Author: Kellie

Kellie is a 43 year old widow/wanna be child but really just stays home with her own two children. She loves to read and get a suntan. Preferably at the same time. She's now delving into the big bad world of blogging! Be kind, Strangers!

Alone In a Furniture Store

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I’ve done some dumb shit in my life. I’ve made some dumb ass mistakes. I’ve put my faith in the wrong people. I’ve made unhealthy choices. I’ve basically just been a human, you know. Sometimes I get it right. Most of the time I don’t.

Tuesday I had an appointment to pick out appliances for the new house. Exciting, I know. I feel about appliances pretty much the same way I feel about light fixtures – couldn’t give 2 shits. I’d like a refrigerator that keeps my food cold, freezer keeps the ice frozen, oven cooks shit, microwave heats shit up, dishwasher washes shit. Those were my requirements. Doesn’t seem complicated, right? Well, technically it was not complicated. However, I hopped in my car, turned it on (because one must turn the car on before it will actually drive in case you didn’t know) and the radio comes on. And playing on the radio is Maroon 5’s “Memories”. And that’s when the tears first started.

Ash and I loved furniture shopping. We would do it more often than was necessary in our spare time. (Just to be clear, I hated doing any other kind of shopping with Ash. And I mean HATED. I am a get in, get what you need, get the hell out type of gal. Ash was the polar opposite. He tried things on. He googled reviews. He tried things on again. He walked around aimlessly to “think” about what he just tried on. Shopping with him was my own personal hell. Some of our biggest fights happened because of these very opposite shopping habits.) However, furniture shopping together was a hobby at which we excelled. (Probably wasn’t a hobby and probably not something at which one can excel but whatever.) We had a favorite local furniture store. And if you guessed that I was headed to that favorite local furniture store to pick out appliances, well ding, ding, ding, you’ve won (absolutely nothing other than maybe a boost in your pride).

So, stupid song is on (not a stupid song, I really do like it a lot but just wasn’t what I needed to hear at that particular moment in time), headed to favorite furniture store and Kellie is crying. Again. (Same shit, different day?! Not really, I’m mostly fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.) It just got me thinking that Ash is really gone. Gone, gone. I will never see him again. Which, obviously I know that. I’m not completely crazy. Yet. But it was quite devastating to me. I will never furniture shop with him again. We will never grab a coffee and leisurely meander, holding hands, always holding hands, through the throngs of couches and recliners and end tables that we don’t need but certainly want to peruse. We will never dream of the day when we build our own home, to our own taste and outfit it just the way we want. I am doing those things, but I am doing them completely alone. And on Tuesday I felt that aloneness deep in my soul, in a way I haven’t felt it in quite a long time. Every little step I take is a step further away from him. It’s a step to the future that does not include him. And while my rational mind is always aware of that, my heart sometimes forgets. Luckily, a good friend called half way on my journey to the furniture store and I reined in my devastation and had a lovely chat for the rest of my ride.

Appliance ordering took me about 15 minutes (I told you I didn’t give 2 shits). Fridge: check. Range: check. Dishwasher: check. Microwave: check. Washer and dryer: check, check. My earlier pain wasn’t forgotten but had been put on the back burner while I checked things off the list.

However, and this is the part where I get to doing the dumb shit in my life, I figured since I’d made the 35 minute drive, and I do have a brand new house in the works that will need to be furnished with some brand new items, perhaps I should take a look around, see what they have, maybe, dare I say, order a new thing or two. And so I did. And I did order a few things that will be here sometime before my kids leave for college (thank you Covid for making everything impossible to get in a timely manner). But that earlier pain came rushing back as I couch hopped. I was doing one of my favorite things without my favorite person. And it sucked. I had to put my sunglasses on for a bit because I knew I looked pathetic, moving from couch to couch, with tears streaming down my face. Although, the sunglasses did probably made me look crazy (or hungover), and I hate to beat a dead horse here, but I am a *touch* crazy and I accepted that long ago.

I did eventually get my shit together and get the hell out of the furniture store. I let a few more tears out on the drive home and then I got on with the business of being the bad ass (ha ha) that I am. But for a few hours, I grieved. Hard core. Because I shopped for furniture alone. Because I’m making our dreams come true alone. Because I feel so alone.

Lost AF

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Disclaimer: It’s very sweary up in this piece.

Building a house is not easy. At first, I was killing it. I was making decisions left and right. No problem. I know exactly what I want and where I want it. Then enter freaking light fixtures. Who knew there were so many lighting options out there? It is mind blowing. I’ve been staring at light fixtures on this computer screen for so long that they now all look like ridiculous cartoon drawings that no one should ever put in their house. I’ve been staring at them for so long and just thinking “wow, I couldn’t give 2 fucks about what the fucking lights look like in my house or on my house or around my house”. I’ve been staring at them for so long that I am now in tears questioning everything about my whole entire life.

Here’s the thing – I am not a picky person. I like to think of myself as easy going and laid back where most things, especially these kinds of things, are concerned. Aside from anything ridiculously tacky, I really couldn’t give a shit about any of the lights that are in my house. Or much else for that matter. There are some things that I absolutely do not want, such as anything with brass. Or crystals. Or brightly colored. But otherwise, don’t care. Can I get a volunteer to come pick out all the damn lights for my house? Cuz in case it wasn’t clear, I don’t fucking care.

Which brings me to my point, sort of. Someone asked me recently what I’ve been doing with my time. And I couldn’t answer the question. I had no idea. I mean, sure, I’ve been keeping my kids alive, doing the single mom thing, going to the baseball games and the practices, and the baseball treasuries thing and doing the laundries and making the meals and cleaning the toilets and getting the groceries and all the dumb ass adult shit that we dumb ass adults have to keep doing every fucking day until we die (that was dramatic). And I’ve been doing the building the house thing, well up until recently, quite well. And I’ve been doing the thing where I avoid being in my house because I hate my house because my husband (and his father) died in my house. (Hence the need to build the new house and pick out the light fixtures.) So I spend a lot time with whichever loved one will take my boys and me in for the evening because avoidance is always a very healthy choice.

But what am I doing? And the answer is, I have no fucking clue. I am lost AF, y’all. I do not know what to do with myself. Apparently, being married to Ash was my whole identity. Which makes sense. We got married, we had the kids, we did the jobs, we fell into marital bliss/marital holy-shit-I-hate-you-why-did-we-do-this (it could have been either scenario on any given day at any given moment – that’s just the nature of the beast that is marriage and if you say it’s not, I’m going to go ahead a call you a fucking liar), we ultimately opened a business together, worked together, lived together, did literally almost everything together. And then Ash had to go and get the damn cancer, and if you thought we were together a lot pre-cancer, it had nothing on our togetherness post cancer. Our roles changed, obviously. We went from happy, oblivious young(ish) business owners with their shit together(ish) to terrified people with their world literally crashing down. But, we did our best. We lived. We wept. We laughed. We kept moving forward until moving forward was no longer an option (well, for Ash, at least – I have no choice but to keep moving forward. Fucking bullshit.). But still, moving forward has me lost AF.

He’s been gone almost 18 months. And I gotta say, the first year went by in a blur, what with the grief and the learning how to do all the things alone and then the whole pandemic thing and the virtual school thing. It was a whole new horse of a whole different color (pretty sure that’s not how that saying goes). So it was hard to tell how much I didn’t know what I was doing. But now, things have gotten (I hesitate to even use this word) easier in a sense. I mean, really, when is life ever easy? Never. Easy is definitely not the word I am looking for here. But we have our routine. Things are about as normal as they are probably ever going to be for us. I now have time. And I have no fucking clue what to do with it.

I want to be a better person. I want to make a difference. I want to feel needed. And respected. And loved. And while doing the dishes and the laundries and the groceries are all necessary, they are not satisfying any of my needs to be more. To do more. My cup is wholly un-full, if you will. And I’m just not sure what to do to start filling it up again.

If I have any talents that don’t pertain to wiping asses, making jokes or bursting into tears at any given moment, I certainly can’t remember what they are. And my situation is different in that I do not have to go work some shitty job that I hate or take time away from my children or my responsibilities. I have the flexibility to be choosy, to find what will make me happy. If only I knew what that was.

For now, I will pray. I will have faith. I will smile through the pain. And I will go look at more fucking light fixtures.

Dating and Why It’s Stupid

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Ladies (and gents, I’d hate to not be politically correct here), this is a gentle reminder to clean out your purse(s) perhaps a little more frequently than once every 2 or so years. Don’t be like Kellie (I’m Kellie, in case you forgot). I just pulled out a purse that I apparently haven’t used in quite a while (as in years, this purse may not even be in style anymore, who knows?! Who cares?!). Don’t worry, there was nothing disgusting in there. I’m not a total pig. But at the bottom of it was a pill bottle. And in that pill bottle was a little something called ZenPep. And ZenPep is a prescription given to those who cannot digest food normally because their pancreas does not make enough enzymes. Any guesses on who had to take that? Any guesses on who just had a major breakdown over an orange and white pill used to aid in digestion? It was me. (I had the breakdown; I didn’t have to take ZenPep – there is nothing amiss with my digestion thus far in my life. Ash was the ZenPep taker – if you recall, he had bile duct cancer and all sorts of problems that came along with bile duct cancer and prescriptions out the ying yang to help live with bile duct cancer, which clearly did not work as he is no longer living. Thanks for being such a douchebag, life.).

Grief is a little crazy in that way. It never truly goes away. You learn to live through it. You find the happy again. But then sometimes you find a bottle of pills and it’s like the whole wound has just reopened and you have to work and fight and cauterize and stitch that wound back into submission. I know, that doesn’t make a lot of sense but you get the point.

Things have been interesting around here as of late. I have dove/dived (what’s proper here?) head first into the big bad world of dating. We’ve gone over this, I know, but for fun, let’s go over it again. And by fun, I mean torture. Because that’s what dating is. Pure torture. I thought it was bad in my teens and 20s. That shit ain’t got shit (I know what you’re thinking, damn she speaks so eloquently and I know, it’s a gift) on being a widowed mother of 2 at the ripe old age of 38. The games are just as strong now as they were then. And I can’t figure out why. I’m an honest person. I’m not going to tell you that I like you if I don’t like you. Just like I wouldn’t expect a man to tell me that he liked me if he didn’t actually like me. And it’s really easy to tell if someone doesn’t like you. Mainly because they don’t speak to you. They don’t call, text, send carrier pigeon. Nothing. They leave you with an I like, maybe a little smooch or 2, and then they disappear. Only to reappear a few days later with some nonsense you don’t really give a shit about but feel excited because they did in fact reach out, so then you feel like you can reach out next time with some nonsense that they don’t give a shit about only to be ignored again. What in the actual fuck?

You’ll also recall I was called a very bad name recently. And I’d like to shed a little light on that, lest you think that I actually am a whore. I told you I was not. Maybe naive. But definitely not a whore. Someone I have been friends with for more of my life than not was very supportive to me, well, in reality, always. We always stayed in touch, always checked in, always kept our friendship alive, if you will. He doesn’t live here but we have maintained communication throughout most of our adult lives. Once my husband passed away, he kind of turned into my rock. I leaned on him. A lot. And what was a very close friendship almost morphed into something more. I knew he was married, however, (and here’s were the dumb girl believing everything she’s told comes in; damn dumb girl) I was under the impression the marriage was not a happy one and would be ending any day now. As you have seen, that was not the case. The marriage was not over, let alone unhappy. I mean, it may be a bit unhappy now as dude was busted and stuff, but that’s not my problem.

What is my problem, though, is that I lost my rock. I lost one of my best friends. And he has not spoken to me, explained anything to me or reached out in any way. And I understand it on one hand. But on the other hand, I don’t understand it at all. My heart was broken. My heart, that has already been through so much pain and despair, was ripped to shreds by some selfish asshole that claimed to be anything but a selfish asshole. And I find that wholly unfair. What kind of human does that to another human? What kind of human does that to their own family? For what purpose? Is he sleeping well at night knowing that not only did he devastate his own family, he also crushed another human spirit? What a prick.

Here’s what I know, though. (I’m gonna get a little too self confident here, prepare yourself.) Do I have a little baggage? Of course. Who doesn’t at almost 40? Am I perfect? Obviously not. As was pointed out to me just last week, I’m not very warm and fuzzy. I can be a little standoffish at first. And I am a bit shy. And clearly, I’m a little bit too trusting. But, also, I am the prize here. I am kind. I am funny. I am a lot of fun. I’m honest. I’m financially secure. I can be cute if I try really hard. I’m open and can be adventurous with a bit of a nudge. I’m sporty. I like to go out just as much as I like to stay in. I can be sexy (probably – it’s been a while). I have a lot of love to offer and I am not willing to settle for some bullshit game playing.

My point is this – don’t mess with a broken widow. She (or he) has been through enough. And she (or he) may be gone before you realize what could have been.

Things I Do Now

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In case you didn’t know, this whole widowhood thing is not all it’s cracked up to be. I’m sure you are over there thinking that I’m just living the high life, what with being a single mother to 2 boys, a single mother to 2 dogs (one of which won’t stop peeing on my fucking carpet) and all these household chores all to myself. I know it sounds pretty awesome, but I’m going to let you in on a little secret, it is not.

Take today for example…I have a large yard. Part of that yard (a too small part in hindsight) is fenced in for the above mentioned 2 dogs (although, the one would be fine without the fenced in yard what with her just using the bathroom wherever she fucking pleases all over my house). The weather as of late has been cold, wet and dreary. Seriously, there’s now a creek running along the side of my house (think of stocking it with fish and charging admission…) because all it ever does is rain. Yesterday and today, we are finally looking at the sun. I woke up a little grumpy today, maybe a little weepy, knocked out kindergarten with my youngest and decided to work out. And I worked out for a really long time because sometimes it’s the best way to clear my head. So while clearing my head, I thought to myself, man, I really need to pick up dog shit. It’s been a hot minute. (I know what you’re thinking, super glamorous widow life). So, between the dog shit and all the rain, my grass is growing rampantly. In the winter. Yay.

I set about scooping poop (side note – I find it really unfair that Ash left me with all these dogs. Don’t get me wrong, I love them both dearly, but there is just way too many things to take care of around here. It’s exhausting.). It takes a good long while 1. because there’s so much (ew) and b. because my wrist keeps cramping up and I have to keep taking breaks (I’m nothing if not sexy. And so young. And so hip.). I get it all(ish) picked up and decide “you know what, I’m going to weed whack this out of control fenced in area.”

So I go get the weed whacker. Do you know what I’ve never used before? A weed whacker. Another job of that asshole who left me here to take of everything while he’s living the high life with God and shit. Sorry, I’m a little bitter today. But, I get it started and set about my mission. Now, you might be wondering why I chose weed whacking over just mowing it and I’ll tell you (I’m certain you’re on pins and needles waiting to read this if you haven’t given up on it already). 1. The grass is super wet and super thick (hey oh! That’s what she said?) and b. I’m terrible with the lawnmower and 3. as mentioned before, the space is pretty small so I figured the weed whacker was the best tool for the job. Oh. My. God! Who the fuck invented the weed whacker? First of all, that thing is the same height, if not taller, as me. Not exactly super easy to maneuver for the vertically challenged. Secondly, do you know how much that thing weighs? I don’t either, but it sure as shit ain’t light. The scooping of the poop, combined with the hellacious weed whacking may be the worst jobs I’ve had to do to date. They did not bring me joy. The yard looks like Jason Vorhees stopped by with his machete and hacked away at it. There are grass clippings all over the white vinyl fence. And my body feels like it’s been smooshed by a damn steamroller that went over once and came back once more just to make sure I was really down. Ash would be rolling in his grave (if he had a grave) if he could see what I’ve done to his yard. Sorry babe, but your fault.

You know what else I’ve done recently that is also 100% Ash’s fault? I saw that match.com commercial where the devil and 2020 met and fell and love and I thought if the devil and 2020 can find love, maybe I can, too. I’m not sure if this is taboo to talk about but since when do I care about being taboo? But I’m lonely. I miss having companionship. And I’m caught between a rock and a hard place of wanting to move on but not wanting to dishonor my husband but needing something more in my life but also still loving my husband. It’s very tricky and complicated and probably taboo. But whatever. So I had a little too much vino one night and I made a profile. Online dating is horrible. Awful. Terrible. 0 stars. Would not recommend. If you are even the slightest bit happy in your relationship, fucking stay there. Because do you know what’s out there for 30something widows with 2 children? Less than nothing. I had a near 80 year old man, claiming he was 35 hoping we could meet. Um, no. One man pushing 70 who progressively got meaner with every message he sent to which I did not respond. A lot of serial killer looking types then I’m totally judging just based on a few pictures. And then, should you meet one that maybe seems attractive and nice and normal, they get a whiff of your crazy and all your baggage and disappear faster than you can say do you think we should meet. It’s awful. Seriously. Stay where you are. Unless you’re with one of the serial killer types.

I don’t usually say this, given that I am grateful for much in my life and because I really really hate acronyms but FML. Not really. Just FTD (fuck this day.)

Abrasive

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Monday night I did not feel well. It was a normal enough evening. It was colder than a witch’s tit out. It was raining. It was a perfect evening for potato soup. We had some friends over for dinner. I had one glass of wine. Pretty normal. By the time I went to bed, I felt like shit. I lay there, unable to get comfortable, tossing and turning. My stomach literally felt like it was going to explode. I kept going between thoughts of “shit, my appendix is minutes from bursting” and “lord, please don’t let my children find me dead in the morning” and “holy fuck, how the hell am I going to get to the hospital because certainly if my insides are exploding, I shouldn’t drive, and my driver went and died on me and I don’t want to call 911 because what if I’m really fine and just have a bit of gas, that would be super embarrassing, and I don’t want to call my parents because they’re probably sleeping and they don’t generally sleep well so I definitely should not disturb them and I don’t want to call any of my neighbors for the same reason I don’t want to call 911” until I finally go to this thought – my husband felt like this, but far worse, every fucking day for years. And that one thought stopped me in my proverbial tracks.

I am the type of person that is generally pretty good about compartmentalizing. I can come off as abrasive and uncaring, I think. Which isn’t true. It’s just how I deal. I can remember being at the park with Jack when he was around 2 years old. This was before I’d really made any other mom friends, and Ash was working all the time, so it was just him and me, hanging out, parking it up, doing the mother/son thing. He was playing on the slide. I was sort of paying attention, sort of day dreaming about what I used to do for fun before watching 2 year olds climb up the ladder, slide down the slide, giggle, repeat. Again. And again. And again. You get the picture. Next thing I know, I see Jack tumble off the side of the slide about halfway down and land with a big thump in the dirt. There are other mothers and children around. I hear the gasps and the “oh no’s” and the “is he ok’s”. I calmly get up, walk over to him, help him up, look him over one good time and tell him “tough boys are tough.” (Now, before you get your panties in a wad, Jack came up with the saying tough boys are tough and used to say it all the time whenever he took a tumble or got a scratch or anything like that – I wasn’t just being a bitch. For the most part.). I also then heard more gasps but of a different nature this time. These were the “I can’t believe she just said that to her hurt child” gasps. Here’s the thing, the fall hurt, there’s no doubt about that. But I knew he was fine. I knew the bigger my reaction, the bigger his reaction. I also knew I was being hardcore judged for my seeming lack of empathy and hightailed it the hell out of dodge.

Exhibit B – Jack played on a travel baseball team when he was 9 (he was on a 12u team and my point to that is not to say how good he is, my point is that he’s young playing against much bigger and better players, especially pitchers). It’s the weekend before Ash passed away. I’m sure I’ve told this story, but my point is different this time so I’ll allow it. Jack is up to bat and takes a fast ball to the face. And he hits the deck. I mean, he falls out. And what do I do? Nothing. I stand at the fence and watch until finally the coach yells at me to come to Jack, he’s down and he’s bleeding. So I went to him. I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. I didn’t coddle. Hell, I didn’t let him skip the next game. I mean, I sort of gave him a choice but he’s my kid and he chose to play. I grabbed his tooth out of the dirt, gave him so ice and returned him to the dugout to cheer on his team.

I’m not big on coddling, I don’t get sad because my children get older (that’s the whole point of life, if you’re not getting older, chances are you’re dead), it’s rare that you will see me cry in public and I will make more jokes about my husband being dead than is deemed proper (is it ever deemed proper??? Probably not. But I deem it proper and Ash knows who he married so I’m willing to bet he deems it proper as well). It’s who I am. I can lock things up in my brain, and I can throw away the key or I can only let them out on my terms.

So Monday night, while I’m lying in bed convinced I’m dying, I thought of my husband. I thought of all the pain he endured and I thought of all the living he did while he was in that pain. And I felt shame. Because I never fully grasped what he was going through. I never actually put myself in his shoes and imagined how he must feel; partly because I had no idea how much pain he was feeling, partly because I had my own shit I was going through and partly because I literally couldn’t. I let myself imagine it Monday night, mainly because I thought if I was feeling even a fraction of the pain he felt, how the fuck did he not only endure it, but keep living his life while he did it? And how selfish was I to keep pushing him to do things? To complain when he didn’t feel like doing things? To feel sorry for myself for what I was going through? I’m a fucking prick. And that’s when I lost control of my emotions, weeping uncontrollably while still trying to determine if my appendix was rupturing. (Side note – it wasn’t. I’m fine.)

But all of that has led to me to this – God made me abrasive for a reason. He made my brain work the way my brain works because I have to survive. If I were to constantly think about what Ash has been through, what my children have been through, what our family has had to endure, there is no way in hell I could function. It is just too hard to bear. When I let my mind really go there, I become paralyzed with grief and despair and loneliness and unending sadness and shame and guilt and so many other feelings that are difficult to function with. So God gave me the tools to lock it up. I can let it out when I need a release, when I need to remember, when I need to feel that pain. But I can also put it back in the recesses of my mind and go on being a mother, daughter, sister, friend and pain in the ass. I can be me. Sarcastic, witty, abrasive, me.

Fours to the…

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Disclaimer: I’m divulging a good bit of personal information here that you may or may not want to know about me. Read accordingly.

I have written about this before but figured after some recent events that it may be time to go over it again. Some may have forgotten. Some may have never read the last one to begin with. And most really don’t give a shit. But I give a shit so, again, I’m going to re-cap.

In no way, shape or form am I a perfect person. I am flawed to the nth degree. I’m fairly certain God still loves me, though. My friends and family probably do, too and could certainly tell you even more flaws of mine than I’m about to list out (please try to refrain, though. My delicate psyche can only take so much right now.)

In no particular order (except for the end), here goes:

I’m highly impatient – “instant gratification generation” is what my mom likes to call it. I want what I want when I want it and tend to be a little bratty when I don’t get my way.

I have a temper. A big one. My late husband used to call me “The Hulk” – only he said instead of turning green I turn purple

Speaking of anger, I like to hold onto mine. I don’t forgive easily and I never fucking forget. And unfortunately, when I have been wronged, I will use said wronging in future arguments. Which, I realize is unfair and unhealthy, but it’s true. We’re also not talking about things about me that are good at this moment, so there’s that.

I use sarcasm in place of real feelings and emotions. I deflect all things with a solid dose of inappropriate humor. And I rarely take anything too seriously.

I loathe cleaning. I would much rather pay someone to do it than do it myself but that brings me to my next flaw…

Humans terrify me. They make me so nervous most of the time. I don’t like to call people, businesses, places or things. I hate to ask for help. I’d rather just figure it out myself. On this subject, I also care entirely too much what people think of me. Although, the older I get, the less shits I give. So there’s one on the positive side. Sort of.

I pee in the shower. Ew. I’ve also peed in pools a time or two or maybe more. Double ew. I’m also not afraid to pee outside should the need arise and there’s not a bathroom in sight. Side note: this summer I was a wee bit hungover at my kid’s baseball game (mom win), I’d downed 3 cokes on my way to the game, not realizing there were no bathrooms at the field. Had to pee, obviously, and ended up in the back of my car with a gatorade bottle. My pee comes out like a 1984 sprinkler head, so the gatorade bottle was none too helpful. After peeing on my hand, floormats and everything but the gatorade bottle, I found my youngest son’s hydroflask with the wide mouth opening and peed in that (and that’s how you win at momming.)

I’m kinda vain – which seems rather contradictory given my proclivity to pee nearly anywhere. But there you have it. I love clothes and makeup and doing my hair and making myself look as good as I possibly can.

Here’s another ew – I flush my tampons down the toilet. Apparently that’s a no no. But I do it anyway.

Sometimes, especially here lately, I let my kids play video games for far too long while I watch some kind of television show that shouldn’t be on in their presence. Hence why I let them stay on the video games. In a different room.

I constantly lose the tie thing that goes on a loaf of bread.

I’m never up on current events as I don’t watch or read the news. Well, sometimes I read the news. But mostly I just skim it.

I don’t walk my dogs nearly often enough.

I spend way too much money on way too much shit that I don’t need.

I’m terrible at making decisions on little shit – like where to go for dinner or where to go on vacation. Things like that. Stuff that’s really important, though, I’ve got that pretty well down.

I am way too competitive at way too many things. And now my children are just like me. Hell, they have competitions to see who can eat the most green beans, which, let’s face it, is a win for everyone.

Sometimes I drink too much.

I can be loud and obnoxious (drinking or not).

I cackle like a hyena.

Sometimes I’m super lazy and sometimes I’m on the go way too often.

I still sleep with a blankie. Like a toddler.

I bite my fingernails. I often forget to cut my kids’ fingernails. And toenails.

Sometimes I eat my feelings. Although, here lately, I have very little appetite. Which is concerning in itself. Because I used to really, really love food.

I am on my phone far too often, which is actually a good thing, because if not, it may have been way too long before I saw my name on a very popular social media site followed by the words “is a whore”. That’s right folks. Someone very publicly called me a whore. And thank the fucking Lord above that I happened to see it within a couple minutes of posting and could very swiftly remove myself from such a derogatory (and very untrue, might I add) post. Unfortunately, before it was removed, my mom saw it and a handful of friends (that I know of anyway) saw it. Thank goodness I’m not that popular, right?! I felt like I was in high school all over again. I’m nearly 40 (if we round up, like a lot). Why are we still name calling and tearing each other down? What in the actual fuck?

Mirriam-Webster defines a whore as “a person who engages in sexual intercourse for pay; a prostitute” or as “a promiscuous or immoral woman.” Ok, well I’ve certainly never been paid to have sex with anyone unless you think about marriage and the fact that I was a stay at home mom for a while, thereby making my husband the one who made all the money, thereby meaning he financially supported me and we had a pretty active sex life so maybe I was, in fact, a whore.

As far as the second definition goes, well that’s pretty laughable, too. Promiscuous is not a word I would use to describe myself, especially now. And believe me, I am willing to call myself nearly anything, if it is true. I am happy to share any flaws regarding me that you may or may not want to know. I am not scared of who I am. I have not performed any sexual acts in quite some time (unless we’re counting the sexual acts I may on occasion perform on myself but I don’t think that qualifies). I have not had any sexual acts performed on me in quite some time.

Now, I cannot say that I have not exuded some promiscuous behavior a time or 2 in my life. There was that time in college when I took Lauren Aponte’s boyfriend home with me for a one night stand and I only knew him as Lauren Aponte’s boyfriend, (even though I don’t think he was her boyfriend, she just wanted him to be her boyfriend, I don’t know, the details are fuzzy – I also didn’t really know Lauren Aponte, she was a friend of a friend of a friend and her nonboyfriend was quite hot). And afterward, we (my college roommate and I) referred to him as “get it girl” because, well, he said it a lot throughout the night. And got it I did. Anywho, that could be described as promiscuous behavior but did not make me a whore. I also used to make out with Dinty Moore Beef Stew (not actually the can of soup, though, just to clarify) every time I saw him in a bar my freshman year of college. I think his actual name was Denny but we always just called him Dinty Moore Beef Stew. Apparently not learning names in college was a thing for me. Is there a name for that? But we made out. A lot. Again, promiscuous behavior. Not a whore. Apparently I had quite a bit of promiscuous behavior in college. But, hey, who didn’t?

I dressed up as a slutty nun for Halloween one year. While poor taste for sure, it still doesn’t qualify me as a whore. I’ve been known to wear revealing clothing, especially when my husband was alive. He was a boob man, particularly my boobs, and he wanted to see them as much as possible. And I obliged. Whore? I think not.

And that leads me to my whole point. I have plenty of stories where maybe some risqué behavior happened on my part. Hell, I hope there are more risqué stories to come in my future, I’m not going to lie. But I have never been, currently am not and never will be a whore. I may not be classy. My sense of humor may be dark and sinister. I may be too forthcoming about my life and details nobody gives a shit about. And, hell, I may be a touch crazy. But I am not a whore.

Try to be kind. Try to mind your manners. Try to think before you speak (or type). And let’s try not to defame anyone’s character in the process.

The Straw That Broke All the Camels Backs

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Disclaimer: These are my thoughts and opinions. You are not obligated to read them. They are not all sunshine and roses. But this is how I deal. This is my therapy. This is how I get it out and this is how I roll on. Read at your own risk. Also, I use the fuck word. A lot.

I knew that everybody getting all psyched up about 2020 coming to an end was going to be a mistake. Just because time continues to march on does not mean that anything has changed. I saw a meme just today that said “New year, new me….ntal breakdown” and nothing in my life has ever been more fucking accurate.

Today our school board met to determine if our children should remain in remote learning or return to school on some kind of from home/in school hybrid basis. I did not get my hopes up. For the most part anyway. I understand the county I live in, I understand the people that make the decisions and I understand that my opinion really doesn’t count for shit. Hence why I’m here writing about it because it’s the only way I really know how to express myself. Not that I really need to say, but they chose to stay in 100% remote. What. The. Fuck.

My children are my life. They kind of have to be seeing as how I’m basically all they have. That’s not true. There are a good amount of people that love and care for them. However, on the regular, all they get is me. And I’m a pretty good mom. I do ok. They could definitely do worse. As a matter of fact, I have a coffee mug that states “Not the worst mom”, so I have that going for me (and them), which is nice. But they need more than me. And that has never been more evident than it is now.

Warning: Here’s where I get super whiney – but I’m going to whine, I’m going to get it out of my system, I’m going to play the woe is me card – and then I’m going to be ok. And then I’m going to wine. (See what I did there?!)

My children have not known normal for about 3 years now. They watched their father die. For 13 months. They watched him wither away. They watched him throw up. They watch him sleep. They watched us constantly leave them for nonstop doctor appointments. They watched him get admitted to the hospital countless times. THEY WATCHED THEIR FATHER DIE. They were shuffled back and forth between grandparents and uncles and friends. And they handled it like the little champions that they are. Because they are fucking champions.

But my little fucking champions are fucking breaking. Their abnormal lives are just now taking their/its/a (I’m not sure what’s grammatically proper here) fucking toll. My 11 year old cries. All. The. Time. He had a routine doctor appointment just last week. The tears started when returning to therapy was mentioned. They continued when he was informed he was due for 3 vaccines. And they really started fucking rolling when his twig and two berries were checked out (twig and berries accounted for and progressing as they should FYI). He cried the whole way home. He sat on the porch and cried and wouldn’t come in the fucking house. Because he is fucking breaking. Last night, we decided to watch a family movie (which, as a side note, has been kind of difficult for us – watching family movies that is – because our “family” is abnormal. For us.). We watched “The One and Only Ivan”. We read the book last year so we knew exactly what to expect. *Spoiler Alert* We knew it got sad, we knew Stella died. We knew Ivan saved Ruby. We knew everything that was going to happen. However, knowing it and actually watching it happen are two very different things. Do you know how many times Jack had “to go to the bathroom” last night during this 1 hour and 37 minute movie? It was seven. Do you know why he went to the bathroom 7 times? It’s because he was so upset about everything that he couldn’t even handle being in the room with the 2 people he trusts most in this world – his brother and his mother.

I will admit that my eyes were not dry either. We are all quicker to cry these days. Nothing is normal for anyone. I get that. However, my 11 year old son was inconsolable last night. I will be honest and say that he never grieved when his father actually passed away. He maybe cried about 4 tears and returned to business as usual. So I’m not saying that his behavior is abnormal at this moment. I am grateful that he is feeling. That is necessary. He had a lot of questions last night that he never asked at the time of death. How did I know daddy was dead? What happened? What was I doing? Why did daddy never hug me before I left? Why is all he did was sleep? Daddy never said goodbye. All things that I didn’t realize were happening at the time. I didn’t realize my children didn’t officially say goodbye to their father. I didn’t realize that Ash didn’t officially say goodbye to Jack and Colt. I should have noticed, but I was so busy being wrapped up in easing Ash’s pain, that I guess I forgot. How awful is that? But clearly they (and especially Jack) haven’t forgotten. Jack is pulling away from all of his friends. He never wants to see them. He never wants to play. He only wants to be around his brother and me. We are his safety net, I get that. However, it begs the question, if he were in school, if there were some sense of normalcy to his life, would he feel the same way? I tend to lean towards no.

Colt is also having his own difficulties. Virtual school for a 6 year old is not ideal. He does ok. I do ok with him. But he breaks down all the time also. He can’t sit still for google meets, because what 6 year old can? I have to be right next to him at all times to keep him on task and even then, he’s rarely ever on task. He’s wildly brilliant, though, in an outside the box kind of way (just like his father). And educationally, I know he will be fine. Socially? That’s another story. He’s different. He’s not naturally social. And that’s ok. We all march to the beat of our own drum. But he’s been out of the “normal” social scene for so long, I’m afraid of what it looks like for him when it does eventually return. He also breaks down far more often. He’s good about talking about his dad, unlike his older brother, but he is not good at handling adversity. He doesn’t like it when things change. It makes sense, given that the biggest change of maybe his entire life happened when he was 5 years old. He wants everything. And I do mean everything. Like acquiring more shit will fill the gaping hole that has been left in his beautiful heart.

I get it. The world is in turmoil. The world is fucking crazy. My kids deserve better than that, though. Your kids deserve better than that. We all deserve better than that. I don’t know what the answer is. Faith. Love. God. And maybe, just maybe, a little more fucking normalcy. For everyone.

PS – It’s also the fucking 12th of the month. Fucking figures. (If you’ve forgotten, Jonesie passed away November 12, 2019 – that’s exactly 14 months ago. But who’s counting? It’s me. I’m fucking counting.)