Day 11 (music: Odd Hours)

Day 11: Something people seem to compliment me the most on.

Most of my compliments tend to be on specific abilities - I'm a good writer, a rock star in the kitchen, good with my kids, etc. More general compliments range from my hair and eyes to my tattoos to my creativity at coming up with insults to my taste in music. My cousin Ross suggested writing this entry about my vocabulary and knowing when to use it. I think I'm going to generalize that a little more and go with intelligence.

My dad gets a lot of credit for me being smart. He had me reading the newspaper by the time I was three. He let me read every book I could get my hands on - I read Lonesome Dove in third grade, in its entirety, only pausing once to ask Dad what a whore was (wish I could remember his answer, lol) - and thoroughly encouraged my love of reading. I read the encyclopedias we had at home. I read the backs of cereal boxes. I'd read the labels on soaps and shampoos and shaving creams while I was using the toilet.

Sadly, I didn't manage to apply what I knew about protective coloration, and thus helped make life hell for myself during grade school, like I blogged about before. As a result, by the time I hit puberty (early, which really didn't help me any), I hated being smart. I hated that I got A's without even trying at that school. I just wanted to be like everyone else, just another anonymous face in the crowd.

Concord helped me lighten up on myself a little bit. It was okay to be smart there, and my love of reading and writing was definitely encouraged. Something else too - none of my standard public school teachers had understood why I had such a hard time with math when I was so good at English. Math was the only subject I struggled with. At Concord, they didn't question it or imply that I was faking it like they did at HSMS. They just helped. Of course, I had to take beginner's algebra four years in a row to finally pass it, but I passed it, and passed geometry on my first try. That school was great for me. It let me shine, any way that I wanted to. I did drama and loved it. I wrote papers so long that a maximum word limit was actually imposed for me at one point. They let me be a smart ass and use all my vocabulary words (twenty) in two or three very long but grammatically correct compound sentences. When I hit high school, got moody and depressed, and decided to be a dark star rather than a bright one, they let me do that too. The phrase "expressing him/herself" gets a bad rap a lot of the time, because of crappy parents that use it as an excuse not to discipline their children. I'm saying it needs to be taken back. Concord let me - indeed, it let every student - express myself/ourselves in whatever way we could.

Now that I'm pushing 30, I've developed protective coloring. I can adapt my vocabulary to my surroundings quite easily, and I will admit to taking a devilish glee in allowing people to underestimate me at first, then smoking them with my intelligence, just for the reaction.

So yeah, that's all I've got.

Day 10 (music: The Dissension)

Day 10: Someone I need to let go, or wish I didn't know.

UPDATED: The balance on the debt has been squared and this person hopefully will refrain from attempting to contact me or further attempts to smear my character.

I'm pretty good at cutting toxic people out of my life, so that excludes the first part of this topic. Anyone I need to let go has already been excised from my life. So that leaves someone I wish I didn't know. And I know just who that is.

I went on a mini-rant earlier today on Facebook. Here's the text, copied and pasted:

"You judgmental chickenshit little jerk. Next time you want to run your mouth around town about me about shit that isn't true just to make yourself look better, to one of MY friends, have the huevos to speak it to my face when I see you in town and not pretend like you're all engrossed in your phone call. Kiss my ass...oh wait, it's been so long for you you probably wouldn't have the vaguest idea of how to pucker. Here's a protip - purse your lips like you're sucking the life out of another "friendship" like the one you pretended we had while you ripped me off. And don't think for one second that I'm gonna let your comment about one of my brothers slide. That shit still pisses me off. Get off your ass and make things right, you whiny lying little bitch."

Here's the filled-in details. I've blogged before about this guy. Since then, it's come to my attention from a few unnamed sources that he's been saying that he loaned me all that change, not that it's payment on a two year old debt. Seriously? So insecure that  he couldn't admit that he not only owed me money, but paid in pennies? And to run around telling that to people I'm friends with too? Honestly, I'd be laughing if I wasn't so irritated. Give it a year, and I will be.

Anyway, that back history in mind, I head up to the grocery store today, fairly neutral mood, you know, keeping my mind off the fact that it's Sunday and Sundays will always suck for me, just looking to get stuff to make tacos for dinner and check the price on cut flowers for my next visit to the cemetery. I went by the gas station afterward for smokes and was talking to my favorite cashier there, Devin. We were talking tattoos, I was talking Nigel up, had my phone out to show him some examples of Ni's work, when douchebag walks in. We locked eyes. He rushed out real quick after he paid. It got me pissed off all over again.

I wish I'd never met him. I don't see where his presence has added anything to my life, save reinforcing my already virulent loathing of hypocrites and people who claim to be Christian while spouting hate rhetoric and lying. And honestly, that didn't need reinforcing. Had it not been for him, I wouldn't be sitting here steaming about how he still owes me well over $100, how I was dumb enough to let myself get suckered into believing his hyperbole, spend Jeremy's entire vacation working for what looks like for free now, etc. I wouldn't have to realize the fact that there is one hypocritical lying sack of shit in my acquaintance who will gladly tell people all about how his god sends gays to hell. His life tends to balance more towards "fail" than "win." And I really think karma's starting to do its thing - his store's out of business, he's working at the dollar store now, and he couldn't even stand and try to explain why he's spouting lies to my friends when I saw him today. What's the matter, dude? Scared of a little five foot tall girl? Or scared of what I'll say? Do you have any idea how close I was to making you look like an ass at the gas station? The only thing that stopped my mouth before it could blurt out everything I've posted about you is that I'm an adult now, and I'd hate for poor Devin to feel massively uncomfortable because that girl who's always in there buying Camel Menthols just went off on another customer like a crazy person.

I hope your car breaks down. I hope you get evicted. I hope when you die you get a great lecture from whatever entity is waiting for you, one that's all about how your place in hell or heaven or wherever is determined by your character and not by whom you've been fucking.

Every asshole I've ever met and had in my life has taught me something. I try to take the bad shit and make a lesson out of it, let it somehow shape my character in a good way. But you? You're a void. There's nothing minutely redeeming about you. You've done nothing to make me a better person. Every time I remember your offhanded comment about how my brother was going to hell for being gay, I see red, I wish you emotional suffering ten times worse than what my family and Scotty's friends have gone through since we lost him. I'd punch you in the face if you weren't smaller than me - it just doesn't seem fair to hit someone who's shorter than I am. I fucking hate moral high horses, but in this case I think mine's legs are a little longer than yours.

And like I said earlier, kiss my ass.

Day 9 (music: Silverchair - Neon Ballroom)

Day 9: Somebody you didn't want to let go, but just drifted.

My friend Buddy. This is a no-brainer.

Budz and I met back in eighth grade. He was one of my mom's students - dyslexic. He had this gorgeous singing voice that made me want to shut up everyone else in choir so I could listen. Listening to him sing Brahms' Lullaby gave me chills.

I think I've mentioned before about how I had my core group of friends during high school. Two of them were guys - my friend J down in Texas. The other was Buddy. My parents liked him. He'd come over after school for Mom and I to help him with his homework. After a couple years, he even started spending the night at our house.

When my brother Trav was in a coma in the hospital following a car accident, Buddy told me to page him every day with any updates, no matter what. And to page him if I needed anything. He was at the hospital visiting Trav every day. He'd scrape one of his car keys on the soul of little brother's foot, point at Trav's toes curling, and say "Look, I think they curled even more!" He came out, spent the night, and brought his guitar one of the nights both my parents spent at the hospital, and played and sang for me. We even sang together - "Hotel California" if I remember correctly - as his last ditch effort to get my mind off the fact that my brother was in PICU in a coma and had been for days.

We both fell into the underage party scene during what would have been our junior and senior years of high school. One party comes to mind in particular. I had had way too much to drink, ran for the bathroom, started puking, and passed out with my head in the toilet. Budz came to check on me, saw me there, carried me to a bedroom, and sat there all night holding me just to make sure no one tried to mess with me while I was unconscious.

We lost track of each other around the time I hit 18. He'd pop up at random every six months or so, and it would be like we'd just seen each other the other day. And then, a four year silence.

When I was 23, he called me out of the blue one day, said he needed to talk to me. I lit a cigarette and settled in for a good long chat. What I heard made me feel both extremely upset and extremely flattered at the same time, if you can imagine that dichotomy.

Budz had had some issues with depression. He finally couldn't handle it any more. He began a suicide attempt - I didn't inquire as to the method, but judging from what he said, it was either cuts or pills - and then stopped and called 911. Why?

"I'd done it, I was ready to be done with all this shit. Life sucked. And then, all of a sudden, I saw you there, standing in front of me, telling me if I did this you were gonna be so pissed you'd kick my ass. It was so clear - like you were actually there."

He went on to tell me that he had a "thing" for me, and to inquire if I would want to go out on a date sometime. He's a friend, a good one. I had to tell him the truth, that I was in love with Jeremy, couldn't date anyone else, didn't want to go on a date out of friendship and sympathy's sake and hurt him worse in the long run. He accepted it well, but told me, "you know no matter what, you'll always be my girl, my little sweetheart, right?"

Coming from anyone else, I would have either verbally or physically laid them out for calling me "little sweetheart." But Budz...there was no condescension present. It's just how he talks. I agreed. I'll always love him, though in a big brother way. And I miss him.

He turned up again a few months later, after Jeremy and I had been together for three months, and about two weeks after I'd found out I was pregnant with Matthew. He stopped by the house and visited, and then we went out for coffee the next day. After that....

I've seen him a few times, all when he worked at Subway.

I miss him. He was my friend at a time when I was massively insecure and didn't have very many friends. He was my adopted big brother. We used to tell people we were twins born eleven months apart. He was always there for me, no matter what kind of existential bullshit teenage crap ego drama I was going through.

Buddy, I know you're not reading this. But I still love you. You're my big brother, and you always will be.

Day 8 (music: Harry Nilssen - The Point!)

Day 8: Someone who has made your life hell, or treated you like shit.

As a general rule, anyone who makes my life hell gets cut out of it pretty quick. However, in the interests of truth and in the spirit of this challenge, time to rip open another old scar. Here goes....


This guy I worked with at City Park. Let's call him E. Douchebag.

He seemed pretty cool when I hired in. Complimented me on my clear handwriting and accuracy on labeling everything. Also made a point out of hitting on me and using some of the cheesiest pick up lines known to mankind. Example:
me: (working on some sort of prep. Well-known at that point that there is no man in my life at that moment in time. Also well known to anyone with half a brain that I've got a massive crush on Jeremy)
E: So, uh, let me know if you ever feel the fire...
me: huh wha??
E: Cuz I always wanted to be a fireman...
me: (eyebrow raised in slight confusion)
E: And put the fire out, heh heh.
me: (shudder)

Was he joking? Maybe. I don't know. It didn't seem like it. And in any case, he obviously isn't, wasn't, and would never be my type. I'm not a big fan of super scrawny dudes that tend to look like praying mantises when they're working, just not my thing. I'm also not a fan of afros on white guys. But that's just me. And a major turn off for me is condescension. Even when he was trying to be nice, he was still condescending.

I got sick of the condescension and the godawful attempts at flirting, the sob stories about how he was "deprived," and called his bluff. Not the most political move, but a classic one for me: I offered to talk to his wife and see what the trouble was, why he felt the need to hit on girls at work. Then I left for the day. I'd been home for about five minutes when the sous chef called and started bitching me out for "picking on E." What. the. hell. Really?

Things went downhill after that. They got even worse when I started dating Jeremy. Then I got pregnant with Matthew and he turned into mega-dick. Bullying, yelling, telling me I "smelled pregnant" - dude, I smell like mint-basil shampoo and deodorant, and quit sniffing me, you creeper. Telling me I needed to not run around the kitchen because I would "give that baby brain damage." Making me haul fifty pound bags of water-softener salt down the basement stairs. Telling me to do something one way, then when I did it, change his mind on how he wanted it done and ask me if I was "fucking stupid or something." Screw you, I did it your way in the first place.

It got worse while I was pregnant with Jonah. He'd come in in a foul mood and throw the whole kitchen off, especially after he made kitchen manager. I was eight or nine months along when he ordered me to clean up the raspberry coulis that had spilled in the dessert reach-in. I was pulling the racks out so I could give it a good scrub when he looked in, looked me dead in the eyes, and said "Yeah, it looks like an abortion in there."

After I came back from recovering from my c-section and tubal ligation, I'd put in repeatedly for a transfer back from prep and occasional line to full-time line. Especially for the lunch line position that opened every summer. I never got it. Come to find out he blocked me repeatedly. Chef felt bad for me, so he made sure that I only had to do prep and occasional line and not help the dishwashers unless I wanted to.

E was pissy one night, shortly after he MADE ME WORK ON JONAH'S FIRST BIRTHDAY RAGE RAGE RAGE, and decided to pull the dishwasher out of the tank and pull me off prep and punish me by making me do dishes. Why? There were supposed to be two guys in the tank that night because we were going to be busy, and one of them didn't show. My buddy Steve was working salads that night. We broke $8000 in sales. I was swamped. I was so pissed though that I kept up. Steve still kept trying to come over and help me when he had time, but every time, E would yell at him to get back on the line. I was livid by the end of the night. Never mind the fact that he'd gone against what Chef wanted. Never mind the condescension, the verbal abuse, the fact that he made me haul salt while I was pregnant - I had to get a note from my obstetrician to make him stop with that, after I started bleeding from the heavy lifting, and he made a point of calling the doctor's office in front of me to make sure it was a real note - he screwed up big this time. I was over it. I was already working at Ill-Lusion. I didn't need Shitty Park.

I went in the next morning and told Chef I quit. When he asked why, I didn't pull any punches. "Because E's a dick and I can't handle the way he treats me."

I had multiple sitdowns with managers while I was employed there. Jeremy tried setting the douchenozzle straight. Nothing worked. I had to walk. He had me so stressed I was grinding my teeth in my sleep. And how dare he say shit about my kids being born brain-damaged? It was a well-known fact that he never wanted kids, and he'd loudly talk about how people who chose to have children were stupid around me and the other pregnant employees.

Fuck him.

Day 7 (music: The Dublin City Ramblers)

Day 7: Someone who has made my life worth living.

There's a few people. My support system - my parents, Jeremy, Betina, my sister, Trav, Diddy...the people I feel comfortable texting no matter what kind of crazy shit goes down. My kids, because they're smart, loving, happy, hyper little boys that seem to know exactly when I'm down and need a hug or a kiss, and because watching them grow and learn is just way too cool. Makes me want to be around longer, so I can watch them do the same with their kids.

Sorry, this is another short entry...Michael Collins is on, and even though it's not St. Patrick's Day anymore, thanks to the blessing of birth I'm Irish all year round. :D Much love, and don't drink the green beer. Try Jameson's.

Day 6 (music: McDermott's 2 Hours vs. the Levellers)

Day 6: Something I hope I never have to do

Call me superstitious, but I won't go into great lengths on this one. I don't want to draw any bad luck, and I don't even like speaking of these things, so I'll just make a list.

*stay in a homeless shelter
*see my kids in the hospital
*bury my children
*lose another sibling
*go deaf
*become braindead

Sorry for the short post. That's all for tonight.

Day 5 (music: P!nk)

Day 5: Something I hope to do in my life.


This one's a no-brainer. There's a few answers to this.

I hope to see my children and their children graduate from college. Especially because I didn't go, and while I don't think I would have done things any differently if I went back in time, I want my boys to have a better life. No public assistance, higher earning potential right off the bat, etc.

And, I hope to be a sous chef in a high-end restaurant. Somewhere between Sage and Le Bernadin, quality-wise.

Why not an executive chef or chef de cuisine? Easy.

I don't mind having some responsibility on the job. I've trained several people over the course of my career thus far, and it's fun, provided they aren't giving me attitude for being a small, young-looking female, and provided they aren't being deliberately dense or slow in order to make me do all the work (you'd be surprised how many people pull that one). I can make a game plan, I'm great at delegating tasks, etc. But, I'm also being realistic. Most places of the caliber I want to work at will not have a boss chef without a culinary degree, and most of them prefer some sort of classic European training. I have neither. I have a steady hand, decent knife skills and speed, focus like a laser, loyalty to my kitchen, and a big heart which I can also harden when absolutely necessary. I can come up with ideas for specials and such, but a whole menu? Probably not. At least not at this point in the game, and to be honest, cooks start getting slow and physically burnt-out once they hit their 40's. The heart is there but the physical strain wears your body down. I'm close to 29. I've only been doing this since I was 18, 16 if you want to count the deli. So, not even fifteen years in. I have very little sensation in my fingertips (as discussed in a prior post). I have back issues at times - the muscles that run along the right side of my spine are more heavily developed than the ones on the left, which causes some back pain when I need to exert both of them. Also, my spine is curved a little more than natural toward my lower back, but not enough to be scoliosis. Throw in the severely flat feet and that's a recipe for a lower back ache. I have ruptured veins on the sides of my feet and the backs of my calves. I have enough burn and knife scars that I've had a few different doctors try to put me on antidepressants, thinking that I was self-mutilating. (Note: My current doctor worked back of the house restaurant jobs - meaning cooks, dishwashers, porters, etc - while he was in college, so when he saw my arms, in particular one scar running partially down my forearm from a hot saute pan, and my hands, he checked my file again and said, "Oh, a cook, huh?" and proceeded to tell me about the night he was allowed to fill in on grill. Great guy. Awesome doctor. I would have loved him for that alone, lol.)

With that in mind, the other reason I'd rather be a sous chef is to stay closer to the heart of what it is that drew me to this crazy business in the first place: the cooking. Saute or grill, pantry, apps, desserts, even expediting or garnishing. As long as I have something to do with those plates before they go out the door, I'll feel happy. Food is my art. I'm not much of a dancer, I can't draw or paint or sculpt, and you really don't want to hear me sing a capella (although if there's music to sing along with I'm all right), and I don't play any instruments anymore, but I can plate. I can draw your pretty, intricate designs with a toothpick, dabbing miniscule droplets of raspberry coulis onto a backdrop of creme anglaise, pulling the pick through to create hearts or Victorian-looking swirls and curlicues, even something resembling lace if I have the free time. That's my way of creating beauty, and it's a little more precious to me because I know it won't end up in a museum on display. I make it, I survey it with a critical eye, I place it on the pass gently - and then it's whisked onto a tray and carried out to you, the customer, where it will be devoured. And whether you realize that food presented in an aesthetically-pleasing manner actually tastes better (you eat with the eyes first), or whether you don't buy it, it's true.

At heart, I'm a cook. Give me a place on the line, my knives, and access to the coffee pot when I have time. That's all I want. That's all it takes to make me come home satisfied with my day's work.

Day 4 (music: The Dissociatives)

Day 4: Something I have to forgive someone else for.

Need to pick a good one, because sadly, I do tend to hold a grudge, however, in my defense, I will say that it takes a lot to push me to the grudge-holding point.

That being said, I really should forgive Rob for not hiring me for that job at Sage. I have a really hard time not taking it personally, like I'm trying not to do. It's just hard. We're close to broke right now, which I really freaking hate, I'm job-hunting, which I also hate, and after him telling me things like "I will teach you everything I know [regarding cooking in a fine-dining establishment]," and "I really hope you get the full-time job here...You're a good person who deserves a break and I'd like to be the one to give it to you," and being so fast to fill out the application once it appeared online....

I understand that that's the nature of the industry I've chosen. I understand that the dude he hired was probably more qualified than me, even though I worked there twice and busted my freakin' ass while I was there, perfect attendance, even volunteered to work extra hours and put in 7 days straight during Hell Week.

What really burns my ass about it is that he TOLD me REPEATEDLY that he would stay in touch, that he'd let me know how the interviews were going. And I found out the position had been filled from my friend four days after the fact. Strikes me as being slightly cowardly, IMO. I can safely say I would never do that to someone.

Will I get over it? Yes. Do I miss it there? Yes. Good money for doing what I love? Of course I miss it. Does this add to my trust issues? Um, yeah. Just a little. Is there a reason in the grand scheme of things? Oh, most likely, I think I even know what it is. But we'll see. Right now I have to focus on getting another job so I can have some positive cash flow. Hopefully the one at the Grain Train - I have a couple friends who work there and it's healthy food. So we'll see.

Day 3 (music: The Clash)

Day 3: Something I have to forgive myself for.

I could be real glib with this and say "every mistake I've ever made," but I think that that would be a cop-out. This requires some thought, and I've been putting it off for a half hour now - chatted a little on Facebook, changed the way this blog looks. Time to bear down.

Secretly, I've felt extremely guilty about not being more into the idea of the whole stay-home mom thing. I've given it several shots - two maternity leaves, three layoffs...honestly, I suck at it.

When Matthew was still small and I was still getting used to this sea change in my life, I was enamored with the idea of being a stay-home mom. How wonderful to be there every single moment of my son's day! I could watch every single new development!

I like to say I was a stereotypical "new mom," but here's the thing. I was an extremely paranoid new mom. I called poison control once because I was scared I'd overdosed Matthew on Mylicon by giving him his second dose 2 minutes early. I felt panicky and tight-throated every time someone else held him. The nightmares I had were ridiculous, and ones I can still picture clearly today. The first time I left him with a non family sitter to go to work, I sobbed all the way to Charlevoix and actually had to pull over a couple times. So I would say that that goes a little beyond "stereotypical."

I got pregnant with Jonah when Matthew was 6 1/2 months old. Yes, the boys are 16 months apart. (I went 17 days overdue with Jonah.) I worked right up until nine days before I had him. Because of the c-section and some complications while I was healing, I had to take two months off rather than six weeks. By the time Jonah came along, I was much more relaxed with the whole parenting a newborn/infant thing, and during the last week of leave, I realized something:

I wanted to go back to work.

I did not want to be home every minute of every day.

I love my boys, fiercely, intensely, deeply. I would kill anyone who hurt them maliciously. I'm their mother, I carried them in my body, I nursed them, I labored and delivered them. Why didn't I want to be around them 24/7?

I took a good, long, hard look at the situation. I was getting stir-crazy. I craved adult companionship, responsibilities limited to my job alone, talk that wasn't "oh good job, yay!" and constant positivism. I knew I was a better mom when I worked - I brought money into the household, I had the emotional kick of knowing I was helping provide for our family, and I got a break every once in a while.

Still, that instinctive gut part of me hated me for that. It hated the fact that I could even look at the facts distanced from all emotion. That I could crunch numbers and not automatically be swayed by my kids' faces. That I could be selfish enough to admit that yes, I needed to be out of the house for so many hours every week or I was going to go insane.

It made me feel...defective. Like less of a mom, somehow.

This is something I've never talked about before - the feeling like I was less of  a mom for working. And for a while I tried assuaging the gut-reaction guilt by buying the kids toys or clothes or books with every single paycheck. It's something I'm still working through.

I need to forgive myself for needing a break from my children four or five days a week. Because I'm a better mom for it, and isn't that the important thing?

Day 2 (music of choice: Clutch)

Day 2: Something I love about myself

Shit, this one's hard too. And not in a conceited, "precious little bitch" (all-time new favorite Gordon Ramsay quote) way, either. Believe me, I'm not flipping my hair and saying "like, omigod, there's just like so much to like about me." There are a few fundamental things I do love about myself. I have a job interview tomorrow, and I don't want to be up super late writing a novel like I was last night. So that being said, here goes.

I love the fact that I've let tragedy and joy shape me as a person without any one particular experience being that defining facet of who I am. Like my facebook, Twitter, and Google profiles state, "I'm a mother, daughter, lover, friend, and ally." I'm a liberal, because I believe in things like gay marriage, my own reproductive rights, that it isn't necessary and in many cases even undesirable to marry the father (or mother) of your children. The only thing I fake about myself is my confident and cocky attitude as it regards to me alone. The rest of it - that's me. I'm not afraid to speak my mind. I'll listen to your arguments as long as you'll listen to mine, as long as you're not trying to shove your beliefs down my throat. And as long as you don't try to condemn people to hell - who the fuck do you think you are? You aren't any kind of god. You tell me someone's going to hell for anything love-related, be it homosexuality, or "living in sin," or being born out of wedlock, and I'm walking away.

I love the way that I overcame many of my body esteem issues after having Matthew. I quit hating everything about me physically after the ordeal my body went through gestating and delivering him. I quit hating my stocky body because if I'd been bone thin he would have snapped me in half. I quit hating my dark hair and eyes after I saw how beautiful they were on my son.

I love that I can put my iPhone's mp3 player on random and it will cycle from Pink to Eminem to Clutch to the Dissociatives to the Dr. Horrible soundtrack to Dashboard Confessional to the Misfits. I'll listen to any music except new country and classical. I love that I'm a reader - I have my dad to thank for that, for having me reading by the age of 2 1/2, for using the newspaper rather than Dr. Seuss books.

I love that I have so much love in my life, that despite the heartbreaks I've suffered, that I'm still capable of giving and receiving love and loyalty.

I love that I'm creative, intelligent, and strong.

I think that's about it.

Day 1 (music of choice: Ninja High School)

Day 1: Something I hate about myself.

Wow. I usually spend so much time trying to remind myself of all the things I love about myself in order to keep that good ol' self-esteem up that this topic is going to be interesting. Time to let the demons loose.

I have the concept in my head...how do I phrase it?

Oh yeah. Here it is.


I hate that every time I've made the decision to truly give my loyalty to a job, I've gotten screwed in one way or another. Usually emotionally.

Yes, this is the nature of the restaurant industry. Yes, I should be tough. I am, most days.

There have been a few jobs that I loved dearly. Truly loved. I gave my heart to the company, gave it my loyalty, spent precious time at home, where you should check your job at the door, doing research and pondering and practicing and trying to get better.

Sage. Yeah, I've stated ad nauseum how much I loved working there. Guess what? They rejected me. Apparently (this is my inference), I was good enough to pitch in over the summer and during hell week and after the one guy got fired, but just not good enough to keep around. Despite the chef telling me he'd teach me everything he knew, that I was a "good person who deserved a break," that he'd "like to be the one to give you [me] that break," and that he really hoped I got the job. In the end, he hired someone else.
Sage is a damn good restaurant. The food is awesome. It was a trip while it lasted. I miss working there. It's the nature of the beast to get beat out by someone better, and I imagine that that's what happened. But after all the sweet things the chef said to me, the way he kept telling me to keep in touch, a damn email from him would have been nice. I love Pepe for caring enough about me to pop my little bubble. He's an amazing friend and a good person to have in your corner, and he has some of the best jokes in the world. But yeah, it still hurts. Probably will for a while.

So in a very long-winded way, that's what I hate about myself the most. That I care too much about certain jobs/workplaces when I really should know by now that I'll just end up incinerated.

30 Days of Truth

I'm going to try this out. I'm not promising an entry every day. But I'll do my best to do all 30 entries. Here's the list:

Day 01 Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11  Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12  Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13  A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17  A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21  (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.

Starting at the top, in five or ten minutes. (need to go grab my e-cigarette, some water, and cue up some music)

Here Goes

I've been sitting and staring at the screen tonight and having trouble trying to figure out what to post.

Insomnia's a bitch. PMS is a bitch. The two of them together...oh God.

I was up till 6 am last night. Jeremy's a snorer. I am on occasion, but he is every night. It's not his fault - he had his face caved in by brass knuckles years ago, and as a result, he can't handle really spicy foods on a regular basis (messes with his sinuses), and he snores. Both the boys snore too. Most of the time I can sleep regardless, but one effect of PMS with me is that I have a very hard time falling asleep. So I pulled a clean blanket out of the dryer (love doing laundry, hate folding it), laid down on the couch, and tried to fall asleep. I finally succeeded, only to wake up at 9 am wondering why I only had one arm. I looked, and the other arm was there, but completely numb due to the fact that Jonah had gotten up at some point and crawled up next to me. Mom instincts kicked in while I was sleeping, and 3/4 of his 30-odd lbs was supported by my fully outstretched arm. The arm with nerve damage. I scooted him fully back onto the couch and tried to fall back asleep. At 10 am, I got 18 Twitter notifications, all heralded by my iPhone's least annoying text alert - the train whistle. I managed to doze back off again. Jeremy woke up shortly thereafter and sent me back to bed. I slept for a few more hours.

I got up, had some coffee, got dressed, cuddled the kids, had more coffee, then went to the cemetery to meet Joe (not J from Texas, and not Scotty-love's ex, but one of his best friends and a hell of an artist) so I could visit Scotty. It was cold, windy, gray, appropriate. I'm glad Joe was thinking ahead and brought a blanket to sit on. I had one in the back of the van, but I wouldn't have remembered it till I'd gotten to the site.

Scotty's way far away from the main gate. We hiked there. We sat on the blanket at the foot of the grave and talked about Scotty. I can't remember what I said, but I said something about Scotty and all of a sudden, I was surrounded in warmth. And let me remind you, it was freezing here. I had on two sweatshirts, a tee shirt, jeans, socks, and my Chucks, and I'd been shivering until that moment. I want to think it was a hug, like maybe he heard me and agreed with me. I hope so.

I hugged Joe when we left. He seems like a sweet kid, and I wish I had gotten to know him under different circumstances. For some reason, Scotty wanted to keep him to himself. I don't know why. I'm thinking about digging out the yarn left over from Scotty's Christmas scarf from 2009 and making Joe a similar one. Heart to heart, I think he'd appreciate the meaning behind the gesture.

I picked Diddy up from school, took him home, bought more smokes, then headed home. Then had to head out again shortly after for stuff for tacos. Then again after dinner for Benadryl because I'd forgotten it. Then when I got home, the PMS monster swallowed me whole.

I'm trying to keep it in check and remind myself that no one is entitled to anything in this world, but there's so much that I'm angry about. I'm angry that this area sucks - for every point you could give me saying it's a great place, I could match you with a negative one. Remember, I've spent the majority of my life here, I know it a hell of a lot better than a lot of people. I'm angry that I'm filled with questions that I don't have answers for. I'm angry at everyone who's ever let down or hurt any one of the people I love, and yes, on that list of piss-off my name is included. I'm not perfect. I try to learn from my mistakes and to not repeat them, which is more than most people do, so bite me if you don't like it. I'm angry that people can be so hateful. I'm angry at every arrogant asshole that can't pull their heads out of their own butt cracks and open their eyes and try to see through them with someone else's point of view. I'm angry for a moment every time I see something whiny about something stupid online, so I've been - and granted this may be unhealthy psychologically, but again, see my above statement of "bite me if you don't like it" - looking up stuff about Michigan ghost towns and shipwrecks and lighthouses. I've always been into certain history topics, and I've had a thing about lighthouses for some reason since I was about 4 months pregnant with Matthew, and there are a few ghost towns I'd love to check out, for the remnants of the old buildings. I'd love to go check out Sheldrake up in the UP, for example.  Anyway, it keeps me off sites like FMyLife. I've wanted to smack everyone on there for the past 12 days. I don't want to fuel this anger, so I'm staying off it.

I've got the start of a poem kicking around in the back of my head. I haven't written anything but recipes, status updates, tweets, and Facebook notes for a long time, so we'll see if it actually turns out. If it does, I'll post it here. If not, you'll never hear about it again.

I guess that's about all I've got for tonight. Hopefully I can come up with something better tomorrow.

Tell your loved ones you love them, every chance you get. And if you get pissed at them, try seeing it through their eyes before you react. They might be wrong, but you might be too.

<3

Today so far

I haven't cried. It's been a decent day, more or less.

My awesome Valentine's day gift from Jeremy arrived via FedEx this afternoon. Here's a pic:

Those are our birthstones, and it's custom engraved with our names. Silver (I'm allergic to gold), and my birthstone actually changes colors from smoky gray to greenish to purple, depending on the angle and lighting. Kinda like me. Huh. Anyway, it's the perfect size and I totally love it. It was a nice thing and went a bit toward brightening up my day.

Still haven't heard back from the casino. I don't know if Rob's still interviewing people or not. I've got a game plan in my head if I don't get that job - I want the hell out of Emmet County. I don't know where to move to, for sure - I'd need to actually get Jeremy to sit and discuss it with me instead of him just going "oh, you'll get the job." Nothing's guaranteed in this life except the fact that it will end, and I'm just one of those people who want to have multiple options fully mapped out. It's an insecurity thing.

Here's the deal. Sage is my dream job. I love working there, but I can never seem to stay on long enough as seasonal to qualify for unemployment. If I get the position I applied for, fantastic. Believe me, I'll be stoked. I'll just need to start looking around for a bigger house in this area.

If I don't get it...there's really not much holding me to this county. There's a shortage of options job-wise in my career field. And I seriously suck at retail. I've tried it. Multiple times.

I have a few friends in Traverse City. Liberal area, good sized town, lots of restaurants I could cook out. Housing costs about the same. Ni and Lopp and Mat and Bee live down there, and it would be nice to have the group back together again. I miss those days. But then again, it wouldn't be the same. We've all grown up so much and come so far, and I think that little sliver of idealism in me would be disappointed that we weren't hanging out every day like we did back in '06.

Flint's another option. Well, Genesee County, rather. Flint area but not within city limits. Jeremy's got so much family down there, and Sherry would be able to see the boys so much easier if we were closer. There's a boatload of different restaurant options - the French Laundry in Fenton springs to mind - and housing is so much cheaper, while wages for someone with my experience remain about the same. Plus, since Jeremy's now a work-from-home dad, we won't have to worry about the childcare. The area's definitely more culturally diverse - that's the understatement of the year.

I've got a lot of great memories of P-town and Emmet County. But I've also got a lot of shitty ones. At times I feel like this place has chewed me up, spit me out, rinse and repeat. I guess it used to be a great place to raise kids, back in the day, but things have changed. Minor in possession charges are so freaking common because, the sad truth is that if you're awkward, not sports material, and your parents aren't rich...THERE'S NOTHING FOR YOU TO DO AS A TEEN. We used to sneak into the alley behind the old theater (now gone) to smoke and make out and drink. We'd hide in bushes down at the waterfront and drink wine coolers or beers that had been smuggled out of our parents' kitchens. Little one-shot bottles that we'd gotten someone older to buy for us from the Four Corner's Market on Mitchell and Division (also gone, now Plath's Smoked Meats). We'd run around and do stupid shit like this because there isn't anything like a rec center or a decent skate park (at least not when I was in high school, and I should have been class of 2000). In the summer, you can swim, tan, go to the beach, but in the winter? Takes money for skis or snowboards. Ice skating's fun, until your ankles give out on you, and in Northern Michigan, there's a period of time where it's cold as hell, and rainy, before the winter sports start up.

I don't want that for my kids. If I'm working at Sage, I'll have money to enroll them in soccer, their dad can do Boy Scouts with them if he decides that's what he wants to do. But if not....

I'm used to struggling. I've had to fight to get to where I am now, and I expect to be fighting for a while. That's life. Some people get everything handed to them, some people struggle. Due in part to my personality, the way I look (not the way I was born looking, I mean the short hair and the nose ring, etc - the way I'm comfortable looking), the career path I've taken, and other multiple choices along my path that have led me to where and who and what I am now, I'm one of those that has had to struggle. Experience shapes outlook, and while I certainly haven't had the roughest life, I've struggled more than enough to get to where I am today - which is good, but not where I want to stop.

I want to keep blogging, about food, food I create and food I make under the tutelage of a chef - a good chef, one who has passion and creativity and fire, all the things that I have to offer, and one who can recognize that in me. Chef Rob certainly meets all those things, but whether I'm to end up at Sage is as yet unknown.

I don't want my kids to have to struggle. I don't want them staying on Medicaid because that's the only option and the only way I can get them to the doctor and dentist. I certainly don't want to hand them everything on a silver platter, I want them to know that anything worth having is worth working for, but I want them to know the taste of good grass fed beef, free range chicken, the kinds of food I can't afford to buy. I don't want them to be mocked for wearing hand me downs. I'm not going to drop crazy money on brand name clothes they'll outgrow in a minute, but I want them to have a few brand name things. Does that make sense? I'm not going to outfit them in Calvin Klein, but I wouldn't mind getting them Converse All-Stars. As an example.

There's a lot of fear here too. I'm not ashamed to admit that. I'm scared that if I stay in Northern MI, and I don't get on at Sage, I'm going to end up flipping burgers somewhere for minimum wage, we'll be stuck in a permanent rut of debt and falling behind and going back on food stamps and only catching up bills at tax time only to fall behind again a month later, the phone getting shut off, the gas getting shut off, help from DHS....it's soul killing. When you have pride, and you have to go to DHS to get money to get your electricity turned back on, it kills you a little on the inside.

If I don't get on at Sage, I think a town with more job options and lower housing costs would not only help us stay out of debt, help me give these two boys everything and every damn opportunity I want to give them, but ironically, would also let me take them to see my parents more often. More money = safer vehicle and more gas money for more trips.

That's the rational reason. The irrational one? I hear Scotty telling me "have an adventure. Every day."

So there's a lot to think about, and I'm working my way through it. It hinges so much on the casino right now. If I don't get on, and if Jeremy's amenable to moving, the next step will be picking up some job to pay the bills and slaving away at it whether I hate it or not, and socking away money to help fund a move.

If he doesn't want to move...I don't know. I really don't.

Because without that job, I can't see much point in sticking around in a town that doesn't want me.

"Life's Only Life With You In This Song"

"Life's only life with you in this song." - Flogging Molly
"The sun is gone, but I have a light." - Nirvana
"That last kiss I'll cherish, until we meet again. Time makes it harder, I wish I could remember. But I'll keep your memory, you'll visit me in my sleep. My darlin',  who knew?" - Pink

There's so many more quotes I could post.

It's been nine days since my brother Scotty was taken from us. I'm not going to say "taken by the Lord" or "gone to his reward" or anything like that, for reasons I'll illustrate in a moment. I'm coming out of the shock phase. I'm angry, I hurt. I don't cry every time I see his picture anymore - maybe once out of every three times. I get a boulder in my throat every day when his Facebook account automatically posts his horoscope to my news feed, but, it's not making me lose it completely. I'm crying at random, but I'm coming to terms with it. I think. I don't know.

It would have been difficult no matter which sibling I lost, since obviously the stupid fucking universe (there's the anger) saw fit to subtract another member of our family for whatever stupid reason. It hurt when we lost Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Cheryl. Terribly. The thing is, though, that they had all been sick for a while. Grandma battled Alzheimer's for years before it took her. Grandpa just got sick with one thing after another. Aunt Cheryl had lymphoma. She rallied after my dad's heroic donation of stem cells, but it came back. I guess what I'm trying to say is that, while it was horrible and sad, there was more advance warning, I suppose.

And yeah, I just re-read what I've typed so far, and it sounds horribly selfish to me, but I am going to try not to care. I'm so far out to sea on how to cope with this, I'm attempting to blog through my grief, and all I can do is write what I know and what's in my heart. So feel free to click away. I'm sorry if this comes off badly. That being said....

Scotty's loss hit me in a way that Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Cheryl's did not. It was so sudden. I heard he was in the hospital at 9 pm Saturday, and he was gone at 3 pm Sunday. He'd had stomach flu, and a headache for almost a week, which he posted about on Facebook, but no cancer or anything like that. He was such a vibrant guy. I've said this so many times to so many people, but he was literally my sunshine. He automatically saw the ideal version of who you were, everything you'd be in a perfect world, and somehow without putting you on a pedestal, that's just who you were to him. He came into our lives at a time when I was in a very dark place and just brightened it up, and I love him for that (yes, love - that is something that will never be put into the past tense) just as I love him for his love of us all, for his seeing so much more than any other guy his age would, for his open arms and heart and smile and oh shit, I really didn't want to start crying while I was writing this, but here I go.

I've had trouble with depression since I was fairly young - pre-puberty. I had a rough start and a shitty run with a shitty public school that made me literally hate everything about myself. Things got a little bit better when Concord opened in 1994 and I transferred there, but you can't automatically undo the damage of years and years of what I privately refer to as societal abuse. I was on a few different antidepressants, I tried my luck with self medication through poetry, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, and talks with the few people I called friends. It was so hard for me not to believe that everyone was laughing at me behind my back. I was convinced that it was all one giant set-up - it had happened to me before. I left P-town and moved to the UP, and strangely, that helped a little bit. I dropped a lot of the angry teenager fat, grew my hair out, and learned how to fake confidence. I took a lot of the steps towards who I am today.

I came back home to P-town. Emmet County has some sort of weird magnetic pull over me - no matter how many times or how far I run, it always pulls me back. I dropped out of high school. I went to work in food service, further shaping me as an adult. That underlying paranoia was still there though. Always there.

I wonder if you, reading this, can understand that. I didn't come into the world loathing myself, my dark hair, my thick build, hazel eyes, round butt, small chest. I was a pretty confident little kid, up until my own personal hell began when I was 8 and did not let up. Four years might not seem like a long time, but the amount of damage it can do on a kid that age is fierce. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise. It's why I try to treat kids with as much respect as possible. I was smart - maybe too smart - and I always related better to adults. To this day, most of my friends are older than me. And to this day, I tend to back the losing team, because I was on it for so long. "The hero for the lost cause," like Green Day says. How long to undo four years, minus summer breaks, of daily torment at the hands of so-called peers? I don't know. I'm still clocking it.

I went back to school to get my diploma, still working food service. I also worked as a parapro at Concord, trying to figure out exactly what I wanted to do with my life. And that year was when Scotty came into our lives.

I've stated before how he drew me out, how it took me longer to warm up to him - and God, I'm still angry with myself for that, the missed opportunity, the fact that we could have been close for an extra month. But maybe me laying out my soul here can explain that a little better, and maybe by writing it out I can quit cursing myself for it.

I'll always be thankful for the time we had together. I just wish it could have been more. I don't give a shit about DNA or adoption papers or anything like that. He was my brother. As much as Travis is my brother. Who cares who gave birth to you? It's what is in your heart that counts, and he called me sister. That's all I need.


It's been hell. It's going to be hell for a lot longer, I expect. But at the same time, what I learned from Scotty has made it easier.

He stood by me, no matter how bad I fucked up. He helped me to know that I could actually let people in, no matter how much it freaked me out to do so, and while some of them might not be worth it, I could always learn from it, and there would also be people who were worth it.

He got me to shed my external armor of giant wide leg pants, yellow work boots, and mens' XL shirts, and start wearing jeans that fit and shirts that fit too, sneakers and such. He got me to look around at the world instead of always looking inward, and he was a master at getting me out of my own head.

I've pulled inside myself pretty hard since last Sunday. I couldn't help it. I felt like someone had carved out my heart and tried to feed it to me. My kids were freaked out. They couldn't understand why Mommy kept crying. Matthew wouldn't get more than six feet away from me, kept petting my head, and Jonah wouldn't leave my lap. I couldn't leave the house. I had people texting me and Facebooking me to see if I was okay - thank you Betina, Lopp, and Pepe - and I replied through this fucking haze of burnt smoggy pain. I wanted to try to comfort everyone else who loved him, and there were so many people who did, but I just did not have it in me. Nor did I want to be comforted. I just wanted to be left alone with my pain, but at the same time I so greatly appreciated everyone who cared enough to reach out. Sound conflicted? Sorry, that's just the best I could explain it.

I'm not the only one who's lost someone so dear when they were so young. I know that intellectually, and maybe someday that fact will help, but the cold hard truth is that when it happens to you, it feels like you're the only one.

So now, I'm angry. I'm angry that he wasn't back here in Petoskey. I'm angry that he had a headache for so many days and no one made him go into the ER. The autopsy results aren't back yet, so who's to say if it would have helped? But again, who's to say it wouldn't have. I'm angry that he's gone. I still want to fight something, anything. I can't really believe in any kind of God right now. If God is love like everyone keeps saying, and if God wants his message of love spread, then he's a fucking dumbass dipshit for taking someone who spread more love in 24 years than most of his so-called messengers do in a normal lifetime. If God is love, Scotty was the embodiment of that, and now he's gone, and it's not fucking fair. I want to find all those jerks from Westboro Baptist Church and rip their faces from their skulls. I want to find every gay-basher and stomp the shit out of them in my purple Doc Martens. The irrational part of me really just wants to make someone completely hateful hurt as bad as I do. But I know that Scotty wouldn't have wanted that, and so I won't. I'll do what he wanted for me. I'll take care of my little family, and keep in touch better with my bigger family. And I'll keep writing, because these outpourings of what may seem like melodramatic grief are helping to keep me sane, to keep me together. And I'll try to be happy again. I've started laughing again over the past few days, and I've sang a little.

As far as the faith thing, maybe it will resolve, and maybe I won't. I'm not a Christian. I'm not a Catholic. I wear this St. Bridget's medallion as a reminder of my Irish heritage, not for any sort of religious belief. I created my own belief system out of bits and pieces of what felt right, what my heart said, stole concepts like karma and such. I'd dearly love to believe in reincarnation right now. I believe that dreams can give warnings about things that are soon to happen, that they can send messages from your subconscious that you're too preoccupied to pick up otherwise, and that under certain circumstances, they can allow your soon to be departed loved ones to say goodbye. I believe in ghosts - I've seen them. And I believe in the concept of guardian angels. I know Grandpa and Matt and Corey are keeping an eye on me when they can. I draw a lot of my beliefs from the Odawa way of  life, just because that's what I grew up around and what I was exposed to most. I smoke a cigarette when I pray because my prayers are usually directed toward an indistinct force that guides the universe, and the smoke can carry my words with it. I believe that love is a fearsome and wonderful force, capable of miracles, and capable of great destruction at the same time. And I used to believe that everyone's life followed a pattern laid out for them at birth, and that when they were having "good luck," they were just following along with that pattern. There's patterns in everything, if you look close enough.

So will this crisis of faith resolve itself? I don't know. Scotty's death will never make sense to me. Even if these autopsy reports turn up some underlying condition, the overall thing is that it will never make sense. People have had cancer and been told they were terminal, and still survived and managed to go into remission and live for a while. A story in my family is that my aunt's husband was given six months to live when I was six months old, due to leukemia. He's still going strong - he actually outlived my aunt. I could cite hundreds of other examples, but I'm not going to. The point is, if the universe made any sense, if there were any compassion in it, Scotty would still be here. The end.

I'm so very fucking lucky. I've got the hopes of getting my dream job. I've got my health. I've got a lot of people who love me and whom I love in return, and they're the rope I'm clutching to help draw me back out of this black stormy sea of depression. It's treacherous. It's warm, and it's comfortable, because I spent so much of my life there. But I can't go back. I can't do it. I have these two little boys, who most definitely are not angels, but who are wonderful, happy loving little guys, and I can't let my depression scar them. I won't. I've always been good at fighting for other people, and now I guess I'm going to have to fight for myself, so that I don't go under the third time. And like I said, it's lightening up a bit. I'm starting to rally. I can hear him in my head, cheering me on, which makes it hurt worse, but hurt less at the same time, if you can understand that. I can't.


I have the necklace I was planning to give him as a belated Christmas gift when he came home for a visit in the spring. His dear friend Joe is taking me to see him either Thursday or Friday. I'll take the necklace with me. I'll tell him how much I love him again. And maybe it will help make this a little easier and a little less crippling. Or not. Either way, I'll survive.

But god, does it fucking hurt.