At Seventeen

The first time I met him, he was busily trying to get all up on my flower girl.

Ring Bearer, extraordinare
My scanner isn't working, shut up.

He lived with me when he was 8, and that's when we fell in love.

Really, I think pictures of pictures are obnoxious, too. Desperate times...

I lived with him when he was 14, and that's when I began to really learn about the person he was.

Ed and baby

He came to visit me when he was 15, and that's when I began to appreciate the person he was becoming.

Garden of the Gods, Ed and baby

Today he turns 17, and my little sweet baby nephew is almost gone.

Run baby, run

Some man is busily trying to take his place.  This is my last year before he can fight in a war, before he can get a credit card, before he can drink in Mexico, before he goes off to college to NOT HAVE SEX WITH GIRLS, ED.

I never thought I could love another human being as much as those three I made, but I love this kid.  Just as much as my own.  That child who shares not one genetic link to me means more to me than any word could convey.  Next year, I won't be able to lecture him on tattoos, I won't be the one he calls if he needs math help, I'll just be his silly ol' auntie that he tells his college friends stories about.  The one who can't hold her booze and makes his mom cry when they try to.

This year, he's still ours, though.  This year he's still a child, he's still our first born baby boy, he's still a GOD to my kids and he's still a pain in his mother's ass.  I have 364 days to tell him I love him and pinch his not so little anymore cheeks and then I, we, us, the Mr Lady women, we have to set him free into the world.  I'm not ready.  We're not ready.

This shit just happens way too fast.


What Was Surely Going Through Obama's Head Yesterday, As Told By The Greatest Moment I've Ever Witnessed in Sports

In 1992, a 49 year old golfer named Freddy Couples stood on the green of the 12th hole at Augusta and watched his ball roll off the green and down the embankment to the water hazard below.  That ball should have gone in the water; every other ball to ever roll down that hill, (I believe) in the history of Augusta, had gone in.  Physics demanded the ball roll in.

The ball didn't roll in.  It came to rest on the lip of the green, no more than an inch from the water and, probably, the end of Freddy's career.

Couples defies physics.

There is no logical reason the ball stayed in play.  It just shouldn't have stopped.  It couldn't have stopped.  The gathering crowds stood in awe, stared, and watched what should have been a double bogey turn into a par-3 and then Fred Couples' first Master's win.  After a life devoted to remembering it, he found his authentic swing and won the grandest award offered in his sport.

Shortly after the game was over, before he'd left the course, a local reporter grabbed him and asked him, "Fred, what will you remember most about this day?"  Freddy turned to glance over his shoulder to his wife, turned back to the reporter, gave a little wink to the camera and said one word.


If I Planned Presidential Inaugurations

I would have had someone read this poem, the same poem I have scribbled on scraps of paper and shoved into the back of each of my children's baby books, for one day far from now when I'm gone and they need strength.

By Audre Lorde, who keeps saving my life over and over again:

For Each of You

Be who you are and will be
learn to cherish
that boisterous Black Angel that drives you
up one day and down another
protecting the place where your power rises
running like hot blood
from the same source as your pain.

When you are hungry
learn to eat
whatever sustains you
until morning
but do not be misled by details
simply because you live them.

Do not let your head deny
your hands
any memory of what passes through them
nor your eyes     nor your heart
everything can be used
except what is wasteful
(you will need to remember this
when you are accused of destruction).
Even when they are dangerous
examine the heart of those machines
which you hate
before you discard them
but do not mourn their lack of power
lest you be condemned
to relive them.

If you never learn to hate
you will never be lonely
enough     to love easily
nor will you always be brave
although it does not grow any easier.

Do not pretend to convenient beliefs
even when they are righteous
you will never be able to defend your city
while shouting

Remember     our sun
is not the most noteworthy star
only the nearest.

Respect whatever pain you bring back
from your dreaming
but do not look for new gods
in the sea
nor in any part of a rainbow.

Each time you love
love as deeply
as if it were
only nothing is

Speak proudly to your children
where ever you may find them
tell them
you are the offspring of slaves
and your mother was
a princess
in darkness.

Your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy.
-President Barack Obama; Jan 20, 2009.

A Warm Gun

Today is my stupid blog's fourth birthday.  When I took her in for her Year Four Well-Blog Check-up, they told me she should be doing many of the following:

  • Using sentences with 5 or more words not including bygones, yo, gigglegiggle, tee hee or dawg.

  • Using pronouns (my blog is abstaining until marriage; it better not be using those things)

  • Beginning to understand cause and effect, such as, “If you write about your insanity, people will start hate blogs dedicated to you”.

  • Most words and sentences in posts are understood by others.  (Now that's just funny.)

  • Socializes with other blogs well.  (But not as funny as this one.)

  • Develops friendships independent of you, such as following new people on Twitter.

  • Expresses a wide range of emotions.  Takes medications for each.

  • May stay dry most nights.  MAY.

Um, yeah.  Whatever.  I've failed worse tests.

Liz found a meme I've never done before and tagged me for it.  Like aliens and the Templar Knights and chocolate cheesecake that actually tastes good, I wasn't sure that existed.  I'm supposed to tell you what makes me happy, and I'm only telling you four things, one for each year of this blog's life.  But I will tell you four things I have gone to great lengths to conceal from you on this blog. Because I had a little bit to drink tonight, that's why.

I do this on the condition that you will leave me a comment telling me who the hell you are and ONE thing that makes you happy.  Because all my blog wants for its birthday is to know who's reading her.  All of you, if you please.  It would make us very, very happy indeed.

  1. My life with the Thrill Kill Cult.

  2. Still a heathen
    Washing of the water
    Just like that, I was all saved and shit, yo.
    I am totally happy that I was raised as a Jehovah's Witness. There is a great deal of contention as to whether or not it actually qualifies as a cult, but until you are born into a group that isolates you completely from the world around you, brainwashes you with a bunch of jargon and some pretty heavy apocalyptic doomsday scenarios and then convinces you to give yourself up wholly, physically and mentally, your entire life, ambitions, dreams and visions of oral sex to said group, well, you don't really get to say what is or isn't a cult.  That's just the rules.

    So there you have it, the biggie, the ONE thing I never wanted any of you to know. The thing I certainly don't want Google to notice, so let's not mention it again, okay? I have enough trouble reconciling it within myself without every newly freed witness kid banging my blog doors down. (If you must mock me for it, refer to it as "Jay Dub", okay? Our Google overlords are watching.)

    But still, I can say without reservation that I am totally at peace with it, and oddly grateful for it. A lot of my friends are still really angry, or still really revolting from it, but in the end, the shit I was dealing with was so much worse than No Christmas and No Outside Friendships that my little sect of Christianity was actually able to do me some good, offer me some structure and sanity and a belief that it would get better. I can't say I would have made it without them.  And they taught me to study, to seek knowledge, to learn.  Learning so makes me happy.
  3. This picture make me happy.

  4. My mother, 1980 ish
    I love my mother. I will never repeat that in a public setting, ever, so don't try me, but I love her. I miss her so bad it hurts sometimes. The woman she is today is not that woman in the picture, and that's why I love it so. Because she was there, and I can still hold her in my hand whenever I choose.
  5. My Alice in Wonderland collection makes me very happy.

  6. alice in storageland
    It usually lives in a box in the basement and on the bad spot on the bookshelves where you can't see the books anymore, but I love it. Because it makes no sense. Because it's unlike me in every way, and still it is totally me. And because Alice was one Fucked. Up. Chick.
  7. This makes me the happiest of all.

  8. She's way more lethal than she looks in print.
    That is Our Lady of Perpetual Hors d'œuvres. You try growing up in a cult and see if you walk away without a penchant for irreverant Christian artifacts.

At Least It Wasn't Vogon

What happens in my house when the 3rd grade child says he's bored and he would like to read one of your books and can he read this one that's written by Homer Simpson?

Um, we don't have any books written by Homer Simpson.

Yes huh, right here.  It's called the Ode-whys-easy?

The Odyssey?  You want to read Homer's The Odyssey?


Hold on just a minute, okay?

(Emails the only person I know who's ever bothered to actually read that book)

(Gets no response)

(Takes matters into my own hands)

Sure, you can read it.  You can read anything on my shelf.  But first, get your coat.

Saved by the Library

And just like that, they had a brand new present and no one had to wrap their brains around some 8th century b.c. poem written in Ionic Greek.

*But now I kind of want to.

**Yes, the other kid has a huge hole in his pants.  He's 10; he makes his own fashion mistakes now.

***I'm fully aware I could have just thrown O Brother on.