I’ve Fallen!

Are you there, God? It’s me, Bebe.

No, really. Are you there? It’s a question I have asked myself ever since I paid attention in science class and learned about televangelist hooker habits and hell and brimstone for imperfect people.

As a child growing up in Catholic schools, I was convinced that my brother tripped and hurt himself immediately after swearing for the first time. I just knew it was God. When I wanted to spend the night at my best friends house, we would lock ourselves up in her armoir and pray to a glow in the dark rosary so that her mom would say yes to us. During the passing of the plates in mass I actually envisioned a helicopter flying into the heavens towing our money every Sunday to God, who would disperse the funds to all who were in need. I had a delightfully clear conscience not because I didn’t want to do the wrong thing, but because I was petrified of God. He made my brother fall in the street, and he was cute as hell and by far the favored male of our clan. What would he do with me? A bastard child in the third grade with the soul of a 45-year-old waitress working double shifts and bizarre ability to read minds?

I remember very clearly the day I stopped being afraid of God, and started thinking of him as my personal ATM of requests and superiority. I was running through the woods through a sand dune in the backyard of my new house out-of-state. I swore. I waited to fall and I didn’t. I swore again. And still nothing. I was astounded. So much so that I literally said out loud “I didn’t get punished!! God has more important things to pay attention to!” and that was it for me. From now on, I pulled the Catholic card out when I thought I would look cool or scary in front of the Baptists, or when I wanted a boy to like me. Or I wanted new pants or something. Also I should add that by this time my mom felt it was necessary to share that she didn’t believe that Jesus was a holy deity, but more so a great man who did great things, and loved Mary Magdalene. She taught the golden rule and showed me Jesus Christ Superstar. My mom could have been Dan Brown years ago, having taught us The DiVinci code all on her own. She also could have saved me a lot of fear if she told me that shit sooner. But oh well. She never told us things in a manner in which we weren’t ready for.

So let’s fast forward many years. To now, specifically. My feelings about God have devolved, evolved, changed, gone away, come back, gone away and come back again. Buddha joins him, science joins him, and doubt also always drags along. I made the decision a few months ago to look at life extremely clinically. The world that ebbs and flows as just part of life and science. I took God, and faith, out of the equation completely. And at first, it worked. Everything made sense. Without God or faith (which I actually think this post is more about than anything) everything was what it was. The good was good. The bad was bad. And all would pass. I felt so liberated. I stopped taking everything so personally. But after a while, I just felt a bit cold and ugly inside. Things that I thought had passed came back. I would go and talk out loud to God, but then I stopped. Because I didn’t believe in that anymore. When I had a lovely day, I would go to thank God, but would stop. Because I didn’t believe that anymore. My faith was gone.

Everything was gone.

I remembered the times where God, or faith, or whatever it is that brings me back to life worked for me. And there were many. I had to admit to myself that there is a higher power within that I need to rely on.

I just don’t know what it is.

Listen, I believe that there is an energy that drives us all. I believe that Jesus existed, and that he died for radical beliefs. I believe that humans, some, not all, ruined everything he tried to teach. I believe those people corrupt more than any sinner can. And here is how I feel about God; the energy that drives me. He is like my own metaphorical sweet old uncle who hugs me when I am down and puts me back on this foundation and helps me to breathe. I do not believe in all of the other pomp & circumstance that goes with it. I don’t believe that he needs to prove anything to me any more than I have to prove anything to him. And I guess, ya’ll, that is what faith is.

Since figuring out this middle ground, I have felt relief where I ached, and clarity where I was confused. I felt pain and embarrassment about things that I had done in the past. Things that I don’t exactly regret. But I should have felt something when I didn’t. And once I had good old Uncle God back, I felt it. It hurt. It’s almost gone. The fear and worry I have about my family during stressful times is still there. I just feel the ground under my feet a little more.

This isn’t the most cohesive post I have ever written, but that’s because my relationship with my uncle isn’t cohesive. But it’s there, and I wanted to write about it. I have no quirky ending or resolution other than I swear like a fucking truck driver still to this day and I only fell off a bus once, as an adult.

I still have the scar too.

Bebe

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Down in the Dumps

Ladies & Gentlemen, I start this entry out with the ending of my story.

I shit my pants yesterday.

Yes. You read correctly. You now have fair warning to turn away and read something vastly more interesting and less disgusting on the internets, if you choose to do so. But first; let’s go back to the beginning.

I have been working, nursing, cleaning, driving, parenting, cooking, and overall spinning in circles for the last 6 weeks since my husband had major surgery. He is under every restriction there is in the history of medicine, which means that I am now as unrestricted as a hooker at a rodeo. Only I am not doing it with cowboys.

I am tired. Physically and mentally. I am working hard at work, at a job I hate, dealing with a 3 year old with OCD, worrying about my bills, my future, my dirty bathroom, and really whatever else enters my mind. I have headaches, ringing in my ears, my hands are numb, and I wake up on bad days feeling like I don’t want to be a wife. I don’t want to be a mother. I want to cry but can’t (except for getting jacked in the head by my son with a back massager. I balled my eyes out from pain) and then of course I feel guilty for not being the head of my brood. Or mainly, not wanting to be the head of my brood.

So then I settle into the emo version of my depression. Everything makes me want to cry. Everything is the worlds fault. Everyone is out to get me. I look like an ugly bassett hound. I have a horrible attitude and my stomach is dragging by my toes. Oh, and I forgot to mention, whatever Goddess of Nature is in charge of periods really punched me in the gut this month too. Hard. My neck muscles are clenched so hard they feel like I am carrying picnic benches on my shoulders. Life is rough, people. Right now, life is rough.

Yesterday afternoon I barreled through a ton of work and sat at my desk feeling some relief. Things were looking up. I had gotten a great nights sleep; my son has been a lovely little gentleman who has mastered the art of raspberries before bedtime. You know, the mouth farts on the belly? He loves those now, and I will take what I can get. I had a bowl of my favorite japanese soup for lunch, and just that morning on the train I just kept telling myself to snap out of it and rock it out. I start to feel a tingle in my nose and like a million times before, I sneeze. A harmless innocuous sneeze.

Then it happened.

I shit my pants. A combination sneeze and shit. A schnart, if you will.

Now, I had no idea what had just happened. I felt ok. No stomach aches, no pains, no pressure. I was used to peeing when I sneezed after the boy, but pooping? This was a whole new experience. So the first thing I do obviously is run to the bathroom.

After the initial shock of it all, I start to laugh and cannot stop. I do the obvious things you would do if you shit your pants, and then headed back to my desk. Now, here is something maybe you wouldn’t do. Or maybe you would, I don’t know. You are still reading this so something tells me you might. I get right on I.M. and share the wonderful news with Lulu. She says that after she is done laughing, she will try to help in any way she could. I yell to her in ALL CAPS that I need new drawers, and then I humbly ask her to smell the vicinity of my area. Yes, I did. And yes, she did.

Next I debate whether or not to share this with everyone on FB, but instead just put up a vague but truthful status that everyone loves, and a few even catch on pretty quickly. I never outright admit it, though. I text my husband who can only respond “OMG, I’m so sorry”. I didn’t know whether to laugh at his OMG, or that he felt such sympathy for me. I half expected an e-card, if he were that kind of guy. Judging by my beautiful Valentine’s gift of nada, I would say he isn’t. My other girlfriend confesses to this happening at her old job at a vets office, and luckily no one noticed because she worked with dog shit all day. She proclaimed to never eat Hooters again. I opened an old wound for her, and for that I am so sorry. Lulu saves my I.M. for our future book of embarrassments and jackassery, and neither of us can stop laughing.

By the end of the day, I realized that obviously I had taken so much so seriously for so long, that my body just said “STOP! Stop taking shit so seriously!”

I literally needed this to happen. Some people hit a wall before cracking. Or fall to the rock bottom of their lives before losing it. All I did was shit my pants. But I feel better now. And I needed that laughter at myself more than anything I have ever needed in a long, long time. The topic itself broke a lot of work tension and brought a few of us together like it used to be. A ring brought the fellowship together, why can’t a schnart bring together some stressed out office workers?

Ok, so there you have it. I am afraid to sneeze now, but overall, everything is back in place for me. I schnarted my way back to the general population. Or poopulation. Whatever, man. It’s all the same shit.

Bebe

 

Cold Red Birds

I haven’t written in quite a while because my heart hasn’t been in it. At all. I have been in a funk for the better part of a year now, with little relief in sight. The last 3 years for me, and my family have been life altering, challenging, depressing, and long. Unemployment, schooling, developmental delays with our son, therapies, career changes, and corporate douche baggery have put me in quite a tight spot mentally and physically.

We suffered yet another set back this past weekend. My husband has a history of back problems and has had two surgeries to show for it. His body gave out on him this weekend and we are back to square one. No work, no school, and quite possibly, no income. It’s not pretty. It just isn’t.

However, in the midst of this latest downturn, I have to admit I don’t feel so defeated anymore. I think that the universe is pushing me to break of out of this funk, this constant shell I have been crammed into, and try to see things differently. I sat down and just tried to concentrate on keeping my mind still instead of wandering off to places unknown on the inside. I say that because in the past few months I have shut down so completely that I actually have a full plan on how to survive the inevitable zombie apocolypse from beginning to end, but couldn’t plan my son’s birthday party.

In doing this I came to the conclusion that I really did just muddle through these past 3 years instead of actually surviving it. I always kind of prided myself on being this human form of the grand canyon. Just let the water take me where I need to go and carve me into shape. I had some ups and downs and a couple of observations and revelations, but the same ferris wheel of shit keeps spinning. The universe keeps bringing me to the same spot, over and over. Obviously, I need to revisit myself before I can get anywhere new.

I am not sure how this is done, but I have some good ideas. I am trying to learn the virtue of being still. Now, I have no problems at all being still physically. That’s a given. But my mind is a spinner. I will worry myself into oblivion about so many things, but never really find a solution. 

Embracing anger, disappointment, boredom and frustration and then letting them go. I love feeling these things, and that’s my problem. I love having layers but they just kind of suffocate me. I was so angry about work, about being the money maker in the family, about my son and his love of hating me, that everything became a chore. The very act of breathing became like a chore to me, and how fucking shallow and mundane is that? It’s just not cool.

My life isn’t a chore. My family isn’t a chore. My job is a chore. But that is so for countless people. After I meditated about this as much as I could, I came out feeling surprisingly calm and collected. Now, this could be that awesome feeling of euphoria before the nervous breakdown sets in. It could be a higher power showing me a lot of mercy and just scaling back the drama so I can make it through this week. I wish I could say I am stealing my husband’s painkillers. But I am not.

I listened to some holiday music with the boy on the way to school and just kind of felt the cold, looked at the trees, and listened to the sounds. It was a rare “in the moment” feeling that helps a day start out nicely and rounds it out successfully. It reminded me of how much joy I get from seeing birds in the snow. Specifically cardinals. Everything is so white and icy and still, until a cardinal flies by and perches on a branch. It stands out, it endures the winter, and it makes all of that white look splendid.

It is a pretty bird year around, but it takes a snow storm to bring out it’s true and fiery beauty.

*Authors Note-I found this photograph online and cannot track down the photographer. It does not belong to me and I do not take credit for it.

Get that boy a cane!

The boy has a subtle, strange and hilarious preoccupation with House. The show. Dr. Greg House, that prostitute loving, pill popping medical genius who loves to crack wise. That House. My not quite 3 year old loves him.

He was pretty sick last week so I stayed home with him for two days. We finger painted one afternoon and USA had a House marathon on. One of the funnier quirks about having a child with a bit of OCD and sensory issues is that, at least with this child, there is an uncanny memory and brilliant timing. He spent some time as an infant hearing House in the background but since he couldn’t talk, he didn’t pay much attention beyond the theme song. As you can see in my entry Say What???, the boy and House have a past. But what I didn’t know was that out of nowhere, he would yell “Yay! I like House!” as if he were watching it on Hulu every night without us knowing it.

But he did yell that. And for the entire weekend, he informed us that “House will be on soon” and “House farted! P.U. House!” and “Be nice to House. House won’t bite!”. He sat on my lap for 20 minutes straight as I played the theme song on youtube. It’s by Massive Attack and it’s called Teardrops. Kind of cool. Although, I had to stare at Hugh Laurie’s face for 20 minutes straight. Handsome? Yes. Talented? Yes. Stare at him for 20 minutes straight? Not so much. Although when I turned around to survey the room, I did see the husband sitting on the couch in his underwear biting his nails. I looked at the boy sitting on my lap. Biting his nails.

I am pretty sure I need a hooker and some vicodin now.

Strollers at the Zoo

It’s been a hell of a life lately. The boy has been busting his ass in therapy and it paid off; he is now officially almost 3 years old, literally and figuratively. No more delays. Still a lot of quirks and a sprinkle of jackass here and a dash of OCD there. But overall, his therapists, teachers, and parents couldn’t be more proud of his stunning success.

The husband is now officially an extern for 4 months at a lovely hospital. He bust his ass at school and made it. Now he has a real job, sort of. We just have to make it to February, and he is done. An accomplishment that I couldn’t describe to you in any language, on any blog, on any planet. Too big.

Now, that leaves me. Yeah. Well, I was up to my ears in diarrhea today, since the boy had been on some strong antibiotics and insisted on eating more than his share of fried onions. You know, the kind you put on that gross green bean casserole? I coughed so hard this morning I peed myself. My eyebrows are now very similar in shape and form to Larry King’s. Only I don’t have a desk and microphone to hide them behind. I had a dinner today that consisted of a lot of bacon and red meat. My job and firm have both positioned themselves beautifully in between the 6th and 7th level of hell, and I have acne behind my ears. I suppose that I could be grateful that I don’t have it on my face, but they hurt. Obviously you can tell by now I am in the mood for some self-reflection.

It’s October here in the midwest, and all signs point to family togetherness, pumpkin farms, carving, and moms in nice jeans and boots wearing crisp shirts with fashionable scarves, holding their equally fashionable child in one hand while lovingly embracing a Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte in the other. They have already taken their wonderful fall family pictures, and their homes are filled with Febreze Fall Amish Acorn Apple Pie Cashmere Scented Decorative Shades and they used all of their coupons at Michael’s Crafts to construct an aerodynamically politically correct black widow spider to sit on their porch with their whimsical jack o’ lanterns. In the meantime, I just tossed the last of last Christmas’ candle because it got too dusty and I am fairly certain there is a real spider living in the boy’s play kitchen. Hell, I can’t keep my own kitchen clean, now I have two to clean? And one of them doesn’t even have real running water? And besides, these festivities of which I speak aren’t really ever a success for me and the family anyway. Why you ask?

My husband is kind of tightly wound. He just as well would not go anywhere if he doesn’t know what’s in store. He himmed and hawwed for a good two weeks when I said I wanted to take the boy the zoo. Knowing him as I do, I finally got the bottom of his hesitance. He was worried about the stroller. He didn’t know if there was a spot to put your stroller when you went indoors, so he just plain ol’ thinks we shouldn’t go. Yes. That is what I chose, quite deliberately, to marry into. And trust me, every second of my life with him is pretty much exactly the same. I will go anywhere, do anything and try it all. But this is the life I chose, and part of the special nature of my relationship and marriage is seeing his eyes kind of light up when he ends up having fun doing something he is forced to do. Example: he was petrified, and I mean petrified to go to Mexico with me; until that is, he realized he could have two plates of food and all of the beers he wanted because it was all-inclusive and the trip was paid off months before. Now he wants to live there.

However, one doesn’t realize how complacent one becomes until that very personality that you have become accustomed to gets handed down genetically to your offspring. Which leads me to the boy. He looks like me through and through. But he is very much his father’s child. Actually, given all of his issues and delays, it kind of leads me to think his father had his own undiagnosed and ignored issues as a youngster himself. In fact, I know it now. The boy isn’t a sheer joy to take anywhere. I mean, he isn’t a hunchback or anything. He doesn’t wreck the place like a crackhead. But it took a long time before we could figure out where we could take him, and which one of his quirks would wreak havoc on our time out. Just when he became socially pleasant to be around and we dropped our guard….it happened.

He became his father.

He is picky about where we go. He flat-out refuses to try certain things. A simple day out doing something fun, and productive, and “normal” becomes an earth shattering disappointment. There are tears, and tantrums, and regret that we even stepped out of the house. And that is just from my husband. Ha. But really. I get angry and disappointed because he isn’t laughing and running and enjoying himself like all of the other kids. And my husband is saying “we shoulda…(insert plan B) or we shouldn’t have (insert leave the house here.) And all that is left is me. Mad at a 2.5 year old because he can’t enjoy himself, and mad at his dad for being who he is, and mad at myself for not thinking about the power of genetics when I allowed myself to fall in love with a roughneck at a biker bar 14 or so years ago.

Mostly, this is about my expectations and how they are just too high at the moment. I have socially awkward people who need my love and sense of humor. Because that really is the only thing that I have going for me right this second. And I don’t want the boy to grow up with that kind of anvil in his gut. Something inside of him stopping him from doing things because his brain can’t sort out what the outcome will be. The good news is that the husband doesn’t want him to turn out like him either. See? He recognizes. That’s all that I can ask for in life.

As for me. I need to figure out what I can do on my own. For myself. I need to figure out where I can find my own sense of who I really am on the inside. I need the cash to get my brows done. These two socially inept nut jobs need me. And besides, the boy didn’t totally become his dad. He memorizes music like no ones business. He fixates on certain cool songs and his face is full of sheer enjoyment and thought when he sees someone singing something he likes. He is also pretty hilarious. He has a bit of my genes too. And I shouldn’t let you think I am perfect either. This kid has a huge chance of becoming kind of a slut, a little crazy, a drunk, or a Republican. Yes, we have a little bit of everything on my side.

Mostly though, I just want him to be his own set of genes. Make his own decisions about what he likes and how he lives. I don’t want him to be a slave to his genes, or his environment. I want him to breathe deeply, smile, and not worry about strollers at the zoo.

Bebe

Planet Practical. Population: Us

“Yeah, well, the world needs ditch diggers too” -Judge Smails response to Danny Noonan when he says he can’t go to college. Caddyshack

We had a big corporate drama at work these past few months, and it’s still not over. I have always been a bit uncomfortable working for “the man” and feeding the machine. But I have also known that I live on the planet called Practical, and I have no choice. Besides, I liked the people I worked with, some of the people and clients that I worked for, and most importantly, I support my family. We are fed, clothed, insured, and have central air. I am light years ahead of my family when I was growing up, and make about 90% less mistakes than they did.

A big hypocritical dose of classism aside, I am a functioning member of society with my dignity and soul in tact. But right now, I just feel like I am suspended in mid-air.

I am not educated formally past high school. I took a sweet office gig for survival and I am still there. I appreciate having an income. I appreciate working hard for my family. I appreciate that I am not homeless. I appreciate. This isn’t whiny middle class whoa is me bullshit. But I also feel like I have nowhere to go right now and it’s suffocating me. Right this second, I am always going to be dependant on greedy corporate douche bags. Every decision they make, every meeting they take, and every check they cash decides my fate.

This isn’t to say I think all of the corporate world is corrupt, greedy and out for themselves. I am sure there are some really great places out there. And you know, for the most part, mine might be the lesser of a few evils. This isn’t about them per se. It’s about how right now, right this second, I am feeling the weight of supporting my family the only one way I know how. If this were the early 50’s, I would swear I have a penis.

Ok so when the time is right, I am going back to school. I don’t know when that will be. I am temporarily unable to compartmentalize my work life and my home life. I am letting it carry over but trying my best to hide it. If it’s one thing I am good at, it’s perspective. And I need some right now. And I sure as shit don’t want to sound like a sobbing brat, when I know full well that I am not alone in this. This blog is really more of an egotistical public journal for me, and writing this will help me to suck it up and do what I do.

I just keep hoping I shed this feeling and let my dignity and soul shine through so that I can come home and love my husband and son, and put corporate douche mania in the corner of my mind somewhere.

The planet Practical is a good place to be.

-Bebe

Mint Chocolate Chip Beatles.

“The sun is out; the sky is blue; it’s beautiful and so are you” Dear Prudence, The Beatles. A band worthy of tribute.

The universe as a whole has been sucking lately. The media does nothing but saturate us with bad news, images of destruction, rednecks talking about tea all of the time, really rich skanky “celebrities” with nothing else to do but exist and be on tv for acting vile. I get it. It’s everywhere.

There is a shit ton of stuff happening and I for one am one of those people who just try to put out as much joy and productivity as possible. It’s hard, and I don’t always succeed but I try. So this post isn’t going to be about life’s difficulties or my personal issues with raising a family and working my ass off. Nope. Not today. Today, I am going to go literary ninja on a few people because I have some vibes that need to be released. I don’t feel that karma will get back with me on this one because I feel I am doing the world some good by calling these fuckfaces out because they.should.be.ashamed of themselves.

1. If you work a steady job for a firm with stability and revenue, please do not bitch that it’s too cold in your office. Wear a sweater. When you complain that it’s too cold in your office, you are only making it sadder to learn that someone forgot their 85 year old grandmother in her dusty old apartment in 95 degree heat and she died. Actually, it was probably your grandmother. Bring a sweater. Dress in layers. Thank whoever you want to thank that you aren’t sweating your balls off digging your dead grandmother’s grave. Fuck you.

2. When the building that you work in wants to show you appreciation for working in their building, for free, have some fun. I can think of 100 people who would love a free ice cream sundae and to sit by the river listening to a live band during their work day in air conditioned offices. There is nothing tacky about it. And for you to sit and commiserate with another one of your fuckheadlings and declare just how tacky it is, is pretty fucking tacky. What kind of world do you come from where you can honestly look deep into your soul, assuming you have one, and openly say that you think that free ice cream and music is not good enough for you? I know that people have different tastes, and I don’t judge. I mean, if you were lactose intolerant and got inappropriately touched by a weird uncle while listening to a cover band, I wouldn’t be mad at you for having this reaction. But you didn’t.

You actually said that “No one in New York would ever do that.” Well, I cannot speak for all of New York, but I hardly think they would all turn their nose up to music and frozen dairy treats. Really. They brought the Statue of Liberty to life with their collective joy in Ghostbusters 2. They are capable of happiness. If I weren’t absolutely pissed off at your ugliness right now, I would feel sorry for you to be so miserable. Eat some saturated fat and get laid. Oh yeah, and fuck you.

The truth is that everyone, every day, since the beginning of time, has had to trudge through shit to be able to enjoy a bit of happiness. Some more than others. And if I am one of those people who had to trudge a bit more, and suffer a bit more, and work a bit more, only to truly enjoy free ice cream and music in my air conditioned office, then that’s me. I am tacky trash. I am not lactose intolerant. I love bad music, and the people who make it.

Nothing could ever defrost people like you. Not even me, and you make my blood boil.

Bebe

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