How Did I Get Here?

As I’m driving into the city, frantically running around from open house to a showing to a lease signing, stopping at Target in between for toilet paper and the 3-ring binder somebody needs for school, I ask myself this question.  How did I get here?

I return a phone call from a suburban mom with a land line, while shuffling my purse and coffee, speeding down I 94.  She wants me to volunteer at a race so the girls Cross Country team can earn $900.  Did I get the email, she wants to know?  Is my daughter available and even if she isn’t, am I?  I stammer out my apology on her voicemail - no, my overextended kid isn’t available, no, I am not available either, I work a lot of Sundays.  I have become the mom that used to annoy me, as I rolled through the “volunteer list” of whatever organization I was in charge of at the time.  How did I get here?

When I drive past a park, I see the moms there, with strollers and backpacks and homemade sandwiches.  I miss the days when Annie’s Organic Cheddar bunnies and dried apricots were the perfect snack for a kid and they devoured it without complaint. When the days were filled with library visits and the Como Zoo and going to downtown Minneapolis just to look at the buildings and there was no way I was going to miss somebody’s first steps or a chance to write down the cute things they said along the way.  I carried a fucking notebook in order to document and remember it all!!  How did I get here?

My teenager is home sick today.  She has a terrible cold and I brought her orange juice and she was so grateful.  Then, I listed off the foods available in the house, hugged her and left.  I used to stay home all day when the kids were sick.  I made them all the best comfort foods and put them in a warm bath and let them break all the rules and watch unlimited TV all morning and napped with them in their beds.  I didn’t care if I caught what they had because I knew I was doing the most important job being there with them.  How did I get here?

My son needs to be picked up from practice at 4pm each day.  This can be a difficult time to make for a working parent.  His friend’s mom says she’ll bring him home anytime he needs a ride.  This makes me feel very, very guilty.  I ask her to let me do some of the driving for her son - can’t we set up a carpool, I say.  I desperately try to make it “fair”.  She laughs it off, saying that someday when she is working I can drive her kid for her. When is this day, exactly?  When your husband leaves you and you have no choice but to try and develop a career after having been home all those years??  She, of course, is doing exactly what I would have done in her situation, and just being helpful - the whole “it takes a village” bullshit, right?  How did I get here?

I used to take the kids to construction areas when they were little, just to watch the bulldozers and bobcats and dump trucks.  This was all very exciting, once upon a time.  Now, when my young step kids ask to stop at a park and play, we are almost always in too much of a hurry for me to say, “yes”.  How did I get here?

And dinner time!  Didn’t we used to sit down to dinner each night as a family, dammit?  We talked about our day and appreciated the meal and learned our manners.  Now it’s all too often eating in the car between events and please don’t spill mayonnaise on my car seats.  How did I get here?

I love being independent.  I love building a successful business.  I enjoy all my “paid” jobs very much and feel grateful every day that I can work for myself and have the flexibility to attend many of my kids’ sporting events, school conferences and music concerts, even if I have to work until 1am in order to do it.

But... I wonder.  Having gone from all-in-over-the-top-devoted “at home” mom to a working parent trying to manage three jobs, five kids, a new husband and an ex-husband, not to mention more hobbies than anyone should be allowed to have, a fixer-upper bank foreclosure home that seemed like a great idea at the time and a teenager who is WAY beyond giving us “normal” trouble  **deep breath** - is there a better way?  Does somebody have a secret that I wasn’t let in on?  Do we all have the same struggles and suffer them quietly, feeling inadequate in our own individual situations?

Could somebody please tell me how in the world did I get here?

Some Random Things That Disturb Me...

My nostrils

Why do my nostrils look like this? Look around. Do you see that other people have symmetrical nostrils? Do you???  I find this incredibly disturbing.

Frog on carpet

I don’t mind reptiles or amphibians. Give me a snake, frog or a spider any day over, say, a mouse. Or a bat. Or any rodent with fur, really. But, this frog... Why is he on my bedroom carpet? How did he get there? It is the not knowing that really gets me. Did he come in on Gerd’s towel from the hot tub? Or is there a hole somewhere I am unaware of, and if so, what else is coming in said hole? These questions will never be answered. But, I do know this. Frogs don’t belong on carpet. They belong on grass. Or lily pads or something.


News about how many insects we ingest yearly

Why are these facts even out there? How are they helpful? There isn’t anything about knowing that I ingest an average of four spiders in my sleep that helps me be more successful in my daily life. In fact, this knowledge is likely to prohibit me from getting a good night’s sleep, causing me to fall asleep at the wheel and drive into a crowd of peace activists on the Marshall Avenue bridge, creating much more pain and sorrow than any news of insect ingestion ever would.


This photo of Raena:

This photo has been repeatedly placed (by two of my children) as my phone background, while I was innocently off getting the mail or cooking dinner. It never disappoints. I am startled and disturbed every time. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate very much the creativity that my daughters exercised in making it. But still. Creepy.

Rotating meat

Who thinks this is a good idea? Rotating meat, barely contained behind some glass, which we presume is to keep out germs (yeah, right). I’ve seen the distracted mom trying to get cash from the ATM while her filthy kid takes his finger out of his nose to try and grab a weiner. And what do you think, that the convenience store worker ran out to remove the contaminated meat? Oh, HELL no. They promptly turned the other way, acting busy shelving cigarettes, knowing full well that the booger (or worse) would just rotate its way around and disappear by the time the next person walks through that door. It would be one thing if this phenomenon was a fluke. Just a funny road trip photo I snapped while driving through Cooterville, Alabama. But no!! These are everywhere!! And despite several warnings from me, I have actually witnessed my husband purchase AND EAT meat from one of these. Terrifying.

The view from my pillow

This doesn’t so much disturb me as it annoys me. When I lay back to rest my weary head on my pillow at night, this is the view. Who wants to look at all this shit from their bed?? Meanwhile, all around the house, children (who claimed they HAD to have their own bedrooms - and yes, of course they’ll do their homework in them at the desks they also had to have...) are spread out in public areas of the house while their rooms sit empty, and I am forced (OK, I’m allowing it... and YES, I do know who the parent is...) to live and sleep where I work. Little bastards.

This White Puma purse

This purse can be found on:

1.  The arm of a pregnant teen who has a boyfriend with pants sagged so low his belt is mid-thigh.

2.  Girls in their upper 20s who still go to frat parties on the weekends and use tanning beds more than 3 times per week.

3.  Suburban moms between 32-46 years old who should have never had kids. Ever.

4.  Fabulous and outrageous cross-dressing men.

5.  90% of the female guests on the Jerry Springer show.

Only in the case of #4 is this purse EVER acceptable.

More is less

I’m in between a lease signing and a listing appointment in St. Paul, so I pop into Davanni’s for a quick sandwich. I order, give my first name (why do you have to spell it for them, are they going to pronounce Jeanna and Gina and Geena differently when they say it over the loudspeaker? Phonetic spelling will be just fine, thanks...) and head over to the soda machine to grab my diet coke.

But, wait! The machine looks different. There is only one place to put your cup, and hey, I’m no dummy, I can see that it is computerized, but where are the directions? Where is the button marked “ice”?? Where? I stand, dumbfounded, staring at the machine. I then realize I am blocking the path of a man years older than myself, and look expectantly at him, thinking we’ll commiserate about newfangled technology, etc. But, this guy is confident. He goes for the iced tea dispenser next to the fancy soda machine and I feel shame, until I notice he doesn’t have ice. Aha! I’m not the only one out of my element here. So, I muster up the courage to say, “This is confusing. I wonder how it works?” He’s cocky, all full of his ‘just put the cup under it and it’s automatic’, only he really doesn’t know, because he starts flopping around pushing buttons and levers and I’m watching him like he holds the key to happiness and I think my mouth may have been hanging open. He steps over to the straws and I’m on my own. I’ve learned from his flopping that I can push the lever to get ice. Ok, this I’ve done, I’ve got this. Then, I touch the icon marked Diet Coke (listen, I have an iphone, I can do touch screens). Diet Coke is one of 21 choices on the machine. This leads to another screen, where I must choose the type of Diet Coke. Lime, I’ve seen, but orange? Raspberry? Really? I pick regular, fill the cup, manage to get in the old guy’s way at least four more times, as we dance around, looking for cup lids, etc.

I stammer out that I’m sorry, but I’m all discombobulated over the fancy machine and I can see that he would rather not talk about it and I wonder, as I do many times each day, why I always have to give explanations to people when they didn’t require them.

I sit down, silently chastising myself for my neurotic tendencies, ready to wait for my sandwich. But it occurs to me that other sodas might have new flavors, too, so I watch for an opening and dart back to the machine. Indeed, there seem to be six flavor choices for each soda. This is, let’s do the math, 21x6 = 126 different choices on the machine. That is 126 different options for what soda to drink at the Davanni’s at Cleveland and Grand in St. Paul.

Which gets me thinking. How many choices to do we really need? Is life somehow better because you had 126 choices of soda at Davanni’s? Yes, yes, when I get asked “Is Pepsi ok?” I’m always a little pissed. Pepsi, blech. We all have our preferences. But, I can drink Diet Pepsi. It won’t kill me (ok, it might).

But is it a life better lived when choosing from an endless variety of carbonated cancer juice?

Ode to the organic veggie

Oh, organic veggie. You misshapen bundle of pure, healthy joy.

Never mind that you aren’t perfect. Sure, you’ll never make a freeway billboard advertising for Byerly’s, all shined, waxed and seamless. But you are SO fun!

Carrot Man!

Thank you for your prolific tendencies, which enable me to enjoy you, while you give yourself freely to other creatures..

Slug Massacre

Black Swallowtail Takeover

Oh sure, you aren’t always faithful. Your shameless flirting attracts all sorts of other creatures, who do not like to share you with me, and do their best to keep me away. Even the bumblebee, who I thought was my friend, wants you all to himself:

I got my ass whooped by a bee.

And you do have a dirty, dirty mind, with your porn-star potatoes and boobie tomatoes...

And frankly, you’re getting a little cocky with the whole “over-sized-enter-me-in-the-fair” zucchini giants:

But you smother my windowsill with beauty, each and every year.

You produce colors so vivid, I can hardly stand it. It practically makes me cry.

I know we fight sometimes. Like when I’m trying to lose weight and yet you are there, taunting me, inspiring me to create food that is so good, it not only doesn’t help me lose weight, it actually makes me gain it, because you are just so tasty, I can’t, simply CAN’T, stop eating you!!!

Grilled Vegetable Pasta

Garden Veggie Scramble with White Beans

Then I’m all mad at you, stepping on the scale the next day and thinking that if you weren’t so sweet, so convincing, so damn good with a glass of cabernet, none of this would have happened. I know, I know. I need to take responsibility for my own excess and indulgence. Blah, blah, the vegetable is always right, blah, blah.

But in the end, I am filled with admiration. Gratitude. Awe.

You tolerate my selfishness, when I relax in the hot tub, knowing that you really need more watering, but not feeling like giving you the attention. You don’t punish me, and the next day, there you are, with your red tomatoes, gorgeous butternut squash and juicy peppers.

You don’t complain when the wind blows down your inadequate cages. You don’t remind us that we promised last year to build something stronger. You simply lay down on the landscape fabric (we did that for you, you know) and ripen, honored to become a scrumptious San Marzano sauce.

You are simply you. Warty, blistered, and amazing.

You found your way into my grilled cheese. And you found you way into my heart.

Why is the UPS man friendlier than my neighbors?

I run. And it’s an unlikely hobby/sport/activity for me, because frankly, I am really bad at it.

In high school, our gym teacher, Ms. Helene, would send us off to run the mile. My friend Renae and I would always bring up the rear. I think we justified our sloth-like tendencies with the fact that our gym teacher was on her bicycle, barking at everyone to go faster or do their best or at least stop walking. She just wasn’t all that inspirational. But really, we just sucked at running and were too lazy to even attempt to improve.

Later, in college, I signed up for a class called “Conditioning” with my roommate Mary. Those nights of ordering pizza and drinking beer were catching up, and the dreaded “Freshman 15” was quickly becoming a reality. So, let’s fulfill the liberal arts phy ed requirement and get in shape at the same time, shall we? And when do said classes occur? At 8am, of course! So, off we’d go...crabby, unmotivated, frequently hungover, behind on our homework in every class (well, Mary wasn’t actually behind, fucking brainiac...). Our teacher was from England and his name was Angus. He was hairy and in really good shape. He would send us all out to run various routes on campus and Mary and I would promptly run right back to the dorm, where we usually arrived in time to power down a couple of donuts from the cafeteria before heading back to our room to take a nap. As I drifted off to sleep, I justified all this with the fact that I took the class pass/fail. I passed.

Fast forward to the days after my separation following 13 years of marriage. I started to run out of spite. Out of angst-filled, misplaced, competitive spite. You see, my ex was good at running. He was fast, he had run a half marathon, blah, blah, blah. I thought, if that rat bastard who left me can run, I can run!!! I’ve grown children in my body and birthed them without drugs!!! Surely I can run!! But, knowing that I sucked at it, I started running at 11pm so that my neighbors couldn’t see if I collapsed. And I knew there was a pretty darn good chance of that.

A funny thing happened. I got hooked. Eventually I began to run in broad daylight. Oh sure, I was huffing and puffing, desperately trying to slow my breathing when I ran past someone else. (I just hate it when they give me sympathetic, or worse, worried looks...). And when I moved to the city, that was it, I was definitely a runner. Running there was so fun!! The blocks were short, there was all this energy in the air, there was so much to see and to distract a person from the heart exploding out of one’s chest and general concern about where to find a bathroom if a sudden poopmergency should occur.

Now, here I am in the burbs. Here you run and run and runandrunandrunandrunandrun and then you go home and map your route and see that you went a couple of miles, even though you were sure you just ran 10. There are all these hills and during certain times the lawn chemicals that permeate the air are so strong you can actually feel your healthy cells morphing into cancerous ones.

But still, I run.

And as I run, I have observed that the folks out and about in these parts are just not very friendly. Here’s how it goes...

I am running and a car is approaching. I am running against the traffic, of course, because I know that 90% of these people are looking down at their cell phones, 25% of them are new teenage drivers who just passed the test even though they shouldn’t have and 100% of them are not expecting to see anyone on the street because hardly anyone here goes out of their house at all. It used to be that I would put on my happy face as the car approached, all Pollyanna/we should get together for a BBQ some time/maybe I’ll plan a block party next National Night out, and I would wave and smile despite the fact that I could barely breathe from the effort. One of the following possible scenarios would then occur:

1. The person in the car would not look at me at all, staring straight ahead as if they could only focus on the task of driving...which got me thinking... Do they even see me? What if I was clutching my heart with palpitations? Would they stop if I tried to wave them down? Do they see that my face is the color of the beets their grandma canned in 1961, which are still in the basement of her farm house in Vernon Center, Minnesota? Do they???

2. The person in the car would not look at me, but would be smiling. Smiling and not looking. It is some sort of Minnesota nice, yet Minnesota rude, combination of behaviors. I SEE you, but I wish not to look at you, but I wish not to offend you, so I will not look at you but will smile, but with my mouth closed (grin), so that you have to look pretty close to even notice that it is a smile (grin) at all. And now you are actually wondering if I am smiling (grinning) at you, or just remembering some really good sex I had last night or an article I read in Cat Fancy that makes me smile (grin). Because I just love cats, and now I am remembering my own cat, who is the only living creature I have actually made eye contact with in 23 years.

3. And this is the worst one of all, the most unforgivable, the most maddening. The person in the car looks directly at me, does not smile, does not wave. Just looks right at me. Really? Well, fuck you! Do you think you are in a bubble, there in your Escalade that cost more than what 48 immigrant families could live on for an entire year? Oh, I am on to you. You with your judgement. You are wondering about the music I’m listening to. Yes, as a matter of fact I am listening to the Parental Advisory versions of all the songs that your fundamentalist pastor told you would make your kids turn to drugs and sex. You are wondering about my bandana, aren’t you? Don’t most suburban ladies just wear your basic visor or baseball cap when they “exercise”? She must be one of those liberal hippie types. You think you can make these judgements while staring/not smiling/not waving because you know that you will drive home and pull right into your garage and even if you happen to see me, I am like 4 full acres away and that is why you moved out here so you could feel like you are in a “neighborhood”, but you never really have to talk to anybody at all.

4. Sometimes a moderately overweight, middle-aged lady with blond hair & dark roots who looks over-tired and is driving too fast because she is definitely late and it is her morning to drive carpool actually does smile and wave at me. But, I always see the little hint of confusion on her face as she speeds by, because the only reason she waves is because she THINKS she knows me (and of course, she doesn’t). She was just trying to be politically correct, not actually friendly, you see.

Do these people not see how I’m struggling? I shouldn’t be the one to have to worry about the waving. I should be waved AT, as I focus on my breathing and gut-busting side ache. Can’t they see that my dog can stop, squat, poop, do the scratching-backward-to-cover-your-poop thing that some dogs do, and resume her running and I didn’t even have to stop and wait for her? I’m going THAT slow! I NEED your smiles. I NEED your waves. I need to believe that you are sympathizing with my efforts out here, people. (Note: I know you noticed that I didn’t mention picking up the dog poop, and I can ASSURE you, I only DON’T pick it up if I can direct Lola to a ditch or tall prairie grass area).

And then there are the yard people! None of them MEANT to be in the yard. It happened by accident. They had to get the mail, they had to mow the lawn, their wife told them they had to go out and play catch with the 8-year-old because he needs some time with his barely interested dad. They are equally good at ignoring other humans in their general domain. They fall into these categories:

1. People at the mailbox, in the yard, just leaving to exercise themselves. Once in a while, someone accidentally looks up and is forced to decide. Do I look away? Do I smile and say hello? Do I wave and say nothing? You can feel their stress, their awkwardness. They never meant to be in this situation. Didn’t they move out here to avoid just this? I usually bail them out by waving and saying hello with a big smile. Then, I instantly resent them if they don’t respond the same way.

2. Middle-aged-mowing-men. These guys are on their riding mowers and what in the world are they thinking? Are they reminiscing about that touchdown they scored in 11th grade during the JV game against the Pirates? Are they contemplating leaving their wife? Are they considering suicide? They look THAT miserable. And what’s with the headphones? They all have these headphones on. Are they “avoiding” with the headphones? Well, honey, I didn’t hear you calling to me that my mom was on the phone, because I had “the headphones” on. These guys NEVER wave and they never look. They just keep mowing. I wonder if they feel proud of their overly chemically treated, golf-course-like lawns. At least I know where I stand with them.

And then there are the other runners. Oh sure, they know there is a chance they might run into someone else. After all, they are venturing FROM their air-conditioned privacy to a PUBLIC street. So they have planned ahead. They will either look straight ahead, not feel bad about it and if you run into them later, deny having seen you at all. Or, they will wave with camaraderie and exasperation (since we’re all out here working so hard). The camaraderie I love, of course!! Yes, here we all are, exercising!! We can do it!! My legs are jiggling, too!!! Let’s run a 10k together!! But, I do love to taunt the ones who don’t look by shouting things like...well, you’re running uphill, but at least it’s shady!!

But then... there are the UPS men (and certainly there must be UPS women, but I have sure never seen one...). The UPS men ALWAYS smile and wave. I have become so, so grateful for them. When I see that truck coming down the street, I know what is going to happen. I don’t have to stress out about it at all. We will BOTH smile and wave. It is just so predictable and comforting. It makes me want to run home and order a bunch of stuff off the Home Shopping Network, so that they will deliver it to my house and I can bring them inside and offer them iced tea, and organic vegetables I grew in the garden that they can bring home to their family and I will also offer to help them sell their house for a discounted commission and send pots of the beautiful perennials I just divided up for them to plant in their gardens.

And this all gets me thinking. Do people only have enough “nice” to use at, say, work? Or with their family? Is there a limitation on available friendliness and kindness in the human race? Does the UPS man smile and wave at me, but then go back to the UPS garage, drop off the truck, get in his Chevy Traverse and go to his own neighborhood, NOT waving to his neighbors out running?

I may never know. But for now, I think I’ll keep waving and smiling and hoping...

Fetus Eraser

In an attempt to teach responsibility, care and concern for others in our community and just generally get my teenager doing something besides Facebook and organizing her social calendar, I strongly suggested she find volunteer work this summer. OK, I demanded it.  

What I really wanted her to do was get a job.  But when it became apparent that her life was just a little (a lot) too good for her to actually go work for pay, it was time to enforce the volunteer idea.  Oh sure, she applied for lots of jobs, mostly online.  Times are tough, blah, blah, adult competition, blah, blah.  I know, already!  But, there are always babysitting jobs and I did hear the words “Do not like to change diapers” come out of her mouth.  Pay was offered for other jobs by relatives and I heard “Too busy”.  So, you get my point...

I wanted to believe that all my parental teachings on altruism made a difference.  I wanted to believe that I had instilled a sense of joy for helping others in my own offspring.  I wanted to believe that all the damn volunteer work we did when they were little kids would have somehow STUCK.  Or become a habit.  Or at least seemed like a decent idea.  Apparently not.

After repeatedly emailing her links to local volunteer opportunities, Facebook invitations for community service efforts, and “bringing it up” in casual conversation 4,657,023 times, I finally told Hannah she was grounded from all social activities until she had regular volunteer work.  Now we’re getting somewhere.

She quickly reports that she is going to start volunteering at a place called “Project Life” with one of her friends.  Project Life?!?!  Whoa, Nellie - RED FLAG HERE.  I tell myself this isn’t about me and proceed... So, I say, What will you do there?  Oh, fold baby clothes and organize things that they give to help out single moms.  Hmmm.  I try, So, is it a pro-life-type place?  Well, it might be, but what I am doing there is just stuff to help the single moms.  Yep. I knew it.

So off she goes, along with two other friends she has now recruited to help out (these kids all need hours for their honor society club or something, it would seem).  The first week seems innocent enough, indeed folding baby clothes and some other vaguely described tasks.  Hannah is a hero for bringing friends and is being considered for a “volunteer coordinator” position during the school year.  I don’t like where this is headed.  No, I do not.  

Week 2:  Hannah comes home and informs me while I am cooking dinner that if you have sex outside your marriage you are 100% guaranteed to get hurt.  I say, what kind of hurt?  She says, oh, I can’t exactly remember what the video said - an STD maybe?  That’s it!!  The gloves are off.  I go on a tirade about how the way to prevent an STD is to use proper protection and that having sex outside your marriage is a whole separate issue and what the hell are they doing showing them these videos, anyway.  She says they wanted them to “preview” the videos.  Brainwashing!  So, I say, you are being brainwashed.  And now I begin to threaten to picket the place while Hannah is volunteering.  Gerd walks in on all this and gently, teasingly reminds me that I said she had to do volunteer work and did not dictate what kind of volunteer work she had to do.  He is right.  Ass.

Week 3:  Now Hannah and I are joking about her volunteer work.  She taunts me when she refers to the volunteer work.  This was not at all what I had in mind.  I begin to refer to Project Life as Project Anti-Choice.  I ask Hannah if they pass out birth control there.  Oh, no, they do not believe in birth control.  Of course they don’t!!!!  I say that my picket sign will have condoms hanging from it.  Hannah reminds me that the girls she is helping ALREADY got pregnant and had a baby.  I begin suggesting other volunteer opportunities.  Gerd again reminds me that this is not MY volunteer work.  

Week 4:  Hannah tells me that they have fetus erasers at Project Anti-Choice.  Fetus erasers?  She goes on to say that she and her friends have this idea for a senior prank where they’ll order a bunch of the erasers and have them showing up in various areas of the school.  This is where I should insert a comment about senior pranking and the trouble she could get into and doing the right thing, but all I can think is what does a fetus eraser look like? This is what it looks like:

Because, of course I asked that Hannah bring home a fetus eraser.  Honestly, I was expecting it to be a tiny, hard rubber, obscure shape of something that vaguely resembled a baby.  You know, the kind of things you stick on the end of a pencil.  I was not expecting a soft, rubbery, quite large, probably-couldn’t-erase-anything FETUS.

What's a liberal-minded mama to do?

It’s a funny thing, raising kids.  They are so much are part of us, yet they are their own people, making their own choices.

The fetus eraser, meanwhile, is nowhere to be seen...

Blog Disclaimer...

Listen.  I don’t know how to NOT be me, especially when I’m writing.  Because of this, my blog will include subject matter that is often:  offensive, capricious, foul-mouthed, gushy, judgmental, too-much-information, self-deprecating, and occasionally all of the above.  You weren’t expecting this?  You wanted to believe I was all kindness and good?  Sorry about that.

I’ve looked at the blank Blog page many times, staring at it for long periods of time.  Usually, my mind drifts to someone that I might offend if I start writing publicly.  I promptly click away from the Blog page, delving back into the privacy of my own electronic files, with fleeting thoughts of how family members might feel if my words are suddenly revealed to them in a moment of unexpected sorrow one day after I’ve expired in a fiery death on the interstate and they are going through my things.

But, I digress.

Let’s just agree that if you are easily offended, or if you want to believe only what you know or think you know about me, you will just hit the “back” button and go visit a different page.  Or, proceed with my page. But don’t judge, ok?  Or, do judge, but don’t tell me that you did.  Or, tell me, but don’t judge my family.  This is MY blog, dammit! 

Why, you ask, would someone who feels the need to dictate a massive disclaimer at the beginning of her Blog even bother to Blog?  Well, silly, that’s like asking an extrovert why they are compelled to talk incessantly.  Or why a drug addict must do drugs.  I am compelled to write.  To share.  To communicate.  Somehow through others discovering who I am, I hope to discover who I am as well.  Yep, still trying to figure that one out.

Gina