I have been teasing (to just about anyone who’ll give me an ear) about my midlife crisis.  It’s coming.  It’s scheduled for June 1, 2015.

I know I know.  You’re not supposed to calendar this shit, but slow your roll.  

This is my midlife crisis and I will run it however I want.

On June 1, 2015 my current contract with my university runs out,
and I will no longer eligible to renew it(1); I will be unemployed for the first time since I was 18 years old.

But really? The midlife crisis started June 1 of THIS year.  I have been making big decisions, most of them sanctioned by Hubby, and making plans to move on.  We’ve been here for 5 years, and it’s time to go.  And by HERE, I mean in this spot in our lives.  It’s not bad, but it’s not great either.  And it’s grown stagnant, which to us is a version of HELL.  Hell is Hubby in a shitty job, whose glass ceiling he hit two years ago, and me, faced with a dwindling career and a suburban life that sits on me like an ill-fitting sweater.  In June I finished academic commitments that I made all the while making new BETTER commitments, including one to myself NOT to sign on for any more academic commitments.  

I want to be here.  In the blog, writing the book. 

Focusing on the things in life I love and fighting with my editor over whose turn it is to buy the Merlot.

I spent the last four weeks being prepped and then having a massive abdominal surgery in which scar tissue that had essentially moved and hardened (by-products of a cancer surgery 20 years ago) had to be removed. In the first week of pain, I thought of little except breathing.  In the second week, my thoughts kept returning to the time of the surgeries that caused this scarring, when I was young, thin, blonde even.  Remembering the day I got the news that chemo had helped, but had not been the solution, and that surgery was the best way forward.  I was brave.  I had my Queens to support me. 

 I told myself that scars were cool.  I was young.  I got good drugs. I healed quickly. And I never looked back.

These shots were taken of me the day before that surgery, in my apartment in Los Angeles. 

Turning 40 didn’t make me sad.  Having this surgery did.  I still had good drugs, but two weeks of bed rest made me think too much.  Catheters are not fun.  Drainage tubes stayed in longer, mobility returned slowly.  Sitting alone and examining where you WERE and where you ARE and the gaps of missed opportunities and regrets in between is not for the weak.  Neither is abdominal surgery, but I got both in great heaps this summer.

I am not a maudlin person.  Overloads of red wine and pot sometimes get me there, but in general, I am an upbeat kind of gal.  I am not necessarily a NICE person, but I am an UPBEAT person.  People who confuse the two usually arrive with rude awakenings at cocktail parties and then de-friend me on FB.  Pussies.  (2)

I appreciate all the home-cooked meals our friends and family have provided.  I am a Good TBD and I sent thank you notes. Hand written fucking notes, thank you very much. ‘Cause that’s how I roll.  I even sent one to Hurricane, who stayed with us for three days and added at least 4 pounds to our waistlines. But those are in the mail and now I feel like I can’t breathe.

My answer to this cabin fever?  ROAD TRIP.  (3)

Otter is ready.  The car is packed. 

On Saturday, I Ieave for three weeks of NON BED REST recuperation.

I can handle the pain of surgery.  I can handle my 3 inch scar is now 9 inches long and I look like someone who volunteered for a magician trick gone wrong.  But I can’t handle the stillness that surrounds it.  The emptiness and dissatisfaction of being cooped up, both literally or metaphorically.

So hold on to your asses. 

Here we go.

 (1) If you want to read about the trials and treatment of limited term (i.e. non-tenure faculty) I can recommend a variety of articles and blogs. It’s a national epidemic, and one that, after 18 years of collegiate instruction as my primary job, has made me want to retire for this profession, even though I adore it.

(2) You should never confuse energy with kindness.

(3) Actually, the ROAD TRIP has been my life-long answer to lots of things in my life. Spring break, break-ups, break-ins, beach madness, confusion, general unhappiness or malaise, writer’s block, you name it.  I once drove three states to buy a cigar from a midget in New Mexico.  Not all road trips need AAA maps to get there.

Where have I been, you ask? In my kitchen, thank you very much.

Escaping the Annual Grad-Dad-Hell.

Grad-Dad-Hell (Mid-May to Mid-June) is a time when America starts to relax a little, as the weather is warmer, the days are longer, there is charcoal to be purchased, Memorial day hot dogs to eat, and if you are really lucky, the countdown to a beach vacay begins.

For me, Grad-Dad-Hell begins typically right after Mother’s Day(1) with university and high school graduations, spanning all of the other absurd and ridiculously-marked “graduation” milestones in between, and ends with Father’s Day.

I am employed by a university, so my life runs in semester cycles, much the same way it did when I was 18. Indeed, in all things personal and professional, I tend to calendar my life in these segments as well, six months out at a stretch, making time in general something manageable for someone who otherwise would mark it with Halloween (the most important holiday of the year) bottles of vodka, Macy’s white sale, and vet visits.

So on my calendar, Grad-Dad-Hell begins with mid-May college graduation.
A true cause for celebration.

4.3 MILLION freshman started college in 2004, but because the U.S. government does not track them, it’s impossible to know how many graduated(2). Some students (like me) start at one college and graduate from another. Of these, 2 .1 million didn’t graduate and 1.2 million are not counted, including part time students (why the hell not?). So completing a college degree? Facing the almost certain crushing debt (3) in order to pursue a dream and a career path? A pretty damn big deal.

Want to see how colleges in your state fared? Click on this cool link: http://collegecompletion.chronicle.com/

So pop some champagne. Celebrate. This is a BIG MOMENT. Drink it in.

I will attend these. I will buy gifts for these. These are a big deal.

Slapping a cap and gown on your toddler and attending a bullshit “kindergarten graduation”?

Not a damn chance, dearie.

This has got to be one of the dumbest things ever.

AND It represents so much of what is wrong with the American education system in one grand empty moment. Let’s pat little Jeremy on the back and tell him he’s “graduating” to first grade because he stopped eating paste (mostly) and learned his ABCs (well through P anyway) this year. He can count to 25 but he’s not entirely potty trained; let’s give him a fucking cupcake and tell him how PROUD we are of him. REALLY?

Check out this kindergarten “graduation” action shot.

First, there’s the graduate, whose facial expression tells us all we need to know. Even 5 year olds know how frickin’ dumb this is. And how annoying helicopter parents who insist on photographing this “achievement” are – to not only him, but everyone around him. Practice that plastic smile kid; it will serve you well when you’re a congressman one day.

Next is the administrator/teacher, bending over to congratulate him on (what? surviving the bus ride most days?) Paying attention? He’s not doing that now anymore than he most likely did in class. Oh no. She’s smiling tolerantly because she only has three more years to retirement and is grateful that she got tenure before her state discontinued it.

And the teacher in the background? Look at her honest expression. Concern. Boredom. She wonders if her measly salary is worth the bullshit of having legislators tell her how to do her job (4). She looks at her students’ younger siblings and wonders if they will pass the EOGs so that she can keep her job and her school can keep its funding – both true fears based on teaching to the test as a result of NCLB (No Child Left Behind) or the coming atrocity of the Common Core (coming soon to your kids’ classrooms this year).

How is entering first grade a milestone? It’s not.

It’s the same detestable idea that every kid on a sports team gets a trophy just for showing up to practices and games on a schedule. Having a heartbeat is NOT the same as having heart. We do the next generation an enormous disservice by raising them with the expectation that it is. They become entitled, and we make it worse by giving them the idea that failure isn’t really possible. Or if they do manage to fail, it’s everyone else’s fault. And in the end, little Jeremy graduates from high school with little practical math or science skills and rudimentary reading and writing abilities.

So all the other “graduations”? Fourth grade? Eighth grade? Shut the hell up. They are all just as stupid. I had cocktails in a dive bar with a girlfriend who was skipping her niece’s 6th grade graduation. Time much better spent.

This ad is actually marketing “8th grade graduation” dresses.
A school dance? OK But “Graduation”? Really?

I’m no prude, but how does this attire scream “ACHIEVEMENT” for a 13 year old girl?

Eighth grade DANCES are the big excuse for 13 year old girls to dress like 23 year olds and get ready for the drama and sex that is high school, not “graduation”. Especially when they live in my state -big nod here to our dipshit state government- which is an “abstinence only” state, which also has one of the highest teen pregnancy rates in the nation (5).

Celebrating the end of the school year should be some pool fun, some ice cream, even a school-sanctioned dance that gives over-stressed teachers a chance to use those hip flasks they got for Christmas. BUT DON’T CALL IT GRADUATION. DOING SO INSULTS THE TRUE CEREMONIES FOR WHICH YOUNG PEOPLE HAVE WORKED SO HARD!

20% of students in grades 9-12 in my state drop out(6). For many reasons, for many people, this is where their formal education will end. They have worked hard for it, and it should be celebrated as a Truly Big Deal. Some (more advantaged) students may not see it as momentous, for many others it will be the one time in their whole lives when an auditorium of people stand and cheer and applaud them. Showing them love and appreciation for something they’ve done. And that’s very cool.

Slapping a cap and gown on your 6 year old will not encourage her to be successful.

It only cheapens and diminishes the REAL academic milestones in our nation, and parents who do this should feel as stupid as their kids look.

And Father’s Day? Well it’s a non-holiday in my house, because we are Kid-Free (or Childless, if you prefer to pity us). Hubby lost his dad last September, and Mackula has been gone for over 6 years now. Here is one of my favorites photos of them, laughing, like they almost always were:

This is pretty much how we imagine our dads in Heaven. Whiskey, Scotch, and lots of Laughter.

During Grad-Dad-Hell, I spend less time online and on social media. I manage to ignore more emails than I check and I do a lot of Devoted Domestic Living, which is often messy but nonetheless productive. This year I cleaned two closets upstairs, the attic, and mostly house-broke a 3 month old puppy.

Hubby is always happy for it, for not only does this lack of tech results in amazing shit getting accomplished around the house (last year I re-grouted the kitchen floors and the upstairs bath, and painted the den bookcases) but delicious dinners that I had no time to cook before (apparently) have magically starting appearing at the table most nights. Last night we had grilled venison with the season’s first best beefsteak tomatoes in a salad with avocados and almonds, grilled venison fillets and white chocolate pot-de-crèmes with fresh blueberries.

That’s right, bitches. Grad-Dad-Hell sees an unholy rash of Culinary Feats at my house.

Homemade lasagnas (every 10 takes a full day in the kitchen, and this year I made 30) homemade blueberry, strawberry, kiwi, ginger laden jams, and some of my famous homemade Kahlua (7) I also can tomatoes, beans, and peaches, but those come later in the summer, when they are roadside ripe and the brightest colors in God’s canvas. Hubby hasn’t eaten (processed) tomatoes or green beans from a can in over a decade. I hear no complaints.

2014 Grad-Dad-Hell is finally over. Now on to things that really matter…

(1) See earlier chapter re: My Non-Mother-Mother’s-Day Adventures. Mostly these involve weekends escaped to the beach, and lots of vodka.

(2) http://collegecompletion.chronicle.com/

(3) For the nation as a whole, average in-state tuition and fee prices are $8,893 for public four-year and $3,264 for public two-year institutions

(4) In my state (NC) the average salary for a certified (and with e BA) public school teacher with 10 years of experience is $40K

Click to access 2013-14schedules.pdf

(5) http://www.hhs.gov/ash/oah/adolescent-health-topics/reproductive-health/states/nc.html

(6) http://www.ncpublicschools.org/graduate/statistics/

(7) I will NOT share the recipe. Stop asking.

That’s right.  Lent.

Let’s be clear.  I am not Catholic. I am not even a recovering Catholic. I was raised as a Baptist and am currently still a member in Methodist church congregation seven states away from my house because I’ve yet to find another one I like.* But you don’t have to be catholic to observe lent; even my catholic friends and family will give you that one. Indeed, some of the other rituals and beliefs in Catholicism are not for me. They confuse me.

But Lent? Lent, I get.

Lent observances are meant to help us turn away from whatever has distracted or derailed us and to turn back to God. Giving up something for Lent is ultimately a form of fasting. We can deprive ourselves of some small pleasure or indulgence and offer that sacrifice up to God.**

OK. I get that.

But let’s face it.  Most people suck at the Lent selection.The link below is a Twitter Lent Tracker, which list the top 100 most common things people “give up” for Lent. I struggle with this. Because I really believe that G-d doesn’t care if I give up chocolate. (My ass might, but G-d certainly doesn’t.)

http://www.openbible.info/labs/lent-tracker/2014

For many people I know, it’s about two birds, one stone.  They wanted to diet anyway, so they are going to give up carbs for Lent.  You’d be better to choose Candy Crush. Can you live without THAT sugar?

Stop inviting me.  You know who you are. 

Unless you give up something that you will actually MISS in your every day life, it ultimately has no value.  And worse, when you FAIL at your attempts, because you have set yourself up to do so, you are giving Christians a bad name, insinuating hypocrisy on a much larger scale, that Christians are generally lazy and fickle, not serious about our practices. (No more so that other religions, I venture, but other faiths don’t adhere to Lenten practices.) Additionally, we don’t need that bad rap.

There are enough ignorant people out there calling themselves Christians already thank you very much. 

At Lent, the aim is to get closer to your God. Christians of all shapes and sizes give something up in order to focus on something OTHER, ostensibly the more important things in our lives. It’s about priorities. Less overtime means more personal time. Less iPad/iPhone gaming means reconnecting with your spouse, who is sitting 3 feet away. Less trips to the gym mean might more walks with your dog. Why shop when you can read? Less XBOX means time for artistic or creative endeavors that you yourself make (create rather than participate).

I intend to give up my habit of eating dinner in front of the TV. For 40 days.

 Yes, for those of you who were unaware.  Lent goes until Easter.  40 DAYS.

I will NOT turn on the TV until after dinner.  Every night.  I am not going entirely without it; that would be madness.  And that would be unrealistic.  But waiting until after dinner?  Cuts at least two hours out of our viewing time. That’s a nice daily chunk of what-else-could-I-be-doing.

I will set the table EVERY night, which also means I have to stop using it as storage space for excess work and project piles. Even on nights when Hubby has commitments, I intend to eat alone with Otter and perhaps a good Pandora station. No email checking.  No HULU cheating. Just Honest Down Time.

This is a big deal, since I ADORE my DVR.

I find that I can’t actually watch TV in real time anymore without yelling at the commercials. Especially the drug ones.  I often found myself trying to fast forward through them while watching Jeopardy in real time, so now I record that too.  As a consequence, we watch MORE shows and enjoy them, but it is our primary evening activity. In part due to the crappy winter weather, and in part due to our winter work schedules, but really?  It feels as though if we are home, we are connected to the DVR.

Now, I will slow down.  I will NOT eat in my lap.

We have a dining room table damnit.  I intend to use it.  If these two can do it, SO CAN I.  🙂  Dogs with Table Manners

I am not saying that I am any better at making sacrifices than the next human, but I am going to take Lent seriously or not at all.

When Easter is over, I’ll come back to this and let you know how it went.

In the meantime, share your Lent thoughts?

* And when I say “I”, I do not mean “WE”. I was fortunate to grow up in a wonderful church with an active youth group and fabby friends. Both then -and as an adult- I spent decades joyfully singing in church choirs (some I even had to audition for!) but Hubby did not have these connections in his church when he was young.  Church was never joyful or fun for him.  And so he doesn’t feel a lack of a church home in his adult life. He & I agree emphatically that you do not need to tithe to a church to be a spiritual person or a Good Christian.  So we are very particular in our church-comparison shopping. And we often forgo services for praising G-d’s grace and bounty in nature on a golf course front nine.

** Definition from http://bustedhalo.com/questionbox/why-do-we-give-up-something-for-lent

Tomboy Debutante Year In Review

In the Year of 40, your favorite Tomboy Debutante (me, you twits) has had a Banging Year!  Cleansing and Burning.

The Year of 40 saw many highlights, including Big 4-0 celebrations in Las Vegas, seaside Easter with Otter and my favorites little pirates (the youngest of which was taught the Ten Commandments drinking game)*, Derby Day funeral hat awesomeness, too many beach trips to even count (why don’t we just move there for Fuckssake?) birthday bashes with million dollar confections, nautical nuptials with naughty bits on life size Jenga pieces, Disney World, Sea World, fishing for red drum, swimming with manatees, ATL (watching my boy Carroll from afar on the Seahawks sideline) mayhem, impromptu pub crawls, Black Friday seaside shenanigans, and Oh! The Christmas Cocktails (just today I am probably sober enough to drive again).

Did someone saying Burning Bush?

I have had a tremendous year, full of drinking and living and writing, but not (alas) sharing on the blog-o-sphere.  One reason, as my editor and Merlot supplier will tell you, is Because She Said So.  Many a drunken, often pool-side, debate, has included this very topic.  Another reason is the big picture of writing projects, including research for a screenplay, a series of short stories, and the BOOK.** It was a constant debate this year. What to put in, what to leave out, what to move, what to edit, what to burn…

Indeed, I cleansed and burned A LOT this year.

I cleansed. 

I cleaned out closets, sold shit on eBay. Cleaned the mudroom, the shed, the attic, and even donated some shoes.  GASP.

In the spring, I saw a dentist, a cardiologist, a nutritionist, my gyno, two oncologists, and an orthopedic guy.  I still have perfect teeth, trace amounts of cartilage in my bad knee (that’s good) some new dietary restrictions, and the heart and lungs of a 27 year old.  So I replaced mani-pedis with facials all summer in order to make my face match.  (Jury still out on that one.)

I don’t look my age.  Mainly because I was chemically pickled in my 20’s.
And self-marinated in a variety of vintages in my 30’s. 

I also burned.

I burned bills in the fireplace.  I scorched some hair lighting a cigar on the beach. I burned some bad writing.  Most cathartic.  (Until Otter decided that the ash & 3-day old burnt logs in the fire-pit were fun fun fun to chew.  #Dog Baths)

The face of a dog with no regrets.

But most importantly I burned bridges to toxic relationships.

Done. Good Riddance.

Others (because some bridges can’t be burned, only charred) I found I simply needed to “opt out” of their company in order to remove the temptation of calling people hypocrites, liars, egocentric bastards, manipulative bitches, and murderers in public places.  And in the end?  I was amazed at how SIMPLE and CLARIFYING this was.

And writing about it has helped, of course.  Since leaving the mountains, I had begun to feel a particular bitterness creeping over me. And after three years of build up, I knew that the writing must begin anew.  I cannot, will not, let Bitter turn me into those things I so despise in others.

Bitterness can ruin you.  It’s like swallowing poison and then waiting for the other person to die.  Joanna Weaver said this, not me. She’s a Christian author I would never read, mainly because her book titles are stupid shit like Having A Mary Heart in a Martha World.  But I like this quote because I think it’s true.

Just like I can’t abide people who are life-long riders of the Woe-Is-Me-Train (#allaboardtoSelfPityville) I have to avoid bitches who Bleed Bitter not just because I want to stab them in the eye out of frustration, because it can be infectious.***  Hurricane tried her mightiest to infect me with her Bitter.  Hashing and rehashing the past as though if she complained about it enough, something might change.  Really?  What about that makes any damn sense?

There are only two things in this world.  Things you can control, and things you can’t.

Grousing about what (or who) you can’t control makes you bitter, and I will not do it.   It’s not easy.  Watching those you love get hurt because of the selfishness and deceit of others can make you lose sleep, true.  It might mean you are a good soul, in fact.  But if you can’t do anything about it, let it go.  It can be so hard, but I have devoted months to doing it, and my blood pressure is 100/75.  Bitches.

Much of what I wrote this year remains stashed away for later revision, but I’m glad I did the work, had the hard conversations, confronted my own truths.  My one and only 2014 resolution?  To keep focusing on what matters. And cleansing and burning what doesn’t.

I like this path.  It’s mine to travel and it’s pretty damn fabulous.

Happy New Year, Bitches!

XOXO
TomboyDeb

* If you do not know this game, you and I cannot be friends.  It involves watching the epic film The Ten Commandments and drinking every time someone says Moses. You must also finish your drink when Pharoah says “So let it be written, so let it be done”.  Most folks need intermission to take a short nap.

** All of which, in addition, also has to be balanced with what will and will not get me fired. Because this bitch needs her day job.

*** ”Bitterness is like a cancer. It eats upon the host.  But anger is like fire.  It burns it all clean.”
– Maya Angelou

Halloween is my favorite holiday.  And when I say favorite, I don’t mean, it’s the most fun to shop for, or the best holiday to spend with friends and family, or the holiday with the best food or the best decorations or the best gifts.  I mean it’s all of those things and more.

Meet Igor.  We acquired him in Texas, he lives in the attics, and only comes out for one holiday a year.  Kind of like my Auntie Helen.

I genuinely have more fond childhood memories of Halloween than any other holiday. Perhaps all the others combined.  And the central refrain that runs through these mental tunes?  What is everlasting in my memories about Halloween is being That House.  You know, the house in your neighborhood that goes Ape Shit Crazy over this holiday.

If you aren’t sure which house in your neighborhood is the Ape Shit Crazy Halloween House, then I have news for you. It’s your house, dumbass.

I grew up in a neighborhood full of kids, which meant non-stop doorbell ringing for adults and an endless supply of candy from houses within walking distance for kids.  Everyone participated.  Houses who didn’t participate made this choice with the understanding and expectation of being egged, possibly rolled.*  People who went out of town and left “take one” baskets were robbed of all their candy by dusk and then usually egged later on for good measure.

As I grew older, I began to understand the greater implications of being That House.  We (read: Hurricane) took macramé baskets holders and slung carved, lit pumpkins in the them, letting them swing menacingly from the trees that lined the sidewalk to the front door.   Fire hazards be damned. We opened the windows, where dad had wired stereo speakers to sit and broadcast spooky soundtrack music from horror films to the entire neighborhood.  Noise ordinances? In the 70s and 80s I’m not sure these existed.  Our parents dressed in full costume as witches, warlocks, and vampires in order to scare neighborhood kids and were never accused of reading and/or enjoying YA fiction novels or of being in any way deviants for indulging in this behavior.

One year, Hurricane (always in charge of make-up and pumpkin carving and Life in general, of course) took Mack’s widow’s peak and colored it black, bringing it down into a perfect v-shape for a Dracula make-up job that would have made Coppola proud.  Like most men, my dad bitched about Halloween but really loved it.  And this year? It was the year of Mackula.

Mack-Ula wore an old tuxedo and a custom cape (Hurricane began planning and sewing as soon as Labor Day was over) and was to answer the front door, which conveniently creaked loudly when it opened. ** Mackula embraced his character this year by eating his early dinner of spaghetti in the dining room.  Alone.  In the dark.

Hurricane snuck in and took a photo of this, and the resulting picture was marvelous.  The white grease paint shimmered under the flash, the red lining of the cape collar she’d made him, starched up perfectly, his man-scara highlighting those playful eyes.  And the spaghetti sauce around his lips would have made him look sinister, were it not for the twirl of noodles on the fork hovering on its way to his mouth, and the hint of the fangs he’d removed, there on the corner of his napkin.  When I remember my Daddy, the Light and Rock of my life, this is always my first mental image of him. He is forever frozen in time as this Mackula, blown up to an 8×10 glossy and framed, taking its place of honor on the wall of family portraits and other horrific Olan Mills moments that lined our back stairwell.

 
Igor and me hanging out one year.  We had both had too much Merlot. 

Mackula was answering the door while Hurricane baked five thousand zucchini bread mini loaves for some-bake-sale-fundraiser-or-another, and it was the first year I was allowed to go trick-or-treating unchaperoned. with my friends.

Unchaperoned.

This is a word that strikes fear into the hearts of all parents.  UNCHAPERONED.  Quite frankly, some of us should never be this.  Ever.  Hubby will shudder a little, visibly even, when it is applicable to me for more than 48 hours.  And I am a grown-ass adult. ***

So you can imagine that my parents, while willing to let me go with 2 or 3 buds, promising to be safe, stick to the streets (no driveway alleys or cutting through yards) and be home when one pillowcase became heavy with bounty, were still nervous.  No curfew was needed.  There was an understood moment in trick-or-treating when those seeking candy knew to be done, so that those seeking to vandalize would not cross their paths. ****

It’s one of those conversations that in retrospect you wish you’d been allowed to hear, as the results from it became so very interesting.  Or maybe he just snuck away from his duties, but the result was my friend Raleigh poking my shoulder and saying, “Do you see this coming?”

I turn, and what do my wondering eyes should appear?

In fact, the streets and sidewalks, brimming with kids in costumes, all momentarily stop and stare  at the vision of Mackula, in his tuxedo, hair slicked, eyes slightly squinting and fangs slightly bared, red satin-line cape flapping in the wind as he barreled slightly out of control down the hill on my brother’s ten speed.

Flashlights are being aimed at him, and he is weirdly highlighted as he gains speed, with no need to pedal, and as he passes us, and for a slow motion moment we lock eyes and he smiles. Oh my God he smiles at me.  Then he turns to hiss dramatically at some kid with a flashlight in his face, and swerves dangerously, almost crashing into Ms. Feldings azaleas.   And then he is gone.

Pure Joy and Pure Preteen Terror.  All at once.

“Some people are so weird,” my friend Raleigh says with rolled eyes, having no clue that was an actual relation.  Pure joy in me wanted to claim him, but the pre-teen terror part of me won over, as I agreed with her and simply proceeded to the next door bell.

Mackula and I never spoke of it.  There was no need.  He was showing me, in our special way, how much he missed being out there with me, and that he wanted to see with his own night vision eyes that I was safe and having fun.  And I’ve never felt so loved.

Hubby and I don’t get trick-or-treaters, and we don’t have kids, but every year I decorate for Halloween.  It’s an addiction, and it’s sometimes not easy to explain. Some years, there will literally be decorations in every room in the house.  I’m sure they will develop some type of Holiday Intervention reality show for people like me.  We have Costumes and Cocktails every other year to get our Halloween on.  (I’m not allowed to do it every year, as Hubby is convinced that this strict rotation schedule is the only thing keeping us from having an Aadams Family Home year round.) Some years the house pushes the state fire code and guests overflow into the back drive & patio to late night cigars; some years, like this year, we have only about 25 people or so and drink enough to belly laugh to a 6’3” penguin dancing to “All the Single Ladies” in the study.

But the guest who is always there? That no one sees? Mackula. Complete with cape and make-up, smiling, doing that single dad-clap thing he does when he starts to laugh really hard, and having a moment of Pure Joy.

Igor wishes you a Martini-filled All Hallows, Bitches.

*ROLLED, as in with toilet paper in the trees.  Collecting enough TP to do this well took effort and coordination among friends.  Now I think it just takes a Costco membership.

**Like most homes in our ‘hood, the front door was reserved primarily for formal visitors, such as relative you didn’t like, or formal visits, like visitation after a death or selling school fundraiser fruit. Halloween saw the most use it got all year.

***With access to a bit of cash who is not afraid of flying to Vegas.  How am I still married again?

**** Golden Boy & his buds were fully prepped and heavily armed.

Hello my name is Vivi.  And I am Survivor.

The first time I was diagnosed with cancer, I was 18 years old.  I was 10 weeks out from my high school graduation.  Cervical cancer.  I went through surgeries and radiation and kept my diagnosis and treatment under wraps.  Mainly because I didn’t want to be pitied or singled out for something I had no control over.  I was embarrassed by it, and felt like it would define me, and who wants to be defined by something so crappy?

Plus, it’s a female thing, right?  We don’t use words like Cervical Plate, Ovaries, or Vagina when we’re trying to meet new people, or G-d forbid get a damn date.  Discussing any piece of female anatomy makes people uncomfortable.

I was 18; I decided to share less and date more.

Ah, the college dating scene.  It had it’s moments.
Happily, none of them looked like this. 

At 19, I was diagnosed a second time.  Treatments were more aggressive, and I was so weak, that I had to accept help.  I was a sophomore in college and have fond memories of a friend who literally wore me like a backpack to get me to class, while another friend carried my satchel, and after class the two would come to get me again. I had allies.

But it still remained ever important to NOT be known as THAT girl.  Sick, Separate, Fragile.  So no one talked about WHY I was so tired.  Or slept so much.  Or had become secretive about things. I wouldn’t allow it.  On the days I felt good, I was a normal college student, doing normal college student things.  I didn’t offer any health details, because I had polyps on one of my ovaries.  Feel that right there?  I said Ovaries?  NO ONE wants to hear about your ovaries.  So I moved on.  Much like I am now.

In my mid 20’s, I was in graduate school and in treatments once again, this time for intestinal polyps. Intestines being something everyone has, and therefore not as embarrassing as gender-specific diagnosis.  How stupid, right? I had the “treatment trifecta”, including radiation, invasive surgeries, and chemotherapy treatments.   And this (third) cancer diagnosis made me realize that accepting TRUE help and actually trusting in others might actually be beneficial.

I was very sick, make no mistake. My chemo cocktails could have brought a rhino to its knees.  Twice I had to be rushed to the ER for severe dehydration, because I couldn’t stand or talk due to the lack of fluid retention in my body.   But even delirious, I wasn’t a very good patient.

Fun Fact #254.
I was once forced to reschedule a Chemo Cocktail Appt.
because my blood alcohol level was too high.
Can we say Bad Bad Party Patient?

I was a terrible listener.  Inwardly, I resisted praise and warmth. Outwardly, I scoffed at kindnesses and sympathies offered up in my direction.   I didn’t want to be special.  Or different.  Or blessed.  I didn’t listen when others told me how tremendous it was that I was even breathing.

Air goes in and out, right?  How is that so fucking special?  I didn’t feel fortunate, or blessed, or saved.  I felt like a fraud.  SURVIVOR was not in my vocabulary until other people started labeling me as one.

Hello my name is Vivi.  And I am Survivor.

Who Me? 

For me, this was NOT group therapy.  While it has great value I am sure, it didn’t work out for me.  The Norris Center nurses insisted on group therapies and I reacted, shall we say, POORLY, to that environment.  I was too young and too apathetic.  And being in a room with variety of scary sick people? Wasn’t really the problem.  But being in a room with people with whom that was the ONLY thing I had in common?  That annoyed me.  These people were the most depressing people I’ve ever been forced to spend time with. Ever.* Like an addict that figures out he can check his dumbass out at any time, I did.  Usually of my own accord, but I was also asked to leave a few. **

Every survivor has to find the support group that works for him/her.

So how did I survive? Early detection? Experimental drugs? Having excellent health, a strong will, a loving family, and blood pressure one step above a zombie’s?  All important factors, I am told.  My parents loved me, but they didn’t get it. They cried too much.  It was really annoying.  So what really saved me?  I survived because I found a support system that suited me.  

Not many people can say that Drag Queens helped save their lives, but I can.  And I will.

I just did.

Yes, Yes. This is the Queen Of All Queens.  ROYAL RU.
Who is definitely on the top 5 list of Bitches I Want to Have a Martini With.

My Queens were amazing.  A-MA-ZING.

When I was really suffering, those who had empathy, through survival stories of their own, rather than sympathy? These were the people who helped me survive.  They understood me and loved me.  Acceptance is not to be taken for granted when you’ve been labeled Unacceptable and Inappropriate for much of your life.  They didn’t judge me or pity me, even when I had a meltdown and my eyebrows wiped off my face with a single swipe of a washcloth one morning. They waited until I came up for air, gave me a martini, and taught me how to draw those suckers back on.

I let this support system into my life and they saved it.  Beyond the smaller obstacles of managing synthetic wigs, creative stage-to-street make-up, and sitting upright for longer than 30 minutes at a stretch?  They taught me to own my decisions, the good ones and the bad.  They taught me to create the beauty on the outside that I felt inside, to look objectively at the world in order to demand that it view me that way too.  And do it in four inch heels.

They got it.  That support was what I needed most in the world at that moment.  That, a straight man who could make a decent dirty martini, and a wig that would stay put.

Hello my name is Vivi.  And I am Survivor.

I try not to be political, but as a woman with a (mostly) working vagina, I get upset when idiots in this country vote with their vaginas instead of their brains* and I get upset when a piece of our country’s Sacred Paperwork is misquoted, removed from sensible and historical contexts, twisted, bastardized and tossed about like the Sunday sales section.

Also, I am not one to engage in political banter with most people, because I believe most people to be idiots, and it’s MUCH more fun to talk to them about things that will not give me a migraine.

It’s true, I asked for a Glock for Christmas. Preferably a fashionably compact one that will fit into a Chanel bag, thank you very much.

Meet my new Beretta Nano.
Conceals nicely and Otter and I won’t roadtrip without it.

Now don’t get your anti-gun panties in a wad.  I no more think that guns should be fashion accesories any more than I do small dogs. People who carry live animals this way will be man-handled in the afterlife in some horrible, bestial way.

But I have been fielding a lot of questions lately because there are guns in my house. Plenty of them.

I have fired guns of all types at a variety of targets.  I have taken classes on their proper care and handling. Hubby has all this and a concealed carry as well.  We are not guns nuts; we are not members of the NRA; we do not dream of being a contestant on Top Shot, nor do we feel like our lives could be featured episodes of Duck Dynasty (though these are both currently in the DVR).

REASON ONE: SPORT
Shooting a gun is a fabulous way to release stress and can be great fun.  Shooting clays is one of my favorites, but if you have open land, some fence line and some tin cans, I have Cute Camo Boots, some sassy Hunter Orange accessories, and a Coleman cooler that says we can make an afternoon of it.  Target shooting improves your hand-eye coordination, requires physical fitness on many levels, builds confidence, and combats anxieties regarding Reason Three.

REASON TWO: FOOD
Hubby is a big ole redneck who fishes and hunts, and I have the fish, venison, quail, turkey, goose, and duck varieties in my freezer to prove it.  Cancer treatments in the 90s left me with what we’ll call a sensitive stomach, so GMO injected pork, beef, and hormone–fed chickens from the local grocer make me (quite literally) ill.  But Field Turkeys? Free Range Goose? Duck?  Pheasant?Venison? Bring it. In my house, we don’t hunt anything we don’t eat and if we happen to hunt too much, we share it with organizations who help feed those who struggle to do so, like NC Hunters for the Hungry.**

REASON THREE (The Big One): SECURITY
We SPOIL our dogs as pets, which means they will turn on us for any savvy intruder that offers them an ice cube.  No shit, Otter will run over your Grandmother for a damn ice cube. Does this look like the face of a killer?

While Otter is indeed a CRAP GUARD DOG, his Big Boy Bark is deterrent enough for him to get us a discount on our Home Owners Insurance.  WOOF!

Some of my friends say, “we need to get the guns away from criminals”. This is a No Shit Truth. However, I’m not convinced gun-banning laws are the way to do this. Mainly because I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but Criminals do not give a shit about the laws of this land.  That’s why they are CRIMINALS for fuckssake.

And historically we know that outlawing guns that are popular today will only make different guns popular tomorrow.  After the AWB (Assault Weapons Ban) was passed, gun makers made changes in compliance, and the most popular of the new breed was used at Columbine.  The Virginia Tech nightmare was more about the insanity of the shooter and the number of clips being used on a Gun Free Zone campus than the actual pistols being fired.

And some perspective, please?  (*) According to the FBI, 323 murders were committed with rifles of any kind in 2011. In comparison, 496 murders were committed with hammers and clubs, and 1,694 murders were perpetrated with knives.

We can ban guns, and we can ban ammo, but guess what?
Being an asshole will still be legal.

Being fucking stupid (like having accessible guns in a household with people, especially those with challenges – physical, mental, or psychological) will still not be against the law.

I don’t fear guns.  I fear Crazy.  I fear Addicted.  And I fear Stupid & Unaccountable.

Crazy  put a gun in my face and car-jacked me in Texas when I was 19 years old.

Addicted put a gun in my face, threatening to take my life and then his own in Utah (and other locales).

And Stupid/Unaccountable tried to break into my home in North Carolina at 3 am one Thursday morning.

Crazy was caught (my car was recovered) and turned out to be younger than me, escaping a shitty family and looking to join a gang family instead; he was beaten half to death in his holding cell while awaiting bail. I later dropped all charges because it turned out he was manic-depressive and had some serious childhood trauma that required therapy.  Crazy includes those who are mentally unstable or in any way incapable of making sounds judgments or controlling their reactions to situations.

I divorced Addicted, who later graduated to merely Stupid/Unaccountable. His family chose to ignore his mental challenges, anger issues, and chemical dependencies (never making him be responsible for his own actions) until it was too late and he had damaged much of his life beyond repair.**

Stupid/Unaccountable were also three teens looking for their kicks in the Smoky Mountains, who in the end were NOT punished – by the HillBilly Law or their Indulgent parents (who clung to their denial as tightly as they did those stringlet home perms that look like the Governor pardoned them about 4 seconds too late). Turns out, these were the kids in school everyone feared showing up one day and shooting up the place, kids who spoke openly about “hating” a variety of people and people they thought should “die”. ****

They were genuinely surprised when I met them at my cellar door with a loaded 45.

Hubby, for the record, slept through the entire home invasion episode, in which I chose to light the house up like a Christmas tree, sending them running to the getaway car, which they drove past the front of the house as I waved the 45 like I was on a Mardi Gras float.

Hubby came downstairs the next morning and found me asleep on the couch, with the pistol and an empty glass on the coffee table beside me.  With a straight face, he asked, “Well, what did you do last night?”  Reason #219 that I love that man.

This is not a simple matter. Those who say it is and use absolute languages are not doing the rest of us that share this rock with them any favors with their stupidity.

Human beings are capable of amazing compassion and love as well as devastating cruelty and violence. Not everyone needs or wants to be armed. But everyone needs to listen, learn(**), and engage in the conversations that shape our country’s future.  We should be more afraid of apathy then of assault rifles.

I like it here. I want to make it better. I think most people do too. After all, where else could a tomboy debutante find a place, a home, a voice if not the Land of the Free?

* A President can’t take away your birth control, dumbass, and the Supreme Court does not make laws.  Were you just stoned throughout your fucking Civics class in high school?  Sheesh.

** http://www.nchuntersforthehungry.org/

***  One Crazy parent still throws money at Hypno-Hustler, thinking it will make him Whole.  However, she is blind to the truth that money doesn’t recognize or respect Assholes.

****These are always the most heart-breaking (to me) in interviews after school shootings, right?  “Everyone knew Timmy was an angry kid who scared the other kids.  How could his mother not have known he was capable of this?”

(*)http://www.fbi.gov/about-us/cjis/ucr/crime-in-the-u.s/2011/crime-in-the-u.s.-2011/tables/expanded-homicide-data-table-11
(**)According to Senator Feinstein, who authored the original AWB (Assault Weapons Ban) so-called “assault weapons” have been used in 385 murders since the AWB expired in 2004, or about 48 murders per year. But there were 8,583 total murders with guns in the United States in 2011, meaning “assault weapons” were used 0.6% of the time.
http://www.fbi.gov/about-us/cjis/ucr/crime-in-the-u.s/2011/crime-in-the-u.s.-2011/tables/expanded-homicide-data-table-11

This year I turn 40.  And while I have been writing this book for two years now (rather than just thinking of funny shit and tucking anecdotes into notebooks for some “future” date) I have decided that this is the year I finish it.

It’s the Year of 40.

That’s right bitches, Prepare Yourselves!

Many people know that I am a cancer survivor. (Now everyone will know.) If you are reading that for the first time here in the book or blog, then sit down and breathe; it’s true.  I was very young the first time (that’s right, first time) I was diagnosed; I was about 2 months from graduating from High School.  Over the years, I’ve had three separate battles with cancer, all with their respective horrors and treatments, and I often tell this to people to place into perspective some of the more colorful decisions I’ve made.

For example, when I mention (in casual passing?) that I once awoke naked on the 50 yard line of a college football stadium (with 4 other naked people) because the groundskeeper had literally turned a hose on us (well, the sprinkler system)… I share some perspective.

Perspective often helps those listening when they learn that I was also quite ill, and making decisions based on the brevity of life, rather than focusing on a bright future, like everyone else in college.  I was a Here and Now Girl.  (I offer no such excuses for those who were with me on these little escapades, other than that the poor bastards were all under my evil charms and just couldn’t help themselves. Picture a cocaine-addled Morgan Le Faye and you’re mind’s eye is just about focused…)

But mention the C-word (CANCER, you dirty birds) and you’d be amazed at the Instant Forgiveness offered for most any tale, most of which people assume are exaggerated.  (I let them.) The drugs, the danger, the nudity, the stupidity, ALL disappear when the element of illness is injected and their perspective has changed. It was (and sometimes still is) The Cancer Carte Blanche.

I especially love it when snooty bitches, under the auspices of sympathy, apply the Carte Blanche to fashion. As in “Bless her heart, only a Tramp would wear that dress to church, but you know what?  She’s a cancer survivor, so I say “you go girl” and just keep my mouth shut.”  Delicious!

But defining your life in terms of survival is not fair, is it?  In truth, I’ve survived scarier shit than cancer. But the labeling and interpretation of our lives is on-going.  It shifts and changes, and for some it takes on a creative bent that should win some impressive American Academy of Arts and Letters awards.  I used to imagine that only career criminals must have a penchant for these particular webs to spin, these imaginative rewrites of their own pasts.  But as I grow older, I realize that we all do it in some measure.*

I am happy to be a survivor, but I have taken great pains to never let being a Survivor DEFINE me. Don’t get me wrong, Cancer Sucks.  I am not suggesting otherwise. I will walk in a Komen 5K, and empathize and support anyone going through that Hell.  I love the NFL October pink fashion statements. But I don’t have a pink ribbon magnet on my car, and I don’t wear “I fight like a girl” t-shirts to the gym.

I have known folks for well over a decade who don’t even know I am survivor because I don’t wear it around like others choose to.  Some friends may even get a bit miffed that I didn’t “share” this with them earlier.**   I imagine there are those who feel we are too close for them to learn of this is so public a space. But they are wrong.  I am still me.  I know too many people who let the negative experiences of their lives define who they are; some even relish it. ***

I could never be a card-carrying member of the Woe-Is-Me Crowd. I have no more patience for them. (Aren’t you surprised?) Even less limited then when I was forced to do group recovery therapy in California.  But Dear G-d that is another story altogether! (Bookmark that.)

But let’s get back to me turning 40, shall we?

I have made 5 Resolutions this Year.

It’s The Year of 40 List.

#1 I will finish the Book.  The book I have been wrestling with for 4 and writing for 2 years now… I will spare you the details, but this involves time management, patience, discipline, and focus.  This will be a struggle, as I am only known for one of those things.  Guess which one.

#2 I will escalate my Physical Fitness. Last year, I got a trainer who I call Creampuff because he has the cherubic face of a 50s teen idol and it’s often hard for me to take him seriously.  But I undoubtedly got into better shape, despite ignoring his sage advice. I can easily lift a 30 pound bag of Otter’s food in each arm now and I breezed through three marathon DisneyWorld days.  But best of all, he doesn’t judge, he laughs at my stupidity (rather than pandering to it), and has never complained about the cleaning routine he most likely has implemented following our sessions.  When your client sweats vodka, I am sure there is some special citrus disinfectant being incorporated after.

#3 I will Thin The Herd.  I seem to have collected people – friends, family, colleagues, people I know both personally and professionally – who feel they know best how I ought to run my life.   Many of these operate by guilt, guile, pressures that are both passive and aggressive.  And often they judge Hubby too. Which gets me All Fired Up.  Judge me all you want.  But Hubby’s biggest downfall is that he remains married to a Crazy Lady for No Clear Reason.

Fuck these people who can’t be accountable for their own lives. I don’t owe very many people in this life.  And the ones I do, aren’t the ones who are trying to collect.  So I am trimming the herd.

I am a grown ass woman and if I choose drink Bloody Marys at 9 am or 9 pm, get a new look, a new job, a new pair of shoes, a new pistol, a new degree, a new hobby, a new tee time, a new friend, a new flight plan, I WILL.  I WILL swim naked in a fountain or vacation on the fucking moon, because this is MY LIFE. Bitches, you know who you are. You are Officially On Notice that I can No Longer be Bothered with You.

#4 Get a Boob Job.  I am a short-waisted 5’6” with size E boobs.  That’s right, bitches, E cups.  One more way in which my 30s screwed me. So the sisters are being reduced and relocated (lifted). But more on the Booby Journey later.

#5 Cleanse. I mean physically, yes.  (Today is the SuperBowl.  Tomorrow I start a six week cleanse.  Prayers are appropriate.) But I also intend to cleanse my life of other unnecessary things, including material clutter, all that Crap I accumulated in my 30s.  In many ways, my 30s were more brutal than my cancer-riddled twenties.  I made some serious compromises and while I do not regret them, I think I am done making them.  Ten years of empty hearts, empty homes, empty bank accounts, and I am done with the Emptiness.  I’ve paid all the dues I intend to pay.

I want there to be a SURVIVOR term for THAT.  To sum up the death, destruction, and dead-ends that were a lot tougher to survive in my 30s than chemotherapy was in my 20s. I want a fucking ribbon car magnet that would garner as much sympathy for THAT.  Or better yet, I want a New Carte Blanche for what’s to come.  Because what’s next is Gonna Rock.

I made bets with a dozen or more people in my 20s about the day I would turn 40.  I still know and love 5 of them, and plan to collect my $100 (each!) when, come March, I turn 40 and I am Neither Dead nor In Jail.  That was the deal.

Get ready to Pay Up, Bitches.

I made it.

*Hurricane has become a Master of Revisionist History

**And to those people, I say Shut the Hell Up.  If you feel betrayed by this, then get new friends who are as needy as you are and share everything in their lives, usually in 20 minute increments on Facebook. And be happy with these new friends, preferably somewhere far away from me.

*** My girlfriend Leila has become so defined by the negatives in her life it that if she were to actually own some of the amazing positives in her life, and let go of the past, she might actually suffer a true identity crisis. Maybe I could sell tickets.

Like many middle-class families in the 70s and 80s, Christmas was a time of security, warmth, and happiness. Cookies were baked, carols sung, a tree trimmed, the Grinch watched/recited, eggnog was imbibed, copious food consumed, and presents unwrapped.

Oh the presents.  The unwrapping of presents is never a truly joyous part of Christmas for me.  And I suspect it’s this way with all TBDs, because never is the struggle between what you want to be and what the world demands you to be brought into such sharp focus.

For me, this is represented in my memory by two particular gifts, from two different Christmases:  the Purple Ultra-Suede Suit and the Barbie Doll.

Firstly, everyone has that family member who gives shitty gifts.

If you don’t know who this is in your family, check yourself.  It may be you and there are interventions and therapies you need to explore.  The THIRD RING of TBD HELL includes Shitty Gift-Givers.

In our family, QTip and DB sucked most at Christmas gift-giving.  Shocker, right?

Not just the gifts, but the food too. (But the food we’ll save for another chapter.  BookMark that. )

DB and QTip always gave us presents that did little more than prove to us that they didn’t know us at all.  And often had the added bonus of intentionally attempting to show us how they thought we OUGHT to be.

Ultra-Suede is a fucked hybrid fabric that someone in the 60s (?) invented so that fashionistas in Atlanta could wear hide-looking clothing without sweating like the animals from which the hide came . And all the ladies between the ages of 35 and 65 were wearing it, so it of course, this is what I got for Christmas one year.  Just what every 13 year old girl- who wants nothing more than to fit in with all the other 13 year olds wearing Coca-Cola sweatshirts at school-  should get for Christmas.  Awesome.

It was my personal version on of the Bunny Suit from A Christmas Story.

It was dark purple *and it was a SUIT, as in a skirt that landed well below the knee, and full conservative (box-cut) jacket.  The skirt flared slightly and was unflattering, even on my skinny-ass size 2 self.  In addition, I was forced to wear this with a pale pink shirt with ruffles; together with my short cropped Molly Ringwald haircut , I looked like Flight Attendant on Your Plane to Hell.

This one can be purchased in the VINTAGE section of eBay for about $80.

And like the Bunny Suit, I was forced to model it right then and there.  Welcome to flight 672 to Hell, with stop-overs in thinly-veiled disapproval, and demented attacks on your self-esteem.  I’ll be coming through with your beverage cart in about 8 years.  QTip gushed over how mature and lovely I looked, commenting on how I should take care to choose appropriate shoes, DB adding and “do something” with that hair.  Qtip stuck with mature and lovely as her only adjectives and she said them over and over when I later wore the suit to church, showing me off to her friends.

But time was on my side.  In less than a year, my training in the pool made my shoulders too big for the jacket, and the SISTERS bloomed to full C-cups; no amount of creative alterations could make those puppies fit into that horrid pink blouse.  (Damn.)

But let’s go even further back to BARBIE, shall we? To My All Time Favorite Christmas Gift.

Not because I liked Barbies.  I didn’t.  In fact, I didn’t like dolls in general.  I had an over-sized Ragged-Ann and Andy doll set someone gave/made me that sat in a rocking chair in my room.  I stuffed them in the closet every night before bed to avoid any possible horror movie scenarios involving them.  No Strawberry Shortcakes, not even Smurfs for me. I did not embrace the Cabbage Patch Kids craze. **  And sock monkeys still scare the Be-Jesus out of me.

This is a sock monkey my Cuz Fergie gave me this year. He put it on the hearth, because even Meth-Lab-Mix Otter Dog knows all sock monkeys are evil and should be burned.  Good Boy.

I was 6? 7? Iwanted Action Figures from Golden Boy’s comic books, like Spiderman and G.I Joes.  I desperately wanted a Stretch Armstrong (which was under the tree BTW because my parents Kick Ass).  But mainly I wanted outdoor toys like footballs, Frisbees, and before bikes, Big Wheels, and the oh-so-coveted Green Machine (which arrived at some point as well). According the Hurricane, we literally wore the plastic tires off the Green Machines and Big Wheels we got every birthday and Christmas for two solid years, racing down the street and driveway, locking up the peddles to do Evil Knievel controlled spins.

Actual 70’s Commercial for The Coolest Ride a Kid Could Ever Have.

But let’s talk about Barbie, shall we?

Barbies are both wrong and right in so many ways.  You don’t have to go very far these days to find articles explaining the evils of Barbie;  she is the root of many a plastic-surgery addiction and evidently single-handedly responsible for millions of eating disorders in America.  I agree that she is a horrible message on many levels to little girls about who they are, who they should be, and how they should get there, but responsible for your teen’s self-esteem problems and bulimia?  I think that’s over-simplifying a very complex and disturbing problem, and avoiding accountability, which is the single worst problem in America, to my mind.

Barbies don’t raise little girls, parents do.

And my parents were not exactly excited about the Barbie gift, but willing to admit that it’s JUST A FRICKIN DOLL.  Later in his life, in fact, Dad actually told me that DB had called him and asked him about it.  Asked, did I play with dolls?  All the granddaughters of his friends loved them; they all wanted Barbies, didn’t I want one too?

Dad had told him that comic books and records would be better.  I had discovered MoTown.  We had my dad’s college record player in the den that was being worn out by me and my Smoky Robinson 45’s.  He never told me DB’s reply to this, but I can only imagine he berated my father for not raising me more properly.  I was a girl, after all. I should want a Barbie; therefore I was being given a Barbie.

This is the Barbie I got.  The boa went MIA that very day.  The following summer, mom and I gave her to a little girl in our neighborhood who loved dolls and was so excited to get her.

I faked happiness, poorly I am sure.  As an adult I have virtually no filter, so I can’t imagine I had one at all as a child.  But I was not a brat.  I gave kisses and hugs and thank yous *** and after lunch took Barbie outside to play.  Christmas in North Carolina is often sunny and warm, and this year needed little more than a light jacket.

Golden Boy had gotten the coolest gift from mom and dad, a Boy Scout survival kit, complete with all sorts of awesomeness, including a magnifying glass and real knife.  We were most interested in the former, since the sun was out and this meant we could start fires.

We were in the back, on the pad of cement that connected the garage to the back patio. We started with leaves.  Then graduated to ants.  One particular ant was wiley, so we were having to shift and move where we sat to continue aiming the sunbeam just right to roast his little ass.  We didn’t notice really when he tried to hide under Barbie, who lay on the ground beside me.

I don’t know what Barbie’s hair is made of, but that must be the most flammable substance on earth.  Seriously, does our military not have a use for this stuff??

WHOOSH.

Before we could even comprehend what was happening, her hair was GONE.

In a quick flash (literally) I had CHEMO BARBIE.

It became one of many Christmas secrets we’ve come to hold dear, like the year the tree almost stayed forever, the year the neighbor’s Bull Dogs ruined Hurricane’s pantyhose, the year a 6 year old thought my dad was Santa at the mall, the year Frosty became Holly and we sang her song up to Easter, the year we ordered pizza after Qtip tried to poison us, the year dad slipped in grease at the shelter and another EggNogged volunteer lit his ass on fire… Ah the memories.

And guess what DB & QTip got me every year after Barbie?

It’s like you know us so well already.

Every year they traveled to exotic locations;  two weeks in China, a month in Australia and New Zealand, a three week tour of the Holy Land and Middle Eastern destinations were all common.  Instead of getting us cool souvenirs, sharing photos and exciting stories, they smiled and told us that one day if we invested well we could travel and experience these things on our own. And that was that.  And the souvenirs?  These items were stored in a guest room, wrapped, then delivered on Christmas day as the Lamest Gifts Ever.

An example of Dolls from Around the World.
Lamest. Gifts. Ever.

By the time I was in high school, I had a doll from 35+ countries and 5 continents.  They lived in a secretary at the top of the stairs, perfectly frocked with vacant looks in their eyes, locked away like girls sold into the sex industry or methed-up fashionista POWs.

And all I ever wanted to do was set them all on fire.

If I could give one piece of Holiday advice?  Unsolicited wisdom during this Yule season?  Know the kids you give gifts to.  And if you don’t, have the common sense to ask (and LISTEN) to what their parents tell you about what they want for Christmas, what they are in to, what they are interested in.  It doesn’t mean you have to buy them frickin ponies or everything on their demented bratted-up lists.  But what they receive should be about making them happy, not making you happy.  And never about making them into something you wish they would be. Something they are not.

Not all girls are Barbies. Not all boys are G.I.Joes.

These days, if you want to make me happy?  Think Grey Goose Vodka.

And because I am a child of the 70s and 80s? Think Darth Vader ice cubes trays.

I promise you’ll get a sincere hand-written thank you note sometime in January.

Happy Christmas TBD fans!

For your viewing pleasure?  Barbie makes RV’ing sexy.  Check it:

Barbie motor home commercial<http://youtu.be/I1xU20Yg_7Q

*I can still rock this color, BTW.

**I consider the current American Girl doll mania the karmic reward for all little girls who played with Cabbage Patch dolls, especially those who were brats about them.  Fighting, whining, pitching fits in the aisles of retail stores for them. May you all have daughters that drive you insane for custom American Girl dolls and gear. This is my Christmas Curse on you.

*** I would write formal thank you notes later, at Hurricane’s insistence, to everyone, including grandparents, learning early in life the value of thanking someone for time and energy and love and not lying about loving Shitty Gifts.  It pains me to see young people today without this skill; to not send such a missive to your Uncle Dan or Granny Smith is more than simple Lack of Respect.  It’s laziness and implied arrogance, usually I notice, with a healthy sense of entitlement attached.

One year ago today, Yelladog died.

He left our lives the same way he came in.  Unassuming, steady, and quiet, as if he’d always been there and we’d only just noticed.  He was a monstrous dog, part Great Pyrnees part yellow lab, all sugar, weighing in at about 120. He was a great old man and I miss him.

He appeared one day while I was pulling green beans in our garden; my granddad had died two winters before and we’d been living in his house in the mountains, renovating it (between desperate attempts to flee it).  Yelladog made sure I saw him first and he just watched me, being careful not to frighten me, staying about 20 yards away at all times.  It was hot, so when I got to the end of one row, I went in for a drink and brought out a bowl of water for him.

A photo of our Crazy Ass Garden.  Almost 1/2 Acre of Lost-Our-Minds.
This was the start of our second season; by the time YD arrived, all 42 (I said 42 bitches!) tomato plants were bursting with produce. (You can see the strings and bean behind those…)

He would visit on lazy afternoons and weekends, often literally moving with me, yard by yard, up and down the opposite side of a garden row, never interfering, never begging, always watching me with his steady big brown gaze and slightly tormented expression.  His limp gave a pronounced staccato to his walk and he grunted slightly, when he sat or rose gingerly to his feet.  I told Hubby about my furry garden companion, this random Yellow Dog, and eventually they met. But we had enough troubles; Hubby didn’t want a dog.  He was clear on this point.

“We don’t need a damn dog, Victoria.”

Really?  Could you say no to this face? If you said you could, then you are a Bastard, and I’m not sure you should be reading this blog anymore.
Consider yourself on TBD Probation.

The Yellow Dog and I built a special report.  He came around on weekends only at first (we never knew where he went Mon-Fri) and after a few weeks, he let me pet him.  I could see bloody knots under his chin, and a wicked scar that cut into the left side of his muzzle; I worried he’d never really trust me.

O Those amazing Smokies, and the abyss from which Yelladog magically appeared.

Indeed, the more I learned about him, the more I made connections between he and Val, a man I had loved dearly.*   A torn ear, what looked like a knot of blood or mud under one front leg, some missing fur on his haunches (mange?) and some jacked up redneck teeth were all a part of Yelladog’s old man charm.  Likewise, my granddad Val had had more than his share of scars, not the least of which were surviving Guadalcanal in WWII and more than 60 years of marriage to Evie, who was batshit crazy and abusive.   Despite that, though, almost pointedly so, Val and YD remain the kindest souls I’ve ever met.

When no one claimed him or responded to my flyers, I armed myself mentally to battle with Hubby over adopting the large beast.   He was on the back deck, grilling, when I got home from work, with Yelladog about 8-10 feet away, which had become his usual distance. Hubby makes Killer Burgers, the sun was shining with Indian summer warmth on an early October afternoon in the Smokies, and the color off of Cold Mountain behind him made me pause. Not really the scene for a canine confrontation.

“Mmmm Burgers.  I love your burgers baby, “ says me, with a kiss.

Immediately one eyebrow goes up.  Hubby is no fool.  “Uh huh.”

“What’s the ETA on dinner?  Do I have time for a shower?” Switch and bait.  Switch and bait.

“Sure,” Hubby says. “Our dinner is on the counter.  Can cook it whenever you’re ready.”

I step inside, pour myself a glass of wine (Hubby has been home a while, the bottle is already half empty) and only then do I notice the Pyrex dish on the kitchen counter, with salmon marinating.   I slide open the deck door forming a question, the answer to which is:  Damn I Finally Married Well.

“Who are the burgers for?” I ask.

But the plate is already in front of Yelladog, who is eating greedily, happily, his geriatric hips wagging so hard, I think he might fall over. Hubby drains his glass and grins at me. Damn I Finally Married Well.

Yelladog after devouring a Killer Burger.

The one and only bath we ever gave Yelladog ourselves revealed big hunks of missing fur, some tender knots under all four legs, and cuts on his pads.  It also resulted in 7 ruined towels, 1 whole bottle of Suave shampoo, ½ bottle Pantene conditioner, the disposal of all the clothes we’d been wearing, a ball of fur large enough to constitute 3-4 dead guinea pigs, and demanded a total renovation of the downstairs bathroom when we were done.   Hair dryer, though?  No problem.  His hips loved the heat.  Being relegated to sleeping in the foyer? Also, No problem. **

I loaded Yelladog into the backseat and I took him to the vet.  Car?  No problem.  Traffic noises?  Parking lot? No worries.  Doors to the vet?  Hell No.

It took three grown men to get him through the doors, and he shivered and shook from the terror.  I sat in the floor with him and he tried to ball into my lap, crushing my hips into the tile floor and seemingly dislocating my shoulder. I was in tears when I left, the sight of leaving him there was too much.  They called 3 hours later to ask to keep him overnight, they wanted to run more tests.  I couldn’t sleep for thoughts of humane euthanasia.

I didn’t wait for another call.  I was there when the vet techs arrived in the morning, on my second cup of coffee, listening to Led Zeppelin, staring at the door, and waiting, just waiting for someone to not give me back my dog.  A Tomboy Debutante has an inner compass, that when switched to KickAss, can be hard to control.  I had to wait until 9:30 for the Doctor, but Yelladog was cleaned up, albeit shaved in spots, and ready to go. I had to dial back the KickAss. Better yet, I still don’t know who was happier to see whom.

Yelladog, on the first light snow after his Adoption.  He was accustomed to life by the fire at this point, and as you can see, none too pleased about this photo op.

Yelladog (Official spelling, thanks to the redneck Vet Tech, Bless Her Heart) was never more than about 6 feet from me from that day on.  The vet had 13 pages of catalogued abuse on Yelladog, including cigarette burn scars on his forehead and scars where hot oil or fire embers had been thrown on him, burning his back and haunches.  She was eager to prosecute someone, but who?  Yelladog had literally just appeared one day.  He would sit, stay, come, all on command.  He was neutered.  These things don’t happen in nature; he’d been someone’s pet once.  But the long term damage to his teeth and paws said that was a long time ago. ***

At adoption time, Yelladog was (best guess) 9 or 10 years old.  And he retired in style, living with us for 5 full years.  He was sheltered, and fed, every now and then bathed and trimmed.  He got chewies for Christmas, bones for his birthday (we picked April), Killer Burgers every spring and summer, and he was so very loved.

He died on Thanksgiving morning.  I had a house full of family, a fridge full of food, and a dead dog in the kitchen floor.   There was no pain, no suffering, no mess.   He just breathed in and breathed out and was gone.  The way I want to go.  The way my bestie, Merilyn, had died just 30 days prior.  She loved the mountains; I like to think they are included in each other’s version of Heaven.

Hurricane was in residence. Her new hubby’s dog Fred had been playing  with Yelladog happily the night before.  No harbingers of any kind. She went hysterical when she found out, God love her.  And then she GI’d**** the kitchen while we drove him to his last vet visit. Cause you can’t control a Hurricane, people.

The most heart-breaking?  Hubby.  He had never had a pet growing up, and Yelladog was in many ways his first real one;  though there had been some college dogs in his life, none had the spark or longevity or connection of our Yelladog.  He was wracked for days with sadness.  Sadness we hadn’t felt in a while; sadness we’d almost forgotten.  The sadness of real loss. Yelladog had come into our lives when we were mourning the loss of our lives in Texas, the loss of jobs and a life we adored, the loss of babies, and a new wretched year of family crisis etched in hard mountain winters.  And he had seen us through all that to better places, better faces, better days.  All with his steady gaze and loving canine ways.

According to the shelter where we adopted Otter last February, he was born on Thanksgiving, or damn near. Coincidence?  I think not. I think Beshert.****

I like to think that this canine timing is to remind me that all passages of life should be marked with episodes of your happy, not with a focus on your sad.  It’s a fucking choice, people.  You can decide to look for the enriching, the hopeful, the humor, or you can grab on the negatives in reality and let it run, maybe even ruin, your life.  I used to get so angry when friends would choose to ride along on The Martyr Express, or its partner locomotive, the Boo-Fucking-Hoo train.  But there is plenty of crap in this life and it can be overwhelming.  I’ve taken day trips; we all have.  The goal is to find an interesting stop and debark for a while, not take up residence in the damn dining car.  Give it a try; you may find a sunny destination, a cool idea, an amusing job, a yella friend.  Sometimes you just have to pick your head up out of your ass (or the green beans) to see it.

We all have tragedies in our lives.  But Yelladogs everywhere are reminders that we should not allow ourselves to be defined by them.  Wag On, Yelladog, Wag On.

* Living in his house was hard in many ways, mainly because we should’ve sold that piece of shit for scrap and moved; living there broke us financially.  But the sun on my shoulders in his garden in Julys and Augusts were often truly heart-breaking.

**Yelladog’s arthritis hips meant he could not climb a flight of steps.

***The surgical extraction of FOURTEEN teeth would later make YD the most expensive free dog ever.

**** For those of you from non-military families, to G.I. (as a verb) something is to clean the hell out of it, in preparation for military inspection; “the soldiers GI’ed the barracks” or “Hurricane GI’ed my kitchen that day, as beloved or not, a dead dog is not sanitary for her Thanksgiving meal prep.”

*****Loosely, Yiddish for destined to be