite wisdom decided to change medication.  And then add on my ability to sign up for far more than I can possibly do under the best of circumstances.  And there you have it…a caged in, jonesing, pacing, and searching recovering addict who does not fit into her own skin.  Both of the meeting places I used to go to have moved.  And I have no idea where they are now.  Don’t worry.  I know better than to go this alone.  I won’t.  Talking about it and opening it up helps. 

There are friends out there who know me well enough to make me allow me to talk about it when I need to.  (But I usually don’t.) Or to just rant. (Which I never do about this.) Some of them who will tell me to get my ass back in gear and do something. (To them I get pissy, but listen.) And then there are readers who do the exact same thing.  (They are harder to ignore when they pop up in my inbox in all caps!) I am amazed at the number of readers who are in this position or have been in my shoes who without even trying, say just what I need to hear.

I guess I just need to say it out loud.  I am feeling a bit screwed up and restless and caged and freaked and lost and lonely and hurting and angry and all of those things that are lethal to staying clean.  Maybe if I admit it, I will be safer.  Maybe not.  But at least now I know that I haven’t kept it a secret.  That’s a step toward staying safe, right?  Keeping it in will slap my ass right onto that slippery slope.  And right now, I just cannot afford to go there.  I just can’t.

So I will pace and wander and act like a caged animal, but I won’t use.  I won’t use.  I won’t use.  (But I may sleep a lot.  Hard to get in trouble while sleeping!)

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The things I will endure for a Slurpee

The things I will endure for a Slurpee

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I spend most of my day hauling children to and from school.  I wonder at times if I actually live in my car.  Seriously, I could be stranded in my car for days before I started to miss the comforts of home.  In fact, if I were to get stranded alone, it would be longer than that.  (This is the point I should add pictures, but for the life of me I cannot find the charger for my digital camera so we are all out of luck.) There are days when I have considered not even bothering to get out of the car between drop offs and pick ups. What’s the point?  I can become the infamous car blogger.  (Note to self:  Look into hooking up laptop to steering wheel.)

So yesterday being a Wednesday, I was all over town as always.  But with a twist.  I had my husband’s car.  It just was not right.  My radio stations were not programmed.  I didn’t have any of my own CDs.  And there was not one Diet Coke, one cookie or even a piece of candy to tide me over.  The biggest horror is that there was not ONE extra pair of shoes in the trunk.  Who lives that way?

So at 9:00pm, much to my dismay I had to once again jump in the Car That Is Not Mine and run to the store.  Across the street from the store is a 7-11.  Suddenly I realized I MUST HAVE a Slurpee.  I haven’t had a Slurpee in probably 20 years, but I really needed one RIGHT THEN.  My only dilemma was that in order cross this street, I had to maneuver across 6 lanes of traffic under construction.  One lane open. One closed. One open., Median. Open lane. Closed lane. Open lane. Then the Slurpee Haven.  Normally, in my second home own car I would whip through that kind of car dodging situation without blinking an eye.  But remember, I was in The Car That Was Not Mine.  And it is a standard.  The last time I owned a standard was about the last time I had a Slurpee.  Could I be brave enough to slalom through the barricades and cars in a car that was not as familiar to me as my own?

Must. Have. Slurpee.  I ground the car into first.  (Hey, I told you it had been a while since owning a standard.) I dodged and ducked and whipped around barrels and flew past cars to safely arrive at the 7-11.  I grabbed my money and dashed into the store.  Just as the door was closing I hear that horrifying sound.  The unmistakable sound of metal smashing metal, glass shattering in wreckage just outside in the parking lot.  I couldn’t look.  I grabbed the guy standing beside me and begged him to look and make sure my husband’s car was not hit. 

“What kind of car is it?” he asked.

“Red.  It is red.  See if the RED CAR WAS HIT!”

He went outside and returned to reassure me that the red car was in fact fine.  However. 

“NO!  Don’t say however!”

“However, they are locked together about a foot behind you, so you aren’t going anywhere for a while.”

After grabbing my Slurpee (which had lost a lot of its appeal by then), I leaned up against the counter and started talking to the 7-11 counter-boy.

“So, Johnny, does this sort of thing happen often here?”

“Uhhh, my name in not Johnny.  Why are you calling me Johnny?”

“You have no name-tag and ‘7-11 counter-dude’ seemed rather odd since we’ll be hanging out for a while.”

“Works for me,” he shrugged.  “This usually only happens on weekends when the teenagers are acting like idiots.  Those two look like adults acting like idiots.”

Then the guy I grabbed to make sure that it was not The Car That Is Not Mine was not involved offered to take me down the corner and buy me a beer to wait it out.

Sure.  I am always into jumping into cars with strangers to go grab a beer while waiting out a couple of cars that look to be copulating.

“That is so nice of you, but Johnny and I here have plans to hang out.  I can’t just drop him.  It would be rude.  You know.  Like leaving a party with someone other than the one who brought you.  But really, the offer is so appreciated.” (I think Johnny choked back a laugh, but I couldn’t look at him for fear of laughing.

After about 15 minutes of really idle and quite boring chit-chat, I look at Johnny and say, “You know what movie line keeps going through my mind over and over?”

“Let me guess.  ‘Of all of the 7-11’s in all of the world, I decide to stop at this one?’ Or a variation of some Casablanca line?”

I stare at him. This kid certainly didn’t look to be someone who would quote Casablanca.  Now I felt stupid.  “No, ummm…not so much.  Actually, I was thinking of the infamous: ‘Strange things are afoot at the Circle-K’ but of course using 7-11 instead.”

Now it was his turn to stare at me.  “No. Way.  You did NOT just pull out a reference to Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.  Dude.  That is so lame!”

“Is not.  It is totally appropriate here.  Admit it.  You’re thinking it now too.  HA!”

It was then that we saw the copulating cars separate and move out of my way. 

“Well, Johnny, it’s been fun.  Stay cool!” And in the lameness of the moment we high-fived.

The moral of the story?  Seriously?  You think anything that pulls a quote from Bill & Ted has a moral?  Not even.

But the Slurpee was kind of good.

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Tell me in 6 words what you think

Tell me in 6 words what you think

I don’t usually do these.  (Wait, don’t all bizarre and ’I always do this but pretend I don’t‘ stories start that way?  Ewww) But really, I don’t usually do these, but I saw it around a few places and thought it would be fun.  Honestly, I would love to link to where I found it, but I have no idea.  You know how you go to one site and that takes you to another, and so on and so on and so on until you have no idea where you started.  Yeah, that is how I found this.  (If you posted it, it might be you.  Speak up!)

So basically, it is one of those personality assessment things.  You have to pick just six words to describe yourself and then you open it up to others and they pick 6 words to describe you.  (No, bitch and cranky are not listed.  Be nice.) So, I thought, what the hell.  Let’s lighten things up after my last post.

If you go here, you can pick 6 words that you think describe me.  Be nice.  Or not.  Just be honest.  And leave a name I will know you by.  Or not.  It will be interesting to see how YOU see me.  (Then you can make your own and I can tell you what I think of you!  muhahahaha)

Come on.  What else do you have to do on a boring Thursday?

Comment and let me know you played.  Then pass it on.  We can psychoanalyze the entire Internet before next week.

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I’m just so tired. So raw.

I’m just so tired. So raw.

There are many days I wonder when or if things will ever feel better.  It has been 1 month, 9 days, 12 hours and 10 minutes since Mom died.  (But who’s counting?) And I still feel so discombobulated it is unreal.  Sometimes it feels so unreal that I think it must be some huge mistake that has been made.  Other times it is so real it feels as if a cannon has been shot through my heart and I can’t breathe.  Last night I was talking to Dad and he said he “took flowers to Mom and took some for me.” Coming out of my mouth before I was even aware of the thought I heard myself ask, “So how is she?” The long pause is what caused my brain to kick in and be bitter.  “Yeah.  Still dead.  Sorry Daddy.” And I burst into tears.

I want to just crawl in bed and wake up when everything will feel “right.” Yet, I want to rush forward and make everything like it was.  I can’t do either.  This having to go through the process part really sucks.  I think I am doing okay and then I will realize that I can’t stand being around anyone and have to go for a walk so that I don’t become the crazy angry mom.  Or I think that I am in a happy mood and see something that makes me smile, but then I start to cry because, well, my mom is dead.  It is lonely.  I want to grab someone and say, “Just sit with me.  Let’s just sit together.  We don’t have to talk, but if I need to, let me without telling me that it will get better.  Or let me just sit with you and cry and you don’t have to tell me anything.  Just let me.” But it is lonely here.  Even with my very understanding husband.  As much as he loves me and supports me in this, I know he wants me back, too.  I am not ME.  I don’t know who I am, but it isn’t ME. 

I am raw.

I am angry.

I am alone.

I am motherless.

I am hurting.

But I still don’t know who I am.

I didn’t know, I couldn’t have known, the intensity with which I would miss her.  If I had known, I would have crawled beside her and begged her to tell me how to go on without a mother.  I would have insisted she give me every single bit of advice that mothers are supposed to give.  Not just up until you are 36, but much, much longer.  Gabrie is only 4!  I have so many mother-daughter questions.  Did I learn enough just being a daughter to be able to be a good mother during the teen years?  The lessons we learn from out moms…did I learn them all?

I don’t want to cry anymore.  I don’t want to be angry or raw or scared anymore. 

And then we add the guilt.  Oh, the guilt.

The boys are really struggling right now. They need their mother.  They need ME.  But again, who the hell is ME anymore? I am a shell right now trying to come back.  One of my sons is really struggling in school.  His grades are dropping and he is not focusing.  He cries so easily.  He gets sick and then worries that he will get more behind.  He needs his mother to be there for him.  And I am trying.  Oh how I am trying.  My other son, he wouldn’t cry over his grandmother’s death.  He just wouldn’t.  But now, he needs me more than ever.  He needs me to help with school work.  He needs me to let him know that he won’t feel like this forever.  He needs me to hold him and let him know that I am there for him and will always be there for him to help him get through this.

I feel so badly that I have lost sight of them in my grief.  That in my own pain and fog, I am forgetting that my boys hurt too and they, too, need their Mommy.  And I am here.  But I am not.  I have to try to pull it together for them.  They have to have the support of their mother.  I know that.  And yet, I am feeling so empty and distant from the world, I don’t know how to help them.  And my heart is breaking for them.  Because here I am in the flesh and they are begging for me to be ME, and I don’t know how to get back there.  I don’t know what path to take to make it all okay for them.  To let them know that their Mom WILL be okay.  That I am here for them even if I seem a bit off right now. 

I am tired of hurting.  Of letting people down.  I am tired of this nightmare.

I am tired.

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You don’t want to bite ME!

You don’t want to bite ME!

You know you were waiting for it. You know you wanted to hear it. So here you go.


I have told you before that we have a Doberman, Harley. A Doberman who weighs nearly 100 pounds but thinks he is a tiny Chihuahua. No concept that he is large. And strong. And has enormous teeth that can rip a face off of a human being with nary an effort. And this sweet little dog (okay, he really is sweet, but not so little) is very protective of his “pack” (meaning us…the family). Especially the little angel he thinks is his. Gabrie is his little one to care for, to protect and to lavish huge, wet tongue kisses on. Rule Number One: Never mess with Gabrie.

Well, silly me forgot Rule Number One. She and I were playing and tickling and giggling. Well, Harley thought that I most certainly must be hurting her. Why else would she screech so loudly? (Well, dumb dog, because she is a girl and that is what they do. LOUDLY!) The next thing I know, he comes running to her rescue.

“Screwing around with my girl, eh?” was the look in his eyes.

I should have been warned. I should have seen it coming. But nooooo. I was taunting him by PLAYING with my daughter.

Enough was enough. As I lay on the floor engaged in a very fun tickle-fest with the little angel, Harley went into protective mode.

And Bit me. ON THE ASS.

Not hard enough to do damage. Not hard enough to even hurt. Just hard enough to tell me that I better leave HIS girl the hell alone and to stop right then.

I turned and looked at him and he looked back like “Well? Game Over, lady?”

Oh HELL NO the game is not over. I leaned towards him. Got closer. Looked into his eyes and said, “Is that really how you want to play this, DoberButt?”

And then…

Then I bit him back.

Let me tell you something. When you bite a dog and that dog recognizes you as one of the pack leaders, it really is quite hilarious. The shocked look on his face could only be described as “What the hell did you just do?” He didn’t run. Or yelp. (Hey, I didn’t really bite him hard. Just enough to get his attention. A love nibble. But not.)

He walked over to Gabrie. Sniffed her to make sure she was okay. And huffed away. I swear this dog HUFFED away. Apparently Dobermans are not the kind of dog who think it is appropriate to have their humans bite them.

Gabrie looked at me wide eyed and said, “Mommy, that was just so gross! Did you get hair in your mouth? Really, Mommy, you shouldn’t bite the dog.”

And so I was told. By a 4 year old. That Mommies should not bite the dog. Now I know.

But damn, it was HILARIOUS to see the look on his face. And I can also tell you for sure that he won’t be biting me again anytime soon. He also gets very nervous if I bare my teeth at him now.

Wimp! I didn’t even bite that hard!

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