24 Years Ago

Sometimes it feels like 100 years ago, and sometimes it feels like just yesterday that I married my soul mate and love of my life.

Our 25+ years together has been bumpy, rocky and sometimes seemingly impassable, but here we are one year shy of our silver anniversary.  I can only attribute that to the both of us growing into stronger and more forgiving people, and having faith.

Twenty-five years ago my mother told me we would never last. She blamed John for almost killing me after I was very near death from a tubal pregnancy. She sat my then fiance' down and told him I was damaged goods and he deserved better because I had been sexually abused- right in front of me like I wasn't even there, meanwhile John sat calmly and let her finish, then told her plainly that I had told him EVERYTHING about my childhood. Her sabotage didn't work, thank God, because I had been completely honest with him in our first week of dating.

She made me change my wedding date 4 different times because she had plans, unwilling to change her plans for my wedding. She took control of my wedding planning and told John he could only invite 15 people out of 250 invites because she was going to pay for the reception as a gift. She eventually threw me a wedding shower but then kept all the gifts that I had stored at their house while I was in the Navy, all because John argued that 15 people were not enough from his side. She cancelled the wedding reception, kept my shower gifts AND told me she had prayed and God told her she (and the rest of my family)  wasn't allowed to go to the wedding... then lied to my brothers that because I was mad I had uninvited all of them.

My mother's pastor grudgingly held our wedding ceremony in a dirty church with small pieces of lint and paper scraps in the aisle, after my mother - I am sure- told him how I had been disrespectful to her. He didn't look at me a single time during the wedding ceremony, which was certainly rushed and maybe lasted 10-15 minutes. He glanced at John a few times but only looked over my head.

None of my immediate family came to our wedding, but my mother's sister and her family came, including my aunt's in-laws who let us call them "granny" and "gramps" as kids. My art teacher from high school came, I was and still am so very touched she would do that for me. We had navy friends there, and John had quite a few family members that flew and drove from Iowa and Virginia. I had my great grandmother and some high school friends who showed up for me as well.

We had about maybe 40 people show up to our wedding, but some of the guests did not go to the reception. All in all, we spent 1000.00 for our wedding, my off the rack wedding dress costing just under half of that. The rest was spent on flowers, a 2 tier wedding cake and flowers we ordered from a grocery store, and John and his brother's tuxedo rentals. Luckily a family friend and mom of one of my high school classmates had heard about how my mother had treated us and she graciously approached John and I about having our reception at her house near her pool, and she and another family friend bought and cooked the food for us for a measly 100.00. What a blessing that was!

When it came time for the wedding to begin, I almost had a nervous breakdown because John decided that arriving 5 minutes before the ceremony was supposed to start was completely appropriate! I figured after all the craziness he has experienced from my family during our 11 month engagement, he had probably gotten cold feet.

I still missed having my family there, but was very thankful for the family that did show up; my aunt and her family, and my art teacher- who secretly I had always wished had been my cool and quirky mom. I was very blessed to have had a father-in-law who had been sweet enough to ask me if he could walk me down the aisle, even though we hadn't met yet.

The first 25 years of our relationship- just like our wedding day- has been bitter sweet, but mostly sweet. I willingly give my husband most of the credit, though. He knows how genuinely messed up I am and loves me despite all of it. He knows me like no other, he knows all of my dark secrets. Every. Single. One. And I am almost positive that I know all of his. We are both damaged from our childhoods. Sometimes we can be rough around the edges but we manage to love each other through it, because we see value in all that we have conquered in the past.

What makes our relationship continue to grow despite rough patches? I think it's because our valleys have been so low at times that it makes the high points that much higher. It's the bitter in the bittersweet that makes it all that much richer and sweeter.

My younger brother told me a few years ago that considering I was the black sheep of the family, he had always thought that I would be the one married 3 times with all sorts of kids. We both had a good laugh out of that since he and my older brother have both been married 3 times each, and here I am chugging along in my imperfect but lengthy marriage.

From meager and troubled beginnings we came... A 19 year old bride and a 21 year old groom.We were talking last night in bed, just an hour into our official 24th anniversary. Looking back, we would have still kept our wedding small if it meant we would do it our way, on our terms.

OR used that 1000.00 to get married in Vegas. *wink*

To my husband, The Male Income Support Unit:

I love you, John. Thank you for loving me when I was unlovable, forgiving me when I was unforgivable, and for understanding my crazy from it's deepest roots. Thank you for giving me 3 adorable kids and 25 years.


The first 25 years have been a doozy... I can't wait to see where we go from here! All I can say is it better not involve me getting pregnant again.


Love,

Me

Fill in the blank

The Goddess of Those Who Shall Not Be Tagged...

(but she gets tagged any way, much to her dismay... and the last time I tagged her I pulled the "my toddler is actually tagging you, not me" card. heheheeheheheeee......squee! But I should be off the hook now since I just did call her a Goddess. But, I digress... maybe I should put up a poll? Hmm, there's a thought. This has to be the longest post whisper in parenthesis EVAH! Maybe I should make a poll for that too. I digress again! Maybe this is the longets post whisper ever, with the most digressions ever? Poll #3 anyone?) ...

has done what Goddesses [of Those Who Shall Not Be Tagged] often do, which is to employ the whole "do as I say and not as I do" tactic. ;)

Yes. She tagged me. Payback is a sumumma gun.



She has blessed me with an interesting meme, one where you fill in the blanks... which- if you know me even a little, you know how dangerous a proposition that could be, depending on my mood and which way the wind is currently blowing.

Anyway, enjoy... some of it will shock and amaze you, and some of it is embarrassing to admit- but we're all friends here right?

1. I can’t believe I’ve never…

got my driver's license

But I'm working on it. :/

2. Every time I think about … I still cringe.

mistakes I have made as a mother and wife

3. I wish I’d …when I had the chance.

used the GI bill for college.

Now I work for minimum wage after 11 years of nursing experience. *sniff*

4. I’ve never felt so out of place as when I…

go to work at my new job, with a bunch of high school and college students LOL!

5. … is my guiltiest pleasure.

Shopping online, especially the clearance sections.

6. I hope … knows how grateful I am for …

John, Ben, Marci, and Aunt Yvonne...

loving me for who I am, right now, flaws and all.

7. In my darkest hours, I secretly blame … for my dysfunction.

my genetic donors. BAH!

But, it's no secret. ;)

8. … changed my life forever.

Finding a man who loves me, finally having kids, disowning my mother, and reconnecting with my sister


If you would like to do this meme, let me know in comments that you are doing it and I'll check it out!

What to do when your 6 year old child says "I hate you"

I have always known that Anna is a bit ahead of the curve in maturity and brain cells. Bearing that in mind I have also always known that eventually and inevitably the day would come when she said those dreaded words.

I hate you.

I wasn't expecting the day to be today, and I wasn't expecting her to be the ripe age of 6 1/2. I certainly did expect those words to be hurled at me from the throws of prepubescence, and I was even more certain that they would pop up during some premenstrual debacle.

Those are words that I know well. Too well. I cannot tell you how many times those words were said to me in anger as a child. I think what hurt the most is when those words were handed to me with apathy.

Anna said that she hated me, then told me that everything was my fault... and after that I can honestly say that I don't remember much. I told her she was to stay in her room and not come out until it was clean and that I did not want to talk to her.

I went down stairs in a haze. I walked in circles until I was crushed under the pressure and weight of those 3 words. I cried. I can honestly say that it grieves me.

So I did what I always do when furious or hurt, I cleaned. After I worked offf a little grief I decided to google 'what to do when your 6 year old child says "I hate you"'. I read various sites that stated that at this age they are not aware of the meaning of those words and say them because they are angry, but don't mean them. Sure, I know that younger children say these things to their parents, and I know that hypothetically they don't mean it. You can't say that about Anna. She's very intelligent. Though I know she may not realize the consequences of this act I can tell you that she meant them with every fiber, even for a brief moment.

This site said:

The unanimous chorus from experts: Don't take it personally. Kids say these things when they're frustrated or angry. It doesn't mean you're a bad parent. Of course, distancing yourself when your kid seems to be dissing your mothering skills isn't easy, but letting your child think that you're all too happy to get rid of him -- or worse, that you hate him, too -- isn't okay. Since the under-9 set are literal thinkers, they won't detect the reverse psychology at work, and you might end up undermining your child's trust...

...Easier said than done, of course, but if you're upset, wait until you've calmed down to say anything. "When you get emotional, you lose 50 IQ points," says Ray Levy. "But later on you can say, 'It hurts my feelings when you tell me you hate me.' Usually when kids are calm, they're pretty remorseful."

Even though I agree with the last part of the statement above, I do not feel it is OK to "just let it go". Not at Anna's age anyway, no matter how literal she is she is also very logical and emotionally driven. I feel at this age is entirely appropriate for Anna to understand the kind of fallout that can occur in this situation. I sat at my computer thinking about what I would say to her. On one hand I could gloss it over " and not dwell on it, as the article above insinuates, as well as all of the other sites I visited. On another I could explain how horrendously this has affected me at the risk of making her feel guilty, in order for her to understand how devastating this can be for a loved one; and for her to understand that she must never do this again.

Then I read this blog post... THANK GOD. Finally something that addresses the state of the mature child and what it means to be 6 years old. Shauna, the blog author quotes from a book that helped her immensely :

The six-year-old is a complex child, entirely different from the five-year-old.Though many of the changes are for the good -- Six is growing more mature, more independent, more daring and adventurous -- this is not necessarily an easy time for the little girl or boy. Relationships with mothers are troubled -- most of the time Six adores mother, but whenever things go wrong, it's her fault. It used to be, at Five, that she was the center of the child's universe; now, the child is the center of his own universe.

Yes, exactly. OK. I value my children's opinions. I expect them to be able to tell me what that think and feel. All I'm asking is for a little courtesy. I want so much for my kids to have what I didn't which is an opinion... but I need to be able to draw the line at hurt and disrespect , and I need to be able to tell them that it's not OK.

Anna eventually came downstairs about an hour after the incident and apologized for saying those words and that she didn't mean them anymore. I sat there with my mouth open for a moment, trying to compose my thoughts. She didn't mean it anymore.

I explained to her that it hurts me that she felt that way at all, even if it was just for a moment. I said that hate was a very strong word, and though I was glad she was sorry , it's hard to take that word back. I also said that hate is the strongest negative word you can say to someone you love, and when you say it- even though you will probably be sorry later- it stays with a person.

I explained that though I have been angry with her many times, I have never hated her and would never EVER say that to her. I explained that telling someone that you hate them and that you wish that they had never been born are the worst things yo could say to someone you love or care about. I told her that my mother told me those things more times than I can remember, and it still hurts to this day.

I explained that those words will stay with me and in my heart forever... and that the reason why I was telling her this was for her to understand and learn from this situation.

I want her to learn that it's NEVER OK to tell someone you hate them, especially not the people you love. That it's OK to tell me she is angry with me, and I will acknowledge her feelings. It's OK to express anger, hurt and frustration. I respect her as a person, I respect her feelings.

I explained all of this and the fact that those words were unacceptable. She sobbed on my shoulder. We hugged and I told her I loved her, and she held on to me for what seemed like dear life for over 10 minutes.

My heart hurts a little less and I am hoping that over time that abyss will close and heal itself to the tiniest of fractures.

I know the joys will out number the sorrows. I have faith that the brilliance of her love and understanding will fill those little cracks with so much light that they will be unseen to the naked eye. Hopefully no one will know they are there but me.

I've got a dirty little secret, and my dilemma

OK, it's not dirty, but it's not what you would expect from a mommy blogger. Bear with me, folks.

About 4 days ago, my younger brother called me with an idea. Since he and I are flying out to see our sister in less than a month and he will be meeting Marci face to face for the first time, Ben thought that to commemorate the moment, we could all get a tattoo. Marci already has 2, and Ben has at least 5 I think... but me? None. That's not to say that I don't have markings. I have plenty of marks on me but none of them are pretty.

My husband became angry very quickly, he is against tattoos, you see. He thought it was very inappropriate for my younger brother to suggest something like this, and he was angry that I would even tell Ben that I would consider it- despite knowing that he doesn't like them. Later he asked me what kind of example would I be setting for our children, which I really took offense to.

This may sound a bit romantic but since watching Miami Ink (which I love), I have learned that usually there is a reason behind a tattoo. That's not to say that people don't get a tattoo on a whim, or because they saw something pretty they liked. Watching the show and being an artist, I began to appreciate the time, effort and artistic skill these guys put into their work. Almost every client they have wants a tattoo for a reason, usually as a memorial to a lost loved one or to signify an experience that they had that changed their life forever.

And... to be quite honest, I have always wanted a tattoo but I could never think of reason good enough to get one. Most importantly though, I didn't want my husband to think less of me.

Over it's [almost] 38 years, my body has endured marking. I have so many scars that I have stopped counting; each and every scar has a story and a distinct memory attached to it. Some of the memories are horrible, and others bearable.

The marks on my body are not who I am as a person. They don't define me, and they certainly are not boundary markers of who I am and who I could or couldn't be. They simply tell a story of life as it is , and has been up until today.

I have many, many cat scratch scars from the 8 cats that I have owned since being married 18 years ago. Whether kittens or adult cats, all of my cats have given me at least one battle scar.

I have a small scar between my eyebrows from the time I managed to pull the high jump bar down on myself in track. As I jumped over, my foot hooked itself on the bar and eventually the bar came crashing down on my brow, the sheer force of the bar colliding with my skull caused my skin to split open. This scar brings up old resentments because I had finally found something that I loved but my mother refused to let me continue because I had hurt myself. This from the person who hurt me and my body on an almost daily basis... it doesn't make sense to me.

When I feel the pebble that is embedded in my skin just beneath a layer of barely perceptible scar tissue, I don't think of fear so much as a choice to live no matter what the consequences would be. I can recall jumping from that car with clarity as if it had happened yesterday, and though I felt great fear, I decided that jumping from a speeding car would ultimately save my life. My thoughts weren't completely coherent, but when I look back on that day, and on the days that my elbow hurts- in a weird way I look back with an odd fondness. This little pebble of mine reminds me on the days when I don't want to get out of bed that I am a braver human being than I give myself credit for.

I have a mark on my neck... it's fading still but if you look you can see it. Four years ago I had a very large benign mass removed with the right side of my thyroid. I feared for my life while I waited for the results from the preliminary biopsy, and those 2 weeks before I was told I would still have to have surgery to remove the mass was agony. I imagined the worst, that I had cancer, and that I would not live to see my 2 year old Anna grown into adulthood.

In my sk*rt post I explained that you'd "see paths my body traveled- in joy and in pain, through the marks mapped out on my thighs and belly", and I talk about "the scar on my lower belly that bore three children- 2 in life and one that was not meant to be". I also have 3 new scars : One on my right bicep, and two on my right thigh and hip from having lumps removed from body last December.

These marks were not my choosing. I didn't want any of them, and yet here they are. I've had a life time of marks placed on my body, and my life - I hope- is far from over.

After thinking for a night on what image I would want on my body forever- despite knowing that my husband was still very angry about the whole thing- the lotus flower kept coming to my mind. I told my brother and sister about the symbolism behind it and they both love the idea:

In modern times the meaning of a lotus flower tattoo ties into it's religious symbolism and meaning. Most tattoo enthusiast feel that the a lotus tattoo represent life in general. As the lotus flower grows up from the mud into a object of great beauty people also grow and change into something more beautiful . So the symbol represents the struggle of life at its most basic form.

Lotus flower tattoos are also popular for people who have gone through a hard time and are now coming out of it. Like the flower they have been at the bottom in the muddy, yucky dirty bottom of the pond but have risen above this to display an object of beauty or a life of beauty as the case might be. Thus a lotus flower tattoo or blossom can also represent a hard time in life that has been overcome.

After my husband had a whole day away at work, he was able to calm down and see things from my perspective. I told him that even though he doesn't necessarily like tattoos, that I hoped that he could see that this is something that will make me happy and he could be OK with that.

As I showed him the designs I am looking at (and after I chided him for not trusting me earlier that I could pick something that was actually pretty), and after I explained the symbolism behind the lotus, he admitted that me having a tattoo cold be sexy and that he liked what it represents. ;)

Don't get me wrong, it's not set in stone yet- we are still mulling it over.

I would love, just for once, to have a mark put on my body by my own choice. I would love to be reminded daily of the spiritual pact I am making with my brother and sister, and the joy of meeting my sister again after 10 years. I would love to be able to look at this mark and remember all that I have overcome, and see the beautiful flower that I am today.

It's not that I need a tattoo to remind me of all those things, but it would make me very happy.

Manic Monday: Independence

This is my first Manic Monday post... Memories of my independence are mixed with great joy and fear of the unknown, and as I read some of the Manic Monday entries today, those feelings hit me once again.

A little while back I wrote about the stretch of time that occurred between me graduating from high school and meeting my husband, and to quote from part 3 of You Had Me At "You Kind Of Annoy Me" ,I talk about barely existing while waiting to start my new life in the Navy, months after graduation. I refer to the fact that my mother told me that she and the rest of my family had prayed and that GOD told them I was lying about being sexually abused by my real father, that I was sick and needed help, and that this was the reason why I was such a troubled child and such a burden to them:

I suffered through the holidays as best as I could, knowing that the end was in sight... just beyond my reach. I survived those last few days on pins and needles, excited about the unknown that stretched before me. I remember the night they took me to the airport with such clarity, I remember every facial twitch, every nervous gesture... None of them my own. By now, I was a master at masking my emotions, but inside I was ready to ignite!

My mother broke the silence.

"We believe you."

Squinting at my mother, I said a solitary,"What?"

"I said, we believe you."

I said nothing. I sat, I stared. Emotionless. Seemingly. Tears began to trickle down those stone cheeks of mine, and yet I never wavered.

My mother, taking my tears as a sign of some sort, started to cry hysterically. Was it sadness she saw, or forgiveness? Or maybe just weakness... I'll never know. It was if I was standing upon a precipice, and felt relief and joy knowing that I was about to take the jump. I murmured goodbyes, trying not to show my elation and agitation. I felt that old familiar feeling that at any moment she would pull the rug out from underneath of me.

As I walked through the boarding area, I never looked back. The next few hours would be spent with me being hit on by two older business men. As I flew from Maryland to Florida, I looked at pictures of their children, forced smiles at thinly veiled attempts by one of them to sound divorced, and accepted compliments, sexual innuendos, and business cards with home numbers scrawled on the back... simply because I had nowhere else to go.

What a way to start my new life.

I'll never forget that day. Never. It's as important to me, and is as much of a life altering, joyous moment as marrying my soul mate and finally having my daughters after years of infertility.

It was the first step in me claiming myself as a whole and separate person, and the first step I would take in standing up to my mother many years later. One day I would finally tell my mother she couldn't hurt me anymore with her words and her hands, and though the scars are still there from the past- mentally and physically- I tell her goodbye and try my hardest not to look back.

Sooooo... this is interesting.***Very loooong****

Yesterday, my brother called me to inform me that the other "hatchling" (from the egg donor) had found him on myspace. If you read this post you might remember me mentioning that I have a half sister that my mother gave up for adoption before I was born. She is only 13-14 months older than me (which is less than I had originally thought, I had thought 15-19 months), so she was 3 or 4 months old when my mother got pregnant again.

According to the egg donor (my mother- we call her that sometimes because calling her mother and mom makes my brother and I uncomfortable, and well, she doesn't deserve the title), when she met my real father (whom we shall refer to as the "jerk", sorry, having a bad day today since all of this is intertwined) she was already pregnant with my sister. My mother had already had my older brother by this time because she had gotten preggers in high school, and he was probably about 2 1/2 to 3 years old. So the jerk supposedly wanted to marry her but said that it was either him or the baby.

My younger brother Ben had talked to the jerk about 10- 12 years ago and according to the jerk- he had told my mother that he couldn't afford to take care of 2 kids, and the baby would probably be better off.

On a side note- Either way, I was told by the egg donor that I was hated before I was born because the jerk accused my mother of cheating on him and that I wasn't his baby. He beat her while she was pregnant, and I guess in her twisted brain she believe that it was somehow the fault of her unborn child- me. I was also told that because of all of this, and the fact that i was unwanted, that my mother *poor her* struggled to love me my whole life.

In a way this makes sense in that my father really didn't want more kids, and here she was pregnant again.Whose fault exactly that I am here on this earth... well we'll never know because I don't plan on speaking to either of my genetic donors ever again.

Anyway, fast forward to the day that Princess Diana died. I remember that day well and it is burned in my memory. Just minutes before I had learned of her tragic death while checking the vitals on my ICU patient and the TV blaring in the back ground. I get a phone call at the desk, which is very unusual because I don't normally work in the ICU, I just float there at times. It's my mother, and she tells me to sit down, She then tells me that my sister Stephanie (the name my mother had given her at birth, but later her name was changed by her adoptive parents to Marci) has found my mother. I'm afraid I don't really remember the details of how she found my mother- I think I was stunned.

Unbelievably, she only lives about 40 minutes from me, in the Sacramento area. I'm so happy at the news, I can't even express it... all my life I had wanted a sister, and at the age of about 10 my mother had told us what had happened. I finally had my sister! I was finally going to meet the sister that I imagined at times, and when I would see a woman who looked like me while we lived in California, my heart would pound at the thought that that could be her.

The next day I think I talked to Marci, and we planned to meet, she was going to drive out to meet me and John. Though the meeting went well, and I got to meet my two nieces, I could tell that underneath it all there was a sadness to Marci- who , by the way, looks a lot like my mother. I understood, how could I not? My mother hadn't wasted any time getting pregnant again.

A day or two later John and I had surprised my mother by taking our new car down payment money we had saved for several months and we bought her plane tickets to come out and meet her daughter that she hadn't seen since birth. My mother flew out after we had made plans with Marci to come to her house and spend the night.

The visit was very strained, my mother had bouts of tears and depression, and would "check out" right in front of everyone. To try to explain the situation and why my mother gave her up, codependent me tried to explain to Marci that she was better off without having lived with the jerk. He had molested his own daughter, what would he have done to her? I tried to explain that she had been better off, but was unable to explain the other ways she had been spared. My mother was there, I couldn't exactly explain all of the abuse my brothers and I had suffered over the years at her hand- physically and mentally.

I realize now that it wasn't my place to have said those things to her. It wasn't my place to try to explain away the pain Marci had experienced over the years knowing she was given away. It wasn't my place to be my mother's mouth piece and to try to save things... in my need to be loved and accepted and liked- by both of them... I was trying so hard to mediate between Marci and my mother. In the end I probably just sounded like I was justifying my mother's decision, and I probably even sounded a little condescending, which wasn't my goal.

The next day at Marci's was even more uncomfortable, as the fact that our mother had admitted to me that she felt no connection with Marci at all- that being the reason she had cried when they had embraced for the first time, she was not having the overwhelming feeling of love that she had hoped for. Which is hilarious in itself if you know my history, and my brothers. Overwhelming feelings of love? Who was she kidding? She simply is not capable.

Anyway, my sister was I'm sure confused - who wouldn't be?- and my mother continued to scowl or stare off into space, or pretend like we were all the best of friends... she was the epitome of bipolar.

After my mother left and went home, she had plenty of opportunity to talk to Marci on the phone. I was accused of being a liar and saying horrible things to my sister. My mother accused me of being a liar when I denied all of the horrible things I was supposed to have said to my sister. I told my mother that she needed to get a grip. She had known me for 27 years... had she ever known me to stir up drama and lie like that?

At this point the fact that my mother could have been making it all up in her crazy little brain did not occur to me. my brothers and I had been told all of our lives that above all she hated lying. She always told the truth because of this... so if we told her she was wrong about something she would go into a rage and beat us. This is how we learned that for as long as we lived with her (and it turns out many years after, until I learned to stand up for myself) that we were not to have an opinion of our own. if we wanted to survive we believed what she believed and kept our mouths shut.

Because of my mother's and my sister's (alleged) accusations, I cut off communication with both of them. When I reconciled with my mother, she was suddenly on my side and was telling me more horrible things my sister had said about me- including that I was immature to let my real father's (the jerk) sexual abuse still affect me... I was so angry I wrote Marci a letter telling her to leave me alone. I wrote that she was lucky to have escaped the abuse from both of my parents, including the man who would have been her step father, the bastard. I told her that if she wanted a real relationship with me I would consider it... because I had always wanted her. All of my life I had longed for a sister, and when I found out about her... I WANTED HER. I had always hoped that one day we would somehow find each other.

Now all of this is coming back to me. My sister found my younger brother on myspace. Ben called me and asked me what i thought, yesterday. I said that if he gets a good feeling about it, to go for it. We both agreed that there was a large chance that our mother had lied and given us misinformation about Marci, and it was possible that our mother had been trying to sabotage us. I said that I thought about her often, and wondered if we could have a relationship... and that there were times I wanted to find her and try again. Ben said he would put the feelers out there and see if she was interested in hearing from me too.

Ben and I are all that we have left of our immediate family since our older brother only wants to have a relationship with us when it's convenient for him, then we don't hear from him for another year. Neither of us speak to the bastard or the egg donor. We have our Aunt Yvonne outside of our immediate family,thank GOD- who is my mother's sister.

I would love to have her in my life, I would love to start over and have the sister that i always wanted. Sure, I expect it will be touch and go at first... I understand her feelings from the past towards me. (which I don't even know if it is real... it could be just more lies from the egg donor) I would want to start over with a clean slate...

I guess we will see, huh?

Dork origins, Mert style

Over at Dork Bloggers, my home away from home ;) we like to do a little thing called Dork Origins where we explain (as best as we can) the reasons for our inherent dorkiness. Dork war stories if you will. We are casualties of Dork.

When I look back at my life, and all it's dorkfulness, I have no doubt of where my dork genes originate. That's right folks I said genes, plural. I think we all know by now that I am above average in the dork department.

I believe what they say is true to some degree... that we are a product of our environment, and I wonder to myself if the fact that my mother (whom I refer to most times as the "egg donor" because I hate calling her mom, because she sucked and doesn't deserve to be called that) is NUTS. Seriously, she has papers.

Anyway, I probably could keep you here all day reading about my dork origins, but I will tell you about the ones that are most prominent in my mind.

When I was about 15, my parents had decided that we kids needed a little culture and took us away from the redneck town we lived in to Annapolis. Annapolis is a beautiful city on the Chesapeake Bay that is famous for its quaint cobbled and bricked streets lined with town houses (for Yuppies), it's inner harbor with elegant restaurants and bay side views of the sail boats going by (owned by Yuppies), and the Naval Academy (which often housed of the spawn of Yuppies).

Being poor and unrefined, my mother (who had a nose for sniffing out bargains and freebies) thought that the best place for used to get a little taste of culture would an art gallery in downtown Annapolis. This art gallery just happened to be serving free wine and cheese! Well, imagine that. Me and my older brother were allowed to have a sip of free wine with our free cheese and crackers. Meanwhile, the egg donor enjoyed quite a bit of free wine with her free cheese and crackers.

My mother, always appreciative of a good piece of art, pointed to a painting of the Annapolis inner harbor and said, "Wook at da pwee-wee wah-wah!"

Roughly translated to : "Look at the pretty water!"

My dad quickly grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out of the art gallery, and we kids followed closely behind with our eyes on the floor. My dad- having had considerable experience with free alcohol and it's affects- decided that mommy dearest should probably walk it off. My parents came up with yet another brilliant idea... why not take the whole family- including more than a little tipsy and inappropriate mommy- to the actual inner harbor? The place where the affluent strolled, and maybe even enjoyed a few quiet moments on their sailboat or yacht, and where Naval Academy plebes and midshipmen sauntered in groups or with dates.

Sure, why not.

We went to a nautical store. This store had in its window a brass door knocker that my mother had been eying, in the shape of and anchor. My dad dragged her to the register, and my mother - the drunken egg donor- was elated and very pleased with herself for finally being able to afford the thing she had coveted for over a year.

As we walked by our station wagon on our way to a hat store called The Belfry- which I assure you, stuck out like... well a semi-redneck family trying to pretend that they were well off enough to even be there mingling with Maryland's upper crust- and just as a group of really cute midshipman walked by, mother loudly slurred that she needed to "put her knockers in the car".

The whole of Annapolis stopped to stare, and a hush fell over the city- but only after a collective gasp that was heard around the world. I looked over to the midshipmen, who were all decked out in their dress whites and plainly said,

"I do not know that woman."

I did an about face and walked into another shop.


AND FINALLY, a story that I recant with fondness and a light heart... well because it involves my dad...

Lets travel back in time to when I was about 12. My step-dad- who raised me from the age of 6, so I really consider him my dad, and was a geek computer programmer in the Air Force- was outside building his new fabulous tool shed. This shed was not just a shed, and in actuality it was probably at least 1/2 the size of the main floor of our house. With some help from friends, we had a foundation of cinder blocks and plywood over the support beams of the floor. My dad was happily working away outside on a sweltering morning as I brought his steaming cup of coffee out to him, because you see- my dad was a proud Okie, and drank coffee all year round.

*Edit to add: To clarify, as I said in comments "BTW, it's only redneck if you're sweating profusely, wearing jeans with no shirt in the middle of summer, AND drinking coffee. :D"

While I was walking out to him, I noticed he was waving a hand around violently. I handed him his cup and giggled when I asked what he was doing. Evidently there was a big, ugly horsefly whizzing around him, stopping occasionally to light on his body and bite him. Oh, I said, well here's your coffee, dad.

I walked back inside, and a few minutes later we heard a yell come from outside. We ran outside to see if dad was hurt. It turns out that dear old dad had been fighting that horsefly for about a half an hour, and my dad had gotten so annoyed that he had even taken a couple of swings at the horsefly with the hammer in his hand. He whacked at the coarse and ugly bug with the hammer and missed several times.

"I finally got it, though, " My dad smiled and chuckled, thrusting his mighty hammer in the air in triumph with one hand and cradling his leg with the other, "But unfortunately it had landed on my shin."

Still not sure

This is not a positive post. Read at your own risk.

Have you ever had a favorite picture or family story that you cherished- almost relied on, only to find later that what you had thought wasn't true? I have held on to that belief like a security blanket, and since scanning that photo yesterday I feel as though my Wubbie has gone missing.

Recently I was tagged for a Thinking Meme in which I said that my prized possession is a picture of my mother holding me at birth. Yesterday, after I scanned that photo I decided not to use it in Fun Monday. Actually, after closer inspection of that picture, what I saw was not the immeasurable out pouring of love... it was something else. I can't explain it. Bear with me for a moment as I give you a very cheesy analogy of my life.

It's as if all my life I have been told that I had this beautiful horse, the most beautiful horse in the world. I have a few pictures of it, but one picture in particular is so special to me because over the years the beauty of this horse was exaggerated more and more. I see the picture... yes. I can see that the horse is pretty. Since I have never seen another horse in my life, I begin to believe that it is indeed the most beautiful horse in the world. Later, after seeing a horse in person I realize that the picture isn't even of a horse. It's a freakin mule.

I was told at the age of 11 that I was an unwanted pregnancy, that my real father had beaten her mercilessly- accusing that I wasn't his child. I was told that I was hated before I was even born. This all came out one day while I was visiting my childhood shrink. I was forced to go because I was a "troublesome child", always making her angry. She said this to my shrink right in front of me after I had told him that I had always felt unloved and unwanted. That day my worst fears were more than confirmed. I had no doubt finally that it was true, especially from the cold and toneless way in which she said it. At that moment I did not exist. She made no move to even acknowledge that I was even in the room.

My whole life (as well as my brothers) I was told that she wished I had never been born. She even went as far one day to say that I probably enticed my father into molesting me, and that we would all be better off if he had just "jerked off" the day I had been conceived. She also made it a point to make me feel disgusting about what my father did to me, and would snidely reference it in passing to hurt me, using explicit words.

My brothers and I were told horrible things including the fact that she basically had to prostitute herself to take care of us after she and the asshat got divorced. She would accept dates with men, not telling them she had kids. She would then bring us all on the date and "pay for it" later, usually behind closed doors. The only silver lining to that precious little tidbit is that I know at the very least she cared enough for us to sacrifice for us in that way, so we could eat. I refuse to accept that burden, and though I have told my husband that given no other choice, I wouldn't hesitate to do that for my children, I would never- ever tell them, let alone make them responsible.

What made this picture so special to me was the love I thought I saw in it. Whenever I looked at this picture, I knew for one brief moment in time, despite having carried me for 9 months hating me the whole while, that she loved me at the beginning of my life outside of her. I believed what I saw was love personified.

Yesterday when I was scanning photos, I was able to see this picture like I had never seen it before as it took up almost the whole of my monitor. I see now that she wasn't even really looking at me, her eye appears to be open from leaning on her hand. What I see is no longer love. Maybe relief, absolutely exhaustion. I think its her eyes, they are so void of anything. I know because she has told me, that she has become very good at pretending and acting, being what people want her to be. Was this just another example of that? Why the semi smile, a smile I had thought to be bigger and just... well more- and the blank stare? I am confused at what I see, but I know now that what I had thought doesn't exist. It's not what I had thought. It's a mule.

I now regret scanning the stupid thing.

I look at this picture for example, with cynicism.


At first I contemplated settling for this picture yesterday as a cheap substitute.I then had a memory of me wandering the trailer park we lived in after my real father left her. He was off gambling all of our money away, doing God knows what and buying a car we couldn't afford. I remember being a little older than this buy a year or 2, and wandering without shoes, my toes bleeding on the hot pavement.

So you see, this picture will not do. Though I have a bizarre satisfaction that I had moments of reprieve, usually because other people were present. I know now that a lot of things were bought for me out of guilt because of what I experienced when I was older. Blood money, hush money in form of dolls and tea sets.

When I look at the rest of my life in form of photos, I see lies and deception. I wonder exactly when the abuse started , and since most of my earliest memories involve abuse... all other pictures are tainted. I cannot accept what some of those pictures seem to say to me. I know that for the most part those were special occasions and though that might also be a brief glimmer of happiness, it was most certainly wedged between bookends of pain. I can remember with such clarity being forced to smile for the camera.

Though pictures like these are few and far between, they are a little more accurate as to how I actually felt. In the first picture, my mother dumped all of my clothes out of my dresser and made me refold them while screaming at me. Probably because my room was not perfect like she expected it to be. I wonder why she would want to chronicle my pain and humiliation with a picture.


The next picture truly shows how I really felt during my childhood. This picture also is a time stamp for me because I remember the abuse getting worse after we moved into this house with my step-dad, before they were married. I was also miserable because I had gone from being a minority and being considered just white in an all black neighborhood, being picked on and occasionally beat up on the apartment complex play ground- to being picked on for being a Beaner in a small redneck town.

*On a side note, this is why I get angry when being accuse of being "one of those white people who was lucky enough to have been born a cracker, that treats black people poorly". A coworker from Nigeria once went on a tirade, lumping me in with a "you white people" statement. I went into a frothy frenzy and told her to never refer to me in that way. I have experienced racism. If you really want to piss me off, call me racist. This is why I have no qualms about talking about my Beaner-ism. Though I mostly identify with being white, mostly because we never really discussed my heritage. My mother didn't particularly feel proud of hers, and made it a point to not speak Spanish as a kid because she didn't want to considered one of those "dumb Mexicans with an accent". In southern California, in those days, Mexican were treated very poorly too. This probably has a lot to do with me not disclosing that I was half Mexican when enlisting in the Navy, I wanted to get the job I wanted because I was smart enough, not because I filled a quota. Oddly enough, I have experienced racism here in Iowa, once people hear that I am half Mexican.*


I hate both of these pictures and do not know why I keep them. I guess it's so I know that when I am told what a perfect mother she was to us (thank God I finally told her off 3 years ago, and haven't talked to her since), and that we have it all wrong, we are liars, she did the best she could, that she is always right, that we are the ones that are crazy...

I have proof. Proof not of a beautiful horse, the most beautiful horse in the world, but proof of a mule.

Which makes forgiving her nearly impossible.

You had me at "you kind of annoy me": Part Five , last installment

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
And dont forget to read Part Four!


I left Part Four with me wedged between two business men. Again. Men can be such oinkers sometimes, but as I said, I had just finished an extensive 8 week exercise program, and had a decent farmer's tan. Sitting there 18 and firm, and in my dress blues... well, boys will be boys.

I arrived 3 hours late, just after midnight, and was considered AWOL (absent without leave, leave being approved vacation). My company-mate standing next to me had also missed our flight, but for different reasons. It would seem that she had managed to find the bar in the airport, and spent the next 4 hours getting schnockered. On top of that, she managed to barf all over herself on the hour long bus ride from the airport to the base. All over her dress blue uniform, which you probably know is one of a soldier's proudest possessions.

The chips had once again fallen in my favor, and because my shipmate was barfy and a disgrace to her uniform, the Officer On Deck focused all of her wrath on her. All of the AWOL'ees were off the hook.

Since I was late getting to the base and the class that I was supposed to be in had already filled up, I would be in the next class. The class that a very handsome "butter wouldn't melt in his mouth" John the Future MISU was in.

I would meet my husband for the love of shopping, a point which I argue on occasion.

Our Company Commanders would consist of a First Class and Chief Petty Officers, and a Lieutenant Commander. While waiting for our class to fill up, they had assigned jobs for us to pass the time. Since my family had been a small cleaning business for an advertising agency in DC, I was put in charge of the cleaning supply closet and was in charge of making sure that certain areas were cleaned properly. John was named adjutant of the class and would come by the cleaning supply locker to check up on me. Three or four times a day. Which really annoyed me because I sat In a closet all day for the most part, and I figured there wasn't too much that I could screw up. And he was always interrupting my naps. So, I made sure to tell him that.

He would try to small talk me, after telling me he was just doing his rounds.

"Why are you always coming in here? You're annoying me, leave me alone."

Later he would come back a few times more, only to be stonewalled. It didn't take much more for him to get the picture that I was a self sufficient gal, and I didn't need someone to look over my shoulder while I handed out mops and buckets. I was so young and dumb, I hadn't realized that he didn't have to come down, he wanted to. Pretty soon though, he didn't want to anymore. I had bared my teeth a few times more, and he had slowly backed away, out of danger.

After our class had reached it's saturation point, and after being seated up two rows and to the right of him... I could feel someone staring at me. I turned, and he stared at me unabashedly, then gave me a smirk of a smile. That smile told me everything I had been too dumb and sleepy to notice before. I felt fluttering in places I didn't know existed. I folded that knowledge up as if it were a note he had just passed to me, and put it in my hip pocket.

The weeks went on, involving a lot of partying with and without my very concerned roommates. Many times I would fall asleep in the middle of taking notes, and would snort myself awake to find that I had scribbled right off the edge of my paper, and desk. Eventually, my chief busted me and I was to blame for having to stand in the back of the class. It was either that or get caught sleeping again and suffer some menial task as punishment.

John couldn't stare at the back of my head until my scalp tingled anymore, which would then cause me to turn around and get the "Yeah baby, I'm lookin' attchu" look. This would mean that his shy self would actually have to talk to me. I talked to him, but I was too busy speed dating to notice much more... still looking for love in all the wrong places, usually a guy who thought he was the *you know what*. Sometimes though, I would use my new found hotness to get even with the male race. I would sleep with them, then never call them. My roommates continued to worry about me, and would scold me lovingly.

We went on outings as a class, and eventually broke off into our own little groups. John happened to be in the group of my friends, and I was getting to know him a little better every day. One night we went bowling, and after our group dispersed John offered to walk me to the girl's barracks. On the way John and I took turns giving each other piggy back rides. He was impressed, I could tell. Since my room was on the first floor, and unbeknownst to me, my roommates watched us with great interest. John and I argued about something, I don't remembered what. He got in my face, so I got in his, and we continued to playfully argue. I said good night and came inside. Meanwhile, from their vantage point, my roommates just assumed that we were kissing. My roommates proceeded to tease me for kissing the "adj". I denied it, but they wouldn't listen, they were certain that they had seen me lay one on him.

Soon after, me and my roommates were dubbed the Golden Girls, me being Rhu McClanahan- the slutty Blanche Devereaux character. Fantastic! One day in class, my roommates were giving me a hard time about my so called love life. John was close enough to hear our shouted whispers, and I could see that he wasn't too happy with what he was hearing. I pretended not to notice. As a joke my roommates started naming the guys in our class, then giving them a number according to where I had left off in my speed dating. My roommates giggled, while I squirmed. Those *not nice people*s.

They got to John and I heard from behind me, "I'm not waiting to be #X." (I say X for modesty's sake, but I'm sure at this point you can imagine... it's not good) The giggling stopped.

A startled me says, "Wha?" I turned to face him.

"I'm not going to wait to be #X," he says glaring at me.

Well, that shut them up! I turned back around, my face on fire. I just wanted to die. I realized that I actually cared what he thought of me. And he thought so much of me that numbers didn't matter to him, he still wanted to be with me. Why couldn't he just ask me out already?

The weather would warm up in the Great Lakes area just in time for a class picnic on the edge of Lake Michigan. Still, it was April, and a bit chilly. John did what any school kid would do, which was torment the girl he liked. A few of us rolled up our pants and splashed each other. John splashed me, I splashed back. He picked me up and threw me in the lake.

As you can imagine, a mascara streaming, hair ruined, sputtering and steaming mad me came to the surface.

"Expect it when you least expect it." That's all I could say, and walked away.

A few weeks later, one of my roommates, Denise- who always borrowed my clothes and ruined them, or wore them so much that the color had faded, then would give them back and go buy herself the same clothes... had ultimately known that despite being thrown in a lake, I had a crush on him- was sitting on John's lap at the club on base. She knew better! Honestly, I was a bit peeved with him too. If really liked me, her fat-ish butt shouldn't have remained parked on his lap. I became very angry and got up from the table we were all sitting at. I went around them, acting like I was going to the bar to get another drink. I snuck up on him and dumped my ice filled drink down his back. I got great satisfaction out of watching his expression as he stood, and her expression as he dumped her fat-ish butt on the floor.

"Hah! I told you I'd get... you back." the words died in my mouth.

This would be the first time he would give me The Look. Stepping over my roommate, I walked over to him and pleaded with a very angry he to dance with a very nervous me. Grudgingly, he relented. The DJ put on a slow song, and I slowly felt the anger go out of him. When I knew it was safe, I put my head on his shoulder and we danced the next 5 slow songs without words.

The club gave its last call and we hit the streets, not sure what we were doing next. There were my roommates and their "boyfriends", and Denise- the crush stealer, plus a few others. All of us were a bit tipsy and suddenly I was inspired...

I yelled,"Hey guys, you want to see a real kiss?" I grabbed him buy the collar then gave him a spine tingler and a knee knocker of a kiss. The kiss of his life. The drunken nervousness faded, and my roommates cheered us on.

We did much more than kiss that night. I had never had someone love me like that before. He and I were completely gone over each other. Later, I would find out that every single day he would tell his roommates that he was going to ask me out, that today was the day. It never happened, he was just too shy. Apparently, I was not. :O)

We still giggle about all the places we "christened" on base at Great Lakes, being young and completely besotted with one another... We just didn't care if we got caught. Like the one time we were so broke that we couldn't afford a hotel room, so we ended up nekkid on a golf course in John's sleeping bag. That is, until we saw a smallish dark shape scamper our way. As it got closer, I was pretty sure that I saw a white stripe. We ran to John's car... and the poop unlocked his side of the car first! Can you believe that? After managing to get at least our over-wear on, in the tiny Toyota Corolla hatch back, I noticed that I had managed to have lost my bra and underwear during our run to the car. We slept in the car, at the golf course, neither of us brave enough to find my underwear. The next morning, the grounds keeper tapped on the window. Startled, we jolted awake just in time to see him pointing in the general direction of the 4th hole, the place that had been our bed that night... we screamed with nervous giggling and speed off knowing he was probably pointing at my undies.

By the way- NO, I do not ever intend to let my girls know that we "knocked boots" on our first date. Or the fact that I have on a few occasions enjoyed one of those special, freshly rolled ciggies that all the hippies rave about. Yes, I fully intend to lie. I am guessing that these stories wont ever be shared with them. I'm jut worried that one day, when I'm old and gray(er), that in my confusion I will spill the beans. John says he plans to say it's just the drugs talking.

So much has happened over the years, a lot of good, a lot of bad. A ruptured tubal pregnancy during our engagement, lots of fights- most of them about my crazy mother, concerning our wedding and other general craziness, then none of my family coming to our wedding (except for you, Aunt Yvonne)...

A Persian Gulf War- me on a ship, and him in the desert- and getting arrested for making out with my husband(when he came for a surprise visit on my ship), then both of us facing Captain's Mast (court marshals) then making the news back home for all of that, and almost getting a divorce when we got back...

Craziness from my mother, almost calling it quits more times than I can count, 10 years of infertility...

I can honestly say that meeting my husband saved my life, I was on a path of self destruction and ho'edness, still searching for someone to love and want me. I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't be here right now, and if I was- I would barely be existing. My crudeness and roughness didn't faze him at all, he saw the gem that lie beneath. It's never been easy, and if there is one thing I have learned is that you have to fight for what you want. Everyday I feel grateful to have found The One and to have his love no matter what.

We're still here 18 years later, being goofy and making each other laugh. After all of that, I know that he still loves me.

Life is good.

If you are interested in reading a little ditty I wrote, almost a year ago... on my husbands birthday, you can read Once upon a time... :O)

You had me at "you kind of annoy me": Part Four

In case you just started reading this series of posts, you will want to read these first.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three

As the plane touched down in Orlando, Florida I realized a few things. My nights of fantasizing about killing my mother in her sleep were over. I know... shocking, but true. I never had the guts to do it. Somewhere in my mind I always pictured her waking up and killing me instead, that's how afraid of her I was back then. That thought alone kept me nailed to my bed. I knew she was capable. I look back at that time with almost a comfort. I'm glad I didn't kill her, mostly because I would have spent the rest of my life in prison. I wouldn't be here, at this moment today.

Living at Lila's for two months had given me a taste of what life actually was. I was a little scared not to have someone controlling my every move, and making my decisions for me.

The first day of boot camp was interesting. You know those movies where you see two Gunny Sargents yelling for the princesses to get out of bed as they bang on an empty garbage can? Then proceed to spray the recruits with spittle while screaming in their faces? That's not a silly stereotype. They actually do that stuff. As a punishment for bringing all the crap my recruiters told me I could, and for appearing like a complete and utter "princess", I got the joy of lugging a 60 pound bag to each and every place we went that day, including chow, inoculations, and uniform fittings. Maybe it was that classic Mickey Mouse sweat shirt I was wearing.

Two weeks into it, I had found my niche. I had quickly realized that being in a place that treated me like a nobody, yelled insults, and ordered me around every second of the day... was actually a little better than home. I thought to myself- in the midst of doing my 60th push up- that I have endured so much worse, this was actually a piece of cake.

Boot camp did have it's hilarious moments too. Our barracks was about half the length of a football field. Since I was one of the last few to fill up the company, my bunk was on the opposite end of our Company Commander's office. While the CC was up at the front screaming at our fellow booters, holding us in upright push up position for minutes on end, us lucky summuma guns at the end were resting on our knees. She'd start down our way and we'd pop up off of our knees. Also, I became very good at sleeping on my feet. I managed to drown out the noise of my CC's yelling and screaming- heck I was used to that- with my own rhythmic breathing. A few times I almost toppled over, and after that a fellow recruit across from me would start making faces to keep me awake. Thank God I was at the other end of the barracks, because her crossed eyes kept me awake alright, and I would shake shudder in silent laughing fits, all while standing at attention. A few times she even farted, all for my benefit.

Later, after boot camp when we arrived at our first duty station, I would show her my gratitude by buying her a Sony Walkman. :O)

My Company Commander asked us one day if any of us wanted to be in the boot camp choir, preforming at graduations for booters. I piped up, the first to thrust my hand up out of about 15. My CC asked me to stand up and sing something, and to please not embarrass her (no mention of embarrassing myself). After weeks of hearing Anita Baker's sultry voice coming from my CC's office in our barracks, and that being the only music I had heard in weeks, I took a brave breath and belted Anita's Sweet Love as clear and sweet as I could. Singing her favorite artist's song... Call it sucking up, call it self preservation, call it what ever you want. I call it pretty darn smart since it got me out of weeks and weeks of drills (marching with a gun) and chow hall duty .

Boot camp seemed to fly by for me after that, even though I was getting up at o'dark thirty in the morning everyday for choir practice. My company got up at about 5:30 every morning, and I think we got up a whole hour before they did. Even though we had to fill our time with busy work after we got back from choir practice- while the rest of the company was drilling- like cleaning the barracks bathroom for the third time in 2 days... being in the choir had its perks. We were told to also sweep and mop, and each of us would clean then take a nap while pretending to dust the underside of the bottom bunks. Genius. We never got caught.

My family flew down for my boot camp graduation, we had Chinese and went to Disneyland with a cute booter ( Bill, a guy I met in choir) and his family. My mother got mad because I wanted to spend time with the cutie and not her... and we made plans to go to a "booter party"- which was code for getting naked in his parents hotel room. ;O) What happened next was sweet yet embarrassing... my step-dad, having never talked to me about sex before, asked me if I had condoms. Imagine my surprise. Barely able to speak, let alone look him in the eye, I muttered I would get some.

That night we missed curfew coming back to base, and were within seconds of being held back for another 8 weeks because we had broken the rules. After the taxi dropped us off at the front gate I never ran so hard in my life, and my lungs burned so bad I was certain I could taste blood. Luckily, the Petty Officer that was on duty that night at the security desk had a crush on my CC, so he pretended that he didn't see us come in 2 minutes late. He looked up at the clock a few minutes after that pretending he just saw us. The next day my family flew home, and a few days after that I was on my way to Great Lakes to start Corps School. I never saw the cutie again.

All the while, I had been saving up part of my paycheck in a Navy sponsored program called the G.I. Bill. They would match the 12% of my paycheck that was deducted every month and set it aside for college. we could also send money home if we wanted. Pppsshhh yeah, right! The rest of my paycheck was kept back for the whole 8 weeks except for 20 bucks we had to buy what we needed at the commissary. Soooo, at the end of 8 weeks I was presented with a $1,200 check.

Hmmm, I was at Orlando International , which was part shopping mall, part airport. I had 1,200 bucks in my hand... what was a girl to do? Heck ya, I went shopping! I had so much fun spending part of that money on a $70 Walkman (Now with Auto Reverse and Mega Bass! Ooooh!), some clothes, cassette tapes and dinner that I had missed my flight. GAH!

I ran as fast as I could thinking I could make it, but the plane had already gone... I was without a watch and running about an hour behind. I was terrified! What would they do to me when they found out I had missed my plane for shopping? I was near tears when I got to the counter, and the attendant was so nice to me that she bumped someone so I could have a seat on the next flight.

This was the beginning of my serendipitous meeting with my future husband. Who would I be sitting next to? Yup, you guessed it... business men.

I have to admit though, I did look pretty hot in my dress uniform...

Tune in for part five- the final installment- where I introduce the guy that kind of annoyed me... right into loving him!
*I hear a collective Awwwww coming from the ladies, and a groan from the guys in my head right now*

You had me at "you kind of annoy me": Part Three

Part One
Part Two

Shortly after breaking up with the jerk that was obsessed with sex (ironically, his name was Clinton) , and trying to break the news to Lila as gently as possible before Christmas, I moved back home. In retrospect, I feel like I may have compromised (read as prostituted) myself in that instant. Once again, my mother would have a hold on me, and would have her pound of flesh. But I was getting out of a sticky situation, one that was becoming more hostile by the moment. To this day, I still do not understand why Lila refused to take my word that I would be leaving soon. I think that she hoped once I was out of boot camp and school, that I would get stationed near by and pay half of her rent. She had expectations, some of them being that I would also send her money while I was gone.

Minutes after I moved back home, I was informed that I had to get Christmas day off because we were Christians, and Christians don't work on Jesus' birthday. I told my parents that it was impossible because the kindly older cashier that I worked with was also a Christian, but more importantly she had seniority. No matter, I was to insist that my boss give me Christmas off. So... The next day I did just that, getting into a heated discussion. I told him that my parents were forbidding me to work that day. He told me not to bother showing up for work anymore.

This may seem like a tedious amount and bit of information, I included it because what would happen next will amaze you. My mother blamed me for getting fired, and I was required to buy my ex-boss a Christmas gift to say I was sorry for making him fire me, causing him to be short staffed that day. Paid with my own money, of course. On top of that, I was required to buy Lila a gift too, a nice house warming/Christmas gift to make up for all the ways in which I had inconvenienced her buy backing out on a rental agreement that didn't exist and that I never agreed too.

I realize now that my mother saw the value in me compromising myself. It would save the butcher the wasted energy of setting aside spoiled meats just for her, and could possibly stop the cashiers from placing her eggs on the bottom of her grocery bags. Gosh, the deli lady might spit on her lunch meat! I laugh because suddenly little old, inconsequential me had turned her world upside down, suddenly I was of great importance.

I suffered through the holidays as best as I could, knowing that the end was in sight... just beyond my reach. I survived those last few days on pins and needles, excited about the unknown that stretched before me. I remember the night they took me to the airport with such clarity, I remember every facial twitch, every nervous gesture... None of them my own. By now, I was a master at masking my emotions, but inside I was ready to ignite!

My mother broke the silence.

"We believe you."

Squinting at my mother, I said a solitary,"What?"

"I said, we believe you."

I said nothing. I sat, I stared. Emotionless. Seemingly. Tears began to trickle down those stone cheeks of mine, and yet I never wavered.

My mother, taking my tears as a sign of some sort, started to cry hysterically. Was it sadness she saw, or forgiveness? Or maybe just weakness... I'll never know. It was if I was standing upon a precipice, and felt relief and joy knowing that I was about to take the jump. I murmured goodbyes, trying not to show my elation and agitation. I felt that old familiar feeling that at any moment she would pull the rug out from underneath of me.

As I walked through the boarding area, I never looked back. The next few hours would be spent with me being hit on by two older business men. As I flew from Maryland to Florida, I looked at pictures of their children, forced smiles at thinly veiled attempts by one of them to sound divorced, and accepted compliments, sexual innuendos, and business cards with home numbers scrawled on the back... simply because I had nowhere else to go.

What a way to start my new life.

Part four coming soon!

You had me at "you kind of annoy me": Part Two

Please scroll down for part one!

If you remember, I stopped Part One at the front door of my childhood home... The police had just informed us that my brother had been in an accident and wasn't breathing when they found him. Luckily, the firetrucks had just turned the corner when my brother went down below to rescue his boss, the uncle of one of his best friends... who had been in the belly fo the barge now for at least 15 minutes. Though I had had a very troubled history with my older brother, that day, as we drove 35 minutes to he nearest hospital I remember praying so hard that it hurt. It turned out that the firemen had shown up just in time, they said a few minutes more and the uncle would have been gone, too.

At Wayne's funeral, I met someone. Please don't get the wrong idea... A cousin of Wayne's thought I was cute and asked me out. He was 21 and the only reason why my parents even considered it was because he was a family friend. We went out a few times... on our 5th date we parked in a corn field and "watched the corn grow", as they say. In my defense, you can't keep your kid locked up in the house like a caged and beaten down animal, then let her run free for once. She's going to get herself into trouble because, well, she's not in the cage, hormones are running a muck, and she is out with a cute guy. Couple that with the world being a shiny new place, and she has no acceptable social skills to speak of, you have a recipe for a late night of passionate necking... ect, ect, ect. I was looking for love in all the wrong places, truly.

I got home after my 10pm curfew, at around , oh... 12:30 am. I figured if I was going to get into trouble for being late, I might as well make it worth the pain. My mother decided that since I was now 18, I was out. I was told to pack my crap and not come home after work the next day, and to make sure to leave the bike that I rode to work at home. Late that night I packed what I could... having only a pair of sweat pants to stuff it all in. I walked to work in the dark before sunrise with my tied off sweat pants slung over my shoulder, stiff with all that I could carry. I put my things in the back room of the grocery store... my only plan was to hide in the bathroom and wait until everyone left. I would have to live there until January, I had no where else to go.

The deli lady and an older cashier that I had become good friends with, waited for me while I tried to hide in the bathroom. Finally, one of them knocked on the door and asked me if I was alright. I opened the door and began to cry, explaining my situation. The deli lady, Lila, kindly offered to let me stay at her place. She explained that she had a live-in boy friend , but he would sleep on the couch and I would sleep with her. Her only requirement was that I pulled my weight around the place.

I didn't have a problem with that, I was used to giving 150% at home- and sometimes, my pound of flesh. Often I would come home to find that my mother had spent the day watching soaps, plucking her eyebrows, or talking all day on the phone. This meant that I was forced to pick up her slack when I got home, leaving little time for homework. If I showed the slightest bit of emotion, I was in for it, so my brothers and I became very good at keeping a straight face. There were days that I knew she was just waiting for me to come home, so she could pick a fight. One sided fights that I never won, and fights that would have me bleeding and bruised. That was my life, I knew nothing else.

As Lila drove me to her place, I let out a sigh of relief. Though I had only known this woman for a few months, and had squirreled away the insinuation that it might not be safe for me to sleep on the couch, I knew that it was going to be so much better. I told Lila right away that I would buy my own groceries, clean the bathroom, wash the dishes every day before I went to work, and even make dinner a few nights a week. For the next two months I had more freedom than I had had my whole life. I got to come and go as I pleased, making sure to tell Lila where I planned to be so she wouldn't worry. I stayed at my boy friend's house, or at his apartment on weekends.

I called on my older brother's birthday, the end of November... and my mother slammed the phone down at the sound of my voice. She didn't try to disguise the fact that she was unhappy to be hearing from me, and I heard her and my step-dad arguing. My dad got on the phone and told me it wasn't a good time, and I told him that I wanted to wish my brother a happy birthday.
I heard more cursing, the phone clacking away on the dining room table, and finally my brother's voice. We managed to talk for a few minutes before my mother started screaming in the background for him to hang up.Later I would find out that on that very night, my brother's girlfriend had called and lied about being pregnant, and he promptly passed out just minutes before I had called.

A week later, my younger brother walked in to the grocery store that my family had been avoiding for almost a month. He handed me a card. On my break I opened it and it said that my family was inviting me to come over for dinner... Wow, talk about mixed emotions.

This of course had been my mother's plan all along. She wanted me home, I would guess so that she could put the screws to me once more before I left. She couldn't stand the fact that she hadn't been able to control every second of my life... and secretly I wondered how much worse my 2 younger brothers had been getting it after I left. After dinner, they told me that they wanted me to move back in until boot camp but I had to stop having sex with my boy friend. I felt guilty for being (almost) on my own and happy! On the other hand... I was getting pressure from Lila to rent an apartment with her because the house she had been renting was being condemned. I explained to her several times that I would be leaving for boot camp the beginning of January, and that enlisting was a legal and binding contract. I belonged to Uncle Sam and there was no way out of it, short of death. Yet she persisted, she wanted me to give her money for a security deposit and rent- on an apartment I wouldn't be living in. I felt trapped, but knew my only choice was to move back home. I told them that I would think about it.

A few days later, I told my 21 year old boyfriend the deal. He wasn't having any of it.

"Look, you can go back and visit them... but you can't move back in with them!"

I knew right then that the little voice in the back of my head had been right, it was all about the sex. I didn't have much experience with boys, and had had one boyfriend a few years before (that I only got to go out with because he was the Vice Principle's son)... We hadn't even french kissed! Long story short- we had been best friends for years and decided we liked each other. Since at times he seemed like a brother to me, and considering what my brother tried to do to me... I was so confused and messed up about love. Anyway, I eventually broke up with him, and my current boyfriend would suffer the same fate.

I didn't hesitate, not even a second. "That's it, we're through."

He actually had the nerve to ask why. Men... unbelievable.

If you have read this far, don't give up! I promise to get to the MISU soon. Stay tuned... :O)

You had me at "you kind of annoy me": Part one

I have read more than a few "you complete me posts" over the last few months, and I have been wanting to write about the hubs and me for awhile. What I mean is posts that tell the story of how they met, annoyed each other, eventually rubbed off on each other and fell in love. I felt compelled to write my story.

If you have been reading my blog for awhile, you know I had a dysfunctional childhood. I ran away several times, and even jumped out of a speeding car once, while my mother was at the wheel (insert circus music here). Also, my mother eventually sat me down in front of my family and told me that they had all prayed about it, and God told them that I had lied about my real father sexually abusing me when I was very young. I went a little nuts that night, but that's a very long story, maaaaaybe for another time. I thought I would skip over all the early years of my life and sum it up briefly: abuse, hate, sadness, a few happy memories usually centered around food and my younger brother, yaddi yaddi yaddah...

Let me tell you a little bit of what my life was like just before I joined the Navy.

I had been told my whole life that once I was 18, I was out of there. I was also told that I had to go to college or join the military. I got a minimum wage job at a grocery store after I graduated from high school, and I rode a bike to work wind, rain and shine because I couldn't afford a car. My parents helped my older brother buy a car, not me. My Parents helped him with college, not me. So, lets summarize what we have so far- crappy job and no money to buy a car, no car to get a better job- let alone go to college. I told my parents I wanted to take a year off, mostly because I couldn't see a way to go to school, hoping that in a year I would at least have enough to buy a clunker.

Thinking back, I can remember more occasions than I can count where my mother treated me differently than my brothers. My older brother was going to give me his old Ford Galaxy 500 for my 16th birthday, that a close friend had given him for free. Turns out it wasn't really free after the moderate amount of work he put into it. My brother had already gotten a new car with the help of my parents, and as a present- he was going to give me his metal flake red "baby". It was a pretty nice gift considering we didn't get along all that well. AFTER he told me about my gift, my mother said no. He had put too much money into it for me to get it for free. So, there she sat... rusting and wasting away in our front yard- amongst the 3 foot tall redneck grass- for no good reason. Her frame eventually gave way, like it does on most of us gals, rendering her useless. She sure looked pretty though.

Anyway, taking a year off wasn't an option. My options were to get out, or get out. That's where the Military came in. The more I thought about it, the more appealing it sounded to me. I could learn a trade, all while earning money for college, I would have a roof over my head and food. Hmmm... stay with a crazy, abusive, and controlling *not nice person* and eventually marry the first redneck to show any interest just to get out of there, possibly ending up bruised, barefoot and pregnant... Or be free, finally. It really wasn't that difficult of a choice for me.

I enlisted in August. That in itself was an interesting ordeal. All my life I had wanted to be in the medical profession, but when I enlisted I was told that there were no openings for Corpsman (medic) School. There were, however, positions available to be a Cryptologist Technician (coding/typing of confidential documents)... Until they found out that my mother's maiden name was Spanish, and that I was half Mexican. Suddenly I was a quota fulfillment. Interesting. There was a catch though, it turns out that I would have to become a Crypto Tech first and wait for a spot to open up for Corps School. There was a glimmer of hope, and that was good enough for me.

As it turns out, that wouldn't be the only glitch. When I returned home from pre-enlisting ( I would have to wait to become active duty, waiting for my position to open up), my mother noticed that her signature was on the forms. Being that I wasn't yet 18, a parents signature was needed. But she hadn't been present when I was sworn in... meaning my recruiter had forged her name just so he could meet his monthly quota.

What happened next would only confirm what I had always known, which was that my mother couldn't stand me and couldn't wait to be rid of me. I'll tell you why... Normally if it was something that I really wanted, she would sabotage it in some way. This time she practically ripped the phone from the wall calling my recruiter's office. She asked to speak to the Lead Petty Officer, who just happened to be a Chief Petty Officer. *cringe* My recruiter was still an E-3, meaning he had started out his career as an E-1... and after 6 years for one reason or another, had not been advanced. This also meant that he was 4 ranks below the LPO. My mother proceeded to let his superior know that he had forged her name, that I wouldn't be be a Crypto Tech at all, and that I would go straight to Corps School after boot camp- OR she would have her Master Sargent husband (of the Air Force) help her press charges. All that was said on the other end of the phone was a series of "Yes ma'ams".

On October 4th, I found out that a spot had opened up for a quota filling Mexican *I type with a wry smile*, and that I would be going to boot camp on January 3rd. On the same day- my birthday, my brother would get into an accident working construction on a barge. His good friend Wayne opened up a barge that had been sealed for over a year, then disappeared. When a barge has been shut up for long periods of time, there is little or no oxygen, and a lot of times there are poisonous fumes. Wayne's uncle owned the construction company, and was on the barge with them... he had a sinking feeling that his nephew had gone down inside. While he braved the dark, trying desperately to find his nephew, my brother ran to the nearest phone to call 911. When he got back to the barge, he looked down inside and saw the uncle slumped and unconscious on the floor. My older brother was very close with this family, and didn't think twice before he too was climbing down into the dark. He was pretty sure that his friend couldn't be saved, but the uncle had a chance. Just as he neared the bottom, he lost consciousness too .

The police came to our door. All they could tell us was that all three men had been taken to the hospital, that the paramedics did all they could do. That was it, we didn't know whether he was alive or dead.

I posted this early for the Carnival of Blogging Chicks, the next one is on January 21st. Be sure to stop by then and check it out!

Stay tuned for more of the circus that is me, Part Two. :O) I already have it written... when would you like me to post it?