Where I Do Chick Lit

Inspiration usually strikes in the kneecaps for me.  Like when I run into a bookshelf as I make a middle of the night bathroom trek.  And it struck me tonight in the shower.

Inspiration, not the bookshelf.  That would be weird.  And really creepy.  I think I'd call an exorcist if my bookshelf came into the bathroom.

Anyways.............My brain tossed together a novel while I was in the shower.  Fragments of Facebook friends status updates on "30 days of thankfulness" plus someone mentioning what they would do with a ton of money was the inspiration behind this new brainchild of mine.

So I registered for National Novel Writing Month and began the process of giving birth to "Once Upon A Southern Fairy Tale."  Here's what I've got so far. 

There’s a joke that goes like this: What’s the difference between a Northern and a Southern fairy tale?

A Northern fairy tale begins ‘Once upon a time.’
A Southern fairy tale begins ‘Now y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.’

I don’t believe in fairy tales.  At the age of 5, my mother informed me that I should have been a miscarriage, but I was too much of a stubborn bitch to just die.  And that was when she was sober.  She was worse when drunk, but that was usually not until after lunch. 

When I was 7 I found her drowned in her own vomit, but thinking that she was sleeping off a particularly bad bender I didn’t realized for 2 days that she had died.  When the motel manager came looking for the weeks rent, I remember how he rifled through our meager belongings, pocketed a handful of dollars, the remainder of my mother’s booze, and a pocket watch that I believe belonged to my Grandpa.  Only then did he call the cops after threatening me not to say anything.  The state swooped in, dropping me in foster care until they located Great Aunt Mathilda. 

I’m sure you’d like me to say that I cried for the loss of my mother, but I felt more relieved.  I was uneducated, so accustomed to chaos and disorder that when I overheard Great Aunt Mathilda tell her neighbor that I was a like a feral cat, I thought my chest would burst with pride.  The cat on the Fancy Feast commercial had such pretty fur, and the Meow Mix cats were so cute, I knew that I must be very lucky.

When I learned what feral meant the next day I cried.  For three days.

But this really isn’t the story of my childhood and how I grew up.  This is really the story of a million dollars and my attempt to spend it all in 100 days.

My name is Norma Jeane.

Now pull up a chair, ‘cuz y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.

 (And before you ask, yes, my mother named me after HER).

***************************************************************************
*************************************************************************** 

Norma Jeane, or J as she prefers to be called, grew up on a diet of fried chicken, collard greens, and biscuits with a heaping dose of crazy Great Aunt Mathilda.  She never expected to leave the confines of Woodbine, but all that changed the day her geriatric patient died.  Handed a million dollars and a to do list, J has 100 days to complete her mission. 

Ride along in Great Aunt Mathilda's ancient Firebird as J, Gam and her bulldog UGA  criss-cross the US following the directives of an eccentric millionaire. 

Off to the races

My mind is racing. My heart beat is Mach 5. Rotten dreams stirred up fears and emotions that I long ago processed.

I want to run until I'm tired. I want some sort of physical activity to break the chain of thoughts.

I'm supposed to be heading to Mass, where in the still and quiet, I should be able to speak to God from the depths of my soul. But I'm afraid I'll sob in front of my child.

A child who doesn't need to know the pain running around in my head. This is the time when it gets dangerous for me. I want to hurt myself, just to let my brain find some other source of pain to cling to.
My shrink tells me to write it out when I get like this. That bringing this insanity out of my head and on to paper for others to see will help. That bringing this shame out of the dark and into The Light will give me more control. That sharing this secret might help me conquer this silent shame.

For almost 20 years I've subjected myself to pain that has left my body riddled with scars. It's time for me to face this, grab this demon by the hand, and force him to march alongside me. So I can show this demon that he can't hide inside my head any more. That others know about my secret.

And that I'm going to fight this out instead of hiding and hurting.

*Whovians will understand this reference. A friend sent it to me. Seems there is a Doctor reference for everything in life.

Go The F*ck To Sleep: The Play

Scene:
           Living Room-- Mother and Son prepare to read a bed time story.  Mother is feeling very proud and slightly superior at this moment for she is ENGAGING Son's imagination and EXPANDING his vocabulary and IMPARTING wisdom.  (Large action words indicates that Mother is envisioning the day that when Son accepts Nobel Humanitarian World Record Prize for his works in the field of Neuro-Literature-Artology, he will recall this evening.)

7:15--Aesop's Fables read

7:30--Son tucked into bed, nightly orisons occur.

7:35--Mother begins work plays on Pintrest; Son announces from top of the stairs that he has to clip a hangnail.

7:37--Son pronounces that all toe nails and several finger nails need to be clipped.  Mother makes mental note to sweep bathroom floor as it is now littered.

7:45--Son bounces down the stairs, pleads for Mother to re-tuck him into bed.  Mother pauses video of duck skate-boarding to act in a maternal fashion.

8:05--Mother hears footsteps overhead.  Sighing, she stops looking at food porn and addresses Son.  He inquires as to her nightly routine, as he is unable to sleep without knowing when she will be finished "working" on the computer.

8:07--Son is re-re-tucked into bed.  Mother wonders if any new articles on Cracked have been published since she was on at 5pm.

8:20--Son stomps downstairs, tears trailing down his face.  He is "sooooooooooooo hot!"  And "has a little bit of a headache, especially when I shake my head like this."  Son imitates wet dog shaking self dry.

8:30--Mother updates Facebook status with a sideways frowny face, informs sister that the new family dog will be named Sherlocka as 'Chelsea' is a stupid name. 

8:33--Mother realizes there is nothing to drink in the house which would give her a buzz, so she makes a cup of herbal tea.  House Mate makes pointless inquiry about Son not sleeping.  Mother wishes to roll eyes but refrains by digging her nails into her leg.

8:47--Mother, no longer dreaming that Son will live to see the an award winning future, much less next day, ascends stairs to threaten child with bodily harm if he rises from bed again. Son is re-re-re-tucked into bed.

10:22--Mother finally feels she has earned the right to relax.

Son has gone the fuck to sleep.

 

  

If Wishes Were Horses

Tonight I would give my left foot just for someone to hold and hug me while I cry.
I haven't slept well in days.
Stress has piled up: money issues, car accident problems, trolls and high school drama, doctors bills, health concerns, not making a sale at work yet, Jeremiah's schooling.
I know I have some wonderful friends and I am truly grateful.
But tonight I'm tired of having to depends on myself. And I'm tired that there's no one here to share the burden with me.
I hate being alone in this bed tonight.

I Will Not Break

Disclaimer for trolls reading this post: 

My writings tonight are not

 (nor have ever been) a cry for pity or sympathy.  

It's just me talking about how my fucked up head 

deals with stuff that happens in my life. 

 That's how I've always intended this blog to be.

I started hurting myself again tonight.

I lost two friends in the matter of 3 days.

I was publicly stomped on by a troll, but when I dared to defend myself, my now use to be friends advised me to stop writing for the public to read, that I should take down everything I've ever written about my ex.

Yesterday I was numb, today I was beating myself up.  Could there be things so awful that I had written that I don't recall?  Am I really so angry that I fail to realize that everything I write is about him?

So tonight as I realized I needed to write out my pain, rather than try to bleed it out of myself, I dove head first into the search engine on my blog.  I needed to see how many times I had allegedly  "misrepresented (my) ex-fiance."

You know how many times I made barest mention of my ex?  3 times.  In the span of 186 posts.

• engaged and ditched at the alter,
• I'm doing TONS better about the whole ex-fiance thing.  It's not like ending a relationship with a boyfriend, for heavens sake, I was ready to pledge my live to him!
• I hate that when my fiancee dumped me at the alter, claiming that I was not trustworthy and would probably have an affair, still angers me.  He came from a broken family, which saddens my heart.  He had problems that he was unable to see, but I still loved that foolish boy.  I know that I would not make the same mistakes and get involved with someone so damaged, but I am still afraid of trusting someone again.

For the love of cookie dough, I didn't even devote an entire post to him!  These are the only things I've publicly shared.

I'm not a bad person.  Looking at it now, I don't think I'm that angry about that relationship either.  If I were, shouldn't more of my writings be devoted to my angst/torch bearing to my ex, as I was accused by the troll.

I'm sad all this unnecessary drama has been stirred up.  I'm sad that a poisonous troll had such power over friends who have known me for over 13 years. 

I'm sorry that my words, spoken in confidence, where used against me.

So no, I won't stop writing.  I won't make my writings private.  Because I said nothing wrong in the first place.

Now I just need to convince my brain to let go of the hurt so I can stop the bleeding on my skin. 

Gone

I lost two friends today.  I really don't know what I feel.
A troll stepped in after four years and stirred up a pot of shit, to what end?
For three days my life became a weird day time high school drama. Why was I told to be the bigger man, and ignore what was being hurled at me? Why was I being told to stop writing? The crux of my writing wasn't about my ex, but about everything else in my life.
I talked to my therapist last night who told me I have every right to be upset. That I have a right to my own feelings of anger, hurt, and sadness.
Trolls suck.

Bat Rhymes With Splat

Now that I've been back in VA since June, I'm quite impressed with myself for learning how to get around traffic by taking more scenic routes at times.  And I haven't gotten myself too lost.

"Welcome to...." WTF?

Until the other night.  When I drove 45 minutes south before realizing I was going in the wrong direction.  It wasn't until I saw this:



No big deal, right?  What's a 1/4 tank of gas and 45 minutes of my life besides money (which I don't have) and sleep (which I get very little of).  I had been talking with an old friend which is why I failed to pay attention to the signs on the road.

Oh well, one can always turn around and start the 42 mile drive back towards home.  I'll just crank up some tunes by Dr. House and hum along. 

Nothing but me, the Blues, The Kiddo snoring in the back seat, a clear night sky filled with millions of twinkly stars, and the wide open road.

And a bat.  A fucking bat flew right into the windshield. 

In that brief second, I swear that bat looked at me as if to say, "This is the start of a bad night for me."

At least my shrieks of terror didn't wake The Kiddo.  

Is This What You Wanted?

I am angry.

I cried today.

I am very angry.

I am disappointed in some.

I am grateful to others.

I am FURIOUS.

But I will get over this.

I sat on a bathroom floor and cried today.

The Upside of Having Trolls ***UPDATED***

Things have gotten so laughable for me in the last 12 hours.  What once might have lead me to days of tears, self-doubt, and loads of self-hatred, I no longer find upsetting.  Instead, I have spent the better part of today reveling in the fact that I no longer care about the opinions of fake people.

I love and respect the opinions of my friends, whom I know by name.  I do not respect people who care to advise or castigate me from the shadows like Deep Throat.

It's funny that all this hullabaloo has come up.  And I actually have My Trolls to thank for this.

See, my rankings and ratings in search engines have skyrocketing in the last 12 hours.  The more times individuals visit my page, the higher my ranking in Google.  So each time someone has commented "anonymously" or not, Google congratulates me and rewards me with a higher standing. 

All the key words that have been used over and over and over again are now likely to be pulled up as results if someone were to search for "liar, slander, malicious, lies."  See, once I mentioned Dr. House, MD briefly in a post.  As a result, if someone types "dr. house" into Google, they land on my blog.

Weird?  Yes.  But that is the beauty of algorithms.


***UPDATED***
 I have decided, as it is my right as this is my own fucking blog, that I am removing all of the "Anonymous" comments and those many of those comments that my dear, good friends made on behalf of my defense.  

I changed some settings around for a bit, so anonymous commenter are not allowed and for a while, I will be moderating my comments section because really, this is not why I chose to write.  

So in short, fuck off trolls, get a life, and I'll write.  But seriously, what good are you doing by reporting back to my ex?  

Hypocrisy, Thy Name is Anonymous

Anyone who REALLY knows me is aware that I am always open to correction.  I may not like having my faults pointed out, but I usually have the humility to accept criticism where and when it is due.  A real friendship in my eyes, is one where you can lovingly approach another about a fault/character flaw/bad habit and in true justice and sincerity point out the error of one's ways.

It's like that crappy, whiny song The Fray did several years ago.  If you really care about someone who is doing things that are bad for them, you run the risk of losing that friendship.  But a deep, abiding friendship between two people can usually help each other walk on a better path of life.

 Oh, The Fray, how I hate your whiny Gray's Anatomy theme song.  My ears bleed.

I had a dear, long-time friend call me today and voice some concern about the hurt and anger that I still carry around from the loss of my almost marriage.  And I do admit it is a HUGE fault of mine that I should work on.  I can accept her just criticism of me because she has spoken these words to me out of love and concern for me.

What I CAN NOT STAND FOR THE LIFE OF ME are those who dare offer council to me when they have done absofuckinglutly nothing for my life.  These people are called trolls.

And I had a troll post a message to me on my previous post WHY.  I raged for a few minutes then realized the absurdity of it all.

So this is what I had to say.  After all, these writings are my own fucking diatribes.  I'm not forcing a gun to anyone's head to read my drivel.  I am not emailing it back to ANY of my exes.  And of the people who read this blog, many do not know my ex fiancee.  So I can only conclude that the person who sent me this note is someone who I haven't spoken to in 4 years, but makes it their disgusting duty to read up on my life and report back to my ex.

• Anonymous, all I have to say to you is that since you lack the courage to give me your name (though I have a feeling who this is) I do not owe you any explanation. In the past 4 years, that is one thousand four hundred sixty days, you have not called me, nor written, nor text, or even sent up smoke signals, save for this and two comments on a previous blog.
  
  Quiet simply, you are a coward and you like to stir the pot. Why do you feel it is your duty to read what I write and then report it back to my ex? If he has had an issue with me writing, than it is his duty to ask me to cease and desist. If I were asked by him to no longer talk about the demise of our relationship, then I would do so. So far, I haven't heard anything.
  
  Also, if you actually read my blog, there is no way that I have ever insinuated that my ex fiancee was the man who was responsible for raping me.
  
  Lastly, and I'll be done here, the words "COUPLES COUNSELING" were N....E....V....E....R brought up.
  
  Oh, and one more thing, since this is MY blog and the internet is a public forum, this conversation is now fodder for my next post. So in a way, thank you for giving me a reason to write tonight.
  
  And I was so afraid that I was going to have writers block. 

 And in case this wasn't already apparent, I'll make this clear:

• Yes, I still bear the hurt that comes with being left at the alter, four days prior to my wedding.
• Yes, I still bear the hurt that comes with losing about forty "friends" in one fell swoop.  It's sad that of all those who claimed to be my friend, only two people of that former pool of "friends" bothered to call me.  I wrote letters and made calls to all those friends within hours of the end of my engagement and NOT ONE SINGLE FUCKING PERSON had the decency to call or write back.
• Am I a lot farther on in my healing than I was four years ago?  Yes.  Of course I am.  It was four fucking years ago.  And when I occasionally mention what happened, it's typically in reference to me learning to over come my fears.  Things well up in my head, and like a tea pot, I have to let some steam out.  But once again, this is my own fucking blog.

So now that I have blown off my steam, lest my readers, friends, or trolls think that I am an unhappy person, here's an awesome, hysterical video.  This will help wipe away the blood dripping from your ears, if you happened to listen to the crappy Fray song. 

PS- Troll, fuck off.  I'm a writer.  I write. 

Right In The Feelers

Over the past 24 hours I have been bombarded with so many messages of love and support that I can't process everything.  I can't believe so many people have reached out to me with words of comfort.

A friend messaged me, cautioning that I might have some triggers or flashback pop up because of Lord Douche Bag's comment, which I initially brushed off.  But around lunch time I was getting upset because I realized the sheer enormity of awfulness of what he said.

I am so thankful to each and everyone of you who have offered to take care of LDB, however I won't take up your offers for vengeance.  The most fitting punishment is that he has to live with himself, a worm-eaten, rotten, hollow shell of his former self.

I can't write anything more, because I'll cry.  Mostly tears of gratitude.  So I'll leave you with this to laugh at.  I hope my little brother will forgive me for posting this.

You Can Go Home, But You'll Sometimes Find Assholes There

Went back to my Alma Mater for homecoming yesterday.  It's been 9 years since I graduated, leaving behind the tiny college I called home for four years. Four long years of debates in the class room, thousands of hours procrastinating writing papers, and scrubbing toilets to pay for my tuition.

Got all dolled up in my Red Dress of Courage.  It has been 8 years since I saw many of these people, almost 7 years since I gave birth to my son.  I needed something to make me feel wonderful, proud of myself, and all the achievements I have made in the last 9 years of my life.  

Was asked by a former classmate if I enjoyed being raped. 

Was too shocked to come up with a good reply, but wish I had retorted, "Of course, why do you think I'm dressed like this?"

I noticed many nasty glances and pointed fingers but didn't care.  Was ignored by people who were my friends when I was engaged but who didn't even bother to call when my fiancee left me at the alter.

I went for me.  I went to prove that I could go back there and not be ashamed of who I am, of the path my life has taken.  I'm not ashamed of my blue hair, of my views on the world, of the fact that I write openly about my rape, struggles with depression and anxiety, or the fears that run around my head.

I went because I am so my bigger than all the nonsense that use to keep me down.

And for all that I say with a smile on my face, I might not be the best Catholic out there, but at least I'm not a hypocrite.  And I can live and strive to do better than that.  

All in my head

I went to an apple orchard this week. The weather was beautiful, the fruit was delicious, and The Kiddo couldn't stop laughing. I couldn't ask for a more picturesque setting. Yet underneath my happy exterior I was fighting to keep the voices that whisper mean things to me at bay.

 "You're quite pitiful and pathetic. Look at you, acting like child. What sort of 31 year old woman runs around on a playground, climbs trees, and dives into a ball pit? Do you see the other adults acting like you? The answer is no, dumbass."

When I hear these things, I feel like a fraud, a failure around adults. I don't have a strict 9-5 job, so my paycheck shifts around. I don't have my own place, I don't eat vegetables at every meal, and I take The Kiddo into cemeteries looking for weather-worn headstones. My days aren't planned out and neither is my grocery list.

I know I don't follow the norm, and some days I am fine with that. Most days I secretly hope that The Kiddo's friends will think he has a neat, adventuresome, somewhat quirky mom.

 But those voices can be so mean. I just want to be happy and love being me.

Why

I stopped writing a while back and it's taken me a good long while to figure out just why.  It's not that I didn't have anything to talk about.  Plenty has happened since April when I dropped off the radar: friends got married, I got a job, moved four states away, my friend died, babies died.  A lot has gone on.

Yet I have not written, which is one thing my shrink said I must do if I want to keep working on the things that dwell in my head.

I finally know why I stopped writing.  It's because I got scared.  I let the ugly voices convince me that if I were to write about the things that run around inside my head that it would scare everyone off.  I have grown convinced that if I lay bare the sad, angry, happy, silly, mixed-upness that is me that I will never find anyone who wants to be close to me.

Not to long ago, a friend announced that she was getting a divorce and that really upset me.  She battles with mental health demons and I know that must have been a stress point in her marriage.  My bizarre little brain tells me that even though I'm not involved with anyone, if in the future I do have a counterpart, he'll probably realize I am a bag of crazy and not want to deal with me in the long run.  Basically I've spent months being upset about a scenario that doesn't exist in this dimension.  I've been paralyzed about a future that is not there.

I know it doesn't help that the baggage that I still haul around occasionally falls off the luggage carousel and I have to re-pack the contents before I close them again.  I hate being reminded that my son's father left me because he was too weak.  I hate that his family packed me up on an auto train and shipped me away.  I hate all things that were said to me, implying that I was not fit to be a mother.

I hate that when my fiancee dumped me at the alter, claiming that I was not trustworthy and would probably have an affair, still angers me.  He came from a broken family, which saddens my heart.  He had problems that he was unable to see, but I still loved that foolish boy.  I know that I would not make the same mistakes and get involved with someone so damaged, but I am still afraid of trusting someone again. 

Like a child that hides under the blankets to avoid the scary monsters in the closet, I am afraid that if I poke my head above the covers I will discover there is no one who wants to be near me.  That I'm the crazy monster in the closet.

Trembling

My brain snapped when I was 18.

I'd come from a long line of anxiety and depression riddled family members; it was only natural that I would inherit the chemical gene and growing up in an environment where I could sense the prevailing anxiety and depression that loomed in the air shaped my natural temperament.  Yet I was a happy child with a fanciful imagination, but always tinged with sadness, fear, and self-doubt.


I probably could have gone my entire life not really being too effected by my chemical imbalance.  I would have had my happy days and my not so happy days.  I would have been able to chalk things up to PMS, lack of sleep, or poor diet. 


But then my brain snapped when I was 18. 


Raped.
Verbally Abused.
Stalked.
Humiliated.
Belittled.
Threatened.


One night I thought I was going to choke to death.


But I pushed it all away.  Convinced myself that I was to blame, that I should have stayed away, that it was really just a bad breakup.

For years my heart would race uncontrollably at times.  I would cry without understanding what had set me off.  I'd jump every time I saw men with dark crew-cut hair or glasses. I would scream if people, intentionally or accidentally, walked up behind me without my knowledge. 

I just shook it off; I'd tell myself that  I was a spaz, jumpy, just high strung.  The doctor's have a name for that.  


PTSD

 It was almost 12 years ago, but sometimes there is a trigger that my subconscious picks.  One moment I am fine, the next my hands begin to tremble, my pulse races, and my airways narrow making each breath a challenge. 


And it's so fucking frustrating!  


I internally berate myself: 
                    "It was over 12 years ago!  Get the fuck over it!  Are you putting on a 
                     show  for attention?  Why do you have to randomly make it apparent 
                     that you aren't fully functional?  Can't you knock it off?"


Intellectually, I know the mind stores memories very deep.  That these uncontrollable, unintentional, involuntary reactions are part of who I am, who I have become.  

I know that they are part of me, that they will always be lurking in the dark recesses of my conscious.  

But I know they are not going to rule my life.

So I sit here, trembling and fighting to take a deep breath, waiting for this storm to pass.  The calm will arrive eventually; I will be exhausted, needing to crawl into bed. 


Jesus told the storms to calm; please Lord send that peace my way.

Mexico and Cuba Get Pope'd

Yes, I know it's been for fucking ever since I've written and yes, I've broken my own promise to write every damn day, but what can I say? Depression is a lying bastard:

Being treated with a cocktail of meds that quit working didn't fucking help. Fortunately, the med situation has been cleared up and I'm back to being myself. Yet, I've been afraid to pick up the pen, errrr, keyboard.

But when my Cousin asked me to back him up on an argument, I spent an hour constructing these arguments without fretting if I sounded stupid. I was writing from the heart and I didn't give a rat's ass if I was writing a rough draft of a terrible sounding argument, I just wanted it out.

Here's how is started: A distant cousin stated on Teh Book of Face that "The Pope didn't have "time" to meet with any Cubans like the Damas de Blanco and other human rights activists, but he did make sure to save plenty of time for Fidel and Raul. #AshamedToBeCatholic"

Responses of included the sexual misconduct of some members of the clergy, which wasn't even the point of the Pope's visit. Reading these responses got me going, so this is what flowed from my brain. Warning: this post is a metric fuck-ton long, so if you quit half way through I get it. But these are my fucking diatribes and I'll write whatever the hell I want.

"Hi XXXX and YYYY, I'm gonna butt into this argument. I usually try to refrain from arguments on FB b/c I like to keep my politics outside of my "social media" friends. But as a writer/blogger/editor, I am calling you out. Mi primo, Javier Camps, this is for you.

Point 1--With the issue of the Pope not "visiting with real Cubans": The Pope is the leader of a nation, Vatican City, an official doucumented country recognized worldwide. In addition, he is the head of the Catholic Church. As a leader of a "state" he is correct in meeting with the heads of the "state" of Cuban. Benedict openly criticized Communism and called for the reformation of the system, along with urging religious freedom.

The 85 y.o. pontiff suffers from EXTREME high blood pressure and has been told in the past that he should not travel by air, as the altitude reached during flight could cause him to stroke. The Pope's commitment to spreading the message of Christ by visiting a country where personal freedoms have been quashed for decades shows his willingness to sacrifice his health.

His travels to Mexico have been called by the press as "brief but intense." He arrived in Mexico at 4:12 pm Central Standard Time on Friday 23 and left Monday the 26 at 6AM. There is an 8 hr time difference between Rome and Mexico. Now, I'm hot to trot at just turning 31, but there is no fucking way that I could make my body adjust to an 8 hr time change in 3 days, and I'm betting neither of you could also.

Security was a HUGE issue. The Pope celebrated a Mass before a crowd of 300,000 people. Each and EVERY one of those people had to be searched before entering the stadium where the Mass was. We would do the same for our President; to not afford the same level of protection that we demand for our head of state is to say that the human dignity of the Pope is less than our President. 

Point 2: Sexual Abuse:

This is a hot, volatile topic. I have first hand knowledge, as I have worked with the Church and the FBI to investigate allegations of sexual abuse and those who may come into contact with children. I am also a survivor of sexual abuse and rape (not by a member of the clergy, but someone who claimed to be a practicing Catholic), so I understand the gravity and the intense pain felt by those who have been raped/molested/abused.

Yes, there have been cover-ups. Bad priests have been shuffled around. Men of the collar who should have been thrown in jail alongside other rapists and pedophiles were unfortunately not held accountable.

There is not excusing this behavior. HOWEVER, if you are going to sling mud by singling out sexual misbehavior, you will find that you lose your ground very quickly.

I DEFY YOU to name me a Protestant, Muslim, Buddist, Toaist, Jewish, Hindu or any other religious sect that has not perpetrated crimes against children and has not covered it up. You can't, just like you can't say that our government leaders haven't covered up their sexual misconducts the same way.

Archbishop Silvano Tomasi, the Vatican's permanent observer to the UN, defended its record by claiming that "available research" showed that only 1.5%-5% of Catholic clergy were involved in child sex abuse.Statistics from the Christian Scientist Monitor newspaper to show that most US churches being hit by child sex abuse allegations were Protestant and that sexual abuse within Jewish communities was common.

The Church is in the process of cleaning out. They have admitted to the faults and errors and are working to make amends. No other religious group is being so openly transparent at this time, yet the Catholic Church remains faithful to it's current mission.

Point 3: The Catholic Faith

The Catholic Church is run by fallaible, fallen, sinful, men and women. No one is exempt, as by default we are stained with Original Sin at birth/conception. All of us, as Catholic men and women, make up the Chruch. We are a collective, one Body in Christ. We have an "elected official" i.e. the Pope who is the "governor" of the Catholic Church, who sets rules and sees that they are followed. Just as we Americans elect our President to set forth rules and sees that they are followed.

Are all of our American rules fair and just all the time? Is justice being served at every moment here? No, not at all. Take the Zimmerman case for example. Where is the justice?

As a Catholic we put our faith into action by making an Act of Free Will "to hold these truths self-evident" (to quote the Founders of our County). We assent to the belief that the Pope cannot error on teaching on Faith and Morals. That does not mean that the Pope/bishops/priests are exempt from making errors in judgement.

Being a Catholic is difficult. There are many rules to follow, teachings that are hard to understand, but as a Catholic, we MAKE the CHOICE to follow these rules. At any time, you are free to not follow the rules of the Church, but when you do so, please do not continue to call yourself a Catholic, for you are no more of a "real" Catholic than a member of the Harlem Globetrotters plays a "real" basketball game. (That analogy and this Point 3 argument is fully fleshed in this article. http://tinyurl.com/7lhqvqo) "

THE END 

Donkey Balls

Been having trouble thinking clearly.
Three months of ups and downs.
Took me that long to realize that I need to have my crazy meds reevaluated.
Makes me feel awful.
I know.
It sounds stupid to be upset about that.
If I needed glasses, I'd wear them.
Prescriptions change strengths.
So why is it any different for my meds?
I'm sad.

Fahrenheit 45WTF?

"He turned and the Mechanical Hound was there. It was half across the lawn, coming from the shadows, moving with such drifting ease that it was like a single solid cloud of black-gray smoke blown at him in silence.
It made a single last leap into the air coming down at Montag from a good three feet over his head, its spidered legs reaching, the procaine needle snapping out its single angry tooth."
                      ---------------Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 


Does anyone see the similarities here?

DARPA has created this robot to work in combat situations. I think it's safe to say we just fucked ourselves.  Excuse me while I hide my books from The Hound.

Furiously Happy

A #TravelingRedDress arrived at my door today. I might have cried a little before I put it on, shoved my feet into polka dotted rain boots, and walked through the downtown area of my tiny town. Some people cheered, the teenage thug told me I was gorgeous, and some older women told me that I made their day brighter. I have smiled so much in just one day that my cheeks hurt. I am Furiously Happy.

Blood Is Thicker Than Water

It's one thing to fuck with me.  I can take shit that's been thrown at me.  Granted I might get really down, depressed, and feel plagued by demons of doubt, but I always bounce out of it.

But when it comes to my family, you don't fuck with them. We might have our problems with each other, we might speak ill of one another, but when it comes to someone attacking from the outside, you'd best be sure to run the other way. 

There is a world of shit that's coming down soon.

Clothes Makes The Man, But Mini-Pads Makes The Woman

Thursday morning held a lot of promise for me. I had lined up my first interview and had the potential to make some really good contacts within the high school sports community.Wanting to look snazzy and semi-professional, I opted for khakis and a sweater instead of the usual yoga pants and sarcasm-laced t-shirt.

Dropped The Kiddo off at school at 8:25 and realized I had to be at my meeting at 8:30. Strike One. Crap.  My first instinct was to call and reschedule the appointment, feigning car troubles.  Then I realized .5 seconds later that launching a paper and being the Regional Manger meant that I had to pull on the big girl panties and do it, even at the cost of running a few minutes late and looking like a fool (at least in my eyes).

After all, I was meeting with the head of the athletic department and it wouldn't be fair to waste his time just because I was freaking myself out.  Seriously, everyone runs late.  The Kiddo's school is 4 minutes down the road from the high school.  As I drove sped towards the school chanting 'calm the fuck down' to myself and mentally giving the bird to several drivers, I hopped out of the car and strode into the main building with false confidence and poise that impressed me.

The receptionist gave me a glance usually one reserves for trash in the gutter and told me to sign in.  Fortunately the coach appeared and ushered me to a side room before I started shooting dirty looks back at Ms-Cranky-Mc-Answer-The-Damn-Phone-Pants.

So I sit down, pretending to be poised and calm, when I actually wanted to piss myself.  I think I said "I appreciate your time" 5 times before I flipped open my notebook.  The noise in the hallway was going to make conversation difficult so I leaned back in my chair to nonchalantly close the door.  Except, I almost wrenched my arm of out my socket.  The door was held in place by an industrial strength magnet.  Strike Two.

No big deal. I mentally adjusted myself and flashed a broad smile as the director stood up to close the door while I rubbed my now strained shoulder.  I reached into my brand new purse and fished around for my pen and my cell phone because I had planned on recording the interview.  My memory isn't worth two licks at times, so I wanted to play it on the safe side, lest I forget a crucial piece of information.

I grabbed my phone and dropped it on the table.  Oh, and I managed to flip a mini pad onto the table at the same time.

Strike Three.

Mini-Pad meet Table.  Table meet Mini-Pad.

I glanced up quickly and our eyes met.  Without missing a beat, I swiped the pad back into the purse, gave my most charming grin, and proceeded on without any additional hitches. 

10 minutes later I was out the door and laughing all the way home.  I might not have the grace and poise of Ann Curry, but I'm a scrappy little fighter.  I might not know what the hell I am doing, but I sure will try.  

Now Taking Applications For Assistant To The Regional Manager

 

Like the logo?  If you don't that's okay, because I didn't design it.  But it's the official logo of the on-line newspaper I'll be heading up.  The site isn't live yet, but it should be by Wednesday.  I'll be busting my ass big time over the next 8-10 weeks.

While I don't have an official title at this point, the owner said I might be called "The Regional Manager" which my immediate very un-adult response was to shriek, "I need an Assistant to the Regional Manager!"

When my boss told me to pull up YouTube so she could show me a video, I assumed it had something to do with marketing.  I was wrong.  And I couldn't stop laughing. 

My boss?  She's 50PlusSomething and is from England.  

This new path in the journey of my life is going to be awesomely insane.