You cut me. You cut me deep

Winter has arrived. Christmas looms around the corner. Snow is itching to fall. I do my best to show my kids I enjoy this time of year...which is a big fat lie. But there is one thing I enjoy....cooking & baking. And even a cold scrooge as me, can't deny the happiness that baking cookies bring this time of year. How many people say "Aww geezzz, it was a nightmare...mother baking cookies into the night. The smell of chocolate wafting through the air. The anticipation of waiting to "test" the chewy warm treats....aggggg what a horrible memory! I could just puke!!!" I mean really? Can you go wrong with the memory of mother baking tasty treats? Really? Realllyyyy? And if for some reason that is a bad memory...well then....there are some other issues involved here. Anyway, on to the subject at hand...cookies.







I began a dinner conversation with a question (doing my best to embrace the season & make cookie memories for my kids) "Darling children, what is your favorite cookie I can make you this time of year? Wouldn't it be Jim Dandy if we got together & made your most loved cookie?"





Children. "Oh yes mother dear that would be neat-o!"





As the children thought long & hard about their most beloved cookie, I smiled at myself. Happy that I could give them a wonderful cookie memory.





My 10 year old son said "OOhhh, I know! My favorite are those cookies w/ all the colors...ummm, you know with the shapes.





"Spritzes that my mother use to make? (I was excited! He loved MY mommies cookies that I try to recreate each year)





"No, not those...ummm, they are round."





Macaroons?


Good O' chocolate chip?


Ginger snaps?


Snicker doodles?


Peanut butter?


Minty delights?





"No....Ya know the one's that come in the package w/ the pictures inside of them"





You mean these.............

Ya....let THAT sink in.

The children erupt with "oh yes! I love those! So much fun!"

And I shot daggers out of my eyes as a piece of me died.

Let me explain myself. First, I have issues. Second, I grew up w/ a mother that baked from scratch. I never had canned veggies (I love canned greened beans..because my mother poo-pooed them!) My mother never lowered herself to make boxed Mac & Cheese (which I couldn't get enough of when my kids were little...because my mother poo-pooed mac & crap) My mother was a cooking Goddess & I have wonderful memories of her cooking. (there was a time she lite her eyebrows on fire cooking her famous spaghetti sauce....but that's a story for another day)

So for me.....cooking is my thang. One thing I think I do well is bake. I scream at my kids. I swear like a sailor. I lock myself in my room & throw temper tantrums. I fart & dart. I am self deprecating...But by golly I can cook dang nabIT!

So here I was, being out shined by a package of crappy, tasteless, pre made cookies (cookies I made ONCE YEARS ago because my M-I-L left them...I felt too guilty to throw them away. And yes I cried when I baked them.)

So what did I do? I bought them the cookies. I cringed & cried on the inside. Then I let my older son cook those cookies all by himself when my husband & I went on a date.

When all was said & done I heard my mom say to me. "It's not about what you make, It's about the memories of the joy you had baking & caring for your family. It's about letting your kids have a say in what they like & not shaming them. It's about a boy taking his first steps into the world of warm ovens, happy tummies & the feeling of accomplishment"

"But mom...those cookies are of the devil! They are tasteless & gross!"

"I know Sweetie. Just do your best to grin & bare it. Grin & bare it."

So I took my moms advice. The cookies were eaten while I was away (I didn't have to witness the monstrosity of it all) My son enjoyed baking them. Clean up was a cinch. & the best part...

My son said..."yeah, they don't taste that great like I remembered them. They were pretty tasteless. My favorite cookies is the minty delights."

My spirit & my ghost of a mother high fived.. Our job here was done.

Thanksgiving crab legs

I don't like holidays...much. I am one of those cranky women who wouldn't put up a Christmas tree if I didn't have to. And...I have to because I have children. This year I'm tempted to not make a move for the Christmas decoration box & see what happens. Will my husband bring out the box if I don't ask him? Will my children shrivel up & die with out a stupid fake tree? Things to ponder.
I lost my love for the holidays after my mom died...& once I grew up & realised I have to be the one that does all the work! Gone are the days of Mom making cookies while Dad swears like a sailor trying to untangle the $%&%$ strands Christmas tree lights. Then stringing the $%#& lights on the $%H&# tree. I loved watching that all play out. In my little childhood mind I would wonder why my Dad, year after year climbed up on our roof. (this wasn't ANY roof, this was a BARN roof, yes, I was raised in a barn) stapled on the ginormous colored light bulbs, swearing the whole time. Then climb back down only to grumble "never to do THAT again!" "Screw next year, I'm not doing it." Then only to repeat the scenario the next year & the next year & the next year. Why, I wondered did he do it?

Then my mom died & the lights didn't go up. He did it all for her.

After Mom died, the first holidays were the worst & the kindest. For Thanksgiving my Dad was too sad to cook. OK...real reason...my Dad didn't know how to cook. Oh, he could cook hamburgers & pancakes, but that was about it. So for our first Thanksgiving we had our turkey dinner at.... a restaurant. I could have DIED! I felt terrible that WE were taking people away from their families just to serve us. I begged my Dad to just stay home, but he refused. It was too depressing to stay home & slaughter a Thanksgiving meal & eat it while looking at that empty chair. So off to a little restaurant called Coleman's we went. There were only 4 people there. An older couple and Dad & I. I...was...mortified!
But that Thanksgiving will be forever burned in my mind as one of the best. That Thanksgiving, Coleman's served all you can eat....King Snow Crab legs. Aaaaahhhh, they were the best crab legs I ever had! We didn't even know they were not serving turkey. We welcomed the changed menu. We ate till we nearly burst. The mood of the restaurant was quiet & slow at first. The owner (who we knew)was there, helping out in the kitchen & came out to check on his patrons. When he saw us he started to cry. He was a big man named Brett Coleman. I felt terrible when people were upset for us. I just wanted to cheer them up. So, that's what Dad & I did. We made them laugh. The older couple joined in on the fun too. Soon our little group was laughing till we had tears in our eyes. We were covered in butter & bits of crab legs. We stayed for hours, grateful to feel normal & happy & well fed. Grateful for the slaps on the backs & the endless supply of crab legs....hot delicious crab legggssssss. The cooks & the waitress & the owner taking turns coming out to sit w/ us. We felt care for. We WERE cared for.
After our meals, the older couple took turns hugging me. The owner & Dad got into a huge fight because Brett wanted the meal on the house. Dad would have NON of that! Back & forth they went yelling. It was pretty funny. Brett refused to give Dad the check so Dad left a HUGE tip for the waitress & the cook. Both men walked away like they had won the "fight."
A few years after that, Dad & I went out for an early New Years dinner. We always had fun together (well at least I did with him, I'm sure there were days he wanted to strangle his brooding daughter) We sat eating our dinner having a gay o' time when my Dad spotted a man, sitting at a table with his young children. We recognised "the look." The look of faked happiness for the sake of your kids on the mans face. My Dad said "He must have lost her." Divorce, death...we didn't know. The man lost her. So my Dad did the only thing he could do, he secretly paid for the family's dinner.
The holidays are hard for so many people. But I am grateful for those who serve. Whether it's stuffing stocking for our troops or serving crab legs to those who lost loved ones. People who serve can make a big impression on a sad person. I will always remember Brett Coleman & his crab legs. Maybe that sad father will remember his meal was paid for & life can throw you gentle mercies when you lest expect it. I am grateful for children who just want to have a good time. Who propel us to do things we may not want to, but are good for us. Who love the smell of turkey burning & can hear the sweet sounds of their mother swearing in the kitchen. I even have to smile inside as my husband says the same thing my mother use to tell me.

"Stay away from your mother kids...she's putting up the lights!"

Brought to you by Abreva

I am sitting at my computer that has been parked at the kitchen table for 5 days. Cords splayed unceremoniously on the floor, draped over chairs & piled up in the corner. There are 6 people in my family. We have a small kitchen. Computer do-dads in the small kitchen with 6 people (don't forget the dog!) makes me very, very nervous.

I have a TV in my bedroom (the shame!) a TV in the front room. Half an entertainment hutch in my hall way. A plethora of pillows, wires in a huge Aldis bag(wires form every electrical device known to man!). A de-humidifier. A hulking string bass nestled next to my bed....well you get the picture. Crap everywhere!

5 days ago our basement flooded. We live in a bi-level so our basement ain't just a basement, it's the play room, entertainment room, office, under stair storage, bathroom & laundry room.

So yeahhhhhhhhh, when THAT floor gets covered w/ 4 inches of water, it does some damage! It's amazing how 4 inches of water can destroy so much.

I would like to load my pictures onto my post, but I can't figure out how, now that the computer is in bits. Printer over there, Disk drive back up thingy over here. That plug in I need...wait...where is that thing?

Through all of this I had to take care of myself. I have managed to shower once in these 5 days. (I think today is the day I spoil myself & add some water to my hair...maybe rub my shampoo bar over it once or twice) I have been eating chocolate all day long, starting at 7:30 am. I took a 2 hour nap yesterday, on the couch, with the sun bathing my body, my eyes covered by my eye mask....heavenly! I threw caution to the wind & didn't add my sunblocking lip balm. So this morning I woke up to a cold sore thanks to the sun...or the pounds of chocolate I have been eating...or the stress....whatever.

Even though the weekend was a bit stressful, I realize how lucky I am. It sounds trite but I have friends. Really good friends that bring over food, "beer", Dove chocolates, Yankee smelly tarts heaters thingy. Friends that took my not so clean JUST LAUNDERED laundry (that I left in baskets, on the basement floor "headdesk") & did my laundry, underwear & all! Friends who took my kids so my husband & I could stand around saying "ummm, where do we begin?"

Thank God for good friends, neighbors & church peeps. My house is slowly getting put back together. My life is getting use to the upheaval. My kids are back to annoying each other. Crisis mode is over. It's all coming together. I take deep breaths & let the relaxing energy wash over me.

Oh yeah, My daughter has been home with the flu for 3 days.

Pass the chocolate & the Abreva.

Feeding the needy

3 girls dressed in vintage 1920 flapper dresses, sitting on a bench. Feet furiously pushing, pushing the petals to an old pump piano. Girls singing at the top of there lungs as the pump piano wheezes & hums My Rag Time Gal. Singing and singing till the fair lights come on & the old mansion shuts down for the evening.

Laughter.

What you see are children, raising a motherless child.

Brandy, Brenda, Jenny, Diane, Mindy, Drew, Noel, Jen. Names that go on and on. Were these children aware of their impact? Teenagers who stepped up to take me in when my mother died, as a father mourned.

They held me accountable to my actions. They ran along side of me as I fled from my earthy worries. They grab hold of my shoulders & spoke fiercely into my brain. Focusing me onto my path I needed to take. Holding down my grief, they scooped it out with their hands only to have me face it, then helped me bade it goodbye.

Encouraging me to do difficult things. Yelling at me when I got down on myself. Pushing me onto the stage when I couldn't breath. And holding my hand as I screamed into the dark.

We give children too little respect. While adults hemmed & hawed about my grades, college plans & how much sleep I got. Teenagers filled my soul with friendship and life. Pushed me back onto my own 2 feet. Held me up while I wobbled precariously on the edge of childhood and adulthood. Madness & sanity.

I was raised by a pack of giggly, wild, intelligent, strong, carefree & loving group of misfit teens. Teens who crushed me with their protective arms. Teens who allowed me to borrow their breath, their happiness, their strength.

I am the lucky one.

Well that's just great.

I got a response back from Social Security about my brother.


Social Security has not been notified of his death. Technically, by their standards, he is still alive...or rather his SS # is.

Wanna hear something funny? When you request a persons SS # they will give it to you for a small fee. Butttt, if that person is not listed as deceased, The Privacy Act of 1974 states (5 U.S.C 552a(b))

(I'm only going to type out part because it's redundant & I'm lazy) "The Privacy Act of 1974 restricts disclosure of the information you requested. We do not disclose to the public personal information from our record about living individuals right to privacy."

Sounds good right? Well then why did they GIVE me my brothers SS #?!!!!! Yes, you read that right! They gave me his NUMBER (It's the same number I had all these years. It was a # on his college forms. Those were the good old days when they used a persons SS# on everything. From college papers to driver licences!) They just broke their own Privacy Act!

And that my friends, is why the Government can be stupid. Oh, how did I get this delicate information you ask? "You must have jumped through hoops to get his #! You are amazing!" Well, I am amazing...but I did not have to jump through hoops. All I had to do was type on a piece of paper his name, birth date, father's & mother's name of the person I was search for. Oh, & $29. And for the low price of $29 I got myself an unused SS#! Wow.......My trust in the governments ability to keep me safe & healthy is one more flush down the toilet....morons.

So for now my dopey brother is still lost. Is he alive? I doubt it. His low life, drunk of a father never bothered to notify SS, that's all.

I guess I have to pick through all the states to search for his death certificate. That can take 100's of dollars & lots o' time. But I'll do it..maybe...if I'm in a good mood.

Remember kids...the government is our friend & is the smartest friend we have! I love you government...I want to be just as smart as you when I grow up!

His name was Brian

Brian was born to a popular, playboy city kid and a kind, wounded girl. He had red hair & freckles the moment he was born. He was a brilliant child. IQ through the roof.

He watched his father beat his quiet mother. He saw the parties, the drinking, the fights. He ran with his mother. He saw the blood splattered apartment his mother had rented. All of her clothes shredded, belongings broken, every window smashed & his bleeding father sprawled on the white carpet. He watched as his mother did the unthinkable. She got a lawyer and won an annulment, the car, the furniture, the dog, the restraining order...in the 60's. My mother slowly shed her wounded childhood heart and become a women to be reckoned with. She put her foot down, slammed the door & made a new life for herself. But she was punished, by her mother, her society and her church. The Catholic church excommunicated her for leaving her abusive husband. Her husband....he finally walked away from her, never to see punishment in this lifetime.

My brother was about 9 when mom ran. Mom married a nice man, who took Brian on ski trips, camping, fishing & canoeing. He taught him how to fix cars and anything with a motor. Brian was safe. But he never healed for everything he witnessed.

A boy & his beloved dog

Brian with the "new" guy on his wedding day.

Brian, his freckles & his blue eyes.

At 15, his sister was born. I must have thrown him off greatly, because at 15 he became a drug addict. It started with a cigarette his friend offered him. Then a beer from the friend's father. Soon after..pot. 15, Fifteen.

Me & my brother who, on this day became my Godfather.

My parents tried everything, well everything you could do for an addict in the 70's & 80's. But in the end nothing helped. My brother traveled the world...selling drugs. He was a pusher, a pimp, a felon, a thief, a user. He was the guy who would sell drugs to your children. A brilliant mind wasted.

My exhausted mother & my "high" brother at Thanksgiving dinner.

He finally left our lives for good when I was about 10. I breathed a sign of relief. My mother just sighed. I cringed when I received his gifts to me. Cards that said "be good." Clothes, jewelry, flowers. The gifts came for my birthday or Christmas. My mother, never received a thing, not even a word from her son. I hated him because I knew what he was doing. He was slowly killing our mom.

Brother & sister

My mother was a strong, feisty, fun, kind, loyal women. She never showed weakness. She tried not to cry over Brian. The closest she got was when he was stabbed in the gut after a failed drug deal. He lay dying in a New York hospital. Mom cried, not because he nearly died, but because he healed & walked out to sell more drugs. He left her sitting by his hospital bed alone. The tears she swallowed soon settled over her heart. She never again allowed them to flow, so they festered in her breast till it rotted with cancer. Her left breast carved off her body was a reminder of how powerful a wounded heart can be. All that remained was twisted, black, burned flesh that she tended to day in and day out for months. Tending the hurt Brian had left her. Mom lived with her cancer for 5 years. I watched everything. I saw the flesh. I saw the infections & the rot she would get. I watched as her hair fell out, then her fingernails. I heard her vomit violently after chemo, only to apply fresh lipstick & march out the door & go to work. I listen to the years of hacking she did. An uncontrolled cough that would break her ribs. My brother remained silent. Knowing she was dying & never getting clean enough to care.

At 15...Fifteen... I buried my mom. At 15 my brother slithered back to attend her funeral. I hated him. I hated he was in our house. My father made him cut off all his stingy red hair. He took him to get his teeth clean. He handed me a wad of cash to take my stupid 30 year old brother shopping for respectable clothes. I watched as my brother twitched & fidgeted. He couldn't walk without looking behind him, waiting for someone to stab him in the back. At 15 I knew a jonesing drug addict when I saw one. I hated him. My mother was dead & I was hauling his pathetic ass around Crystal Point Mall. He said crap like "I'm clean. I went to rehab. I'm getting better." Liar. "I love you. I'm sorry I left you." Liar. "I'm sorry I never wrote mom, I love you, forgive me." Liar. He could barley try on shoes he was shaking so hard. He jumped every time a salesmen talked to him. Liar, I hate you.

At mom's funeral, my clean, suited brother stood by my dad's side. He wore a light pink shirt and a light colored suit. I refused to stand near Brian. I refused to be his sister. I had a friend say that he was cute. I told her "His nose cartilage has rotted away by all the blow he did. Oh yeah, thanks for coming to my moms funeral, so nice to see you."

Brain followed me everywhere. Outside to breath...Brian. Sitting on the steps...Brian. Bathroom...Brian. He creeped me out. I over heard my dad tell him "stop hovering around your sister. She doesn't trust you. If you bother her, I will kill you." I smiled at that last line. After the funeral my dad thought it would be fun to take a road trip to visit his sister in Minnesota. Grief makes people do weird things! I sat in the back of the car as Brian & his stepfather drove in silence...the whole way. One night at the hotel, I decided I needed to away from the men folk, so off to the pool I went. Swimming in the pool....Brian. Diving board...Brian. Ahhh hot tub....what the Hades?!....Brian. I bolted out of the hot tub & ran off to find a place to hide. Me, being oh so smart hid in the....sauna .........Brian. Brian in a bathing suit, awkward me in a bathing suit. Door shut...sauna. I felt the bile rise in my throat. He had me trapped. A drug addict had me trapped! I stayed calm as he sat next to me. I scooted away. He started to cry. He told me he knew he messed up. He knew I would never trust him. I asked him why he did it. Drugs. Leaving mom. He started to retell his story. "I watched my father beat my quite mother. I saw the parties, the drinking, the fights. I ran with my mother. I saw the blood splattered apartment my mother had rented. All of her clothes shredded, belongings broken, every window smashed & my bleeding father sprawled on the white carpet."

"It's still not an excuse, but it was too much." "I was too weak." "Mom...mom...mom suffered terribly. I saw it all. Somethings to horrible to repeat.""I'm so sorry.""I missed you.""You are my only family." Cold air rushed in as my dad slammed open the door. My dad, standing there in his short swim suit growled, "Get away from her...now" My brother towered over him as he walked out. My brother hide his tears from dad. My brother disappeared when we got home from our trip. He left saying he was going to get better. Make his life better for mom. But he knew, as we did, it was too late.

The awkward trio in MN. "Smile everyone! Mom's dead & you are standing in front of a lovely lighthouse. Ain't vacations fun?!"

His father called one day out of the blue. I knew immediately as my father said "John" with disdain & dripping with hate. My dads face never changed as John told him what happened. I didn't have to hear John to know. They found Brian alone, dead of a heroin overdose. All he had left of the $300 worth of clothes, shoes & toiletries my dad bought for him was a duffel bag, a pair of socks and a worn picture of me. A picture of me.

My dad & I didn't shed a tear. All my father could say was "at least he waited to die after your mother."

I don't remember when or where he died. I know I was still in high school. I continued my life just trying to survive my teen years. I didn't have time to think about a brother that deserted us. But all these years later I search for him. Sometimes I imagined he was alive...hiding somewhere from the drug lords that owned him. But I doubt a 5o something druggie is smart enough or healthy enough to survive this long.

When I joined the church I heard about how families can be together forever. I didn't want Brian to be apart of my family. All the agony he caused our mom....it caused me to hate him. I put the thought about doing his "work" into the back of my mind. I got married & moved on with my life. I forgot about Brian. Until one night my husband & I had a dream...each. It was of my brother, in white..... "please, I'm sorry." He actually looked happy. Dang nab it...now I had to find him! Besides, I realised, if I don't do it, no one will. I am his only family. I asked my Dad if he remembered Brian's death info. He didn't. So the search began.

Years ago we didn't have the Internet yet. I couldn't just pop on the computer & find all the info I needed. So I had to go the old fashion route of working with a genealogist and then writing 3 stated for his death records. My searches came up empty. But now, I got smart (I really don't know what took me so long!) I finally realised I could contact Social Security to have them search for his SS number & hopefully it will tell me when & where he died. So here I sit. Waiting for the paper to tell me his info.

I don't know if I really believe in "the work." It's a sweet but impossible, confusing thought. The best I can do is offer up this olive branch. Offer him a new life. Remeber him as a child. Think of him as a brother he wanted to be. Do the work & HOPE that in the end...it is true. And in the end I will see my mother and brother healed...together.

Teen angst

I have entered a new faze in my life....mother of a teenager. So far...a few hours into it, it has been going well. I'm not weepy or sad. I'm excited for my baby. I think I'm a little more excited for him then he is. He enters into this new world with hesitancy & a bit of fear. I, on the other hand embrace this change as exciting & thrilling. I am giddy for him...is that weird?

On Sunday I was trying to think of something symbolic for him. A little turning of age ritual for a boy turning into a teenager. I offered to get his ear pierced or get a tattoo...he promptly turned me down. So I settled for a picture scavenger hunt. For me a scavenger hunt is symbolic of a child turning into a teen. The game itself is childish. The lure of gifts is a selfish childish desire. Then there is the Thrill of the Hunt!! The actual hunt takes brain power & perseverance. A trait learned from experience & age.......ok, you do know I pulled that out of my butt. Sounded good for a second didn't it?!

For the scavenger hunt I will take pictures of hiding places. Each place will have a little treat. Markers (permanent markers...only a teen would get permanent markers! No more washables for him! ), Gum, Nerf bullets, candy. For the candy, I went to a little candy shop downtown. I picked 6 different candies & put 13 pieces of each candy in bags. The store owner got a good chuckle of me counting out 13 tiny little balls of mini midget jaw breakers. Stupids balls kept rolling off the scoop.

I then will take pictures of hiding places. (praise to the digital camera!) My neighbors sand box, undercarriage of the van, the school garden, the library. Oh, yes, I'm going to make this kid work for his treats! Hopefully he will be able to get thought the hunt in good time, because then it's off to dinner. At the end of dinner the waitress will hand him his last clue, a picture of home. A kitchen table with his gifts resting on it, a homemade chocolate cake.

My baby is 13. A true teenager. No longer a child, not an adult...but yet...he's a little of both. He stands on the line, teetering. Dear Lord, help me to keep him upright. Help me to steady him. Let's us all enjoy his ride together.

Awwwww crap...now I'm a little weepy, sheesh!