The Safety of My Four Walls

If you were to be a fly on the wall of my house, the first thing you'd notice is the vibrancy.
Even though I can't keep a plant to save my life
You still feel as though your lungs breathe deep and even in such small spaces,
The rooms feel so enourmous and expressive as a lot of personality lives here.
On a wall in the kitchen you'll find book shelves overflowing with
Stolen college books, language books, children's books, books about serial killers,
Books about animals, recipes, palmistry, a book from 1901, and a fuck ton of
Books I picked up while drinking coffee, lost time in those books,
Almost finished those books in one sitting,
Only to buy those books and never to open them again
But they keep the other books company so I don't
Feel
As
Bad.
If you were to be a fly on my wall you'd see me look and
Smile at all my little pretties sitting nicely
Every time I walk by to go get milk for the baby.
On the kitchen counter sits my little coffee pot,
Waiting for the next time I need my fix.
He knows he is the most important and he works hard.

If you were to be a fly on my wall,
You'd notice how quiet I am in here.
There's no music, no talking, no excitement,
no drinking (mostly), and no reason to put on clothes in this place.
I write in my daily journal on the Big Red Couch I got for $50 at a garage sale
Only to put a cover on it and make it my Big Orange Couch when the baby arrived
Since he is messy and likes to wipe his hands on everything.
I write there, colour there, paint there, sleep there, and enjoy my
Coffee and bagels there in the morning.
If you were a fly on my wall you wouldn't know how
Loud and full of life I am once I left those walls.
You wouldn't know how I smile at people because
In my home, I don't feel like I have to.

If you were to be a fly on my wall, you'd know why it was clean when it was.
The dishes will always be done, the floor vacuumed, the laundry put up,
The beds made, the bathrooms clean, and the dining room table will
Never have anything on it - when I am distraught or stressed.
These episodes happen every couple of weeks and the whole house never gets the cleansing at the same time.
Laundry pairs with bathrooms, garbage pairs with vacuuming, and dishes can
have a share manic day with any chore
But they are always done silently and maybe even sometimes crying.
But they are done.
If you were to be a fly on my wall you'd know the baby's clothes all
hang in the closet because he is mischievous.
While you'd see that I love cleaning up his room over and over and over
Watching him destroy it in happiness
Over and Over and Over
The one thing I would not do is refold clothing.

If you were to be a fly on my wall, you might ask about the room that is used
Significantly less than the rest.
You might think it the most interesting room of all - the room with all of the
Paintings, paint, the clay, the wood, the brushes, the canvas, the fabrics,
The glues, the sprays, the yarn, the glitters, the trinkets, the letters, the
Weird ass desk I got at yet another garage sale that could only
Possibly
Fit in a weird ass room as this one and not even look remotely out of place-
There; in there you'd wonder why I kept the door closed and the lights off,
Only to visit periodically when I thought
Just Maybe I'll make something today.
I'll poke my head in and smell the craft I have in my brain and plan it out
All without even stepping into the room to make the most beautiful decor in my house.
If you were a fly on my wall you'd see how sad my eyes get
When I think about how little time and attention
I spend in this room.
And I know it.

If you were to be a fly on my wall, you'd know the room I spend time in is the one that I wish I never had to.
A place where a bed is most everyone's favourite place to be,
Yet over the years has brought me little comfort.
A place where people lay their head and dream blissfully
Is a place I dread laying my head and wait as long as I possibly can
Then wake up as soon as my body allows.
So jealous of their wonderful dreams and restful sleep
As I wake up from the chronic nightmares yet again.
What once made me cry and have my heart racing in the night has become a routine
That I've adjusted to- but not fully.
The screaming and crying and fire and ripping and crashing and falling still goes on
But when I wake, I'm back in the safety of my four walls,
Happy to start another day.

The Joker and Me

Before reading this, I feel like a few things must be noted:
I do not have any mental issues.
I do not have brain damage.
I have no future plans to go on a killing rampage.

I would almost think it unnecessary to let these be known before writing a piece about how I merely related to a Joker in a movie, but this is 2019 and everyone finds a trigger or a cry for help in everything.  Now we can begin this piece of writing peacefully.

I was never hugely into comics or heroes when I was younger and that didn't change much as I aged.  As most older millennial, I dressed up as disney princesses or power rangers for Halloween every year and my brothers might have picked spider man or batman or whatever else was popular for boys.  
Even if I wasn't big into it, I do remember lots of VHS tapes over the years.  Our sister is 10 years older that me and my brothers and I recall a lot of Van Damme, Stallone, and Willis as well as a mountain of Batman movies.  My favourites of course being Batman Returns because of the general creep factor and I have no idea why I loved the Penguin so much; then there was Jim Carrey's Riddler in Batman Forever.  Who could beat Nicholson's Joker? As an actor he was already so bomb!

You're starting to see a pattern with the love for bad guys by now.  I thought they were great! Always mischievous, always had the best outfits, always so honest, what's not to love?

Yet still, as a kid I was never fully enveloped in them. When the movie was over, I went back to Betty Spaghetti or Legos and was a good little girl who just enjoyed her cinema.

It wasn't until I started seeing commercials for The Dark knight that I recall being so excited for a movie to come out. (Except LOTR. I read the Hobbit in school and the LOTR then saw that first one in theatres 3 times in the same week and I have no regrets.)  Heath. Mothafuckin. Ledger.

As if I didn't fall in love with him in A Knight's Tale, now he was switching to the dark side AND he was going to be Joker nonetheless? Oh, be still, my heart.

Unlike everything else I've known to have a hype and huge following then fucking suck, The Dark Knight did everything but suck.  He was so dapper in his purple suit, his giggle was so charming, and he always had a backup plan.  Money couldn't buy him what he wanted and I felt that.  He spoke to my inner anarchist and granted it was unfortunate what happened to Ledger, he did an amazing  job of portraying a mad man.

That was the second and only other movie to date I just had to see two more times in the cinemas.  My friends got me like a million Joker shirts that Christmas.  I just about applaud every time we see Harvey Dent become his destiny and let's be honest. Rachel needed to die.

Which brings us to Today.  Based on previews, I really didn't have high hopes for this Joker movie.  It just made him look like a sad man who goes by the name Joker.  Where's the anarchy? Where's the sarcasm? I had seen some great reviews from friends on Facebook I couldn't help but be curious enough to go see myself. I was so happy that I did.

The laughing.  The laughing is what tuned me in.  Juxtapose with the Joker everyone knows that has always laughed because he wanted to and always laughed despite the do-gooders, we are met with a Joker that has a condition.  A condition that has only added to the pile off bullshit that he calls his life.

Refer to the top before we go into this section; there is nothing wrong with me.  I just laugh a lot. Sometimes incessantly.  I've gotten significantly better about it over the years and am no where near the severity of the condition the guy had in the movie, but I do know that one of the things people know me for is my bursts.

Just yesterday I was visiting an old employer.  His wife came out smiling and said, "I thought he was out here flirting with a customer but then I heard you and said oh I know that laugh!" On numerous occasions I've had friends tell me they saw me (or someone saw me and told them) that I was walking and laughing to myself as if I was high as a kite.  "Nope. That's just her." Is what they would say.  When I started seeing a councilor in college, I remember a session when she started smiling and shaking her head, "You know. What you're telling me isn't funny and I acknowledge your trauma but why are you still smiling?"

And forget about my many run ins with the cops over the years. I remember one time in college I was at a friend's place listening to music in their trailer when the piggies popped up about a noise complaint.  I wasn't even talking to the officer but he looked at me and said, "Is something funny?" I giggled back at him, "No I just smile a lot." "ALL THE TIME." My friend had added, very seriously and his eyes were wide, begging not to cause trouble.

But I think that's what the character meant when he was talking to his talkshow hero.  I didn't grow up surrounded by people making fun of me for it, and believe you me, I had plenty of times to be ridiculed.  Hurt, times of stress, death, even during sex.  You name it, I giggled through it and it has taken a lot of years and self controlling my face to get to where I am.  People don't like you giggling at them when they say their dog died or someone in the family did.  It makes you feel like a piece of shit but when people just understand it's a tick of yours, it's easier to get around it.  You can imagine boyfriends got frustrated with it. "You're laughing. Why are you laughing? It's not funny."

I really felt for this new Joker.  I really felt he had been every bit of peaceful and kept his cool for way too long until he really just couldn't any more. Plus it's not like he went out of his way just to kill some dipshit kids.  They were monsters but had he come forward and say he was attacked, who would they have believed?  I think we all know where favour goes to when educated white men fuck up.

But let's not get into full on politics of the world.  I know this was fictional but you really have to look deeper into how closely it related with society today.  Everyone has a chance to be a dick or be kind.  Everyone on the lower tier is frustrated with being called lesser by the top societal tier.  People are tired of being misunderstood. Mistreated. Tired of being tired.  Would a riot really be so bad?

Having been a sweetheart of the past, I totally understand what it feels like to absolutely want to give up and watch the world burn.  Trying is a lot harder than destroying everything and starting from scratch.  I have no idea how I got so lucky to always had been surrounded by people who were mostly accepting of my ticks but I know not everyone is fortunate.

So what to take away from this? Joker is a fuckin good movie and you really need to see it.

Or maybe: Don't jump clowns on subway busses.

Or perhaps: This ginger kid had a lot more issues than I thought.

My favourite: even if your purpose isn't to start a revolution, if your message is strong enough, it'll resonate and you won't have a choice. 

Introduction Long Overdue

Three years. It has been almost 3 years since my mema's passing and also the last time I wrote something I cared to post.  Looking on this blog, I see that I have several drafts over the years that got saved and never published. Probably didn't think any of it was interesting enough for anyone to want to read.  So if you're reading this, know that I feel proud of myself.  Not only did I write, something that I used to do quite often, but I finished a complete text and even went as far as to publish it in the good ol' blog.

This piece was mainly prompt by a conversation that I had with my manager the other night.  "Does no one really know anything about me other than I bartend?" Genuine confusion.  As if anyone that I surround myself with now days grew up with me or have even seen me display any other kind of interest.  I think it's mainly due to the fact most anyone I see anymore is either at work or at the bar.  No one comes over for dinner like people used to.  No one sees the eccentric safety net of my walls nor do they smell the comfort of my kitchen.  Not only do I never have anyone to ask me who painted all the canvas on my walls but it's not like I put out any videos or short stories like I used to either.  No one to ask how I learned to do all those things.

So maybe it's fair I'm looked at as just a bartender because I don't offer up evidence that there is anything else worth being seen.

Without further ado, here is my introduction long overdue.

When no one is around, I like to clean.  Maybe I'll get on my phone and chat up a friend I miss or haven't caught up with or maybe I'll blare some dubstep or house music, but I like to organize my clutter.  I'm messy, not dirty.  Random placings of work clothes or bags when I get home don't bother me but it would seem once a week my brain will switch and I'll find a place for the shoes that never seem to leave the front door or the backpacks I claim as diaper bags that get left on the counters or coffee table.

Coffee. I love coffee.  It's not necessarily my need-to-drink-to-wake-up beverage more than my beginning-of-work-day beverage.  The pot I put on in the late afternoon even when I know I'm not going to drink it but I really wanted to smell it. The grounds I take straight from the pot and use as a scrub in the shower to wake up my dead skin and caffeinate my depressed face, making it feel so smooth and smelling like Happy.

Of all the things I love the most, books go hand in hand with coffee.  When my tot started walking and getting into things, the one thing that could make me irate was chewing on the corners of the books nicely placed in their shelves. Are they alphabetized? Descending by size? Colourized this time or maybe the shelves are by subject matter? Depends on the month and my mood that you'll see the bookshelves change their placement and only one time did I go by the Dewy Decimal System and never again because there was no feng shui appeal to it.  The best subject matter are the stories that don't end quite right.  There is a resolution but it's not always a happy ending.  I like reading about tragedy of individuals that claw their way out.  Not success. Just realistic struggle.

Along with reading, writing has been there too.  College sparked the most of it, trying to post at least once a week or couple weeks and always having stories to tell because my life has always been entertaining to say the least.  When the ball got rolling and StumbleUpon was starting to get popular, I entered many of my writings on the site and next thing I knew I had 11,000 readers and for some reason the 2nd largest group of readers in a country was from Russia next to the U.S.  The older I got the less I wrote and I found I didn't want to write my fun stories. I wanted to write the sad ones.  The last two submissions are for people I loved who passed.  One of natural causes and the other murdered.

I've been to three schools for formal education which resulted in 3 degrees and 2 certifications but all it means is that I loved learning.  I'm not disappointed that I haven't necessarily done anything as active for my career with most of these things but later I also learned I didn't need the education background for anything that I wanted to do.  Still not disappointed.  A main philosophy I love living by is "Live life with no regrets." I think I do a pretty good job of that and am okay with the lessons I've learned.  For the curious though,  the career paths I could have taken with each of these was a coroner, a glorified accountant, a CNA, and a film editor.   Two of which I successfully took on as a job or a hobby but my life isn't over and maybe that's why I'm not disappointed.

The longest job I had was three years and it was working at a care center. Elderly. I've had a love for old people for as long as I could remember.  Their stories are always better than mine and listening to the hard lessons has prevented me from making my own hard lessons.  It goes back to not wanting to regret.  I don't want to lay on my death bed wishing I had said something to someone or wishing I had tried something different.  Not only do most elderly have the lessons they learned, but I believe are also like sponges and are good at listening.  In the generations before us,  if they could not relate, they didn't change the subject.  They listened more.  The bitter old bastards you know are the ones that never absorbed the world around them.  I truly believe that.

I'm not military but It's always the first question I get asked when someone finds out just how many states I've lived in or how many times I've moved.  Maybe it was moving at such a young age 2,000 miles across the United States that I found comfort in knowing that you can always restart your life and the more you do it, the easier it is.  But also.  The more you do it the harder it is to find people to bear your soul to.  I've had more jobs than years I am old and when I applied for dispatcher and had to put every address I'd lived in the 5 previous years did I realize that on paper I really do look like a transient.  Bartending, I get asked all the time where I am from and most every time it results in me shaking my head, "Everywhere, baby.  I'm a gypsy."  No one really questions that once it's said.  It usually follows up with a, Oh cool, or my favourite, Where is the best place you've ever lived?

I say it's my favourite question, but within my answer lies great disdain and why I had to leave there is something I am never honest about.

The beauty of the countries that I've travelled to and the simplicity of other countries that I've read about makes me almost embarrassed to call myself an American.  I don't enjoy our foundation nor people's general beliefs and touchiness but Be the change you want to see! has made me stick it out this long and maybe change some perspectives around me like a ripple in the water.

I used to sell art for money.  Now I just have an abundance of my canvases and paints and yarn and varnishes and finishes and pencils and endless sketchbooks and unfinished paintings in a room I call my Art Room that just sits there until the next time a fire lights my ass and I feel like I can complete something great.  My latest project has been picture frames and it really does make me happy how cool they've all turned out.

This is probably the most honest I've been publicly in a while.  In recent years I've been called "emotionally unavailable" but I don't see how that's true.  I think I'm just like everyone else.  My public face, and my face around friends; it just so happens that my two faces are very different from each other and the difference is very obvious once you know it's there.

Until next time.  I'll try not to be another 3 years.  

The Honour of Meeting Mema

"Aw shit." Or maybe I should start this out spelling it how only she knew how to say one of her favourite phrases so you understand a little better.  Aawwwwh shhhiiiyuht.

That's more like it.  If this is going to be a mema post, it's going to be as accurate as I can portray her. This is five in the morning writing so bear with me through the raw, unedited post that this is.  The scramble is real and I'm not sure there really is a starting or ending point, merely ramblings and stories from my point of view of someone that really left a footprint in each person that knew her.

She was a traditional southern woman if there ever was one that I came across.  By day, a good follower of her faith, fed everyone that stepped in her house, and the charm and manners to make you feel right at home in her conversations.  By night, her family - related and friend alike- knew her to be a sarcastic delight and would tell you to your face what was what.  That was always Mema for as long as any of us ever knew.

"Well how are you honey?" She would always greet me the same way whenever I visited her, big smile and open arms ready for a squeeze.  While living in a little town of Pascagoula, Mississippi and the Gulf as her back yard, she usually finished greetings with a menu that was already cookin
 or if it was early enough, she'd ask you for your input on what she should fix you.  She loved feeding people.

At her funeral, the family burst into laughter and smiles when her old mailman showed up. I mean. We were laughing because we'd all been told by her that he'd passed years ago. Turns out he just stopped being a mailman.  Remembering him from when we were kids, we all hugged him the same, reminiscing on his shenanigans he would pull with our mema.  He was a friend of the family and one I remember that we always fed every time he came by to deliver mail.

"Hey, Harolyn!" He would always yell at her from halfway across the lawn as he walked up; her already opening the screen door to retrieve her mail and send out some more with him.
"Hey, honey! What you know good?"

Always inviting him in for a bite, and if he had to run, Mema always had cookies or a drink ready for him on his trip to more deliveries.

When I moved back to Mississippi the first time four years ago, I lived with Mema for a while before tackling big bad Biloxi on my own.  There are a lot of things I learned about my grandma that I never questioned when I was younger.  The things that you only think to question friends growing up or significants you start dating.  I wanted to know what it was like growing up for her.  I wanted to know about the grandfather I never met.  I wanted to know what kind of shenanigans she got into.

Of course there are only so many things that a mema will tell her grandchildren but what I learned about her was fascinating.  She loved working in the court system.  She loved music, typing, and reading.

Thanksgiving of that first year was the first time I learned how to really make Mema's chicken and oyster gumbo.  That was what our tradition was for holidays - a family favourite.  That Christmas I helped a little more.  She noted she hadn't really made gumbo much since we'd moved to Montana back in 2000.  It was mostly herself she cooked for and she barely knew how to cook for one.  She only knew how to prepare for armies.

So I started bringing her the masses.  At first I had one or two of my friends over to meet her.  A couple times I brought a whole slough of my air force friends and she made them a damn bbq banquet.  They, like everyone else, came to know her as just Mema.

Kind, hospitable, and antiquated yet sneaky, full of personality, and a downright rascal! Even the gals from her bank who had been seeing her for years showed up for her final remembrance.

When she would visit us in Montana, she used to jest and tell me that if she were my age she'd give me a run for my money in stealing my boyfriend at that time.  She'd laugh so hard at our mortified expressions.  You never really knew what was going to come out of her mouth, only that it would be charming and no matter what she said, it would be in good spirit.

Having such a grandma full of personality made it easy for all of her grandkids to be themselves.  We were cut from the same cloth, but mind that we were all made from very different scissors.

At the end of the day of her funeral, as we were all gathered- my mum and her four kids and each one having their guy or gal with them- my older brother made a toast and I think he said it best: She is in all of us, in some form or fashion.

Whether it was her charm, her stubbornness, her secretive nature, or her creative mind,  we all are walking, living embodiments of her.  For sure, we are all story tellers.  You can't meet a soul in the small town in Montana that we grew up in that didn't know at least one if not two of us.

Everyone has a Mema Story that knew her just like everyone that knows each of her descendants has one of our stories.  Her courage and strength flow through us all, especially when we feel like we can't hold on to our sanity any longer.

Mema stories include:
Getting mad at the lawn mower, kicking it, and chopping off her own toe. (She totally finished the lawn after that, or so our legend goes.)
Driving the wrong way down a one way and getting mad at the other drivers when she was 80. (I never let her drive me again after that.)
Having a creepy way of whispering and smiling at you when there was no reason to whisper. (Gonna pick up on this one in a minute.)
Pretty much any of her catchphrases. She had a ton that were quotable. (Shiiit, You fiend!, I beg your pardon.)
Her damn cooking.
Her obsession with smoking.  All up until her final days.   It was really hilarious the way she would rave if she couldn't get a cigarette fast enough.

There are hundreds more I'm missing but That would be a ton of reading.

One of my favourite stories of mema was at our cousin's house.  My older brother's gal and I were sitting with mema in their dining room/kitchen when mema started spouting her plans of dinner.  Not really spouting more than whispering loudly in our general direction.  We both leaned in with straight faces to hear her speak in short sentences.

"You have to put the peppers. In the oven. On 400 degrees. For Two hours."

We burst into laughter.  Mema did too.  She was super random and such a creeper.  It added on to her hilarity and she had no idea.  

I'm not sure where else this could possibly go.  I hadn't written in a while and decided this was a good of time as ever.  Something needed to be said about out Famous Mema. (Infamous, as she would always call herself.)

If you have a Mema story yourself, or know one that you've heard over the years, you can share it in the comments.  I know there was only a small surface scratched of her but even words wouldn't be able to fully tell her story and impact on all of us.  

This is why I Bartend

While I was working in Seattle....well, lets go back a few paces. Let's start with how I got the job. That tale is pretty delightful in itself. Short but simple. Really quick. Let's go. Boom.

I had been living in Seattle for four days, got tired of waiting around for a job, went to the library to print out resumes to go door to door to bars and get a job. Starting out with eight, I had my very last one in hand and walked up to a fancy looking little place, "Are y'all hiring for a bartender?"
"Yes. Can you show up in two hours for your first shift?"
"Yes."

Boom. That's how I started working in Seattle. (The full details of that story are a different story, different day)

This was a fairly new place that had opened up only a couple months prior to me working there.  With the weeks to come, I had this place open until 2am on the weekends rather than closing at 11pm. I also had a pretty regular crowd- the usual fells to pregame before going into the club on the next block, and the usual ladies that came in from the club that wanted a great drink without paying $15 a pop. They also liked that I was fast and there was plenty of breathing room at the bar as opposed to the club.

I had all kinds of people walking into the bar to see me.  People leaving to go on cruises to Alaska out of the port in Seattle, then some of the same ones coming back.  People that knew me from other bars I worked at in the area that wanted to come hang out as I was slinging drinks.

Anyway, back to the purpose of this story- the reason I bartend. I had a couple gals that came in one evening, already a little loud and went straight for the bathroom. We had a policy at that place, so I went in after them and just said, "Hey ladies what's up?"
"Hey girl, we had to pee sooo baddd!!"
"Well that's cool. Just as long as you come pay mama a visit at the bar. Can't leave me without having a drink.
"Yeah girl, yeah!"

I left the gals to their business, not really thinking they would come up to the bar and just dip out. It was close to closing time on a Friday night, so I began cleaning and didn't think much else of it.

I was wrong.
Both gals came and sat down and had some $5 shots with me- an idea I had when I discovered that the bar had a lot of left over alcohol from the last bar that resided in its place and the owners had given me free reign to get rid of it.
The gals sat there and chopped it up with me for a while. Eventually the gals had to leave but promised they'd be back for me and said they'd enjoyed their stay.

They left out and I was in the process of counting my bank when some Pharrell Williams mother fucker comes walking in with some night walker. "Hey honey, we're closed." I said, gesturing around at the fact not a soul was here and most all lights were off except the bar lights. Shit even the music was off. Dead.

"Your friends out there said you could hook me up." He pointed a finger back at the door but continued to walk toward the bar.  Anorexic Nicki Minaj didn't seem phased by her surroundings a bit and just took a stool at the bar. At this time, the owner came out of the office and stood there a moment to see what I would do.

"Y'all can always come back and see me tomorrow, baby, I'm already counting my bank."
"We don't want much, just a couple shots of patron." He threw two twenties on the bar top and looked deep into Nicki's eyes, smiling.

"You know you just gave me $40?" I look at him with pinched eyebrows.
"It's good right?" He waved his hand at the money, still not looking at me.

I look to my owner. He shrugs.
"Chilled or straight?"
"Straight."
"You want a lime, baby?" I said, lookin at the little Bambi to Pharrell's right.
"Yes, please." She spoke up.

I poured two decent shots, salted with a lime. The guy downed his, but Bambi winced, not finishing her full shot in one gulp, and a little dribbling down the side of her mouth. She wiped it off so delicately with a thumb.

"Here's for the shots," and Pharrell hands me another $20.

My inside poor kid was doing the Shmurda.
My outter bartender took the $20 with grace and gave him his change for the shots which he pocketed. I pocketed the beginning $40.

"Y'all are welcome to stay until I'm done cleaning up."

He talked, she giggled, they say, it was lovely.

My owner walks up to me, "Give them another round on the house. Tell them thanks for hooking up my bartender."

I did just so. Pharrell hands me another $20 tip and makes a toast at the owner and thanked him.

I made sixty fucking dollars in less than five minutes and I didn't have perform fellatio in the alleyway. That's what's up.

Either way, hope y'all enjoyed, keep reading for my other random stories and updates!

Don't Apologize

Don't apologize to me.
Not for the wrong kind of things.
Not for the things that are out of your control
That are out of your hands
That are out of my mind
That are out of this world
As to why you would think you needed to apologize for such things.
Don't. Please. Don't apologize to me.

When you make the food and you clean, prep, shake, bake, chop, char, sizzle, drip, scrub, wash, scrape, and pick at the dried-on food on the dishes in the aftermath to repeat it all over again for the kitchen's next use.
When you gather the troops to send off to finger painting and algebra that you don't quite understand and with the clothes you have to wash, fold, find, match, sew, buy, steam, iron, button, stain, bleach, work, tear, and mend again so when they come back with more dirty
You can give them a replacement garment once more.
When you break your back and you strain because that's what you're supposed to do when you're a good mother
To provide for the household
On your minimum wage
On your feet again
On your last dollar
On your back
On your knees again, begging to God you'll get that raise, that new job, that different job, that enjoyable job, that worry-free, wine tasting, bourgeois bitch, housewives reality job
To support the nest you call home of those that might or might not deserve your articulate care.

Don't apologize to me when I walk in
About how messy your house is
About how you didn't have time
About your makeup not done in three days
About the Starbucks buildup in your car
Because that's all the time you have for breakfast and you call it Me Time.
Don't apologize for a damn thing.

And Sir, baby, honey, mister mister, daddy, my cream puff, my chocolate dream, my Asian persuasion, sugar, totem pole, lemondrop, my desire, man at the liquor store, guy at the library, dude winking at his baby momma, my good morning coffee on a Sunday morning that was well deserved after a night of tiresome work,
Don't apologize to me.
Not for the wrong kind of things.

When you kiss me as we're making dinner because we've both been through hell and this is the time we can be peaceful in our own little cottage
Making ramen when we're down and
Making lobster when we're up and
You get that twinge, that hankering, that inkling, that mustering feeling, that impulse, that fire, that push, that savage, that hard on that is gonna make momma happy because you love her.
Because she loves you.
Because you show her affection
Because you shower her with devotion, and love, and commitment, and strength
Because you are her rock, her man, her companion, her Person, her one that she calls when the lady with the loan company is being a fucking twat and is trying to charge her ten dollars to make a fucking hefty payment.
You take care of your woman, your lady, your gal
To the best of your ability
No questions, only answers
To find some way to be closer to her and make it so the universe can't get in your way.

Don't apologize to me when we're laying there
And you're naked and I'm wet
And you're ready and I'm smiling
And I breathe in the ecstasy of our sexy smells
And your face says it all
That you already released.
Don't apologize to me.
Not for your body's reaction to our pleasure
Not for the quick fire because some magazine told the world
You're a novice unless it's two hours
And she's shaking
And your dick is falling off
And you both drank 2 gallons of water in the process
With scented lube all over the place
And now you have to shower off the stank
When you could have just simply made love
With your woman.
Shown your affection.
Love is deeper than sex.
Don't apologize to me. (I know I'm hot)

I see you there in the corner as well.
Don't apologize to me.
Not for the wrong kind of things.
I see you cowering, frail, beaten, stabbed, hurt, run over, run down, ran away
Into the darkness, trying to find shelter, trying to find witness, trying to find someone
Or something that can help you escape your torture.
When you space out into other worlds, grab your controller, your paint brush, your computer, your hiking stick, your running shoes and get the fuck out of here.
When you've surrounded yourself with the Wrong
And the best way to make it all right is to separate;
Make yourself right.
You can't change them, you want to, it sucks, I know, you're powerless, they're greedy, you try, try, try, your efforts so lost in translation it just looks like you love to support their bad habits.
You love supporting their abuse and take their hit
You love supporting their habit and you supply
You love, love, love this don't you?
Take it, take more, your pain and theirs
All burdens, all hatred, all bills, all drugs, all shots, all illusions, all psychotic fucking breakdowns at WalMart because she can't have a fucking coke and has to take Pepsi just one time.

Don't apologize to me for wanting nothing
To do with this world.
When you much rather read your book at home
Than get thrown back into the parties and become the DD every. Single. Time.
When you want to hide out, hide away, in your place, in your escape, on your bed,
You introvert, you
Wanting to just have peace in your world
Peace of mind, of stability, of mankind, of your neighbour, of your future,
Just sticking to yourself
Because you trust yourself.
Don't apologize to me.
Not for the wrong kind of things.

Apologize for being a shitty human being.
Apologize for choosing money over friendship.
Apologize for your children acting like fucking assholes because "oh, kids will be kids"
No, you fucktard, restrain that thing and teach it manners
Apologize for believing you can buy a $5 drink and get poon because
that says something about you as a fucking person.
Apologize for having no morals, character, decency, tact, diplomacy, grace, or willingness to pick up your own goddamn garbage from the beach you'd been partying on for a whole day.
Apologize for doing these things on purpose
With ill intent
With a blind eye
With intention of ignoring what your father fucking knows he instilled in you
In your brothers
In your sisters
In your cousins
In your friends
That you should be ashamed of yourself for blatantly being an ignorant piece of shit that no one can stand to be around anymore because of your festering, negative, black hole space that surrounds everywhere you walk.

Apologize for just being a pent up ball of frustrations that verbally menstruates all over the Chinese buffet about rights and getting the last crab ragoon but don't apologize, my dear, for being a beautiful person that shows that you tried.

Friendships Come and Go. Forever.

It has occurred to me recently that I haven't written anything in a while.  Not to say that anything interesting hasn't been happening in my life - quite the opposite. I'm so busy! But I'll take this time to tell the story of a friend who's more of a floater than I am.  I might even go as far as to call her a gypsy.

It was about kindergarten when I met her in cute little Pascagoula, Mississippi.  Long brown hair, big blue eyes, adorable smile and at the time was missing a tooth or two.  We used to play on the playground together and went to each other's birthday parties and had sleepovers.  The works.  She was my best friend. 

Of course boys always come into play and I remember our first fight.  He was a grade older than us.  Skinny as a newborn giraffe, blonde hair, blue eyes. I really liked him and told her and of course she goes off crushing. We were still kids then, about fourth grade, but you know how puppy love goes. 

This went on for what seemed like ever but I feel sure it was only a couple of weeks and finally she runs up to me before school started and hugged me, "I don't think we should fight anymore, you can have him. I want my best friend back!"

I stopped hugging her for a moment and looked at her perplexed and sorrowful at the same time, "See, you don't have to worry about that now. I'm moving this weekend. To Montana."

Her eyes got really big and her mouth opened a little, "Oh." and as the morning ritual began of all the students saying the pledge of allegiance she just stared off into space toward the ground, face expressionless.  When the students started to walk to class, I thought I should say something, "It's okay, my mom has email." She perked up a little and we went to our own classes.

After school that day she ran up and hugged me once more, telling me that she would miss me.  Her mum talked to my mum that night and exchanged emails so that we would be able to keep contact.

It lasted a little while, and I would always ask when we would be able to come back to Mississippi to visit.  Being so young, I didn't understand the concept of expensive ticket prices yet.  We fell off the face of the planet for a while but I thought of her from time to time.  Finally, the summer after 8th grade year and right before my freshman year of high school, we had a trip back to Mississippi due to my sister, eleven years my senior, getting married.  We had a few days of chill time and I asked if I could see her. I didn't have her number but my mum vaguely remembered where she lived. 

I knew it was right behind the elementary school we went to, fantasizing with her many times about running through her back yard to go hang out in her room though we never did.  My mum was weaving through the residential streets until I told her to stop. There it was in all of its glory: the blue house I loved when I was younger. 

My mum walked me up to the doorstep.  Gypsy's mum answered the door excitedly and called her daughter to the door.  Gypsy appeared out of her room, eyes glowing big and put her hands up to her mouth in surprise.  She hugged me and we went out to the backyard.  I don't recall talking about much, if at all. We just existed together as awkward teenagers.  We then went to her room and she was showing me all of her things. Pictures. Boys. Stuff on the walls. our mums came in after a while to get me and we took pictures on her bed before I left. "Y'all must have talked each other's ears off!" Her mum said, smiling at us. We just looked at each other and nodded. Something like that.

Many, many years later, college hit.  Some time in those years, I was recalling that visit.  I got curious, and with new social media, I looked up her name.  There she was.  Long, brown hippie hair, bright blue eyes, a full toothy smile, and dangly as they come.  I sent her a friend request along with a message.  I got a reply within the next day or so and it was her phone number.  I called and heard her voice that was so excited over the phone, "No wayyyyyy!"

I explained to her I went to college for a double major- art and math.  She explained to me that after high school, she sold everything in her room and packed it all up in a van and left for California.  We shared each other's adventures and promised it wouldn't be so long until the next time we spoke again.

Time happens, as it does, and things fade.  She deleted her social medias and her phone number no longer worked.  I was in the world again without my gypsy. After I graduated college, I moved back to Mississippi, having missed it so much in over a decade.  I lived with my mema again in little Pascagoula.  The first week I was there I was driving all over the town, seeing the library, the beach, the downtown. I wondered where my old church and school were.  Having not driven the area myself, I had no idea where I was going.  I didn't have GPS on my phone and no map to guide me.  Past the hospital and across the tracks.  That was all I remembered.  After an hour or so, I happened upon the church, smiling that I found at least one landmark.  Finally I called my mum and asked her.

"You're really close!" Turns out I was a right turn and a couple stop signs away.  After having found the school, I got off the phone and navigated around the back of the school.  There it was again: the blue house.  I rolled up very slowly, but didn't come to a stop.  It wasn't her house any longer.  I didn't know for sure, but I didn't know the people sitting on her porch and that unkempt yard wasn't her mother's. 

I drove back to my mema's, again without my gypsy.

Years later, after having been established in my own apartment, a friend invited me to come join her in her hotel room at the casino.  I didn't live but a ten minute drive away so I got ready and set out.  Approaching the casino I remember wanting to park in the lot across the street as I always had.  The lot I used to park in when I worked at said casino, with the thrift store across the street.  I passed the lot and for whatever reason, decided for the first time to park in the parking garage of the casino.  It wasn't a special day, many spots open but I kept driving until I reached the second floor and decided it was good enough.  I walked to the elevator and waited in the little lobby until the elevator came. 

I remember looking out the glass doors back into the parking garage.  A young woman was walking up with her beau.  Long, brown hippie hair, short and dangly as they get, and it was the skirt that caught my attention.  Satin and green and earthy and floor length.  The couple came closer, talking and smiling.  She walked into the door and I looked at her confused...."Gypsy?" I said slowly. She looked up and squinted then her eyes widened like they do, "Ginger?" Both of our mouths open now in disbelief.  "No way..." We said. And walked in for a small embrace.  From that moment on, our eyes did not break contact.  "How are you?"
"Good you?"
"Yeah. This is my boyfriend."
"Hi," I said, still neither one of us broke eye contact to look at him. We got on the elevator still staring at each other.
"I moved back."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You don't live in the blue house anymore."
"No, my parents moved out years ago. I moved back too. In Biloxi.'
"Yeah me too."
Still staring at each other, confused looks on our faces, speaking in an airy tone.
"You know each other?" Her boyfriend said, smiling at our awe.
"Yeah," she said softly, "We were best friends in elementary school."

The elevator dings, "Well this is us," He says, and I get off with them.
"It was good seeing you." She said.
"You too."

We walked our separate ways, and every few steps we caught each other looking back at one another.

I made it up to the hotel room and told my gal there. "Well did y'all exchange numbers?" She asked.

NOOOOOOOOO!!! I looked at her sideways, "WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THAT??" And I didn't see her again after that.


Almost a year later, I was moving out of my apartment in the ghetto and into a condo. On one of the last days there, I was pulling up to my apartment in my little beetle and screeched to a stop.  There was a gal walking across the street in front of me.  She mean mugged me and I rolled down the window as fast as I could, "GYPSY!!!" She looked harder, "GINGER!!!"

I jumped out of my car and she ran up and we hugged once more.  "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE??"
"I LIVE HERE!"
"ME TOO!"
"WHAT???"

Turns out we had been living in kitty corner apartment buildings in the same complex for a year. A whole. Damn. Year. "We have to exchange numbers this time!"
"I know! My boyfriend asked me why we didn't last time!"
We still didn't talk all that much, but she still came to my last party that I had in my condo before I was due to move to China.  She came over, drank with all of my coworkers, and it was everything I wanted the friendship to be at that time. She was due to move back to Jersey that year as well.

I never ended up moving to China, but Sacramento and soon after, Seattle instead.  Her number again wasn't the same, she still didn't have social media, and here I am again in Mississippi, without my gypsy. 

If you're out there and you still use internet from time to time, because I know you're a crazy activist and squatter, I hope you find this and read this and know I came back home. I have all the wishes of finding you again, but as time has told us, we have a habit of happening upon each other at any rate.  Even if I don't know your life now and even if you don't know mine, I still consider you my longest standing friend and I'll always see you in that position in my life.