Anyone who knows me closely enough knows that I struggle with things besides depression, weight loss, and holding on to jobs. I struggle with God. The Big G.
Is there one?
Is it Aliens?
I have no freaking clue. Because of the fact that most people who do believe in God have faith, this makes conversations a little bit harder. Usually ending in, "You just have to believe."
Huh.
I know my bible fairly well, reading mostly out of a research frame of mind, and also it is useful when you are gay to have the multitude of things the bible says you shall not do on hand as a retort to one line in Leviticus.
Me and my polyblend clothing are happy together. I am also just as happy wearing only cotton.
For some personal reasons I decided yesterday to pray.
It went something like this:
"Uh, hey God, it's me. Okay wow that was a Judy Blume start. Sorry. Not that I don't like Judy Blume, I do. Good work with that one God.
Okay ummm, I guess you are kind of busy (thinking IF he is even there).
So, yeah, uh, a lot of bad shit has been happening around me lately. My dear friend was killed, my mother died, my aunt died, my friend has breast cancer (and I am sorry but REALLY? She is a school teacher!)
yeah God, forget this, I just want to tell you to fuck off.
I am sincerely pissed at you.
Why not give me breast cancer? Kill me and bring back all these other people. I am nothing special.
I think people will eventually figure out how to do their own damn hair.
Instead YOU chose for a sweet farmer, an amazing mother, a fantastic brilliant aunt, and let us not forget a father or two in there.
Wow, okay I am angry.
I do not want to do this.
Uhh, Amen."
Hmmmm
That did not go well.
Oh but people will tell me it did! That all I did was reach out! That God can handle me yelling at him! Rejoice! Amy has found God!
Uhhh, no. I didn't.
I found anger and more unresolved issues.
This morning I woke up extra early due to dogs that are one more pile of poop away from being put up for adoption.
I got my headphones out and set off to conquer Mount Dishmore.
What did I choose to listen to? Godspell.
I sang, I soaped, I danced, and was wholly (not holy) in the moment of just being there. Being with the warm water, the music in my ears and head, each dish, cup, looking at it, feeling it. I was there!
I may not have been at Woodstock but damn was I THERE doing dishes! No acid needed.
I felt euphoric.
Naturally I can attribute this to endorphins from the dancing. Nothing at all relating to God. Unless God gave me the endorphins.
Please note that I did not bring up religion. That is enough to make me even more angry. I am of the "Whatever works for you" gang.
I do not know if I am going to pray today.
I do not know if I will ever have, find ,and hold on to the slippery elusive thing called faith.
Even if George Michaels says I have to have it.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Friday, April 1, 2016
Challenge Accepted
Dear Ms. Evers,
I have received your latest chapters and, as your editor, I must say that I find them lacking. It seems of late your writing has had a bit of fanfaronade to it, as though your voice is not authentic. People want your typical voice, the run of the mill whining and complaining they usually read. Turn on the TV! Look at the schadenfreude that surrounds us all! That is what the masses want now. They will read any kind of blatherskite as long as it makes them feel better about their own lives as compared to yours.
Have you recently become, dare I ask, happy? If so, again as your editor, I suggest you quit whatever shenanigans in which you have been partaking and go back to being depressed. Not suicidal, of course. We do want a three-book deal with you.
Go off your medication for a while and I am sure all this discombobulation will cease.
Best of wishes,
Wesley Wyndam-Price
Editor-in-Chief
Wolfram and Hart
My Dearest Wesley,
It is very magnanimous of you to take the time away from your very busy schedule. I would hate to bother you unprovoked with all the goings on of my usual days filled with flibbertigibbets and details. If I am to understand correctly, you are not pleased with my recent writings and feel they lack a certain despondent ennui that the masses crave so that they might feel better about themselves.
You will be pleased to know that I have still been frittering my days away as I murmur obscure ideas out loud. For instance, I found myself acting like a pure rube in the market the other day staring at the fruit that had a slight anaranjado hue. My mind immediately took me (and the fuzzy slippers I had donned) to the flower section where I stood among the forsythias (much preferring their bright yellow to the more ambiguous orange) and nearly dropped into a yoga pose right there because the smell was so powerful. Or maybe it was the hyacinths.
All fuckery aside, I have not stopped my medication; in fact I am now seeing a therapist once a week who is trying desperately to make sense of the ginormous spaghettification of my mind. Having been through that black hole, he will doubtlessly have an easier time untangling the Christmas lights that have been rotting in a moist mess under his house.
I imagine my poor, poor therapist was wishing he had a funicular to descend to the recesses of my issues; at least the path would start with a better view.
I have to admit, Mr. Price, that I find myself recalcitrant to the idea of you wanting me to be unhappy for the sake of sales. On the other hand I do need a new car. Are you suggesting I am a better writer when I am not filled with splendor and light?
Must I continue on the path that leaves my body and brain in a such a condition of monstrosity -- that state which one coming from my home town would only have ever before seen in the bordering town of Parsippany? I am almost so appalled at your blatant disregard for my own life that, were you standing here, I would throw a biscuit at you and probably resort to immature language as well. You may be an editor but you are certainly a fucktard as well. Perhaps they are the same thing.
I am fully aware that in these political times people are looking for something else to read about other than the supposedly impolitically correct blathering of Mister Drumpf. Must it be up to me to put the kibosh on the world's distressing obsession with sociopolitical entertainment?
I long for sultry summer nights, a debonair man reaching out to hand me an aperitif. Yet, you want me to write about the hullabaloo that exacerbates my every thought, my debonair man replaced by a spooky squirrel. Is my last name Plath? Dickinson? While it is true that my various mental maladies would scarcely fit into the ginormous Balenciaga bag I own, I see no reason to dredge them out time and time again for the mere sake of others' amusement. What possible misconduct could I possibly write about that would cause such a hullabaloo in the minds of my readers?
Shall I rob banks? Kick puppies? Shall I commit murder? Write of the guilt that would certainly exacerbate the torment of my being, my very soul? Seriously?
Mr. Price, has it occurred to you that all of this does not even exist? That my angst, my writing, my sorrows all belong only to me and you are made up? A fictional character in my solipsistic world?
If so, then all is moot.
Good day,
Amy Evers
I have received your latest chapters and, as your editor, I must say that I find them lacking. It seems of late your writing has had a bit of fanfaronade to it, as though your voice is not authentic. People want your typical voice, the run of the mill whining and complaining they usually read. Turn on the TV! Look at the schadenfreude that surrounds us all! That is what the masses want now. They will read any kind of blatherskite as long as it makes them feel better about their own lives as compared to yours.
Have you recently become, dare I ask, happy? If so, again as your editor, I suggest you quit whatever shenanigans in which you have been partaking and go back to being depressed. Not suicidal, of course. We do want a three-book deal with you.
Go off your medication for a while and I am sure all this discombobulation will cease.
Best of wishes,
Wesley Wyndam-Price
Editor-in-Chief
Wolfram and Hart
My Dearest Wesley,
It is very magnanimous of you to take the time away from your very busy schedule. I would hate to bother you unprovoked with all the goings on of my usual days filled with flibbertigibbets and details. If I am to understand correctly, you are not pleased with my recent writings and feel they lack a certain despondent ennui that the masses crave so that they might feel better about themselves.
You will be pleased to know that I have still been frittering my days away as I murmur obscure ideas out loud. For instance, I found myself acting like a pure rube in the market the other day staring at the fruit that had a slight anaranjado hue. My mind immediately took me (and the fuzzy slippers I had donned) to the flower section where I stood among the forsythias (much preferring their bright yellow to the more ambiguous orange) and nearly dropped into a yoga pose right there because the smell was so powerful. Or maybe it was the hyacinths.
All fuckery aside, I have not stopped my medication; in fact I am now seeing a therapist once a week who is trying desperately to make sense of the ginormous spaghettification of my mind. Having been through that black hole, he will doubtlessly have an easier time untangling the Christmas lights that have been rotting in a moist mess under his house.
I imagine my poor, poor therapist was wishing he had a funicular to descend to the recesses of my issues; at least the path would start with a better view.
I have to admit, Mr. Price, that I find myself recalcitrant to the idea of you wanting me to be unhappy for the sake of sales. On the other hand I do need a new car. Are you suggesting I am a better writer when I am not filled with splendor and light?
Must I continue on the path that leaves my body and brain in a such a condition of monstrosity -- that state which one coming from my home town would only have ever before seen in the bordering town of Parsippany? I am almost so appalled at your blatant disregard for my own life that, were you standing here, I would throw a biscuit at you and probably resort to immature language as well. You may be an editor but you are certainly a fucktard as well. Perhaps they are the same thing.
I am fully aware that in these political times people are looking for something else to read about other than the supposedly impolitically correct blathering of Mister Drumpf. Must it be up to me to put the kibosh on the world's distressing obsession with sociopolitical entertainment?
I long for sultry summer nights, a debonair man reaching out to hand me an aperitif. Yet, you want me to write about the hullabaloo that exacerbates my every thought, my debonair man replaced by a spooky squirrel. Is my last name Plath? Dickinson? While it is true that my various mental maladies would scarcely fit into the ginormous Balenciaga bag I own, I see no reason to dredge them out time and time again for the mere sake of others' amusement. What possible misconduct could I possibly write about that would cause such a hullabaloo in the minds of my readers?
Shall I rob banks? Kick puppies? Shall I commit murder? Write of the guilt that would certainly exacerbate the torment of my being, my very soul? Seriously?
Mr. Price, has it occurred to you that all of this does not even exist? That my angst, my writing, my sorrows all belong only to me and you are made up? A fictional character in my solipsistic world?
If so, then all is moot.
Good day,
Amy Evers
Sunday, February 14, 2016
You Are Like Nobody Since I Love You.
How do you convince someone you love them? Actions. Most people might think words, and for some it would be words.
I believe in actions.
So why all the poetry in life? The sonnets, the psalms. Keats, Neruda, Cummings,Barrett Browning, they would all fight me pen and ink to the death over love.
They would win.
Today is, in my opinion the lamest holiday ever created by man and Capitalism. Couples rushing about to buy flowers or chocolates to prove their love. Engagements will take place on bended knees, babies will take their first birth in 10 months hence.
My partner has a long history of bad birthdays. Being caught cheated on, broken up with, ankle sprains, etc. Because of this she is not the fondest of her day of birth. I have tried over the last 4 years to make it special, but one something is ruined, it always feels stained or contrite.
For me that is Valentine's day. In high school roses were given out, white for friend, red for love, pink for...I have no idea. Or maybe it was yellow. Every year I sat in homeroom with the popular girl alphabetically before. Every year I watched as her desk filled up with roses. Every year I wished I had a different last name. Something with a Z that would have seated me in the very back row and corner.
I recall one Valentine's Day where my husband I argued, in front of the children. The argument was about me spending too much money.
One year flowers were delivered to my work, only I did not want them. For starters I hate roses (my middle name be damned).
One year I broke up with my boyfriend in the parking lot of a video store.
Why?
He couldn't decide what movie he wanted to rent and his lack of power gathered up into a ball of weakness I could no longer take.
I see a common theme when I look back. It was always me. I spent too much money. I did not have a lot of friends in high school. I did not tell the woman I did not want flowers (or anything) from her.
I was the cause of my argument today, on this Valentine's Day. It was my taking my words to betray her.
Words. I am fully capable of using words to hurt. Anyone is. Most people do; not every fight takes place in a bar.
But that fight in a bar is followed up by actions. Physical pain, a possible arrest, court fees, time off from work maybe. All actions.
This is where I lack. I am not saying I should be given a ticket for being a shit partner on Valentine's Day. I am saying I need to use my actions to show my love. I should do something, anything after an argument to show my sorrow at making someone hurt.
Is picking up dog shit and cleaning the table enough to undo what I said? No, but I will do it anyway.
Is writing a blog about it enough to erase the words from her head? No. But I will do it anyway.
A day of forced love and I have no feelings for it that I would surround with the most passionate of soliloquy's. I am a writer and I could create a tome full of adjectives for love and forgiveness. I could write a love note worthy of being tucked away in a special place to be discovered by some not yet born grandchildren.
They would gaze upon the words and sigh wishing for a love as wonderful as ours. These future relatives would elaborate in their minds the missing pieces. They would never know that it was not enough. It was written out of sadness. They would never know the actions that took place prior to the tome.
But I do. And she does. And now, you know. I betrayed my love with words, and am desperately looking for actions to make it all better.
I will hold the guilt longer than she will hold the pain. I have, as I write, already been forgiven. Tears shed by us both, apologies uttered through a snot filled nose. There is always a probationary time after forgiveness. Just because a bandage has been applied it does not mean the cut has stopped hurting.
If I kiss the cut will the pain go away? Or will it just sting and bring all the pain to the surface?
If I stay close to you will you move away?
Can I make you laugh again?
I have to find the actions. Find the actions of proof that I love her, actions to prove to my children I am here and I love them.
Words are so easy, so complacent.
Words are what I am good at.
I once used words so venomous to get someone out of my life.
It is Valentine's Day. My only sanction is that she too feels no fondness for this day.
So it was just an argument that happened on this auspicious day where we must use words and actions to show our love for one another.
My thoughts have been so self centered I could put Ayn Rand to shame. I drove myself inward to a dark place where I did not want anyone there with me.
My actions have been robotic and cruel and completely void of emotion.
It took this argument today to wake me up, to make me see what my self reflection has done to those I do truly love.
It took my actions to look in her eyes and feel her pain, and not my own. To see what I have caused.
Wont it take action to see her eyes light up again?
It is not often I am living outside my head, today I have.
Scary place.
Then again so is the grey matter I shuffle around to find the words to berate myself or others.
I will not use my own words to write a love letter worth keeping for the ages.
I will steal what someone else has said, and only hope I can live up to it with ations.
"So I wait for you like a lonely house
til you will see me again and live in me.
Til then my windows ache."
- Pablo Neruda
I believe in actions.
So why all the poetry in life? The sonnets, the psalms. Keats, Neruda, Cummings,Barrett Browning, they would all fight me pen and ink to the death over love.
They would win.
Today is, in my opinion the lamest holiday ever created by man and Capitalism. Couples rushing about to buy flowers or chocolates to prove their love. Engagements will take place on bended knees, babies will take their first birth in 10 months hence.
My partner has a long history of bad birthdays. Being caught cheated on, broken up with, ankle sprains, etc. Because of this she is not the fondest of her day of birth. I have tried over the last 4 years to make it special, but one something is ruined, it always feels stained or contrite.
For me that is Valentine's day. In high school roses were given out, white for friend, red for love, pink for...I have no idea. Or maybe it was yellow. Every year I sat in homeroom with the popular girl alphabetically before. Every year I watched as her desk filled up with roses. Every year I wished I had a different last name. Something with a Z that would have seated me in the very back row and corner.
I recall one Valentine's Day where my husband I argued, in front of the children. The argument was about me spending too much money.
One year flowers were delivered to my work, only I did not want them. For starters I hate roses (my middle name be damned).
One year I broke up with my boyfriend in the parking lot of a video store.
Why?
He couldn't decide what movie he wanted to rent and his lack of power gathered up into a ball of weakness I could no longer take.
I see a common theme when I look back. It was always me. I spent too much money. I did not have a lot of friends in high school. I did not tell the woman I did not want flowers (or anything) from her.
I was the cause of my argument today, on this Valentine's Day. It was my taking my words to betray her.
Words. I am fully capable of using words to hurt. Anyone is. Most people do; not every fight takes place in a bar.
But that fight in a bar is followed up by actions. Physical pain, a possible arrest, court fees, time off from work maybe. All actions.
This is where I lack. I am not saying I should be given a ticket for being a shit partner on Valentine's Day. I am saying I need to use my actions to show my love. I should do something, anything after an argument to show my sorrow at making someone hurt.
Is picking up dog shit and cleaning the table enough to undo what I said? No, but I will do it anyway.
Is writing a blog about it enough to erase the words from her head? No. But I will do it anyway.
A day of forced love and I have no feelings for it that I would surround with the most passionate of soliloquy's. I am a writer and I could create a tome full of adjectives for love and forgiveness. I could write a love note worthy of being tucked away in a special place to be discovered by some not yet born grandchildren.
They would gaze upon the words and sigh wishing for a love as wonderful as ours. These future relatives would elaborate in their minds the missing pieces. They would never know that it was not enough. It was written out of sadness. They would never know the actions that took place prior to the tome.
But I do. And she does. And now, you know. I betrayed my love with words, and am desperately looking for actions to make it all better.
I will hold the guilt longer than she will hold the pain. I have, as I write, already been forgiven. Tears shed by us both, apologies uttered through a snot filled nose. There is always a probationary time after forgiveness. Just because a bandage has been applied it does not mean the cut has stopped hurting.
If I kiss the cut will the pain go away? Or will it just sting and bring all the pain to the surface?
If I stay close to you will you move away?
Can I make you laugh again?
I have to find the actions. Find the actions of proof that I love her, actions to prove to my children I am here and I love them.
Words are so easy, so complacent.
Words are what I am good at.
I once used words so venomous to get someone out of my life.
It is Valentine's Day. My only sanction is that she too feels no fondness for this day.
So it was just an argument that happened on this auspicious day where we must use words and actions to show our love for one another.
My thoughts have been so self centered I could put Ayn Rand to shame. I drove myself inward to a dark place where I did not want anyone there with me.
My actions have been robotic and cruel and completely void of emotion.
It took this argument today to wake me up, to make me see what my self reflection has done to those I do truly love.
It took my actions to look in her eyes and feel her pain, and not my own. To see what I have caused.
Wont it take action to see her eyes light up again?
It is not often I am living outside my head, today I have.
Scary place.
Then again so is the grey matter I shuffle around to find the words to berate myself or others.
I will not use my own words to write a love letter worth keeping for the ages.
I will steal what someone else has said, and only hope I can live up to it with ations.
"So I wait for you like a lonely house
til you will see me again and live in me.
Til then my windows ache."
- Pablo Neruda
Saturday, February 13, 2016
But...Oh...
Do you have a moment in your childhood that you recall so vividly you could direct a scene of it in a movie? Hopefully all of us have many of those.
One of mine is when my mom came home with a surprise for me. Standing in the dining room she handed me the DOUBLE album of Grease! It was not my birthday or any holiday, she just gave it to me. Memory being what it is I had probably nagged her for weeks to get it for me; conveniently I do not recall doing this. Just my mom walking in with something behind her back and handing it to me.
Immediately we put it on. my kitchen chairs became bleachers, the carpet in the living room became the beach, the sofa of course was a car.
I sang my heart out to learn every single song. I pined and sighed looking at the album (the inside was full of pictures like a yearbook).
In my head I was there. I hand jived, I was left at the drive in, there were worse things I could do. I loved them all. Well, especially Rizzo. Much like Danny being the "bad boy" Rizzo was the "bad girl".
Recently I had the pleasure of watching a new rendition of Grease with a few of my kids. They had seen the movie as young children, and now we replicated that moment adding wine and cheese. I was dubious, but it was great.
About a year ago I entered into a discussion about the movie with a friend. She hated it. Said it was sexist. Pointed out how Sandy had to change for him, pointed out lyrics ("Did she put up a fight"), pointed out how Danny was an asshole until he saw Sandy with teased hair and sewn on pants, and numerous other atrocities of the film that make it bad for young girls to see.
Huh.
Fortunately, I had a backup that still remains my favorite movie. Gone With the Wind. Again, in some debate over movies my friend could not believe I would say this. Scarlett is a manipulative bitch, and Rhett offers nothing for her.
WHAT?!
I could use the argument (and did) that Scarlett and Rhett were identical in their actions, with the exception of Rhett being more polite to all ladies.
Danny was conflicted the entire movie and went out of his way to change as well (he did letter in track).
I reminded my friend it was a certain era for both movies, set in a different time. I may not have been consciously aware of this when I was a child watching Scarlett flirt with the Tarleton twins, or steal two husbands.
I may not have (yet) known a pregnancy scare like Riz. Even Kenickie tried lamely to do "the right thing". Did Riz accept? No. She said she would handle it.
Why didn't Rhett notice how happy Scarlett was after he carried her up those stairs? Some would call that rape. Others would find it a Fifty Shades of Grey moment.
We did not argue about the portrayal of slavery, that is just accepted in a period movie. But my friend argued that Scarlett is was and will forever be reprehensible.
And so would Sandy.
Huh.
To me these were beautiful strong women I wanted to BE (Riz not Sandy -- I was never one to be like her in the first place.)
Does this mean I am not a feminist? A word that over the years draws the brain to men hating, bra burning, hard women.
My kitchen chairs may have become bleachers and I may have a time or two taken on southern drawl or pouted like Scarlet to get my way, but I still believe in equal rights for women.
Should I have not shown these movies to my children? Do they now think rape scenes in movies are okay?
(No one was raped in Grease [Rizzo gave full consent], and Scarlet may have been drunk but being swept up and carried up those hellish stairs was romantic.)
Because of Gone With the Wind I was happy to tell people I was born below just below the Mason Dixon Line, thus making me a Southern Belle, should I have chosen to be one. Growing up in New Jersey gave me the option to be brass and brazen, again if I so chose.
If I am not a feminist because I will always swoon over these two movies, then so be it. But to me every woman has a right to choose their own character. It was Sandy who asked for help, it was Scarlett who made things happen.
I will always long for those summer nights; either holding a radish to the sky with determination, or holding my school books, with my head held high.
One of mine is when my mom came home with a surprise for me. Standing in the dining room she handed me the DOUBLE album of Grease! It was not my birthday or any holiday, she just gave it to me. Memory being what it is I had probably nagged her for weeks to get it for me; conveniently I do not recall doing this. Just my mom walking in with something behind her back and handing it to me.
Immediately we put it on. my kitchen chairs became bleachers, the carpet in the living room became the beach, the sofa of course was a car.
I sang my heart out to learn every single song. I pined and sighed looking at the album (the inside was full of pictures like a yearbook).
In my head I was there. I hand jived, I was left at the drive in, there were worse things I could do. I loved them all. Well, especially Rizzo. Much like Danny being the "bad boy" Rizzo was the "bad girl".
Recently I had the pleasure of watching a new rendition of Grease with a few of my kids. They had seen the movie as young children, and now we replicated that moment adding wine and cheese. I was dubious, but it was great.
About a year ago I entered into a discussion about the movie with a friend. She hated it. Said it was sexist. Pointed out how Sandy had to change for him, pointed out lyrics ("Did she put up a fight"), pointed out how Danny was an asshole until he saw Sandy with teased hair and sewn on pants, and numerous other atrocities of the film that make it bad for young girls to see.
Huh.
Fortunately, I had a backup that still remains my favorite movie. Gone With the Wind. Again, in some debate over movies my friend could not believe I would say this. Scarlett is a manipulative bitch, and Rhett offers nothing for her.
WHAT?!
I could use the argument (and did) that Scarlett and Rhett were identical in their actions, with the exception of Rhett being more polite to all ladies.
Danny was conflicted the entire movie and went out of his way to change as well (he did letter in track).
I reminded my friend it was a certain era for both movies, set in a different time. I may not have been consciously aware of this when I was a child watching Scarlett flirt with the Tarleton twins, or steal two husbands.
I may not have (yet) known a pregnancy scare like Riz. Even Kenickie tried lamely to do "the right thing". Did Riz accept? No. She said she would handle it.
Why didn't Rhett notice how happy Scarlett was after he carried her up those stairs? Some would call that rape. Others would find it a Fifty Shades of Grey moment.
We did not argue about the portrayal of slavery, that is just accepted in a period movie. But my friend argued that Scarlett is was and will forever be reprehensible.
And so would Sandy.
Huh.
To me these were beautiful strong women I wanted to BE (Riz not Sandy -- I was never one to be like her in the first place.)
Does this mean I am not a feminist? A word that over the years draws the brain to men hating, bra burning, hard women.
My kitchen chairs may have become bleachers and I may have a time or two taken on southern drawl or pouted like Scarlet to get my way, but I still believe in equal rights for women.
Should I have not shown these movies to my children? Do they now think rape scenes in movies are okay?
(No one was raped in Grease [Rizzo gave full consent], and Scarlet may have been drunk but being swept up and carried up those hellish stairs was romantic.)
Because of Gone With the Wind I was happy to tell people I was born below just below the Mason Dixon Line, thus making me a Southern Belle, should I have chosen to be one. Growing up in New Jersey gave me the option to be brass and brazen, again if I so chose.
If I am not a feminist because I will always swoon over these two movies, then so be it. But to me every woman has a right to choose their own character. It was Sandy who asked for help, it was Scarlett who made things happen.
I will always long for those summer nights; either holding a radish to the sky with determination, or holding my school books, with my head held high.
Friday, December 11, 2015
The Magic of (Redacted)
Dear Mommies and Daddies (in whatever combination you are),
I was reading a blog by a seemingly perfect woman, who is raising her children perfectly with perfect manners, perfect grades, perfect posture, and, I am sure, perfect punctuation.
Already cringing, I was captivated by this unexpected line in her blog:
We (because she is pat of a perfect couple raising her perfect children) have decided to tell our children there is no Santa Claus.
GASP! SHUDDER! WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE WORLD????
She backed up her reasoning by saying she does not want to "lie to her children thus creating an atmosphere where they will lie to her (or them) in return."
Ooooookay. So kid turns 16, lies about its gender nuetral whereabouts and when questioned will not be able to say, "Oh yeah? Well YOU said there was a Santa Claus!"
Mommy Blogger also said "They would be telling the children the gifts came from them."
Do they want the temporary gratitude of gifts received?
My children were raised with a Santa Claus, an Easter Bunny, and a Tooth Fairy. As was I.
Sure as I grew up I did the math and figured out there was no possible way Jolly Ole Saint Nick could make it to all the children in all the world in one night. (I was under the belief that everyone had Santa and did not know Santa was only for some religiously based families).
I watched all the claymation shows I still love and adore. I would lie under the tree and look up at the lights. I had a favorite ornament that I got to put on the tree every year. (I still have it).
As I grew up, my friends and I would talk about Santa, about how each of us in our own way waited for him, tried to sleep, tried to stay awake to hear him, worried about the fire in the fire place. It was magical.
I believe in a magical childhood where children can believe anything they want to believe.
Okay so that ended up with one trip to the ER when my daughter believed she could fly and leapt wholeheartedly off the front steps. To be fair she DID fly, she just also landed.
For one of my daughters, we used to put tea cups filled with sugar water out on her windowsill for the fairies to drink. Her bleary eyes trying to see them as she fell asleep.
Years later when I hung sugar water for hummingbirds, she watched and said it reminded her of the fairies and thought it was beautiful. She did not go into a fit about why I lied and told her about fairies to begin with, much less set out water that only attracted ants.
My grown children all tell stories of how I was able to get them to do chores without fighting because "Santa was watching."
I often heard them say it to each other.
On Christmas morning as a parent I loved to watch as each child rushed up to me to show me what Santa had brought them. I did not expect a thank you -- seeing them so excited was enough.
Maybe I am just Saturday Evening Post and Radio Flyer optimistic. But if you are going to tell your children there is no Santa, be sure to get all the facts right and tell them, the tree is Pagan, it is the celebration of the Winter Solstice, and Jesus was born on or about April 17th. A Pope decided to set His birthday closer to the solstice to get the heathens in line and stop with their Pagan nonsense.
(You can bring that up again for Easter.)
My children dreamt not of sugarplums, but something very similar -- Hershey's Kisses and Chanukka gelt. So as you stuff your stockings with Fair Trade gifts, and candy bars that taste like cardboard, look back to your own childhood.
Did you believe in a Santa Claus? Was your heart so broken when you realized there wasn't one that you decided to take away any magic from your own child?
I hope my children take all of our traditions and pass them down to their own children, so they can experience the joy of remembering and the joy of watching it again with their children.
As for Perfect Mommy Blogger out there, enjoy telling your children you had to stand in line and wait two hours for that perfect toy that they will have forgotten by next Christmas. What memories are you making with them?
Happy Festivus.
I was reading a blog by a seemingly perfect woman, who is raising her children perfectly with perfect manners, perfect grades, perfect posture, and, I am sure, perfect punctuation.
Already cringing, I was captivated by this unexpected line in her blog:
We (because she is pat of a perfect couple raising her perfect children) have decided to tell our children there is no Santa Claus.
GASP! SHUDDER! WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE WORLD????
She backed up her reasoning by saying she does not want to "lie to her children thus creating an atmosphere where they will lie to her (or them) in return."
Ooooookay. So kid turns 16, lies about its gender nuetral whereabouts and when questioned will not be able to say, "Oh yeah? Well YOU said there was a Santa Claus!"
Mommy Blogger also said "They would be telling the children the gifts came from them."
Do they want the temporary gratitude of gifts received?
My children were raised with a Santa Claus, an Easter Bunny, and a Tooth Fairy. As was I.
Sure as I grew up I did the math and figured out there was no possible way Jolly Ole Saint Nick could make it to all the children in all the world in one night. (I was under the belief that everyone had Santa and did not know Santa was only for some religiously based families).
I watched all the claymation shows I still love and adore. I would lie under the tree and look up at the lights. I had a favorite ornament that I got to put on the tree every year. (I still have it).
As I grew up, my friends and I would talk about Santa, about how each of us in our own way waited for him, tried to sleep, tried to stay awake to hear him, worried about the fire in the fire place. It was magical.
I believe in a magical childhood where children can believe anything they want to believe.
Okay so that ended up with one trip to the ER when my daughter believed she could fly and leapt wholeheartedly off the front steps. To be fair she DID fly, she just also landed.
For one of my daughters, we used to put tea cups filled with sugar water out on her windowsill for the fairies to drink. Her bleary eyes trying to see them as she fell asleep.
Years later when I hung sugar water for hummingbirds, she watched and said it reminded her of the fairies and thought it was beautiful. She did not go into a fit about why I lied and told her about fairies to begin with, much less set out water that only attracted ants.
My grown children all tell stories of how I was able to get them to do chores without fighting because "Santa was watching."
I often heard them say it to each other.
On Christmas morning as a parent I loved to watch as each child rushed up to me to show me what Santa had brought them. I did not expect a thank you -- seeing them so excited was enough.
Maybe I am just Saturday Evening Post and Radio Flyer optimistic. But if you are going to tell your children there is no Santa, be sure to get all the facts right and tell them, the tree is Pagan, it is the celebration of the Winter Solstice, and Jesus was born on or about April 17th. A Pope decided to set His birthday closer to the solstice to get the heathens in line and stop with their Pagan nonsense.
(You can bring that up again for Easter.)
My children dreamt not of sugarplums, but something very similar -- Hershey's Kisses and Chanukka gelt. So as you stuff your stockings with Fair Trade gifts, and candy bars that taste like cardboard, look back to your own childhood.
Did you believe in a Santa Claus? Was your heart so broken when you realized there wasn't one that you decided to take away any magic from your own child?
I hope my children take all of our traditions and pass them down to their own children, so they can experience the joy of remembering and the joy of watching it again with their children.
As for Perfect Mommy Blogger out there, enjoy telling your children you had to stand in line and wait two hours for that perfect toy that they will have forgotten by next Christmas. What memories are you making with them?
Happy Festivus.
Monday, November 30, 2015
My Mother's Eulogy
There comes an age when the natural order of death takes place. We lose our parents, friends, relatives. For some of us that age has come too soon,
when we were too young to understand or even fully know who the person was that
we lost.
The word Eulogy means, A piece of writing that praises someone highly.
We mostly associate the word to those that have died. Had I known the meaning of the word before, I would have written this while my mother was alive and we would have celebrated her life with her. Let’s face it who else but my mother would enjoy an evening of compliments bestowed upon her?
She was a woman who never grew tired of
hearing how beautiful she was. And she
was. But it was not her outer beauty
that defined her. It was her actions in
life that made her beautiful.
The way she loved our father and was able to remain friends with him until his own death.
The way she found the true love of her life, Morty and blended a family of
wild teenagers.
Her beauty came from the beauty she saw in life, the art she admired and
collected. The way she looked through a
camera lense and could see things others didn’t.
On one vacation I swear she took an entire roll of film on a piece of driftwood.
Ann Marie Jonas taught everyone here how to celebrate, how to live, and let people make mistakes. She raised her children in what some would call an unconventional way. We had freedom to succeed and to fail. No matter what the outcome, she was there to love and inspire.
She was a woman who had no fears in speaking her mind, or offering her advice. I asked her once what the happiest time of her life was. She said when we all lived in Mountain Lakes. She told me she loved the activity and chaos of the house. Many people will tell stories about her that all begin with, “Well I was sitting in the kitchen with your mom…”
She loved that time I realize now because it was so full of life and adventure. She never knew what she would be coming home to after a day at the gallery.
If you walked in the house, you were family.
She welcomed everyone in to her house, and in to her heart.
Having raised five children, there were a few times when I would call her for parenting advice, and more often than not she would listen quietly and then pause before saying, “You wanted to have all these children.'
Mom was a Jonas woman. To be a Jonas is to be loving, accepting, always getting their way and having a laugh that is unlike any other.
My mother had many pieces of advice that the family called “momisms” If you do whats right, you never go wrong” was probably the most often stated.
She also called her Evers children, Evers Achievers. She believed in us, she believed we would all find our paths. She believed that of everyone.
Earlier yesterday I was laying down and I could hear my cousins laughing. It sounded just like my mother’s laugh and it made me smile.
So rhetorically I ask how do you say goodbye to a woman who was a mother, sister, aunt, grandmother, daughter, lover?
The answer is simple. You don’t. You do not need to say goodbye to someone who lives on in all of us.
In the faces and mannerisms of our children, in the love that last almost 40 years with Morty.
In the laugh heard by cousins.
Ann Evers truly was a beautiful woman, but it was her heart that she gave willingly to all of us. It was the time she spent listening, observing, loving.
She would not want you to stand here and eulogize her. She would want you to eulogize and celebrate your own lives.
There was another thing my mother always asked everyone. She would say, “So tell me, are you happy?”
That was what she wanted most. For everyone to be happy.
Be sad now because it is right to feel the loss of someone so larger than life.
But after this, to truly celebrate the life we now mourn, do what is right,
and be happy.
Do that for her.
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Meow
Writers tend to be readers. One of the most annoying and delightful things is when a writer finds another writer who is brilliant.
Oh the jealousy and delight of reading something and thinking, "why didn't I write that?! She is so brilliant. I love her. I hate her. I am funny too. I have depression too!"
Do I start writing about my my struggle to lessen my under arm flap to maybe the side of a large ferret?
Do I write about the insanity I feel when invited to go somewhere outside of my comfort zone (my house, or possibly even my bed)?
No. I will be writing for a magazine about fashion and music.
Believe me any writer is happy to get a gig. See? Already using musical terminology!
I am excited about this new venture. It not only means writing, but also immersing myself, and interviewing people. I love getting people to talk about themselves.
I will go to fashion events, of which my not so small city has an abundance of.
My normal self doubt comes in. That evil little monster who thinks I deserve jiggly underarms and thighs permanently connected is laughing its little head off.
"YOU? Write about fashion? You own 20 tank tops and 10 long skirts! You wear a pair of maternity pants and your baby is sixteen."
Okay so my evil creature has a point, but maternity pants are comfortable. Oh God, the word no designer wants to hear!
Fashion is not comfort! It is being fabulous and miserable at the same time!
I do own some high end pieces in my closet. But because of my aforementioned love of my bed, I would only be wearing them for them for my cat. Who would climb on me and make biscuits thus ruining the item.
Sorry kitty, I love you, but DO NOT TOUH ME!
Me? The currently (I still say currently even tho this has been my body figure for well over ten years now) plus size girl write about fashion?
You know that garment would not fit over your cankle.
But here is the thing about both writing and fashion. Both are to be admired. Both are pieces of art.
Both can elicit the same, "Damn I wish I wrote/wore that!" reaction.
I know a lot about fashion. Not just because I was a Sex and the City fangirl, or wish Tim Gunn was my Uncle.
I have worked in it, styled it, bought it, drooled over it, obsessed over it, and even dream of it.
I am going to dress my evil voice in Gaultier to distract it.
I don't really have cankles.
But I do have a killer Chanel bag, and yes I can spot a fake from a mile away.
I will get out more, I will say hello to familiar faces that I have stepped away from for a few years respite. I will say, "Oh no I am not doing the hair and makeup for this show, I am writing about it."
I will hear, "I love what you are wearing! What is that?"
"Oh this? It's cat hair."
Oh the jealousy and delight of reading something and thinking, "why didn't I write that?! She is so brilliant. I love her. I hate her. I am funny too. I have depression too!"
Do I start writing about my my struggle to lessen my under arm flap to maybe the side of a large ferret?
Do I write about the insanity I feel when invited to go somewhere outside of my comfort zone (my house, or possibly even my bed)?
No. I will be writing for a magazine about fashion and music.
Believe me any writer is happy to get a gig. See? Already using musical terminology!
I am excited about this new venture. It not only means writing, but also immersing myself, and interviewing people. I love getting people to talk about themselves.
I will go to fashion events, of which my not so small city has an abundance of.
My normal self doubt comes in. That evil little monster who thinks I deserve jiggly underarms and thighs permanently connected is laughing its little head off.
"YOU? Write about fashion? You own 20 tank tops and 10 long skirts! You wear a pair of maternity pants and your baby is sixteen."
Okay so my evil creature has a point, but maternity pants are comfortable. Oh God, the word no designer wants to hear!
Fashion is not comfort! It is being fabulous and miserable at the same time!
I do own some high end pieces in my closet. But because of my aforementioned love of my bed, I would only be wearing them for them for my cat. Who would climb on me and make biscuits thus ruining the item.
Sorry kitty, I love you, but DO NOT TOUH ME!
Me? The currently (I still say currently even tho this has been my body figure for well over ten years now) plus size girl write about fashion?
You know that garment would not fit over your cankle.
But here is the thing about both writing and fashion. Both are to be admired. Both are pieces of art.
Both can elicit the same, "Damn I wish I wrote/wore that!" reaction.
I know a lot about fashion. Not just because I was a Sex and the City fangirl, or wish Tim Gunn was my Uncle.
I have worked in it, styled it, bought it, drooled over it, obsessed over it, and even dream of it.
I am going to dress my evil voice in Gaultier to distract it.
I don't really have cankles.
But I do have a killer Chanel bag, and yes I can spot a fake from a mile away.
I will get out more, I will say hello to familiar faces that I have stepped away from for a few years respite. I will say, "Oh no I am not doing the hair and makeup for this show, I am writing about it."
I will hear, "I love what you are wearing! What is that?"
"Oh this? It's cat hair."
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