I Need My Own Personal Stonehenge

Perhaps it's the weather, the change in seasons, or the phase of the moon, but everyone in my life seems to be a bit, well, depressed.  We're all somewhat overwhelmed yet surprisingly nonplussed about it.  I thought maybe it was just me, or perhaps the planets were aligned in a bizarre pattern (something I don't ever think about until I can't find a reason for a puzzling situation).  I guess I need a couple of Druids and some really big rocks (and let's go ahead and throw in the Salisbury Plain 'cause I sure as hell would rather be there than here right now). Perhaps then, I will be able to find the cause of this rift in emotions.

Think about this for a second... Imagine being there right next to one of those enormous rocks (yes, I know it is no longer allowed.  That's why I said "imagine.")  Put your hand on the chilly, bumpy surface of the stone next to you.  The sun is about to come up and you are going to witness it rise above the Heel Stone in the distance and remarkably align itself with the center of the structure where you are now standing.

Can't be depressed watching that, can you?  It's a spiritual moment... a personal moment.  Yet, you are sharing it with others.  A bit like our modern day going to church except, at least for me, church is not as spiritual, nor as breathtaking, nor as communal.  I think spiritually, modern day man (for the most part) has forgotten how to be "moved."  Oh, sure, we're moved occasionally... but on a daily, weekly, even monthly basis? We are over stimulated by the digital world, underfed emotionally in our relationships, and all without a Stonehenge to gather and get back to the basics of life. How do we get there without giving up all that we as humans have acquired through the ages?  Or, is it a trade off?

Hot Water Heater 1: Checkbook -850

Hot Water Heater

Hot Water Heater age 13 passed away peacefully at home on Wednesday, February 18, 2009. Heater was known throughout the Harris home as a fun loving tower of warmth and hard work. He supplied hot water to all faucets in the home and was generous in serving Dishwasher and Washing Machine as well. Many guests to the Harris home found that Heater was far too hot and often referred to him as an overachiever. This fueled Heater's work ethic even more, providing hot water even after Troll One Harris would take one of his infamous hour long showers. Heater is survived by his owners Tony Harris and Stacie Harris; and his trolls,Troll One, Troll Two and Troll 3. Funeral services will be arranged by Waste Management and visitation will be held at the White Goods Pile at the City Dump. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made to the Harris House from Hell Fund.

One of those MEAN Mommy Days

There are some days when I absolutely, 100 %, totally, and completely HATE being a wife and mother. For all of you out there that are gasping in shock and disgust I say "Get over it!" and "I am just sayin' what every mom feels but most don't say." I am hoping that someone out there feels like I do...or maybe I AM some kind of monster.  

I have good kids...really good kids.  I am lucky and blessed that they are healthy and happy.  I feel unbelievably guilty because there are so many people that can't have kids or have sick children. When days like this arrive, I know that this is not who I am but a passing feeling; that a lot of this is my illness speaking (depression) and that I have good reason to be overwhelmed and ready to escape.  That is logical Stacie speaking.  The not-so-logical Stacie will continue to snap at her family all day, tear herself apart for doing so, be somewhat VERY cranky with her hovering worried husband who wants to "fix it", and think of fantastic ways of escaping alone to some exotic destination preferably Mediterranean (but I'll take my dear friend's kitchen table across the street).

I am sick of doing housework, laundry, keeping up with toddler, grocery shopping, keeping up with pets that seem to have every effing illness in the world, paying the bills, running every freakin' errand imaginable, picking up Troll Two from school and all that that involves (signing agendas, reviewing Wednesday folders, fussing because she didn't have her violin for class for the 3rd time), homeschooling Troll One, maintaining the car, worrying about the house that is  falling down around my ears, keeping my artist husband on track (sometimes he needs a little push to get him to the drawing table), PICKING UP EVERYBODY ELSE'S CRAP CONSTANTLY... wait, I need to repeat that one, PICKING UP EVERYBODY ELSE'S CRAP CONSTANTLY... and the list goes on and on and on and on.   And the most frustrating thing is that I'm not doing one thing on said list well.

 I, YOURS TRULY, NUMERO UNO am EXHAUSTED, DONE, THROUGH...at least right now.  I can't remember the last time I was totally alone in my house...I can't remember the last time I was totally alone ANYWHERE.  And they, as in the group of aliens I live with, want to know "What's wrong?" and "Why are you so bitchy and assey, MOMMY...Oh and MOM ?I don't have a uniform for tomorrow?" No, they aren't allowed to cuss but that's the jist.  In my mind's eye I am throwing things... like vases, dishes, the cat.  In my mind's eye I am grabbing my keys, my purse, and walking my tired ass outta this house and driving... somewhere... anywhere that doesn't involve anything.

Okay, so I've said all of the things I shouldn't.  And I know that tomorrow or the next day hopefully, I will be in love with my life once again... well, at least "in like" with it again.

Well, better go.  Here comes hovering husband again... Where's that coat hanger???

Some Things "I'll think about tomorrow."

I, for the most part, do not find myself able to relate to Scarlet O'Hara in any way except when she says,"I'll think about that tomorrow."  Sometimes, though, tomorrow comes with a slap in the face.  Oblivion is the tightly built nest secure in a tree amongst three limbs and Reality is the unexpected spring storm that blows it clear across the street to the neighbor's yard. Reality came home to roost today by way of telephone.  

Mom says that Dad's stress test showed that he has had at some point a heart attack.

Doctor says that, while the heart did receive damage, it is receiving blood and working fine.

Stacie says What do you mean my parents won't live forever?

I'll think about that tomorrow...

"Hel-LO God! It's Me, the Mother of a Toddler"

Hey All!  Just taking a break from the storytellin'.  I am quite open to criticism so please do alert me if you think it's crap, needs improvement, etc.  I welcome the input.

On to more pressing matters. The mothers' curse has officially been fulfilled so all of you out there yet to bear children are off the hook.  The curse has come down on me 100 fold with little Troll #3. She is 17 months old and while I know it's not uncommon for a toddler's vocabulary to consist of one word ("NO!"), I have NEVER had a child that has a "look."  I am 38 years old and have EARNED my "look."  "The look" is notorious for all who know me....BUT this little package o' love has developed her own little "look" in less than a year and a half.  Those pretty little brown eyes squint ever so slightly and the brow furrows ever so gently and yet nothing is said. Well there is no reason to say anything, is there?  That "look" says it all!  It says, "I have not yet begun to make your life miserable."  It says, "You are nothing but a plaything, Mother."  It says, "Yes, well, let's see how you sleep later tonight, shall we?"

... sigh... Don't get me wrong.  She is beautiful.  She is funny.  She is smart and happy.  But the child has a set her own standard of living and by God she will have it!  Take for instance her latest word- "Lo."  Now for clarification, a "Lo" is a phone as in "Hel-LO."  God forbid you or I or Jesus Himself should speak on a LO in her presence and not allow her to say "LO" as well, after which she says "Bye bye!" and hangs up the phone. ( In all fairness, it does keep my anytime minutes in check.)  In order to quell her need for my cell phone, I bought her a play cell phone of her own.  Evidently, she is looking for something with a touchscreen because Fisher-Price isn't cutting it.

So, you can see my circumstance.  I thought I was fearful with my first troll.  I thought I was cautious with my second.  With this one, I am neither.  I am going for damage control and I'm starting by never letting her see my credit cards...

Thanks for letting me rant...and thanks for reading my story too.

Streak-O-Lean

Part 5

Lipstick and mascara smeared May's little face. She had kicked off her heels and plopped down on the damp grass. Segments of over-sprayed hair flopped in the breeze as she brushed away stray leaves on her mama's grave. Tears thick with makeup fell on her pink skirt.

"I know you said he'd do this Mama. You said he was up to no good. You said he'd screw anything with a pair of tits and you were right. I'd never have said it while you were alive but I'd say anything now to have you here (sob). Oh Mama, what in the hell am I gonna do now?"

May wiped her tears and snot with the palm of her hand and then on her skirt. She ran her fingers through the thick sod surrounding her mother's grave.  The lines from the recently laid rolls were still visible around the stone. Absently, she picked a blade of grass and spilt it down the middle. With her tiny stature and bare feet she looked more like a small child than a married woman. Then as if she remembered something she read in Cosmo she said,

"Guess what Mama? You're gonna be a Mee Maw! I took one a' those pee-on-a-stick tests a few days ago. I was waitin' to tell Curtis until the weekend. We were gonna go to that restaurant down by the lake, you know, the one where you can get fish food outta the gum ball machines and feed the catfish? Now, well, I have no idea what to do."

She ran her hand along the stone above her mother's grave.

"I'm glad I paid extra for this stone. It looks so nice. You deserved it. Daddy wanted to go with the smaller one but since I was payin' for it he let me do what I wanted." May put her hand in her lap and continued, "He misses you so much, Mama. Oh, he goes on about his day. He still meets his buds down at the Krystal every morning and makes sure the yard looks nice an' all... but he misses you so bad."

The breeze picked up and May shoved her loose locks behind her ears. The trees, waving the few leaves left on their branches, vibrated against the dark sky of the oncoming storm.  The beauty momentarily diverted May's attention.

"I'm sorry I haven't visited before now. It's just that I didn't feel like you were here, you know, in the ground. But I didn't know where else to look for you and I needed to talk to you. I haven't felt you with me. At the funeral, all those stupid people told me that you weren't really gone... that you'd be with me where ever I went. Well, I can tell you that ain't true... But this baby's with me, Mama. He's with me all the time." She put her left hand over her stomach and added, "No, I don't know what it is yet, but I feel like it's a boy. Poor thing! What a great role model he has for a daddy, huh?"

She felt the first drop of the autumn storm on her arm and turned to look at the clouds again. "Looks like I'd better get. The rain's comin'." She grabbed her shoes by the straps and stood wiping her butt of loose grass and leaves. For a moment, she stood there in front of the stone lost in the carved words and dates. And then, heaving a big sigh she said, "Well, Mama, I'm glad I came here. I guess I know where to find you now...." and blinking back tears as the rain began to fall she added, "I miss you a lot."

Streak-O-Lean

Part 4

If you are just joining me on this story, you can read Part One, Two and Three to catch up. They are fairly short.

Brandi (that's Brandi with an "i") stood at the loading dock behind the Piggly Wiggly grinding a disregarded lettuce leaf into the ground with her cross trainer vividly imagining her father's face under her toe.  I hate him!  She brooded.  No, hate is too good for him... Death is too good for him because if I kill him he'd probably go to Hell and Hell is too good for him.  Brandi's father was self made, nouveau riche.  He had money.  Lot's of money.  Enough money to earn a membership at the country club (well, he wasn't black, Jewish, or a woman; and while he was a Yankee, he did marry on the right side of the county's tracks).  Enough money to be invited to every haughty charitable function and to-do.  The old money would greet him with a warm handshake and a gentle slug on the arm... until of course they turned their back and then they'd roll their eyes and look at each other as if to say "poor sucker."  After all, he was still a Yankee. And if it wasn't for some damn turn coat during the War Between the States selling southern secrets like tomato aspic and fat back to Ulysses S. Grant, they'd all still have their slaves and tobacco wouldn't cause lung cancer.  

Brandi's father believed in hard work and self discipline and inflicted upon his daughter these values as well.  Hence the forlorn teenager's position behind the Piggly Wiggly.  In order for Brandi to keep her car, her phone, and her pocket money, she had to maintain a part time job... of his choosing.  There would be no silly tromping through frilly underwear all day at Victoria's Secret or pretending to straighten clothes racks at Banana Republic.  He wanted her to really earn a dollar.  So he found a job for her stocking shelves and whatnot at the Pig.  It was the "whatnot" that really pissed her off.  "Whatnot" included aisle clean-ups, smooshed poopy diapers in the parking lot, sweeping the loading dock, and tasks in the restrooms that would require therapy in her not-to-distant future.