The Much Awaited: Thanksgiving Thankfuls

I mentioned a few posts ago that I was going to right my own, honest, thankful list. Not the self indulgent bragging crap, but real ones. So, here goes:

Day 1: I am thankful my mother didn't abort me so that she could abuse me.

Day 2: I'm grateful for being emotionally stunted. It makes interactions with normal people extra special.

Day 3: I am grateful I am not in elementary school anymore. Going to school with the fear of a psychopath shooting up the place hanging over my head day after day might have traumatized me.

Day 4: I am thankful that my parents created me in an attempt to save their marriage. Setting me up for failure since conception has been a learning experience to say the least.

Day 5: Today, I am thankful that Wham! wrote " Wake me up before you go". It's inspired many a dance party in my head.

Day 6: I'm grateful my most recent therapist was such a colossal asshole that I no longer want anything to do with therapy, despite being well aware that I need it more than the average bear.

Day 7: I am thankful that my ex-fiance (Steve for those of you playing the home game) moved to Dubuque. I only go there every weekend because this tiny ass town 20 miles away has so little to offer. I love the slight worry that I will run into him and will therefore get to enjoy copious amounts of drama.

Day 8: I am grateful for schadenfreude. It's a real thing. Look it up. Enjoying the misery of others has helped to brighten my dark and twisty life on numerous occasions and I love it when it crops up.

Day 8: I am so thankful for the endless mirth provided by Craigslist. Today's gem was an ad in Dubuque looking for a "midget" who would basically be owned by a group of people and would be subjected to demeaning scenarios and sexual acts. I love it when it goes the extra mile.

Day 10: I am thankful that we are finally getting out of this crapartment and into a condo. The major bonus is that we will be paying less in rent and utilities while still upgrading.

Day 11: I am grateful that the wedding industry is seriously out of touch with reality and caters to people who can and do spend a minimum of $25,000 per wedding. It's genuinely a pleasure to see the look on your faces when I tell you I am getting married at the swankiest place in Iowa for less than $5,000.

Day 12: I am super thankful for people who use social media to post pictures of abused animals and children to promote abuse awareness. I'm sure that everyone loves that you're exploiting those defenseless people/creatures in order to feel better about yourself. Seriously. Wy to go. Exploitation is so in right now. Also, telling me that I'm a heartless bastard because I won't "share" the picture is so helpful for the cause.

Day 13: I'm thankful I live in a small minded community that embraces the double negative. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't have nothing to talk about.

Day 14: I am thankful I have a dog. Some days, she's the only reason I'm alive. It's nice to have one person in your life who always thinks the sun shines out your ass, complete with rainbow. Even when she's being a sassy brat, I love the hell out of her.

Day 15: I'm thankful that the Christmas onslaught starts a full six months early now. Really. It's a wonderful thought that consumerism has become such an ingrained part of our society that we really do think we can buy love from one another in the form of overpriced and completely unnecessary "presents".

Day 16: I am grateful for friends I can be a catty, bitchy soprano with. I get to do it so rarely that it is truly the higlight of my month to get to do something that awesome with someone I really love.

Day 17: I am thankful that people see RSVP by a certain date and just ignore it. I really don't need to know if you're coming to my wedding. There will be plenty of food. The caterer will not charge me extra for you showing up unannounced. Your belief that the sun rises and sets at your convenience is totally founded. YOU are the unique snowflake in the tapestry of life.

Day 18: I am thankful to have been raised in the same household as my oldest brother. Being that close to absolute perfection and a true child prodigy has made certain that I am truly and well acquainted with the definition of the word "mediocrity".

Day 19: I'm grateful that people will always enable bullies once they become adults. When one child bullies another, we crack down on the side of the "weaker" child. When an adult does it, sometimes it's abuse, but most of the time it's "just a joke" and the other person is being too sensitive.

Day 20: I'm grateful to live in a world where the extinction of an entire animal species (Western Black Rhino) goes completely unnoticed by the majority of the public. Way to go, humanity!

Day 21: I am thankful for grammar Nazis. It's nice to not be alone in expecting excellence from everyone. Same goes for spelling Nazis, only I'm a little more aggressive about this one.

Day 22: I am thankful for the culture shock I've enjoyed by moving from a large city (Des Moines) to a moderately sized town. The insular society enjoyed by all of our neighbors who have known each other since birth has been so nice. I have no interest in making acquaintances or, dare I say, friends. I could understand the guarded familiarity of the city, but this complete shut out has be surprising.

Day 23: I'm thankful for the looks people give me when I correct them when they call me a lesbian. I'm sorry that you can't wrap your head around the concept of bisexuality, but just because I'm in a committed relationship with a woman, doesn't negate my attraction to men. When you find someone you love, do you completely stop noticing anyone else being attractive? I'm marrying Sara, but I'm not dead.

Day 24: I'm thankful that, because of a genetic fluke, I have webbed toes. I've decided they are the source of my awesomeness. I was genuinely disappointed the first time I saw Liam's toes and they were normal.

Day 25: I am thankful that Sara loves me, even with all of my flaws. Seriously. I have truly wondered if she is a glutton for punishment. Girl could do so much better than this basketcase.

Day 26: I'm grateful for hypocrisy. If it didn't exist, I couldn't sit around and judge people and then ten minutes later, get really pissed when I'm being judged. Yay, hypocrisy!

Day 27: I'm really grateful Liam is going with his dad for the holiday. I love the little trout, but I think we all need a break.

Day 28: It's Thanksgiving! It's Hanukkah! It's Thanksgivukkah! I'm am truly grateful that Kmart is starting deals at 6am today and that Walmart is starting them at 6pm. It nice that they're trying to take the Jewish approach to deciding when Black Friday actually starts. Especially during Hanukkah. When the sales are for Christmas. *sigh*

Day 29: Today is the day. Black Friday. Today, I am thankful for American and Corporate greed and knowing that today at least one person in the country will be trampled to death and others will be hospitalized from injuries sustained from other people who are so desperate to pay nothing for something. It's like poorly controlled rioting. I'm also thankful it's my brother's birthday.

Day 30: I am beyond thankful that this list is finally done.

A New Look

I had to redo my background because something was up. No idea what, but I figured I would rather spend 10 minutes picking out a generic background than an hour on hold with some guy in India trying to understand what the hell he's saying, so, enjoy.

I had an interesting conversation with a close friend recently. We were talking about love. She's currently falling head over heels for a pretty nice sounding man (I have never met him, so I'm just assuming he's nice) and is in that "love conquers everything" "love can and will endure" phase. Don't get me wrong. I am very happy in my relationship. I am thrilled to finally be in a healthy relationship with someone who doesn't need to tear me down and apart in order for her to feel good about herself. However, I've been married and I've been engaged. Both of those men I loved fiercely and both of those men abused me once they got comfortable in the relationship. Love was not enough in those cases. Love did not endure and it sure as hell didn't conquer shit. I look at this reasonable, brilliant woman and I want to shake her and tell her to watch her back. Don't get complacent. Don't let him take you for granted. Ever. I know not all men are horrible. Not all men hit. Not all men tear you apart to feel like a man. But some do. Keeping your guard up is only smart. With Sara, I have been with her for 4 years and she has been my best friend for 7 years now. I am thrilled that I get to be one of those people who can say that they married their best friend.

Eventually, our discussion moved on to the wedding. I was talking about how surprised I was by how little Sara seemed to care about the cake or the menu or the music or even her dress. I mentioned that I hated being the other bride because I couldn't be there for everything she was enjoying (read: being dragged through by her mom). I love seeing her become a bride. It's so exciting. I have been planning every little detail in an attempt to give Sara the perfect wedding. I mentioned that with me, I had had my wedding. It was nothing I was proud of and I wouldn't wish that wedding on anyone. My turn was over, but Sara's wasn't and this was her day, not mine. At this point, my friend stopped me and told me that it was both our day. Yet, I feel like I can't justify this second wedding to myself. Like I have felt with Sara, I just don't deserve another one. I recall hearing it said that a wedding dress is like a coat of white primer paint. It covers up the past so a new one can begin. The old layers are there, but they're covered. It never sat well with me. I want so badly to admit that this day is mine too, but it isn't. I only have one other person who is helping me plan this wedding (excluding Sara) and I feel... like a fraud. I want this, but I had my chance and that's gone and a coat of primer doesn't change that.

An interlude with death

I'm on the road today. Left this morning for Sara's mom's and now we are off to her grandma's. She's not doing well. I absolutely hate this time of year. 15 years ago, during this time of year, my grandfather was dying. I have always been an unreasonable person. Years prior to my grandfather dying I had taken time to figure out what order I was comfortable with losing my grandparents. My aforementioned grandfather was the last one on the list, so naturally, he was the first to go. I was close with him. I spent every spring break and at least a week with him and my grandmother. I lived for these weeks because at least this way, I got a minimum of 2 weeks a YEAR where I was someone's special kid. He and I used to go for little car rides around the lake and once, when I was a teenager, he took me to a mall an hour away so that I could do girl things, like go to Claire's. Between he and my grandmother I got spoiled rotten during those weeks. I'm not talking about materially spoiled. I'm talking about emotionally. I got to play epic games of skip-bo and monopoly with grandma and I got to stay up curled up next to my grandpa watching crappy CBS dramas. I waited for the water tower light to come on with my grandpa. We would have smorgasbord lunches where we cleaned out the fridge and combined foods that had no business being combined. I was given memories that have been more precious than any thing I could have been handed. The only things I ever took from their house after they were gone were one of my grandpa's handkerchieves and the pink plastic loop I gave them when I was little. Backstory: I had a horrible habit of leaving things at their house. They would tease me and say it was just my way of making sure they knew I would be back. So one time when I was four, I made them a pink necklace and gave it to them so they always knew I would be back. Funny thing is, I couldn't take it out of the house. I couldn't do it, so my mother, in one of her true mom moments, brought it back to her house and hung it from her calendar (where they had hung it in their house). I have never reconciled the reversal of my list. Doesn't by any means mean that I don't like my surviving grandmother. I adore her, but she wasn't the same for me. I hate watching Sara go through this. It stirs up a lot of feelings that I have tried to stomp down, but worse, it's knowing that once your favorite grandparent is gone, it never stops hurting. It dulls, and you get used to it, but then something happens. You get married. You have a baby. You get divorced. You struggle. Any thing really. And there you are, wishing you could see them or talk to them. Back to the bargaining stage. It's unfair.

In which I insult my entire family

My wedding is less than 2 months away. I sent out invitations at the start of October. Unfortunately, I invited only about 40 people, knowing full well that only about 25 will show. I'm grateful for that because I can't afford any more than 30 people. However, that means that most of my family didn't get an invitation. My mom has 4 brothers, each of them has a wife, and between them there are 7 children. I hate that I had to be that person. I invited a distant cousin who I haven't seen since I was 13 or 15, but she and I have struck a pretty solid friendship and I want her there.

Then there are the bible thumpers. I have no problem with the ones who just love Jesus. Jesus was a pretty awesome guy. I don't believe he's the Messiah, but that's a whole different discussion. The bible thumpers are the ones who don't agree with the gay lifestyle (who asked??) and are fond of quoting Leviticus at me, and yet have no problem with women wearing pants. Yeah. Leviticus says that women who wear pants are whores and should be treated as such. These are also the people who told me I was going to hell for leaving my abusive ex-husband who used to release stress by abusing me. Usually verbally, but on special occasions he liked to hit me. Forgive me for not wanting you there as I pledge my love for a woman and vow to be with her until the end of time or the cancellation of Dr. Who.

The cousins aren't so bad. I feel horribly though, because there are a couple of them who I would LOVE to have invited, but if I had, the parents would have come and I don't want that level of anxiety hanging over me on my wedding day. To be honest though, I wish everyone could be there. It would be nice to finally interact with these people as an adult. To try to see if friendships can be formed or if these are just people that I know by virtue of my birth. I would love to know these people as people. Sure, my cousins are the fun kids who I tried to build an airplane with out of a wheelbarrow and spare parts behind my grandparents' garage, but, considering that I never talk to people from elementary school, I'm curious about these people. Being me, I just assume they don't want to know me. I'm also pretty sure I'm the black sheep, so I keep myself and my valuable, sooty wool to myself. I avoid family functions. But maybe it's time I tried to know these people.

I will probably send out announcements. It's the polite and proper thing to do. I hate that I've probably offended every single one of them by excluding them from the wedding, but honestly, the main reason is financial. We, Sara and I, not our mothers, are paying for this wedding. We have paid for everything and I like that. It means that I don't have to listen to the "you should do this" argument if I don't want to. Okay. Enough bitching and worrying. I should try to find a better topic next time. Maybe i'll start posting my thanksgiving thankfuls here. Be warned: they're all true, but they aren't like everyone else's.

Anger leads to hate, Hate leads to suffering

I feel like I am simmering with anger almost 24 hours a day. Anger at myself for being crippled by my social anxieties. Anger at Liam when he shows any hint of being like me because no one needs to be anything like me. Anger at Sara for being crazy enough to think I'm fine the way I am. Anger at my brothers for being only the most recent men to bail on my son. Anger at my now former therapist for saying that it is my fault for how I feel. Nevermind that I'm trying to deal with shit I've never dealt with before and emotions are bound to show up, but it is entirely my fault for those emotions for being there. I guess when you have been abused as a child, an adolescent and an adult, the smart thing to do is to just shrug it off and walk away. Guess I'm not smart.

It doesn't help matters that I decided to just stop my meds about 3 weeks ago. I was way overmedicated anyways, but that fact is only adding fuel to the fire of anger I'm trying to deal with. I am so angry and so upset and I don't want to talk to anyone about it. Professional or otherwise. I'm angry that people have pulled away from me like I'm a fucking leper. So instead, I'm isolating myself. Hiding from anyone that might be slightly interested in helping because no one in this world wants to be helping anyone. At least not without getting something in return. Even if all they receive is that wonderful feeling of self congratulations. And once again, someone profits from my misery.

The thing that has been bothering me the most though is how often suicide is coming up in conversation and the worst part of it is that I'm not the one bringing it up. It's usually part of a conversation that goes "did you know so and so died?" and then I find out that yet another of my friends has committed suicide. What's worst is that there is a part of me, albeit small, that is jealous. Jealous that they had the nerve to end it all and yet I'm stuck here waffling on the subject and trying to make sure no one knows about it because once anyone does find out, it immediately turns into a "I'm going to help you so that I feel better" situation and I'm not in the mood to make everyone else feel better. I'd rather figure out how to make myself feel better. *sigh*

Sometimes I admit how lost I really am

I think I made a poor choice in my major in college. I chose vocal performance, but was rejected because I didn't have the time to put into the major. So, instead, I went with general music. Did you know there is absolutely nothing you can do with a general music degree? I didn't. I was just happy to be getting the fuck out of undergrad in under a decade. Lately, I've been indulging in the land of "oh shit, I fucked up. Is it too late to fix it?" and I have no idea as to what to do. Should I swallow my pride and just keep going on to grad school for Music History? It's ultimately where I want to end up. Or, do I go back to undergrad and do the major I should have done in the first place - namely, Violin performance? I have no idea. All I know is that I really really miss being in an orchestra. I really enjoy the feeling I have with my violin in my hands and when I'm rocking out with my favorite baroque composers. Mainly the Italians. They know how to compose.

I've been struggling lately. Drifting. I need to start doing something just for me or I may just go out of my goddamn mind. I'm tired of feeling like I'm becoming dumber and dumber as each year passes. I need the structure of school and the ability to learn more. I want to get going instead of stagnating. The biggest problem I have is that I don't want to go back to my undergrad professors and beg for recommendations. I know I need to. I just don't want to. I know I could easily do the graduate degree and the school is like... an hour and a half away from here. I don't know if I could handle it as a commute, but I don't think they will let me tele-commute or even learn via internet. I really need to do something though. Unfortunately, the university here in town specializes in engineering and agriculture. I hate small town America. I've even been considering trying to go across the river to Iowa for school, but Dubuque has a whole crapload of nothing.

I don't know if I would recommend a music degree to anyone, if they asked. I understand the passion and the love, but in this country, you NEED a paycheck. Hanging out on public assistance is really frowned upon and your value as a citizen correlates directly with how much money you can make. I hate that we can't just up and move. I hate that. I understand that the boy-child needs stability and I'm trying to provide that for him. I just need to find a way to express myself. I really need that. I don't have the education or resources necessary to do a major research project on some kind of music topic. There is a part of me that wonders if it would be possible to help out at the high school, but I feel so badly shattering the dreams of the kids who really don't have what it takes to be professional performers. They could easily teach, but some of them... I'm kind of appalled at their teacher for encouraging them so much instead of guiding them.

But I digress. Eventually, I'm going to have to figure this out. I just really don't know if I want the answers.

Enough about you, let's talk about me

I learned about a new personality disorder this month. Not one that I have, but rather one that explains the whole of my existence. Ever have that one person who you constantly try to please over and over and get no where? Or if you succeed, they latch on to some other deficiency that you may or may not have? Yeah. That's what we call a narcissist. It's always about them and screw the rest of you assholes. Kind of like Julia Roberts.

I wasn't thrilled to realize that I'd been raised by one, but it was one of those moments where every thing just slipped right into place. I'm working through it, with the help of a therapist who was genuinely ecstatic when I told her I had figured it out. There's quite a large community of "survivors" out there. I don't really see myself as a survivor. I just see it as I had a kind of shitty childhood when it came to my emotional upbringing and I'm trying to figure it out. Sad thing is, I wonder if my mother had a mother just like her. It certainly would explain a lot.

I've been jumping between anger and sadness with this. I'm angry because of what happened and sad about what didn't happen. Or so it would seem thus far. Eventually, I will get through this grieving process and thankfully, one of my family members has been kind enough to let me adopt her as a kind of mom figure. I've needed it and the only problem I've had with it is worrying that I'm imposing or annoying her. But apparently, that's normal for daughters of narcissistic moms. Today, I'm neither sad nor angry. Today, I pity her. I try to make excuses for her, but it helps no one. Things were the way they were and now I have a mountain of emotions that I've supressed that desperately need to be dealt with. Today is just one day and I'm only one person. It will be okay and one day, this will be behind me. I just wonder what that will look like.

Depression Lies

I've done a lot of reading throughout my time as a sufferer of depression and no where have I found the immense amount of support that I have received online. I've discovered that some of my favorite people on the planet have issues very similar to mine and if ever they wanted to get together and have a drink, I would jump at the opportunity.

I often forget that depression tells horrible little lies that one by one deplete my defences and ability to stave off a severe bout of the illness. Little lies that at first are so ridiculous that I laugh at them initially, but slowly they start to make me take pause and consider them. Of course Liam and Sara are embarrassed and ashamed of me. Why wouldn't they be? Sara's family isn't really MY family. They only take pity on me. Etc etc etc. These are all lies that most of the time, I know are untrue. Right now though, I look at them and think, you know, I might not be too far off. I won't get in to all the gory details because, there's really no point and all it will do is perpetuate these lies that I'm trying like hell to ignore. Some days are so much easier than others. Some days I have to remember my many mantras that get me through these horrible moments.

You is kind.
You is smart.
You is important.

And when all else fails:
Just keep swimming.

what in the world could that be?

I’m a really awkward person. Not in the adorable Zooey Deschanel look how quirky I am kind of way, but in the more disturbing girl-in-the-back-of-the-classroom-who-eats-her-hair kind of way. Also, I totally went through a hair eating phase. Not like the frightening cases you hear about on tv where a teenaged girl has like 20lbs of hair removed from her stomach, just a general nervous habit. I get nervous in crowds really easily. My mother refuses to believe this because as a small child I would often walk up to complete strangers and start conversations. It’s a miracle I was never kidnapped and disemboweled. I just really don’t like large groups of people. Especially if I’m expected to socialize with them. Dear God help me if I have to socialize. That being said, I am dreading my upcoming wedding. I know I said in my last post that Sara and I are a dysfunctional married couple, but in truth, we’re not even married yet. We just fight, bicker and pick on each other like an 80 year old couple with varying levels of dementia. Our wedding is going to be small. I have had panic attacks worrying about how much of my insanely large extended family is going to be offended when they don’t get an invitation, but it’s not my fault my grandparents were fond of pro-creation. I think when you really think about it, I’m pretty sure most of us are really fond of the act of pro-creation. Besides, I can’t get too pissed about it because that negates my existence, which means that if you’re reading this, and I don’t exist, you’re hallucinating. And if you’re hallucinating, you’re either on really good drugs, or you have a brain tumor. I choose to believe it’s drugs.

Shit. I just forgot what I was talking about. Awkwardness. I guess I just subscribed to the belief that I was just a black sheep. And then I went to high school where everyone thought they were a black sheep. So then, I figured that if everyone’s a black sheep, I must be a white sheep. And that led to fears I was turning into a white supremacist. So then I decided I was a drunken unicorn and my identity issues were solved because at least a drunken unicorn is unique. I spent way too much of my adolescence trying to adopt a personality that would make others happy. In fact, I still do that shit. Kind of makes me wonder if I’ve ever been honest with anyone about who I am. Except for you guys. You guys are the people I trust. It’s the people I KNOW I don’t want to be honest with. Those people are assholes.

Honestly, it wasn’t until about a year ago, when I discovered the drunken ramblings of Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess for those of you paying attention, that I decided that if people couldn’t deal with my honesty, I didn’t need them around. Her struggles with anxiety and depression made me feel less alone as I struggled with depression and ADHD. For the record, I am not hyperactive in the sense that you’re thinking. I don’t run around smearing glue on shit and even if I did, I’d forget about it before I got to pour the glitter on. I’m just easily distracted. I don’t know if that’s obvious. It really should be if you know me. I’ve been known to get lost in shopping malls because I saw something pretty and decided I had to look at it only to discover that the people I was with didn’t even notice I was gone until they were on the next floor and I was almost in tears because I was positive they were going to leave me behind, thankful that they had finally ditched the weirdo who couldn’t even finish a thought before jumping onto the next topic. Seriously. I started blogging partly because I thought it would be a great exercise in trying to focus. Unfortunately, I have like a month’s worth of entries waiting to be posted because I just couldn’t stop thinking about random shit when I was typing. Shit. I’m off-topic again. Sonofabitch. Jenny! She has helped me to see that my awkwardness is something to be embraced. It is something wonderful and fantastic and what’s better than that, I am NOT alone. There are thousands of hair eaters like me who understand me. Not that they’ve found my blog yet, but at least I know they are THERE.

In which I nearly die from swine flu

In the fall of 2009 the entire world freaked out over the swine flu. We weren’t supposed to call it swine flu though because it was feared that people would stop eating pork due to the misconception that this strain of flu actually came from a goddamn pig. The P.C. term was H1N1. I still think someone fucked a pig and forgot to shower the pig beforehand or themselves afterwards. Either way, beastiality is generally frowned upon in our society. That Thanksgiving, as the American nation prepared to go shopping, my best friend, Sara, and I found ourselves victim to the cruel bitch that was swine flu. Miraculously, Liam did not catch this. I have no fucking idea how in the hell that happened, but perhaps whatever benevolent force in the universe that exists thought, for one shining glorious moment, swine flu was about all I could handle when coupled with Thanksgiving. Not that I had any major gatherings to attend to. That was never something I really enjoyed. I would invite whichever of my friends had no where else to go for the holiday to come to my and Sara’s shitty mold infested townhome in West Des Moines’ privileged poor sector. Unfortunately… or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, it was just Sara and I that year. Once Liam was out the door on Wednesday evening, I went and started preparing dinner whilst feeling somewhat nauseous, warm and fighting a raging headache – all of which I just assumed was par the course for dealing with my asshole ex-husband. By the time Thanksgiving dawned, I had been throwing up most of the night and diarrhea had kept me wondering which end of me had earned the privilege of the toilet and which one was going to be dangling precariously over the side of the bathtub. Thanks to the frequent flushing of the toilet down the hall, I had an inkling, I wasn’t alone in my misery.

Being the stubborn WASP that I was raised to be, I still insisted that the Thanksgiving feast of Cornish game hens, sweet potato casserole, green bean bake and pumpkin pie needed to be cooked and that to admit defeat to something as stupid as the flu was not only weak, but damn near un-American. After getting the various foodstuffs into the oven, I collapsed in a heap on the living room floor, praying that I had the strength to make it through this holiday with my wasp-y smile still intact. Unfortunately, it is at about this point that the sweating began and I had to be grateful for the foresight I’d had to not only bring my heavy comforter downstairs with me that morning, but to also collapse close enough to the dvd player and the Netflix pile to be able to throw something in to pass the time. Just as I used up the last of my energy looking for the goddamn remote and pondered whether or not I should be concerned about replenishing liquids or just be grateful I hadn’t thrown up inside the hen carcasses, Sara came down fully dressed and really upset.

“I have to go to fucking work.”

“You’re fucking kidding”

“No, some asshole called in sick, so now I have to spend the next 2 hours trying not to throw up on people.”

I gave her a look of what I thought might be sympathy. I’m not really sure though, to be honest. In fact, a lot of this is a blur. Anyways, I think I was more pissed off than anything else. Here I was, DYING, and she was about to run off to work. I was trying to make thanksgiving nice for her, and she was leaving me in my goddamn hour of need to go tend to people she couldn’t even talk to me about thanks to HIPAA. Thankfully, the food still had about four hours left to cook, so, in theory, I could pass out and when I woke up, she’d be there. My dependency on her was a little disturbing and I should have figured out then that we were destined to become the dysfunctional married couple we are today, but I digress.

I woke up to the credits rolling on some movie I can’t for the life of me recall, Sara running up the stairs to throw up in the bathroom and a kitchen timer going off. Pretty decent timing. I heaved myself off of the floor and checked on various food. The hens were ready to go in the oven and lifting them off the counter to carry them the two steps to the oven was an act of endurance I knew I wasn’t equal to, but still somehow managed it. When Sara came downstairs, I was curled up in the fetal position on the couch with a mixing bowl cradled in my arms. She looked at me with sympathy and asked if I needed anything. I think I may have muttered something about the next movie, but I don’t recall. All I know is that the next two hours of my life were the most upsetting hours I have ever spent. EVER. The movie was called The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. I have a thing for holocaust movies. Maybe it’s my affinity for Judiaica that has now become so strong I’m working on becoming one of the chosen people, but on that day, I wished to Christ I hadn’t ever started down this path of intrigue in the Holocaust. Most holocaust movies end on a sad, but hopeful note. This one did not. It involved two adorable boys befriending one another from across a barbed wire fence, until the one outside the fence decides it’s time to go over (well, actually, under) to play with his new best friend, who kindly gives him matching striped pajamas to blend in with. Did I mention that this newly attired boy’s father was an SS officer? I should have. I think it was important. The boys run off to take a shower with the rest of the society of striped clothing enthusiasts and I sat there saying, out loud (I swear I was only muttering this, but Sara swears I was screaming at the tv),oh dear God, they wouldn’t. They would never do this. No way. The dad is gonna burst in and save the kid at the last minute. SPOILER ALERT. He doesn’t. He finds out way to late and goes to the fence, finds his kid’s clothing in a heap, runs to the camp and the kid is already in a fire heap. Fin.

Yeah, that’s how they ended this movie. God. Damn. Happy Thanksgiving. I bet you forgot that this was a Thanksgiving story. Needless to say, I was traumatized. Here was a movie that actually succeeded in making Schindler’s List look like a Mel Brooks comedy by comparison. Then, the kitchen timer went off and I somehow managed to lift this 750lb pan of two Cornish game hens out of the oven along with all the aforementioned side dishes. By the time, the food was divvied up, I was exhausted and looking at a roasted carcass and various vegetables was making me feel sick again. I took two bites, looked at Sara and said, “I just. fucking. can’t.” and put my plate in the kitchen, climbed the twelve miles of stairs to my bedroom and collapsed on my bed. I awoke what felt like 4 days later, but in reality was more like a half hour, to find Sara lying next to me. When we both were finally conscious again, I asked her why she didn’t crash in her room, she simply said that she didn’t want me to choke on my vomit and die. In that moment, I loved her more than I had ever loved anyone and then I threw up on the carpet.

Somebody sweet to talk to

I have a lot of friends who are teachers. I even have a mother in law who is a teacher. That being said, I have an enormous amount of respect for these people because the idea of spending even an hour with a large band of small children, preteens or asshole high school students makes me sad that corporal punishment is not only not admissible in a school, but also illegal. Don't get me wrong, I don't believe in hitting kids unless it's a last resort, but seeing as how most parents nowadays are more interested in being friends with their kids than actually parenting them, someone needs to show them that there are serious consequences for fucking with the wrong person. Namely, me. I don't suffer fools or assholes easily and my quick temper is only saved by the fact that I know that it is best controlled when situations can be avoided.

However, I do have my moments when I wish I had become a high school English teacher. I love books and watching people embrace the joy of reading. I love Shakespeare and research papers. However, the moment that the slacker asshole in the third row dared to ask the question "does spelling count?" because he hadn't bothered to read the syllabus, I would have to kiss my career good bye purely because I wouldn't be able to stop myself with just a simple yes. That misguided youth would spend the next week of his life trying to dislodge an edition of Shakespeare's plays out of his bleeding rectum and I would would be acquainting myself with the state's penal system. Bet he'd never ask the question again though.

How is it that we, as a society, have gotten so lazy that we can't be bothered to worry about spelling. I get grammar. That shit is hard, but man, spelling?! Really? Do you really care so little about how you present yourself to the world that you can't be bothered to know the difference between grate and great? This whole mentality of "close enough" is bullshit. Learn how to spell. Learn how to distinguish antonyms! This is important! Seriously! How is it that we let these kids skate through without educating them, or worse, not allowing their teachers to educate them properly because they're afraid they'll lose their jobs because Johnny and Cindy had to stay in second or tenth grade another year? They should be socially shamed because they didn't work hard or their parents used the teacher as a glorified babysitter. People are so fond of saying that you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink, but that certainly doesn't apply to teachers. It's their fault that the students aren't listening. Fuck that! My kid does his homework and I sit there with him until that shit is done. If he doesn't understand it, I try to help him. If he still doesn't get it, we try to find someone who can help, and if none of that works, it is HIS responsibility to get hell from his teacher. Stop blaming teachers because you can't be bothered to take an active role in your child's education or upbringing. I understand that there are indeed some awful teachers out there, but they are in the minority. Most teachers care about their students and don't deserve a pay cut or to be fired just because your dumbass kid can't unglue himself from AdventureTime long enough to actually learn something. I'd get in to the concept of teaching to the test, but bitch ain't got time for that.