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.

I’ve gotten to a point in my life where it truly does take quite a bit to phase me. Most events turn into a tiny dip, lil hill or occasional loop de loop on the roller coaster that is my life. This latest one is gnawing at me a bit though.

It’s at times like these that I wished events in my life were made up. Partially because then they wouldn’t be real. Partially because it is just so bizarre that it would make me pretty damn talented. This is one that combines them both.

I’m having many mixed emotions about moving back to the town I grew up in. It’s only been a week so they are all still very fresh. This is a town I swore I’d never live in. A town I loathed for many reasons. Funny how life works out.

So, this past Friday night I’m getting ready to go out and I notice an e-mail notification pop up for a new message in my Facebook inbox. It’s from a girl I’ve known for years. Decades even. Like basically since the 1st grade. Despite being really close (like BFF forget passing notes, we had a notebook we’d pass) a couple years after graduation we lost touch off and on. We’ve kept in spotty contact for the last five or six years. Even this last year on Facebook, our contact remains pretty here and there. It’s been a couple of months since we’ve really had some solid interaction with each other. When I saw the “OMG too funny” subject, I fully expected the message to be a “Ha ha I heard you moved back!” kind of thing. Oh how I wish it was. Instead I got:

“Hey Nat. . .
*** and I are getting divorced, and we are both on evenfreaksneedlove.com. I just logged onto his account. .i like to help him find dates, and I just saw he winked at you!!! OMG too funny. He is (Insert user name here), his pic is bad, he is cuter in person. And the greatest guy!!! btw i am dating girls now, so that kindof was a problem for our marriage. lol Anyway, thought it was super funny, and if you are lookin for a great guy. . he winked.

BFFKindOfFriendYou’veKnownSinceFirstGrade

WHAT THE FUCK!!?!??!??!! Seriously. What. The. Fuck.

I think I read it like three times before it truly started to sink in. Holy range of emotions batgirl!

Ok…

1) Usually one would get more of an ease into things. Maybe not so much on the divorce part. I think even I’m guilty of dropping that one like a “Yeah, Prick is an abusive fuck and I’m done” kind of bomb. But, the lesbian part is usually not quite sammiched between “BTW” and “LOL.” Truth be told, not an entire shock she’s batting for the home team. Also, she knows me well enough to know I’m the gal that’s going to be supportive and all about whatever makes her happy. Still, lil bit of an ease in to all this is all a sister is askin’ for.

2) Not yet divorced and helping him find dates. That’s…ummm…sweet? Perhaps it is the therapist in me, but they’ve been together far longer than my ex & I were and have kids as well. Now, I don’t really know him, so I could be way off on this, but after years and kids and being told you ain’t sportin’ the right equipment, there’s gotta be some healing time involved there. Even if he wants to jump back on a mare- she’s a new lesbian. Do you really want a rookie pickin’ dates for you?

C) WHY WOULD I WANT YOUR HUSBAND?? There may be a sub clause I’m missing in the chick rule book about suddenly jumping off the heterosexual ship but OMG NO! Beyond creepy!! Beyond wrong!! Like I’m calling a technical foul here! And what the hell must you think of me if you feel I’d be all up on that????

Perhaps I should simply be flattered by this whole situation. Lord knows I am no angel and certainly no prude. But leapin’ jeebus on a pogo stick, even I have a threshold of yuckyness. This done sprinted its happy ass right on past it.

And how does one respond to that message?? My first response of “Are you out of your fucking mind???” was put on the back burner while I let this all sink in and fester a bit. Instead I opted for a much more politely worded version of “WOW. Sorry to hear about your divorce. Congrats on embracing your inner lesbian. The offer to date your husband is very flattering but I’m gonna have to pass because umm.. I’m kinda seeing someone. Yeah. That’s it. Best of luck to ya both. I’m here if you need me, but forgive me for not winking back. What a small, crazy, fucked up lil world we live in.”

Still haven’t heard back from her. Future reunions shall be interesting.

Who loses their journal during a move but has every cable and cord wrapped, organized and labeled? That would be me. My journal is where most of my posts stem from. I have many that I want to put up now that we’re all moved in to our lovely new digs. But, goofy me can’t find it. So, you’re getting one pulled fresh from my sleepy brain. (Well, it was fresh Thursday night when it was written.) Courtesy of an Office Max legal pad from 2005 (as dated by the state hearing screen card from my lilest monkey’s birth shoved in the back of it) and the pack of papermate pens I happened upon while searching for something to write on.

Despite the bliss of a bit of closure to a month of much hell in my life, today I am deeply saddened by the loss of John Hughes. No, I did not know him personally. But, the mark his work left on my life and who I am can not be denied. I don’t idolize celebrities and I damn sure am not going to be the crazy chick tweeting about wanting to join him in the afterlife. I am, however, going to give him a lil blog love. I wouldn’t be me without a lil babbling side note in a post and would hate to let anyone reading this who knows me down. It will be short, it will be sweet and it may piss some off but here it is:

I firmly believe that we should mourn the loss of John Hughes on the same level as that of Michael Jackson. In reality, part of me wants to say more than, but who am I to pu tone person’s life above another’s? Yes, as an entertainer MJ was an inspiration for some. His musical catalog, however, was not exactly life changing. While Thriller was fun, grounbreaking and will remain a classic, Hughes gave strength to the underdog, love for the geeks, helped a world understand what it was like to be a teenager and The Breakfast Club should be mandatory viewing for all as it contains one of the single most important lessons we should all learn in life. Will they fill a stadium for Mr. Hughes, hell even a theater, and televise it? Probably not. That, my friends, is a damn shame and breaks my heart.

While I was not even close to a high schooler when the bulk of his greatest hits came out, my sister was. The soundtracks to his movies became the soundtrack to my life. Bits and pieces of each of his movies have been found in my memories, gift wrapped lovingly and stowed away to hand down. From my Duckie who used to ride his 10 speed past the ad agency I worked at in high school every day to me sitting on the floor with my old sewing machine whipping up my prom dress (no, it was not pink, but close). Hell, I even dated a guy named Blaine. While my underwear was (to the best of my knowledge) never up for viewing, the science team appearantly had a bet going where $10.00 went to the first one of them I actually touched while we were at the State Science Finals. I had agreed to fill in for one of the team after they came down with chicken pox or some such thing. I was the Genetics ringer. Also, the only girl. That day is a whole nother blog though. I think you get what I’m laying down here.

John Hughes Rocked. In a BIG fucking way. For the memories, the lessons, the Duckman, the misfits, the no more yanky my wanky the Donger need food, the rise of the science geeks, the stand of Cameron, the hopes we’d all have an Uncle Buck someday, the understanding of a generation, the love. Thank you just doesn’t seem to be enough sir.

I leave you with my favorite moment of his…

Dear Mr. Vernon,

We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us… In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain…and an athlete…and a basket case…a princess…and a criminal…Does that answer your question?…

Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.

Harold: So. you don’t use the umbrella any more? No more revolts?

Maude: Oh yes. Every day…but… I don’t need a defense any more, I embrace. Still fighting for the big issues but now in my small, individual way.

After my year term as president for SFAR, I stepped down. No more standing at the edge of a corn field on dark, damp nights with a half ass tv crew facing the owner of a dog farm, his friends and the damned Sheriff all glaring at us while toting shot guns. I will have to find the photo of his giant “stay off my land or alce” sign. Yup, alce.

I had to. Not long into my sophomore year of college, my year from hell began. From that point on, my umbrella was put to rest. The next few years were simply survival mode and healing. But, slowly, surely, my inner Maude returned. I too embraced embracing. Years, experience and some wisdom gained through those had shaped a different spirit of protest for me. No longer standing with a picket sign did not mean I turned a blind eye either. I never stopped voting, writing letters and signing petitions- using the voice, albeit more tempered and quiet, that I had. I strived to lead by example. Hoping it would be infectious. I also learned to choose my battles wisely.

It wasn’t until I left graphic & web design and went back into health care that my voice would once again return with some chutzpah. I have a fiery instinct to protect my residents. My first round back was at a company with all new construction and hoity toity lil old people for residents. So, my biggest battles typically were with hospitals that wanted to discharge them to nursing homes and doctors that didn’t follow through. There is, however, one priest that is not likely to forget me anytime soon.

One of the hardest things to do is to get a priest to come to a group home. Seriously. I’ve had Catholic residents whose entire parish was off on sabbatical and they were dying and no priest from another parish would come to visit them to administer the last rights (now called “anointing of the sick”.) I had a 92 year old lady move in from Racine ( a good 1/2 hour away from where the home was). She was Catholic, came from a nursing home and her priest had developed Alzheimer’s. She still wanted communion every month, so it was my mission to make that happen. Well, I struck out everywhere and finally just called the priest that came by already for another resident. What’s one more for communion? He was a crab on the phone, but agreed to see her and “see what he could do.” In he glides on his monthly visit and all the staff are warned not to let him leave without seeing the other lady. Sure enough, he tries to fly out of there and encounters me at the door. Smiling. I gently remind him of his promise. This jack ass then walks up to my lil 92 year old in the dining room and YELLS in her ear “ I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M SUPPOSED TO TALK TO YOU. YOU ARE NOT MY RESPONSIBILITY. CALL YOUR OWN PARISH.” Oh the seething. I turned and walked outside to the parking lot while he said goodbye. As soon as he walked out that door (all the staff’s faces now popped up pressed against the windows) I let him have it. Both guns blazing. “WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? You can NOT talk to my residents like that!” He didn’t even looked shocked. Just smug and pious. “She is not my responsibility. She is not part of my parish.” “Really? Well it’s a good thing Jesus didn’t operate on that theory now isn’t it? That is THE most unchristian thing I have ever heard.” His retort? “I don’t expect you to understand. You are just a commoner and most likely not even Catholic.” *deep breath* “I’m a recovering Catholic and they have the likes of people like you to thank for that. As far as the ‘commoner’ thing goes? Well, you weren’t born with some special mark on you that deemed you the chosen one, you pompous ass. ANYONE can take the vows you have. Clearly they were nothing more than some regurgitated words for you and hold no meaning. Even a “commoner” grasps the concept of the Golden Rule. If Jesus not only did not turn away lepers but embraced them, what gives YOU the right to turn anyone away? Let alone some sweet little 92 year old lady that has been a devout Catholic her entire life. So, go ahead and prance your self-righteous self back to your Mercedes and drive off out of here. But trust me- when it comes time for the God to whom you have supposedly vowed your life to judge you, He will knock that smile off your face.”

I called my mom when I got back in “Mom, it’s official. I am truly gong to hell. I just cussed a priest out in our parking lot.” My mom, bless her lil heart, “Well, that took longer to happen than we all thought and I’m sure he had it coming..”

Then I began running the “community based residential facility for those with chronic mental illness.” My first couple of weeks there I heard the phrase “ Oh ___ , you guys will take ANYONE.” At first I was offended. A long time case manager friend of mine came in surprised as hell to see me there one day. Just like the rest, she uttered “What the hell are you doing here? This place is a total hole and will take ANYONE.” And it hit me. Harder than Bobbie slapped Whitney around. “You’re damn right we will, J. You know why? EVERYONE deserves a home. Period. Yeah, it’s a bit of a hole right now, but I’m working on that. Someday we’ll be the Pfister for “crazy” people.” My crusade on behalf of those with severe chronic mental illness in Milwaukee then began.

The biggest thorn in my side? The VA. They HATE me there. I have gotten in more knock down, drag outs with them than I can honestly count. The reason? I have never seen a more gross negligence for the care for one’s patients EVER. And these are VETERANS. The very people that have laid their lives, and sanity, on the line for us. I have marched my happy ass down there and stood outside doctor’s doors waiting for them to sign off on a script renewal because it’s Friday and they have ignored my gentle fax reminders for two weeks letting them know their pharmacy will not dispense another supply of oh Depakote until the order is renewed. If it’s not signed that day, they don’t have Depakote for the weekend and the last thing that a person with schizoaffective disorder needs to do is go cold turkey off of that. They also insist on messing with the dispensing as well and that is a fight I have yet to win. The prescription will read “75mg of Zoloft, one tab, by mouth twice daily” Do they dispense 60 tabs of 75mg Zoloft? No, they dispense 30 tabs of 150mg and tell us to cut it in half. Not only does this not match the order, most of these medications they have us do this with are not to be cut PER MANUFACTURER’S INSTRUCTIONS. They don’t care though, because it’s cheaper that way. And, well, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder doesn’t really exist. They’ll tell you so.

So, I found my voice again, using it boldly with my head held high, but only for small, individual “fights” if you will. No picket lines. No rallies. No mass assemblies. No newspapers. No half ass TV crews. No fields at night.

And then, one night, a tweet passed by my screen. It caused me pause. A desperate plea from what appeared to be an Iranian to hackers for assistance. It was @PersianKiwi and I knew there was a chance it was real. From what it was requesting, I knew what it was looking for and why it would be. (Sometimes the 2 years I dated a hardcore hacker comes in handy). As I clicked and read and clicked and read, the story unfolded. I began to research the Iranian election and the candidates that ran. That is all I could find. Nothing of this scandal that they were tweeting of. I then stumbled upon one Twitterer whose emotion was way too human for him to be bullshit. When my eyes could no longer focus, I went to bed.

My head swimming. My heart aching. My eyes wide open.

The decision was simple. I was picking up my umbrella again. That morning, Elphaba was born. My own little personal declaration of unity and support. Over the course of the next weeks I stayed glued and focused on what was going on. I am not ashamed to admit that I have sobbed, screamed and wished that I could do more to help these people that, yes, I don’t even know.

There have been many arguments thrown out there and at me:

“These are Iranians. They hate us, They are our enemies.”

“The change of power will do nothing to protect us from their nuclear program.”

“They made their own bed, let them lie in it.”

“How do we know it’s even real and not some propaganda to engage us in war.”

My retort is simple. Firstly, I respect the opinions of others. It would be hypocritical of me to not and I do understand where their points may come from. Mine is this:

Ghandi is the man in my book. We do need to be the change we wish to see in this world. Whether they are in Iran, China or Istanfreakinbul, they are people. Humans. Just like us. People have been a fascination of mine all my life. I have taken several different language not just for the language, but to understand the culture as well. These people standing (for the most part) silently declaring their desire for independence, for their vote to actually count, for their government to recognize they have given them a vote and need to uphold that are not the same “Iranians” that we have been shown via media for years. Propaganda and distortion of the facts by government and media works all ways. Could their nuclear program remain intact regardless of a change in regime? Possibly. But, I highly doubt it. One of their platforms for change is peace. Symbolized by the beautiful green ribbons bound around their peace fingers. Their eyes have been opened to the truth of the world, not what their government has force-fed them for years. They know. They don’t want to become another America, they don’t want to completely abandon their culture, their beliefs. Their requests are simple. Basic. They want to live peacefully with the rest of the world, they want more of a real say in their government, they want to live more humanely. And I wholeheartedly support them in all of that. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are basic human rights no matter what soil ones bare feet intertwine with. No matter what language they speak. No matter what God they pray to, or don’t pray to.

Perhaps I am odd, but, if someone walked up to me, told me they hated me (yes even if they stated they wished me dead), then was being beaten in the street two minutes later because they were simply walking down the street holding the hand of the person they love, I would stand next to them in saying it was wrong. That, dear friends, is just how Elphaba rolls.

And, for now, Elphaba isn’t going anywhere.

Dear “Dedicated Thin”-

Fist off, thank you for stopping by and reading my post. (I use post vs. blog because your comment leads me to believe that the probability is high that you haven’t ready anything else I have written.) The fact that you took the time to not only do so, but leave me feedback as well is appreciated. Seriously.

Secondly, in re: to “what a piece of complete shit”, it is good to know that I’ve done something right in your eyes. You see, I pride myself on not doing things half-assed, so accomplishing a complete shit versus a partial or incomplete shit is a concept I can more than hang with. So, yay for that!

Now for your big question- “Are you really that much of an egotistical, self-centered asshole?” That is a bit more difficult to answer. I say this because your vagueness doesn’t really give me much to go on. The mere fact that I have a blog where I spew forth random babblings about my life and expect people to read it could indicate yes to egotism and self-centeredness. Then again, one could point that same theory at anyone who has a blog. Further, one could point it toward someone who posts such a comment on someone’s blog whom they don’t know. Goodness knows I would not want to indicate those were my feelings towards them. I am constantly amazed that anyone reads my babblings and frequently thank them for doing so. I put it out there not really expecting anyone to read it at all and am grateful when they do. (I could reference my introductory post regarding my blog and its description, but quite frankly that may come across as snotty and I really don’t feel that is necessary at all.)

Is it the whole topic itself that seems to wreak of egotism and self-centeredness to you? I understand that keeping some tadpoles from being flushed and opening my big mouth when I feel that things are wrong isn’t really saving the world. There are thousands and thousands of people out there that have done and will do great, heroic things to truly save this world. Their stories are FAR more worthy of reading than mine and that fact is one I do not lose sight of. They are also people I strive to be more like on a regular basis. Even if it is just in my own quirky, dorky lil way.

To some extent, I can see why one may question me being egotistical and self-centered based solely on that one post with those points in mind and knowing or reading nothing else about or by me whatsoever. I do honestly apologize if that is the only perception received as such.

Having said that, who does such a thing? Honestly?

Mr./Ms./Miss/Dr. DedicatedThin. You set up an account with LiveJournal, filling in only that you are allegedly from the US and that your birthday is supposedly January the 3rd. That’s it. No entries on it. No following of anyone. No friends. You leave your vague, judgmental comment while hiding safely behind your cloak of anonymity. I trust I won’t offend you by stating that has just a tiny lil whiff of self-righteousness to it. Which brings me to the last word of your question/comment…

Asshole? No, no really I am not. An asshole struts about on a regular basis exuding negativity and unprovoked, rude, inappropriate, unwarranted behavior. It is a skin worn daily and an ugly one at that. So, I say, with great confidence, that I am not an asshole. Can I be a bitch? You betchya.

For instance, I’m willing to bet you may find it just a touch bitchy when I say that before you go on anyone’s blog and start leaving comments such as the one you left me, you may wanna put on your big people’s panties, lay your own self out there for others to see and scrutinize and lob a couple of bricks at your own glass cottage.

Say what you want to say, think what you want to think about me. At least I have the balls to look someone in the eyes. That includes myself in the mirror.

Thanks again for stopping by and have a wonderful day!

Sincerely,
Natali

P.S. You may want to avoid reading part three of my Save The World Syndrome Saga sugar because I’m guessing you’re not going to like that one either and I’m not going to refrain from writing it (or anything else for that matter) due to your comment.

P.P.S. It just occurred to me that another possible reason for your disgruntledness could be that you are an angry PETA supporter that has become offended by my comments regarding them. Well, it that’s the case… fuck you. Yup, I said it.

Displaced paragraph time.

Middle school saw little “activism” action from me. I did end up throwing one bully up against a locker and scaring the ever lovin’ shit outta her for picking on M, the special ed student I was most protective of. Other than that, challenging Mrs. L, our accelerated English teacher who was a total condescending, uppity biotch, on a regular basis was it. Nothing much to report.

Then came High School. My lack of desire to eat meat continued. I went around and around with the principal repeatedly until Mr. W caved and added a salad bar as a healthy, non-meat alternative in the cafeteria.

I rescued a tank full of tadpoles doomed to be flushed. Ok, so the teacher was just scared of me at that point and handed them over. That was a feat in and of itself considering the guy walked, talked and acted like a varsity wrestling coach. Not that an accelerated, college level, Biology teacher can’t be a wrestling coach or vice versa, but com’mon now it was just weird. (side note: him teaching “reproduction” redefined the term “awkward as hell.” ) The tadpole’s poor father was sacrificed in the name of science. Teach decided to just spring a lesson of how to artificially inseminate a frog on us. This started with poor Kermy getting plucked from his lil ole tank, pithed in the head and well I won’t describe the rest to spare my guys that read me. Needless to say, I went OFF. Forced dissection was expected. Springing a frog slaughter on an innocent gal will get you a verbal woopin’ you aren’t soon gonna forget.

The other cause that was important to me was the continued segregation by some. Through a program called “220” here in Milwaukee, city kids could get bussed into the burbs for school. I was close with the three of them that started with the program back when we were in elementary school. Despite knowing these kids for what 8-10 years, well let’s just say “better schools” still have ignorant fucking students. I’ve never been one to label people, especially my friends and certainly not with something ridiculous. They weren’t my “black friends.” They were my friends. Period. Many smaller battles were waged on their behalf. The one that sent me over the edge?

One had a little sis, R, who was a freshman when we were seniors. Her locker was down the band geek/art hall with mine and I loved the hell out of her. (Still do 🙂 ) There was this one girl (I’ll call her IB for Ignorant Bitch) that used to be mean as hell to R for no damn good reason. R just took it each time. I was constantly showing up and threatening IB to back off. One day IB got REALLY stupid and jumped my girl. I came around the corner just as she grabbed her from behind, threw her on the ground and started swinging. R didn’t fight back. At all. I had dropped my bag and hauled ass down that hall. The band director came around the back corner just as I pulled IB off her. Probably a good thing he did in hindsight. He took both of them down the hall toward the office.

Next period I find out R got a three day suspension. IB got two days detention. I shit you not. Yeah… into the principal’s office I STORMED. I suppose I should mention that I’d known Mr. W. since I was in Kindergarten. His son and I were in the same class and I used to tutor his youngest son, who I swear works for like freakin’ NASA now. He sat there listening to me rant not only about this absolute bullshit that just occurred but all the other copious amount of uncalled for shit my friends quietly put up with and shouldn’t have had to. By this point he knew better than to interrupt one of my rants. My happy ass sat in that office until he called R and apologized. Then I made him promise to suspend IB and permanently relocate her locker. Forever. And he did. I just couldn’t be in there for that part.

I then turned around and waged war on the School Board. I insisted they include cultural diversity into the curriculum starting in elementary school. If only I could visually share with you my memory of the looks on their faces when they attempted to use the celebration of Black History Month as a defense. I do feel a tiny bit bad for making the Secretary cry. Just a tiny lil bit though.

It’s safe to say MANY were happy as all get out to see my ass graduate and get the heck up out of there at that point. Guess I can’t really blame them. I kinda screwed up their whole little ignorance is bliss thing. If that is true, if ignorance really is bliss, well I guess I’m just a wipe the smile off my face then kind of gal.

On to UW-Milwaukee. College is fodder for one with Save The World Syndrome’s soul. The list of student orgs you can join is more fun and more difficult to choose than picking your classes. You name it and I wanted to join. The one that seemed most suited to my non meat eatin’, salad bar gettin’, tadpole savin’ self- yup, Students for Animal Rights.

Hold up now! I know the first thing you thought of when you read that was PETA. Don’t even. I’ll get to them assholes later. Just chillax and hear me out.

I think it was like four meetings in when I got nominated and voted in as the first Freshman President they’d ever had. Before I agreed to take it, I told them I would do it ONLY if the group embraced my philosophy on what the group should be and how we should represent ourselves. I even made them revote after I was done with my little speech. The vote came back with me still President. Six members quit and walked out. In the next three weeks though, we gained 45 new ones. My philosophy?

We act as a RESPONSIBLE voice for the rights and treatment of animals and an educational resource for the students. Our library had squat covering anything to do with animal rights. This meant stocking books and literature that presented ALL sides to the main issues that were at hand and allowing those reading them to come to their own beliefs- whether it was that same as ours or not.

We did NOT call people who ate meat evil, we did offer sound, trusted information on how to healthfully embrace vegetarianism. ALL “shock material” was tossed. I got huge shipments of bumper stickers, samples, buttons, literature- you name it- from The Body Shop, The Humane Welfare Society and other groups and companies that did not test on animals. We were not to protest in any way, shape, or form unless it was agreed upon by the whole group. In fact, a dog farm in Darboy was our only real protest. That and assisting in getting steel jaw traps banned in Wisconsin (yuppers, I actually spoke at the hearing they had at the state capitol) were our two big stances that year. I’ll save those stories for another day cuz this bad boy is already way too long. Sorry bout that. I also worked with several other student groups and organized the first ever Earth Day Festival at UWM. That day just kicked ass. Last, but not least, we were NEVER, EVER to portray ourselves as the student division of PETA.

While, at that time, fundamentally I do believe PETA’s heart was in the right place, they’ve had (even then) a history of goin’ about it the wrong way. I don’t do backasswards well. At least not when it comes to important things. My grandma always taught me you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Sittin’ in the Union by the food court with giant posters of scalpless monkeys and gorey lab animals = beyond vinegar. Sittin’ in the Union by the food court with vegan brownies, Kiss My Face samples, Body Shop animal friendly buttons and please adopt, spay and neuter your pets posters= honey. And I am all about the sweet folks.

I’m gonna wrap this part up for now (finally!) But, I’ll leave you with a lil something to kick back and ponder while I’m writing the third (and last) part of my Save The World Syndrome “affliction” saga…

Nowadays, you mention PETA and people think of a bunch of crazy assholes that want Obama to apologize for a fly. Seriously, a fly. No matter what you picture, then or now, I never understood one thing. Perhaps it’s just the dork in me. But, it’s the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. “EH-THICAL.” Not “EEE-THICAL.” So why the hell do they pronounce it like they’re freakin’ pocket bread???

Yeah, yeah, yeah… if you read yesterday’s new post, you probably came running to this (who am I kidding? I’m surprised I have anyone that reads my babbling) thinkin’ this was post #2. Sorry, it’s so not. BUT, before you get all cross-eyed, it does kinda fit in the theme and it’s a quick one.

What’s the best way to get this girl to do something? Tell me I can’t. Seriously, I have a huge history of this. I love it when someone tells me it’s impossible or I can’t and I get to turn around and say “HA!!! YOU WERE WRONG!!!” So…

First tattoo. I thought long and hard about it. I knew, even at 18, the permanency of it. It wasn’t some accessory I could just take off. It was a part of my skin, my soul exposed and brandished proudly. (This was before it was ultra “cool” by the way and the term “tramp stamp” wasn’t even remotely thought of.) I had it drawn up for months. My choice? A Japanese cartoon frog. Now hear me out.

It is still symbolic for two reasons and I still love it.

1. The cartoonyness reminds me to hold tightly to all that is amazing about being a child. Looking at life in wide-eyed wonderment, that ability to cut through all the bullshit that we learn as we grow up that taints things and see clearly through to the truth, the purity of things. And.. that ability to love undconditionally. Screw all that color, race, creed, political view, sex, sexual preference, all that stupid tagage that gets attached to everyone. I HATE (yup, not a word I really ever use) labels. Period. I am simply Natali. No more. No less.

2. I had a huge love for frogs growing up. LOVED them. Would pluck them out of the creek behind our house and try to sneak them in through the pockets of my overalls all the time. My sensei told me that the reason for this was two part. She still feels I have a very strong understanding and connection to their culture. In their culture frogs represent healing. She sees me as a great healer and therefore, it fitting that I would bond affectionately to frogs so much.

So, in my lil purse I carried this drawing around with me. One day sis and I happen to be near the Black Dragon, where she’d gotten hers a couple years before. They had a really great rep too. In we go, I lay down the drawing and ask them for a quote. He tells me $35. I’m shocked. That’s it? Sis was shocked too. I say ok. They say they have an opening right then. I totally freeze.. EEK! I just wanted to know how much! I remember- no cash. 🙂 They point out the ATM down the block. They are a touch goating at this point. The fiesty starts to come out. Down the block I go.

I come back wielding my cash, slap it down with the design and say let’s do this. Now, if you’ve gotten a tat- you know there really isn’t any way to describe the feeling of getting one. If you’ve not gotten one one, you can understand the wondering of “how bad is this really gonna hurt?”

I ask the guy “ok, what kind of pain am I looking at here.” Then they start. Yup, they. There were only 2 artists in the shop, both guys. Big, burly tattoo looking guys. I looked like a lil freakin’ cartoon character myself. (Seriously, w/ my red hair a ton of peeps at UWM called me “Pebbles”) They start going on and on “Oh, you’re going to scream and cry.” “Oh you’ll pass out.” “Oh you’ll think your leg is going to fall off.” Each one translates in my head of them saying “Oh you can’t handle this.”

Then I hear “Oh and there’s going to be so much blood.”

I snap.

I look the guy who is gonna be “my first” dead in the eyes and say “I bleed once a month mother fucker, give me the goddamn tattoo!”

My sister gasps. A wicked grin forms over the artist and he says “You, sweet child, fucking ROCK! Get your ass back here, this is going to be fun!”

I took it like a champ. When it was done, he kissed my hand, told me I’d always remember my first and that I would be back. He did my second one dirt cheap after that.

But yeah… go ahead. Tell me I “can’t.” I dare you!

“You know what your problem is, Pee Wee? You have ‘Save The World Syndrome.’ You wanna save everyone and everything in this world and you’re never going to be able to do it.”

“Maybe not, but I’m gonna die trying then, Dad.”

I was 14 at the time. The cause? A stray cat.

I trust you won’t be taken aback by my divulging that I was an odd, odd lil girl growing up. I hated meat. My three fave foods were peanut butter & banana sammiches, raisin bran and mac & cheese. Not only did I love veggies, to my sis’s great joy, I always ate her lima beans for her. Once, I sat in the dining room for three hours chewing a bite of pork chop my father insisted I try, yet I refused to swallow. My mom finally took pity on me. This lil paragraph is going to seem a bit out of place as I jump ahead, but trust me.. it will all make sense in the end. Well, maybe more toward the middle really. Just enjoy the ride.

My first true sign of activism came at the ripe old age of five. To this day, my parents are still baffled as to where it came from. Honestly, I’ve never cared where, when, why or any of that- it’s simply a part of who I am. I tend to breathe in with the good and boldly expel the bad. Anywho. First week of Kindergarten. I was already getting yelled at by Mrs. H daily for asking to read the book to the class at story time. “You can’t read!” “Yes I can!” By the time Wednesday rolled around, I was feelin’ fiesty.

Recess time. I watched a stray dodge ball take off, with no one after it. I didn’t know then that it would land in my destiny, I simnply saw an excuse to run. While I’m scooping it up, I realize there is a rucous of laughter with an undertone of the sound of a girl crying. It didn’t take long for me to scan the playground and see a group of kids I hadn’t noticed the other two days. Some looked exactly like me, two had foam helmets on, one was in a wheelchair and a few had what I would learn later on were some visual characteristics of Down’s Syndrome. The girl that was crying, was also bleeding from her cheek. Surrounding them was a group of older kids. Fifth graders to be exact. Now, I knew the first group was different in my head, but, in my heart, they were just kids. As I wandered closer, one of the older kids threw a rock at one of the lil boys in a helmet.. Though it missed him, he was still scared.

The look on his face is what first lit that spark, that beyond fiesty protectiveness that has never really gone out. It also sent me sprinting. Right on up to Mr. IThinkI’mCool rock-hurling boy. His arm goes up to pitch again and I tap his shoulder. He swings around and ends up pegging one of his buddies with the rock instead. Dumbass. He looks down at me right pissed and just screams “WHAT??!!!?” I look up at him, smile sweetly and say “I’m going to have to ask you to please stop throwing those rocks at them.” He laughed, literally in my face. Which, of course got all his lil mindless cronies to get to cackling as well. “Go away kid” he says as he pushes my forehead. I swear one of my eyebrows raised. My feet were planted firm though and I didn’t budge. He was too confident though to notice. (Seriously, picture Fargus) He picks up another rock, this one’s pretty damned big. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’m going to ask you again to please stop.” More laughter. More fear on those kids faces. Dumbass completely ignored me. He pulled his arm back to chuck away. I’d had enough. So, I grabbed the arm that was up in the air poised to throw, spun him around and I socked that lil bastard in the nose. Knocking him out. Cold.

THEN the teachers decided to saunter over. To this day I think it was the sudden quietness that fell over that area that caused them to stop their freakin’ coffee clutchin’ and finally pay attention. All I know was, I got to meet the principal for the first time that. day.

Sitting outside her door, I could only hear her half of the conversation to my mom. Bless her heart though, she basically asked her why her lil five year old girl had to police the playground against bullies. Mrs. P didn’t really have an answer to that. Especially considering the lil girl whose cry I heard needed stitches. Dumbass came to like 2 minutes later on the playground. I could hear him siffling away in the nurses office though.

The next two days Mrs. P and I would have more bonding time during lunch recess. Dumbass visited the nurse again on Thursday. This time I heard the nurse make a comment about him ever being able to have kids again. Friday one of his cronies got a black eye. I always started the same polite way with them. Asking them to stop. They refused to stop, so I didn’t either. I continued to hover protectively over the special ed kids at recess. Doing the job that I feel the teachers should have been doing. I didn’t care then whose job it was. I just knew someone needed to do it. Each time my mom got called she asked the principal the same question. This continued until the bullies stopped. One would get a lil brave on occasion, but I was never far enough away to not be able to get there in time to handle them. Eventually, they gave up. Hell, by the time I hit second grade, people would finally start playing with the special ed kids too. I think they realized I was getting faster and taller and just wasn’t going to back down. Ever.

By the end of that first week I’d really given the principal a reason to hate me. Turns out I could read. Mrs. H. chucked the book at me and yelled “Fine! Here Miss Smartypants!” When I actually started reading the story, she turned white and ran out of the room. After I said “the end”, I looked up and saw her and Mrs. P standing at the back of the room. I wish I would have had a camera for the “OH SHIT” look on Mrs. P’s face. Especially when I smiled very sweetly at her and it turned into fear.

So, where does the misplaced paragraph from earlier come in? You didn’t honestly think that this was my only story leading up to my father’s lecture at 14? Hell, that wasn’t the only lecture I got. Nope, this was just the birth of my crusade. The full journey takes a bit and this, dear friends, is only the first post. There are three in total. I’ll let this one sink in a bit before our journey continues. Until then…I have the playground of life to go keep an eye on.

After weeding through an inbox full of insanity on freaksneedlovetoo.com, I actually got one that had some potential. There was a charming awkwardness about his first message. His profile was kind of plain, but there was a tint of hope with the fact that a. he was a single dad (which helps in understanding what goes along w/ the joys of dating moi) and b. he was a geek (in case I haven’t made it clear- geek is WAY HOT to me). So, I pursued back. We e-mailed back and forth for about a week and then actually talked on the phone. It was going really well. Some kick ass commonalities. No obvious red flags of insanity. No attempts at phone sex right off the bat. Stable job. Heard him with is kids and sounded like a really good dad. I’m thinking – “Wow. This might be easier than I thought.” Silly, silly me.

So, after two weeks of talking and such, we finally get to set up an actual date. Oh, and score another big point for him being a huge fan of sushi as well! Yup, a man that wants to take me out for sushi. Day of the date rolls around… a Saturday night. I’m really nervous cuz that’s how I get when I like someone. Total Über Dork Girlie in full effect. Seriously, I know it’s going to fully shock you, but I do get totally shy when it comes to someone I like. I girlied up. Well girlie for me. Yup, a hint of the one hair product I own and actual eyeshadow. I was gussssied.

He arrives. With a dozen roses. Swooon! Ok, I know roses are cliché and if you truly know me, I would dig tulips or daisies more, but omg, total A for effort. Another bonus- I’ll admit, he’s way cuter in person than his pictures. The ride to the sushi restaurant was like two 16 year olds driving on their first date. Both goofy grinning and trying to think of conversation. Eventually, it came though and he started to relax. Me, not so much.

We sit, we chat about what to order. I stay away from any alcohol as I’m the world’s cheapest date so, yeah, not a good idea. No matter how much I’m thinking it would sedate the butterflies. Waitress takes the order and we slip into more comfortable chit chat. Silly stuff, music (I inflicted Puscifer on him and turns out we were both at the same Beastie Boys concert at the same time), TV (we both actually watch Hell’s Kitchen). Food comes, we dig in. Doing good so far…

Talk of TV shows continues as I mention I rarely watch TV. Then he asks “Have you ever watched the show ‘Intervention’?” I’ve got a sushi and woo hoo this date is going good kind of buzz so my brain isn’t processing quite as quickly as it normally does. I respond “I’ve seen a couple of episodes and thought it was pretty good. Sad, but they mean well.” Then it comes…

“I’m going to be on it.” * CHOKE * I feebly attempt a recover and blame it on a chunk of wasabi. “Really, you are?” Him: “Yeah, they were out like two weeks ago to film.” I’m doing math in my head and even w/ a sushi high, I know that’s right when we started talking. Me (trying not to panic yet): “ Wow. So.. umm..were you one of the interventers?” I’m thinking “Fuct if I care that’s not a word and please say yes.” He laughs. “Oh my gosh, yeah. Ha ha no, I wouldn’t be here if I was the main subject.” * HUGE SIGH OF RELIEF* Me: “* giggle* Yeah, I guess not. Well, unless it was vastly unsuccessful, but that doesn’t make for good TV. So, was it one of your friends?” Him: “No, it was for the kids’ mom.” * instant stomach knot * He continues: “It was really crazy. They came out to the house and interviewed us and then took her off to a rehab in Florida. So, she’s there now until she finishes detox.” * gulp * * head spinning * Me: “W O W. Um.. then what?” He’s missing my meaning of then what and replies “Then they come back and shoot some follow up footage. It’s not gonna air until Fall. I’ll totally let you know when it’s on. Oh! Maybe we can watch it together!” I close my eyes, count to ten in Japanese (seemed fitting) and shake my head like an Etch a Sketch in an attempt to clear it. * deep breath * Me: “So, was she living with you at the time they came to film this?” Him: “Yeah. We’ve been off and on again for years. But, I’m thinking this time is the last straw.” Me, just being me at this point, “So Sid, does Nancy know you’re on a date now?” Him: “ Hiuh?”

Waitress, I’ll have that drink now.. Jack & diet and oh.. make it a double. PLEASE.

Yup…who knew I’d meet me a celebrity? Damn right I’ll post the link for the episode when it airs. We can pop some corn and watch the train wreck together. Good times.

My background is hefty in art and my mom is like the original Martha Stewart (minus the stick up her ass), so it’s no surprise that the monkeys and I are a crafty bunch. Odds are if you’re reading this, you are from the US so you are aware of Michaels. If you’re not- it’s a massive craft store chain. Not my first choice for art supplies, but it’s the crafty go to store. The one closest to us hates us. But, we torture them anyway because I’m too stubborn to drive 20 min out of my way to go to another one. So, they can suck it.

Why would they hate lil ole us? Here is how our love affair began…

Halloween is one of our favorite holidays so we ventured there to get stuff to make all kinds of spooky fun. We get there and there is but one cart left. Of course it was the squeaky one. Like nails down a chalk board squeaky. But, I have a 2 year old and a barely 4 year old, so yeah, the cart was necessary. We whipped through the store as quickly as possibly giggling at how horrible our cart sounded while other customers and the staff glared at us. We get to the front by the check out lines and there’s a row of $1.00 crap. The girls were so good, so I told them they could pick something out. I’m leaning down looking at something eldest monkey picked out and, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone grab lilest monkey and start lifting. Instant rabid protective mom kicks in. I snap up, grab the lady’s arm and glare at her saying “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Now at this point I realize she’s an employee and like 50 something years old. I don’t bloody care if she’s a young Mother Theresa, she’s touching MY CHILD. She has the nerve to then glare at me and say “I’m switching her to this cart, it doesn’t squeak.” I look at her, smile really pretty hoping to fool the monkeys into not realizing what was about to come out of my mouth and say “If you don’t let go of my daughter, I WILL rip your arm off and beat you to death with it. The check out is right there. You don’t just start plucking someone’s child out of a cart.” *bat eyelashes* Her brilliant reply: “Your cart is annoying.” My retort: “It’s YOUR cart and I have no problem getting REALLY ugly with you right now. So, for the last time, let go of my child or I swear the police will need to get involved. While you’re at it, you may want to tone your attitude down just a notch because I’m being incredibly polite right now and that’s fading…fast.” I won. Shocked? She let go and walked away calling me names your standard lil 50 year old shouldn’t be muttering. I think she hung a picture of us up in the employee lounge with a not so nice warning on it.

Round 2.

So, for lilest Monkey’s 3rd birthday, she wanted a Tinkerbell cake. If that’s what she wanted, that’s what she was getting. I gave Michaels a call and they had a Tink cake pan. And “a” meant just one left. I asked them if they’d pull it and hold it at the customer service counter for us for like an hour so we could come up and check it out. I had a list of things to get so we got there and started whipping through with our thankfully non-squeaky cart. So far, so good. I can’t seem to find the sewing section and there’s an employee just hanging out in floral looking bored, so I ask her… “Excuse me, do you sell safety pins?” Miss Attitudinal: “Ah..yeah. Of course.” Here we go. “Great, would you be so kind as to tell me where I might find them?” She tells me some isle number and off we go. Isle number doesn’t exist. There is a mini tribe of older employees hanging out in the back by where the isle should be coffee clutching, so I ask them using my nice, sweet little polite excuse me voice. The conversation pauses as they look at me for like 30 seconds and then back to bipping the go. My right eye is now twitching. Screw the safety pins.

I noticed earlier they had some yarn on sale super cheap, so I figure I’ll let the girls pick some out for me to knit them scarves for winter. Problem- we have to break through my group of new best friends to get down the yarn isle. Deep breath. Smiley happy face and sweet excuse me voice. They part like the glaring red sea and let us through. We turn the corner and there’s two more of them blocking the isle. Grrrr… To make it extra ribbed for my pleasure, there were boxes of stock scattered on the floor down the isle. Not only do I have to get crab and crabbier to move, I then need to deftly maneuver the cart around the stock. Sweet smile. Polite excuse me. Bob and weave baby. Monkeys pick yarn and up to customer service counter we go. Another deep breath. Home stretch and I have not done too badly.

We stood at the empty customer service counter smiling for 12 minutes while Miss Attitudinal and two other lovely employees stare at us. Finally, a manager comes over and says “Can I help you?” You know I very much wanted to inform her nah, we just dig hanging out under the customer service sign for no reason. But, I refrained. She pulls out the cake pan and it’s just Tink’s head. I ask lil one if she likes it. I can’t blame her at all for saying “Mommy, it’s just her head. No wings. Everyone has a head, only fairies have wings.” Off to the cake isle we went. They had a package of really cute little Tink figurines for the tops of cupcakes. Wee one loved them, I could totally work with them, off to the check out we go.

There was very little surprise that all of a sudden there was a line out of nowhere. In it we patiently wait. Three people get checked out and we are about to be next. Another employee comes plodding up and opens her register uttering the words I now you’ve all heard before “I can take the next customer in line.” The lady behind me whips over there like Flash freakin’ Gordon. At this point, I don’t have the energy so I look at the employee to see if she’s going to do the right thing and correct the woman. Nope. Eldest monkey, bless her heart, says very politely “Excuse me ma’am, but she said the next in line and that is us.” *beaming little glow* The woman scowls at her and proceeds. I’m fighting down the rabid protective mom thing now. Eldest then looks at the cashier “Excuse me Miss Michaels Lady, but you said next. That means us, not her.” I’m thinkin’ “You go lil one.” The cashier then scowls at my daughter. The customer flashes her a dirty look. Now I’m counting to 10 in like all 5 languages I know. I look at my precious little confused peanut and say “Some people are just rude baby, it’s almost our turn.” And then all hell breaks loose…..

The chick looks at the cashier and says “I guess bitch doesn’t fall far from the tree.” OH NO THE FUCK YOU DIDN’T JUST CALL MY LIL GIRL A BITCH!!! Before I can even go off, lil monkey stands up in the cart, points her tiny lil finger at the evil customer and screams “NO ONE CALLS MY MAMA AND SISTER A BITCH!!! NO ONE!!!!” She was PISSED. Shaking angry red in the face pissed. I think the whole store was staring and holding their breath at the same time bracing for my response. I just busted out laughing. It was now our turn. The woman who just got schooled by both monkeys needed a price check. So, we were actually done before her. Hello evil customer from hell, meet Karma, she is a lovely little thing. And yes, I absolutely made sure we all smiled, waved and said goodbye to the lady who was in such a hurry. In the car I let them know they couldn’t say the word bitch, but honestly, lil one was still fuming and muttering it under her breath the whole way home.

Three days later it was her birthday. She woke up, rubbed her eyes, got smothered with birthday smoochies and the first words out of her mouth to me were “Mommy, I’m 3. Now can I say bitch?” >;-)

With these two visits, a strong mutual dislike has been established. Like I said though, I’m not going out of my way, we can handle them. They’re gonna have to suck it up. I’ve been to Michaels all over the area and other states and have never encountered the treatment we consistently receive at this one. These are not the standard 18 year old snotty young sales people one pictures when horror stories of the disappearance of anything resembling customer service start being told. These are adult women that should know better. They should damn well remember a time when even fake smiles, a resemblance of enthusiasm for a job and politeness were expected. If you’re surly because you’ve woken up at 50ish and realized your life career has been a Michaels salesperson and are bitter about it- it’s not my fault. Do something about it. So, while I commend you Michaels for your Work Program for Bitter Old Hags, I respectfully request you change it to another location. Give those of us in the area a little bit of a breather and the hags fresh meat to be disgruntled at.