It's Not Sasha

Who's Gonna Fill His Shoes?

2013-04-26T15:36:00.001-04:00

It was one of those summer days where you felt that you actually had to push against the heat to get it to yield a path for you to walk. However, I would have been sweating had it been the dead of winter because I was 14 years old and driving down Interstate 81 enroute to Richmond, VA, as my crazy drunk uncle tossed back beers and screamed out the window, Sing it, Possum. I know how you feel. It didn't matter what song George was singing, from a Picture of Me Without You to White Lightening, Juke knew just how he felt.

Uncle Jukie's Mustang was bright yellow and the seats were white leather. There was no air conditioning in the car so we had the windows rolled down, but my bare legs were still sticking to the seats. Every time I raised my leg it sounded like two pieces of velcro being torn apart and I was certain that I was leaving flesh behind. The a/c may have been busted, but the tape player worked just fine.

We listened and sang along to George Jones's greatest hits several times during the five hour drive. Ole No-Show's twangy baritone calmed me as I navigated traffic and prayed after my first driving lesson from my half-asleep, completely drunk uncle consisted of, Sosh, there is nothin' to it. Just keep it between the lines.

George Jones was ever-present in our family. Hell, he might as well have been one of my gran's brothers - he had all the characteristics. Even my grandfather, who was a Big Band man, loved him some George. We sang George Jones songs when we celebrated and when we mourned.

When my great-grandmother Conley passed away I got drunk with some of my cousins in the kitchen of our little house on Powhatan Ave. Clad in our pajamas, we swayed and sang-yelled Who's Gonna Fill Their Shoes as we passed around a handle of Jim Beam. Conley would not have been impressed with the drinking, but she would have smiled and patted us on the back all the same.

If there is anything my family knows about it is drinking and heartbreak. We do both of them well. And, George Jones sings about drinking and heartbreak like few others have ever done. If you have ever had your heartbroken to the point that you want to forget it all just let these words settle in your brain for a minute: And the ocean of liquor I drank to forget her is gonna kill me but I'll drink 'til then.

I'll never forget the day when my seven year old self put together what they put a wreath upon his door meant. I was riding in my granddad's mammoth Buick and George was blaring out of the speakers. I said, oh, this guy is dead? Skomie just gave me a huge belly laugh and said, Yes, of course. He stopped loving her today because he died. I'm pretty sure that is the first time I thought, I could really use a shot right about now.

And, it was that song, He Stopped Loving Her Today, that became a family theme song of sorts. The night that we gathered in my Aunt Lou's garage to remember the man that had me driving down an interstate a year before I was even eligible to get my learner's we sang that song at least a dozen times. We laughed, we cried. We tipped our drinks to uncle Jerry's first wife, Joan, who came. We were all wonderin' if she would.

Aunt Joan is the only woman other than his momma that Uncle Jerry ever truly loved. Everyone knew. Everyone understood that he had underlined in red every single I love you.

As the night progressed and the whiskey supply got lower tears were shed as the Possum trailed off with And soon they'll carry him away, but then someone would attempt to do Uncle Jerry's trademark bark and another round of funny stories would circulate. It was that night that I finally broke my silence on Jerry letting me drive some 12 years before. I had to wait until he died because I was certain that my grandmother would have killed him had she ever found out about that story. Now, anytime that Tony attends a family funeral he says, how many times do you think they are going to play He Stopped Loving Her Today?

I'm going to be playing it a few times today, but I'll go on loving George Jones and all the memories his songs have given me. Because really, Who's gonna give their heart and soul to get to me and you?/Lord, I wonder, who's gonna fill their shoes?

I have a feeling wherever you are on your journey there is a party going down. If you run across Jukie, and Danny, and Starr, and all the others, tell them we all say hi.

Rest peacefully, Possum.

My Homey

2013-04-15T08:37:00.002-04:00

April 5.

Thirty-two years ago on this date Abigail Mitchell Martin brought her unique, quirky, special and completely lovely brand of magic into the world.

Abby and I met a little over six years ago. She was hired a few months after I was at Laureate Capital in Charlotte. I was excited about her hire because I had heard that she was from my home state and that we had both gone to West Virginia University.

She didn't like me. She adamantly denies this, but I still contend that she didn't. It's ok. She likes me now.

I wanted her to like me. Therefore, when I found myself with two very good tickets to the Bobcats v. Lakers I asked her if she wanted to go. She accepted. I thought that she loved basketball because she has a collection of NBA bobbleheads. Actually, I assumed that she had played basketball because, well, because she is tall. Nice.

Abby loathes sports.

However, she said yes. We had a fine time.

Slowly, our friendship grew. We both played on the company volleyball team. We IM'd - more than we worked.

And, then I invited her to our end of summer party. A pre-Conley party was slightly different than a post-Conley party. We did enough Jagerbombs to float an airplane carrier and as the sun rose over the Queen City we were sitting beside each other on the couch watching the "duster" episode of Intervention - and, laughing very inappropriately.

We've been sitting beside each other on that couch ever sense...laughing inappropriately, crying, and just enjoying the silence that comes with true friendship.

The soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. McNamara

We bonded over our love of books and movies; of being insanely competitive with ourselves; of getting inside our own heads too much; of thinking we're hard asses when we are anything but.

Abby has helped me grow into a happier and healthier person. I have leaned on her more than she realizes. She has cheered me on and picked me up.

It was Abby who I first started telling my story - the real one. I still don't know why. Perhaps it was because a lot of our relationship was formed behind screens...computer and phone. Perhaps it was because I knew from early on that we had a special connection and she had a special heart. Whatever it was it gave me the courage to start sharing with a bigger audience.

Now I have to find the courage to let her leave. Abby is getting married. She is getting married to a terrific man. A man that loves her exactly as she deserves to be loved. I love the man that she loves. It's a damn good thing that I do because it would be easy to hate him for taking her from me.

In a month, Abby will marry this man and they will start their life together - in another state. I am going to miss her from the core of my soul, but I know that this is right. I know that it is time to let her go.

She almost left once before. She was accepted into the Peace Corp and was weeks from leaving when true love intervened (thank you, true love). I outwardly supported her, but inwardly I was a petulant child that just wanted my friend to stay put. It didn't feel right. This time it does.

Although I wish that she could live down the street from me for the rest of her life, I am so excited for her to start this new journey. It's going to be a fun one.

So homey, I know that you are cursing me for doing this. Hell, it may even take you months to read this, and that is ok because...well, you know, I get you. Just please know that April 5 will always be one of my favorite days because it is the day you came into the world.

Thank you:

For making my world a better place;
For loving me even when I am at my most unlovable;
For being an incredible "My Abby" to Conley;
For being a surrogate little sister to Tony;
For baking incredible treats;
For making me "dark and twisty" playlists;
For being the best movie date;
For finding our peace in a cold, dark movie theater;
For talking about books for hours;
For being a proud West Virginian;
For offering to drive back from Myrtle Beach;
For bringing enchilada casserole after my mom died;
For leaving your family the day after Thanksgiving to attend Zack's funeral;
For not liking butter on your popcorn;
For sitting on the deck, peeling apples for a pie, drinking Coronas, and listening to Biggie;
For running in silent with me;
For running this marathon with me;
For your beliefs in equality and justice;
For believing in me;
For your inability to give up;
For your willingness to try something new;
For your work ethic;
For your incredibly big heart;
For all the wonderful things that I am forgetting; and
Thank you for finally seeing yourself how others have seen you all along.

I am very fortunate to have these two people on either side of me.

You're my people.

I love you, Martin!

Happy Birthday!

My girl with her "My Abby".

Yes, That Kid is F**king With You

2013-03-08T11:12:00.002-05:00

This post is heavily dotted with the f-word. It also talks about children, those little lights of our life. If you are offended by that particular f-word or if you don't think that we should ever joke about precious little blessings, this post is not for you. Now, don't get me wrong, I want as many people reading my posts as possible, but I've got a lot of shit going on and I really don't have the time to be reprimanded or answer hateful, judgey emails or comments. Ain't nobody got time for that.

This is not an original idea. My midnight companion came up with the theory that our kids fuck with us - constantly. I thought it was the most brilliant theory that I had ever heard. However, she hangs with a more respectable crowd than me (no offense, they wouldn't want me either) so I am stealing her idea and going with it. I'll funnel her some money if this gets me a book deal.

Conley fucks with me. Your kid fucks with you, too. Now, that you know this, relax a little bit.

Parenting is hard enough without having to deal with formidable miniature mind fuckers. It is my hope that from this parents will stop beating themselves up so much; that they will stop feeling guilty because they're dicking around on Facebook rather than making educational crafts. Kids are not going to become hobos because you let them watch two episodes of Peppa Pig in a row. I'm sure it takes a lot more than checking your iPhone at the park to create the next John Wayne Gacy.

I was raised by a couple of addicts, an on-again/off-again Jehovah's Witness, and a bookie. I can guaran-damn-tee that we did not have rainy day treasure hunts, and other than a having a penchant for curse words and occasionally getting Snooki drunk I've turned out okay.

Trust me when I say that those little fruits of our loins can sniff out guilt and weakness and they will not hesitate to pounce like a panther hopped up on blow.

They will fuck with you in unimaginable ways.

Conley is a Master Mind Fucker, Sensei Mind Fucker, a Jedi Mind Fucker, if you will.

She is also Batman.

Gangsta, soccer player Batman.

This does not mean that she is a bad kid. Quite the opposite. She has always been very pleasant, extremely agreeable, fairly laid back. Considering that her father and I can be big ole Type A assholes that have been known to throw a temper tantrum or two, we were certain that by mixing our DNA we would get some mutant asshole kid. Super Asshole. However, this did not happen. Instead, she somehow got the good parts of us. Yay.

The Universe has rewarded her for her cheery disposition by giving her a hyper-sensitive fuck-o-meter.

She is able to tap into her mother and father's souls and expose their fears and dislikes. It started with crawling; she would get on her knees, rock back and forth, put one knee out, and as we would break our neck trying to get a camera, she would splay out and roll over on her back. Smiling.

That was cute, not a big deal. A few months later, she took it up a notch, a big fucking notch.

The Artist, Poocasso

At around 10 months she started painting her room - with shit. Not once. Not twice, but enough times to earn her the nickname Poocasso.

We had a baby monitor in her room. Yet, the artist was stealthy. Mysterious. She created in quiet.

I am not one for poop humor. For years I could not even take care of that kind of business outside of my home, preferably when no one was home (this made for interesting stays at my in-laws where there is generally 12-52 people there at all times). I was incredibly happy when my doctor announced that I would need a c-section because then I did not have to worry about shitting the bed - literally.

Therefore, Conley studied the Fuck-O-Meter and came up with her own special brand of interior decorating.

Well played, Sensei Poo, well played, indeed.

Ugh!

What Are These Words You Speak Of?

Conley is now three and a half, and I am happy to say that she has found other ways to express herself, mainly song and interpretative dance.

I attended my first parent/teacher conference in January, and then promptly spiraled into post parent/teacher conference mania after I was told that Conley, whom received a glowing report on everything else, failed to identify one letter of the alphabet. Not one letter. Why? Because she likes to f**k with me.

She knows, oh does she know, that reading and words are incredibly important to me. Hell, I read Disturbances in the Fields out loud to her when she was a newborn (ok, so maybe that is the problem). Therefore, how better to fuck with me than not identify one letter of the alphabet. I mean I could give a shit if she can work puzzles or if she gallops correctly, but words? Yeah, I need her to form words and letters are the first step in that process.

The Bagina Dialogues

One word that Conley has taken a real shine to is vagina, well, bagina.

When I was growing up vaginas were referred to as birds and doggies. Tony's family called them frogs. I have heard bug, bunny, and an occasional hootnanny. For a while we went with hoo-hoo, but eventually decided to just call a vagina a vagina.

Without the social taboo associated with it, vagina is a fun word. Bagina is really fun.

When you set it to the Hokey Pokey it is Mardi Gras up in here. And, to fuck with me Conley did just this - in the grocery store. As I was perusing the wine aisle one day, Conley starts singing the Hokey Pokey. It was cute.

I soon get mesmerized by the Cab section and the next thing I know my brain is foggily registering that my daughter is loudly screaming, "You put your bagina in, you put your bagina out. You put your bagina in and you shake it all about!" I tell her that we should probably skip singing about our baginas while in the grocery store. "Why, mom?" You always tell me to wash my bagina when I am in the shower. Bagina, bagina, bagina."

Tony grew up with three sisters. We have lived together for 13 years. We have three nieces and a daughter. He has no issues buying feminine products, and he long ago learned to tune out the constant buzz of female chatter. However, Conley has a way of getting of his attention and/or fucking with him.

A Scene from the House of Lewis:
Approximately 7:00pm

Conley in the master bathroom shower. Singing.

Tony (yelling from our bedroom): Sosha! Sosha! What is this song she is singing?

Me (yelling from the kitchen): I don't know. She makes up songs all the times.

Tony: Well, I swear she is singing about her va, no excuse me, bagina.

Me: That is very possible. It is one of her favorite things to sing about.

Tony: Dear Lord. What is my life coming to?

Me: Living bagina loca, babe.

Yep, she's fucking with him too.

Joey Doesn't Share Food (and, Momma Doesn't Want To)

Although I am aware that Conley fucks with me I am amazed at the complexity of her fuckery! How she makes me eat words that she doesn't even know I've spoken.

For years my husband has endured a lot of grief because of his stance about food. Tony, like Joey, does not share food. I've learned this the hard way, but not as hard as one of his best friends, Bobby, who in high school once reached over Tony's shoulder to grab a tater tot off of his tray and got stabbed in the hand with a fork.

He wants what he orders. He doesn't want to go halfsies with anyone. He doesn't want to sample a bunch of different stuff. If he orders General Tso's, he wants to eat General Tso's. He does not want a little bit of the house lo mein, and a sampling of Kung Pao Chicken. And, he damn sure doesn't want you asking for a bite of his General Tso's.

I don't have a problem sharing food...especially with my daughter. However, I do have a problem with her f**king with me about sharing food.

One morning, Conley had eaten an Eggo with peanut butter and banana, some turkey and cheese, a yogurt and a cutie before I had a chance to eat. I decided to have eggs. Although Conley had already consumed enough calories to fuel a Navy Seal through Hell Week I still asked her if she wanted some eggs.

Her response, "No. No, thank you, Mom. I'm full!" Made perfect sense.

I make the eggs, sit down with a cup of coffee, when who should appear from her blanket fort? Yep, Sensei Mind F**k.

"Mom, those look yummy! Can I have a bite?"

Fucked again.

And, momma doesn't want to.

The Way of the Master Mind Fucker (MMFer):

The MMFer needs approximately 47 hugs before you can leave his/her room at night;
The MMFer is overtaken with an intense thirst just as you are shutting the door;
The MMFer claims that his/her beloved stuffed animals scare the bejesus out of him/her around 2:15am and only your bed will make him/her feel safe;
The MMFer races the sun to see whom will be the first up;
The MMFer begs to sleep in your bed on the weekend and then manages to make their 3 foot tall, 35lb self take up 98% of a king size bed;
The MMFer's bones will suddenly turn to Jell-o when you are dressing them for school;
The MMFer will melt the fuck down if the peanut butter is not perfectly covering his/her Eggo;
The MMFer can never remember to use his/her inside voice except when in the car, and then he/she will talk as soft as a butterfly wing;
The MMFer will tell your grandmother how much you love wine;
The MMFer will mistake your pap smear stick for a sucker and try to lick it;
The MMFer will have to use the bathroom every time you are in public.

Whatever your weakness, your kid knows. And, they will absolutely use it to their advantage. So, let go of some of the guilt, take a mental load off, prop your feet up every now, have a drink, allow one eye to check Facebook statuses while the other eye focuses on the spectacularly spectacular swinging your kid is doing, give 'em some chicken nuggets every now and then because in the end it doesn't matter if you build awesome blanket forts every day or give a Princess Tiana performance that will make grown men weep they are still going to fuck with you.

That is brown Sharpie on her face. It was also on my comforter and sheets. This happened less than an hour before we were leaving for a seven hour drive.

When they fuck with you too much, feel free to lock them in a cage. That way you 'll have more time to do this:

And, this:

The Jager Moms know what's up.

All of Us

2013-01-26T16:19:00.000-05:00

I have been attempting to write this post for a couple of weeks now. However, the words haven't come. Won't come. Can't come. It is not a case of writer's block. It is a case of simply not knowing how to explain the unexplainable.

I have slammed my laptop down in frustration and wondered, Why did I tell Meredith, one of my oldest and best friends in the world, I wanted to do this? Who am I to tell this story?

I wanted to back out. There is too much pressure to get this right.

There is no playbook for this.

This is simply too hard.

And, then I decided to, well, to get over myself. See, this isn't about something being too hard for me. This isn't about me finding the right words, isn't bout me avoiding cliches, and building the right scene.

This. This simply is not about me.

Yet, it is about all of us.

On December 22, 2012 one of my best friends' families lives changed in the proverbial blink of an eye. On this night, the Bachos: Meredith's sister, Natalie; her husband, Steve; their three daughters, Hannah, Abby, and Charlotte; and Natalie and Meredith's dad, Butch had gone out for a fun dinner at the Redneck Gourmet in Newnan, GA.

After dinner they all loaded into the family mini-van for a Christmas lights tour. Steve, the usual driver, suggested that Natalie drive since she knew the neighborhoods that they would be touring better. He gave his father-in-law shot gun and slid in behind his wife, his youngest daughter, Charlotte, to his right, his oldest daughter, Hannah, behind her and his middle daughter, Abby, behind him.

Upon arriving at the entrance to the neighborhood, Natalie followed the left green arrow of the traffic signal. And it was during that routine act that the life that Bachos had built, nurtured, and loved changed. Drastically. Dramatically. Unfairly.

During the routine, mundane act of turning left, of following the traffic signals, the Bachos' van, and their world, was crashed. Spun around.

They followed their traffic signal. A young man, 18, did not. He ran a red light.

A stupid mistake. Careless. One that all of us have probably made. All of us.

His full size truck crashed into the driver's side of the van. Spinning it 360 degrees. The Bachos' world continued spinning. Continues spinning.

When the car stopped spinning, Natalie called her daughter's names. Hannah answered right away. Charlotte, after briefly losing consciousness, answered. Abby did not answer.

Steve's only response was a guttural, primal groan.

The hit was concentrated where Steve and Abby were sitting.

Emergency personnel arrived.

Natalie, Hannah, Charlotte and Butch were loaded into ambulances and taken to a local hospital. Steve and Abby were strapped into helicopters and flown to bigger hospitals. Different hospitals. Separate hospitals.

It had been a long time since this family had been separated.

Natalie and Steve grew up in McDowell County, West Virginia. They were from long-standing, well-respected families in the area. They were high school sweethearts. They married after college.

Everyone from the small, tight-knit communities nestled in the Appalachians knew them. Loved them.

Sweet. Funny. Hard-working. Family-oriented. God-loving. Lovely.

Simply lovely.

They were all of us.

Shortly after the accident the community phone relay started.

Prayers were sent up. Good vibes were put out.

We hugged each other; we prayed together; we smiled through our Christmas activities; we held onto our kids a little too tight.

All of us.

We had hope.

It was bad, but everything would be ok. Everything had to be okay.

We believed.

It was Christmas, after all.

We needed a miracle.

A Christmas miracle was not to be. This was not a made-for-TV feel good holiday movie. This was life. Real. Dramatic. Unscripted. Unimaginable.

Unfair.

Abby would not recover. The one, that as a baby, they had started calling Crabby Abby, as her sometime cantankerous, rebellious disposition became somewhat legendary, did not make it.

And, on Christmas Day, Natalie, as her husband lay in critical condition, unconscious, had to make the decision to take her beautiful, energetic, blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby girl off of life-support.

I am not a deep enough thinker to comprehend what it takes to live through the most unnatural circumstance in the world - outliving your child, but whatever kind of otherworldly strength, whatever kind of unflinching faith it takes, Natalie has it.

After the death of a child a common refrain to the parents is, I don't know how you go on? However, my husband's grandmother, whom buried two children, once said that there were no more biting words to a parent that had lost a child because the implication was that they didn't love their children that had passed enough because they chose to go on. As if they had any other choice...especially those with other children.

I have often had the very morbid thought that if anything happened to Conley that I would just follow right behind her. Make a quick exit. One of the more dark, the more twisted reasons that I only want one child.

I am a coward. In my thoughts. And, I would most likely be a coward in my actions.

Although I can't let my brain go to that black place very often, now when I do, I hope that I could find the strength, the grace, the faith of my great-grandmother. Of my grandmother. Of both of Tony's grandmother.

Of Natalie.

Through her grief, Natalie honored her daughter's legacy by donating her organs, thus giving the gift of life to others. The ultimate gift. A Christmas miracle.

The Bachos draw strength in their faith in God. Although I am not particularly religious, in difficult times I do take solace from lessons of the Bible, one of the scriptures that this brought to mind (I had to do a lot of Bible study as a child) is:

He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. Psalm147:3

This is my hope for the Bachos.

For all of us.

I was fortunate enough to meet Abby. She was someone you remembered. She was exuberant. Fun. Silly. And, yes, still a little crabby.

I am glad that Conley got to meet Abby and her sisters. Abby loved soccer. I remember the kindness she showed my then 18-month old daughter by kicking a little pink and white soccer ball with her when we all visited Linkous Park.

Abby is no longer with us, but her spirit lives on.

It lives on with her family. With her friends. With her school. With her soccer team.

With all of us.

I don't know how to explain this tragedy. I fear that I haven't found the right words to honor this great life.

However, what I am going to do is run. Not run away from this, but run for this.

Marathon training is hard. Physically, it is the hardest thing I have ever done. Yet, it is something I can do, and I will do. I will do it for me. For my my gran. For Tony's grandmothers.

For the unfairness of life.

For Natalie. For Steve. For Hannah. For Charlotte.

For Abby.

For all of us.

Love and grief are not singular. They are shared.

This was hard to write. However, if I can share a tiny glimpse of the love that the Bachos have, and we can share in their grief, shoulder some of it for them, than it was more than worth it.

If I can run and help raise money for the Bacho memorial fund than every step I take, every mile I log, every shin splint I ice will be more than worth it.

After all, this is not about me.

This is about all of us.

========================================================================

Through my marathon training I am still raising money for Promising Pages, but I am also raising money for the Bacho family fund. Steve Bacho is still in the hospital and the family faces a long emotional and financial struggle.

Therefore, I am going to run for them. For Abby. For all of us.

Here is the information to donate:
Bank of Coweta
Bacho Memorial Account
110 Jefferson Street
Newnan, GA 30263
Phone: 770.254.7722

Running for Reading

2012-11-29T21:38:00.000-05:00

Chatty. Social. Talkative. Story-teller. Attention-hog. Spotlight-lover.

These are all adjectives that have been used to describe me. Accurately. Well, for the most part.

I am a talker. I love to feel that I am captivating a room. Charming them with the ebb and flow of my stories. Basking in their laughter.

However, I am also someone that intensely craves to be alone. All by myself. I daydream of not talking. Of curling up with a good book. Alone.

I am an extroverted introvert.

Acclaimed novelist Jonathan Franzen said, “The first lesson reading teaches us is how to be alone.” I fell in love with reading and I fell in love with being alone.

From the time I was very young, I have always loved to read. I would read anything - my grandfather’s newspaper, my cousins’ comic books, my gran’s tabloids. However, I was around nine when I first understood that books were an escape, a safety net, a sense of calm.

My parents and I lived in a HUD-funded apartment complex in Oceana, WV. Oceana is a small, one road town nestled in the rugged Appalachians. The apartment was small, and it was always filled with people. The one saving grace was that I had my own room. I loved the small piece of privacy that my room provided. Somewhere I could go to read, and to satisfy my craving to be alone.

Reading has always been my passion. My escape. However, in the past few months I have developed a new, well passion, isn’t the right word, but another escape. Running.

I am a much better reader than I am runner. There are no Kenyans losing sleep about my 10:30 mile. I’m slow. I don’t have great form. I just finish. I finish because I am extremely stubborn. I don’t love running. I love the escape of running. Even when I run with others, I am still alone. To an extroverted introvert, this is close to nirvana.

I completed my first half-marathon, Thunder Road, earlier this month. It took me a little over two and a half hours. I placed 2,149th. It was hard. But, I finished. And, when I finished I realized that running races actually combines my love of being alone with my love of the spotlight.

I chose this particular half-marathon because it was in November. November has been kind of nasty to me. It took my mom and my little brother. Therefore, I used the date as motivation. When I run, I feel a connection to mom and Zack. I even talk to them during those long, lonely miles. Not out loud, don’t worry. When the noise has melted away, and the screens are no longer glowing, and the phone is not ringing, buzzing and chirping, when it is just me and the greenway, I feel them with me.

As soon as they hung that medal around my neck, I knew that I would need more. So, when I was still on an endorphin high and/or suffering from a lack of oxygen to my brain I quickly decided that I would need to do a marathon next. Before I had time to back out I found one in Knoxville, TN...where I have friends and family to hit up for free lodging and to make sure that I have plenty of people cheering for me.

Running for Reading: When Worlds Collide

I also decided to use my temporary insanity, training, as a way to raise money and awareness for my favorite charity, Promising Pages.

Promising Pages

Promising Pages is a 501(c)(3) non-profit operating in Charlotte, NC. The goal is to collect and redistribute books to the 60,000 kids in the area growing up with few if any books at home. We conduct signature Magic Book Parties and hand deliver our books via our mascots Erm the Book Worm and Erma the Book Worma. Many of our books are wrapped as special presents to remind the children we serve how lucky and special they are. For more information visit www.promisingpages.com.

My goal is to raise $1000.00 for Promising Pages...oh, and not die. Promising Pages says that for every one dollar they receive, they can put one book in a child’s hand. Therefore, if we raise $1000.00, we will be putting books in a thousand kid’s hands.

If a bookworm can run 26.2 miles, surely you can donate a dollar, or five, or twenty, or hundred.

Please visit my fund raising site, http://www.crowdrise.com/readinandrunnin, and help me run for books.

After my first half-marathon!

My daughter at Imaginon!

Readin' and Runnin': Rock and Read 5K Giveaway

2012-10-15T11:08:00.002-04:00

3rd Annual Rock & Read 5K Run/Walk

From the time I was very young, I have always loved to read. I would read anything - my

grandfather’s newspaper, my cousins’ comic books, my gran’s tabloids. However, I was

around nine when I ﬁrst understood that books were an escape, a safety net, a sense of

calm.

My parents and I lived in a HUD-funded apartment complex in Oceana, WV. Oceana is

a small, one road town nestled in the rugged Appalachians. The apartment was small,

but the one saving grace was that I had my own room. I loved the small piece of privacy

that my room provided.

We couldn’t always pick up the TV channels on the rabbit ears that poked up behind our

ancient set. Plus, my mom had a very strict 8:30pm bed time rule. Therefore, I spent a

lot of time in my room. I had a twin bed, a small desk, a book shelf and a boom box. I

was still sleeping with a lot of my stuffed animals, but if asked, I said that I didn’t. My

walls were covered with Kirk Cameron posters (pre-crazy Kirk Cameron).

My parents were very young and they were opiate addicts. There was always noise

from downstairs. Noise from my parents’ screaming matches or noise from their

partying. Screaming. Laughing. Loud music. Off-key singing. Just noise.

I would retreat to my room. I would turn on my massive 1980’s boom box and try to

counter their classic rock or their cursing, depending on the night, with catchy pop

music; Tears for Fears, Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, Blondie.

My grandmother, always one to be counted on for contraband, had smuggled me a

ﬂashlight that I hid under my mattress. I used the ﬂashlight to read, tucked in my twin

bed, under my fuzzy Smurf blanket well past my 8:30pm bedtime. I would read until I

could no longer hear the noise from down stairs, until my eyes were simply too heavy to

keep open.

My grandparents and a bookish aunt bought me plenty of books, but I also developed

an afﬁnity for the small public library, and that is where I found the Bobbsey Twins

books. There were actually two sets of fraternal Bobbsey twins - Nan and Bert, and

Flossie and Freddie. I was an only child until I was 10 so the thought of all those

brothers and sisters, twins nonetheless, intrigued me. Yet, it was the mysteries that they

solved that kept me coming back for more.

I wanted to solve the mystery, but I also wanted to breathe in the middle-class world that

the Bobbsey’s lived in. Mr. Bobbsey owned a lumber yard and Mrs. Bobbsey was a

stay-at-home mom. The Bobbsey family was always together and happy. It was my ﬁrst

peak into a “normal” family life.

We moved when I was twelve. I was the new kid. I was poor, and everyone in my new

school seemed rich to me. Again, I turned to books. My English teacher, Mrs. Crawford,

assigned a lot of reading. I relished being able to escape into the assignments.

I remember sobbing as I ﬁnished “Where the Red Fern Grow” by Wilson Rawls. It is still

one of my favorite books.

My mouth watered as I turned page after delicious page of “Charlie and the Chocolate

Factory” by Ronald Dahl, and I was constantly asking the adults for spare change so I

could run to the convenience store for candy bars. Mr. Wonka worked up a raging sweet

tooth!

As the years progressed, my parents addiction spiraled more and more out of control.

They would pack me in the back of their beat up Chevy Nova as they hustled doctors for

pills that they would sell and take. I never left the house without a book - even if it was

one of my dad’s paperback westerns.

It was in that back seat that I read, what remains to this day, my favorite book, “To Kill a

Mockingbird” by Harper Lee. I know that this is not an original choice as many cite this

as their favorite book. However, it was Harper Lee’s poignant words that taught me so

very much about family, loyalty, kindness and justice. When faced with a tough choice, I

often ask myself, What would Atticus do?

My parents’ addictions continued to spiral out of control, and they were eventually

arrested and sent to federal prison for buying the powerful painkiller, Dilaudid, from a

conﬁdential informant. The agents ramsacked our house, scattering my books. When I

came home and saw the the path of destruction they had left it felt as if someone had

knocked the wind out of me. I grabbed a stack of books and some clothes, threw them

in a trash bag. I grabbed my beloved and worn copy of S.E. Hinton’s “The Outsiders”

and put it in my back pocket. I took off running to my grandmother’s house. That night I

curled up in her bed and read “Follow the River” by James Alexander Thom aloud until I

feel asleep.

Books have always been a constant in my life. They have never let me down, even the

ones that I didn’t really care for took me places far away from the struggle of my young

life. My husband once suggested that I have a yard sale to thin out some of the stacks

and piles that were taking over our den. I looked at him and said in tone somewhere

between incredulous and disgusted and said, “Sell my books? Are you crazy? Books

are my ﬁrst, true love!”

He shook his head and laughed saying, “And, here I had the crazy notion that I was

your ﬁrst, true love.” He is a good sport.

Fortunately, my life is much better now. I have a great family and a wonderful daughter.

Her room is ﬁlled with books - Dr. Suess, Harry Potter, Lemony Snicket. We read

together every day. Although her childhood will be vastly different from mine, I want her

to know the power of books. I want her to know that they are her passport, her airplane,

her time machine - just as they were mine.

I've been toying with being a runner for years now. However, it was only recently that I began to take it seriously. It is a complete escape, much like books. I lace up my shoes, secure my earbuds, turn my ipod up, and just run. It is just me and the miles that are ahead of me. It is freeing. It is cheaper than therapy. I feel the frustrations and irritations of the day evaporate, one step of the time.

Read. Run. And, then read and run some more! Trust me. Reading and running will take you far!

It's Not Sasha is happy to announce one free registration for the Friends of the Charlotte Mecklenburg Library Rock & Read 5K on Saturday, November 3, 2012.

To be eligible to win the registration please leave a comment with you favorite book either on here or on the It's Not Sasha Facebook Page.

The contest is open to everyone and we definitely want to hear about everyone's favorite book. However, if you are not available to run the race please indicate that by putting (no race) after your comment.

The winner will be announced here and on Facebook on Monday, October 29, 2012.

It is a fun, well-organized race for a great cause. I'll be there and I hope to see many of you.

Never Simple

2012-10-06T10:01:00.000-04:00

The gates slid open and the hunter green Buick Riveria stuttered slightly, knowingly, as we, the family that remained, continued down the tree lined road. The lawns were immaculately kept and stalwart brick buildings peeked out from behind the colorful fall leaves. A beautiful, even idyllic campus. Even the razor wire seemed to cooperate by blending in.

I shrunk down in the seat and crossed my arms angrily on my chest. My much younger sister and brother, Angie and Zack, could barely contain their excitement. Glee. I swiveled my head around and glared at them. Until. Until Gran told me to cut that shit out.

With some parting daggers I turned around. Sulked.

My teenage face, twisted with a mixture of disgust, angst, bitterness, betrayed my true feelings. My practiced mask didn't show that I too was excited. Filled with glee. Tempered. But, glee.

It had been two months since we had seen her. Since I had seen her. I wanted to be mad. I was mad. But, I wanted to see her. Needed to see her. Feel her put her arms around me, wrap me up like a favorite sweater, and let me believe, for that moment, that everything was okay.

Gran parked the car and Angie and Zack pushed on my seat and begged me to open the door. I took my time. Gran opened her door and ushered them out her side. Angie twirled in her new dress. Zack stood patiently as Gran smoothed his hair.

I checked my eyeliner. Untied and tied my shoes. Gran stuck her head in the door, gave me a quick dirty look, then softened. C'mon darlin', let's just go do this.

Angie and Zack ran ahead, holding hands, always holding hands. Gran with her long, graceful strides quickly caught up with them. I lagged behind, shuffled, kicked a stray rock, sighed, rolled my eyes. I looked up at the sign hanging over the door of the brick building that would have looked completely at home on a college campus - Alderson Federal Prison Family Center.

Ariel View of Alderson Federal Prison Camp

Alderson Federal Prison Camp

We signed in. Gran fished quarters out of her purse so that Zack and Angie could get something out of the vending machine. She asked me if I wanted a Coke. I did. I mumbled, No thanks, I'm good.

I flipped through a magazine. Avoided eye contact.

Soon they called our name and took us back to another area, one that had comfortable couches, TV and a play room for the kids.

I was so angry. Incredulous. This was where she got to live?

This was her punishment?

Our house had an overgrown yard, a broken dishwasher, and a clogged bathtub.

My mother had been sentenced to 11 months for buying narcotics from an undercover informant and she got to live on a beautiful college-like campus nestled in the protective embrace of the Appalachians. She had every meal provided for her, television, a library - even movie night. She was allowed to take walks, exercise. She worked in the bakery. Well, at least she may learn her way around the kitchen before she came home.

She walked up to us, slightly ashamed, nervous, but happy to see us. She had put on some weight. She looked better. Healthy. It would only be seconds until I felt her again. Breathed her in. Went home.

Zack and Angie ran to her. Screaming, deliriously happy. I lagged behind, using Gran as a barrier. My conflicting emotions waging a brutal internal war. I wanted to cry and throw my arms around her. When she made her way to me, I remained stone faced. She hugged me - tight. I wanted to fall into it. I stood plank straight. Only bending my arms and patting her on the back when I caught Gran's side eye.

We stayed most of the day. I grew bored. Surly. I wanted to go home to my friends, my boyfriend - all of whom thought I was being forced to visit a great-aunt. Zack and Angie were both weeping when we climbed back in the car.

I should have hugged them, joined them in their anguish. I looked straight ahead. I refused to look back.

It was the only time I visited.

I hated her. I loved her. I hated me for loving her so much. And, so it was and so it had been all of my life.

It was never simple with my mom.

My mother, was two very distinct people, two very different mothers. One that I loved with my entire being and one that I wanted to run as far away from as possible.

I had one mom that had that was happy, gorgeous, lovely in every way. She danced with me in the kitchen, picking me up and twirling me around. The mom that picked me up and carried me off a mountainside when I had broken both of my arms. The one that taught me to swim at Linkous, and stood outside the door on my first day of Kindergarten with tears streaming down her face, waving and blowing kisses. The one that straight climbed up a neighbor's ass for holding me hostage in her house and lecturing me after the neighbor's daughter and I had an altercation on the playground.

And, then there was the other mom. The bitter, jealous, hateful, paranoid drug addict mother. The one that whipped me and yelled that she didn't ever want me to come back when I asked if I could visit her first husband's parents. The mom that when trying to help her up after her third husband, my dad, had thrown her threw a plate glass window told me to, Go the fuck away. The one that took me school shopping when she was so high that she couldn't count the money, and the one that took out a credit card in my name and maxed it out.

You never knew which mom was going to show up, which mom was on the other end of the phone.

I got very good at detecting which mom I was dealing with - even when I couldn't see her, check out her body language. First syllable. I knew.

I can still hear her voice. It is getting harder. I have to be very still, the room very quiet, but it's there. The voice, that with one syllable could, in one instance, soothe all that troubled me, and in another voice fill my soul with anger. Anguish. Disgust. Disappointment.

Mama's voice.

When I hear her in my head it is always her warm, dancing, smiling voice. It is the one I am holding on to. The one I don't want to fade. The one I wish I could hear - just one more time. The other one, her other voice, was the last one I heard and it is the one that I try to forget.

The voice that crackled, and spit, and faded off like a dying robot in a late night movie. Her last words, I gotta go. I love you, So-So. I want the words. Not the voice.

Never simple.

Even my memories of her are complex. Confusing. Same goes for her death.

When dealing with drug addicts on the scale of my mother, you can see death closing in around you. You accept that on any given day that you will get the call telling you that she is gone. Yet, on the day that I got that call, I did not accept it. I fell to my knees. And, wept.

At that moment, it was not my beat down, addiction-addled mom that was gone. It was not the mom that had lied to me. Manipulated me. Stolen from me.

At that moment it was my beautiful, smiling, loving, laughing mama. It was the mama that sent me care packages in college filled with sweaters and Sweettarts. It was the mama, that in her perfect school teacher cursive, left notes in my lunch. It was the mama that I would sit up late into the night with, talking and giggling and eating donut holes.

As soon as that moment was over, I knew that I had to get a hold of my damn self. I knew that I could not wail and carry on again. I knew that, in her death, I couldn't exalt her. For one last time, final time, I had to stifle how much I loved one of my moms because of how much I hated the other one.

I wish I had the luxury of just missing my mama. Of just longing for her to be here. But, I don't. I know that I have to balance it. Remember all of it.

My hope, my hope for my mama, is that everyone else can do that too. Balance it. Remember it. It is easy to remember the bad aspects of my mom. They were more evident. Prevalent. In your face. However, the good parts were there.

Never simple.

It doesn't matter what kind of mother you have, when they are gone, your world is changed. A wise friend of mine once told me that there were only two kinds of people in the world, those that had lost their mothers and those that were waiting to lose their mothers.

Being motherless is shared by many, but it also completely singular. It is lonely and it is sad. And, it is never, ever simple.

Me and my mom. 1982

Me, my mom, Aunt Chris, Aunt Lib, Cousin Tammy, Cousin Jake - circa 1980

Mom and me. 1991

Not So Hot Yoga

2012-10-01T18:43:00.001-04:00

Geno Smith, the incredibly gifted, likely Heisman Trophy contender quarterback that is electrifying my alma mater, WVU, and college football in general was was on my mind during Hot Yoga today.

I was thinking about him because on Saturday when we were watching the WVU v. Baylor game, my husband turns to me and says, Wanna feel old? Geno Smith was born in 1990.

My husband had to be mistaken. Geno is only a couple years younger than us.

Being born in 1990 means that was not born when John Lennon was killed or when Thriller was released or when the Challenger exploded or when the Berlin Wall fell. Knight Rider had been off the air for four years when Geno came into the world. He has most likely never screamed "I want my MTV" or swapped Garbage Pail Kids.

He was not yet in Kindergarten when O.J. led the LAPD on a slow speed chase. When I was using my fake id at Shooters and telling everyone that I loved it when they called me Big Poppa, the future football phenom was learning the alphabet.

I vividly remember moving into Towers (dorms at WVU) and being a little star struck at all the athletes roaming the halls in their official Team shirts. It is hard for me to wrap my brain around that was actually a little over 17 years ago. Geno Smith was five. Two years older than my daughter is now.

Most of the time I do not feel my age. I am sometimes shocked when I see grey hair poking through my highlights and the lines on my neck and around my eyes weren't there in pictures from a few years ago, but for the most part I think that I'm handling 35 like a boss...except after I exercise.

I took a run yesterday, a triumphant run. I ran six miles, not a particularly fast six miles, but no stopping, no walking! Boss. However, my muscles were sore before I got back in the car and my lower back was tightening at a record breaking pace. I stretched, but it was not going take nothing short of a good ole fashion draw and quarter to work these kinks out. Old.

I bet Geno Smith went out partying and hooked up with at least two freshmen the night after throwing eight touchdowns - or at least he could have if that is what he is into. I don't know him, he's just a kid. His youthful body needing nothing more than a Gatorade and a bag of Skittles to recharge.

I bet he didn't wake up the next day, certain that rigor mortis had set in a good four or five hours earlier. If I were laying the odds they would go heavily in favor of number 12 not saying anything remotely close to, Wow, I sure am stiff from all that running and throwing. I think I will go completely out of my comfort zone and take a yoga class.

Geno Smith probably didn't say that. He is 22 freaking years old.

Geno Smith, age 22

I am not.

I have tried yoga in the past - half-assed. I know that it has fantastic physical and emotional benefits. You know with the Zen and Namaste and shit.

When I exercise I do not want to find my inner-peace. I want to beat the ever-loving shit out of all that troubles me. I want Eminem and Outkast to blare in my ears. I most certainly do not want Enya playing. I want to relax on my couch not at the Y. Oh, and I prefer to wear shoes when I exercise - except for swimming because that would be weird.

Furthermore, I am not exactly what one would call graceful. I am klutzy. I make movements that can only be described as awkward. I have soul but, no rhythm. I know that I need to keep my dance moves very simple, very cool. Anytime I break out my fancy dance moves, spins, and twirls, and such, I fall - like I did at my wedding reception, and Tracie and Jason's wedding reception.

Happens every time I try to get fancy.

Therefore, yoga is not my kind of exercise nor is it something that I am naturally inclined to do well.

I figured that I would do hot yoga because even if I didn't feel like I was getting the same kind of work out as I do when I spin or run at least I would be sweating like I was. Plus, if I toppled over on someone, hopefully they would be so blinded by sweat that I would have time to pick up my shoes and jet out of there before they had the sweat wiped out of their eyes.

I found the room, found a spot for my mat (Don't ask. I don't know why I have one.), and tried to covertly sneak a peak as to what I should be doing. I wasn't sure if I needed to pray or hum or what. I kinda stretched, kinda fidgeted.

Class started. The instructor used a very soothing voice and terms like warrior pose, and gorilla feet, and awkward airplane - I was good at that one. Shit is hard. And hot. I have never worked so hard and been so completely bored at the same time.

I looked around and saw a woman that was approximately 96 years old and had her body contorted like some weird abstract sculpture all while doing a hand stand. And, there was an elderly Asian gentleman that was doing all the moves expertly, but seemed to be snoring at the same time.

I burnt most of my calories concentrating my energy on not falling or vomiting.

I realized that my body may not bounce back like it once did, and but I'll take being old and stiff over spending an hour looking like a drunk trying to pass a sobriety test while being instructed to find my inner-peace. Do I look like I have time for that bullshit?

Namaste, bitches!

I would break a hip.

I Probably Think this Post is About Me

2012-09-25T18:21:00.000-04:00

I am tired of being fat.

I am tired of cringing at pictures of me. I am tired of sitting with a pillow over my stomach. I am tired of staring at my flabby, underside-of-a-lizard white belly in the mirror every day. I am tired of looking at all the cute clothes that still hang in my closet - reminders of a foregone time, the brick shithouse era. I am tired of my muffin top. I am tired of these gigantic tits that keep me from wearing my beloved oxfords. And, I am tired of acting like I own who I am.

I am tired of feeling fake.

I own my past. I share secrets and fears. I am open...about everything but my weight.

I justify my weight, my bad eating habits by contending that I am in good shape. I am in pretty good shape, but I am still fat. Maybe I am not super-big gulp full of Mountain Dew, six Junior Bacons fat, but I am overweight.

I don't put this out there for people to tell me that I am not or that I carry it well or that I have a great personality. I put it out there to come clean, to be held accountable because it is about time that this shit gets real.

I am confident. I am outgoing. I am secure. I know that I am fairly attractive and that I have great hair and pore free skin. However, I am not okay at the size that I am. This has nothing to do with our cult of celebrity. I like looking like a woman. I just want to look like a smaller woman. It can be argued that being hung up on my weight is superficial, frivolous, vain. Well, I am vain. I'm so vain that I probably think this post is about me.

However, it is more than that, maybe not much more, but more. I want to be healthy. I want to hang with Conley for as long as possible. Therefore, it seems ridiculous to me to possibly shorten my time with her, with all the others that I love and cherish because I really like chicken wings and cupcakes and I don't seem to be able to accept that my body has changed. I can no longer lose weight as easily as I gain it. I have to face it that this weight isn't going to magically melt off of me by simply swearing off Oreos and Doritos. That was once a solid game plan, but I need more than that now.

I have been irritated for years that I look just like my father, act a lot like my gran, but by some cruel twist of fate or fat got my mother's metabolism. My father and my gran are both from the hollow-leg people. My mother was in a constant battle with her weight. She would balloon up and then go on a crazy crash diet or eat diet pills like Skittles and lose roughly a baby rhino in less than a month.

After she had me her 5'2 frame hit 200+ pounds. My grandfather promised her a new wardrobe and a trip to Florida if she lost 70 pounds by a certain time. With a month to go she had only lost 40 pounds. Her solution...eat nothing but saltines and orange juice for a month.

I am not going that route. I have joined Weight Watchers online. I plan to track what I eat and work out more. I am cutting way back on the booze for a while. I am sure that there will be times when I say, Fuck it! After all, sometimes you need to say fuck it.

There will be days when I must have pizza or a cheeseburger or a tub of popcorn, but I don't need those things every day. I can attempt to burn calories by hating those with ridiculous metabolism or I can get my increasingly wider ass to work. I am not a person that is going to declare how delicious and filling my grilled boneless skinless chicken breast was, but I am going to change my every day habits.

I want my belly to feel the sun again. I'm sorry I've kept you in the dark the past five years, mid-section. I am going to stop lying to the elliptical runner when it asks me to enter my weight. I'm sorry I've lied to you, cardio machine.

So, on September 25, 2012 I am 184 pounds. On September 25, 2002 I was 135.

It's time to make the old, new again.

I don't stop until I hit 135.

It's out there now. If there is one thing I hate more than being fat it is being a failure...a public failure.

Also, I am just thankful that I don't have to eat any of these! http://www.candyboots.com/wwcards.html

I remember you!

Split Second

2012-09-12T18:33:00.003-04:00

I am a person that, from time to time, needs to be humbled.

I am fairly certain that had my teenage years not turned into an after school special thanks to my parents prison stint and them losing almost a million dollars that I would have been a spoiled, insufferable asshole. Hell, we were dirt poor and I was still an insufferable asshole.

It is easy for me to get very full of myself.

When things are going really well for me, it is not very hard for me to start thinking that I am charmed, invincible, untouchable...just an all around awesome human being.

I am grateful, but I have to actively work at being grateful. My natural inclination is toward selfishness and arrogance.

On September 8, 2012 I was humbled. I was grateful.

After attending Conley's first soccer clinic, my mother-in-law, Mary, Conley and I set out for Knoxville, Tennessee. We were going to help some family members, Nikki and Brian, that had just moved there get unpacked and settled in.

Future soccer star - mastering "Rocket ship! Soldier!"

I plugged in the Garmin and we were off.

Nikki called and informed us that the movers were running late and for us to not be in a rush to get there. Therefore, since Mary had never been to Asheville, we decided to stop there and have a nice lunch.

We went to a fun, very Asheville'esque Mexican restaurant. We gorged on the standard Mexican fare with a uniquely hippie twist.

Clowning around in Asheville!

We then drove through downtown Asheville to take in all the fun sights.

As it began to rain, we decided it was time to continue on to Knoxville. We ran into some pretty severe thunderstorms, but I just slowed down and proceeded with caution.

Soon, we were out of the rain and blue skies and dry roads awaited us.

It was an incredibly pleasant drive. Mary is the world's best road tripper and Conley is an extremely good traveler.

We arrived at the turn-off to our destination. We were told to turn left, meaning I would need to get in the center turning lane and turn across two lanes of on-coming traffic. However, the street name that the Garmin told us to turn on and the actual name of the street did not match. I assumed that I had stopped to turn too soon, and proceeded in the center lane for the next left hand turn. We all have to pee and we are laughing and mocking the Garmin for leading us astray.

As I was looking to the left for the next street, the Garmin recalculates, and tells me to turn right. And, there in that split second, is where I make one of the most careless and humbling mistakes of my life.

I jerked the car back into the right lane, so that the passenger side, the side that not only my mother-in-law is on, but my daughter as well, is exposed to oncoming traffic.

It was at this moment that I learned the true meaning of the saying, It happened so fast. We were hit instantly. I had no time to react. I looked and saw as Mary's head hit off the passenger side glass, and heard my daughter cry - in fear. Before the car had come to a complete stop, I had my seatbelt off and was running to my daughter's door. It was primal.

I had to get to her. I didn't care about the car, or the other driver, or for that split second, even Mary. I needed to touch Conley, hold her in my arms.

The door was completely smashed in. I could not open it. I started to run back to the other side, and I noticed that the other driver was walking on her own accord. I knew that I should ask her if she was ok, but I still hadn't felt my daughter's skin, checked that her bones were in tact. I sprinted back to the other side.

My mother-in-law was crawling back to get Conley as I swung the door open. We both grabbed her and for that moment I was calm.

I then realized I had to deal with this mess I had caused. We called 911. Neighbors and an off duty paramedic ran to offer aid.

I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. Please check my daughter. Please check my M.

I knew that I should wait to call Tony, wait until I had calmed down. However, I needed to hear his voice. Tell him myself. I was sane for about the first 20 seconds of the call and then I went, to put it lightly, bat shit crazy. Mary finally took the phone from me.

I bent down and hugged my daughter. I kissed her head. Told her how very sorry I was. That I would never hurt her on purpose. Mary had her calmed down. This made her cry again.

The very kind police officer pulled me aside and said, Ma'am, I know that you are extremely upset, but your daughter appears to be fine. She is reacting to her mama being upset. You must get it together for her.

He was right.

Nikki and Brian arrived on the scene. The other drivers' parents.

Bless your hearts abound.

I beg people to not be kind to me. They still are.

I want to punish myself. I do.

I want others to punish me. They do not.

I go through all of the what ifs.

What if I wouldn't have missed the turn?

What if we had just stopped to pee?

What if we hadn't stopped in Asheville?

What if I would have just slowed down and looked?

What if? What if? What if?

And, when I got tired of those I started on the how could I?

How could I have put my daughter at risk?

How could I have put my M at risk?

How could I have been so careless?

Then in mere minutes, the accident is cleaned up, the other car is hauled away, the EMTs leave, the neighbors leave, Brian says he will drive my car to his house. I get in Nikki's car.

I look over at Conley and I see, for the first time in her life, true sadness. My heart felt as if it were breaking into tiny pieces.

I held her hand. Told her again how sorry I was. How much I love her. Tell her that she is my world. She looks back at me, her lip quivering and tears streaming down her face, says, Don't cry mama. Conley fine. Please don't be sad. Can I have some lipstick?

I told her of course she could have some lipstick. I grabbed some out of my purse and she applied it generously.

I had to get out of the car. I was going to throw up. And, throw up I did.

When people talk about not having the will to go on, I now know that without Conley I wouldn't. It is that simple. In a split second it could be over. It wasn't.

Brain knelt down beside me. I prayed for him to not be kind, to yell, scream and curse. My prayer was not answered. He put his arm around me and assured me that everything was going to be ok. He reminded me that Conley, Mary and me were ok. He said that they were called accidents for a reason and that everyone makes mistakes.

We made it back to Nikki and Brian's lovely new house. Conley saw her birthday twin cousin, Savannah, lept out of the car and started playing and chatting as if nothing was different. We got a tour of the house. Mary and I made the necessary phone calls.

C seems very traumatized.

Checking out the safety features of the Barbie Jeep.

I talked to Tony again. I couldn't wait to talk to him because I knew I was finally going to have someone yell at me. Disappointed again. He was kind. Gentle. Pragmatic. My Tony.

The knot on Mary's head began to grow. I could sense she was worried. In typical M fashion, she was trying not to say anything about it. She is an eternal optimist.

We insisted that she go to the ER. She did. She checked out fine.

Dr. Weenie declared Mary superficial...I mean he declared her injury superficial.

I was so relieved that I almost threw up again.

Mary is loving and kind, but she is not one to talk about her feelings. She jokes that two of her greatest gifts are repression and denial. I had apologized to her until she told me not to do it again. I hugged her before we went to bed and told her how much I loved her. What I didn't tell her is that I would feel lost without her.

My mother-in-law, my M has healed me. She filled a void that was making me fold into myself. She taught me that true confidence doesn't have to be shouted from the rooftops. She showed me that motherhood can be the most important, satisfying job in the world.

I didn't tell her that.

The three of us climbed onto our air mattress (the movers didn't show up). Turned off the lights.

I just gently put my arm across Conley and rested my hand on Mary's back.

I counted each breath.

I was kind to myself.

I was grateful. So grateful.

RIP 4Runner. Thanks for getting us through safely. You will be missed.

Thank you to the kind Knoxville Police Officers and EMTs. Thank you to Toyota for making a car that can take one helluva punch. Thank you to Erie Insurance for being the best insurance in the world.

My People

2012-09-06T10:25:00.001-04:00

I was once a Republican. Yes, when I first registered to vote, I registered as a Republican. I never voted Republican, but there is a record, somewhere in the world that says Sosha M. Yokosuk - Republican.

The reason that I registered Republican is because we were extremely poor during my teenage years. Stay with me. I'll bring it around.

My parents had been sent to prison on federal drug charges, and my grandmother adopted my brother, sister and me. Gran worked tireless hours at Pay-less Shoes. I got an after school job at Little Caesars. However, there was still never enough, not enough food, not enough money, just not enough. We often relied on food stamps and medical cards.

I was embarrassed of the food stamps and would flip through a magazine, just walk outside when my grandmother paid. Yet that didn't keep me from devouring the special treats that she always got for us as soon as we got home. When the cabinets were flush with the food stamp goods I loved to throw them open and ask my friends if they wanted any of the various snacks that strategically hid the white and black label of welfare peanut butter. It didn't matter how we got the snacks, or that they hid the peanut butter that tasted more like paste, it was all about appearances.

Two weeks after getting my license, I wanted to take her car, show off, make an appearance. Gran and I argued. She did not want me taking the car, fearing that I did not have enough experience behind the wheel to go off on my own. I had had my license for 14 days, what the hell did Gran know.

She finally relented. Allowed me to go. Within 10 minutes of leaving the driveway I had plowed my Gran's Buick Riveria into the back of a stopped 1976 Chevy Nova. I was in the car with my cousin, we had hip hop blaring, and I was distracted by a cute boy that was walking into the Community Center on College Ave. It had been my grandfather's car before he passed away and it was paid for. Therefore, my grandmother only had liability insurance on it. I did a couple thousand dollars with a damage to the front end. Fortunately, I did not put a scratch on the Nova.

However, we had no money to fix the car, and had to drive it around with a missing headlight and bashed in front grill. I was mortified. I wanted to get a car bra to cover the front. It was, after all, all about appearances.

My life was far from fine, but I did everything that I could to make it appear that it was. I distanced myself from the other free-lunch kids, I would put the other poor kids down quickly, hoping that no one would see through my fake bravado and falsely inflated ego or that I was starving because I refused to eat the free lunch.

I was angry. Bitter. I carried not a chip, but a whole mountain range on my shoulder. I got into college and was fortunate enough to receive a scholarship, but I also had to rely on Pell Grants and financial aid for living expenses. Just like the food stamps, I didn't want to admit that I had received grants and aid.

I had convinced myself that I had done it all on my own, that I didn't need nor had I received help, that I worked hard, that if I could do it, there was no excuse for anyone else. I. I. I.

Well, what I was, was completely and totally full of shit!

I had, as my Gran reminded me, gotten completely above my raisin'!

I hadn't done one thing on my own, not one thing.

My grandmother had worked herself to near death trying to keep my brother, sister and me fed and sheltered. Yes, she received food stamps and other government assistance, but she never quit working. It is just next to impossible to keep a family of four afloat on little more than minimum wage. I had an after school job, but I didn't give most of it to my gran or save it for college. No I blew it. Blew it trying to buy the things that I thought would help me fit in with my rich friends.

I received a scholarship to WVU, but that wouldn't have been possible without a kind guidance counselor that fought for me. I had worked hard, I had over come some adversity, but I had not worked anywhere close to my full potential, and there are a heap load of people that overcome more on a daily basis than I have in my entire lifetime. Yet, I puffed my chest out, I beat on it, and I proclaimed, Look at me. Me. Me. Me. I have never asked for help.

And, since I didn't get any help, I damn sure didn't want anyone else to get any help. They can do it all by themselves - just like me. Not my job to help them. I had to look out for me.

And, that is why a poor kid, with a funny name, registered with the GOP.

It was a short lived stint. I got back down to my raisin'. Back to my people.

I quickly learned that Republicans, with a few exceptions, ain't my people.

Unfortunately, my parents were making about $.17 an hour at their respective prisons.

This was reinforced when I was an event planner and the special assistant to the CEO of a large commercial real estate firm. As a person that truly enjoys creature comforts, this job, in many ways, was a dream. First class flights, five star resorts, silky smooth wine. I was paid to party.

Well, I was paid to party with rich white dudes. The vast majority of said rich white dudes were solidly Republicans. These were the people that I expect to be Republicans. These were the people that I once thought I wanted to be.

At these parties there were people with yachts, planes, summer homes, fall homes, winter homes and spring homes. There were people that knew their way around the banking systems in the Cayman Islands and Switzerland.

There were lawyers, bankers, brokers, oh, and bankers, bankers, bankers. There were not mechanics, teachers, police officers, coal miners, plumbers, fire fighters, nurses, waitresses, sanitation workers. My people. My people were not there.

Some of the rich white dudes were self-made, some had money handed to them. I did not begrudge their wealth. For the most part, they took more risks, worked longer hours, and had much more at stake than I did. I did begrudge their lack of concern for anyone they deemed beneath them. They talked down to the wait staff, they destroyed rooms, they had bell hops fired, they yelled, they scoffed. At my people.

My people are: draft beers, good wine, cheeseburgers, tofu, football games, poetry readings, family holidays, beach vacations, rock concerts, Broadway plays. My people send casseroles for funerals, candy dishes for weddings. My people fix your flat, pick you up, bail you out. My people drive pick-up trucks, hybrids. They read: the classics, the comics, Field & Stream. My people love God, Buddha, Allah, and the Universe. My people believe - believe in the right to love, the right to choose, the right to have medicine when they are sick, the right to bear arms, the right to be.

My people worry about their jobs, the deficit, the future, but they accept change, progress, new ways, new people. They understand that the system, in many ways, is completely busted. They understand that some take advantage of the system, that are some are lazy, entitled, but they know that the system is necessary. It is necessary for people like my grandmother. For me.

Because sometimes you can work, work until your back spasms, your fingers bleed, your mind tires, and you still need help.They believe that the Hernandezes, Chins, and Nguyens of today should be allowed to strive for the American dream just like the Yokosuks, Marinos, and McMillians of yesterday.

My people don't back down. They have taught me how to love and how to fight. My people believe in working hard, doing the right thing, and holding the door for those coming behind them.

My people have exposed me - in the best possible way. My people don't care about my appearance.

I have done nothing on my own. I have been fortunate enough to have help every step of my way - in spite of myself. So many people were invested in me. I now feel that it is my responsibility to help others - in whatever small ways that I can. It is my responsibility.

Like Tammy Duckworth, I am the child of food stamps, public education, and Pell Grants. She is my people.

Julian and Joaquin Castro's mother pushed a mop so that they could have a better life. My Gran stacked and sorted cheap shoes so that I could. The Castro twins are my people.

At the DNC Bill Clinton asked, “The most important question is, what kind of country do you want to live in? If you want a winner-take-all, you’re-on-your-own, you should support the Republican ticket. But if you want a country of shared opportunity and shared responsibility, a we’re-all-in-this-together society, you should vote for Barack Obama and Joe Biden.”

When I registered as a Republican I thought that winner-take-all, you're-on-your-own was what I wanted, was who I was. I. I. I.

Like many things in my life, I was wrong. So very wrong.

Admittedly, I am a wide-eyed believer. It is easy to scoff. To be above it, over it. It is easy to say that politicians are all full of shit, that they are only concerned about the personal agendas, appearances. I am not denying this. However, in the end, I know that politicians, on both sides are flawed, human. In the end, we all have the right to our own beliefs and that is truly amazing. However, in the end, I believe to hell with appearances. I will go with my gut. I will go with those that believe in fighting, and helping, and loving, and choosing.

In the end, I will go with my people. Stand with my people.

In the end, I believe in my people.

In the end, I believe in hope.

In the end, I believe in change.

In the end, I changed...or maybe I just realized.

My people.

A Mother Knows

2012-08-31T11:09:00.000-04:00

The night had just the right amount of chill in it. The stars were twinkling in the sky. The chiminea crackled with a beautiful fire.

The fire and the copious amounts of wine kept us warm. Glowing. Happy. Grandma Rose, foregoing the wine, asked for a blanket. She wrapped herself in it and humored us quietly as we grew funnier, more charming as the night wore on.

It was a perfect night. Some of my very favorite women in the world sat on my deck, the light of the fire highlighted their smiles and the clear Carolina air carried their laughter. April 10, 2005.

And, then we broke out the Key Lime pie. It made us cry. Key Lime pie is mean. Complete asshole.

Ok, so it wasn't actually the pie. It was Jo E.

So, it wasn't exactly the pie, and it wasn't exactly Jo E., but around the time the pie was broken out the conversation turned to me not wanting children. I was 28 and adamant that I did not want children. I reiterated my tried and true slogan of: I've been a mom most of my life. I am tired of taking care of people.

Jo E. wasn't hearing it. She had been slyly whittling a sturdy soapbox throughout the night and with the grace of a cheetah and the dogged determination of a politician she climbed atop. And, she took her fork, remnants of her pie still clinging to it, with her.

She gestured with her fork, flinging pie crust on us, she announced without an ounce of hesitation that I was wrong. Dead wrong. I did want to have children. I was just scared.

My floodgates, pushed to their limits by the wine, cracked and then opened - wide. I admitted that I was scared, I lived in daily fear that my mom was going to die. I was afraid that I would become my mom. I was afraid that my child would get the gene of addiction that I had somehow missed.

Not a dry eye in the house.

My mother-in-law tried to change the subject. Jo E. persisted.

Then Grandma, whom had sat quietly in the corner wrapped in her blanket, ended the assault and changed my life. Grandma whom had lost two sons, one to a brain tumor when he was seven and one in a car wreck when he was 15, quietly said, Sosha, I've lived through the worst thing that a mother can live through - twice. However, I would do it all over again.

A mother knows.

Golden Fork Night.

The next day we went to see David Sedaris. I was sitting beside Grandma. Sedaris told a joke about a woman giving a horse a blow job. It was hilarious, but I was sitting beside my husband's beloved grandmother, the matriarch, and I had taken her to a show where oral beastiality was a topic of conversation. I prayed for the seat to eat me alive. She patted me on the knee and said, He is a funny young man.

Once again she saved the night.

Grandma was ahead of her time.

We talk about Golden Fork Night often. It makes us all laugh and get a little misty-eyed - missing Grandma. I tell Conley that she has key lime pie and her great-aunt Jo E. for her being here. We all know it was Grandma.

Grandma Rose and Jo E. both have infinite wisdom...just different approaches of sharing.

Mary, Conley, Grandma Rose and Tony

I have admitted to Jo E. that she was right. She loves being right.

She hopes that I'll get pregnant again. I won't.

I love being right, too.

I love being right almost as much as I love only having one kid.

Conley is an only child. Conley will remain an only child. The dreaded only child.

I was an only child and an only grandchild for the first nine years of my life. I never once desired a sibling. I had an imaginary friend. Her name was Blueberry. She was blue. She cursed like a longshoreman, and she was a marble champion. Why in the hell would I want anyone else? How could they compete with that?

I didn't like my sister and she didn't like me for the first 22-23 years of her life.

A lot of people have issues with only children, and for some reason they have absolutely no qualms with sharing these issues.

One of my best friends, one of five children, states that it is child abuse to have only one child. Others aren't as outspoken or snarky as her, but they agree.

Only children are are pitied. Poor dears...no one to play with.

They are stereotyped. Poor dears...spoiled, demanding, petulant, singular spawn of Satan.

I am undoubtedly biased, but I don't think that she is any of those things - for the most part. She is smart, mannerly, empathetic and sweet - for the most part.

She is not lonely. She goes to pre-school, the Y. She has friends. She has cousins.

Conley and cousins.

Conley and friends.

As a matter of fact, Conley's friend Ava has been here the past two Wednesdays. They are separated by a mere three weeks. Therefore, on the days that Ava comes over, it is like having twins. The best kind of twins in the world - not identical, not fraternal, but the kind where one goes home, a different home.

Ava is delightful. Well-mannered, sweet, loving. She and Conley play exceptionally well together. They entertain each other. They have minor squabbles, but they are quickly resolved. It is generally rainbows and unicorns when they are together. Yet, that doesn't mean that I am not excited when it is time for Ava to go home. Conley is too. She doesn't cry when Ava has to leave. She gives her a hug. Tells her she loves her. Secure. Enjoys her time alone. Word.

C + A = BFF

My mother-in-law often tells me that Bill Cosby once said that it doesn't count if you only have one.

This from a man that didn't want to share his pudding pops. Count me out, Dr. Huxtable!

For a while I fretted about these only-child fears and we seriously considered having another child - mainly because I felt that is what we were suppose to do. Have one. Have another. I even went off the pill when Conley was around 11 months old. We had gotten through the sleepless nights, we had gotten through 11 months of breast feeding, we had gotten through the fighting, the finger pointing, the jealousy. Apparently, I had some delirious hormonal rush and thought, well, we need to go through all that crazy shit again - stat.

However, by the 13 month of her life I was back on it. Happily back on it. Tony - relieved. Very.

We three, Tony, Conley and me, make a good team. We work together, play together, stand together, stay together. Tony and I take our job as parents seriously, but we also truly enjoy being adults - and individuals.

Team Lewis

We're selfish. Self-centered. Still enjoy a nice dip in Me Lake. The more kids you have the harder it is to dive into that beautiful, serene body of water.

Me in Me Lake

I love being Conley's mom. I truly believe that it is what I was put on Earth to do - be her mom. Her goofy, dancing, gap-toothed smile makes my worst day with her, better than my best day without her. I'm pretty good at it, I think, most days. However, I do not blink, do not stutter when I state; I'm good, I'm done.

I don't know if I consider parenting exceptionally hard. I try not to over think it. However, what I do think it is, is time consuming.

Oh, and it is expensive. They need a lot of shit.

I still want a lot of shit (see: selfish, self-centered).

Another reason that I don't want to have another kid is because the first year of Conley's life was the happiest time of my life, but it was also the most stressful 12 months of what I had always considered my rock-steady marriage.

No one tells you that your marriage is going to really suck ass for a bit. For some reason, people fail to mention that not only are you suddenly responsible for the very being of another human, but that you are also going to have to fight like hell for your relationship. You will.

Tony and I had hellacious fights. I threatened to leave, take my baby - and in the moment, I meant it. I resented his freedom. He resented that I was too tired to care - about him.

I was insecure about not working outside the home. I felt controlled. Tony was stressed about all the financial responsibility falling to him. However, I am certain that had I continued to work, we would have just had another set of issues to fight about.

I wanted him to be mesmerized and thrilled with Conley as I was. Don't get me wrong, he has always been a great dad, involved, but when she was an infant even he will admit that he quickly bored of the little human that just really didn't do that much.

Furthermore, I wanted him to be mesmerized and thrilled with me. Super mom, super wife. I needed validation. I needed my gold star. I felt that Tony wanted me to throw him a ticker-tape parade for doing something he had been doing for years - working.

Bitter. Tired. Hateful.

We took Conley to the beach when she was seven weeks old. I was in the house feeding her and I looked out and Tony was sitting in the sand with our brother-in-law with a cooler of beer between them. They were smiling, laughing. It looked like a goddamn Corona commercial. And, at that moment I wished with every ounce of my being that I was a trained sniper. I would have taken his ass out from 200 yards away...probably taken Jason out too just for having the audacity to think my husband was good company.

I'm sorry, but I don't want to do that again. I really like my husband. I really like sitting in the sand with him with a cooler of beer between us. I want to be in a Corona commercial.

Maybe things would be different. Maybe we would immediately know how to adjust this time, but I seriously doubt it. Just as when two became three and there were issues, when three became four there would be new issues.

Furthermore, Conley is a really good kid. She has a good disposition. She is strong willed, but respectful. She has an old soul, but has impeccable comedic timing.

Somehow she has gotten the good parts of her dad and me and molded them into her kick ass self. This will not happen again. Undoubtedly, number two would get all the bad, the dark, the twisted, the arrogant parts of our DNA. If this were to happen we would create a mutant, a Super Asshole. Would I love Super Asshole? Of course. Appreciate his or her uniqueness? Yep, naturally. However, would I know that he or she was a Super Asshole? Most definitely.

A mother knows.

I'm okay with that.

I'm okay with people that don't want to have children - at all. Did having one change my life, make me a better person, give me purpose and clarity? Yes, yes, and yes. Does this happen for everyone? I don't think so. I'm okay with people that want to have two, three, nine kids - if it works for you, knock yourself out. Go straight Duggar on your uterus. Be my guest. Tote the little darlings around in a converted Greyhound, buy industrial sized mayonaise at Costco. Go forth and procreate until you can procreate no more.

I don't know what is right for everyone. I do know what is right for me.

I have an only child. I'm okay with that.

I'm good. I promise.

A mother knows.

You Don't Know Me

2012-08-24T09:12:00.000-04:00

I've never been raped.

I was never inappropriately touched by a weird uncle or one of my parents' junkie friends. I have always taken a large amount of weird and twisted pride in this fact. Pride seems like an inappropriate word, but it fits.

I was the child of junkies, there were less than desirable people in and out of our ramshackle apartments, beaten up trailers, and falling down rented houses all of my life. When I wasn't with my parents I spent a good portion of my time in my granddad's bar. A smoky, dingy bar with mismatched stools and peeling paint. A bar patroned, in large part, by what could safely be called dirty old men. In college I partied a lot. A lot.

I've never had an abortion.

I've never had to make that choice. I am thankful that I never had to make it because although I believe it is a choice that is mine, as a woman, to make, it is also mine to live with. One helluva tough choice.

By my count, this brings the total things I have in common with Todd Akin, Mitt Romney and Paul Ryan to two.

Although, I don't know for a fact, I would say that it is a safe assumption that these three men have never been raped nor have they had an abortion.

Yet, they seem to have all the answers. They don't have the experience. They don't have the necessary parts. Yet they have the answers.

I was out watering my flowers yesterday afternoon. My daughter was inside napping. I looked up and saw a gaggle of teenage boys; black, white and latino - melting pot. They were full of life, energy, themselves. I waved at them. Some waved back, some looked at their shoes. I went back to watering my plants. They continued walking, giggling, calling each names.

I was thankful. Thankful that some of them were polite enough to wave back. Thankful that their youthful energy gave me a little charge, but mostly I was thankful that they just kept going. Although I believe that most people, especially when given a chance, are good that doesn't mean that for a fleeting moment I wasn't just the tiniest bit scared. Their power.

I doubt that Mr. Akin, Mr. Romney, nor Mr. Ryan have ever worried, ever so briefly, ever so fleetingly, that their life could be shattered by a group of teenage boys eating candy, wearing baggy basketball shorts.

It would probably be safe to say that they have never worried, when their wife was out of town, that someone would come into their home and violate the most private sacred part of them. Nor have they looked down at their underwear, with an increasing amont of panic and dread, when another day without their period has come and gone. And, I am certain that they have never felt their child somersaulting inside of them or felt the same child's foot finally get settled into it's resting spot - between two ribs.

Therefore, why do they feel it is their right to put restrictions and regulations on something they know very little about? Women, for the most part, don't seem to be concerned with putting regulations on penises...although we probably should be. Yet there are men, that have somehow risen to power in the greatest country in the world, that can't even say the word vagina because it makes them feel, I don't know, icky? My daughter knows the word vagina - she is three. She has a hard time pronouncing V's, so it sounds more like bagina, but the concept is there.

There are men that claim to have misspoken when they used the word legitimate to describe rape. What did they mean? Illegitimate rape? Fairies and unicorn rape? I find it odd that legitimate is also the word that people use to describe a child that is born to a man and woman that have been joined in holy matrimony - the only way a child counts.

I am not smart enough or well-researched enough to discuss this on anything more than a personal level, but that's the thing, this is personal. It is about as personal as it gets. I am, as unbelievable as it may seem to some, smart enough and well-researched enough to make choices concerning my own body.

I don't talk about astrophysics, or impressionist paintings or Beluga caviar. Why? Because I know absolutely nothing about astrophysics, impressionist paintings or Beluga caviar. Same point should apply to old white dudes talking about lady parts.

I would be remiss as a woman, and especially as a mother of a young daughter, if I didn't say, please, please, just get out of our vaginas, and even our baginas.

Also, I understand that Mittens and the one that Rage Rages Against distanced themselves from Akin's comments, but considering these men want women to have no choice with their own bodies and they are okay with women earning $.23 less on the dollar for the same job - how far apart can they really be?

Please remember that this is not a hard hitting news piece. You're certainly not going to change my mind and I doubt very seriously that this will sway even one person to check a different box in November.

My political views are pretty evident. However, this is not political. This is personal.

I've never been raped and I have never had an abortion. However, I have been ashamed and shattered by situations that were out of my control. I have had to make difficult choices. It's time for all of us, children of junkies, children of abuse, rape victims, and those that have had to shoulder the decision and consequences of our choices, to stop being ashamed, to stop being defined.

I stand with the victims. I stand with those that have made their choices, and now live with them.

To those that think that they know what's best for me, I say, you don't know me. You just don't.

Yes, Yes Ya'll!

When Mama Melts Your Best Friend

2012-08-20T16:43:00.001-04:00

My daughter has approximately 952 "guys". The "guys" are small plastic Disney figurines. She loves them. Adores the hell out of them, and they are also known as her best friends (granted sometimes I am her best friend, sometimes our dog Bella is her best friend, and sometimes the cashier at Target is her best friend, but none the less, the guys are on the BFF list). I, being a huge collector of California Raisins back in the day, understand.

Some of the guys! They enjoy a frosty Stella from time to time.

Considering that she is three she goes through many different stages of interest, but the guys have remained a constant for over a year now. Now, in addition to the guys, she is in a cooking stage. She baked cookies at pre-school last week and now all she wants to do is cook, specifically she wants to cook meatballs, birthday cake, and bacon. I let her help me in the kitchen - mainly in hopes that she is a chef savant and wants to take over the kitchen duties in a couple of years (people assume that because I am a decent cook and I have a compulsion to feed people that I enjoy cooking - I do not. Truth be known, I loathe cooking).

This morning she decided to serve us "guy soup". Of course I ate it. It was fucking delicious so I asked for more. She informed me that she had to make more and asked if we could put our bowls in the oven. She is three so I skipped that soup was not generally made in the oven. The oven was not on, had not been on, so I told her she could as long as I was with her. Safety first. We opened the stove inserted the bowls and waited for them to do their thing.

Well, as the guys were "cooking", she got distracted, probably with the several thousand other guys that she has. I got distracted with, well, hell, I don't know what I got distracted with, laundry, educational crafts, Facebook...ok, yeah, we all know it was Facebook. And, then we were off on errands (or as C thought, to see my friend Erin - she was vastly disappointed when we went to the bank) and to the Y.

Upon our return home, we were starving and C asked for cheese on bread (for those outside of my husband's family, this means Muenster on bread and broiled). You know where this is going, right? I start smelling burning plastic. I look around for a minute, checked the dishwasher because that made more sense than the oven - that was on! It did not cross my mind that at that very moment I was burning the guys alive.

Then it dawned on me. Holy shit! The guys. The guys are melting. I threw my ov-glove with the same intensity that I would have used had I been rescuing actual people from being broiled alive. I pulled them out. Cursed. Ran water over them. I don't know why. It seemed like the right thing to do.

The next task was telling Conley. There is nothing in any of the handbooks about what to tell your toddler when mama melts her best friends. She actually handled it really well. She was sad, but I told her we would love them anyway...we didn't care that Bullseye was missing a hoof, or that Olivia's little "bother" Ian now only had one ear, or that Buzz Lightyear could no longer go to infinity and beyond because his face mask looked like a roasted marshmallow. No, in this house, we love all guys - no matter their race, gender, or handicap.

She just shrugged nonchalantly at my teachable moment and asked if she could put Band-Aids on them.

On to the doctor stage.

WARNING: Some of the images may be shocking to some audiences.

Fortunately, these guys were on the bottom rack and I was able to pull them to safety. Expected to make a full recovery.

Top rack: not as fortunate.

Buzz Lightyear

Bullseye

Ian

Turtle from Nemo (sorry, they're a lot of guys...I can't remember all their names)

Say No to Co...Sleeping

2012-08-19T12:57:00.000-04:00

For the first 32 years of my life I had a stick shoved so far up my ass that I regularly choked on it.

Therefore, when I became pregnant, everyone fully expected that I was going to be an overbearing, uptight, uber-protective asshole.

There were bets. Polls. Whispers. Hand-wringing.

It was warranted (see: stick up ass).

My friends and family were fairly certain that the moment Conley was born that she was going to be inserted in a thick plastic bubble where she'd remain until she was at least 45.

I didn't dispute these concerns. It seemed perfectly reasonable to me.

Fortunately, for Conley, for Tony, for my friends and family, I am anything but a helicopter mom. Don't get me wrong, I am extremely involved in every detail of Conley's life. We practice the alphabet, numbers, shapes, colors. We eat dinner together as a family, I put something green on her plate. We paint, we read, we go on walks.

However, I also give her her space, and she gives me mine - usually. We both appreciate some alone time. I introduce her to spinach, brussel sprouts, but I also let her eat Cheetos, M&M's. I take her to the library, but I also let her watch TV.

I will always help her up, but I let her fall down.

I had a child and relaxed.

My first day of relaxing.

I also started sleeping. For most of my life, I was not a good sleeper. Fretful. I could fall asleep in the middle of a Motley Crue concert, but I'd be up in the middle of the night worried that Tommy Lee had spotted me sleeping when doing his solo on the drum coaster. Guilt.

Most college students can easily sleep until mid-afternoon. Not me. Nope, it didn't matter if we threw a raging kegger, and I stayed up until the break of morning. I'd be up a couple hours after the last beer was gone. Vacuuming. Around passed out bodies.

I loved taking early classes and always volunteered to work the earliest shifts available. I did not believe in the snooze button. At alarm's first peep, I popped out of bed, started main lining coffee and buzzed around like a coked up bee.

However, now, now I sleep. Deep, undisturbed sleep. Secure sleep.

Yet, I am still a precious sleeper. I like to lie in bed, head on Tony's chest, while we watch TV or read. I like to cuddle for those first moments that you are in that blissful stage between being awake and being asleep, but then after that I do not want to be touched.

If I had my druthers I would sleep in a giant, custom made bed in a soundproof, light less room that is kept at a constant 68 degrees. I would have 1000 count Egyptian cotton sheets that smelled like the outdoors with a splash of bleach, and thunderstorms would play softly throughout the night.

Oh, and I would sleep - alone. Completely alone. After the spooning stage of our evening, I would want Tony to go to his own room. You know, if I had my druthers. And, I certainly would have a very secure lock so that Conley's little acrobatic self could never get in telling me that various parts of her body hurt. She lies.

Needless to say, I do not get the family bed. Co-sleeping. Of all the things in the world I would like to have a co, a sleeper is absolutely not one of them.

Exactly. http://blog.chron.com/betweenthekids/2012/02/cosleeping-graphic/

I am not being judgmental so please save your rants. As I said, I am precious. Some of the people that I love and respect most in the world are completely down with the family bed and I am completely down with them doing it. My gran and her sisters slept in my great-grandmother's bed anytime they could, and they, there are six of them, still sleep together even when there are other beds available. Within the family, it is referred to as sleeping "Conley style".

When I was younger I slept with my mom, my gran, my great-grandmother, my cousins. I didn't like it. I did it because we didn't have enough beds. When I was a teenager I slept with my girlfriends. I didn't like it. I did it because that is what teenage girls are suppose to do.

I often sleep in the climber position. Stomach, one arm extended, one leg bent. My mom often said, So-so, even in your sleep, you're trying to escape.

Sometimes my mom was dead on. I was trying to escape co-sleeping...and, my life, but that is a different story.

Conley has been in her own bed since she was 12 weeks old. I know...I sound smug, superior. No, not this time, just selfish. I wasn't particularly concerned with rolling over on her. I just wanted one less body in my bed. I have suggested, several times, that Tony start sleeping in the guest room, but he simply acts as if he has gone deaf.

We have also done a great job convincing Conley that her room is not far from Hogwarts...a magical place that is all hers. However, over the past few days she has been determined to sleep with us.

Every night she asks if she can sleep with us. We tell her no. She goes to bed, in her bed, and then inevitably she pops up in the middle of the night, all creepy like, whispering, Mom, my (insert body part here) hurts. Sleeping with you makes it feel better.

Oh, the lies. During the day we have a healthy, running, jumping three year old. In the middle of the night we become parents to a 90 year old with osteoporosis, bad teeth, and constant ear aches.

Daytime C

Nighttime C

Depending on how much will she has already drained from me for the day, I either carry her back to her bed, listening to her not-so-compelling argument as to why she should sleep with us, or if I have no fight left, I just scoot over.

On the nights I just scoot over, I want to, well, I just want to off myself.

When I was pregnant, Conley's foot was often wedged in between a couple of my ribs. When she sleeps with us it as if she is trying to fulfill some mystical return to the womb because she inevitably gets her now much larger foot wedged between the same couple of ribs that she did when she was in utero.

She sleeps on top of the covers. Who does that? She talks in her sleep. Crying out for the most random people - her baby cousin Roselyn, Ms. Mac, Punz (Rapunzel). I pray for death.

Exactly.

So, those of you that like getting kicked in the ribs why trying to figure out who the hell Punz is and why your daughter desperately needs him or her at 3:00am, what am I missing?

Screw it, I don't really care. Kid is going back to her bed and I am going the hell back to sleep. Sweet, sound sleep.

Good night.

Too many Miller Lites

Why would you want to sleep anywhere else?

The kid can sleep anywhere.

Ok, so it isn't all bad.

We Believe

2012-08-14T16:55:00.000-04:00

I really hated high school. Really, really fucking hated it.

Did anyone like high school?

I don't believe you! Even if I could believe you, I couldn't trust you.

Thing is, at the time I didn't even know that I hated it so much, actually thought I liked it. At least parts, but looking back I hated deep in the core of my stomach.

My first day of high school was a crisp, cloudless morning. Gran dropped me off in front of the red brick building at the base of East River mountain. I silently pleaded that she would not lay on the honking horn of her inherited hunter green Buick Riveria - as was her customary goodbye. She didn't. I was disappointed. Sad. I watched her circle around the parking lot.

Glad to be free, but wishing for my old gran. The fun one. The one that used to dance and whistle. The coolest two finger whistle ever. The last year had knocked the frivolity out of both of us.

Grandfather/ex-husband - dead. Mom/daughter - convict. Siblings/grandkids - raising.

First day of high school: pleated royal purple walking shorts, striped oxford. Tucked in. Sebagos. Laces curled, just so.

Such an incredibly unfortunate fashion choice.

Took a breath, walked into the swarm of teenage - vitality, angst, confusion.

Then, almost walked into the giant stuffed beaver. The Beavers? Really? Come the fuck on.

Walked into first day assembly.

We believe Beavers, we believe (emphatic clap, clap)

We believe Beavers, WE BELIEVE (emphatic clap, clap; woo-hoo, yeah, woooooooo, etc)

I still have no idea what we were suppose to believe in.
High School?
Beavers?

Bluefield High School hail to thee/Spirit of our youth/

Inspiration here we found: wisdom, strength, and truth

Bluefield High School Alma Mater (to the tune of Aura Lea)

Oh, I gained wisdom, strength, and truth, but not the kind they were thinking about, and definitely not the kind to the tune of Aura Lea.

I was not wise enough to know how awful high school was when I was there. Many did, the outright outcasts, the pariahs, the sluts - the bad kind not the good kind, but I convinced myself that it was super. Believed.

However, I also convinced myself that I was entirely too cool, for, well, for school.

Constantly straddling two worlds: I was smart, but didn't want to seem like I cared about my grades. I was a virgin, but alluded to being anything but. I received free lunch but wanted to run with the trust funds. I partied hard, but was deathly afraid of getting in trouble.

Tried to be Blane - I was clearly Duckie...except Duckie was proud of being Duckie.

I was not proud of who I was. I didn't really know who I was, but I sure didn't like me.

I desperately wanted to fit in.

I made myself feel better by acting better, making funny.

I wanted to believe, Beavers, I wanted to believe.

For a while, I did. I believed.

Believed...

That I was one of them,

That they actually liked me (a couple of them did),

That I was better than my people,

That they didn't notice my Polo was a knock off.

That they were my friends. And, then I lost my belief. My friends. One fail swoop.

I was hosting a raging party. My mom, during her prison layover, had gone for a conjugal visit with Steve. She had told me that she would be gone over night. Teenagers and booze were flowing in to the house before her car turned the corner.

Starr was cool - to a point. And, then she was anything but cool.

A party of this magnitude was risky, but worth it. Moms would not be down with a party like this. This is the party that would solidify my status as, well, I don't know, what...hostess? Future alcoholic? One of them?

The party was in full swing. And, then, just like a John Hughes movie, with the exception that my mom was a drug addicted ex-con that was coming back from a prison visit, rather than Jake Ryan's millionaire parents coming back from Europe, mom came home. Early. And, the music stopped. Literally. Mom yanked the cord to the CD player straight out of the wall.

She walked in and the instant change in decibels could have induced seizures. Although most people had not taken a breath since one of mom's Reebok Classics entered the front door, there was one sophomore that was so drunk that he was still rolling around on the floor laughing. She stepped over him.

Sosha Michelle, a word. Now. (Full name, and my mom didn't use phrases like a word...it was about to get ugly up in here).

I followed her to her bedroom.

Stopped in my tracks, two steps behind her. Heard her yell.

Holy shit! Get off of my bed.

Put your clothes on first, for God's sake.

Get out!

Dear Lord. I prayed for the ceiling to cave in on me.

Sosha, I'm trying to stay calm. Do you know how much trouble I could get in if the police came here and found nothing but drunk teenagers? Get them out - especially that kid rolling around in the goddamn floor.

Oh, and wash and change my sheets.

I'll be back in a couple of hours. I expect for this, she waved her hand all around, not to be here.

I was drunk. Cocky. Had an underdeveloped teenage brain. A master plan.

All we needed to do was get the drunk sophomore out, clean up a little, and we could still party - for an hour and fifty five minutes.

Therefore, I go to the leader of the guys that I ran with, the ones that nicknamed themselves the Criminals - they once stiffed a Shoney's waitress and they bought some shake with daddy's money, other than that they were Criminals that abided their 11:30pm curfew. Granted, my two best friends and I hung out with them and nicknamed ourselves Triple Threat - In Full Effect. Who am I to judge?

The Criminals were lead by an extremely charismatic ginger. He was athletic, smart, witty, and good looking. He didn't drive, but the other guys basically fought over who got to pick him up. He could party. Hard.

He was Vince Chase. Turtle, E and Drama lined up to hold his dick.

He was loyal, but he knew.

He had a trust fund, but his home life wasn't the greatest. His father - dead. His mother - crazy, according to him. I always felt a connection with him. I guess I had a crush on him, but it was more of an emotional crush than a physical one.

Once I told him my master plan, I thought that he would be pumped since the party didn't have to die. I was wrong.

I told Vince to get the drunk sophomore out and we would straighten up some and carry on. I said, I can't risk Starr coming back and this kid still be rolling around in the floor.

Vince exploded.

You're a racist.

Huh?

You're a fucking racist. You want him to leave because he is black.

Say what?

Thought he was kidding.

He lit into me like I had spit in his mama's face. Guess he wasn't kidding.

I tried to reason. Explain that I was as far from a racist as possible. Nope. Vince had decreed it. Might as well have put on a white hood.

I knew. It was over. The party. Me.

I acted sad. Even did a little dramatic teenage girl cry, but I was relieved. It was over.

I couldn't stand Turtle, E, and Drama. Didn't like hanging out with them. They thought that I didn't hear what they said about me. I did.

I wasn't a full out pariah. Probably been easier had I been.

Didn't learn. Didn't accept. Didn't embrace. Just adjusted my sails. Just grew harder. More bitter.

Counted down the days until college - with enthusiasm.

Additionally, a couple weeks before the party that ended it all, I had almost slept with one member of Triple Threat's boyfriends. I told the other Triple Threat member about almost sleeping with the other member's boyfriend - it happened in her house after all. Guilt? Maybe. Attention hungry? Definitely.

Follow?

She told Turtle. A Criminal.

Everyone knows you can't trust a Criminal.

It was over. Over. Double Threat just doesn't have the same ring. Plus, it is next to impossible to be in full effect when you lose all trust. All trust had been lost.

I'm now friends with the other two-thirds of Triple Threat again. Actual friends. Love-them-deeply friends. Teenage shit.

Vince is on the west coast. Doing great. On his way to being famous. He never apologized, not his style. We're friends. Virtual friends. Wish-each-other-well friends. Teenage shit.

I hear he still sees Turtle, E, and Drama. Loyal to the end. They've done nothing. Without him.

I hated high school, fucking hated high school. However, I have realized that I learned some of the most valuable life lessons - don't sleep (almost) with your BFF's boyfriend, don't ever give yourself a nickname...especially one with an accompanying slogan, don't trust a Criminal (or a criminal), don't anger a beaver, and don't peak in high school.

It gets better.

High School

Wonder what the Beaver has to say?

The Misfits' Project - Ginger's Story

2012-08-08T10:06:00.000-04:00

This is the first in a series of essays called the The Misfits' Project. Through telling my story I have been fortunate enough for others to share their stories of survival with me. I am humbled and honored, and I hope and pray that I give their stories the justice that they are due.

This is based on a true story as told to me by Ginger. The names and some identifying factors have been changed, and some creative license has been taken, but the story remains. The pictures are from Ginger's personal collection and are used with her permission.

This is Ginger's Story. This is her truth.
=======================================================================

The light shining through the windows was soft. Easy. It pushed, gently, warmly, against the dark.

If I lived there we would be snuggling under a blanket, smiling, playfully watching Must-See-TV. It is Thursday, after all. Mom would be popping popcorn. On the stove. The good kind.

If I lived there.

If I lived there was a game that I made up during the countless hours that I spent in the back seat of whatever dinged up, semi-legal junker my parents were driving or borrowing, as they hustled throughout southern West Virginia. It was make-believe. Beautiful. Peaceful make-believe.

Mom would glance in the rear view and sometimes ask, Whacha thinkin' about, So-So?

Oh nothin', mom! Just lookin'.

Always remember to drop the g. I was well-ahead of Sarah Palin in knowing that g's make you sound uppity. Always remember the answer is nothin'. Mama was not one for make-believe - especially that of the imaginary family variety.

There was never anyone like me, like my family on the other side the windows. No one lived like me. I always turned off the lights, hunkered down, hoping no one would look in.

I was alone.

Or, so I thought.

Had I looked into the other dark houses, the ones that shrugged the darkness up around their shoulders and tried to fade away into it, those were the ones that understood. Those were my fellow misfit kids.

Misfit kids come from the Golden Corral of fucked-upness: alcoholics, addicts, religious fanatics, manic depressants. Steaming trays of depravity, served up with a chocolate fountain of crazy.

Misfits share a common bond. We break the cycle. We don't become our parents. We rebel through being good students, law-abiding adults, active involved parents.

We're normal.

Our normal. Not yours.

Ginger's Story

Ginger found her dog on her bed wrapped in a thread bare towel - dead. She had talked back to her father earlier that day, and as punishment he strangled her dog. This was never confirmed. It didn't have to be. Her father walked by her room, looked at her disdainfully as she wept over one of the few constants in her life, and quietly said, Guess you won't talk back to me again.

Ginger was a misfit, a freak, the product of a radiantly beautiful, pale skinned, strawberry haired girl on the run from her past, and a raging dark storm of a man - olive skin, oil slick black hair, and a neatly cropped black beard - with grey flecks. The only thing darker than his hair was his menacing temper.

Her father, David, was a raging alcoholic. His voice boomed as he railed against his family. Yet, he never laid a hand on them.

They were poor. Dirt. To earn money David drove a coal truck. Always quickly fired. Drinking. Temper. On more than one occasion she was woken in the middle of the night and informed that they were moving. Sometimes they moved because they were skipping out on the rent and sometimes they moved because her father had found out that a black family was moving onto the street. And, there was never money for food, but there was always beer in the fridge.

One time I was at the store with my dad, a convenience store, not even a grocery store, and he got a pack of bologna, the red ring kind, loaf of white bread, and a case of Busch Light. He didn't have enough money. He looked at me and I knew to grab the bologna and bread and put them back.

Ginger loved the free breakfast and lunch that the schools provided as often they were her only meals. However, her younger sister, Raelynn, refused to eat them stating, It makes my stomach hurt eating that food knowing mama and brother are home with nothing to eat.

Their brother, Wayne, two years younger than Ginger, and two years older than Raelynn, could not attend school because he was born with a rare condition called holoprocencephaly. Wayne had half a brain. He couldn't walk, talk, sit up, feed himself or go to the bathroom. He was a perpetual infant.

Ginger's mom, Maryann, despite the poverty and her husband's alcohol-fueled rage, doted on Wayne, never complaining.

She insisted on taking him outside at least once a day. He needs to feel the sunshine and wind just like the rest of God's creatures. She sang. She read. She pumped his little legs like he was riding a bicycle.

He's not a burden, he's my baby.

David killed him first.

Blasted him in the chest. He had no way to run, no way to defend himself. 40 pounds. Five feet tall. 15 years old. Dead.

Maryann watched.

Her last earthly image was her beloved boy being gunned down in front of her.

Her anguish was short lived. David grabbed her by the neck. Shot her. Twice - in the chest.

This is known because Raelynn saw. It all.

Raelynn was upstairs in her room and heard David and Maryann arguing downstairs. This wasn't uncommon, but she was a little surprised to hear her father's booming voice because her dad had moved out a few days before after her mother informed him that she was filling for divorce. After a few minutes, she heard the first gun shot. Wayne's.

She ran downstairs and saw her brother's small, lifeless body on the floor. Before she had time to process this she watched as her father killed her mother.

When David saw Raelynn, staring at the bodies of he mother and brother, he shot her. The shot connected with her hip, but she was able to run, wedge herself into the small closet under the stairs. When the next shot was fired, she jumped but stifled a scream by shoving the hand that wasn't pressed on her bleeding hip into her mouth. David shot his wife once more - in the back of her head.

The official cause of death.

When Raelynn heard her father's heavy steps on the stairs, she ran. Past the fallen bodied of her family. On her way out she quickly scooped up Maryann's wrist - checked for a pulse. None. Out the back door, through the rain-slicked yard, and banged on a neighbors door. Blood. Rain. On their clean porch.

July 10, 1999. Saturday.

Ginger was scheduled to work. Wendy's. Her boyfriend. Nice, normal. John. He wanted to go to a slightly bigger neighboring town to shop at the mall. Grab a bite to eat. Somewhere nice. Chili's.

She traded shifts. Enjoyed the day. Life was more relaxed now that her dad was out of the house. Finally comfortable bringing John, friends over. They were still poor, but her mom seemed lighter, and without David's unpredictable mood, even their small clapboard house stopped holding it's breath. The mint green siding was brighter.

Maryann was a stickler for curfews. 10:00pm. No questions. No discussions.

At 9:55pm, the blinker of John's car signaled. Turning left. Onto Ginger's street. Traffic was backed up. Odd.

Ginger told John to swing the car around and they would go in. The back way.

Blocked off.

Ginger, still not concerned about anything other than missing curfew, jumped out of the car and into a convenience store. Asked to borrow the phone. Just going to call and let her mom know they were stuck.

No answer.

Second try. No answer.

Ginger shrugged. Hung up the phone. Weird. Maybe she ran out.

A sudden look of recognition crossed the attendant's face. Stricken. Pale.

Honey, where do you live?

In that little green house right down the street. You could see it if not for that tree.

The attendant swallowed. Breathed out. Painfully whispered.

Darlin', you need to get to one of the policemen, tell him who you are, right now.

Ginger knew.

She and John walked over to a young police officer. She told him her name. And, when she saw the trying-to-be strong young man with a gun, blink back tears, she collapsed.

TELL ME! Tell me what happened?

From what we have been able to gather, we believe that around 9 o’clock tonight, your father returned to the home that you shared with your mother. There appears to have been an argument.

He trailed off. Glanced down. At the other officer.

Finish!

It was just like a scene from Law & Order. Not real.

I’m very sorry, but your mother and brother were shot. They didn’t make it.

My sister?

She was shot, but she made it out. One very brave little girl. She’s waiting to go into surgery.

And, him? My dad?

Shot himself. Coward.

He did so after hours of negotiating. Negotiations stagnated and the police battered the door. Tear gassed the house.

As the police entered the house David sat on the bed he had shared with Maryann, and put the same gun that was used to murder his wife and son, wound his daughter into his mouth. Pulled the trigger.

Three dead.

One wounded. As Ginger held hands at the mall.

Had I just worked my shift that day my family would have been on there way to get me when my dad came to the house!

She knows that it isn't her fault.

I know in my heart of hearts that he was a sick, sick man, and that he would have been waiting for us all when she got home had I still gone into work.

Ginger stopped blaming herself. Years ago.

Still haunted. Just a little.

Ginger remembers very little about the first few days after the murders.

She went back into her house. Once. The next day.

I had no idea people had so much blood in them.

About five quarts.

She remembers headlines.

Man Kills Two, Self.

Sensational local news' teasers.

Domestic violence, turns deadly. Live at six.

Ginger was 17. A child expected to be an adult. Instantly. Immediately.

She was lost. Scared. Completely heartbroken.

Her sister. 13. Witness. To it all. Victim. Survivor.

Ginger's uncle arrived.

Quickly had himself appointed executor of his sister's estate. There was no savings, no life insurance. He took the car and the paltry household items.

Pictures. Maryann. Wayne. Their ashes.

Ginger had no one. Cliche. True.

Her father's alcoholism, his rage had isolated them.

After the funeral Ginger was left with $20.00.

That is all.

I was nearly 18. I didn’t come with any money. No one wanted me.

On the other hand,

Raelynn and her $500.00 monthly Social Security stipend were fought over tirelessly. She was shuffled amongst various family members for a couple of years. Eventually a judge intervened and she was placed with a loving, nurturing family.

Ginger stayed with John's family during the week between the murders and the funerals. Everyone knew it was a short-term arrangement.

John had worked for a local grocery store for years. When he returned to work after the funerals he told his boss, the owner, Mr. Stephens, the details surrounding Ginger's new life.

After hearing this Mr. Stephens and his wife paid the deposit, first month's rent and stocked the small efficiency with dishes and toiletries. The also bought her a used car, kissed her on the cheek, and told her she would make it.

She did. Not easily, but she did.

Ginger was terrified of being alone. She worked two jobs and carried 18-hours of college course work.

She developed terrible insomnia. To get through the night she would invite friends to spend the night. Guy friends.

I became quite the slut.

I became pregnant and had an abortion, not having a clue who the father even was. I tried to kill myself three times. After the third time, I realized that if I really had wanted to die, I’d be dead already. It was at that point that I decided that enough was enough- but it was too late for most of my relationships.

Ginger and Raelynn have been estranged for years now.

I was too painful of a reminder for my sister. She moved on. The last time that I spoke to her she told me that she had a new family, a normal one, and that there wasn’t room for the past in her future. I miss her, but I hear that she’s happy and healthy, and that’s what matters most.

Ginger found therapy in education. She immersed herself in studying and graduated in three and a half years with a double major - English and History.

She also took a lot of psychology classes. And, through these classes she began to realize that her father most likely suffered from an undiagnosed mental illness. Ginger believes that the mental illness, coupled with his alcoholism, controlled and motivated him. This helped her her forgive him. Yes. Forgive.

There are still times that I’ve hated him- when I had my babies, and my mom wasn’t there with me thanks to him, I hated him then. For the most part, though, I’m just sad now that he couldn’t see what I’ve become without him.

She dreamed of a life of unicorn, rainbows, and kisses on boo-boos.

Realized.

Ginger is a strong, loving, nurturing mother. She has a gaggle of kids that she raises in the suburbs. They golf. They have cook-outs. She makes beautiful crafts and creates cakes that are more work of art than baked good. Friends are always welcome at her house.

The light from Ginger's house warmly spreads out against the darkness.

Ginger

Maryann (Left)

Wayne

They Said it on the Radio

2012-07-19T11:10:00.001-04:00

Here it the clip of Sheri's shout out. Humbled. Grateful.

Bob & Sheri Shout out

Fixing the Stats

2012-07-10T16:56:00.001-04:00

They, six of them, all hopped out of the beat up white Honda. Grinning. Snickering. Rubbing their hands together as they broke into a jog...realizing that their hoodies looked cool, but were no match for the bitter West Virginia in December wind.

Full of hormones. Vitality. High on shitty weed.

Plaid boxers peaking out of their too big jeans. It was meant to look haphazard, but it was purposeful, dutiful. Their shoes, sneakers, meticulously white. Serious business. Their hats. Fitted. Color coordinated with the hoodies. Yankees. Always Yankees. They had never been to New York. Hell, they had never been to Pittsburgh. Yet they sported the Yankees. Swagger. Domination. Riches.

Dreams.

My brother Z and his best friend, N. The leaders. Good looking. Charismatic. The others - loyal followers. Trying to catch Z and N's cast offs.

It was hard not to smile at them. I did. Gave my little brother, he would have said lil' brah (but I don't talk like that - they'll all tell you so), a hug when they entered my aunt's garage - our normal gathering spot for birthdays, family reunions and funerals. This night - funeral. Our crazy uncle Jukie's heart had finally let him down.

Let lil' brah have a beer. He asked me if I wanted to step out to the car with them. Nah, I'm good. Smiling. Knowing.

Complete shake.

We stayed up late, too late. It was a good night. The last good night.

The last good night

It was never fun with lil' brah after that night. I lost trust.

Faith.

Hope.

The gang.

Lil' brah.

You know I've been thinking about all the boys that hung out with Zack. They would all come up to the trailer. I thought it would be better if they partied there rather than out running around. Little did I know, right? There were six of them, counting Z that always ran together. Five of the six have passed away, counting Z.

How is that even possible? What kind of shit is that?

I don't know, Steve. I don't know what kind of shit that is.

I do know that:

Nationally, only 2.8% of admissions to treatment were for dependence on opiates, but in West Virginia they accounted for 12.2% of admissions.

Source: SAMHSA: http://oas.samhsa.gov/prescription/Ch2.htm

I also know that:

550% increase in drug overdose deaths in WV from 1999 to 2004.
67.1% of deceased were male.
91.9% were 18-54 years old.

Source: Hall, A.J., et al. (2008). Patterns of Abuse Among Unintentional Pharmaceutical Overdose Fatalities. JAMA, 300(22), 2613-2620.

N was the first to go. 19. 2007.

His mom calls him "Wild Angel". Her Facebook page (we're not friends) is covered with images of him. On Earth. And in Heaven.

Cause of death: OD
Source: Steve

M, I believe that he also OD'd. Methadone. Oxy. Xanax.

J, wrecked his car while running from the police. I think that he was drunk and high.

A, wrecked, but his D.O.C. were Oxys, Dilaudids, Methadone...all the main ones in southern West Virginia.

It's a poison that's hard to get away from. Something needs to be done. I hope that you can call some attention to it.

And, then there was Z.

Official cause of death - blood clots.

Doesn't matter. He is still gone.

But, his Facebook page is still up. People still write messages to him. We were not friends.

Because of this status:

Got the chronic yo Hit me up 304-XXX-XXXX

No more shake, I guess.

And, this one:

bored out of my fuckin mind!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What kind of shit is that?

I get on his page every now and then. It is never a good idea. Including now. I trace my finger over his picture. Smiling.

The condolences in the days right after he died:

i love ya zack...hope you are at peace. later cousin

rip you'll be missed brah!!

damn, now ur gone too! at least u'll getta go see n!!!

Wish I could make this all better for you. I will just keep in mind that now the boys will have a special angel to watch over them! RIP

The birthday wishes the past two April 3rds:

HAPPY BDAY we all miss u rip baby boy

Happy bday man..we all miss u

RIP,,,,its your Birthday......

Miss ya ZACK Happy birthday man

Happy Birthday Zack!!!! Really miss you!!! I know you, my dad, and your mom are celebrating this day together!! Love you and miss you forever!!! RIP

I love u Zack miss u alot. I hope your n a much better place lookin down at all of us on ur birthday. I promise u my friend i will c u again.

I wish that all I had to worry about was the awful grammar and the textification of the English language.

I know how to fix that.

What I don't know how to fix is the addiction. The hopelessness. The five young brahs, hoodie and fitted hat wearing homeys, boys, kids - dead.

I don't know how to fix the stats, but I sure do miss you lil...little brother (I still don't talk like that - only one left to tell you that now).

I love you. Zachary T. Duke. Say no to drugs. I'm happy you are my big sister.

The Magic of Conley

2012-06-24T12:48:00.001-04:00

Over the past week we have celebrated the one that has brought so much magic to our lives. I fear that I don't have the words to properly express what she has done for my life...I just know that in the past three years food tastes better, music sounds better, and even the sky seems bluer now that we have her. And, even on the days when her stubborn, willful self challenges every speck of my patience, I still know that my worst day with her is better than my best day before her.

We love you too much, Conley Marie!

For the Love of the Hustle

2012-06-06T22:18:00.000-04:00

Through our exchange of letters I learn more and more about my father, Steve. Our similarities seem to only be out done by our differences. It is as if we are the same person, but were given two very different moral compasses.

The hustle!

You even get addicted to that.

I understand the love of the hustle. I understand the rush it brings.

I've always been a fucking good hustler! When it comes to getting dope, I can work a doctor like you would not believe.

No, I believe. I've also always been a fucking good hustler too. I just hustled for scholarships and jobs. I have never been the smartest, the prettiest, the most talented or even the most dedicated. However, I cannot be out hustled. I can't stop the hustle.

I've always pushed myself to the limit.

I understand the hustle, but I don't understand the actual addiction. They seem so vastly different. The hustle is controlled and deliberate, and addiction is anything but.

I have been surrounded by addiction all of my life. My library is filled with memoirs and biographies written by addicts or about addicts. I have an insatiable desire to understand the disease. I still don't.

It has only been in the last few years that I was even willing to admit that it was a disease. On a scientific level, I understand that it is a disease and that people do not choose to have it. However, cancer is also a disease, and people cannot simply decide to detox the cancer out. Of course, it is more complicated than that, but this is my struggle.

My other struggle is my disgust with the addict. Their utter lack of control.

Tony once called bullshit on me when I was soapboxing about how I had no problem with dealers, the hustlers - as long as they didn't sample.

Like Jay-Z said, Can't stop the hustle.

You're full of shit. You're telling me you have no problem with the people that sold drugs to your mom? To Zack?

Nope, they are just filling a need. Just business. Not a business man, I'm a business, man.

Stop quoting Jay-Z., you're about as far from gangster as it gets. You don't jaywalk for God's sake. So please save this I'm a hustler baby shit for someone else.

He was right, of course.

Ok, so I am exceedingly lawful, but I can at least wrap my brain around the dealing. It has a control aspect to it, but the use of drugs is completely out of control. If there is one thing I like more than rules and laws, it is control.

For years, I tried to control everything and everyone in my life. It often made me miserable, and I am certain that it made those around me miserable. I was afraid if one dish was left in the sink my life would spiral into the chaos and the DEA would soon be knocking on my door.

Although, I drink I still want to do it on my terms. I want to have a good time and loosen up, but I don't want to ever be perceived as out of control. Tony always says, If you want to shut down a party, tell a drunk Sosha that she is drunk. Party. Over.

Furthermore, when I do lose control when drinking, I usually wake up with crippling drinker's guilt. Fetal position guilt.

Therefore, I asked Steve to explain it to me. Although he describes the heartbreaking and even disgusting elements of addiction, it is hard to ignore that his words are tinged with a nostalgic excitement.

It becomes your lover. Any addict will always find a way to get to their lover.

My mom had a picture, a picture that she kept in a photo album along with baby pictures of her kids, of Steve's older brother spraying oven cleaner down Steve's throat. They are both laughing. Camera lights are flashing. It looked like a really good time.

This was prep for a doctor run. The oven cleaner was used to inflame his throat. I think that this was to score Tussionex. Can't stop the hustle.

I have scored so many pills, Dilaudids, Oxys. It's hard to describe the feeling you get when you make a doctor.

I understand the feeling. I've gotten the same one after interviews, after getting my way. It is hard to describe...knowing that you have convinced someone that a poor-white trash kid of drug addicts should be sitting in the big office. It's a rush. The same one Steve got when he walked out of a doctor's office with almost 500 pills.

That's a shit load of money and a shit load of highs.

The rush.

Yet, every hustler knows that the glory soon dies.

After hustling my way into a scholarship at WVU, I decided to party my face off rather than study. My grades reflected this. I was told that a 2.1 GPA would not cut it.

After hustling my way into a jet-setting job, I learned that the perks came with a whole lot of ass kissing, and the asses were saggy and attached to old, rich, white dudes. Just a job.

The hustle turns into reality.

I know, and every addict out there knows, the glamour soon fades. Then it becomes a job, an obsession. That's all you can think of. No matter what it does to you, your family - you don't care. You don't care who you hurt. You know what kind of monster you have become, but you just don't care - as long as you have your lover. She will make everything alright.

And, then your lover has control - all of it.

That feeling of being high, that fucking warmth - it's indescribable. In that moment, that brief moment, it is better than anything you have ever felt. It is better than food, comfort, sex. Then it is gone and you are left on the other side with nothing but the consequences.

I was witness to those consequences. When my parents did not have drugs they would turn on each other. My father once put my mom through the double paned glass door of gran's apartment building. Mom would scratch, kick and spit in his face. The spewed the most vile words at each other. After he lost his hand, she called him gimp, cripple, worthless. Most people would not think of treating their worst enemy like my parents treated each other - all because their shared lover had left them.

You can't take care of nothing. Your obligations don't matter. You have no self-worth. No one trusts you. Everyone knows that you will steal, lie and just about kill for your dope, your lover. You just don't care. You go for days without a shower. Then the sickness starts. God, what a sickness.

I've had gut-twisting-sleeping-on-the-bathroom-floor-begging-the-sweet-Lord-to-get-me-through-this-and-I'll-never-drink-again hangovers. I hate them. Everyone does.

Imagine your worst hangover or flu and then multiply that by ten, and you are still not there.

At this point he pauses his letter.

Let me stop, it's bean time, chow that is. If you can call it that. Everything is processed food.

He picks back up after eating some top of the line shit for dinner.

Ok, addiction. I always thought that I was wired wrong.

It was time for me to pause. Starr was always telling me I was wired wrong.

Same person. So different.

Mom was always telling me I was wired wrong because I was a quirky nerd. My nose was always in a book and I laughed at inappropriate times. Steve thought he was wired wrong because he simply couldn't stop.

I never knew why I wasn't like other people, normal people, who can get high and then drop it. I never knew it was a disease, a very slick ass disease.

It is. It is so slick that those of us that have escaped the grasps needs reminders that addiction is the greatest hustler.

I'm takin out this time

To give you a piece of my mind

Who do you think you are?

Baby, one day you'll be a star

Can't Knock the Hustle -Jay Z

The Hustle

The Perception

The reality

Hey Mama!

2012-05-13T14:03:00.000-04:00

Happy Mama's Day!

I've been fortunate enough to have a whole host of mothers:

Although addiction took my mom from me, literally and figuratively, there were times when she was free of her disease. And, it was during these times that she was truly golden. Although our relationship was often strained, I miss her every day! I love you, mom!

My Gran is the very definition of grit! She has never given up on anyone. She has been the one constant throughout my life. When I was little and we were going somewhere, she would yell down the hall, "Is everybody ready?". I loved this tradition because I got to curse, the answer was always, "Hell yeah, Gaynell!" (To this day I have no idea who Gaynell is). I love you, gran!

M has always given me a soft place to land! She is the mother that I was always for, and she took me in as one of her own. She healed me in ways that I can never explain. She steadies me, she loves me and makes me laugh on a daily basis. I love you, M!

To Grandma Conley, Grandma Rose, Grandmom Lewis and Gran, who all endured the most tragic thing a mother can endure and found the strength to carry on, thank you for your love, wisdom and dedication to your families. I love you!

To my sisters and friends, you are all mothers. You have loved, supported and nurtured all those around you. I love you!

To my husband, thank you for your friendship, unwavering love, loyalty, and for giving me the greatest gift of all, our daughter. I love you, Tony!

To Conley, thank you for showing me who I was suppose to be, for making me a mama! I am a better person, and the world is a better place because of you! I love you, Conley!

The Greatest of These

2012-05-10T19:01:00.002-04:00

There they were, heavy stock paper, beautiful foil stamping, and my name followed by Assistant Vice President. I rubbed them between my fingers, I smelled them, I placed them in my card holder on my desk, I put them in my purse.

Smug.

I may have been born poor white trash, but AVP followed my name. Fancy.

Yep, I had made it. Did you hear me? I made it - so, fuck you all!

Smug. Smug. Smug.

I was so totally full of myself. I was all puffed up with self-inflated pride, constantly patting myself on the back for being just so goddamn incredible. Everyone needed to know that despite it all; their drugs, their prison time, their abuse, the poverty, I had made it.

I. I. I. made it.

I may have made it in the professional sense, but that is about all I did. I didn't actually do anything with my own life. I didn't pursue what I loved, I didn't take a stand for what I believed in, I didn't help anyone. I was so afraid of failing or being seen as uncool that I refused to put myself out there. I thought of myself as James Dean, over in the corner with a jacket and a smoke, not saying anything, just content in the knowledge that I was the coolest cat in the room.

Furthermore, rather than owning my past, I desperately wanted to distance myself from it. In many ways, I was living a lie.

As many of you know, I have been fortunate to establish a relationship and gain the support of an incredible woman, Sheri Lynch. I joke about her being my BFF, but all joking aside I feel complete gratitude for all that she has done for me and for so many others. She was a trailblazer for all the poor-white-trash-done-good. Through presenting herself in an open, raw, and real way, all the while keeping a delicious sense of humor in tact, she helped me realize that I needed to not only own who I was, but that by sharing who I was I may actually help others.

I asked her if she had ever been ashamed of who she was, and this was her fist-pump inducing answer, Not so much ashamed as exhausted. I was weary of secrets and excuses and manipulations. I was weary of feeling powerless. Owning where and what I came from was a way of taking charge, of finally having the power over my own life. I’d rather be honest, authentic and white-trash-made-good, than some manufactured creation always looking over my shoulder in fear of the past sneaking up on me.

When I started writing about my life, the completely fucked-up parts and the unbelievably beautiful parts, I realized that I finally had the power over my own life, that I no longer had the fear of my past sneaking up on me.

I didn't care if I seemed cool because I realized that I have never been nor will I ever be anything remotely resembling James Dean. I am just a quirky nerd that loves books, and uses the f-word too much and that is cool with me. Therefore, when I saw all of the fire and brimstone hate-mongering taking place over Amendment One and the President's announcement of his support of gay marriage I decided that I was not going to stand in the corner anymore. I didn't want others to feel that they had to live a lie in order to be happy.

Although, I was not especially surprised that Amendment One passed, I was pretty heartbroken that it did. When you grow up as poor white trash, when you don't come from a Utopian household made up of mom, dad, Wally and the Beav, and when you finally get the fuck over yourself you begin to understand that much of the hate in the world is from people being unwilling to accept differences in beliefs, and insisting that there is only one way - their way.

I Believe...

I believe that much of the vileness in the world stems from fear of the unknown, differences, and even fear of forming unique thoughts and beliefs.

I believe in true, unending love.

I believe in Conley's special brand of magic.

I believe in good hugs and great manners.

I believe that my husband is one helluva guy.

I believe that no one should get a tramp stamp...they're just wrong.

I believe that there is a higher power than us.

I believe in good friends.

I believe in loyalty.

I believe in moving forward.

I believe in heartbreak and grief.

I believe that we have spiritual guiding forces.

I believe in laughing until you cry and crying until you laugh.

I believe in hard work.

I believe in acceptance.

I believe in miracles.

I believe that looking the other way makes you guilty.

I believe that many of the principles and lessons of the Bible are extremely worthwhile.

I believe that a good book can take you anywhere.

I believe that sometimes you need to accept help.

I believe in coffee, in red wine.

I believe in tolerance.

I believe in science, and reason, and logic, and evolution.

I believe that domestic abuse victims should always be protected.

I believe in forgiveness.

I believe that my way is not aways the only way, and maybe not even the right way.

I believe in telling people that you love them - in words and actions.

I believe that there is abuse of the system, but the system is still necessary.

I believe in the right to choose.

I believe in saying excuse me, please, thank you, and you're welcome.

I believe in giving my seat to an elder.

I believe in a cold beer on a nice summer night, of steaks on the grill.

I believe in fighting the good fight.

I believe that oceans and mountains are good for your soul.

I believe that rain on a tin roof is one of the most soothing sounds in the world.

I believe in peace by way of movie theater.

I believe in being comfortable at a keg party and at a cocktail party.

I believe that in the end, family, the ones that you are born into and the ones you choose, are all that matter.

I believe in a good cry.

I believe that I will always stock pile paper products and light bulbs.

I believe in The Muppets.

I believe that poor white-trash kids of drug addicts can find happiness by owning who they are.

I believe that being gay is no more a choice than being left-handed or having green eyes.

I believe that committed couples that choose not to have a piece of paper stating their love should be afforded the same rights as those with that paper.

I believe it gets better.

And, I believe that everyone should have the right to marry the person they love.

After all, the greatest of these is love.

Dream a Little Dream

2012-05-01T18:42:00.001-04:00

Our letters have continued, Steve and me. I feel as if I know him a little. I spent so much of my life defining him as a one dimensional monster. I am getting to see his personality a little, the different sides of him. I don't trust him, don't know if I ever will, but I'll admit that I kinda like him. I feel that his heart break and guilt about the death of my brother is not only real, raw, honest, it's almost palpable.

I guess I'm about like anyone. I love, I hate, I hurt, I feel mean, I feel good, I feel alone. Mostly alone, he's gone. Never coming back.

I am often amazed in our similarities. We even seem to arrange language in our head the same way, translate it to paper the same way. Just like Barack Obama, whom we both love, we both love commas, love a good pause for effect.

I've noticed that we have a few things in common besides reading. I had a pretty fucked up childhood, also. You know, I beat Bill, my so-called step-father, over the head with a candy vase when I was 14. I beat him until you couldn't tell if the blood was from my hands or his head. That was my xmas gift.

I don't want you to think that I am using that as an excuse for the way I am , maybe a factor, that's all. We all make choices, most of the time mine have not been the right ones. We have to live with what we choose.

Outliving everyone seems to be his grandest punishment. He is left to keep living with what he has chosen.

I see that you have a few of the same traits that I do. I am loyal. I am honest, other than when I'm breaking the law. Ha! I love a movie theater and rain on a tin roof. We both root for the underdog.

I tell him of my daily life.

I ran a 10k with my one of my best friends, Tony and I had a grown-up weekend away to Charleston, SC, we took Conley to the zoo, she loved the giraffes and elephants, my blog got mentioned by Bob & Sheri.

I smile at his replies.

Congratulations on your run and on the work that you are doing. Your writing is awesome. Really great work.

He tells me about his life.

Got your packet. Well, I got most of it. They kept the pictures that you printed. We cannot have anything off a computer that is colored. Apparently, it is a security issue. They say you could hide drugs in it. The penal system never ceases to amaze me.

We both love to talk about books and music.

I read my first Toni Morrison book, 'Beloved'. Wow, that's all I can say about that. Thanks for turning me onto her.

No one talks about heartache, strife, loss, and loneliness in a more beautiful way than Toni Morrison.

There is a loneliness that can be rocked. Arms crossed, knees drawn up; holding, holding on, this motion, unlike a ship's, smooths and contains the rocker. It's an inside kind--wrapped tight like skin. Then there is a loneliness that roams. No rocking can hold it down. It is alive, on its own. A dry and spreading thing that makes the sound of one's own feet going seem to come from a far-off place.

Beloved - Toni Morrison

At the end of the day, mostly I feel pain. Pain and loneliness. I feel so lonely when they slam my cell door once again. I feel the pain of missing the ones I love, the pain at the loss of the three people that I know did love my worthless ass; Zack, Starr and Sharon. Why are the gone and I am still here?

We are both drawn to stories of adversity, of loss. We connect with characters and stories that have fucked up, been beaten down, but have persevered. Funny that we even escape into loneliness, suffering.

Bob Dylan and Neil Young are two of my all time favorites...funny how you quoted them in And the Damage Done.

We got so much in common

We strive for the same old ends

And I just can't wait

Wait to be friends

I Feel A Change Comin' On - Bob Dylan

The only music that we get in here is American Idol. What a shame...reduced to A.I. for some soothing.

I empathize over the grief he feels over Zack, our beautiful boy. I miss my brother, but he was not my child. The loss of my child is the only thing that I feel could break me, crumble me to my very foundation. Therefore, rather than heaping all of my hatred and all of the blame of Zack, of everything on him, I am trying to understand where he came from and where he still wants to go.

He writes poetry. Although I think that Philip Levine's job is safe, it is not the worst stuff I have read. The poetry world would probably warmly welcome a one-handed, opiate addicted, convict - they're an eccentric bunch, after all. I tell him to keep doing it.

He is haunted by nightmares. I am too. Yet another similarity. Fortunately, he still has dreams, and where there are dreams, there is hope. I dream he holds onto his hope, his hope for more, his hope for change, his hope that one day, just as I have, he will have more dreams than nightmares.

He dreams of freedom, simple freedoms.

Freedom is a fresh pot of coffee, the morning dew

Freedom is a moment of silence, grace

Freedom is a myth, perhaps not, a turning lock

Freedom is a deception, not perfection, just an objection
F.I.A. - Steve Testerman

He dreams of Zack.

Never will this end, my missing you

All my hours filled with rage

Peace, may I find another page

Memories never end, they only age
Forever Missing You - Steve Testerman

Zack was twenty-three this month. God I miss him! Why? There is no answer. I still can't believe he's gone. No more Zack. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sorry. What else can I say? I know I am so much to blame. He was my baby boy. Why? Wish it would have been me.

He dreams of his other children.

I think Angie knows more about love than any of us. She has always showed me nothing but love. She has always been my light.

I was once told I had a very old soul. I feel that you do too.

Sosha, you know that I've been dreaming of this for a long time, us getting to know each other. I am scared that I will let you down, let myself down. I can't walk a tightrope. I always fall.

He has always fallen off a tightrope. However, for the first time, rather than just assuming that he will, I dream that he won't.

I want you to do something for me. Go online and see if you can find anything out about A and T. Maybe I shouldn't try this, but I feel that I have to put it out there. Can never get enough hate, I guess.

He provided their last name, something I had never known. I had only ever been slightly curious about them. I had done the obligatory Facebook search for them, but I was using Testerman as their last name. I didn't figure that was their last name, but I was too lazy and uninterested to dig further than that.

With their full names, city and state I looked them up. It took me a while to find anything. No Facebook, no Twitter, no LinkedIn. Other than my husband, I had never heard of 30-somethings so off the grid.

I kept searching and I finally got a hit for his daughter.

I even found her address:
7943 Brock Bridge Road
Jessup, MD 20794
The Maryland Correctional Institution for Women

Fraud, writing bad checks, credit card theft.

I didn't find much on his son, a couple arrest records for assault.

Nature or nurture?

He dreams of the hereafter.

If there is life after death, I can't wait to get there. One day maybe we will all be together, my baby boy, my beautiful Starr. Free and happy. That's my only hope.

He says if there is life after death, just as I do.

He lost the two women that he loved, that he had fathered five children with, a month apart. My mom in November 2008, and Sharon in December 2008.

He has a hard time believing that he out lived them, that they beat him to the exit, to the flip side.

He dreams of his lost loves.

Your mom, my Starr, sometimes, well most of the time I miss her. She was my first true love, not my only, but the first.

I was a little shocked, maybe even disappointed that she wasn't his only love. I know that they both had several other relationships, many of which when they were still married to each other. However, I always had this vision in my mind that they were star-crossed lovers that loved only each other even when they were with others.

The last letter I wrote her, which she did not answer, I guess that she was tired of letters. I asked her if she was ready to see some more sunsets.

I weep every time that I read that line. I picture he and mom, sitting on a beach, watching their grandchildren giggle in the surf. Getting up, brushing the sand off their shorts, when Zack yells that the steaks are ready.

We all have dreams.

He dreams of forgiveness.

In that letter, I told your mom let's forgive each other because I don't think that we can ever completely let go of each other.

Every time I read your work I cry. Yeah, this old hard ass convict cries. I use them as a washing, for my soul, I guess. Sometimes I feel relieved, but mostly it just hurts. I hope that you can forgive me. Maybe all is not lost.

He dreams of what he could have been.

I want you to know that you are helping me more more than you know. I see so much of me in you, all that I could have been. We have a lot of the same thought patterns - and great hair. Ha!

He dreams of the education that he missed out on.

You know, I have a PhD., but it's in the penal system. I can show you how to make shanks, pop a lock, case a joint, and where the kill shots are. Whatever you need to know about being a con, I know. What a legacy, huh?

He dreams of the good times.

In your article about Zack, you mentioned him learning to ride his bike. Oh God, do I remember that. He went around and around. First counter-clockwise. He tried to go clock-wise, but kept wrecking. He looked up at me. I was watching him from the back porch, you know, there on Powhatan, and after a hard fall he looked up at me, so sad. I told him, 'You can do it'. And, he did. God, he was so proud.

I asked if he remembered the Christmas in Oceana when we had a tree and plenty of presents.

Of course I remember that xmas. Your mom did not want anything to do with xmas. A hang up from the Kingdom Hall, but you and I liked it.

Do you remember when I bought you that game? Atari, I think?

It was a Nintendo, but I remember it vividly. He arrived home from working on the scallop boats in the middle of the night. He got it plugged into the TV and he and mom woke me up and brought me downstairs to see it. I was beyond excited. They allowed me to stay home from school that day and I played it until my hands were numb.

God, you were happy. One of the few times I made you happy.

When we lived in Oceana Steve would often take me fishing in the creek that ran behind the apartment complex. My husband has a hard time believing it, but back in my tomboy days I was an avid fishergirl. I had my own tackle box, pole, and I would even bait a hook with a worm.

Do you remember catching that mud turtle? I thought you had hooked a big ass bass. When you pulled that thing up we both laughed and laughed...that turtle was mad as hell. You wanted to keep him and take him home to show your mom. I convinced you that was not a good idea.

I told him that one of my fondest memories of mom and him were when I would wake up when we lived in that two bedroom apartment and hear them talking and giggling in their room. He would then get up and make us a big breakfast, bacon, eggs, pancakes - mom never was much of a cook.

Your mom and I had dreams for you too. We would talk and talk about the life we wanted. We wanted to do better for you. Have a family. In the end, most of it was just talk.

I loved your mom, my Starr. When the times were good, they were great.

I told him some of the places that I have been, and some more that I hope to go.

He dreams of the places he has been, and the places he hopes to go.

I've lived in Chicago, New Orleans, and Alabama. I've been to Philly, Dallas, and I went fishing in Canada. I hope to one day go to Alaska, maybe do some crabbing.

My dreams or nightmares, depending on the night, often include a place that I think I have been. A run down shack of a house with chickens in the yard, and the smell of grease and weed in the air. I was never sure if this was a real place or something that I literally dreamed up. Therefore, I asked Steve about it.

Yes, there was a house like you described. It was in Montcalm. And, yes a very big black man lived there. He was a friend of mine, R.B. , ~~dope dealer~~ (he had scribbled dope dealer out). I can't believe that you remember that, and I can't believe that we took you there.

He dreams of the future.

I don't know if I'll get the chance, but if I do, I know that I'll make a much better grandparent than I did parent.

The level of trust he would have to gain to be part of the special brand of magic that is my daughter is so high that I don't even know what the perimeters are. However.

Where there are dreams, there is hope.

I hope that he keeps dreaming!

My sister, Angie, with Conley, and her son, JB! Those two are something to hang a dream on!

Me and Tony enjoying some more sunsets together. Weekend grown-up get away to Kiawha Island, SC

So Stupid

2012-04-19T16:28:00.000-04:00

It has been a little over a year since I got stupid drunk. I mean stupid, really outrageous.

Stupid drunk is much more than drunk. Much, much more.

Here is a quick visual of how one progresses to stupid drunk:

You're cool. Just having some beers like your girl, Hilz. This is fun, but it can get more fun.

Having fun now. Sure, you'd love some liquor. You're charming, and funny, and British like Arthur.

Oh no! You're drinking something yellow and you're woo girling. You must go home and go to bed - now!

Fuck. You didn't listen, did you? Now, you're Snooki. Don't be Snooki.

The night of my last stupid drunk started out all full of win. Some of my favorite women and I were going to see Prince. Yes, I was going to be breathing the same air as His Purple Majesty. I was tingling with excitement of seeing that tiny little man dazzle us with his talent and weirdness.

The plan was to meet at my house for some appetizers and wine, and take the light rail to uptown. Erin volunteered to be the designated driver because she claimed she was on antibiotics and couldn't drink. I thought that was a bit far-fetched, but didn't push it because I was very happy that someone volunteered to be the designated driver. Yes, she was pregnant. Why she wouldn't want to tell a bunch of drunk women that is lost on on me.

On her way to my house, Jo E. called and said, I'm going to swing in the liquor store. Does anyone want anything? At first we all said no. However, I started thinking, this is a very special occasion, I should probably get some Grey Goose. I called her back and told her I had changed my mind.

By the time Jo E. got there Nikki and I were on our second bottle of wine. Technically, Nikki, Mary and I were on our second bottle of wine, but considering that Mary is a truly responsible drinker I am not really counting her because she had only had one glass.

I was feeling good and decided it was time to start feeling even better - quickly. Enter my long standing frenemy, vodka and tonic. I had a couple at the house and then we prepared roadies, Business Wire coffee tumblers filled with V&T's and red wine. Nothing says good idea like coffee tumblers filled with booze. In our defense, the light rail ride is about 20 minutes long. Surely, we couldn't be expected to deprive ourselves of the charm juice for that long...especially when we knew that the drink lines were going to be hella long.

What we did not take into account was that the light rail is not equipped with bathrooms and that the one line that would be longer than the drink line was the women's bathroom line.

Yep, that's about right.

We squirmed, we made snarky remarks, we started sweating. Why, why, why? Obviously, we were being punished for having too much fun. Did all of these people in front of us not understand that we had consumed a lot of alcohol and ridden the light-rail?

After a few minutes we heard an angel's voice announce, This was originally a guys bathroom and there is a urinal in here if anyone is brave enough. Brave enough? Just call us Braveheart. Freeeeeeeeedom! Wooooooo girl, fucking woo!

Well, Nikki, Jo E. and I were brave enough. Mary and Erin, being sober and all, decided to wait for an actual toilet. What can I say? Not everyone can be as adventurous as the three of us. We vaulted our asses up on the urinal as if we had been trained by Bela Karolyi.

Thanks Coach. I am glad that we could do you proud.

Now, it was time for important business - more drinks! You could get two at a time. So, of course we did.

For some reason, it took us approximately three hours to find our seats and we missed the opening act. However, we did run into one of Jo E's best friends and this completely blew my mind. Wow, there has to be at least 250,000 people here and we ran into B. That is crazy. I mean, what are the chances that we would see her out of the, what do you think, right under a million people at this concert?

When we finally located our section we had to climb to the very top. These seats gave new meaning to nose-bleeds. We were gasping for breath. When we turned into our aisle. I tripped. I blame oxygen deprivation naturally. I spilled a little bit of my beer on a lady in the row in front of us. She was dressed in a cat sweatshirt, mom jeans and puffy white shoes - at a Prince concert.

I apologized, but she wasn't having it. Therefore, I said, I'm very sorry I spilled my beer. These things happen. However, to make amends why don't you send me the dry cleaning bill for your pussy shirt. Arthur would have been proud. However, my dry British wit was lost on her. She kept turning around and giving me mean looks. The nerve. Finally, Nikki had to say, Look, she apologized, now turn around. Go on, just turn it around.

Had Prince known about this, he would have had her escorted from the building.

I was in complete woo girl stage when Prince's little self appeared on stage and on the huge jumbo trons. In a perfect world, I would have drank nothing more than water from this point on. However, woo girls are pretty stupid, just one step above Snooki stupid. Therefore, when one is in woo girl stage one rarely makes good decisions. Therefore, between my woos I was gulping down large beers (remember this was on top of wine and vodka). And, around song two it starts getting fuzzy.

However, I do remember Jo E., innocently saying something like, Sosha is really cutting loose and doing it up tonight. Even completely off my tree, my neurotic, self-absorbed, control-freak brain roughly translates that to, Sosha, is hot, drunken mess. She is so embarrassing. We'll be talking about this for years and years to come. I can't believe we let her into our family. She is a horrible mom. I hope she dies.

As Tony always says, if you want to kill a party just let Sosha hear someone say that she is drunk. Party. Over.

As if concentrating on the concert wasn't hard enough I now had to obsess about all six million people in attendance, including Prince, knowing that I was drunk. After all, what else would they be thinking about?

So, here is my recap of the concert: I pissed in a urinal, I spilled beer, Prince sang, Prince danced, I gulped down beers, I got dizzy, I obsessed about everyone knowing my drunk ass was drunk, Liz Taylor was on the Jumbotron, why the hell was Liz Taylor on the Jumbotron?, Prince didn't do Little Red Corvette for the encore, yay, I remembered the encore, Dear Lord I really had to pee again, Dear Lord, I may have peed a little in my pants, thank the Lord I realized that my gymnastic skills diminished greatly during the concert, Thank the Lord there was an actual toilet available.

The next morning, I felt rough. Well, rough would have been a welcomed feeling. I was certain that I had made the doves cry.

I felt like I had spent the night at Fight Club. I understood why you do not talk about Fight Club. I never wanted to talk about this again.

Normally, I feel refreshed after a night with Brad Pitt.

Mary graciously offered to tend to Conley and let me sleep some more. However, Mary had never experienced drinker's guilt and even I had never experienced this super-duper, 'roided drinker's guilt - mama drinker's guilt. Therefore, I hopped up and swung into action. I was going to be the best damn mother the world had ever seen.

Yes, I got Snooki stupid drunk on the night I went to see Prince. However, I was in the same space as Prince. He was stupid good - so I'm told.

The crew before it got stupid!

I Heart you! I'm sorry I made your dove's cry.