tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27013366611952174822024-03-08T06:33:37.309-05:00Suburban Sh*t Show: Tales from the Tree-Lined TrenchesUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-49461427750281458212017-05-13T11:14:00.001-04:002017-05-13T11:38:01.449-04:00Mother's Day 1980 Something<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The kids woke me up this morning with a bowl of Cap’n Crunch. I did my best to chew through the pain, but the top of my mouth took a hulk-sized beating. I thanked them with a pixie stick before they left to go ride their bikes in those trails over behind the high school. I gave Bobby a dime for the payphone, and told him to keep it in his shoe in case of an emergency. Then, I went downstairs to make a cup of Sanka. I almost splurged on Taster’s Choice. I love their commercials where they go to a fancy restaurant and swap the swanky coffee out with their coffee, but Dan says that sort of bullsh*t drives the price of coffee up. Maybe he’s right. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Damn it, I only have half a pack of Salem’s left. After dinner, I’ll have Bobby run down to the corner store and pick up a few soft packs. Of course, I’ll have to send him with a note. He always forgets the brand. Damn kid, last time I gave him a dollar, he came home with no change and told me the price went up. I think he bought a hoodsie or some Hubba Bubba. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Dan went outside to tinker with our new computer, a Commodore 64. The kids spend hours playing games on the thing. It thought it was a godsend, until I realized they wanted to spend all their time indoors. One day I had to lock them out so I could watch my soaps.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I tried to get a workout in with Richard Simmons or Jane Fonda. Last week, I went to Zayre’s because they had a sale on the leg warmers that matched my bright pink leotard. I mean I couldn't wear the leotard with my baby blue leg warmers, that would be almost as bad as wearing white before Labor Day. Oh, and I had a coupon too. When I put the tape in the VCR, those damn lines of snow kept showing up, the machine made a horrendous noise. When I pulled the tape out, half of it was stuck in the VCR. Thank goodness it wasn't a rental from the Video Depot. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the afternoon, Janet called and we talked for about an hour about just who in the hell killed J.R. We both had our theories. I can’t believe we’ll have to wait until September to find out. The suspense is going to kill me. Someone beeped in for Jill, on call waiting, and I told them to call back later. Damn kids, think they own the phone. Jill even had the nerve to ask for one for Christmas. Over my dead body, she’d run our bill up in no time. I told her you can get a phone, when you get a job. She got a job working at Orange Julius out by the mall now. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After my phone call, I made Dan a spam sandwich on wheat bread, and brought it out to the garage. He said he wasn’t going to eat wheat bread. I told him the A&P was out of Wonder bread but I could make him something else. We still had meatloaf and tuna casserole in the fridge from last week. When I came in, I attached the hose to the sink, and ran a load of dishes in the dishwasher. Mother’s Day or not, things still have to get done around here. While I was in the den dusting the end tables, Dan came in and told me to put the down the Pledge and get on my best blouse and slacks, we were going out for dinner. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We tried Bonanza, but the wait was just too long. The kids were getting antsy, so Dan threatened to take away the computer, and when that didn’t work he gave Bruce a swat on his behind. We headed to York Steak House out by the mall. Dan was so generous. He even splurged on an extra pat of butter and sour cream for my baked potato. Jill, impressed with her father’s generosity, told me she was going to make him one of those beaded pins all the kids put on the sneakers now. I laughed at the thought of Dan putting one on his Reeboks. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The kids were so excited when we let them get coke, instead of milk. It was a special occasion, but we told them just one. If they were stupid enough to finish their sodas before dinner came, they’d have to wait. We aren’t made of money. Jill didn’t finish her dinner because she filled up on rolls. Dan said she wasn’t getting up from the table, or having dessert, until every last bite was gone. He even threatened to get her a doggie bag, and told her dinner would be there waiting for her in the morning. When she finally finished, we got five spoons and split a carrot cake even though I have a coconut Betty Crocker cake at home. I guess I’ll save that for next week when the Miller’s come over. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The kids fought on the way home because Bobby kept sliding into Jill. She said he was doing it on purpose, he said his dad was taking the turns too fast. Dan hollered at him, and told him he’d ground him for a month if his dipshit antics didn’t stop. I enjoyed a Salem and did my best to stay out of it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Back at home, we found Jill’s friend Darlene sitting on the porch. Apparently, she ran away after a fight with her mother because she wanted to use her babysitting money to buy tickets to see Bon Jovi. I told her if weren’t a Sunday, she could stay but not on school night. Jill stormed off to her room crying. I’ll give her something to cry about. My house, my rules, her father shouted after her. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">After all the chaos, I poured myself a glass of chardonnay in one of the red cups I accidentally stole from the Pizza Hut out on Route 14. Then the kids and Dan got my presents. Bruce made me another glazed ashtray. It looks exactly like the one he gave me last year, that broke when the kids were playing ball in the house. I warned them. They weren’t allowed to watch television for a whole week. It was so nice to have the living room all to ourselves. No kids lounging all over the carpet because we don’t allow them on the couch. It did inconvenience us though. With no one to get up and change the channels, we were stuck watching the same station all night. Jill saved up her money and bought me some blue eye shadow and a banana clip. Bobby gave me the best gift though, a pair of rhinestone clip-on earrings I can’t wait to show off to Bev whose son always gives her something he finds in the yard. I’d ground him for a month. I kissed Bobby telling him again how he’s my favorite. And then Dan gave me a bottle of Opium. I prefer Poison, because if it’s good enough for Liz Taylor...but I didn’t tell him that. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">All in all, a good day. Before bed I had to yell at the kids to, “get the hell to bed, because tomorrow is a school day.” They packed up their book bags and checked their Trapper Keepers for homework. Jill cried about her sewing project in Home Ec. I don’t know how she’ll ever find a husband. I stayed up to read but had to turn my light out because Dan was feeling frisky and I sort of owe him for the great dinner. I spritzed on a little Opium, and made a to do list in my head while we did it. I am a wonderful multi-tasker. Ahhh, so glad to have such a great family even if they drive me crazy. I guess being a mother means putting up with a lot of bullsh*t and not losing your sh*t. Happy Mother’s Day!</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-11416588558752594432016-09-11T21:35:00.001-04:002016-09-11T21:35:56.226-04:00Snippets from Suburbia: Saturday Soccer & The Jesus Mug<div>
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**The second entry in the suburban snippets series, the factional (combination of fact and fiction) story of raising kids, marriage, suburbia, and parenthood. The series where we are reduced down to broad generalities--mother, father, eldest, youngest, cat and dog because that is, after all, what we become, at least to some extent. Isn’t it? </span><div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Oh shit, the mother jumps out of bed. Maybe jumps is too strong a word, stumbles may be more accurate. “Let’s go,” she yells at the kids huddled together on the couch in various levels of dress as she enters the living room.The dog looks up at her for a moment, disinterested, and goes back to licking herself.</span><a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: large;">“Mommy,” the children descend upon her with questions, requests, and demands, leaving little room for personal space or an escape route. The father was up and out early and now she is here, dealing with this. “Pancakes,” “sneakers,” “soccer pads,” “potty,” are shouted rapid fire, a succession of words she is too tired to process before…”coffee,” she says holding her hand up and ending all discussion. <br /><br />On her way to the kitchen she begins her to do list: breakfast, teeth, spray, for the longer haired children, to prevent head lice, clothing, soccer stuff, water bottle, dog, and does she have to go to the bathroom? There isn’t time. Sure, she can hold it for another 3 hours. The mother is used to it. Motherhood has not only eaten up every moment of time, but has also made a mockery of her digestive system. <br /><br />Where am I? She wonders as the dog barks distracting her from whatever it was that she was doing. To do list and coffee the little voice in the back of her head screams. The voice gives her a headache and sounds very similar to her mother’s. Pull the cup, dump the grounds-in the trash not the sink or the septic--something will happen to the septic--something expensive to repair, something that will cause discourse in her marriage, refill the cup without dumping grounds on the counter. Shit--too late. Ahh, but the grounds are brown and blend in. She’ll wipe them up when she returns home. Wipe up grounds, go to the bathroom--two things added to her, ‘later today’ to do list, not her, ‘right this minute’ to do list. It is important to differentiate between the two. <br /><br />Fu*k, the orange light on the coffee maker is blinking. What the hell error is that? Add water, right? So she does and then she presses the button, waiting and hoping, two things that define marriage and motherhood. Shwwwwwwwshwwwwww, the coffee maker whirls to life. The mother instantly feels tense muscles loosen, clenched jaw drop and the world is fine and right for a split second while she watches the dark mocha-colored liquid drip, IV style, into her Jesus mug, a gift inherited after the death of her grandmother. The son of God smiles, she smiles back. The mother and Jesus have a moment. <br /><br />“I’m peeing standing up,” the youngest, a total surprise happening between the birth of the third and the time when the mother and/or father was supposed to get fixed, yells from the bathroom and just as quickly as it came, her moment with divinity is gone. “And he peed on the seat,” the second child yells, to which the third adds, “he tried to pee without using his hands.” Wipes are procured from the dilapidated entertainment center, a lovely accompaniment to the, ‘chewed by the dog, hole so we flipped the cushion,’ couch. Their home is nothing more than a glorified frat house. In fact, the mother had better furniture in college--at least it matched and was hole-free.<br /><br />Does she scold the boy for peeing or commend him for trying to pee like a big boy? What the hell would the parenting articles say? “Get your clothes on,” she says doing what all good and harried mothers do, avoid the issue altogether. The kids dress, but this one is missing underwear and that one doesn’t like those shorts, and the other one grew without the mother noticing so the things that fit last week don’t any longer. <br /><br />“Are you all dressed?” The mother asks realizing that she isn’t. So she grabs Jesus and heads off to the bathroom for a moment of quiet. “Can I come with you?” the boy who now stands up to pee asks. She holds the door open and stands back, fighting is pointless, a lesson that has taken her more than a decade to learn and embrace. <br /><br />And finally, finally they are in the minivan. Ten minutes later than she wanted to be. She backs out of the driveway avoiding the bikes and balls, an obstacle course, left by children who never picked up from the night before. But the mother is used to it. Damn, the garage door is open. Car off, mom out, door unlocked, garage door shut and….they are off, out on the open road. Well, not exactly open--the person in front of them is driving under the speed limit, they should ticket for this the mother thinks as she watches the crimson digital seconds tick by on the car radio clock. Five minutes until soccer. They are ten minutes away. <br /><br />Music. Great idea. “This is an awful song. Mom, can you change it?” She is willing to humor the oldest, but the youngest loves this song and begins to sing it in his off key voice. How cute, how sweet, how utterly charming. “No, you’re brother likes it.” <br /><br />“He is sooooo spoiled,” the second child yells. “You like him best,” the third chimes in. “This song sucks,” the first whispers. Of course, the mother hears because like every mother, she has bionic hearing. Then they debate whether the word suck is a swear. “Either way, don’t say it again,” the mother demands. The song is finally over so she changes the station...rap, country, rock, grunge--they never all agree. Strength in numbers, the cliche, not true for them. For their family, there is merely dissension. </span><div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The song she lands on, one about time, one from a band she loves, eerily acknowledges what she constantly fears--ten years are gone, ten fu*king years, ten and she missed the starting gun. There was a gun? When? College? Before? After? The beginning of her first marriage? The end? Her second marriage? The birth of her children? She wants to turn around, wants to cry, wants to be younger, wants to be wiser, but instead she puts on her blinker and eases into the left lane to pass the woman who is blissfully alone in her car, windows open, music playing and sweet and utter freedom. Apparently, she has no children to deposit at a Saturday soccer game. </span><div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />When they finally arrive, the parking lot is full with vans just like hers, and when they find a spot, she has to yell at them to hurry up. Heads turn, mothers hold onto their children, the world is about to come apart. Fu*k that noise. It is still okay to demand things of your children--loudly. The world has gone soft, a gooey, ooze filled cesspool of privilege and mediocrity. “Hold your brother’s hand,” she yells because she is Italian and was raised in the 1980’s when yelling was still the preferred method of parenting, along with avoidance and the cliches, ‘not if, ands or buts about it,’ the rather threatening and potentially violent, ‘I’ll give you something to cry about,’ and the worst of all, “don’t make me call (or tell) your father,’ which implied that the man was the real threat and held all the power.<br /><br />They are there, at the field, finally. “Where are we going to sit?” the second child asks. “On the grass,” the mother responds. There are sighs and protestations, whines and groans. “The grass is soft. I used to sit on tar,” the mother says her, words drenched in sarcasm. Another mother, who stands alone, free and astonishingly tanned, gives her a look. The mother returns the look.<br /><br />“When is Grammy coming?” Oh shit, Grammy. Did she give her mother-in-law the correct location? It is not the high school field, where the older kids play but the field behind the skating pond, which in the fall is simply another field, one next to the playground, but not behind it. The mother checks her phone, no new messages. While she waits, she watches the unruly children in front of her obscure her view while they play games and run without consequence. She scolds, commands, drinks coffee, yells words of encouragement and wonders what the rest of the day will bring. Best not to think that far ahead the mother knows as she watches her daughter ignore the ball that breezes past instead preferring to hug the girl from the opposing team. Why the hell do kids this young play sports anyway, she’d really like to know?<br /><br />“Playground,” they yell as the game finishes and the third, the, ‘opposing team hugger’ comes over with a snack and the youngest asks where his snack is. She won’t share, not this time, she says. Snacks...fu*k. Why can’t they get through a one-hour game without a snack? Why? <br /><br />At the playground, she runs into other mothers, glances from child to child, occasionally experiences a brief moment of panic when one ‘goes missing’ followed by a moment of annoyance that she has allowed herself to be so paranoid, so helicopterish. Ah, and then it is blissfully over, the game, the playground, the beginning half of her Saturday has passed. This is soccer on Saturday. This is motherhood. This is the life.</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><i><b>***Join me next week when The Cat wonders what the hell happened to The Mother, The Father, The Offspring and The Dog.</b></i></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com119tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-80140220468670138532016-08-28T21:44:00.000-04:002016-09-28T11:27:39.369-04:00Snapshots from Suburbia: Images from the Underbelly<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSt3bPtGJBQLJGKL8vI_VAIQdkWcJ6zFT-FAYhyphenhyphenjRtGZYoXjQtJs-deOk5K4GpOAKzHZQadDk8Xpcl9CzBFR9MszWHpwHHCLK6Nq9b_0lpQL-d1oZ6yeD22lWIEM03LxikIe1VlQM-hGw/s1600/IMG_2643.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSt3bPtGJBQLJGKL8vI_VAIQdkWcJ6zFT-FAYhyphenhyphenjRtGZYoXjQtJs-deOk5K4GpOAKzHZQadDk8Xpcl9CzBFR9MszWHpwHHCLK6Nq9b_0lpQL-d1oZ6yeD22lWIEM03LxikIe1VlQM-hGw/s320/IMG_2643.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This one simply called, "Soccer," is a tale of a mother who has taken too many pictures, attended too many practices, made too much small talk. The introverted mother cannot understand why five-year-olds need so many stations and why for the love of Jesus and all the saints in Heaven, the practice ran for 1 hour and 45 minutes, when it should have been 45 minutes. The kids are hungry and cold. The grass, burnt and yellowing from a lack of care and water, seems a metaphor for the mother, and for all mothers and fathers. And parenting is hard and soccer is stupid.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6d1gjKC1Ga8l7uQi4vvhWl0VjZ3HrM8xrQy31nzvnPjFhNwMpJ62K94l5mvzOhbuenmFKOgZGdqlgq1BuQ5NjxzNzufZTr7fd7KSJJhWjSipUOW9lmVuSslpfO_-t5hbvuA9aeJ0G2HM/s1600/IMG_2645.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6d1gjKC1Ga8l7uQi4vvhWl0VjZ3HrM8xrQy31nzvnPjFhNwMpJ62K94l5mvzOhbuenmFKOgZGdqlgq1BuQ5NjxzNzufZTr7fd7KSJJhWjSipUOW9lmVuSslpfO_-t5hbvuA9aeJ0G2HM/s320/IMG_2645.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This artistic photograph, an homage to Vermeer, is called, "Scattered Laundry in Early Morning Sunlight." Notice the sense of urgency in the way in which the clothes are thrown about. Was it a mother searching for a matching sock before school? A child who carelessly knocked over the pile on the way to the bathroom for a morning viewing of Caillou, the whiny, bald-child from Canada with an unusual attachment to his mother? Or the father hoping to find underwear so he doesn't have to stop and pick up more during his already brief lunch break? No matter, the beautiful light makes one forget the domestic drudgery of laundry, the most vile of all household chores. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Raisin Bran Without Raisins," is an aerial photo that perfectly captures the eating habits of toddlers. Give them a food and they will pick only the parts they enjoy and leave the rest. The sugary raisins will be plucked out with fervor, while the bastard bran will be left to either be tossed into the trash or eaten by a mother who will make excuses saying, "the fiber is good," for her while simultaneously swearing to never let the toddler eat Raisin Bran again. Two days later the exact photo will be taken, the only difference--the green bowl will be replaced with an orange one, because the toddler, "now hates green because it reminds him of Oscar the Grouch, who is really just mean." </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This image, "Wood Chips are Merely Suburban Cockroaches," captures the vastness of suburbia, the endless expanse of the mundane, and the mass of wood chips that now make up modern-day playgrounds. Years ago, kids played on pressure-treated, carcinogen-causing wood. They got splinters and when they fell off the monkey bars, they smacked their little bodies against hard concrete. Some got stitches, some wear their scars even into adulthood. Note the little boy in this picture, he runs fast and without worry, secure in the fact that if he falls, he will fall into the cushy bossom of a wood chip pile. </span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><i>If you've enjoyed this post, please check out another by clicking on the image below. </i></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/11/incarceration-childhood-10-alarming.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXSRNJN9DV2gl-m0_Yroq32wcC_-_Of0a4qUyS4llQMmqPBqOUfz2RmlrOeHp7f3oTLp539SLggrIBFlEWH19Bg0FEdU-qES_jkSB18c6Z_Lnf9saVQCtFL3rLihD8tqc5pn2oGBUox7Q/s320/prison.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-75581404946807742612016-08-21T21:00:00.000-04:002016-08-21T21:08:10.641-04:00Seeking Balance: A Parenting Myth<br />
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<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCKV4N9APsCBvrxPtwyUaxS2IgoiKYsIqFH5ltz3E6WDNprX9ZMaNgx-NVc9WP9FVp3Gk7OqSZaIu6pg-Y2HAGpER9IsZgPLjYCbK2g6nmi98vCl27VGHVvrrpTANscnTGaCDiH0ottzY/s1600/Seeking+Balance-+A+Parenting+Myth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCKV4N9APsCBvrxPtwyUaxS2IgoiKYsIqFH5ltz3E6WDNprX9ZMaNgx-NVc9WP9FVp3Gk7OqSZaIu6pg-Y2HAGpER9IsZgPLjYCbK2g6nmi98vCl27VGHVvrrpTANscnTGaCDiH0ottzY/s640/Seeking+Balance-+A+Parenting+Myth.jpg" width="640" /></a></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>GUEST POST</b> from Kelly at <b><a href="http://beerandjunk.com/" target="_blank">Beer and Junk</a></b>. Follow her on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/beerandjunk" target="_blank">Facebook</a> or <a href="https://twitter.com/beerandjunk" target="_blank">Twitter</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Author’s Note: This post originally Appeared in the Emmetsburg Democrat and Reporter in March of </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">2014. We no longer have an 8 month old son with a saturated diaper. We have an almost 3 year old son </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">who refuses to wear underwear and craps on the floor. My apologies for the confusion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The most recent issue of Health magazine arrived in my mailbox last week, with the headline: Alison </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Sweeney and Her Super Balanced Life! Allison Sweeny is an actress, host of <i>The Biggest Loser </i>and star of </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">the soap opera, <i>Days of Our Lives</i>. She also has two children, a husband who works full time as a state </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">patrolman and has written two novels, one of which was written in half hour increments while her </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">children did their homework.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I have a hard time believing that Alison Sweeney’s life is super balanced. I’m guessing that it took a lot </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">of make-up, forgiving lighting and some very creative journalism to make it appear that way for this </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">particular article. And I would put money on the fact that when the interview was over, there were five </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">text messages from her son who forgot his homework in the car, two missed calls from her agent regarding a contract change, and one voice mail from her husband saying that an accident on the 101 </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">was going to keep him at the office late and could she possibly pick up the kids from soccer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Alison Sweeney, Hollywood actress, gets paid to tell you all about her super balanced life, but let’s </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">pretend for a minute that Alison Sweeney is your best friend. What Alison Sweeney, BFF, would tell </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">you- when the cameras are off and the two of you are sitting in a quiet café drinking lattes… no scratch </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">that- when the two of you are on the phone three states apart respectively chugging sugar free Redbull </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">and reheated coffee while simultaneously putting away groceries, feeding the dog, and translating </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">algebra homework- is that her life is bat crap crazy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And that is ok. I’m convinced that seeking balance has simply become another way of chasing </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">perfectionism. We continue to believe that if we could only make our lives more balanced in the </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">multitude of ways thrown at us in the media- Less Caffeine! More Yoga! Work Less, Play More! </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Declutter! Detox! Destress!– we would be happy. “Balance” may have become a popular buzzword, but </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">it is incredibly over rated.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">My life is not simply unbalanced, it is saturated. Occasionally it is saturated like my eight month old </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">son’s diaper, when I have to realize that I simply cannot cram one more thing into my schedule, no </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">matter how economically fantastic it may be to make homemade laundry detergent. Most often though,it is saturated like the perfect color of burnt orange paint on the living room walls of our first home; a </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">color that both took over the room and yet somehow made all of its lovely details- the newly refinished </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">hardwood floors, coved ceilings, and intricate woodwork- stand out in contrast. Balance simply can’t </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">compare to the sense of accomplishment that rises up out of chaos, the creativity found hiding among </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">the mess, and the sheer joy of doing everything you love, all at once.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">And now if you will excuse me I need to run to the store, we seem to be out of baby formula and Red </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Bull.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-66013766951765895022016-08-14T20:26:00.000-04:002018-06-24T19:59:17.067-04:00The Night Sky <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2016/01/the-night-sky.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-QgD9qviWak2CgIATJENi8dRygNEuBXA898YatmPN3B15oKSl2u2v1x7X0acJo-zwIHQbqJeivg3-SfIMAgmclVSpO3W7dd6MwZ-5BBZ_vwzd66BJpwdOh7l1prmKp8okCusJ8EwcYBY/s640/The+Night+Sky.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">This week, as I walked the dog through my suburban neighborhood, I gazed up into the night sky to what seemed like an infinite number of stars spread out in haphazard fashion. It was as if someone took a large container, shook it, and twirled around and around peppering the heavens with glittering, wondrous luminosity. I imagined Jackson Pollock filling his paintbrush with yellow stars, and frenetically splattering--the sky his empty canvas. I was delighted at first. I recalled moments of first love, wet grass under tippy toes, on a humid July night. I had glanced up into the same night sky filled with hope and longing for the future, staring into the eyes of a would-be soul mate who would never play such a role. </span></div>
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">I recalled the same moon, I now marveled at in my 40th year, through five-year-old eyes. I was once again in a pale blue Plymouth, circa 1980, as I hummed along to Eddie Rabbit crooning about rainy nights. I wondered if the same moon would follow me all the way home. I was surprised and delighted when it did. It was with some sadness that I woke up the following morning to a bright sun that, I was sure, had stolen my new found friend. The night sky had vanished and I was left with a paler version of daylight blue.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Years later I would stare at the same moon through a telescope with my eldest child, as we studied and recorded the phases of the moon. The same sky connected our childhood experiences and once again, with utter amazement, I remembered with a combination of childish fear and awe, how insignificant and small I was. I understood as the stars made patterns and shapes, I was unable to recall and identify from middle school science, the vastness and unpredictability of the universe, of life. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">I remembered lying on my back in the snow as I frantically waved my arms and legs with the boundless energy only a child knows. Snow angels made under the stars, after one of the worst blizzards in recorded history. The moon only a sliver of itself, in crescent form, shown off the white packed powder providing just enough light to see. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I remembered the same sky in 1983, as I listened to my brother after he thought everyone slept, cry for the mother he had loved and lost, the one I had never known. I understood that she had once watched the same sky, and even then I understood that she wouldn’t ever again. I imagined her just beyond it in heaven, a place I was sure she had gone. </span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I ventured back to the present, I walked past my driveway, and toward the end of the street, with the dog we had rescued. I whispered in a voice reminiscent of the one I imagine I wore as a young girl, “What are we all doing here, under this great and lonely sky?” It was the same question I had pondered since childhood. I wondered if somewhere on the other side, there sat a little girl peering through the blackness waiting to pluck us from this world into her own. I had imagined her again, as I once had when I was a girl. In my imagination, she was just like me. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Were we alone, I still questioned as I stood staring through my own windows into the home I had made and filled with children and memories. Lights revealed life and activity, a microcosm of the universe, one I created. For a moment, I stood outside separate. And then I glanced, once more, into the sky I had known for the entirety of my life and smiled. It was frightening and telling, filled with the memories, fears, and hopes I had then, and still cling to now. The sky had changed little. It was a constant, and with that knowledge came comfort.<i> <b>I was a part of the vastness</b></i>, and though I feared, questioned and was forever in awe of it, <i><b>it was a part of me</b></i>. </span></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/11/thursday-is-no-day-for-existential.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNKcz0Fv6z49jBsPX5sVs8VMyT7MFdj6nN1YHkbSyHBfH27N5QDcY8fnjQ6javmcwxlH8ioi119ToX5DkcGp3DqR7cwEXceCTz5DXASN5A3PQKfvxblxukcM7CzzX1hQ8ywTrd32GPrGk/s400/existential+crisis.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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**Image courtesy of Pixabay.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-349159384354550442016-07-31T20:31:00.001-04:002016-07-31T20:31:59.139-04:00I Am Not The Person I Thought I Would Be. Are You? <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGZuqij77JQ7dcAmev8Vrrr9kQbNZTjpC_tjHpsc1iklMmz2yotEXRND0Wk1dtdoFQPsTUmG9wSpcdf-STwjn8lpOLzV15myJjrw8mNOsHwgp9WKltXSt77upQx-g1YHgjt-N7bP2Di8/s1600/I+Am+Not+The+Person+I+Thought+I+Would+Be..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGZuqij77JQ7dcAmev8Vrrr9kQbNZTjpC_tjHpsc1iklMmz2yotEXRND0Wk1dtdoFQPsTUmG9wSpcdf-STwjn8lpOLzV15myJjrw8mNOsHwgp9WKltXSt77upQx-g1YHgjt-N7bP2Di8/s640/I+Am+Not+The+Person+I+Thought+I+Would+Be..jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div id="E25" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E25" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" is="qowt-word-run" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div id="E26" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E26" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E27" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E27" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am standing in my kitchen wiping the counter tops when the first wave hits. It is a moment of sheer panic, frightening in its ability to stop me. The crippling seconds are a monster I have only recently discovered. Piles of papers glare at me from underneath the microwave, the broken dishwasher lies dormant beckoning me to call a plumber and have it fixed, </span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E29" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E29" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">the</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E31" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E31" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> linoleum bathroom floor is peeling in a conspicuous spot directly by the door. I cannot hide it in a closet or throw it in a drawer as I do with so many other things lately.</span></div>
<div id="E33" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E33" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<qowt-drawing hpos="absolute" hposref="column" id="E36" qowt-eid="E36" style="display: inline-block;" vpos="absolute" vposref="paragraph" wrappingstyle="inlineWithText"></qowt-drawing><br /></div>
<div id="E37" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E37" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" is="qowt-word-run" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 13.5pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div id="E38" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E38" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E39" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E39" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Fix me," the house screams as I break out into a cold sweat. I cannot move, but if I could I would brush every last bit of paper into the trash without thought, pound on the dishwasher with a sledge hammer or a meat mallet (a more likely find), and tear up the bathroom floor. My immobility is a blessing then, </span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E41" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E41" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">at least I can't ruin the house filled with flaws and reminders of my inability to be the adult that I</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E42" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E42" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> had always hoped I would</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E43" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E43" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> be. </span></div>
<div id="E44" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E44" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<br data-line-break="true" id="E46" qowt-divtype="data-line-break" qowt-eid="E46" /><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E47" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E47" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">And there it is, the truth, the confession, one I am not even sure I was aware of: I am NOT who I wanted to be. I am the woman in the kitchen who has forgotten how to care for herself. I am the woman who never built a foundation so now I float in the puffy clouds, which while beautiful, actually have the potential to suffocate me. After attempting to sit down, I begin the list in my head. Having always been a list maker this seems</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E48" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E48" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> both</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E49" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E49" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> reasonable</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E50" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E50" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and comforting</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E51" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E51" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to me. Who am I? I need to answer </span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E52" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E52" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">that question before I can figure out how to become who I want to be. </span></div>
<div id="E44" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E44" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E52" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div is="qowt-word-para" named-flow="FLOW-3" qowt-eid="E54" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E57" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E57" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am a 41 year old mother of four. I am an introverted 41 year old mother of four with few friends. I am a 41 year old cashier at a grocery store with a Masters Degree. I am a 41 year old woman with varicose veins, a lazy eye and a </span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E58" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E58" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">sour</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E59" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E59" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> disposition. I have no career. I have never built that. I have no idea what I'm doing. I am angry. I am sad. I am disappointed. The list is made. I am all these things. But</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E60" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E60" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I find </span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E61" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E61" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">myself</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E62" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E62" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> wondering,</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E63" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E63" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> am I only these things? </span></div>
<div id="E64" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E64" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<br data-line-break="true" id="E66" qowt-divtype="data-line-break" qowt-eid="E66" /><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E67" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E67" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I begin the list again. The list must be revised, I realize, because it is not entirely right. Things are missing. </span></div>
<div id="E68" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E68" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<br data-line-break="true" id="E70" qowt-divtype="data-line-break" qowt-eid="E70" /><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E71" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E71" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am a 41 year old mother of four who was abandoned by her parents and now needs to be with her children as much as possible. I am a 41 year old mother of four who works at a grocery store because it allows me to spend the days with my kids. I am a 41 year old mother of four who is writing a book and is teaching her children to follow their dreams even when life has told them they are too old, or too impractical. I am a 41 year old woman with a family I love and a house with a peeling bathroom floor and other defects. It matches me in its imperfection, but it is comfortable and big enough and it is home. It is a place where memories are made and I am thankful. </span> </div>
<div id="E44" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E44" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E52" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
<div id="E72" is="qowt-word-para" named-flow="FLOW-4" qowt-eid="E72" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<br data-line-break="true" id="E74" qowt-divtype="data-line-break" qowt-eid="E74" /><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E75" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E75" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am a fighter for the underdog, the misfit, the truth (even when it hurts) teller, the introvert who sometimes enjoys the company of others. I am a 41 year old with veins in legs that work and are strong, and eyes that while lazy are able to watch my </span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E76" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E76" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">children change from day to day. I am a 41 year old woman who has lived 11 years longer than the mother, my mother, who didn't get this far. </span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E79" is="qowt-word-run" named-flow="FLOW-5" qowt-eid="E79" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The mother who never had a house with flaws, or a marriage that she worked hard on, or children who counted on </span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" is="qowt-word-run" named-flow="FLOW-5" qowt-eid="E79" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">her</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E80" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E80" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">,</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E81" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E81" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and knew her.</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E83" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E83" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The mother who could never truly be a mother because she succumbed to an addiction she couldn't fight. </span></div>
<div id="E84" is="qowt-word-para" qowt-eid="E84" qowt-entry="undefined" qowt-lvl="undefined" style="background-color: white; font-family: Calibri, Carlito, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 1.2; list-style-type: none; padding: 0px 0px 0pt;">
<br data-line-break="true" id="E86" qowt-divtype="data-line-break" qowt-eid="E86" /><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E87" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E87" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am so many things I realize as I mentally refine my list. </span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E88" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E88" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fine</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E89" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E89" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I am NOT the person I thought I would be. But maybe that's okay. Maybe it's time to stop comparing and being envious. Maybe it's time to embrace the life I have, instead of the life I thought that I was supposed to. No, I am NOT the person I thought I would be. Are any of us? Does life even allow for that? I am NOT that person. Instead</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E90" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E90" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">,</span><span class="qowt-font5-Tinos" id="E91" is="qowt-word-run" qowt-eid="E91" style="display: inline; font-family: Tinos !important; font-size: 18pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I am this one. I am a flawed, imperfect dreamer. I am all the things that I need to be. Maybe you are too. </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-30019316486227678912016-07-13T21:30:00.000-04:002016-07-13T21:30:22.345-04:00The Vag Gadge--Getting Personal with an FUD <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqWsQBkarWMoyUU0TMtZ96OiPfTS_awr3CH85n_6YjBpztwIh7lSyuB2ohtiBn8LXhjQEzEHhCjwa9VB0L0m4v6sTcqNTKjAiTmNnT-e_MJkUQQs8FFHjlNCWlD1aSSdalI3ZS7F4vlA/s1600/final+female+urinal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWqWsQBkarWMoyUU0TMtZ96OiPfTS_awr3CH85n_6YjBpztwIh7lSyuB2ohtiBn8LXhjQEzEHhCjwa9VB0L0m4v6sTcqNTKjAiTmNnT-e_MJkUQQs8FFHjlNCWlD1aSSdalI3ZS7F4vlA/s400/final+female+urinal.jpg" width="193" /></a></div>
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<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">I can't believe the things people come up with. Recently, after my
rant about Period Panteez, a friend of mine tossed a gem my way. The Female
Urination Device (FUD, yes FUD) or STP (stand-to-pee device, no I'm not making
this shit up) offers ladies the ability to stand while peeing, or to piss like
a guy.</span></span></div>
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 150%;">I know what you're thinking, WTF? Initially, I thought the same
thing. Why would any women want such a thing? It looks like some alien-version
of a female plastic penis, or a beer funnel, and while they come in my favorite
color and are reasonably priced, it's still awkward and unnatural looking.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 150%;">The ads are unbelievable, first a naked woman with the vag gadge
in place and then a picture of her fully-clothed as a steady stream of water
(aka urine) flows from her unzipped fly. Very ladylike</span><span style="line-height: 150%;">—</span><span style="line-height: 150%;">etiquette hounds everywhere are silently screaming because to
scream out loud isn't proper.</span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 150%;"><b>Here is what Wikipedia has to offer on the subject:</b></span><span style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="line-height: 150%;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;">Female urination devices have increased in popularity since the
1990s. They are used for outdoor pursuits, and for medical reasons.</span><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><i>Urinals are available for use by girls and women. Some designs
require the user to supply their own personal female urination device, while
other designs do not have this expectation.</i></span><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4jMUfg3ENXJvsG4ql6TvIX4WKuy1ZE9OqHhFeOGWSZ_oBm6YsaR5nTb7Vt4RmCODi2o_4PqHUFvaW-ayz_w_sHowK8L1uayXAmqgjz26lXvdjbvCL8ffFBAeJoG1PBkW50aVNYlHHvaw/s1600/Vag+Gadge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4jMUfg3ENXJvsG4ql6TvIX4WKuy1ZE9OqHhFeOGWSZ_oBm6YsaR5nTb7Vt4RmCODi2o_4PqHUFvaW-ayz_w_sHowK8L1uayXAmqgjz26lXvdjbvCL8ffFBAeJoG1PBkW50aVNYlHHvaw/s320/Vag+Gadge.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here is the GOGIRL.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><b>And here are a few other interesting facts: </b></span><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<ul>
<li><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Products have fitting names such as Freshette, SheWee, GoGirl,
PStyle and Whiz Freedom. </span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">They come in many designs and colors and materials such as
plastic, rubber, silicone and paper. Some products are reusable and some are
disposable. </span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">FUD's are used in the armed forces and other outdoor jobs.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Female urination devices are sometimes used by trans
men as "stand-to-pee" devices.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">There are even female urinals and disposable female urination
devices were patented as far back as 1922. </span></span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><b>Now that I know more and have had time to digest, I can actually
think of several uses for the Female Urination Device: </b></span><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;">1. No more sitting on porta potties or public toilets. If these
come in youth sizes you can grab some for your daughter. You can even give them
as gifts to the other females in your life, friends, mother-in-law,
grandmother, etc. Just imagine their surprise when one of these gems show up
under the Christmas tree. You'll never have to worry about duplicating a
gift. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;">2</span></span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: inherit; font-size: large; line-height: 150%;">. For teenagers who drink in the strangest places, including
the woods. Now they won't have to squat when they pee and risk getting ticks or
poison ivy in the most private of areas. NOTE: I am not condoning teenage
drinking, though I did quite a bit myself and the vag gadge would have been a
godsend not only for me, but for the parent who had to clean my smelly
urine-soaked clothes. Peeing in the woods while drunk isn't easy when you have
to pop a squat. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;">3. If you and your man don't get enough quality time, grab an
FUD and hit the restroom together. The two of you will get to share a new level
intimacy on those rare date nights<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>and</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>every time you go to a public place
together. Or show your ten-year-old, a regular offender of marking your toilet
with urine, what it's like to sit on a wet toilet seat after you too pee
standing up and oops...miss the mark. </span><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;">4. The ability to piss like a man will surely grant you
permission to use the male restroom while out shopping. If the ladies room is
packed, hit the men’s room. This is especially handy at bars and concerts where
the ladies room is always packed, or out and about where you still feel like
your ten-year-old son is too young to fly solo on restroom trips. You've never
felt right with all the pervs out there. Now you can accompany him into the
restroom. I'm sure he'll be pleased. Sure, you may get funny looks as you pee
in the urinal of the Target restroom, but it's all good. Plus, more mother/son
bonding time. </span><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;">5. If you are outdoorsy or still enjoy getting loaded in the
woods, the vag gadge won't do you wrong. It will allow you the freedom ‘to go’
anywhere. Your bloated, weakened, I've had several kids and pee when I sneeze
or anyone else does bladder, will thank you. </span><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;">6. Family road trips will be so much better. While my
mother-in-law recommends carrying a fluff jar for such endeavors, I think the
FUD will make pissing into a fluff bucket much easier. Man, they really do need
to make these in youth sizes. </span><span style="color: #252525; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: "inherit" , "serif"; font-size: 18.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Well, I hope I've made an argument for using the latest and
greatest in female devices. I am thinking of experimenting with one of these
and reporting back. If you think that sounds like something you'd enjoy reading
about or something you can make fun of me for, leave a note in the comments below
or on the Sh*t Show Facebook fan page. I live to make you laugh...until you
pee. Just think when you do (pee), you could be using an FUD. Until next time,
thanks for reading!</span><span style="color: #252525; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-61156836449802171222016-07-01T15:48:00.000-04:002016-07-03T10:40:53.954-04:00How To Have A Happy 1980's 4th of July<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCt-lA8sHNuQnMZuuB2mJbhhjCOgOOYQtvFliZFavoK-OTZwzm-3aBhr7HQuYnLKVrHoCd0uq38CimJLjQMxk0ohKshkbPVA7mM5wQc_d_DrBbQe8TGlt8NzcvLDrrGUsyH8DeukmN2y4/s1600/1980%2527s+4th+of+Julybheading.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCt-lA8sHNuQnMZuuB2mJbhhjCOgOOYQtvFliZFavoK-OTZwzm-3aBhr7HQuYnLKVrHoCd0uq38CimJLjQMxk0ohKshkbPVA7mM5wQc_d_DrBbQe8TGlt8NzcvLDrrGUsyH8DeukmN2y4/s640/1980%2527s+4th+of+Julybheading.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">For those of us who grew up in the 1980’s the 4<sup style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; top: -0.5em;">th</sup> of July was the event of the summer. This year show your family what the best summer holiday was like back in the day.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Wake everyone up with a breakfast of eggs, bacon and pancakes covered in butter. Don't worry, you can go jogging with the other moms tomorrow, if you're not too hungover. Dress the kids (and the mister) in the colors of the flag. Pull the girl's hair back with their red, white and blue ribbon barrettes.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Table clothes, napkins and plates should not only represent every color of the American flag, but should match as well. Decorations should be plentiful with bunting, mini flags for the kids and a home flag waving proudly out front.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Start your day with the annual 4<sup style="border: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; top: -0.5em;">th</sup> of July parade, nearly every city and town has one, or at least they used to. Wave your flags and cheer while balancing at least one child on your shoulders. They need to see too. The other kids can run ahead with the eleven-year-old who babysits when you go for drinks with the mister, The Millers and The Joneses (showoffs) every Friday night. What? She has her babysitter's certificate.</span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Afterward, you can head back home for the neighborhood cookout where people will wander in and out of your house, to use the bathroom and refill the ice bucket, until dark.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Make sure the desserts are as festive as your attire. Impress the neighbors with your colorful and patriotic flag cake—red strawberries, white frosting and blueberries make this one a winner. A white frosted Bundt cake with red and blue sprinkles also works. Rocket pops and snow cones are great for the kids. Copious amounts of sugar will allow them to stay up late into the night so they don’t miss a moment of the fireworks show, or Mr. Miller throwing up off the side of the deck after a few too many. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Put away the propane or gas grill and roll out the charcoal grill or, if you're especially adventurous, the hibachi. Pick up a bag of charcoal when you hit the hardware store. Keep the menu simple with 1980’s American cookout staples—hot dogs with beans, cheeseburgers (with orange processed cheese), and kielbasa. Oh, and what cookout would be complete without corn on the cob with yellow corn cob holders? Also at the hardware store. Don’t forget the salads—pasta and potato. And a bean or 7-layer dip is a must, as are pigs in a blanket.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Set your radio to the sounds of the oldies or make a mix tape. Any song circa the 70’s or 80’s mentioning America, freedom or the 4th of July works. When thinking retro patriotism, think classic favorites like Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park,” anything by CCR or “American Pie” by Don McLean.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Drinks in flag colors recall simpler times. Anything that can be blended, shaken or stirred and poured into a red, white and/or blue plastic cup is perfect. Serve the kids Shirley Temples or a classic American favorite, Coca-Cola.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">The sounds of kids running amok in the neighborhood, Lord of the Flies style, can be enjoyed and ignored while the adults get sloshed. Remember free-range parenting is best. Let them ride bikes sans helmet while humming along to the portable radio they carry in the white basket attached to the front of their Huffy bike. The sounds should be heard throughout the neighborhood and provide the ideal retro ambient noise. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">And let the kids show their American pride with sparklers. Relax, no one is going to lose a finger, or an eye. Watch as they chase fireflies in the front yard and throw white snappers at each others feet. All while the adults drink<a href="http://www.midnightmixologist.com/80s" target="_blank"> Long Island Ice Teas </a>and <a href="http://www.midnightmixologist.com/80s" target="_blank">Singapore Slings</a> as they play lawn darts. Hey kids, watch out these things are sharp. And if lawn darts aren't your thing, they'll be ping pong in the garage turned into a rec room for summer. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">And make sure to pass out firecrackers, a staple of any throwback 4<sup style="border: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; top: -0.5em;">th</sup> of July. Don't let Billy have any. He's only three. Tommy is old enough at six though. No one will get hurt. Be sure to cover your ears, they are loud. And after you have your own illegal amateur fireworks show in the backyard, go see the real show thrown by the town. Whether sitting on a grassy, hillside lawn on Main Street or lounging on a sandy beach, fireworks are the best way to wrap up an already glorious day. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">After the vibrant and colorful finale, you can carry the tired, semi-conscious mosquito-bitten kids back to the car and head home. When they wake up itching in the middle of the night, break out the Calamine lotion and cotton balls, used Bingo blotter style, whle they help you count the bites. And don't worry about searching your kids for ticks. We certainly didn't in 1980-something. </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Now get to sleep. Tomorrow you have to put on your tube socks and head for a jog. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: left;"></span><br /></span>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Happy 1980's 4<sup style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; top: -0.5em;">th</sup> of July!!!!</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://play.spotify.com/user/1267579355/playlist/2H6XbmGFgnbBW3C8GTCSqq" target="_blank">Retro 4th of July Playlist</a> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">*If you click on the link above it will take you to my Spotify playlist which contains the songs below. </span></b><br />
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<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Saturday In The Park (<i>Chicago</i>)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">We're Coming to America (<i>Neil Diamond</i>)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Born In The U.S.A (<i>Bruce Springsteen</i>)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Born on the Bayou (<i>CCR</i>)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Philadelphia Freedom (<i>Elton John</i>) </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">On the 4th of July (<i>James Taylor</i>)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">American Pie (<i>Don McLean</i>)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">America (<i>Simon & Garfunkel</i>) </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">American Girl (<i>Tom Petty</i>)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Living in America (<i>James Brown</i>)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Kids in America (<i>Kim Wilde</i>)</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Hot Fun in the Summertime (<i>Sly & The Family Stone</i>) </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Mungo Jerry (In the Summertime)</span></li>
</ul>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-21570273637889182892016-04-03T19:29:00.000-04:002016-04-07T08:21:26.848-04:00If Stephen King Wrote Children's Books...They'd Still Be Scary as Hell!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2016/04/if-stephen-king-wrote-childrens.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikdlKBmCbQ0nRiqVCUTXLLF1djLbqLJuKdgn4xNosqlaSCNh-nyFB0qUv9AypkRi3B4No7MBe3wwDb29bpGStSNWYQ6xIs5FrLylEIwHyyDAWoZR4g3ydtB9maBtG3U6wzTmugTQnCFtg/s400/If.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Growing up in the 80's, I read every Stephen King book that I could get my hands on. I loved the magic of <i>The Green Mile</i> and the frightening premise of <i>Thinner</i>. And when in 2009, King released another monster-sized novel called, <i>Under the Dome</i>, I was thrilled. I read the book and, several years later, watched every episode of the show. But lately, as a mother with children, I moved away from King's scary books. As I was pulled into the world of child-friendly stories, I found myself wondering what life would have been like if Stephen King had written children's books.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Here I try to imagine what that would have looked like. Even when writing for kids, King's tales would remain macabre. After all, he is the master of horror...</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Under the Comb</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></i><i style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(based on Under the Dome)</span></i></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is the harrowing story of a mother and daughter who fight the evil head lice that have infiltrated Castle Rock elementary school. During school pictures, there was definite comb sharing and when the school nurse finds a nit in Torrance's hair, even after her mother adds tea tree oil to the family shampoo, all hell breaks loose. Torrance's mother is so angry she goes off the deep end soaking the girl's head in mayo, olive oil and every other condiment known to man. In the gut-wrenching finale, Torrance's mother, Margaret White, after receiving a direct message from God, takes out her clipping shears and gives Tor a menacing mohawk. Distraught by her mother's actions, the girl quits the junior tumbling squad and joins a biker gang of 1980's throwback kids who ride their Huffy bikes all over the neighborhood unsupervised, and don't return until the street lights come on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>The Green Bile </i></span><i style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">(based on The Green Mile)</i></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Based on a true story, a family of six comes down with the stomach bug to end all stomach bugs. First it hits the kids, then the mom and dad. The house is such a mess, the laundry piles up and the parents can't even. After the fifteenth load, the washer floods and the children float into the neighbor's yard. The parents attempt to retrieve their brood of four, but realize the youngest has floated down into the sewer system. They hear the maniacal laughter of a crazy clown who feeds off the children's illness, which has now spread to the whole town. The people of Derry have created a total and utter barforama. 11 year old Tommy must save his family and his town before it is buried under a sea of bile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "tinos"; font-size: x-large;"><i>Winner </i></span><i style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">(based on Thinner) </i></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">At a town little league championship, the parents band together against a grandmother who makes a fuss about the fact that they are giving all the children a trophy, not just the winning team. Her children never received trophies just for playing, the grandmother insists. If you make them all winners all the time, they'll never learn how to lose she warns. The parents force Dolores Claiborne off the field and into the street where she is hit by a car driven by a local teenage boy. Just as she is about to meet her maker, Dolores swears she sees the car's headlights glow a demonic red. The mob buries her in the neighboring pet cemetery. After things calm down, Oprah joins them at the banquet held at the local town hall. She hands out trophies while yelling, "You're a winner and you're a winner. You are all winners," and the kids believe her because well, she's Oprah.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>The Bed Zone </i></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(based on The Dead Zone)</i></span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A mother goes to bed one night and is haunted by her three children who come to her in the darkness. The first, comes at the stroke of midnight complaining of nightmares. The second, throws up in her bed and the mother, so harried from lack of sleep, remembers the back up set of sheets are still in the washer (after three days). And the third, and final child, makes a striking and exhausting argument that it is unfair that his siblings get to sleep in the parent's bed when he does not. The tired mother, Rose, upset that the whole Madder family is in the queen size bed, brings the child back to his room only to realize, with growing dread, that he has returned when she momentarily nodded off--and the dog and cat have joined him. Rose vows to get even after the youngest (or the dog, no one is sure) has an accident in the bed. She is sick of having to deal with the tiny little slice of space she has in her own bed. Rose is tired of never sleeping. The mother of three will have her revenge...but in the meantime realizes that she is battling a bad case of insomnia. Rose flees to the couch where she watches every episode of<i> Orange is the New Black</i> on Netflix. Prison doesn't seem so bad, at least they get to sleep.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Cell </span></i><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(based on Cell)</span></i></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A mother allows her young son to use her cell phone to watch an egg surprise video on YouTube. The egg they open contains a rare toy that has the potential to open the gate to hell. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Oblivious, she orders a venti, half-whole milk, one quarter 1%, one quarter non-fat, extra hot, split quad shots (1 1/2 shots decaf, 2 1/2 shots regular), no foam latte, with whip, 2 packets of splenda, 1 sugar in the raw, a touch of vanilla syrup and 3 short sprinkles of cinnamon from the Target Starbucks. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The mother, hyped up on caffeine and mega savings, posts a status update to Facebook of her trying on various outfits. She hopes her friends will like the floral print dress, though knows they'll choose the striped one. Her son tries to show her the video in order to stop the unfolding events that could lead to the end of days, but she is so absorbed in picking out a wine, for a Jamberry party she'll be hosting later that evening, that she ignores him. Big mistake! The son, afraid, and looking for a weapon to go fight the bad guys, runs into the one to three dollar area, and is lost forever. The mother only notices that he is missing after watching an employee named Carrie call for a price check on maxi pads, which is what the mother originally came to Target for.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">If you enjoyed this post, please check out another irreverent post by clicking on the image below.</span> </div>
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<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/10/5-types-of-families-you-meet-in-suburbia.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivkuOk9kOyp83KklvkkzTS7cZ_J3vj-5FpPnzZGSYRQlmopknf2dWU8S0izcD7neLilMl6yOdhRRCIMnhc_ZUby52AO-9vJrjrLy1uN_K4gc7nLsemXcl7ass7t7AYpYt_sZY9d2g2yM4/s320/Christian+D.+Larson.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-48613558314996900262016-03-23T18:30:00.000-04:002016-03-24T08:47:05.558-04:00Netflix Killed the Video Store <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2016/03/netflix-killed-video-store.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJp9q9nkS5QQjbpywDIoQcCUpkxecSnuKbPMzZeBkz2Fp_4cBFGC2bV0Z_5l7c07Ow5ynfaKGl4rDTMS3Hr938VNtWlrsACC67cU1V5N5ZXZp8Ym0J4umbLkJkgjaq6B2yZDx9GLiKSQ/s640/Netflix+Killed+the+Video+Store.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Netflix, I love you. I really, really do but--you killed the video store. And as I sit here with a glass of wine and a high-calorie snack, putting on another episode of my latest 'it' show, I can't help but remember how much I <i><span style="color: #990000;">loved</span></i> the video store. First, the mom and pop shop down the street. The one where I rented every slasher film--the good, the bad and the horrible--with forged parental notes. The one where I spent hours searching through movies filled with worlds so different from my own. Okay, maybe not hours because usually the owner would kick us out after about twenty minutes. I loved that place, even the cantankerous owner and his equally grumpy wife. </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: large;">When I got older, Blockbuster (along with the library) was my favorite place. I could (and did) cruise the aisles for hours picking out my movie. I even joined their 30 movies for 30 days for $30 club. I wrote my final graduate paper on, 'The Role of the Authority Figure in Slasher Films' with the help of that deal.<br /><br />I remember the feeling of excitement when I actually got my hands on a new movie. Often it would come in while I was browsing and I'd find it in the return pile. I remember the switch from VHS to DVD. I remember the wave of the employees I came to know, the sheer joy of picking my candy as I waited to pay--Chewy Sprees, Swedish Fish or Twizzlers.<br /><br />I loved the Blockbuster card that I lost at least three times a month. I dreaded late fees, lost movies, and the VHS tape that would get caught in the VCR.<br /><br />I miss going out to find a movie and a snack. I miss the fluorescent lights and the suggestions-"If you liked that, you'll love this." They were good for this introvert. I miss the movies playing on large televisions while I searched.<br /><br />I miss the Blockbuster commercials showing families on couches and couples in beds in homes across America. They so obviously enjoyed getting lost in the land of make believe instead of the world of bills and responsibility. <br /><br />I'm reminded of how important video stores were to my generation and how irrelevant they will be to this one, just as they were to the generation before mine. They didn't have a long run or occupy a prominent space in history. The first professionally managed video store opened in 1977 in Los Angeles. And s</span><span style="font-size: large;">ure, there are still video stores but they are a dying breed. The video store of my youth closed down years ago. It still hurts me when I go home and drive past the unoccupied space that still holds a piece of my youth. My</span><span style="font-size: large;"> children will never know the joy or anticipation that I did. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I think about some of the writers and directors who fed their passion and educated themselves in film while they worked behind the counter of a video store: Tarantino, Kevin Williamson and Kevin Smith. Williamson's days as video store clerk had such a profound effect on him that Pacey and Dawson (from <i>Dawon's Creek</i>) worked there. And Randy Meeks from <i>Scream</i> laid out the rules for slasher films in the video store where he worked. (See the clip below for the greatest video store clip ever.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/udd6FVohrj0" width="459"></iframe><br /><br />The end of the video store is simply the evolution of technology. Bigger and better things came along. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Ironically, I dreamt of the day when I would be able to call up almost any movie without having to leave my living room. That days is here and for some reason, I miss the old days. I miss the search, I miss the anticipation. I miss it all....</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Yes, the days of searching for movies in a store are gone but for me they will always be a part of my GenX childhood. <br /><br />**This is for my friends who remember what life was like before. This is for the movie lovers, the pop culture junkies--my people.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-72692832346198427672016-03-20T20:40:00.000-04:002016-04-03T19:56:27.246-04:00HGTV: The Drinking Game<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2016/03/hgtv-drinking-game.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipNcM6Iu-DNqkwv6TPBPI1fONfIIPXgwfGqY8AYJRpTmpbzEPdsEm1Yyq1wlyvjrM5yTley6Fr7NasRWhwvOHLsCxssbOq4VuDz33NzaV5wKdcs0kBEoFuKKpDvkRoMA62unomMvaKgNw/s640/-+happy+st.+patrick%2527s+day.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I love HGTV. I love everything about it. It is, in fact, the safe channel for my kids. And by that I mean that when my husband is watching Cops, the news or any other totally inappropriate show with swearing/drugs and derelicts, I simply yell, "HGTV." He gets it. I also love the comfort, the familiarity, the predictability. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We understand that the Property Brothers will always bring their latest clients to a house that they can't afford to show them how insane they are for believing they can buy perfection on their budget. And after the twins dangle the proverbial carrot in front of the home buyers, they always act surprised that Drew and Jonathan would be so cruel. And yes, this does seem strange since the couple must have seen the show and known what to expect. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yet, this predictability is part of HGTV's appeal and while it may appear that it leads to boredom and viewer fatigue, it doesn't have to. I give you HGTV: The Drinking Game. I will use some of HGTV's most popular shows complete with alcohol and snack pairings. Next time you <strike>are so fed up you throw the kids in bed</strike> get the kids to bed early and <strike>force</strike> lovingly invite the hubby to join you, keep this list handy. </span><br />
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<b><span style="color: orange; font-size: x-large;"><u>Property Brothers</u></span></b></h2>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: orange;">Snack suggestions: </span><span style="color: orange; font-weight: normal;">Beer Nuts or regular old bar peanuts Jon Jon fans and brie, capers and grapes if you like Drewby.</span></span></i></h2>
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<i><span style="color: orange; font-size: large;"><span style="color: orange;">Beverage pairings: </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Beer if you like the contractor brother (Jonathan) an import of some sort, maybe a blonde. The guy did have highlights. Wine if you like the realtor brother (Drew) or maybe a gin and tonic. That man is so fancy with his suits. </span></span></i></h2>
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<u><span style="color: orange; font-size: large;"><b>Drink if/when:</b></span></u><br />
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<li><span style="font-size: large;">Jonathan and Drew engage in silly sibling banter.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">The couple (normally the woman) begins taking the decisions out of Jonathan's hands and oversteps the clearly drawn boundaries. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">The husband rolls his eyes knowingly as his demanding wife who is not a designer or involved in real estate or home repair in any way picks something out that they didn't talk about. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Drink when he gives up and in. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">The brothers get annoyed with the couple. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">The brothers get annoyed with each other. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">The couple is upset to find their last minute and often strange requests (a rock climbing wall in the bathroom), jack up the price and blow the contingency budget.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Jonathan has already blown the budget on a new foundation or other major issue that you would think would have been red flagged during the home inspection.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">If you think Drew has an easier job because he simply has to sell the beautiful, modern, like-new house his poor worker brother had to fix up.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">When you realize that you still don't know the difference between Jonathan and Drew. Who can blame you? They are twins. Hint: One wears a suit and the other flannels and jeans.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Drink when this hint still doesn't help. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">When Drew tells the couple to keep the house clean while they show the place in spite of the five kids running around, hence the need for a new house. Oops, that's a different Scott brothers' show. Sorry, I've been drinking. How many shows do these boys have anyway?</span></li>
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<b><span style="color: blue; font-size: x-large;"><u>Fixer Upper</u></span></b></h2>
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<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b style="color: blue;">Snack suggestions: </b>For Chip fans-chips and dip, a ranch or maybe some salsa. If you love Jo homemade cookies or bread made from the fresh eggs and milk of farm animals (because they have a farm). </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b style="color: blue;">Beverage pairings: </b>If you like chip it's beer in a Baylor koozie. Something domestic-Bud or Coors. Or you can go south of the border with a Corona and lime. And Jo would keep it classy with either a martini (maybe a Cosmo or an Appletini). You could also go Stoli Raz and tonic. </span></i></div>
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<li><span style="font-size: large;">Jo says shiplap. Okay, this one may get you sick drunk. Keep a throw up bucket nearby...Jo really likes shiplap. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Drink twice if they make a joke about shiplap or Jo's obsession with the white wood.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Chip makes a joke about something sexual or his height. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">They say, 'open this up,' or 'open up.' What do these two have against defined spaces/rooms? </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Jo says, "I think they'll like this one," or asks, "What do you guys think?"</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Chips says something dumb or embarrassing. Jo rolls her eyes and looks exasperated. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">They show an animal. Drink twice if it's a goat. Drink again if they show the Magnolia Farm sign or the silo.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Chip says something like, "Jo, I think we have a problem." </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Chip makes Jo call the homeowner about 'the problem.' Drink twice if Chip makes the call (this is as rare as unicorn dust).</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Jo has the client out to the farm. Drink once if they pick the cheapest special project option with the leftover money, twice for the most expensive. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Jo and Chip pimp themselves out with a commercial for their show--during their show.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">When there is a surprise or big news and Jo makes her, 'surprise,' face as they cut to commercial. </span></li>
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<b><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: x-large;"><u>House Hunters</u></span></b></h2>
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<i><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #f1c232; font-weight: bold;">Snack suggestions: </span>Party foods like pigs in a blanket, cheese and crackers or chicken wings. This is honor of the end of the show when the new homeowners finally have family over for a celebration. No, it doesn't look staged. </span></i><br />
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<i><span style="color: #f1c232; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #f1c232;"><b>Beverage pairings:</b> </span>Margaritas--because they are fun! </span></i><br />
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<li><span style="font-size: large;">The couple can't agree on home style or where they want to live. (he wants a fixer-upper, she wants move-in ready or he wants modern, she wants traditional).</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">The agent has to school the home buyers on the realities of homeownership because they want more than they can afford. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">They want a music room, man cave or craft room.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Anyone says the word, 'spacious,' 'curb appeal,' 'stainless steel,' or 'granite.' Drink twice if it's the realtor.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Drink once if they have a dog. Twice if they need a yard for the dog. Do a shot if the dog has a stupid name. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Either one of the couple is uncomfortable with the 'high end' of the budget. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">They want the city but the realtor tells them the city is expensive and brings them to the suburbs. Drink again if they seem pissed.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">The realtor shows them something over budget. Drink again if they seem pissed.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">The realtor tells them it has been on the market forever and they can get a deal. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Once if you and your significant other think you'd be friends with the couple. Twice if you just. can't. with the couple and you can think of the million reasons why. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Once if the demanding husband calls the shots, and he'll make the final decision. Twice if it will be the pushy wife. Do a shot if they compromise. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">You are placing bets on how long the marriage will last. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">You question why they got married at all. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">Once if you guess which house they are going to choose, twice if you don't. Do a shot if you guess incorrectly and your husband gets it right. Make him do a shot if he brags. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">They are an odd couple.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">The husband is too tall for the shower or doesn't fit in the tub. </span></li>
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<span style="font-size: large;">HGTV is fun but can be even more fun with the proper beverage and snack. Enjoy and drink responsibly!</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-47742565442094851342016-03-10T19:09:00.002-05:002016-03-10T19:09:50.039-05:00FU, SKINNY JEANS! YOU’RE OUT.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2016/03/fu-skinny-jeans-youre-out.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkLBpGMSZPh662bPybuHA1fESoSvXwWF5H59NPIEjzC2WlvnXzJA6iQjZed347zLl6clUF_jIpX0DoB2rOMzURnvDp85IP8EyD9qsNI0eyqL_NRO6KpESCisnZWBwpdKFRHyBe2zC-pw0/s400/Bedtime.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; line-height: 29.25px;">They were everywhere for what felt like an eternity. They clothed the cool and fashionable mom at </span>school<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 29.25px;"> drop off, the one who always seemed so together and had the impossible measurements of a Barbie doll. They looked equally as fabulous on the twenty-something who helped you pick them out, promising you’d be able to pull them off, too. She was wrong.</span></span></div>
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To wear them you had to either be six feet tall and in perfect shape or a young girl. They favor the long-legged and tall. I am neither. I have a long torso and stand at just five feet. But, Skinny Jeans were the ‘it’ thing. Even my eight-year-old wanted them because they apparently meant third grade popularity, along with Spaghettios. The thought made me shudder as she asked for them for her upcoming birthday. But as I searched stores in the mall, something joyous happened. The fickle-fingered-fashion world pointed to skinny jeans and said, “You’re out.”</div>
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Skinny jeans, here are just a few reasons I’m happy to see you go.</div>
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<span style="color: #333333; line-height: 29.25px;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">You are not made for the curves of my baby-making body.</span> With each </span>child<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 29.25px;"> my hips have widened to carry and birth babies. Had you come along in my twenties before kids and the ravages of both gravity and time, maybe I would have been more receptive. You see, it’s not you I take issue you with, but rather your tight nature.</span></span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">You are clingier than my two-year-old.</span> And not nearly as flattering or cute. He at least does not accentuate my muffin top. Instead, when I carry him, his body covers the fat roll which, in fact, is a necessity as it acts as a small shelf for his thirty-pound body to rest on.</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">You cause camel toe, and I no longer enjoy fishing fabric out of my lady bits.</span> I don’t think I ever did. I may have caved into the pressure in my younger years, but I am done with that. I no longer wear thongs either. I have given them up for the comfy, fuller fit of real underwear. They are cotton, they are breathable, and they don’t ride up my back or front side.</div>
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<span style="color: #333333;">While my</span> new mommy<span style="color: #333333;"> underwear are comfy, you don’t seem as fond of them as I. Your outright animosity is evident. They look foolish when worn with your skin-sucking material, their outline visible as the cotton undies gather and bunch, defeating the purpose of comfy granny-panties.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">I hate fighting with you.</span> You know what I mean. I pull and pull, but you never give an inch. You are unforgiving; you won’t budge. I eventually fall on the bed and cry, wondering why you continue to taunt me. I rest and try again, wondering why I don’t simply toss you into the Goodwill pile with all the other clothing I no longer fit into or want. Why do you hate me, Skinny Jeans? Why?</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">You look fabulous with riding boots and long sweaters, which make you seem flattering when, in fact, you are the exact opposite.</span> The boots and sweaters are the reasons I have kept you around for so long. They have saved your ass for months, but no more. Even they are beginning to turn on you. They look just as amazing with leggings, and I don’t have to fight with them. Leggings like me. They get me because they not only accept my flaws, but they embrace them as well.</div>
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Skinny Jeans, we are finished. The time has come for us all to move on with the next great thing. I hear boot cut is back. I hope that’s true. They are so comfy, so roomy, so great with my new underwear. Maybe someone will find you at Goodwill and bring you home.</div>
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<span style="color: #333333; line-height: 29.25px;">You better pray it’s not a </span>mom<span style="color: #333333; line-height: 29.25px;">!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; line-height: 29.25px;"><i>This originally appeared on <a href="http://www.sammichespsychmeds.com/" target="_blank">Sammiches and Psych Meds</a></i></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-83848546483361316042016-02-29T16:55:00.000-05:002016-02-29T16:55:47.163-05:00storytime<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2016/02/storytime.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhny_z5apf34ewD2V-bcvCv5mJK39W1JKh-PBcfWhfqspmJVBqyG1rToc2GLQUWdGgvqZRuRfwxhjUa9kvdqKlxhWptmYvVaBxS5cQUKYw2IvSC7_1ODZ4Jbwdi7AiPlZW4S5aBMCWhIPs/s400/Storytime.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Whenever I go to the library there she is….the librarian. No, not the one for adults--she leaves you alone and won’t say a word until needed. I’m talking about the childrens’ librarian. I enter and she waves. I see the glimmer in her eye. I know that she is dying to guide my son to the latest Sci Fi, my daughter to a great new tween book about some talking animal, and the two little ones to the superhero section. </span></span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-f6825025-2eb7-6d53-0043-6ee800d7c260" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">She has multiple handouts, information about pajama nights, and scariest of all she is going to give me the hard sell on storytime. A sell so impassioned I wonder if she in fact collects some sort of commission for her efforts. The more heads, the more she makes. But, I don’t want to go to storytime. I’m afraid. I don’t like kiddie songs or bonding with others. While I am a mother, I am first and foremost an introvert who just wants to be left alone. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*****</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I enter the library, one dreary Friday, Sally (not her real name) perks up. “How are you?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Fine, thank you.” I wave and attempt to move away. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">She follows in voice only, “Have you ever been to storytime?” </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My eye twitches and my face contorts. I can actually feel my mouth frowning. I am glad she can’t see me. “No, I, we--” I stumble over my words.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Oh, you need to join us.” She catches up and stands directly across from me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I’m well...I don’t know what time and really have no details. I’ll stop by before we leave.” I grab the three year old’s hand. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Every Thursday at 10.” The woman’s eyes are fixed on me. “There is singing and stories. Occasionally we do arts and crafts.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I’ll never remember that. I haven’t even showered today and that is basic personal hygiene,” I say and she takes a step back. Again I have divulged too much, a habit I have when nervous. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“It just so happens that I have a sheet right here with all the information.” Just so happens my ass, this is no coincidence. She waves the light blue, thin piece of paper in front of me. “Times are listed in black.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Then, as if knowing my inner thoughts and sensing my fear, she bends down to the three year old. “You want Mommy to bring you to storytime, don’t you?” Bitch isn’t playing fair. But the boy has a fickle memory. Last night he forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste, left it on the floor and stepped on it. And while in that particular instance his less than stellar memory didn’t work in my favor, today it will. My boy forgets all sorts of things and this will just be another in the long list. I actually manage to smile knowing that for the first time since I entered the library, I am in control. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I’ll remind her,” the four year old says. My face drops back into a feelable frown. I know the librarian notices.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“See you next week,” the bespectacled, well-read woman says. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The following week, long since having forgotten about our unfortunate run in, the library parking lot is packed. I wonder what all the commotion is about. When I enter there they are, all gathered in a circle. Their young are attached to them by either a wearable contraption or because the cling ons simply won’t let go. It looks like some sort of sacrificial ritual as the mothers sway back and forth and sing. The grand high priestess is wearing a hand-knit sweater made by her sister (don’t ask me how I know, I just do) and singing and banging away on Satan’s instrument, a wooden guitar. The mother’s and babies sway while their toddler siblings run in and out of open legs nearly colliding. When two children actually do slam into each other, the mothers bend down and pick them up or hug them, all while still singing. And then the singing, crying and guitar picking rise in a cacophonous sound so loud I fear for my child’s hearing. I hold my hands over his ears. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I turn around to see if the other patrons notice. The open concept the library has decided was necessary, when they built decades ago, allows for no separation between the children’s section and the adults. No one seems to notice I think as I realize the library is nearly empty. The only other person is a man with headphones who seems to be listening to a book on tape. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I slowly back away from the group as they begin singing a song about boats and bumblebees. When I reach for the four year old’s hand, I notice she isn’t with me. I frantically turn in circles and then I see her--she is next to the librarian. Her tiny hips are moving almost in rhythm as her lips open and close, my girl is singing along. She is one of them. The librarian reaches toward me. Her finger at first pointing and then motioning for me to join her--them. The room is spinning, I feel dizzy. I am losing oxygen. The three year old has separated from me and is holding another toddler’s hand. I can’t fight it any longer....I can’t fight----</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">*****</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The library is packed as I pull into the only available parking space. When I enter, I hear the singing. They have started. Across the lobby I see her standing alone. I approach to talk with her, to tell her what I know. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Hi,” I say, “you must be new.” </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">She is holding the same blue piece of paper the librarian handed to me once. I quickly take her hand. We walk together toward the circle. The chorus has begun, “Kumbaya, my lord, Kumbaiya.” I take my rightful place between Suzy and Cindy. Storytime I think, I just love storytime. </span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-28010411606419138902016-02-21T21:17:00.001-05:002016-02-21T21:17:52.569-05:00Where Is The Goddamned Light?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2016/02/where-is-goddamned-light.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCc2rIZfAYWIIGNH-imJvt7KE7w6gj2OcVt6fj133si0OpP6vGLLCqDiYcoBod0l87aQMatndMaf_9XgyYATl06pqUGHZIylXq9Zz7Fgw3uuJr-OThKL7tEn8c8TYoPc3E1Db6ruWJBEM/s640/Where+is+the+Goddamned+Light.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Where was the
goddamned light? Couldn’t they send someone for her? She hated the way she felt;
dazed and hazy the way you feel when you wake up from a nap that has done more
harm than good. It was dark and there were no lines only jagged ends to things,
half of this and a quarter of that, she didn’t see any wholes. This place wasn’t
what she had expected. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Over here,” the
voice called, unrecognizable and genderless, having neither the high-pitched
tone of a woman, nor the low and deep hum of a man. She looked in the direction
of the voice and saw nothing, another mind game she thought. She had searched
in vain for a way out, a new place to go, but there was nothing beyond this…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
”I know, I’m late.
It’s been like that here lately.” The nondescript thing that sounded like her
mother said. When the woman came in full view, she realized that things weren’t
all that different. Her mother was the same with the grays tightly rolled into
curlers high up on her head. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I’m old aren’t I?”
the mother thing asked. “You remember me the way that I was. Your father see’s
me as a twenty-year-old college coed.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Daddy’s here?”
she asked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Well where else
would he be?” her mother sat on a small bench in a characterless green space. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I just thought
with the tax evasion, and the infidelity...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh, of course.
Well, we can talk about that later.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The last thing
Lorraine remembered: her heart, it was bad, rotted from the inside the doctor
told her before offering her a thin mint. She sat beside her husband and
searched for his hand, which he had yet to offer. Morty married her on a dare
he’d joke when they had dinner guests. He should’ve answered the question
instead of taken the dare he continued as the guests laughed, smiles hidden
behind green and red tinged martini glassed with twisted stems in matching
hues. The smiles of those more fortunate than she, with stronger marriages,
superior careers, smarter children and, all these years later, healthier hearts
that promised to beat well into their golden years. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What do you want
from me Raine? I told you to take Cat. She’s better at this sort of thing.” He finally
offered his hand. “You brought money didn’t you?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes, but I
figured in light of my failing heart, you’d at least pay for parking.” Her mother
told her never to marry a Jew, but what choice did she have, it was Mort or
Paul Farb. He weighed 300 pounds and had bad teeth. “At least he’s a gentile,”
Mother had said as if anyone still used such terminology, “won’t contaminate
our gene pool.” And what genes they had. Mother died at sixty-five after a
lengthy battle with dementia. In the end, she was calling Lorraine by the wrong
name and peeing in the flower garden behind the house. Lorraine believed
failing memories would find her too, ultimately causing her untimely demise.
Father, always a heavy drinker, died in his forties while driving to the
grocery store to pick up a bottle of whisky. His liver simply stopped working. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Do you want to
see your dad now? Or shall we wait?” Her mother began to unroll the curlers and
place them in a bag, white canvas with the words ‘My stuff’ emblazoned across
the front in a scripted, chartreuse font. She seemed impatient as if Lorraine
was keeping her from something. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hot date,
Mother?” Attempting to keep the sarcasm out of her voice failed, but after all
this time she wondered why her mother wasn’t happy to see her. They’d never had
a close relationship, but still. “I just don’t understand why you’re in such a
hurry. How much can be going on up here?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What makes you
think we’re up?” Mother adjusted the pin curls surrounding her face with a
small gold comb that seemed to have materialized from nowhere, which Lorraine supposed
was exactly where they were. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
She looked down,
“Are we?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Of course not,
why would you even think such a thing. Hell is a place for those who choose it,
you’d do well to remember that.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I only thought,
since Father is here.” Her mother stared at her, hands on hips, mouth puckered
causing the mild frown lines to go full tilt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 175.5pt; text-indent: .5in;">
“You
father never admitted to anything. Life wasn’t easy for him. How was it for you
and the Jew? Difficult, I’m sure since you’ve joined us at such a young age.”
The sound of a bell, from some distant place, echoed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Our marriage was
fine,” she lied, “not responsible for this at all. In fact, me being here is a
mistake. I was supposed to wake up. The doctor who performed the surgery was
one of the best in the country. Morty made sure of that,” she added the last
part in an attempt to stick it to her mother. Lorraine remembered that this is
exactly what their relationship had always been about, one upping each other,
grandstanding in order to alienate and humiliate the other person. Such a silly
thing for two women to do to one another, but they never could seem to get a
handle on it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I don’t know why
they sent me. You never wanted me around. I think maybe we should figure out a
better way to get you to the other side. I’m useless because you believe me to
be. I wish you’d had a better life. I’ll send your father.” With that, her
mother turned and walked off toward the blue sky surrounding them, fading into
it as if a part of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
So she waited,
sorry things ended the way they did. A common theme in her life, regret
promised to swallow her again. Why had she done this or failed to do that? But,
this wasn’t her fault. She had a bad heart, nothing Raine could do about that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
You didn’t have to
eat so much? Or smoke so often. What about all that butter and the bacon? The
voice inside her head that she’d always associated with Bethany Simmons, her
high school rival, said. Beth, both popular and beautiful, had actually never
said a word to her from elementary school through high school, but lived deep
inside of her anyway, cutting her down at various low points throughout her
life. Maybe she’d run into her somewhere now, the prom queen died at age
eighteen after being raped and beaten in a fraternity house at some New England
Ivy League school. At least I outlived her, Raine thought though the victory
felt empty because in Beth’s brief life Lorraine was sure she had been happier
than Raine had in all of hers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Apple Dumpling,”
her father stood holding her hand, though she’d never even sensed him. “What
brings you our way?” After looking at a chart on a shiny metal clip board he
made the cliché tsk, tsk sound which followed her around during her youth,
“Your heart, huh? I assumed you’d go batty like your Mom or have a shit liver
like me. At least you did something different. You never were one to run with
the crowd.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“The back brace
made that a bit difficult,” she started to say and rethought. Mentioning her
scoliosis would only cause him to make the hideous sound again. And of course,
she’d have to relive the times when she was invisible. When the other kids did
see her, she became the butt of their jokes, a pin board straight back holding
her in a position so uncomfortable she often missed school. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“How’d you manage
to piss your mother off?” He continued without waiting for an answer, another
annoying trait he dragged with him to the afterlife, “I suppose you two were
always like oil and water. Kaboom,” he held his hands back and brought them
together. “Well, no use dwelling on the unchangeable. Let’s get you to the
office. They want to meet you. I told them all about you, being a proud father
and all.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Proud, she thought
wondering why she had yet found the chance to say one word to a man who’d been
going on for so long. “Daddy, I think I need to go back.” She tried to turn and
walk away, but wherever they came from was gone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You can never go
back, only forward. Maybe things will suit you better up here. You want to
return to life? Why? I always thought it bored you. Raine, you never seemed to
fit. Up here, people let you start over.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Lorraine wondered
why this didn’t sound more appealing to her, he was right. Life had never been
kind. People would say, “Things can’t get any worse.” She would moan, “Fine,
but why don’t they ever get any better?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Maybe your right,
Daddy,” she didn’t have much to go back to, a philandering husband who allowed
her few of life’s luxuries, though their convenience store had done well in the
twenty years they’d owned it and had sold for a substantial profit. While he
drove around in a brand new sports car, she still tooled around in her
economy-sized one, purchased ten years ago, used. Her daughter Cat, while a
nice enough girl, shared no common traits with her. They talked weekly on the
phone, but Cat delivered her list of updates in chronological order the way one
would recite a shopping list or convey a catalog of symptoms to a doctor.
Lorraine was close to only one person throughout the course of her life, Est
Brown, now referred to as the local town nut. To Lorraine, she was a confidant,
a friend and at one time a lover, which she was sure no one had ever known.
They had only become intimate out of loneliness, hoping it would fill a void
left by children and husbands who expected too much or too little. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Her father opened
a heavy wooden door and led her in by her elbow. Even this small touch seemed
too much from a father who spent most of his life chasing things he didn’t
have. “Sit down and wait. He’ll be in soon.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“God?” She
straightened her hair, cursing herself for not keeping a mirror in her pocket. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You look fine.
And no, not God. Heard he retired, if he ever existed at all.” He kissed her on
the forehead and turned to leave, “I’m sorry this is how it all happened for
you. I wish I’d done more while I was alive. I’ve gotta get back to your
mother, the woman can’t stand to be without me. The nice thing about finding
her up here is getting a second chance. Maybe it will happen for you too.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Then, he was gone
and she was left sitting in the room which looked like a 1940’s detectives’
office with its beveled glass door, hard wooden seats on wheels and heavy
mahogany desk. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“You see what you
want to up here.” The woman who walked in said. Her petite frame and large
glasses stood in glaring contrast to one another. “Don’t you remember me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“My eyes aren’t
great anymore. Do we know each other?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“We did a long
time ago. I wasn’t important.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Neither was I,”
Lorraine pulled a chair closer and motioned for her to sit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I can’t. I need
to have you fill out this form.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
As Lorraine took
the pen, things started to get hazy and she saw the bright light floating above
her and then a sound….distant at first, an echo of something, a bell. No
something else, a beeping noise. She could see a form above her somehow
separate from the light. As it came closer, Lorraine tried to scream, but her
voice didn’t work and then darkness, so complete, swallowed her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Hon, hon,” Morty
stood above her holding a bouquet of flowers but a part of her was still away,
up with the woman with the large glasses. <br />
“I do remember you,” she heard
herself say. “You’re Carolyn Farlas. You sat behind me in chemistry.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I was unpopular.
On the day I killed myself you tried to stop me. Do you remember? In the bathroom,
you told me you liked my glasses. You said that on someone else they would
appear too big, but on me, they added depth and intelligence. You were kind to
me. I’m returning the favor, go back….”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The smell of lilacs
so pungent forced her to open her eyes and there they sat on the small hospital
bed, Mort on one side rubbing her cheek and Cat on the other holding her hand. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
“I got you your
favorite flowers,” he said as he leaned toward Cat, “can you put them in some
water?” </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Lorraine hated lilacs,
but decided not to tell him. She felt the steady hum of her heart beating,
irregular but strong, under the blue and white hospital gown.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-37081510416461403732016-02-14T20:15:00.000-05:002016-03-14T12:44:57.696-04:00Inappropriate Endings to 5 Truly Terrible Kids' Shows<br />
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<span style="font-size: 18px; text-align: justify;">I am a television junkie. I loovvvvvvvveee television. I love my kids. I do not love television for kids. Sure, some of it's okay. And we actually adored Arthur (you know, the ardvark). I once came home to find my husband watching the show after he'd put our then four year old to bed. He needed to know what had happened to Arthur's lost library book. But Arthur is the exception rather than the rule. And while some shows are watchable, there are five that I would love to see end forever. Here is how I envision their totally inappropriate endings. </span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;"><em style="box-sizing: border-box;">1. Caillou</em>.</span> Our least favorite bald-headed, eternal, four-year-old finally tells his helicopter hover of a mother to back the fuck off. He and Rosie put themselves up for adoption so they can find some nice free-range parents who will let them go to the park (and bathroom) alone. Flash forward a few months, Caillou’s voice deepens and his hair grows, which means the producers of the show have finally let a male character portray him, and this poor misguided kid has grown a pair. The benign and annoying narrator is killed off and replaced with Samuel L. Jackson who has adopted Caillou. Samuel L. orders the boy, who is used to getting his way, to “go the fuck to sleep.”</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">2. <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Dora</em>.</span> Our bilingual explorer goes on an adventure and winds up in NYC on the wrong side of Central Park. She does her best to fight street thugs, but is upset to find her backpack does not carry guns, knives, or mace. Dora, rendered defenseless, seeks a way out of the city with the help of Map. A band of thieves steal him because they know they can sell a talking map to naive tourists in Times Square for a pretty penny. Stuck with little more than a monkey and the clothes on her back, Dora joins the circus and marries the strong man who is quite a bit older. Meanwhile, back in the jungle, Dora’s parents put up posters of their missing child, though it takes several months for these free-range parents to realize she’s even gone and Swiper is sent to therapy for his continued kleptomania.</div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 18px; font-weight: 600;">3.<em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Curious George</em>.</span><span style="font-size: 18px;"> This wild and adventurous monkey gets a bit too curious when the local circus comes to town. In one of the greatest cross-over events in children’s television history, he falls in love with Boots much to the chagrin of the Man with the Yellow Hat who honestly and truly believed George was a hairy child. He attempts to steal George back by smuggling him under his big hat, but the police catch him and send him off to the big house for kidnapping. He meets up with Swiper who just couldn’t give up a life of crime. Together they plan a jail break using the plastic sporks Swiper steals during his prison meals. Their breakout is documented in a new reality television show coming in fall of 2015.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 18px; font-weight: 600;">4. <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Max and Ruby</em>.</span><span style="font-size: 18px;"> When a concerned neighbor witnesses Ruby alone for several nights in a row, she calls child protective services. After a thorough investigation and playing hard ball with the eerily quiet Max the truth is revealed. That bossy bitch bunny, Ruby, went bananas, killed her parents, buried them in the basement and was using the senile grandmother to fund her parentless lifestyle. Max isn’t even Ruby’s brother. He is just some poor kid she stole at the local park. She wanted someone to keep her company, but after realizing how boring the uncommunicative Max was she asked him to go away. With little in the way of verbal skills he didn’t know how to find another home. Max is sent off to live with his real family who </span><a class="itxtnewhook itxthook" href="http://www.sammichespsychmeds.com/inappropriate-endings-to-5-awful-kid-shows/2/#" id="itxthook0" rel="nofollow" style="-webkit-transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out; background-color: transparent; background-image: none; border: 0px none transparent; box-sizing: border-box; color: #010101; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-size: 18px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; transition: all 0.1s ease-in-out;"><span class="itxtrst itxtrstspan itxtnowrap" id="itxthook0p" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; bottom: auto; box-sizing: border-box; display: inline; float: none; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; height: auto; left: auto; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: static; right: auto; text-align: left; top: auto; white-space: nowrap;"><span class="itxtrst itxtrstspan itxtnowrap itxtnewhookspan" id="itxthook0w" style="background-color: transparent; border-color: transparent transparent rgb(0 , 204 , 0); border-style: none none solid; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; bottom: auto; box-sizing: border-box; color: #009900; display: inline; float: none; font-family: inherit; font-size: 18px; height: auto; left: auto; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1px; position: static; right: auto; text-decoration: underline; top: auto; white-space: normal;">teach</span><img class="itxtrst itxtrstimg itxthookicon" src="http://images.intellitxt.com/ast/adTypes/icon1.png" id="itxthook0icon" style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px !important; bottom: auto; box-sizing: border-box; display: inline !important; float: none !important; height: auto !important; left: auto; margin: 0px !important; max-height: none; max-width: none !important; padding: 0px 0px 0px 4px !important; position: static; right: auto; top: auto; vertical-align: baseline !important; white-space: normal; width: auto !important;" /></span></a><span style="font-size: 18px;"> him how to talk. He becomes an advocate for elderly bunnies everywhere. Ruby becomes the head of a rogue bunny gang in prison, they challenge a rival gang of squirrels to a fight in the prison yard, and Ruby meets an unfortunate and grizzly end.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 600;">5. <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Lego Friends</em>.</span> This show, nothing more than a teen version of Strawberry Shortcake (though the characters don’t smell quite as nice) features young girls of an unspecified age working together to fix whatever crisis may come to Heartlake City. In the final episode, they realize there simply aren’t any problems left to solve. They have saved all the dolphins, rescued and found homes for every lost or abandoned cat or dog, and committed enough kind acts to make the entire world wish them away. They sing a final song that sounds like every other song they’ve ever sung ,and then disappear leaving a black screen and the words, “we’ve bored ourselves to death.”</div>
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While these shows may make children happy by lulling them into hypnotic states, for parents they are both annoying and boring. Maybe we should start a petition pleading with television companies to end the madness.</div>
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This post originally appeared on <i><a href="http://www.sammichespsychmeds.com/" target="_blank">Sammiches and Psych Meds</a>.</i> </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-41258317591363851932016-02-07T23:13:00.002-05:002016-02-09T13:31:39.420-05:00Living the Life My Mother Once Did <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2016/02/living-life-my-mother-once-did.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwjfY0gb-gQDpidD6ne832CClmI5YNZaexE-BMPM8vOv8ksyt7Xv6Der_N2u1KVjXV3H4uJcF2mrfq5naCjpRvsBmFNrQDesrsBrZoyl11vMQMMMUxdGva4xbz-eXm90d3O1oVeLdm0mU/s640/Living+the+Life.png" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I remember the smell of smoke in our living room. My father sat on the velvet green couch, a Lucky burning in the ashtray beside his tumbler of scotch. He held one eye on the sports section of the paper, and the other on the nightly news. My mother often came in, though she rarely joined him. The living room, with it’s intricately beaded throw pillows, belonged to him. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the kitchen, I heard the sounds of the radio, low melodies whispered about love and loss as my mother hummed along. That room was to my mother what the living room was to my father. She owned it. After loading the dishes into the dishwasher, with its butcher block top, and hooking the silver nozzle to the sink, she would write out the bills. The soft tap of calculator keys, and the tape roll as it ticked away hard-earned dollars and cents, comforted me as I moved from my bed to the black and silver table top television in order to change the station. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9b30e091-beea-4080-5cc9-8652d35ff9e2" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I remember the quiet stillness of domesticity as my parents unwound from days filled with work and responsibilities I couldn’t yet understand. I would lie in bed and try to fall asleep to the muffled sounds of the television and radio, the sounds of the life they were creating and maintaining. I would dream of one day being an adult myself so I could create the rules.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I sit in my own living room now, an adult, a mother, a woman--I am reminded of my own childhood, but instead of viewing the little girl I was and identifying with her feelings and the restless desperation of wanting to grow up, I identify with my mother. I know what it means to manage a life I quietly try to balance while attempting to remember who I was before--the children, the marriage, the house. I know her in a way that I never did. I finally realize not who I </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">thought she was</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, but who </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">she really was.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I see her relationship with my father reflected in my own marriage. The fights about money and children that scared me as a child scare me still, but for a very different reason. Now I understand the fights between two married people because they are my own. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I finally know the sadness when my father disappointed her. I have a new appreciation for how hard it was to hold the whole world together while still trying to remain a person in her own right. I am the woman she once was, and now she is gone. I wish I could tell her that I understood, that life has a funny way of allowing us to live so many lives ourselves. I wish I could thank her for giving me a part of her that was only mine. I wish for more time to listen to the lessons her life held for me as I try to live one so similar. I wish I could tell her that I finally get it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">As I lie in bed at night, I often think of her dreaming and wanting. I think of her planning her life as I do now. I think of how quickly it all passed. I wonder if she knew that it would someday end. I suppose we all know without really understanding. I am living the life she once did, as my daughter will once live the life I live now. It is a circle, a line, a square, a path that while different in the details is so similar in the broad strokes. The symmetry of our lives is powerful and frightening. The world she lived in her middle years, is a mirror to the one I live now. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-f2069e00-bef1-698f-527d-44c6363ef7e5"><span style="vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I recall her rushing and raging. I remember her body as she went through the hormonal changes of midlife. I hear her voice from the past as she yells and hums and makes all the other sounds of motherhood, midlife and marriage. I miss her and feel blessed that I have had a chance to see life from both sides. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Note: </b>I was actually raised by my grandmother, but have used the word mother instead. </span></i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-16216045659632322112016-01-24T21:23:00.001-05:002017-07-03T23:41:26.233-04:00We Need to Talk About Marriage Because I Don't Believe Your Facebook Status<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Recently my marriage went through a glorious period where I was ‘newlywed’ in love with my husband, we parented in sychronicity, we finished each other’s sentences--we were the Facebook couple others pretended to be. And in one fell swoop, it ended. We fought--a knock down, drag out fight. The sort reserved for reality shows and soap operas, minus the drink throwing of course. We don’t waste beer and wine. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span></span></div>
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">The fight was exhausting. We talked, we yelled (okay I yelled, he winced and almost walked away) and we resolved little. I felt like a failure. I felt tried. I felt angry. I felt gypped. Where was the Prince Charming I was sure all my friends had married? Why wasn’t my marriage as perfect as the others I’d seen on Facebook? The couples who stared into each other’s eyes, or hugged by the beach while dolphins leapt behind them. </span><br />
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Later that night, I sent a text to a friend. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Not much, honestly. No one I knew was very open about marriage, including the people who raised me. Marriage seemed like money, and all other issues we keep mum about, off limits. Sure we would laugh about how our husbands made us crazy or how they didn’t do the dishes or compliment us enough, but no one really went into details. We never shared the ugly, the real, the truth. To admit to having issues in your marriage seemed to be an admission of failure. This was how I felt as I rolled through the peaks and valleys.</span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The friend listened as I laid out the beginning, middle and end of the fight. She asked questions and empathized. I felt awful bothering her with my problems. I was sure she deemed my marriage an epic failure. But then she shocked me by sharing things about her own marriage. It, to my surprise, was not perfect. She told me how hard she and her husband worked to keep things together. She admitted to rough patches. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“I never knew,” I said stunned. “I thought it was just us.” </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“No, I think most people have to work at it.” She responded. </span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wondered why we didn’t talk about marriage except to joke or brag. Many of us admit that parenting is difficult, why not marriage? I felt so much better when I realized that even the strong marriages aren’t</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i> always </i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">strong, and when they are it often comes with work. I want to talk about marriage. I want to admit that it is hard. When you throw two people together add money, a home, children, jobs, families and aging things sometimes boil over. We need to confide in each other. We need to stop pretending because it only serves to hurt our relationships. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I grew up believing in the fairy tale--Prince Charming, life-long love, romance, a white wedding with my happily ever after sure to follow. I loved that fantasy, but it wasn’t real. I'm ready to admit that now. What no one told me, what no one owned, was that marriage was work. A shit ton of hard and intensive work. Marriage is not for the timid or the weak willed. There are times of intense love and joy, and there are also times of sorrow and upset. </span></span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I wish someone had told me this so I could have prepared. Of course there really is no way to prepare. You find your prince, you marry him, you build your family and home, and then you realize the white dress was a beautiful beginning to a journey that would not always be dreamy or perfect. And if our parents told us how hard parenting and marriage actually were, the human race would likely be extinct. </span></span></div>
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I realize now that marriage is filled with good and bad. I have ridden the rise and fall of the tides and will continue to. But I am no longer afraid to tell you about my marriage. It is a work in progress, like all of the important things in my life--my writing, my children, my attempts at aging gracefully. It is often not Facebook friendly. If you ask, I will be honest because I don’t want to pretend anymore. My marriage is hard--and worthwhile. I’m okay with that. And I’m okay with your marriage too. The good, the bad and the ugly. I’m here if you need to talk about marriage or any of the other things in life that are hard and require work and care. No judgement. </span></span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-14096960078635694532016-01-03T20:21:00.001-05:002018-06-24T20:05:57.086-04:00The Little Girl Who Couldn't Ride<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2016/01/the-little-girl-who-couldnt-ride.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJ4i6sb-bjhC2ZyisxmxlTqcngYIFyrVOW6paxd0wCGwqCbzJmAL6-Pzg6_2MWE1ufBTSNsbPaHrnEsP2nuWTM0UyfyvRwm0SIhsAJJyUqFCwsrT0mqtu2asIDNTFGv3tnGXtTzjBVDY/s640/The+Little+Girl+Who+Couldnt+Ride+final.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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And the little girl believes in the warmth of the sun as she whispers and sings in a raspy and broken voice. The words, those she thinks to be correct, are all wrong. She sings anyway. Her notes rise against the wind, carried high up and away like a balloon she remembered from another summer. She had watched it with wonder <i>until </i>she’d realized what she’d lost, and then she cried until her father promised her a new one.</div>
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Colored ribbons made of plastic, a wind-blown rainbow, fly alongside her on white handlebars as she peddles to catch the glowing ball in the indigo sky. Her tiny legs, strong and powerful, will never be fast enough—yet this thought, a brief and fleeting one, doesn’t slow her down. Instead, she peddles with a fierce and determined effort. The sound of her mother’s voice follows as if carried along on the breeze, “Be careful,” the warning so common, so authoritarian also seems so unnatural in the bright and unencumbered day.<br />
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The trees pass blurred versions of their true selves. They remind the girl of paintings she has no names for so instead she makes them up—Swirly, Burly Trees or Furry, Blurry Forest. As she pushes forward, the trees enter a new season, the leaves morph changing from shades of emerald and jade to amber and crimson. Soon, the fall will bring winter—a cold and bitter time when her bike, with its torn and taped banana seat, will be put in the back of the garage. Her father will place it behind beach buckets battered from yet another year of play, the spotted frog she painted in preschool with primary colors, and the rest of the tools of a summer gone by as quickly as it had come. These will be traded for a red plastic sled to be placed atop wondrous mountains of white—larger to her than they actually are. She will cling tightly to the warm body in front of her praying her brother will protect her from the bitter and wicked spray of snow.</div>
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The sun beats down and the girl remembers her thirst. How could she have forgotten something so basic? Again, she hears the voice of her mother calling from a distance but now she is so far from home, she realizes, it’s impossible. She sets her body down on the side of a lake she’s never seen before, and feels the warm sand. She allows herself to sink into it. If she doesn’t move it will suck her in, stealing her breath as her friend once warned her cats did if you allowed them to sleep with you at night. The girl sits up and walks to the water; in it, a reflection. It is not her own though she realizes as she looks closer that there are a number of similarities to the face she washed and dried this morning. The lips that taste like watermelon are fuller, and her hair is a different and more definitive shade than her normal mousy brown. She turns away, frightened.</div>
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The sun changes to rain as she sees the house. It, like her reflection, is not her own but one she somehow recognizes. The yellow colonial bears striking similarities to another she is sure she’s seen somewhere. When she turns to pick up her bike it is gone, replaced with a backpack from second grade. The girl picks up the bag, throwing it over her shoulder. She is comforted in some way by the realization that she can’t ride a bike. This makes its sudden disappearance tolerable.</div>
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She once tried to learn to ride on another summer day somewhere in the past but became discouraged when she would push off against the concrete step and attempt to balance her body which would instead wiggle and jiggle to one side or another—never finding the exact spot that would allow her to remain upright. In frustration, she threw the bike down and never tried again. It made for difficult middle school years as she followed her friends, running behind them on short legs. Eventually, she learned to speed up, and her friends traded in bikes for cars. She felt fine about things either way because the inability to ride a bike was a learned trait passed down through generations of women in her family. Her grandmother and mother had never enjoyed the freedoms of wind-blown hair and speeding down city streets. Though the girl vowed, her own girls, if she ever had them, would learn to ride.</div>
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As she finally enters the house, she comes to a kitchen with pictures of children all wearing similar features and expressions. Sure they are connected to her in some way, she eases passed the living room and into the kitchen. The remains of a meal have been scrapped into the trash can and the smell of lemon surrounds her. The girl likes lemon and finds the bright yellow color both soothing and exhilarating.</div>
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She exits the kitchen and comes to the bathroom. It is here where she catches sight of the woman. Her face, an older version of the little girl’s, wears lined and loose skin. The little girl is gone, and in her place this person. Where had the time gone? How is it possible?</div>
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“Mama,” a little girl pokes her head in. They wear similar expressions and other analogous features—wide noses, cleft chins and olive complected skin.</div>
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“Yes,” she answers surprised at the way her own voice sounds, so adult—so old.</div>
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“Come see. Come see what I can do.” The girl runs down the hallway and out the front door.</div>
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The woman follows surprised to see the cloudy day has turned sunny and the blue sky is not filled with large puffy clouds.</div>
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“Look, Mama, look.” The girl rides past her on a small pink bike. Her long hair trailing behind, in curls— something she has gained from some other DNA.</div>
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The woman—who feels as though she was<i> just a girl </i>herself—watches her daughter ride down the driveway and turn. She chases after her as she once did, years ago, with her biking riding friends in middle school. This time she doesn’t feel as though she is being left behind—this time she feels pride because her daughter isn’t afraid in the way she had once been. Her little girl doesn’t seem to think of balance or falling or bodies that wiggle and jiggle. Instead, her girl smiles as she sings in a raspy and broken voice. And the woman remembers the song from her own childhood. She follows along humming and laughing—the name will come back to her soon.</div>
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<span style="color: #3a3a3a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>***Image courtesy of kongsky </i></span><span style="color: #3a3a3a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3a3a3a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><i>I also do funny. If you enjoyed this, you may like another post from The Shit Show. Please click the image below. </i></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/04/random-thoughts-from-four-minute-shower.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-6TX5Kc8iBxPtKI1rZ5WkA0S5sB1FivR3Wc-po4IbQM00686_AN5QcdFC1lbICv6Kb1LdckbucuK1Da25tIWmwgFpvRdzaO8mCXyJ4JL5ntsjRTujUSPtDunLxUTfMUnlTGN6XH9FjMs/s320/shower.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-6593557384520554192015-12-14T14:23:00.001-05:002015-12-14T14:42:31.661-05:00The Pretty Girl<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/12/the-pretty-girl.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3GeVffpqEU8gHzRXT46m6KbF301fISMLu4DfFgkYwp1PunAmQUaVlMXBxpeJSVv-iyA4ArYDMDi8z7OW5GaEPUl_Sn3SeP7T6Hvxl4imt8fjvF7SoVBDk7hIW0yYKbHNL4YPKmJHNWE/s640/The+Pretty+Girl+%25281%2529.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Am I pretty?” she asked
as she stared into the full-length closet mirror. A box of clothes waiting to
be unpacked or shipped off to Goodwill, another bit of clutter from her
childhood, dominated the closet. Later, she will fall asleep on the shirts and pants
they</span><span lang="FR" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> have </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">all outgrown. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">After
shutting herself up in the cool darkness, she will only open the door to allow
Penny, the cat, who is the same age as her, to comfort whatever childhood hurt
she is avoiding. Her sandpaper tongue will kiss the girl’s forehead and hands.
Her kissing cat has the kind and generous soul of a dog.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The woman slipped off to the kitchen to light another Salem off
the gas stove. The smell of her hands as she touched the top of the little
girl’s head, grazing her cheek to flick away the lengthy ash, will stay with
the girl for the duration of her life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The little girl has struggled with beauty all of her life. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Even
into womanhood she will still wonder if she was pretty. Her hair, mousy brown
and pin-straight, too ordinary to be interesting, was just a part of the
package. Eyes that were not quite brown, but not exactly green, seemed a hazy
and muddied shade of indecision. They remained crossed for the first few years
of her life. The girl wore a brown patch that covered one eye. Even as an
adult, she still feels the coarse texture and remembers the strange feeling
when it was removed—as if the missing and darkened half of the world had
finally returned. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">She had two surgeries to correct her eyes and another at age
eight. That one she remembers. Her entire face stung with pain, but she amused
the kids at school with tales of the eyeball that rolled off the operating
table and was chased across the OR floor. She wonders if she should be grateful
to her crossed and lazy eyes. Perhaps it is because of them that she became a
strong storyteller. Her imagination and humor deflected some of the hurtful
comments that the girl’s circumstance, as an orphan, dictated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Of course you are pretty, my honey. You are beautiful.” She was
not her mother, but rather the woman who cared for her five days a week. The little girl’s grandmother, whom she<span lang="FR">’</span>d been sent to live with, shipped
her off in favor of a job. To be fair, the grandmother was done raising her
only child, the girl’s mother, who had the misfortune of dying of a drug
overdose 1,000 miles away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The mother ran to the opposite end of the world and
raised another woman<span lang="FR">’</span>s
child—her boyfriend’s child. The little girl felt sure she both disliked and
loved her mother’s new little girl. She often pretended she was her sister. At
other times the girl stuck her with a fake sword while she watched as her
mother’s new child, the one she’d chosen to raise instead, vanished into dust.
The little girl’s feelings toward her imaginary sister were not fair, but
little girls care little about being fair. <br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Soon she discovered that life was not, and never will be, fair.
It was a hard lesson, one the girl learned as she watched those around her pull
away or die. The woman there, with her, back in 1980, attempted to assuage her
little girl fears and insecurities. She died of a brain tumor when the girl was
21, but first there was a surgery and relearning of the alphabet at age 60. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Again, the girl had lost another mother. This mother was not a ghost she’d
never known—like the first one, the biological one, the woman who was an
addict. The addict was far too sick to care for the girl, her child, though she
seemed to love the other little girl, on the other coast, with the other ocean.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">When the girl was little, she did not miss her biological
mother, but rather the idea of her and all that a mother and normal life
symbolized. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>For the girl, life <span lang="NL">had
never been normal.</span> </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Because of this, she learned how to adapt and how to
survive. Her thick skin grew and molted even though she was, underneath it all,
a sensitive child. Her sensitivity and circumstance led to questions of worth
and value. They forced her to ask the question she never wanted the answer to,
“Am I prettier than her?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This question was about another little girl, one they’d seen
while running errands. If the smoking woman said no, it would crush the girl.
If she said yes, the little girl would never be sure if it was true for she had
also learned to question the truth in everything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Pretty was and, as much as she doesn’t want to admit it, still
is important. Not pretty—but beautiful.
In an attempt to prove her worth, she will dye her hair in every shade as she
works her way through the full color palette <i>and </i>teen angst to early
adulthood. She will eventually, ironically, settle on a shade much like the
mousy brown of her youth. Nostalgia can be as much of a bitch as a reward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Of course, honey,” the woman who was not her biological mother,
but somehow the girl’s true mother, said. She will doubt this truth and every
other sentence about her worth for the rest of her life because she never felt
complete or whole or beautiful. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">As she aged, much to her dismay, her worth tied even deeper into
beauty. Other women wore the marks of life with pride and honor; while she continued
to hide and fight hers. It won<span lang="FR">’</span>t
matter that her body, so compact and resilient, birthed four human
beings—nursing them and providing comfort as they grew into their own adult
versions of themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The little girl, who grew into a woman, carried on with her
life. She did her best to cover the ugliness of birth marks and any other flaw
while she moved through the proper milestones within her improper
childhood. She went to college and
graduate school, fell in love, divorced, had children, remarried, and built the
life she’d always hoped for. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This life contained a much milder level of
dysfunction than the sort that plagued her childhood. She embraced the flaws,
or tried to. She attempted to find the beauty inside; even though it was bogged
down in the ugliness she’d spent a lifetime building around herself as a means
of protection. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Now, she wants to feel worthy so that people will treat her with
value. She wants to hide the holes and
emptiness from her children. She hopes her life lessons are ones she will never
have to teach her children. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>These lessons scar and damage as they are learned. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">She attempts to instill feelings of worth and value to the little girls and
boys, her own children, that she now raises and nurtures as her true mother once did with her. <br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Unfortunately, for her it was too late. Some damage can’t be undone. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The little girl, who is now a mother, wants more for her children. She wants
more for herself. Because as far as she has come, as different as she is now,
some part of her is still the little girl. Sometimes she is greeted on the
tired and overwhelming mornings by her former self. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The little girl stares back
at her from her distant past, from the other side of the mirror and whispers,
“Am I pretty?” </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">If you enjoyed this post please check out another recent post from the Shit Show by clicking on the image below: </span><br />
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<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/10/you-may-find-yourself-asking-how-did-i.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT4birz27TfJt0kyifz87PoKpQfvb_eWoEYu_4lFKSG9g2FuATjgadDINo52qhn8ZrTVmNJRJzjKHExmyh8yCk_6gZ1j87TL4WYz9MkaZUCFNcz3sJFb2QNp2cs8Fk99e51-3e7GZcd88/s400/How+did+I+get+here.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-72478529028467486232015-12-07T16:01:00.001-05:002016-12-18T20:32:05.038-05:00the seven emotional stages of christmas card picture taking aka why the hell are we doing this again? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg761KI0K8TVL1x4AVelpuiYJJBLJkSbV_JzJySjKVwno5JKgmpUHOO5iRGkB_2m39HZDNCT7BEgXnZyv_fYyg1o3bJzzF7v3ZKLQXbIIsRLfpgKjVSm5_LjoA2a_fXAPSp_8GWDk5-49M/s1600/christmas+card.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg761KI0K8TVL1x4AVelpuiYJJBLJkSbV_JzJySjKVwno5JKgmpUHOO5iRGkB_2m39HZDNCT7BEgXnZyv_fYyg1o3bJzzF7v3ZKLQXbIIsRLfpgKjVSm5_LjoA2a_fXAPSp_8GWDk5-49M/s640/christmas+card.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;">It is that time again--the time when I attempt to capture all four of my children looking happy and festive, coordinated and cordial--it is time for the annual taking of the Christmas card picture. The three most frequent questions I get when I tell people this are: </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;"><b>1. Do you have someone take the photos? </b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;">No, I answer which leads to the second question...</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;"><b>2. Are you crazy? Why not? </b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;">I could lie here and tell them that it is because I want the opportunity to bond with my kids and that this annual tradition brings us closer together. However, I detest lying. And at the end of the picture taking session we usually are anything but close. There is yelling and eventually awkward and cruel silence. Honestly, I don't want to spend the money and there is some part of me that hopes one year I'll actually do a somewhat professional job. After all, I'm a writer and therefore artistic. Is it such a stretch to think I'd take decent photographs? Yes, yes it is. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;"><b>3. Who are you trying to impress? And why don't you just use Facebook to do it? </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.99305534362793px;">I often use Facebook to drop a handsome <strike>doctored/staged</strike> photo of the family but not at Christmas. Christmas is sacred and I'm too tired. This time of year wears me down. And </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;">someday my children will have a way to remember all the changes from year to year. There seems no better time to record these changes than on the happiest and most joyous of all childhood occasions--the holiday season. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;">What I've realized after almost 11 years of Christmas card picture taking is that just like grief, Christmas card picture taking also has seven stages. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><b><i><span style="font-size: large;">1. Shock/Disbelief</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;">I can't believe it's that time of year again. Wasn't it just Thanksgiving? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">I almost forget every year that we need to take the picture right after the turkey holiday. I want a full month of my kids on your refrigerator or wall. You put the card up, right? I hope it is not sitting in some pile on your kitchen table with the other junk mail. I'm spending good money on these (no, they are not professional, but they have to be printed and mailed, and stamps are a King's ransom). And, <i><b>I</b></i> put <i><b>your </b></i>family on a beautiful ribbon which I hang in my doorway for all to see.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;"><i>***Note: In order to prepare for the <strike>hellish nightmare</strike> picture taking extravaganza I go out and buy clothes, iron them (I'm laughing here because I haven't ironed since 1992--remember pleated Z Cavariccis?) and wait, sorry--I'm still laughing. Whew and then I make the kids try them on at which point the ten year old gets angry about wearing tan pants. I don't know why there is so much anger...</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 19px;"><b><i>2. Denial</i></b></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">This usually happens just after set up which is often in front of a pretty window or a tree or the cleanest area of the house. Denial hits the kids before me. They ask questions like, "Mom, why do we have to?" or make statements like, "This is so boring, dumb, horrible, stupid..." Yes, they are fresh. Yes, I'm going to deal with it...after the holidays. Denial affects all of them with the exception of the 9 YO who believes herself to be a fashion model and would like me to take as many pictures as possible of her posing. After I make the mistake of telling her posing looks strange she joins the other children in denying that this must be done. </span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ruyOws1bWqqyV5SxsGvctpDrlmPVjDYW6SPnLMep7C49Vz8awbshERRB0mcjAoT_bFxBNflv7WNZv40P9EMFK3cmNZjhMQk3wJoPyVSvaAq3gOKZFqZ6600hxge412d3jiOTP-snk2c/s1600/IMG_1489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ruyOws1bWqqyV5SxsGvctpDrlmPVjDYW6SPnLMep7C49Vz8awbshERRB0mcjAoT_bFxBNflv7WNZv40P9EMFK3cmNZjhMQk3wJoPyVSvaAq3gOKZFqZ6600hxge412d3jiOTP-snk2c/s320/IMG_1489.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Things of note in this image: </b>The ten year old smacking his head while the nine year old does her best to arrange the other children. Yes, the four year old is trying to run away after claiming in a loud and abrasive manner that her sister is too bossy. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 19px;"><b><i>3. Bargaining</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">This is done by me and the kids. It goes something like this: </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">Me: Please guys, just a few more. Now get your hand out of your mouth. Stop hitting your sister. Don't breathe on him. I don't know why. Don't say his breathe stinks. If you sit still I'll give you something. Yes, all of you. No, I don't know what. Not a horse. I don't know what you'd have to do for a horse--maybe you can become a supermodel since you know all the poses and you can buy yourself a horse. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;"><i><b>15 minutes later: </b></i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;"><i>Kids: Mom, we'll sit still if you'll give us an extra treat. Maybe two extra treats. What about staying up late? And there is that horse you could buy for me. If you buy me the horse I'll stop posing. </i></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 19px;"><b><i>4. Guilt</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">At this point there is yelling and yes, I'll admit it, sometimes swearing. The four year old has an awful mouth as you well know and she's teaching her naughty words to her brother. His new favorite word is Jesus. As in, "Jesus, can we be done taking the picture?" I have chosen to believe he has a very close and personal relationship with the son of God. We all tell ourselves lies as parents. Either way I feel guilty for yelling and making what should be a pleasant memory a real shit show. Next year will be better. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 19px;"><b><i>5. Anger</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">Toward each other, toward God, toward elves, toward Jesus (okay that's just the two year old--maybe he and Jesus have had a falling out). We are all angry and bitter and tired. Why do we do this every year? Why can't I get one decent picture? Who farted? Why won't anybody fess up? </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhOgX-Hz68dP2qBIujWv4PV7zaS_DBPCaDUnCeI0Ip9tfUjHQGWjEF1TzMJAE70U7t2QOIcj692wW_wb-o1dJ4uZClgFAuUKfp13-7vM3mYZWakN11PuVhvSNbMwYyosVHnU_-RQpzkQ/s1600/IMG_1564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhOgX-Hz68dP2qBIujWv4PV7zaS_DBPCaDUnCeI0Ip9tfUjHQGWjEF1TzMJAE70U7t2QOIcj692wW_wb-o1dJ4uZClgFAuUKfp13-7vM3mYZWakN11PuVhvSNbMwYyosVHnU_-RQpzkQ/s320/IMG_1564.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This picture proves that someone did indeed break wind. I'm not sure why the four year old is smiling so much. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 19px;"><b><i>6. Depression</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">I am hit hardest by depression, the kids seem like they are still stuck in stage five. I assume this because the two year old is still talking to Jesus and the four year old is making up new and colorful curse words. I haven't even looked through the pictures on my phone when it hits. I know I don't have what I need. What I do have are pictures of the kids looking as though they hate each other and me and the whole holiday season. I have turned my children into one collective Grinch. I can't believe I am going to have another year of family asking why the hell I chose that picture--with the 4 YO and her runny nose, or the two year old with his thumb in his mouth--didn't I have a better one? If I did, don't they think I would have used it? </span></span><br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqryisnF-cIigPIxv_w32WdIHUF7QNwA3G3QMRjJKjYqG-i4CtaJoD6J4JDcMspfCNDl-v1eKT-NoYJQA7hHG6smFqxuZmHGwb6hwCYML7-Xg_5A1_I6BrCrlSqtYfJXb8yeRwVTOxar4/s1600/IMG_1493.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqryisnF-cIigPIxv_w32WdIHUF7QNwA3G3QMRjJKjYqG-i4CtaJoD6J4JDcMspfCNDl-v1eKT-NoYJQA7hHG6smFqxuZmHGwb6hwCYML7-Xg_5A1_I6BrCrlSqtYfJXb8yeRwVTOxar4/s320/IMG_1493.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13.333333015441895px;"><span style="font-size: small;">You could cut the tension with a machete or a pair of craft scissors. Either way they are pissed as evidenced by the nine year old's frown and the two year old's gafrump face. The poor ten year old is doing his best to hide his anger and just get the whole thing over with. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">7. A</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">cceptance/Hope</span></b></i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">Finally we are finished. I briefly glance through the images as my children change, dropping clothes as they go. I search my mind for alternatives. The contingency plan is something I seem to forget about every year, but often need. Maybe we can use a funny picture and just go with 100% honesty--Hey world, this is us. We are a shit show and this picture proves it. I'm fine with that--I think, and if I'm not I can always use individual pictures of each kid like I did last year. Either way it is done and I'm fine--we are all fine. And some part of me takes comfort in the fact that it is not just the Christmas picture I chose that tells the story of us, but rather it is the collective group of images I have captured. If I click through them quickly, they move like one of those flip books. Years from now we will be able to live these moments again--whether we want to or not. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">Now off to order my pictures. Keep your eye on your mailbox. Remember I am hoping for some prime real estate on your wall or refrigerator. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: red; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">**If you enjoyed this inane holiday post please check out my post from this past Easter where I discuss my family road trip and how creepy the damn Easter bunny is. </span></span></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/04/a-sht-show-road-show-aka-how-we.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-5Uhg5v72tUsVxuCm9dM2sGzKj7twHEpUIeWKPBh1YnvYWi2wvV-4wX71XRUKjpEt1snpxOOIYvM5kLRM1rleyoLzlUtky_i2L9_N4QYxMYOSqTrISKqIt-2dUVmp60xrGEupdw2QLE/s320/Kim+Easter+Bunny.jpg" width="222" /></a><span id="goog_181608703"></span><span id="goog_181608704"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-13528731621446968692015-11-18T21:46:00.002-05:002015-11-18T22:05:33.278-05:005 Consideratons When Preparing for Your Digital Girls’ Night<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/11/5-consideratons-when-preparing-for-your.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnzKsb8fgbh9LHJM_HgiizBd0nc22Po_ZgaH_b0ahKRwN0xMsNqF1CyLJ0cuP5HoRK8BZJG0amIa3HTS53Jgwit9F4e8cFE7FlUS7Z6KTLT_qeGGThE0QwoqBsYwJNbjdG0Iw4j1l1gjs/s640/Girls+night.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I have several friends who live out of state. I rarely see them and our
friendships, which used to be so intimate, have grown distant. While we all
want to stay in touch, life often prevents us from doing so minus the texts and
Facebook status updates we trade—and even those are less frequent then we</span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">d like. Our friendships seem reduced to
100-word impersonal musings and memes about husbands, kids and milestones
and/or the annual girls’ night or weekend.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background: white;">Of course now, there is technology that can
bring the intimacy and face-to-face interaction back for a new sort of girls’
night. With things like Skype, Google Hangout and FaceTime, you and your friend
can actually sit and have that weekly girls’ night, not the “W</span></span><span lang="NL" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">oot</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">! W</span><span lang="NL" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">oot</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">!”
dancing on table type, but rather the lets grab dinner and catch up kind. You
can even enjoy a glass of well deserved and much needed wine. But, with this
new technology comes a different way of thinking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Unlike when you used to talk on the phone, you
will now be able to see each other. Depending on how close and honest you are
this may require some preparation.<span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;">Your Appearance</span></span></b></span></h2>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: white;">You may want to put on makeup and
even brush up on your best angle. Just like Paris Hilton worked with someone on
the perfect pose, you can figure out if looking down gives you jowls or if
looking up allows your friend to see the tiny nose hairs you</span></span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">ve yet to trim. The thing to remember is
that she will only be able to see your top half, which means you</span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">ll want to wear a pretty top<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>with a bra</i>, especially after
all the years of nursing children. However, you will be relieved to know you
can go commando and pantless and she will never be the wiser unless you shift
the camera. Also, though you may feel the need to brush your teeth, there is no
real need because she can</span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">t smell
through her cell or laptop. Technology, thankfully, hasn</span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">t come that far yet.<span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div>
<h2>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;">Your Actions and Expressions</span></span></b></span></h2>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: white;">Because your friend will be able to
see your face well, you should avoid picking your nose, teeth or any other
orifice. You will also want to avoid resting bitch face and any other
expression or mannerism that will give feelings away that you used to be able
to hide when talking on the phone. Remember, you wouldn</span></span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">t dare make these if you were actually meeting
up in person. When she tells you her husband, (the one you aren</span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">t crazy about), forgot their anniversary or
reveals her disgust at her size 24-inch waist, you</span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">ll want to remain mannerism neutral. Remember
she can see you.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div>
<h2>
<b><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Your
House</span></span></b></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">
</span></b><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Yes, your friend will now be able to see your
house. Of course if you pick one spot, you can adjust the lighting and make
sure the area behind you is clean. Clear off a spot and set up some nice knick
knacks in the background. Place that favorite family picture, that took you six
hours to get, right in her line of sight. It will distract her from that stray
gray hair and the fact that you haven</span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">t cleaned the house all week, which she shouldn</span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">t be able to see if you</span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">ve positioned things correctly. This process is
exactly the same as what you do at Christmas when you take the kids’ pictures
for the cards you send to all your friends and relatives.<span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div>
<h2>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;">Your Snacks and Beverages</span></span></b></span></h2>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="background-color: white;">No, you won</span></span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">t be able to share, but you do want to have
these laid out and close by when you connect. If you don</span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">t you will have to take your friend into the
kitchen and possibly reveal more than you</span><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">’</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">d like to. This travel through your house could include any of the
following (depending on the location of your kitchen): your two year old running
around without a diaper, a sleeping or yelling husband depending on his mood
because men are moody too, or a television show that is less than appropriate
for kids who actually should all be in bed because Mommy is on a call. While
you will bitch openly about all the behind the scenes messiness of life, you
won’t actually want your friend to see it. <span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></div>
<h2>
<b><span lang="FR" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Your
Family</span></span></b></h2>
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Put the kids in bed, send the husband to the
sofa, offer porn if necessary—anything so your girls’ night is not interrupted
or impeded in any way. Normally you are out of the house for face to face
meetings with a friend or hiding down the basement on your cell where no one
can see the piles of laundry or the spider webs you never bother to clean.
Maybe you could use the bathroom since that is where you normally go to hide
anyway. No wait, that would be the first place your family looked. No matter
which room you choose, finding a spot where you will not be interrupted is
pivotal to the success of your meeting. Of course, depending on your family
such a spot may not exist.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">If all else fails shut the lights off and hide
in a closet with a flashlight. You and your friend can tell scary stories like
you did when you were kids. You can still bring wine because girls’ night,
whether in person or in cyberspace, requires wine. </span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-26576703535795380912015-11-15T21:04:00.002-05:002015-11-15T21:04:30.920-05:00Five Senses: A Short Work of Fiction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/11/five-senses-short-work-of-fiction.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVm-ZDgn9CPAHtjXFCE99cnIpt5SXbao_tAplFFhvKK0BXyfdHubvoxiT7-mwwfayZyRa0Dp8MKaV3O4ULD9I8EUrZVzxKGk3bAUJXGbsuiPSKsIxpEHEy6aTjK7CvpRcX_c_7-cvKpQg/s640/Five+Senses.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 6.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
She died on a Tuesday, before her
nail appointment, but after electrolysis. Karen remembered the way the homeless
man shuffled his feet, one of his shoes cut in two. He’d pieced them together
with what looked like a metal hanger. She thought him quiet clever, but didn’t
tell him so. The man smelled of lemons and piss. The lemons were from her
childhood, but the piss belonged to him. </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 6.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
The sound of the train seemed real or
at least she believed it to be. She didn’t know why she would choose that as
her last sound.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
“You chose your favorite things, which
is how you know you’re dying. If all five senses are hit with the things in
life you loved most simultaneously you’re a goner. Of course, by the time you
realize what’s happening it’s too late.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
Eve, the receptionist, told her this as
she sat waiting for whatever dead people waited for. The soft hum of muzak
buzzed above and the chairs were a light maple covered with nappy red material which
had started to pill. The only other person in the waiting room, an elderly
woman, knew the generic melody which she seemed to think gave her right to hum
along. She weaved in and out of tune as Karen waited to see whoever resided in
the office space that lay just beyond the sliding glass enclosure that held Eve.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
<i>Karen had felt the soft caress of
her dead son. He’d died at the age of three as they sat fishing. His small body
simply fell backward in the boat. They’d said SIDS, which unbeknownst to Karen
could strike even children who were fully awake. Just as he pulled away, the
taste of hot dogs caught her so off guard that she’d stumbled into the homeless
man walking in front of her. The hot dogs were from her childhood days where
the hibachi was used on their old wooden boat. </i></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
<i>She heard the sound of singing
though it came from nowhere. Karen, so frightened, wondered if the homeless man
had heard. That was all she remembered.</i></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
“I didn’t see a thing,” she told the
older woman who had since stopped humming. She introduced herself as Rose and
she’d seen the face of her mother as she lay in the middle of city hall dying
of a brain aneurysm.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
“I didn’t even get to pay my parking
fine. I’m eighty-seven years old and got my first darned ticket. Who knew you
couldn’t park in front of your own house at night.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
“I’m sure you can contest.” The women
laughed at the silliness of trying to fight the fine from wherever they were. </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
“You’re so young Karen. I’ve lived my
life—but you—it hardly seems fair. Maybe this is a mistake.” </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
“I thought the same thing. I asked Eve
if they’ll see me to discuss things before they send me off.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
The
intercom sounded, “Rose Dubus. Mrs. Rose Dubus. Please go through the
red door.” Rose stood up and offered Karen her hand. She smiled and approached Eve
who opened the door and stepped aside. Karen tried to peek at what lie on the
other side, but saw nothing other than the back of Rose’s silver head as the
red door closed. Her wait continued while Eve got up and grabbed her bag. </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
“Shift change. This is Norma,” all
she said as she too hurried through the red door.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: .25in;">
“I’m waiting for the boss,” Karen
said unsure of how to continue. “I think there’s been a mistake.” </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
Norma only nodded and smiled as if
she’d heard this same thing a million times. Karen wondered when the wait would
be over. She read several magazines and excused herself to go to the ladies
room, though Norma hardly seemed to notice. Karen looked around to find her
pocket book hoping to balance her checkbook. Once they realized this was a
mistake, some temporary error made by a mixed up universe she would be back to
the real world. Back to paying bills online, cooking TV dinners, rushing to
work while the rest of the world seemed content to do nothing. It wasn’t behind
any of the chairs or in the bathroom, though this didn’t surprise her as she
didn’t remember reapplying her lipstick as she always did when she made her
trip to the ladies room. </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
“You can always take the time to
reapply. A woman without lipstick is like a woman without a brassiere.” The
voice of her mother said from some small part of her brain that held such
random and outdated memories.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
“I’ve been sitting here for some time,” Karen
said annoyed at the woman Norma who continued to wear the headset while the hum
of crackling silence obviously stood on the other end. </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
“Are they busy? I’m the only one
here. I don’t mean to complain but it’s been hours since Rose was allowed to go
in. She’s probably sitting down with a nice book and glass of wine by now.” </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
“I’m sorry, Karen, but you must wait
as long as it takes.” </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
Karen moved back to her seat and
plopped herself down on the hard cushions that had no give, no bounce. The deep
rust color now looked crimson. </div>
<div align="center" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
<i>Along the tracks, she’d
remembered seeing the dark red. The homeless man had fallen, no that wasn’t
right. She was behind him and he’d pushed her...no. But she remembered seeing
him, remembered the smell of him mixed with her childhood lemons. He’d been
singing. He said something and reached for her—Karen tried to move away. She
didn’t want to be touched by him, didn’t want his scent to be on her as she—</i></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
<i>But why was she at the train
station? Her car was parked in the lot. Karen had no reason to go to the train,
no reason to be near the homeless man, no reason to see the lights as the train
pulled into the Hattonfield stop.</i></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
<i>In the lights, eyes, blue and
full of life until.... </i></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
“I love the train,” he’d said as he‘d
pulled his little plastic dog on the small yellow string. His eyes matched the
light blue stripes in his rugby shirt. He was small for his age, but didn’t
seem to mind. He talked of football and sports to impress his father; though she
felt even at four, he knew his size may someday prevent him from playing. </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
“Me too. Why don’t you hold my hand
so you don’t fall? The train is fun, but we need to be careful.” </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
He was a watchful child, not like
his sister, who would often hurt herself, or some other defenseless child by
carelessly casting aside the rules of safety. </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
The dog clamored alongside them as
she tossed their money into the machine that beeped allowing them to enter
through the metal turn style. He picked up the toy and cautiously made his way
to the platform with his mother. The smell of urine and popcorn competed with
one another, as a homeless man sang, played a harmonica and clapped his hands.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
“Why do his shoes have holes?” The
little boy asked. </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
The man’s shoes were held together
with what looked like the remains of a metal hanger. Karen sighed unsure of how
to answer, as her mind turned things over, the homeless man got closer in an
effort to entertain her boy. The boy held tightly to his mother’s leg and the
man retreated slightly.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
“I’m sorry miss, I meant no harm.” </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
She smiled
and held up her hand as if to say she understood. Karen could feel Lucas pull
away a bit as the man walked toward the opposite end of the platform. She
picked him up and kissed him, she could smell lemon, the antiseptic scrub from
her pocketbook. He had asked for it in the car claiming that his hands were
dirty. Clean and safe, that was her son. One day he hoped to be a superhero,
she would settle for a doctor she often joked with her husband. </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
The sound of the two teenage boys as
they yelled at each other came through in waves and drew Karen out of her
daydream. When she turned to reach for Lucas, he was gone. He had moved down
the platform toward the homeless man with the harmonica. Karen walked toward
him and then one of the boys began to run. He’d taken something from his friend
and was in full stride. Karen called for Lucas and as he stopped to turn and look
at her, the boy tackled his friend and the game of keep away came to a halt.
Just as the large boy wrapped his arms around his friend in an attempt to get
back whatever it was that he’d lost, her son feel backward and Karen moved
toward Lucas, to grab him and he landed. She heard a hard thud and watched as
his tiny body broke, bones grinding together in a symphony of a pain from which
she needed to rescue him.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
Karen didn’t scream, for that was a waste of time, an
effort in futility. What was required was action. She began to lower herself
down, trying to keep away from the electrically charged third rail. The two
teenage boys only looked on, their mouths open and their eyes wide. The silence
and warmth surrounded her just as she was about to touch down on the track with
her feet. She thought she could hoist her son up to one of <span style="line-height: 200%;">the boys, but the timing was wrong. The sound of the
whistle and the rush of air as the train raced toward the tunnel with its
yellow lights casting shadows on the dingy concrete walls of the station….she
froze.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 5.0pt; margin-left: 6.0pt; margin-right: 6.0pt; margin-top: 5.0pt; text-indent: 16.2pt;">
The homeless man, Les, reached down
and pulled her out. The last thing she saw was the train as it ran over her
son’s body. Lucas had curled into the fetal position, as he had inside of her
only four years before. No, the last thing she saw was her favorite thing, her
son’s eyes, blue and frightened. </div>
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***</div>
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She’d never intended to go to her
electrolysis appointment. Karen had driven to the station and walked along the
platform to the spot where weeks before two teenage boys had played an innocent
game of keep away as a kindly homeless man played his harmonica. She set her
bag down when she heard the rumble from below the earth. If she hadn’t yelled
for him to stop, for him to turn to her…..the entire incident was inexcusable. </div>
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Her daughter and husband would be fine
without her, but her son had always needed her. She felt the homeless man
behind her, could smell the urine that he could never wash from him, the smell
of the streets and it was now a part of him. She knew this because it was the
only thing she could smell since he’d saved her weeks ago, this same man with a
harmonica that hung, but somehow never fell from his torn and faded right pants
pocket. The harmonica, which had intrigued her little boy. If she missed this <span style="line-height: 200%;">train, she would never have the chance to catch
another. They would lock her away saying that she was a danger to herself. She
dropped her bag and jumped. She felt the man’s hand as he grazed her with it.
He tried to reach her, to save her, but this time he missed.</span></div>
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***</div>
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Karen walked toward Norma. “My son
didn’t die on a boat?” </div>
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Norma shook her head, “The mind can
play some silly tricks in order to cover up the truth. Though the truth always
finds you, eventually. I think you’ve waited long enough.” Norma held open the red
door and stepped back. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-58151930655405688652015-11-12T00:19:00.002-05:002015-12-15T15:26:35.208-05:00Incarceration & Childhood: 5 Alarming Similarities<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/11/incarceration-childhood-10-alarming.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWxkqj398vXL-ggWfMfkTFQmKLCWZ0pc-sTuw0z1MXVRu9TqxV2Ssl9FLBiDmxUEPf3gUoQU0ZCmqgESdUXs397NDEHn7Stq9m_ns4vYZsLt95pJ6-ukVnA60Ty07DaAG3soKsGVjejug/s640/prison+2.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Recently I watched an old episode of Scared Straight. On the show parents send their out of control children to live amongst prisoners so they will get their shit straight before they actually end up in real prison. While watching I realized three things:<br />
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<b><i>1. </i></b>There should be a suburban version of Scared Straight where we send spoiled children from the streets of suburbia to the big house so they can see just how good they have it. We could create a reality show spinoff and call it Scared Straight in Suburbia. Maybe the prisoners could come live in suburban homes...Hey Mom and Dad, meet my new friend Tiny Tim, which totally sounds like the name of an inmate. </div>
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<i><b>**Aside:</b></i> To come up with your own prison name you can visit <a href="http://www.prisonbitchname.com/" target="_blank">Prison Bitch Name Generator</a>. My husband's prison name is Famous Anus. I can't share mine as it is may be offensive to one or multiple groups. And prisonbitch graced the 2 year old with the lovely and disturbing moniker, Jailhouse Cock. You won't see that on his name tag next year at preschool.</div>
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<b><i>2.</i></b> I am not the worst parent in the world, though I feel that I am close especially after revealing the two-year-old's prison name. But honestly the Scared Straight parents make me feel better about myself. And isn't that all we really want, to feel better about our own shortcomings? </div>
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<b><i>3.</i></b> I realized parenthood, when viewed in the correct light, is very similar to prisonhood. Don't believe me? Read on and you will. Either that or you'll think I'm crazy. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwi04MkRONO1L5wgPfDyWsMbyNaFYgo6w0imQw5aQdCPMy9zAQS8NE2SsqpCugou6HvlqD5V_p8dUu-m982giiiw5XZccuiXq5uNtQCG_j1giy8qqbTqldnI_XIpaKNx_Ze0fYEcaNJRQ/s1600/Fall+2015+669.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwi04MkRONO1L5wgPfDyWsMbyNaFYgo6w0imQw5aQdCPMy9zAQS8NE2SsqpCugou6HvlqD5V_p8dUu-m982giiiw5XZccuiXq5uNtQCG_j1giy8qqbTqldnI_XIpaKNx_Ze0fYEcaNJRQ/s320/Fall+2015+669.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Illustration 1. The children locking themselves up.</td></tr>
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<li><b>3 squares a day--</b>This is something we as parents ensure our kids receive daily. A starch, a protein and a veggie or fruit as well as milk or water. Of course our meals are cooked at home with love, or purchased at Whole Foods. </li>
<li><b>Solitary</b> is more than a time out, but less than a grounding. Basically, it's when you send your kid to his or her room to mull things over away from the rest of the general population (aka other siblings) usually because they were committing some act of assholery often directed at said siblings. </li>
<li><b>The Yard--</b>In suburbia it<b> </b>is<b> </b>made up of a swing set where kids fight over the swings, though they are all the same. In prison the swing set is actually a workout bench where guys do sets or discuss illicit prison activity. The suburban yard also has grass instead of concrete, but other than that they are almost the same. The Yard is a daily part of life for kids and inmates, and spending time in the yard cuts down on obesity, television viewing, and, in suburbia, it keeps the kids out of the house.</li>
<li><b>The System--</b>Inmates are part of The Penal System, your kids are part of The School System and when either spends too much time in the system (for your kids 12-18 years depending on whether they choose to attend college and/or graduate school) they want to bust out. Of course when they do they never seem ready. Often inmates so deeply ingrained in the system for long periods return because they don't know how to live on the outside. Kids often return home after college because the real world is a bit too real. </li>
<li><b>Terminology--</b>Even this can relate to childhood. For example a Monkey Mouth is a prisoner who goes on and on about nothing. How often has this happened with your toddler or ten-year-old? And how many times has one or more of your kids dipped in the kool aid? Which basically means they've entered a conversation they should stay out of. Face it, kids are nosy. Your business somehow becomes theirs. And a personal favorite, dry snitching--when one inmate or child speaks loudly about another to rat them out without really ratting them out. And in prison the term for a gang's headquarters is Grandma's House, in our house it's called a fort and may or may not be made up of chairs, blankets, and pilfered heavy books (think Stephen King hardcover or old college textbooks) from the parent bookcase. </li>
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And there you have the most absurd blog post I've ever written. But you have to admit that the similarities are alarming or maybe what's alarming is that I'd spend so much time thinking and writing about them. Either way, until next time...</div>
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If you are interested in reading more from me please click on the image with the pissed off monkey below.</div>
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<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/09/toddler-detachment-in-seven-simple-steps.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFw91xSkOK_Xwen7qcMKr_U9K6dvDKgowNNh8hOCnlOJAMgkDz8GWB7gFENwZ-owyA2s_vFmd6diTkdkrSQV9CwG-xpAXPanQe4DFyNRF26Q4mbuJhn6t3yn_AZz5g7IMFesJhmmPPv3w/s400/Monkey+Collage+Final.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-60362081364121687782015-11-08T12:39:00.002-05:002018-04-08T21:10:56.773-04:00Ghosts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/11/ghosts.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqiUk3D2_fPPb3SRs6TVlbEyK7Ghe-x1dicGHOaDqQpNly51W61toJEOLkSat7VbsAEG4mNikt65d-7d0SdVdsICG2UopSXC3C8LN9Pk6zVhAcE9x9O4bWtvnsn4CznDe5v7HAVhC_WFY/s640/Ghosts.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18pt;">As I walk through my home, the one I make with my children, there
are ghosts everywhere--reminders of the person I used to be. My grandmother's
dining room table, bought when I was in eighth grade, just before Christmas, was
inherited after her death. The children use it to color pictures and draw
worlds culled from their imaginations. The chairs, already reupholstered once,
wear the various stains a life with children dictates, and the wood is wearing
down and uneven. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcl5dDYr6z9N39_L_WiLnwijdY3bzrI1kVFwZetue6RENj7hrfA2xBMlfmaIojXhdUt9-pRhxXDlmoN2vixPOoNI8cmdprAEwALxQTkm_KZ69UfXw2f3vgDnNVC9DB8tdQX43lxsqgKt8/s1600/Fall+Winter+2014+427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcl5dDYr6z9N39_L_WiLnwijdY3bzrI1kVFwZetue6RENj7hrfA2xBMlfmaIojXhdUt9-pRhxXDlmoN2vixPOoNI8cmdprAEwALxQTkm_KZ69UfXw2f3vgDnNVC9DB8tdQX43lxsqgKt8/s320/Fall+Winter+2014+427.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dining room table from my youth and the one<br />
that my children will remember from their own youth. </td></tr>
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</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18pt;">I imagine my grandmother sitting at the table in her house dress,
because years ago women wore such things. Underneath were slips or dresses in
the days before mothers traded fancy for practical. The bright pink house dress
resides in the back of my closet. I glance at it when I switch out my clothes
seasonally, and my mind is flooded with memories--my heart with pain and
gratitude. It smells of roses, the faint scent of candles from a bridal shower
that led up to a failed marriage that was a lifetime ago. She stored the remaining shower gift in the back of her closet for years as I recently have with her house dress. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18pt;">The dress will remain a constant reminder of a woman I still attempt
to call when I forget that she is gone, which is often. Gram wore the pink button-down, and similar looking ones, as she fought against the late stage ovarian cancer
consuming pieces of her. We could do little more than watch hoping<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>this</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>chemo would work better than the
last. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18pt;">While washing the dishes and getting the kids ready for school in
the morning, I am greeted by the picture of my grandfather when he was two or
three. He has the cherubic face of a wee Irish lad. It is hard to imagine that
he avoided death several times during his childhood. He wears the ruddy glow of a
healthy and happy boy. The fact that he had 72 years on this Earth was, to him,
and to those of us who watched how hard he lived his life, miraculous. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18pt;">His baby picture sits across from his obituary card. The image is
of him before he became truly ill. Of course I think my grandfather always knew
he was living on borrowed time. I wonder how it must feel to live the entirety of life like that.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicwunpouQ0X55Hik-7oDtIAh9Pyesqa7Q9WWpB-YJqEchGtrnm76YNK28qWZ8MUohd6GimPNSWQa5ABmZCLbSrxylLFVdXFMA1jDoFAvN7iKMDeeYH8nNGGWHXWsDXQQadR817I2tqk7o/s1600/photo+%25288%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicwunpouQ0X55Hik-7oDtIAh9Pyesqa7Q9WWpB-YJqEchGtrnm76YNK28qWZ8MUohd6GimPNSWQa5ABmZCLbSrxylLFVdXFMA1jDoFAvN7iKMDeeYH8nNGGWHXWsDXQQadR817I2tqk7o/s320/photo+%25288%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gramps as a toddler. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 18pt;">In the drawer just to the left of the stove are
his passports. I show them to the kids trying to share him and his adventures
even though he is gone. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18pt;">When I go upstairs to sort the laundry, I am greeted by the
smiling faces of the dead. Half of the photographs housed in the collage are
filled with relatives I no longer see at Christmases and Thanksgivings. They
have faded away with my childhood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">As I study them, I wonder how they could actually cease to exist-- for death and life, and the delicate veil between them is inexplicable and
unbearable still. The sister who died at 45 from a brain tumor, a
great-grandmother blessed with the longevity to see her oldest daughter live
into her 80's, a mother who never had a chance to raise her children and
another who came along to raise them in her place. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18pt;">I can hear bits of conversation and laughter, joy and sadness as
they echo through time and bring me back to the moments forever frozen in
frames on my wall. A birthday party long before my own birth when my mother was
my son's age, a Christmas when I still believed in the magic of Santa, a time,
one of the few, when my sister would meet my son. For a moment I am
overwhelmed. I sit on the bed, breathing deeply and praying that my own
children will never feel this way, this lost, this confused--this alone. I am
an adult, but I feel like Peter Pan--naïve, childlike and unprepared. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18pt;">These people whom I thought I could never live without have left
me behind. It is the natural order; I know this though it doesn't make things
easier. I understand that someday my own children will stare back at me, glancing in my direction briefly as they greet days that I will never see. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 18pt;">But I will be with them always. I will remain in the things, and memories, that I
leave for them. I will be their ghost, possibly one of many depending on how
life goes. But, it will be okay. It will be my time. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18pt;"><i><span style="color: blue;">If you enjoyed this post please click on the image below to read another. </span></i></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2701336661195217482.post-84699587326278377692015-11-04T23:14:00.002-05:002015-11-06T18:52:55.417-05:008,614 Reasons Mom Never Goes The F*ck To Bed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.suburbanshitshow.com/2015/11/8614-reasons-mom-never-goes-fck-to-bed.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg54Ct5FzBdk8KMK-LDEJ7vOnQbtKRgRoJ2AX5o7KDlSbRhgh01fPjDMstIhxuYtQZXSheKym3ChEn7NprqrQtCbJq47SGO4avSsuwyxTaLNco0yrRF2cVYHaCnRBjeJO1GvoJuvc89HtM/s640/1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The kitchen clock is the only one I see as I deposit more ice cubes into my glass. The big hand is on the outfield, while the little one rests by the bleachers. I attempt to calculate, but my mind refuses. Annoyed, I head to the living room to find the easy to read digital numbers on the cable box.<br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b><i>10:45</i></b></span><br />
Bedtime in 15 minutes I think as I sit on the couch. Tonight Mama needs her beauty sleep. Tonight I am going to win at bedtime. Tonight I am going to sleep like I did after a collegiate night of drunken debauchery.<br />
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But before I catch up with the Sandman, do I have time for one teeny, tiny 30-minute show? If I watch a 30 minute show On Demand, it will only take 22 minutes which gets me to bed nine minutes past my bedtime. Of course if you figure in brushing teeth (and flossing which the dentist tells me is now mandatory given my age), and rinsing, but not washing, the wine glass because really who uses it but me? that adds at least ten additional minutes.<br />
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And look, my wine glass is still half-full and now I only have 10 minutes to drink it.<br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b><i>10:50</i></b></span></div>
I refuse to dump perfectly good wine down the sink it would be like throwing away one of the kids half-eaten candy bars. I think about pounding it, but I'm no college kid. Besides, pounding is best with hard liquor, beer and Kamikaze shots. The wine is staring back at me, it's pale pink phosphorescence glitters in the overhead stove light.<br />
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What would I do while drinking the wine if not watch TV? I could read, but how would I turn the pages and hold my glass? Looks like reading is out. Sorry classic literature sitting on the bathroom counter. I know I've been attempting to read you for three weeks and our time together has been limited to brief encounters while I hide from the children when my husband returns home. You've been around since the late 1800's, you'll be here tomorrow. Fare thee well until we meet behind closed and locked doors.<br />
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<b style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">10:53</span></i></b><br />
Maybe I should just go to bed. Wait, I'll miss an episode of that new show. It's a spin off from the other show--about the zombies. If I don't watch it now I won't be able to watch it until at least 10:45 tomorrow night and then I'll be exactly where I am right now. If I try to watch it earlier the kids may catch me. I'm pretty sure allowing your children to watch zombies feast on humans is child abuse. The time is now. Carpe Diem. Decision made.<br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><i><b>10:55</b></i></span><br />
I'll just top my wine off and get a few chips. No need to go hungry while watching my show. Shit, I hear the two-year-old. No, it can't be. Maybe it was the wind or the cat or a pack of wild coyotes--we do live in the woods. No, it's the two-year-old.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">10:57</span></i></b><br />
I retrieve my boy from his crib. "Don't feel good," he whines. I bring him downstairs where my wine sits looking lonely and confused.<br />
<br />
"Want show, Mama," the two-year-old pushes his body closer to mine. I suggest <i>Scooby Doo</i>, he counters with <i>Spiderman</i>--we meet in the middle with <i>The Brady Bunch. </i>He falls asleep halfway through. Maybe I can still catch the zombies. I tuck him in and tiptoe out of the room. I would make a great spy. Maybe in my next life.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">11:15</span></i></b><br />
"Mommy," the four-year-old whispers, "I need to poop." After entering the bathroom, sitting her on the toilet and listening to her sing three songs with missing, jumbled, incorrect and inappropriate words, she finally drops a popcorn-kernel sized turd.<br />
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On the way downstairs the cat shoots me a look. Her bowl is empty. I feed her.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">11:25</span></i></b><br />
"You up?" my husband asks as he pees for the second time out of his nightly five or six urinary nocturnal trips. Maybe he should have his prostate checked I think as I vow to look up prostate cancer on the Internet. That WebMD is amazing.<br />
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"Yes," I say realizing I never answered him. He is already back in bed. Maybe he isn't emptying his bladder fully, I suggest. He snores in response.<br />
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<b><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><i>11:27</i></span></b><br />
I settle back on the couch. If I watch my show now, I'll be in bed by 1:00 a.m. I promised I would go to bed by 11:00. But the promise was to myself not to my husband, my children or God. Those promises I keep--most of the time. And if a promise is never said aloud, is it really a promise? Or rather a random brain dropping by an overtired mother.<br />
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<b><i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">11:30</span></i></b><br />
I press play on the remote feeling equal parts rebellious and foolish. What am I trying to prove and to whom? I'm 40 and I have kids. I should just go to bed. Then I see him, Samuel L. Jackson and he's angry. I don't speak, instead I listen. "Why you still up, woman?" He is wearing the black suit from <i>Pulp Fiction. </i>I wonder if John Travolta will be joining him as the oddly likable Vincent, a character that single-handedly revived his dead acting career. I go to open my mouth. He places his hands over my lips. "Bitch, go the f*ck to bed."<br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><i><b>12:00</b></i></span><br />
I wake up. Samuel is gone. But, the dog has placed her body on top of mine as if she thinks I am somehow part of the couch. I feel asleep during the zombie show and didn't touch my wine. I contemplate going upstairs but instead push the dog over and pull up the Elmo blanket. I think I'll just sleep right here. I'll go to sleep early tomorrow night. I promise...<br />
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