tactfullyblunt

"Now you stab mommy"

That's what a man told his son. After he himself finished stabbing his wife, the man gave the knife to his son and said that. His son? TWO-YEARS-OLD.

A man takes his daughter on a plane ride. Straight into her grandma's house, killing himself and the daughter. She? EIGHT-YEARS-OLD [Grandma's ok though].

A man has some heartburn with his wife for reasons still unknown, but suspicions are that it's because he thought she was traveling to her job in Puerto Rico too often. What does he do? Dismembers her with their two kids in the house. FOUR- and SIX-YEARS-OLD.

What. The. Fuck. People?

What kind of a world are we living in where stuff like this happens? To KIDS!

It's not like this is the first time things like this have happened, nor is it the first time where I've been left agog with wonder at the human condition. Somehow it just seems that much more shocking if kids are involved, because I've heard variations of these stories involving other adults more times than I care to consider, and while it's not ok, the "wrongness" is dialed down a little.

Does it make it worse that these people did these things to their own children? Is it any better that things much worse than this are happening half a world away between adults who are completely unrelated to the children they are murdering, mutilating and discarding? When I start considering all of the angles, it boggles my mind. I'm feeling a little nauseated, actually.

....

Unrelated, but this morning I was turning into my gym, thinking happy thoughts, looking forward to spring when it occurred to me that I had no idea when the last time I called my mother was. I wondered how she was doing, and made a happy mental note to pick up the phone to call her today. Only a small blip on the radar was the thought that she's probably annoyed with me for not calling sooner. Oh, well, I thought, maybe we can make plans to do something together--I could use some sewing pointers.

And then it hit me that she has been dead over two years now. And then it hit me again that this is the first time I thought about that and didn't feel like I'd been punched in the gut. Of course I wasn't happy about it, but my thinking was actually, "Oh, well then, that explains why I've not spoken to her in a while" and then a mental laugh (and not a malicious one either).

And then? Then I realized that this was a new way for me to think of her--that while she was alive I would never have been happy about calling her. Nor would I have looked forward to making plans to do something with her. For that matter, I don't know if I'd have taken up sewing had she still been alive. Maybe, I don't know. Regardless, the thought of her put a smile on my face, a smile that she isn't alive to take away from me (as she did numerous times in life; sharing in another's happiness? not her strong suit).

I don't cotton to revisionist history, but I'm wondering if this is a sign that I can have a better relationship with her now that she's dead than I'd ever have had while she was alive?

the hostage negotiator

This one goes out to my family.

When I started writing this blog, I didn't make it public. It was for my thoughts only, and I shared it with a few select (two) people within the family because at the time I thought I was going to be writing about more lofty things--everyone has dreams of being better than they are, and I am no different. And, as far as the lofty part goes, I soon realized that what I had to say wasn't so much lofty as mundane. Some would say that when you write about the mundane well, it becomes elevated in a "God is in the details" kind of way. So far, that hasn't been my experience.

There came a point when I realized that the real reason I started writing was because I needed a place to vent. A lot has happened in my life in the last five years, and too often my way was to swallow it down like some bitter pill, make a few faces, and then move on. When I started writing about how I felt about what was really going on in my life, I was able to either see the humor in it, make peace with it, or decide to take action to change it. I can't begin to tell you how good that has been for me.

I decided to take the blog public when I was getting responses from other women saying they had very similar experiences and they got some support out of what I wrote. I am so happy that I did take it public in the wake of Mom's death because it has helped so many other people which has in turn also helped me grieve her loss in a "productive way".

In the last few weeks, several of you have been moved to share with me either directly or through other family members the hurt you feel about the things I have written directly referencing you. While I have never fabricated anything either about you or the way you interact with the world at large, I can see that holding a blinding mirror like that up to your face would probably be very painful. However, I cannot back down from what I wrote because it is the truth, and I don't take that lightly.

I don't know all of your reasons for feeling hurt and/or betrayed by my bluntness, but I'm going to take a stab at it here just so you can see I'm not all heartless: we've all been through a lot the last year, and as we are beginning to come back out of that, we are turning to one another for more support than we have ever done before. Stumbling across or being directed toward a site that points out the moments you fumbled, stuttered and failed as a human being really isn't what you need right now (or probably ever, for that matter). For hurting you, I am deeply sorry.

Still...if you took the time to read every single entry and not just continually return to read those that pertain to you alone, you will see that the bulk of what I write turns that same critical eye towards myself. I'm not entirely blind to the fact that, in many ways, I'm still trying to grow into the person I'd like to be one day. In short, many days I feel like the world's most colossal fuck-up, a weak-kneed human being, and someone obviously not benefiting from the gifts they have been given. I am no better than you in that respect and I know that.

On the flip side, I have also written things about each of you detailing the depth of my love for you. I know when you are hurt you can't see that, but at some point you should try going back and looking for those entries as well, because they are also my own personal truth. It hurts me that you choose to ignore those things in favor of focusing entirely on the negative, but given both how we were raised and the fact that I never censored my thoughts and feelings when I wrote the way I did/do when we're speaking directly, I can see how you find those entries a bit difficult to believe.

I'm not perfect and I don't pretend to be. I am well aware that each of you thinks I sit on some high throne meting out judgments and decrees on you while holding myself above reproach. I guess that's part of the "mysterious mantle" of being the oldest in a family where there is such a huge age gap between us. The fact is, I have never thought I was better than any of you--what I have thought/hoped/dreamed is just that by virtue of being older that I am "further along", whatever that means.

The real truth of what I think is this, and I hope that at some point you will be able to see it for the extended hand it is meant to be:

Sometimes the struggle of our growth into adulthood gets to me and I have to vent. (If you think I've been hard on you, you should know that I'm brutal with myself.)

None of us are one-dimensional characters--we all have many things going on in our lives that motivate us to do and say the things we do. I don't view you as one-dimensional, so please don't think of me that way either.

I AM NOT PERFECT. I never said I was. I am a fallible human being but I do my best to have compassion for other people and I treat their lives and needs with the same respect I would like to receive. However, disrespect me repeatedly and you need to understand I am not only going to bitch about it--I will expect you to continue treating me poorly, especially if you are treating others in the family poorly as well. Still, if you make a concerted effort to "make things right", I'm your quickest ally--I'm a softie at heart.

I love you all so much that often it hurts. We are all so different that it is entirely possible that we will never be close. I'm not ok with that and I never will be--but that doesn't mean I'm not going to keep breaking my own heart with the dream of that actually coming to fruition.

I wish this wasn't the legacy we've been left with but it is. I'm doing my damnedest to get past it all. I just can't do it alone.

ED NOTE: To the person who keeps googling to see if their name appears, you should refresh your browser and see that your first name has been removed. Already you're having to alter the search to find yourself, and soon you won't be able to find yourself in that entry at all. Consider that.

I've got a daypass, do you?

I have a confession to make. One that won't surprise too many of you as I've pretty well reneged on my intellectual snobbery credit courses recently. The fact is, I haven't had an active library card for at least six years. I snapped the last one in half (so much for plastic being more durable than paper) and never went to get a new one because I mistakenly got it into my head that I had an outstanding fine. I'm a cheap bastard and I buy generic foods, too.

As part of the new and improved Jen, today I got over myself, got up off my stinky, unshowered butt (the water main broke, people) and stormed off to the library. Apparently this was not so much because of my growth as a person, but because this is where all the day trippers are drawn to now that the Dunkin'Donuts down the street is closed for remodeling. Including me, there were about five of us out on a day pass in The Ville today.

Tyron, whose finger was perpetually circling the inside of his nose, was sitting at the card catalog. He was preparing the chute for a good snort which he would then use to properly grease his mustache. In greasing your facial hair, there is a process one must adhere to if one wants to be successful and it is as follows: Once you get a good snort, you must touch each side of your mustache three times a piece followed by three taps of the space under the nose. Then and only then are you allowed to snort again for the next series of goodies. If your nose starts to hurt, you can lick your finger before sticking it back up there, but you don't want to do that too often or else the person sitting next to you at the card catalog might start audibly gagging. You really don't want that person audibly gagging, because that will make you *very* anxious which is not good for proper mucus extraction. However, if you are lucky enough to be sitting next to a nervous, hollow-eyed, unshowered obvious day-tripper like yourself, you might chase her away fairly quickly.

I won't bore you with stories about The Underwear Hitcher, The Cheek Licker and Ms Don't-Come-Too-Close-I've-Got-Mace because what I bring to the table was pretty interesting as well.

There was a time period where I wasn't a blubberer. I like to think that I have pretty much made up for that in the last year by crying like a fool: at my wedding; at the Pieta in St Peter's Basilica; in Georgetown University Hospital hallways; in my parents' house; at my mother's funeral; at the doctor's office--and now at the library. I am telling you, if there were sound effects for how I felt, it would start with one of those cheesy little shattering window sounds from a 1984 Casio keyboard, quickly followed by Barber's Adagio for Strings and then by my internal voice saying, "JeebusChristmas, here we go again with the crying. For the love of MIKE! C'mon, it's time to go. I don't care if you don't wanna, we're out of here."

But, and here's where you have to imagine the whining in my voice, I can't even tell you how happy I was to be there. To have found so many books that I wanted to read, to have actually felt inspired by something, to have a sense that it just might be ok and that I might actually be doing something to create my own inspiration for chrissakes (!!), well I just can't tell you how overwhelming that can be for a whining worrywart like myself.

my sister, the sociopath

Here it is, in her own words people. It pissed my brother off so badly he had to send it to me. While I am dancing dangerously close to offending her by invading her privacy, something tells me that if I don't share this with some part of the general public, my job as the truth teller will be in jeopardy.

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WSD: i begged
WSD: for my life i begged
WSD: and cried a whole lot
WSD: I explained my life to the judge
WSD: one year min with a $1000 fine
WSD: my citation is worse than a DWI
WSD: (wasn't aware of that)
WSD: no bail, must do 6 months before a probatory hearing
WSD: the cop that gave me the citation that night helped defend me again
WSD: since i had no lawyer
WSD: the DA asked if i was compliant
WSD: then turned to me and goes "are you ok? you look like hell"
WSD: when he asked me I thought I finally had myself composed enough to negotiate
WSD: but when he asked me...I fell apart again
WSD: and said "I'm right in the middle of finals week, I havne't slept in 2 days, my mom is dying on me, I'm broke, I'm starving, and I was not aware I broke the law till this gentleman pulled me over that night when I was being the DD for my drunk friends for a work repair order because my headlight was out. Does that sound like its worth one year in jail?" The cop stepped in and said "she was not aware of the prexisting citation when I pulled her over that night. She was visibly distressed emotionally when I reminded her. She told me of her family situation that night and why she failed ot appear to contest the ticket in court. Since then she has stated that she has paid the ticket and no longer drives the vehicle." The DA asked me " do you have a valid license? and where is the car now" I said, "here is my valid license, I've paid my ticket and all the MVA fines. MY car is parked at my parents residence. I no longer have tags. I took them off because I cant afford the insurance right now." the Cop said again "I move to amend her charges Dan, she doesn't deserve this, the falling out with her family seemed to snowball this" and then when I stood up in court the DA walked me through the proceeding because when I was crying and taking a break from saying "this is the most stressed out I've ever been in my life" and trying to breathe, I told him I had no lawyer because I just learned the difference between 10 business days and 10 calendar days. I told him I didn't want to be in jail when the holidays came and went and I didn't want to be in jail to fail my classes and I didn't want to be there when mom dies...then the DA goes "I'll amend your charges because the deputy is pleading for you. That is rare once the court comes to trial Ms. Lockard you are aware of that" I said "change it to what? am I going to jail still?" He said "I will amend it to something of a lesser offense" I said "does that mean I'm going to jail still?" lol....I kept asking him...he wouldn't tell me
WSD: I was a wreck
WSD: everyone was going to jail that day, I looked around the room and everyone was all teary eyed
WSD: well everyone with citations
WSD: I went towards the end because my offense was the worst
WSD: sat through all the DUI and DWI cases
WSD: and then there was me...
WSD: Driving on a suspended license
WSD: felt really lonely in my own category
WSD: after my trial was heard I sat for my reciept that I had to pay...$12 bucks fine awith the 20$ court services fee
WSD: 35 bucks total
WSD: forgot what the other 3 bucks were for
WSD: I read the charge he amended it to
WSD: and it was just for "failure to wear seat belt"
WSD: heh
WSD: I said a prayer man and was so happy

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I'm happy that she didn't go to jail, but I'm so fucking sick of her goddamned manipulations. The "falling out with her family" was something she engineered, and using her mother's terminal situation really disgusts me.

I'm so disappointed in her I don't know what to say.

I feel like a quantity of vomitus

It's true, I do feel like I need to vomit. I'm hoping this will pass if I just get my blood sugar under control.

Things of note in the last 24 hours:

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I don't know the details yet, but The Prodigal has avoided incarceration again. I guess this is the 9-lives variation she inherited from my mother. I have my suspicions about how this went down, but I'm going to wait until I get confirmation before I share it here.

Just by reporting her melodrama I feel used.

-------

Georgetown has refused to take Mom because (drum roll) she's too sick. Instead, they finally discussed Hospice with my mother directly. Understandably she isn't taking it well, but she is being released to go home tomorrow, wherein she will have round the clock care from a nurse who will help her "transition". This is the PC way of saying "die" in the new millennium.

I am headed down there tomorrow to see her. I'm a little concerned about this because my aunt has been calling me every hour or so to guilt me for not coming sooner. Ok, she's not been guilting me the entire time, but she sneaks it in now and again.

"Are you coming down here tonight?"

"When are you planning on coming down again?"

"I'm not leaving to take any breaks, I don't care what you say. I'm here for a purpose and your Mommy needs me--I can't leave her now." (My 'Mommy'? What are we--five?)

That last crack was also said in a separate phone call to Annie. When we discussed it between ourselves, Annie volunteered first, "That made ME feel like real crap." I told her I was glad she felt that way because it hit me like a ton of bricks as well. I was instantly transported back to the summer when after three days of dealing with my mother I needed to leave (and start the 24 hour shared-shift/watch). It was emotionally, mentally and physically draining to deal with that for us, so to hear that we weren't giving 100% was painful.

In fairness to her, she made it plain at the beginning of the week that she needed to leave to go home this weekend so that she could start getting ready to spend Christmas with her grandkids. I told Annie that I suspected she was already anticipating the amount of guilt she was going to feel if/when Mom passes away and she isn't present for that "transition". I'm telling myself that she's just trying to put in more than what's called for so that when the inevitable happens she can know that she did what she needed to do to assuage some of that guilt.

Which really isn't any less than what the rest of us have already done, nor any more than what the rest of us will do in the coming weeks.

-------

I expect to have Santa's shopping done today.

I'm glad that we are all older now, because the shopping seems less painful than it could've been had there been tons of toys to buy. Still, there were a few times where I had to get a grip on myself so that I didn't burst into tears at the mall. The voice inside my head made me laugh: "C'mon, Jen, Jesus, could there be anything more pathetic than crying at the mall? Just think about the other poor schlubs who've already done that--do you want to join their masses? No, you don't, so just keep on truckin'. You're too good for that kind of mall-o-drama. Heh-heh-heh."

Smug bastard. I wish he'd just shut up sometimes.

inspired to take the plunge

Bill sent me to dooce.com today saying I needed to see what she'd written. Seems she's finally made the decision to take a little trip to what I lovingly call The Nut Bin. I can call it that because--ahem--I know whereof I speak.

Back in 1998, at the ripe old age of 27 and a half, I checked into the 5th Floor, psyche ward of Calvert Memorial Hospital for various reasons. Those of you who know how much the idea of marriage terrified me might think THAT was the most terrifying thing I've ever done. Not so, because at least in getting married I had hope and an underlying belief that the marriage would be great. In contrast, walking onto that ward was all about the possibility that I was maybe not going to be ok. Looking into the vacant eyes of three permanent, drooling, wheelchair bound patients was easily the scariest thing I've ever seen. Just making it to that floor, listening to the door closing behind me, and knowing that I was now stigmatized with the lable of MENTAL PATIENT for the rest of my life was enough to make me cry for 5 hours straight.

On the positive side, I learned so much from that experience that I can't say I'd do anything differently if I went back. I learned how to actually see what I was made of, that I was stronger than your average bear, and that taking medication for however long you have to take it is not a bad thing. I also got the most important lesson of my life: some people choose not to be happy. But some people make the choice to work hard at getting past the blockages to true happiness. In my opinion, if you have to work hard to be happy, you just value it even more when it comes.

My decision to share this might seem to be spurred on by her post, but I can assure you that I've been toying with the idea of writing about what happened to me there for about three years. I've just been wary of writing about it here, especially given how many people--including new family members--don't know that little tidbit about me. Some people see this sort of information as an explanation of my behavior, that I'm just nuts. Other people use it as a weapon. And still others feel like I'm just so mentally fragile that I'm not to be trusted with any serious information for fear of "upsetting" me.

I assure you, my decision to take the trip to TNB made me much stronger than the average person on the street, and a damn sight stronger than the people who think I'm going to break if the wind blows the wrong way.

Rock on, Dooce. You're in good company.

there are pianos falling all over the world right now, and they're all aimed at Lockards

For the record, the title of this post came straight from Bill and not from my brain pan. (I'm on day two of not being "on shift", and I'm beginning to feel more healthy. Which is right on time because I'm headed back to the hospital tomorrow night.) He said it in response to some new developments:

Cathy filed a sexual harrassment suit against a fairly sizeable group of young men going to her college on full scholarships. They were all expelled earlier last week. We are all awaiting the next go round, because the way this thing has been evolving, it's not over yet by a long shot.

Christi is still awaiting results from her spinal tap to know exactly what it is that she has. We've been unable to have contact with her for about 24 hours, because the only number she took with her was the phone number to my mother's room phone at GUH. THAT phone is broken.

Rob called this morning to tell me that his girl broke up with him. Over the phone. After a long, painful, protracted period where it was pretty obvious to everyone else what was coming. But not to Rob.

Dad told me today that GUH is officially releasing my mother to a nursing care facility sometime early next week. When I pushed him to find out if this facility was able to cater to her special needs (ie, her mental issues are out of control at this point and there is NO telling her not to try to get out of bed, even though she's fallen three times), he was vague and agitated. In his mind, she is getting better and my questioning him on any level where she is concerned is upsetting. He is in total denial about her condition, despite the fact that his death grip was the only thing keeping her from breaking her hip the other day. I wish I could put the blinders on with such tenacity.

My father and Annie are headed back to Ohio this weekend for her school. She hasn't packed yet and there are certainly some storm clouds brewing on that horizon. She does seem to be over her cold pretty well, though, so that's good.

I'm still trucking along. My contract was renewed for another month, so I don't have to worry about where money will be coming from. That was so lucky, I can't even believe it.

Today I walked around the house before leaving for work. I was thrilled to see that the Alyssum I'd planted for the wedding has FINALLY decided to start to grow and flower. And the geraniums I transplanted to our barren front flower beds also seem to be taking off. Most of the other beds seem to be growing English garden style since I've not been around to take care of them--except for the bed directly next to the bird feeder, which seems to be about to give up the ghost to the mold Catonsville grows so well. Overall, it was nice to see things growing so well. I had a nice, deep sigh over the fact that I'm doing pretty good at keeping things alive for someone who's never around.

I know it sounds strange, but with all of the not so great things happening to family members, I am feeling pretty lucky right now. It makes supporting them all a little easier, even if it is only a little bit.

At least I know I'm me and not them, and that's not a bad place to start.

maelstrom

Hm.

Having gotten several emails at the same time offering concern and support for my depressed state (for lack of a better way to paraphrase) after this morning's entry, I thought I'd offer a disclaimer to anyone who reads what I write:

After nearly a month of dealing with Mom's mercurial attitudes, I can't deny that it's taken its toll on me. It's hard to keep spending 24 hours at a time with a person, knowing that you're not going to get any restful sleep because you have to keep one eye on the bed next to you to keep them IN the bed instead of on the floor and also that you're going to have to take whatever abuse gets dished out in a pain/drug induced state they have no control over.

In answer to questions regarding my mental state: Yes, I am a bit depressed after having had to deal with her illness/abuse/shit for so long, but No, I don't think overall that I'm totally down on life.

I'm just plain out dog-tired, and I'm feeling pretty damn alone in the whole thing, despite the fact that other people have been regularly dealing with her as well. I know that it's also taken its toll on Annie and Christi--otherwise why would Christi be in the hospital and Annie have a bad cold? There's just no avoiding getting sick on some level when you're dealing with someone like my Mom for long periods of time, and while C & A have had a physical reaction, mine's been pretty emotional and mental (so far).

As far as being able to draw the line between her comments and the reality of who I am, of course I know she's full of it. But that doesn't stop it from hurting me on some level. Who in their right mind, after all, WANTS their mother to be calling them an asshole? She's not even getting the gender right--she should be calling me a bitch...

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make here is that I'm not packing my bags for a dirt nap any time soon. I've had plenty of practice in dealing with her cracks at my expense, and I can continue to handle anything she can dish out. She's had me in training for this emotional crap Olympics for a lifetime, and I'm going for the gold.

I'm just tired and I need a break, and being the soft place to fall for six other people is difficult.

The end.

at long last: flibbertigibbet

All this responsibility at such an early age made her a bitchy flibbertigibbet.--Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five

To the people who know intimate details about my life, I have a shocking revelation: I'd have to say, overall, that I was born lucky. Yes, I know it sounds strange, but at the ripe old age of 33 and some months, I can say that I really believe that.

Looking back, while I often got in trouble in elementary school for "spending too much time talking to [my] neighbors", I was an extremely introspective child. My father said the first time he saw me, I was lying in my hospital crib counting my fingers and toes while the other babies slept. "It was the strangest thing--I've never seen a baby so wide awake and aware of their surroundings. It was like you were taking inventory, making sure that everything you needed made it through ok." In over thirty years he has always ended the story by saying with a far-off look in his eye, "You were one baby who came into this world with their eyes wide open".

Arriving on the big blue marble wired for sound that way proved to be a mixed blessing: I learned before kindergarten that things at home weren't exactly the most nurturing and supportive, and sometimes you just have to make your own puppet shows to survive. I had some earnest discussions with myself as a child, the point of which I distinctly remember: "It's going to be ok. When you get big, you will be a better person than this. People will love you." Which, looking back, was pretty responsible parenting on my part.

With all that inate introspection, it's no big surprise that I had an angst-filled childhood and adolescence, most of which I successfully kept to myself. I spent the majority of my teens and early 20s not really liking myself and blaming my parents for all the messed up crap they fed me with my similac. One of my favorite fantasies from that time centered around the glorious day they would admit to the (many) mistakes they made raising me, tell me that they lucked out by having such a well-adjusted child in the first place, and confess that they were powerless to stop the spiral into insanity which they insisted upon calling "parenting". (PS I'm still waiting for this fantasy to come true!)

I don't know when it started to happen, but somewhere along the way I began shriving myself of the anger towards my parents and actually started forgiving them. My mother was only 24 when she had me, and very immature for her age. My father was 32, and not much better. No, they weren't the best parents in the world. Yes, they were incredibly lucky to have me as their first child. But through an adult's eyes, I can now see how horribly mismatched a couple they were and how completely unprepared for the rigors of child-rearing they remain. Like they say in baseball, if you can't come together to form a cohesive team, you're sure as hell not going to the show.

I feel sorry for them, knowing how much their energies must have been sapped when it came to caring for one child, let alone the next four. Sure, they had me there, helping raise, protect and defend all of us, but there was only so much I could take on, being a child myself. And while I don't dislike my siblings (it's always nice to have someone in the trenches with you), it is because of one of these additional spawn that I am writing this longwinded diatribe.

This sibling {X} is in her early 20s right now, and much more of a bleater than I was, even at my worst. In fact, I'd go so far as to say she is a bigger bleater than all four of her siblings combined. Were you to ask her, she'd tell you that she's this way because none of the rest of us had the balls to tell Mom and Dad "THE TRUTH" (having had my share of knock-down, drag out, hair-pulling, skin-scratching, biting, bone-snapping fights with Mom, I'd beg to differ, but that's a story for another day). "THE TRUTH" includes vicious verbal attacks, continual emotional manipulation, and far-fetched dramatic free-for-alls showcasing how completely incapable of behaving like an adult she is.

Sure, I have been angry with my parents for not setting better boundaries for her as she was growing up. I have been angry with them for getting even lazier in their parenting as they have aged. I have even been angry with them for encouraging this behavior in her AD NAUSEUM. Honestly, there have been several times I have been so p.o.ed at my parents that I couldn't talk to them for a few weeks, but most of my anger has shifted itself toward X, and other likeminded children of her generation (whom I find disturbingly numerous). My patience for her is short because I cannot abide people who hold themselves completely blameless for their own misfortune and who use their "pain" as a platform upon which to destroy the happiness of others.

It's true that my experiences as a child exposed me to some things I'd rather not have had to deal with and hardened some areas that should've remained soft. But the fact of the matter is--and I say this with no vitriol--despite some sketchy odds, the powers that be sent me into this world with enough sense to parent myself into a fairly well-adjusted adult who takes responsibility for the part I play in my own life. I feel very lucky that "everything I needed made it through ok", and that I've had the experiences I have. Without all of the crap, I wouldn't have grown into the woman I am, bad attitude and all.

From what she's shown so far, I don't know that X has it in her to do the same.

christopher walken says "it was...a misssssstake"

After drinks back at the house, and some jokes from Sara and Shelly, we all stayed up until 3am laughing and talking about Sara's toy catalog. For that happiness I am desperately thankful.

Let me just say from the beginning that nothing my life has thrown me in the way of parties prepared me for Saturday night. And yet, nothing was really all that different about it from any other party that's been held in my "honor".

I really don't know how to get out how I feel about the weekend, especially knowing that some people who read this were either there, decided not to come, or couldn't have known any more than I did the way it would go. The dark side of conflicted doesn't even begin to scratch the surface.

It was a painfully small group (my three sisters, mother, Sara and Shelly), which left me feeling my worth just about like sandpaper on a third-degree sunburn. I'm telling myself that maybe it was because it was a last minute thing, and that people would obviously have felt more like coming if they'd had six months to prepare themselves for the event.

While I am thankful that Sara took on the awkward responsibility that she didn't need to take on, I can't say the evening went the way she'd expected either. About fifteen minutes into arriving at Lucille's in the Power Plant Live area, I had to ask her to turn around to take my mother, who was feeling about like a .5 on a scale of 1-10, home. About that time, Shelly showed up, which turned out to be a good thing, because after we got through the dinner, I requested that she just take me home. Trying to entertain a very worldly 30something and three very NOT 20somethings was more than I cared to take on by myself. I just didn't have it in me, for reasons that are too personal to mention.

I can't say that I was surprised that it turned out that way. What I can say is that I felt it deep in my bones, like an old friend that I really don't care to know any more. Events throughout the weekend just kept ramming it home to me that there are things that must have a certain order to them, and these things are immutable in Life du Jen.

Still, I had some major realizations while trying to hold it all together this weekend, and I hope that I can grow from them.

One of them directly affects next Saturday: The twins are perpetually late. They must be corraled, against their will, at the church at least an hour before the event. Otherwise, Christi will be walking up the aisle halfway through the ceremony, with that ditzy expression on her face saying, "oooohhh, you meant I actually had to be on time? I didn't know I was expected to actually give a crap about anyone else besides myself today...."