Dear Politicians,

If you would please sit down, shut the Hell up, and listen for one tiny moment, I would appreciate it. I understand you want to hold firm on declaring war on the right for EVERYONE to marry. I understand you are further wadded up over my vajayjay and what I do or do not do with it. Let’s just be honest for a moment… gay marriage has never killed anyone nor has my vajayjay.

What we need to focus on is a much more dangerous killer… stupid people

They are everywhere.

Instead of telling me what I can and can’t put in my hoo hoo and how I can or can’t protect it , instead of telling me and those I love who we all can and can’t marry, let’s start truly saving the world.

You can begin with making a decent IQ required along with passing the drivers test. Stupid drivers kill people EVERY day.

You know who else does? Entitled people. People that feel where they are going is far more important than anyone else.

Combine the two together and it’s lethal.

For example, the 70 year old lady that almost hit me today whipping through a stop sign so she could pull into the last open handicapped spot in the parking lot. I literally had to jump out of the way, yet she had the nerve to get out of her car and scream “next time you get in my way, I’ll hit you!”

These people are in charge of a giant moving weapon. And that is just fine in your eyes.

Yet vajayjays and gay marriage are somehow worth wasting hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of political bullshit on?

I’m gonna set the little old crabby granny who could be in the Death Proof sequel loose in your neighbor hood with her safe vajajay and her straight husband and see if you don’t maybe come to see eye-to-eye with me.

Look out for the stop signs.

Sincerely,
Me

Allow me to help you wipe it off.

I’m pretty sure you’ve heard, Amy Winehouse died yesterday at the age of 27. Now, I will be the first to admit that it wasn’t a huge shock. What was though was the level of disrespect that I witnessed surrounding it. It broke my heart and made me sick.

I’m the last person to have anything resembling celebrity worship in me. (Okay, I totally squee’d when I met Wil Wheaton, but common, it’s Wil Wheaton.) I went on a HUGE rant when I woke up the morning after the earthquakes in Haiti that affected the lives of nearly 3 million people and Lady GaGa was the top trending item on Twitter. Why? Because she was exhausted. Eat a sammich! I tell you what though, if she had died (so very much not wishing that upon her or anyone else for that matter), I would have understood why that would be everywhere.

No matter what your opinion of her, you can not deny the talent she had. She was brave and groundbreaking. She had an insanely powerful voice that was belted from a fragile, haggard looking young woman. And she had such soul. Lyrics don’t get written like hers unless you’ve been there. Songs sung from the gut like that have a trail of pain behind them. Pain that is relived every time you sing it. Sing them all back to back and it’s no wonder she had issues. Some called her a tortured soul, others a train wreck. I’d always just wanted to give her a hug and hoped she’d figure it all out.

But, she didn’t. At a mere 27 years old, she has left this world. While the reports are still out, we’re all expecting cause of death is alcohol and/or drug related. It doesn’t mean she deserved it though. It doesn’t mean that it’s okay to say horrible things.

SHE WAS A HUMAN BEING.

I saw someone ask when the news first broke if it was wrong that they secretly kind of hoped the rumors were true. ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY. Others made snide comments about Amy Winehouse’s death and how now we won’t have to be burdened by watching more about what happened in Norway. (Yes, I know they were being snarky.) Really? Do you seriously believe that Amy woke up Saturday morning and said “Fuck the Norwegians, I’m gonna one up them everywhere”?!!? Joke after joke after sick joke. Bitching upon bitching at having to see Amy Winehouse “shit everywhere.”

Everyone that dies is a loss to someone. Who are we to judge that it’s otherwise?

Here’s a thought- turn off your TV, step away from your computer and take a moment to call some one you love and tell them so. Make sure they know you really mean it. No matter if we lead the life of a saint, or that of an addict, none of us are guaranteed a specific amount of time on this earth. Use it well.

I choose to use mine to see the good and worth in people. To spend time reminding the people in my life they are important to me and genuinely so in their own unique way. To try to do my best to be a good person and a decent mother.

I am by no means a saint either. I am highly flawed and a continual work in progress.

But I can look myself in the mirror.

When it comes to memories, elephants got nothin’ on my monkeys. Back in like May we were at Wally World getting my oh so beloved Sudafed and crabbiness ensued. So, in an attempt to redirect, I told them if they were good, I’d take them to see the fishies. Thus a ritual began. Every trip to Wally World led to a pass by the fish. When they first saw them, they of course wanted to bring them all home. “But mommy we can have a whole wall of tanks.” I knew we were going to be moving in the next couple of months and moving fish is NOT fun. So, I told them when we moved, we’d get some fish. They made me pinky swear.

Months later, we did indeed move. Two days after that, they began to not only ask when we were going to get fish, but reminded me that I did pinky swear. Never mind boxes were everywhere, complete exhaustion on my part and having to run around the entire town a million times to get eldest signed up for school, they wanted their fishies. So, I did what any mom in my position would do. I stalled my ass off.

End of August neared and eldest monkey’s birthday rolled around. Yup, mom got her a fish tank. We marched into Wally World and marched out with a feeder goldfish lilest monkey named Tink, a “fancy” goldfish I named sushi, a spotted Molly eldest monkey named Wonder Woman and Chauncey The Wondersnail. Oh the love and excitement. They wanted to sleep by the tank. They wanted to tuck them all in with blankets and yes, I had to sing the tank the bloomin’ lullaby.

Next morning Chauncey ole love was bobbing around on the top of the water, floating like a lil golden apple. I am FREAKING and googling the hell out of Gold Mystery Snails. We have to rush off to start the day. On the way home, I decide to stop at the pet store and see what they think of what I read and get Chauncey “a friend,” just in case. Kind of a soften the blow kind of thing.

Before we walk in there, I type up a lil explanation of what’s going on to show the sales person on my iPhone notes. (I swear I would marry that phone and bear its children.) She rocks and did really well with explaining it without the monkeys catching on. Of course it helped they were wielding their own mini carts (which amped my anxiety off the charts) and were distracted by more fish. She agreed it could just be an air bubble and instructed me how to handle it. WOOT! Small problem- they didn’t have ANY snails. Grrr. But, the girls spotted the smallest lil African Dwarf Frog I’ve ever seen. Seriously, it’s like Über Dwarf. So, we brought Princess Leia home and added her to the aquatic tribe.

BTW, we get home and and that lil shit Chauncey is happily whipping around the tank. Sneaky lil snail.

Two days later the lights go out on the tank. Grrr..

Then Wednesday morning rolls around and the dreaded has happened. Wonder Woman is so not wonderful any longer. Thankfully, instead of floating to the top, she’d gotten stuck between the wall of the tank and the giant dayglow colored stone thingie that I thought was obnoxious when the girls picked it out, but now want to hug. Eldest thinks her fish is just sleeping.

Now, lil miss “Wonder Woman’s Mommy” just started kindergarten the week before so she is a wee bit on the emotional side right now. Plus, if there’s a way to keep my kids from suffering a loss, even just a fish, I’m gonna take it. Knowing her lil sister will rat me out in a heartbeat (I seriously tried to give her a lesson on avoiding the complete truth to keep from really hurting another person’s feelings the week prior. I know mother of the year here. She ate a coveted Lunchable while eldest was at school and I told her instead of saying a Lunchable, just list the contents of it when eldest asked her what she had for lunch. First words outta her mouth when eldest climbed in the getter at the end of her school day “Mommy got me a Lunchable and I ate it. I’m sorry,” DRAMA commenced.) yeah off to grandma and grandpas she went. Thing was, I only had a little over an hour window now to pull this all off. Operation Wonder Woman II is on. Come Hell or high water, I’m not failing this one. So, I haul ass to the pet store and am about to start running to another store when out from some crazy tower thing in the tank pops a spotted molly that looks miraculously close to the original Wonder Woman. (The fish, not Linda Carter, but I guess you knew that.) The lil fish guy tosses in like 5 of the teeny tiniest lil itty bitty snails that I’ve ever seen. YAY! A distraction, just in case. I fly home with 30 minutes to spare. I give a quick porcelain funeral, then tank clean and treated and all critters in place. I barely made it. But, it was a complete success. We actually still need to name all the bitty snails that are currently being collectively called “cutie pies.” Lilest monkey comes home and checks the tank and is none the wiser. True test comes when we get eldest monkey. She burns a path in the hall carpet racing to their room to see the new snails and yells “MOMMY!! MOMMY!” I freak until I hear “Wonder Woman is awake now!! And how cute are these lil insy snails!?!??!” **HAPPY DANCE** Mission successful.

This was a monkey weekend away so I was on aquatic tribe feeding duty. Saturday night I sat in there for a bit just watching our crazy lil tank family. Of course I am now neurotic about checking and counting heads in there to make sure all are still kicking happily. Now, the lil ones are hard to find and tend to tribe up at times, crawling all over each other. Poor Chauncey had 2 on his shell the other day. But, I swear two of them were getting it on. Their lil heads were all intertwined and there was definitely something going on. Now, I’ve never seen a snail throw down, so for all I know there could have been some brawl going on over territory or one of the other snails or maybe one was just talking some smack. I’m a lover, not a fighter though, so I’m really thinking they were doing the lil snail nasty. Which means I should probably start googling snail birthing . By the way, you are all getting early holiday presents. Start picking your snail names now. Gotta be honest, whatever they were doing, it was kind of cool. I didn’t stand there long with my held tilted wondering what was going on. I turned off the light and pondered playing them a lil Barry White. Get down with your bad selves lil itty bitty snails.

The choice to move back to a town I swore I never would was a very hard pill to swallow. Actually, it was more like the seemingly gallons of penicillin I guzzled as a kid growing up during my 3-4 times a year battles with strep throat and whatever other ailment that came along for the ride. I don’t care what anyone says, that shit does NOT taste like strawberry. It’s just vile. Yet, it was the easiest choice I made because it was done so through the eyes of a mother. I rarely refer to myself as that. Typically, it’s mommy. But, this was a very motherly thing to do.

So why so vile? There are many reasons I suppose. But, none are the seemingly obvious ones. I’m not one of those people that thinks they are “too cool” for the suburbs. I’m about the furthest one can get from cool. I’m not one of those people that fear it will change me. I change me. On my own terms. For my own reasons. They failed before, it would be futile for them to even try now. Put me anywhere and I can hold my own.

I guess, in the simplest terms, it may be that I just know too much. Towns, like people, have skeletons in their closets as well. They vary, just like ours, in size and stature. When you spend your whole life in a town and do so with open eyes you see them. Sometimes you crack open the door and peek. Sometimes they are blatantly waving from an attic window. Sometimes you kick down the door and bravely stare them in the eye sockets. No matter the way, once you’ve met them, they’re damn near impossible to forget.

Yes, people change. Yes, towns change. But when generation after generation remain or return- how much change is really made? To change would mean that they’d have to have opened their minds to new ideologies, new people. Embrace that change and then bring it back and cultivate it. That just doesn’t happen around here. At all. I so wish it did too. And the more gruesome the skeletons, the smaller the benefit of the doubt one can muster. And we’re talking pretty gnarly here. The following is where I dig deep and lay it on the line. It’s not pretty and the pacing is pretty odd for me. I have no problem babbling on about things. Trust me. So, yup, it is odd that I rush through them. If you venture on, at the end, I think you may understand why. If not, you are always welcome to ask. Ok kiddies, disclaimer/excuse/stalling over.

It all starts with my parents and how they met….

The biggest suburban fairytale of yore was high school sweethearts getting married, building the ole white picket fence and popping out 2.5 offspring. My parents fall under the next biggest one- my mother ended up marrying her best friend’s older brother. Out of high school my mom and my aunt Diane (my dad’s sister) got a place with another girl. After going through the loss of several of her friends from deaths due to drunk driving accidents (most the other driver’s fault), my mom had no desire to get her license. So, aunt Diane would drop her off and pick her up everyday for work.

On the evening of Thursday, November 3rd, 1966, my aunt was uncharacteristically late to pick her up. Worried, she called my aunt’s other brother (my uncle). He picked her up and they went by my aunt’s job to see if she was still there. No one’s lives would ever be the same again in our family. They still aren’t. There is simply no bracing one for what they saw. The coroner estimated her time of death around 5:10pm. Cause? She was stabbed to death. While the local news toned it down for the public, she suffered over 100 (no, the second 0 is not a typo) stab wounds. Most of which were to the chest, neck and face. Psych 101 will tell you that leaves a high probability that she knew her murderer. Despite the fact that there was a rather large amount of blood, tissue and hair samples found under her fingernails (she put up a fight) and that’s a hell of a lot of DNA for today’s technology- her killer remains unknown. The case is still open. There is no way to describe the weight, the hole, the heavy hurt that this has had on our entire family. I can tell you that growing up in the same town where the mere mention of your last name brings up a story about it, another reminder, another lump in your throat, another case of the hair on the back of your neck standing up takes its toll. The police, despite it still being an open case, have obviously just given up. Leaving a family, still mourning, abandoned. I could write an entire post just about this story, the journey and my encounters with those over the years that came across my name in a phone book or somewhere online and came crawling out of the woodwork with questions and theories and occasional drunken babblings, but that will be for another time. This, my friends, is gnarly skeleton number one.

Number two sits without a date. I recall being young and think perhaps around 1st grade or so. The first “official African American” family moved in to our town. They lived in the subdivision in front of ours. The kids were my sister’s age, so I didn’t know them. But, I remember the entire family being so nice. I also remember the morning I found out that the night before someone had placed a cross on their front lawn and lit it ablaze. Seriously.We’re talking the 80’s here. I had on a yellow Strawberry Shortcake nightgown. At the time I wasn’t sure why it happened. It didn’t make any sense to me. While it still doesn’t, I clearly know now what the significance was and it makes my stomach turn. Roughly a decade later “we” received our first African American faculty member. Mr. Mr. (my nickname for him hee hee and he called me Nata ata li) was a guidance counselor and he freakin’ rocked. He lasted a year and a half before the death threats and people calling the police claiming he was breaking in to his own home chased him out of town. I have NO tolerance for that. I have even less for the cowardly masses that allowed him to leave instead of standing up and screaming “bullshit!”. Gnarly ass skeleton.

Skeleton number 3 still brings a tear to my eye. Throughout elementary school we had a Teaching Assistant that was amazing. Those of us in gifted & talented knew her best, with me knowing her the most. She was in charge of the art supply room, so I used to volunteer to help her out whenever needed. I really loved Miss L. Flash to 4th grade, It was late fall, early winter. I remember it being the time of year it got dark early. It was a Saturday evening and my mom sent me downstairs to get something out of the basement freezer she needed for dinner. My sister just got home from some Forensics thing up at the high school. I was walking up the stairs, in fact I was 3 stairs from the top when I heard the conversation. Miss L hung herself. I would learn on Monday that it was my home room teacher that had found her. It was in the basement, the athletic supply room, with a jump rope. Christ that sounds like a bad game of Clue. Rumor is she left a note. My teacher then has since passed on. So, any remaining hopes of answering the haunting question of “why?” seems small. It just doesn’t seem right. It never did. She would have known there was a possibility of a student finding her and I truly believe she would never, ever do that to any of us. No matter what the reason was she felt her only way out was suicide, she loved her students and was proud of what she did. Am I saying there is some deep, dark murderous plot here? No. Am I saying it’s less than Kosher? Perhaps. All I know is it just doesn’t make sense. Something is blaringly wrong with it.

So, by age 11 I had confirmation this town was full of ugliness and shit. It likes to appear all wonderful and happy. Such a lovely place to raise your family. In reality, it was a Stepford town where football was almost a religion (though we sucked) and nonlocals and those even remotely “different” were completely unwelcome. If they couldn’t chase them out, they would harass them until they masterfully donned the mask of the fake smile. It’s one thing if you are dealing with a town full of arrogant, unkind people. This was an entirely different ballgame (football of course). They were all of that, just plain wrong and (I know this seems like an exaggeration) somewhat topped with a bow of evil.

I learned how to fake the mask when needed. Oh the absurdity of faking a fake smile. It wasn’t easy and there was a price to be paid at times. I managed to dance around it all and even grew to stand firm and speak up when I felt things were wrong. Fuck, growing up is hard enough as it is without having to learn how to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee for what feels like is just to save your soul. In the end, I escaped this town, soul intact, non Stepfordized. Truthfully, I never even went back to pick up the hard copy of my diploma. I hit the ground running and swore I’d never be back.

Yes, I do have happy memories of growing up here. I really do. Sometimes they fight to cloak the skeletons.

And here I am. And here I stay. And heaven help this town.

This is an old journal entry I stumbled upon this morning and thought I would share.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

When working with Alzheimer’s, death is inevitable. I know, I know, death is one of the few things in life we can all count on. But, with Alzheimer’s, it’s expected. It always sits at the back of your heart throbbing like a dull pain that you can usually squelch with some Tylenol.

Mental health is not so cut and dry.

There were months at my last job that I would lose 4 or 5 residents. That’s 4 or 5 people I had loved and nurtured. It took it’s toll and was one thing I was not sad to leave.

This last year I have lost a total of 3 residents. Two went like most- I have this uncanny ability to just sense when the time is drawing near. I get them on Hospice and once that begins, the grieving, the comforting, the process of saying goodbye begins. One, died unexpectedly very early one morning without any sign it was coming. No matter how it happens, it hurts.

I have often been scolded by friends and family- “you shouldn’t get so close to these people.” Why the fuck not? I don’t get it. The day I stop getting close to them is the day I should be fired because I am clearly not effective at my job. It hurts like hell to lose someone you care about, whether they “are old and lived a good life” or died “way too soon.” But, I would rather mourn them when they are gone and live on with the memories of having known them than hold them at some sterile distance that won’t effect me at all. I have learned so much from those I have taken care of. That is something I wouldn’t trade for the world.

I now find myself in uncharted territory for me. A couple of weeks ago I got a call from the Hospice company that I use. They have a client at a hospital that can’t go back home. He’s dying, he just fractured his hip and he is absolutely refusing to go to a nursing home. The one compromise he said he would possibly make was “a group home.” Would I consider taking him?

I have fought tooth and nail with hospitals and discharge planners who try to stick my residents in nursing homes because “they are dying.” They have the right to die where they choose damn it and with Hospice, we can continue to meet their needs in a place they consider their home, surrounded by people they consider their family. Hell, in some cases, we are literally all they have. Now, I have someone I’ve never met before in the predicament where he can’t go back to the home he knows to die and he can’t bring himself to go to a nursing home. I can’t blame him on that one. So, without even pausing, I agreed to go assess him and if we could meet his needs, he was more than welcome to join our dysfunctional little family.

So on a dark, cold, rainy morning (cliche isn’t it?) I met “Guido” for the first time. I know, you had to smile at “Guido.” I have to alter his name for privacy and I’m telling you, if you had to pick another stereotypical Italian name, his would be it. So, “Guido” it is. I always like to go through their chart first. It allows me to get a picture of them and opportunity to ask them face to face any questions that pop up in it.

Before I got there, he was described to me as “a little rough around the edges.” While going through his chart, I couldn’t help but notice the little OT come running out of a room, crying. I looked at the nurse next to me and said “Let me guess, that’s “Guido’s” room?” She laughed “you must know him pretty well.”

When I got in there, I did not see some big ogre. Instead, a tiny little Italian man who looked like he hadn’t bathed or shaved in quite some time. He was drinking a bottle of Miller Genuine Draft for breakfast (I kid you not) and using it to wash down a couple of chocolate chip cookies. I explained who I was and where I was from. He wasn’t impressed. Before I left, I looked at him and said “Look, I understand you want to go home. I also understand it’s not an option. We may not sound like much, but we’re not a nursing home, you can still drink your beer and we’ll take really good care of you. Plus some of my staff are pretty hot. I’m not sure you’re going to get a better offer hon. But, if you’re a gambling man, you can hold out and try. In the mean time, stop being so mean to the therapy girls, they work hard, are only trying to help you and have to put up with shit from all the other patients they have too.”

I almost got to the door when he said “Hey- what’s your name, wait a minute.” I said “It’s Natali.” He said “Well, toots, you drive a hard bargain, but count me in.”

The next day, Bell Ambulance brought him in. The staff doted on him and he just sat there grinning and kissed their hands like a little gentleman. I cut his hair and shaved off his scraggly beard. Monday morning one would barely recognize him. He’s actually quite a handsome little devil. He’s attached himself to my assistant and I and likes to hang out by the office now that we’ve gotten him out of bed and in a wheelchair to join the land of the living. Such a warm, fuzzy story- right?

The problem is he is dying. It’s a fact we can’t forget. Actively dying and not from the fractured hip (which is the kiss of death for most people his age), but from a very, very large mass in his lungs which he wants no treatment for. He wouldn’t even allow further testing to officially diagnose it. It could be quick, he could linger on. Unfortunately, it’s out of our hands and we won’t know until it is too late. At a a time and stage where I am usually starting my goodbyes to people, I am just getting to know him. The staff have already fallen in love with him. They were angry “Why would you bring him here for us to fall in love with and he’s going to up and die on us?” All I could do was be honest- he deserves to be surrounded by love when he goes, rather than rotting away in some nursing home. He’s crusty, he’s smelly (as soon as those staples come out, he’s getting hosed down!), he’s got a smile that would melt your heart and the manners of a prince when he wants to. It’s hard for me to remember, there is going to be a day sometime not that far off where I will walk into to work and not hear him yelling at his roommate and calling him an asshole. Where my day will go by and he won’t roll up to the office door several times and say “hey gorgeous, wanna come smoke with me?” or “you know I get 2 more cans of beer today, can you make it 3?”

When that day comes, it’s going to hurt like hell.

And it did.