Story Bleed Magazine » BN Channel Personal

On Regrets (and not having them)

loraleechoate — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 18:34:35 +0000

by Elizabeth of Boy Crazy [Clarity-Chaos]

For reasons unknown or unanalyzed, an old friend popped into my mind today.

My friend J was a quiet guy. He was an artist and a musician. In high school, these attributes do not necessarily make you the coolest of kids. But he was smart and sweet and funny and shy, and when I took his arm and played his date at stage right in a musical with a name I can’t recall, I crushed hard for J. I always liked the uncool kids. (They were always the coolest.)

I, a boy crazy sophomore, was the first kiss for this shy senior boy. He, all kindness and blue eyes, was the nicest, sweetest boy I had ever kissed.

But this was highschool, where fickleness and frivolity reign. And after he ended one of our dates with a run through Taco Bell drivethru, sending me shrinking to the far side of his parent’s giant blue station wagon in angst over how bad his breath would be when he walked me to my front door, it was over.

And the next week when I introduced my dad to G, who sat on our livingroom couch, arm slung around my shoulders, my father summed it up just right when he humiliated me in his befuddlement, “G? What happened to J? What is this – boyfriend of the week??!”

And it was. It was how I rolled, nothing personal, J.

But I always felt badly about how abruptly I ended things. The poor guy had no clue it was just about the Taco Bell, no idea about the fickleness, the frivolity of teenage girls. He let it end without drama, and he stepped quietly aside as I finished out the school year as G’s girl.

He was such a nice guy and I was the only girl he ever kissed.

A couple of years later I bumped into J at a summer concert in our hometown. He was home from college, and I was genuinely excited to see him. We laughed that War was headlining the show, twenty years past their peak; and we chatted for a while. After rocking out to Low Rider, I gave him another big hug and told him that it was really, really good to see him again and that I was so glad he was doing well. He stayed at the stage and I ran off with my friends. I turned back and waved goodbye one more time. He was smiling.

One week later J died of an asthma attack. He was 21 years old.

At his funeral, a college friend brought along a letter J had mailed him just that week. In it, J had written how he had bumped into a girl he used to date and how nice it was to see her. How even though he knew nothing would come from it, he felt “really good just knowing that a beautiful girl still cared even a little bit” about him.

It isn’t often in life that we get closure with people from our pasts, that we get the opportunity to take a wrong and make it a little closer to right. That we get to cast off regrets because time was kind in its passing.

While I don’t want to live my life worrying that each goodbye will be the last, I think it’s important to be grateful for the people in our lives, and to let them know we care about them when we still have the chance to tell them to their face.

I’m not sure why I have been thinking about J today. But he was a real sweetheart and I wish he could have had the chance to shine his light for many more years than he did.

___

Editor’s Selection by Loralee Choate of Loralee’s Looney Tunes: Not only are we the lone isles of estrogen in a sea of testosterone by having 3 boys, but I also experienced a similar loss… her writing is very easy to relate to.

Read Elizabeth at Boy Crazy (Clarity-Chaos).
Check out her original post and her readers’ thoughtful enjoyment.
Subscribe to her directly.
Follow her on twitter @ClarityChaos.

One Smart Cookie

Megan Jordan — Thu, 06 May 2010 16:24:06 +0000

{by Ron Mattocks from Clark Kent’s Lunchbox}

An economic downturn. The loss of a job. The struggles to make ends meet. Sound familiar? I could probably rattle off at least two dozen people living through this right now. It’s miserable. I should know.

In 2006 I was a hotshot real estate executive who was pulling down a ridiculous six figure income while driving a hot car and partying with even hotter women. I lived in a downtown loft, wore designer suits, and pretty much did as I pleased. Okay, I know what’s going through your head, but wait, it gets better. By the end of 2007 I was engaged, laid off and flat broke. Not only that, I was about to gain two stepdaughters and couldn’t afford to visit my three sons who lived several states away.

After spending my entire adult life steadily employed, I suddenly found myself in a strange and unfamiliar place. It was as if I had been sucked up in a wormhole and then plopped down in an alternate dimension where my fiancé (now wife) worked the big corporate job while I oversaw the daily distribution of Goldfish crackers to a five and six year-old like an aid worker at a refugee camp. Everything was all switched around. The hot car with a V8? Now it was a minivan that seated eight. The downtown loft? Replaced by a cruddy apartment in the ‘burbs. Endless free time? I’m sorry, who needs picked up when?

As a result of these drastic changes to my circumstances, I turned into an emotional basket-case, breaking down after watching certain cell phone commercials or at the sight of another empty toilet paper roll no one thought to replace—again. No longer could I rate my identity against annual reviews and performance bonuses; instead, I was being admonished by a kindergartener for my absentmindedness in forgetting to put mustard on her sandwich.

Being denied the external validation I so desperately needed from a five year-old, combined with the barriers keeping me from my own kids, as well as a few other odds and ends sunk me into a depression, one deeper than that to which I am already genetically predisposed. (Thanks Catholic Ukrainian ancestors!)

Yes, life was coming up roses for yours truly, and it was clear I needed to do something about it.

This is how I imagine Margaret Rudkin felt back in 1929 …well, possibly minus the hot car and the neglected TP rolls. Who? Come on, certainly you watch Jeopardy? No? Okay, I’ll explain.

Margaret Rudkin was the wife of a Wall Street broker and mother to three boys. The family did quite well until The Great Depression hit in 1929, when Margaret’s husband lost his job and then was seriously injured. On top of these new financial challenges, Margaret was already contending with her youngest son’s severe asthma and food allergies.

Yes, life was all roses for Margaret Rudkin too, and necessity being the mother of all invention, she was going to do something about it. After turning the farm they lived on into a functioning, self-sustaining operation, she noticing the positive effects of an all-natural diet on her son’s symptoms. So, with no experience whatsoever at baking, she attempted to make stone-ground bread with all the nutrients and vitamins intact. The results were predictable.

Still, Margaret kept at it, eventually producing bread so effective in treating her son that the family doctor prescribed it to other patients, and shortly thereafter local grocers were easily selling it for more than the going reate. By 1939, Margaret had produced 500,000 loaves of bread, all from her kitchen and garage. Soon after, she moved into a factory, but despite all the automation now involved, she still insisted that the bread be kneaded by hand.

Over the next decade Margaret’s hallmark progressive thinking lead her to expand the company’s product offerings to include a unique collection of cookies, a line of frozen pastries, and a distinctive snack cracker. Finally, in 1961 she sold the business to another family-run food company, and then went on to become a bestselling author and a frequent speaker at reputable business schools in the U.S. and Europe.

Hearing Margaret’s story caught my attention, mainly because there was so much of it I could relate to—losing my job, the financial duress, even the fact that several of my children have severe food allergies and asthma. But the most inspiring part of this is that Margaret did something to change her circumstances and took no shortcuts in doing so.

Yeah, I suppose referring to her as inspiring might sound hokey. It’s easy to fall prey to that particular brand of cynicism which causes us to downplay the successes of others. But what we don’t recognize is that cynicism is really just a game of reverse psychology that we bait our hopes into playing only to say, “told you so” when we fall short. That is why people refuse to be inspired. They choose to not allow stories like Margaret Rudkin’s to stoke the fires of hope into action; instead they deny that hope by suffocating it with their own insecurities. Rather than do something, they convince themselves they can do nothing and thus resign themselves to their fate.

This is very close to where I was at battling my depression, yet with five kids and a wife depending on me, I had to do something. At the time, I had an insignificant blog called Clark Kent’s Lunchbox that indulged my fantasies of becoming a writer. I never meant to make anything out of it, but as my facial hair grew crustier, and with my dreams of building The Spruce Goose II dying, I began posting more and more blog entries about the ups and downs of my life as an unemployed stay-at-home dad out of my element. Turns out, people actually read them.

With an estimated 2 million men taking on the role of primary caregiver, coupled with the fact that men comprise the overwhelming majority of those without jobs, I came across quite a few guys whose eyes also welled up over cell phone ads. This caused me to believe that maybe sharing my story might help others who were going through similar situations, and thus I wrote a book, Sugar Milk: What One Dad Drinks When He Can’t Afford Vodka. Now, I realize that my achievements may never be on par with those of a smart cookie like Margaret Rudkin, but who knows. I’m sure the day Margaret pulled that first rock-hard loaf of bread out of her oven she never imagined it would be the first step in becoming a renowned leader of American industry.

And just what was that extremely successful company Margaret Rudkin started almost by accident? You already know them, not just for their breads, but for their Milano cookies and those smiling Goldfish—Pepperidge Farm. Why did I wait so long before revealing this? Because the point of this post wasn’t to sell bread and crackers, it was to share the story of a mother who embodied the heart and art of parenthood. By doing something to change her family’s dire circumstances, Margaret Rudkin provided a timely example of inspiration—inspiration that we can either act on or that we can choose to ignore.

* * *

In compliance with FTC regulations I am required to disclose that I was given some dough for my writing services–and I’m not talking about the kind that you bake into bread.

Ron Mattocks is a freelance writer and authored the book, Sugar Milk: What One Dad Drinks When He Can’t Afford Vodka. Ron blogs at Clark Kent’s Lunchbox, where he chronicles his life as business executive turned stay-at-home dad to his three sons and two step-daughters. Honesty and humor abound, all with a Clark Kent twist. Be sure to subscribe to his blog and follow Ron on Twitter.

***

Inspired? Recognize a dash of Ron’s and Margaret’s tenacity and compassion in yourself?

Our carnival of storytelling celebrates the art of
stepping up to the plate in order to answer a need and
unexpectedly discovering a fiery talent just waiting to flourish.

Please join our carnival and share your own story of stepping up to the plate and delivering a bit of spit-fire that you may never have realized you had.

To participate:

point your readers toward the carnival here at http://storybleed.com so they can explore your fellow writers’ stories
add our carnival badge to the bottom of your post using the code provided below (so we know you are an active participant), and add your carnival post link in the linky below.

We’ll be selecting 5 additional carnival posts to feature on the front page of Blog Nosh Magazine (with your permission) during the month of May so add yours now! We can’t wait to read your story!

Heart and Art of Motherhood carnival sponsored by Blog Nosh Magazine and Pepperidge Farm.

When They Say You Can’t, Believe You Can

Megan Jordan — Thu, 06 May 2010 16:14:29 +0000

{by Lucrecer Braxton from Art Slam}

There isn’t a worthwhile thing in the world that can’t be accomplished with good hard work.

You’ve got to want something first and then you have to go after it with all your heart and soul. ~ Margaret Rudkin

When I started the Art Slam, it was my fourth “from scratch” blog. I shut the others down knowing full well I was losing huge readerships. Why did I do it? They were no longer me…authentic. I felt lost in a world of scrapbook supplies, moms with cameras and enough online fakeness to make you want to hurl. I had lost my voice. My words did not seem like my own and I spent a couple of years searching for the essence of who I was. It was during this time I moved my journaling past just writing to making art within my journals. It never fails that when a challenging time comes into your life, you either rise to the occasion or you shrink back and allow it to consume you.

Recently, I was introduced to the story of Pepperidge Farm’s founder, Margaret Rudkin. Her youngest son suffered from asthma and severe food allergies. Concerned about his diet, she tried her hand at making bread and failed miserably with her first attempts. She did not give up and despite what skeptics told her about their doubts she could make nutritious bread that tasted good, she proved them wrong. I can not count the times I have had people tell me they doubted me and my ability to do anything meaningful with my love of art. There’s always going to be someone who does not think you can do something because THEY can not imagine your dream becoming reality. Thing is, the dream was placed in you, not them. You can not allow what others think to stop you from dreaming and being all you were meant to be.

Like most of us, Margaret did not set out to start a business, she had to do something to support her family. As a mother, you do what you have to do to support your family. I can remember when I lost my job a few years ago, I relied on what I knew best in order to help support my family in our time of need. I used my graphic design and photography skills to bring in some extra money. I started writing again and discovered a more patient, confident voice. I started this blog knowing it was not about having a huge readership, but about being a real, authentic person who could inspire with my art and words instead of breaking people down. There is enough of that mess going around online without me adding to it. When you stop by here, I hope you leave feeling better about who you are, inspired to live your life fully everyday and wanting to be all that you can be. Blessings to you.

During the month of May, I invite you to visit the blog carnival at Blog Nosh Magazine and share your stories. Join me and grab Pepperidge Farm coupons to purchase your favorite tasty treats. Mine happen to be the Bordeaux cookies. I can eat a whole bag by myself.

Post sponsored by Blog Nosh Magazine and Pepperidge Farm Celebrate the Heart and Art of Motherhood.

An artist, photographer, and scrapbooker, Lucrecer Braxton’s work has been recognized in print publications and throughout the digital world. Her personal blog, Art Slam, blends all of her talents and highlights the beauty and focuses on the positives that surround her. Subscribe to her blog, follow her on Twitter, and be prepared to be inspired.

***

Inspired? Recognize a dash of Lucrecer’s and Margaret’s tenacity and compassion in yourself?

Our carnival of storytelling celebrates the art of
stepping up to the plate in order to answer a need and
unexpectedly discovering a fiery talent just waiting to flourish.

Please join our carnival and share your own story of stepping up to the plate and delivering a bit of spit-fire that you may never have realized you had.

To participate:

point your readers toward the carnival here at http://storybleed.com so they can explore your fellow writers’ stories
add our carnival badge to the bottom of your post using the code provided below (so we know you are an active participant), and add your carnival post link in the linky below.

Heart and Art of Motherhood carnival sponsored by Blog Nosh Magazine and Pepperidge Farm.

Newsflash: the sexual revolution is not complete

Jen Playgroupie — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 09:03:42 +0000

{Originally posted on Bitch Ph.D.}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on August 5, 2008

So here is the biggest, most annoying problem with having a feminist marriage:

No matter what you and your partner have agreed on, other people will cling to their antiquated notions.

It’s the biggest evidence to me that marriage is not just a contract between two people; it’s also a kind of social contact (for better or for worse). Like, if you and your partner decide to reverse conventional gender roles–you work the day job, he stays home with kids and kitchen–and you are perfectly happy with this arrangement (ok, reasonably happy). Lovely! You win! You and your partner have done all the hard work necessary in arriving at this decision, you have had principled discussions about division of labor, you have made sure that neither one of you is feeling coerced, that this is how you both want it to be, blah blah blah and now you can sit back and enjoy your domestic life. WRONG. Because now you have to deal with constantly explaining to everyone around you that, “no, this really is what we both want, no, I am not an emasculating bitch, actually this was his idea, no really you can ask him, no, he isn’t doing it “for” me, no, we’re not doing this to “prove” something, really, we are doing this because it works for both of us, individually and as a couple.”

Of course, you could refuse to explain all this, and then you have the fun of hearing the whispered comments, the second-hand hints from, oh, say, your sisters-in-law: “well, of course it’s none of our business, but we do wonder. . .”or “oh, I think it’s fine,” (gee, how big of you) “but you know, mother-in-law thinks you’re emasculating Mr. B.” And I like my mother in law, but jesus. Or things like snide comments about how little housework you do which make you want to scream about how you did the lion’s share of the housework for TEN YEARS, goddamnit, including while you were writing your dissertation and all that time you were teaching but of course that was always invisible.

It starts when you decide not to change your name, of course. You explain it to everyone, and then they get it wrong on the letters anyway. Which, you know, fine; I realize that people kind of default to the “normal” pattern without thinking. But my own father?!? Dude. It’s the same name I always had. It’s YOUR name. Get it right. And stop acting hurt when I get irritated by it. And then there are the casual acquaintances or new friends who, at some point, you have to tell–“well, actually Mr. B.’s last name is not B.,” and instead of just saying, “oh, okay” (I mean really. It’s unusual but not unheard of.) they say “really? Why did you do that? Did he mind? What did your parents think? What did his parents think? What about the kid? Don’t you think he’ll be confused? Why did you give him the last name you gave him? Isn’t that weird? Isn’t this kind of a weak feminist statement since you just have your dad’s name anyway?” and so on. Most of the time I really don’t mind this stuff. There’s a reason why I teach, and it’s because I love to explain shit. But occasionally I’ll step back and think, lord. Do I really have to explain all of this to every single person who asks? Do they really have the right to ask? Do they have the right to be irked if I’m feeling tired of it that day and just say something snotty like, “why the hell should I change my name?” and try to leave it at that?

And you know, the sex thing too. You decide hey, it’s really stupid to promise never to fuck anyone else for the rest of your life, which you hope will be long, and you agree okay, neither of us is the jealous type and possessiveness is stupid, so whatever, if something comes up or you get interested in someone else, go for it because we both know neither one of us is going anywhere. And this works for you, and it’s really not anyone else’s business, so you don’t make a big deal over it (plus, let’s not scare the horses), and really 95% of the time you act just like any other monogamous married couple. But guess what? Let’s say you get interested in someone else, and you make a move on them. Surprise! Three out of four decent men (which is to say, any guy who you would be interested in sleeping with, because you’re really not interested in creepy assholes) will freak out because you are married and they just can’t quite bring themselves to sleep with “another man’s wife.” Which you know, you have to respect, b/c first of all you can’t make someone sleep with you and second even if you could it would be illegal and wrong, and third of all, you don’t believe in lying or manipulating people so great. You’re just fucked. Or rather, you’re not.

Interestingly, Mr. B. has not run into the same reluctance from women, which means either he picks sluttier people than I do, or else (since I prefer to think he has good taste, for obvious reasons) women just have a li’l more progressive attitude towards this shit than men do, stereotypes notwithstanding. Which is actually what I think, given the responses of most of my women friends when (if) I tell them how things are. They mostly say, “wow, I envy you, but my guy would never go for that.”

Anyway, this is all apropos of nothing, because the guy I have a date with on Friday knows I’m married and finds it neither offputting nor creepily enticing, so that’s not what I’m on about. It’s just something I was thinking about on the drive home, the way that you think, when you’re young, that you and your partner will invent your marriage on your own terms, and by god, you do that! And it’s hard work! And yay you, both of you, for doing the work and picking someone who was smart enough to get it and do it too! But then you find out that it isn’t, in fact, entirely up to you. Which is just very annoying.

It makes you really feel for Lucy Stone.

Editors Pick by Dr. Karen at Adolescent Sexuality. Bitch Ph.D. tells it like it is like few people do. Her entire blog is, frankly, a breath of fresh air about parenting, relationships, and attempting to work-while-being-overeducated. It’s particularly interesting to read about a relatively normal nuclear family unit who are open to…openness.

There’s lots more to read on her site (she’s been writing since here since July 2004), and of course you should subscribe too. Be sure to check out the original post and read the comments too – there’s lots of them and they’re worth the read.

‘Til Death Do I Part

Megan Jordan — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 11:06:00 +0000

{Originally published at Mommy Pie.}
first appeared on Blog Nosh Magazine on June 26, 2008

I own three bridesmaid dresses. I’ve been to countless wedding ceremonies. I’ve happily purchased hundreds of dollars worth of gifts for my friends’ celebratory passages into traditional family life.

Most of those unions have lasted. Some have not.

With my 40th coming up in just a few weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about about time, and fate, and the very different, and sometimes unexpected, paths our lives all take.

However I got here, this is my life. I embrace it wholeheartedly. And I wonder, where’s the ceremony for singles who have found in themselves the one they’ve been looking for all along? What about the ones who, for better or worse, never do marry another?

I’d like to think that someday I will find someone to have and to hold. I do hope so. (Especially after getting to know so many of you married mamas through your blogs.) But, what if I don’t? It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

Because I’m happy. I actually want what I have. And although occasionally, I do pine for little things here and there, in reality, I know all I need is family. No matter what shape it takes.

Hell, I may just wind up marrying myself.

I’d certainly never be accused of marrying for money. And there’s no one who’d love MP more. I’d never cheat on myself, and I’d never have to worry about divorce. I wouldn’t have a choice but to work through the hard times.

Not only would it symbolically celebrate my love affair with my daughter, it would serve as a reminder of my commitment to giving myself what I would give to a spouse. Love, time and respect.

I’ve got it all worked out.

1. THE PROPOSAL
Executed flawlessly. Because I’m a mind reader, I’d know exactly how I’d always imagined it. Definitely a story worth telling over and over.

And over.

It was so incredibly romantic … I was at dinner, and during dessert, I got down on one knee, and in front of a roomful of people, declared my love for myself, and asked me to marry me. Total shock. I had NO idea it was coming!

2. THE ENGAGEMENT
Then, the announcement in the local paper. (Is it just me or is this oddly disturbing? Not to break the mojo I got goin’, but it’s kinda givin’ me the heebs. I’d delete it altogether, but don’t have the heart, considering the countless minutes that went into it … I digress.)

3. THE SHOWER
Bring on the swag! I could use some nice Cephalon.

4. THE PARTY
After a short plane trip, I’d meet up with my best girls in Vegas for the bachelorette party. We’d party ’til dawn and I’d flirt with sailor boys on my last night of freedom. More than likely, I’d wind up dirty dancing with someone named Raoul. Which is unfortunate.

How do you like my multi-colored hair extensions? They only lasted a few hours.

Somewhere between the pic above and me waking up with an ‘Official Tattoo Inspector’ t-shirt, this happened.

Original photo borrowed from these guys.

I’m guessing the storm troopers flanking me are aforementioned sailor boys? It’s all a bit hazy. My friends are no help.

Not only did I lose a few pounds, apparently I picked up a shiny new belly tat to go with the shirt.

5. THE WEDDING
And after all that, of course, the big day.

Original photo borrowed from these guys.

There would be my beautiful MP in pale pink taffeta, standing by my side. Next to her, three bridesmaids — one for each lovely dress in my closet. (’Memba those dresses waaaaay back at the beginning?) Lovely dresses which will now [gleefully] be returned their lovely rightful owners. One Wild West prostitute decked out in hot pink satin and black lace; one long drab olive remnant of the Pearl Jam years; and a little slinky black velvet number no one (including myself) will be able to fit into.

And following the vows …

I take me, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, from this day forward, ’til death do I part.

… an amazing reception complete with dinner, drinks and a Dollar Dance. Bobo would spend the night shamelessly hitting on my friends. Uncle Pauly would play bartender and general all-around bad influence. (He’s a new dad with another on the way. He doesn’t get out much. You know how it goes.) Grammy and Poppy would call it an early night and be home in bed by 10.

And me? After tossing the bouquet, I’d hop in the Jeep and ride off into the sunset with MP cheering from her carseat.

And we’d live happily ever after.

Editor’s pick by Lara David from Life: The Ongoing Education: Being a single mom is an enormous challenge that I can’t even begin to fathom, but it’s nice to read one who doesn’t take herself – or her status – too seriously. I will warn you straight off that you should not click over to her blog unless you are well-prepared for deep, hearty chuckles. Maybe even a guffaw or two.

Read more Mommy Pie and subscribe to her guffaw-inducing fun.

Read this original post with all its original comments.

Ala peanut butter and honey sandwiches

loraleechoate — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 09:03:12 +0000

(Originally published on snipHits (or misses))

In recent months, my biological father has made a surprise reappearance in my life. Sometimes, when referring to him, I catch myself calling him my ‘real’ father which couldn’t be farther from the truth. One of those life lessons that I’ve learned the long hard way over the years is that helping to conceive a child doesn’t necessarily make a person a parent. If anything, the man that I call dad most of the time, the guy who doesn’t have one single strand of dna in common with me, who has been divorced from my mom for years now, he’s my ‘real’ dad. He was the one that raised me, gave me away when I got married, rushed from the hospital when my daughter was born to buy every single pink preemie garment he could find, and is still there whenever I need him.

This other fella, my bio dad, he’s been as much the opposite as one can be. During my early years he would unwillingly take the three of us (my brother, sister, and I) for a weekend and then we wouldn’t see him again until my mother hunted him down at whatever dismal hole-in-the-wall joint he was drowning his life away at, and force him to “be a father” for a few more days. These weekends spent with my dad were always strange experiences and almost seem like dreams I conjured up in my childhood. He has always been a heavy drinker and he’d pick us up with a beer between his legs and pass out at the end of the night with a whiskey bottle close at hand. We were free to roam the neighborhood he lived in, an area where we were the only white people to be seen and where pit bulls snarled at the end of short chains and the men gathered around fires in the backyards every night for drinking and fighting. We would bath in a huge tin tub outside when we did take baths, water drawn up at the neighbor’s house and carried over by the bucketful. I can remember running outside naked when it rained with a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo, shivering and laughing all at once as we rushed to get clean before the downpour slowed. My father had no concept of parenting at all. Where my mother was inordinately strict about random, and in the end inconsequential, things – he didn’t care what we did, as long as he could deliver us back to our mother unharmed and basically in the condition she dropped us off in.

Once, I took a pair of rusty scissors to my long pale blond hair and hacked half off it of. Only half though. I went the entire weekend with half of my hair to my chin and the other down my back without my dad ever once noticing. Another time, he took us swimming in a strip pit (an old mining pit, closed down, and filled with very clear water) in March. My sister caught pneumonia (or was it bronchitis??) and ended up spending two months in a large plastic bubble in the hospital recovering. When we were still quite small, my dad thought it was hilarious to sic me on my sister. He’d nudge his friends and say, “watch this” and say “get her, betty” and I, like the desperate for attention child I was, would jump on my sister and we’d commence to biting and scratching and hitting. Apparently I always won these little battles because I was nicknamed the bulldog when I was two. He would end every night with a round of ghost stories, most based on the bullet holes still quite evident in the walls and posts of his house. He’d whisper and squawk and generally terrify the three of us as we huddled together on the pull-out bed in his one room house and then, when we were all settled down and nearly asleep, he liked to sneak out the back way and scratch at the windows or pound on the door and scare the holy living shit out of us.

This was my dad.

There was something about him that we absolutely loved in those days. Perhaps it was just the fact that he wasn’t my mother. Getting away from her iron fists and volatile emotions was simply enough for us at times. I think a big part of it was also because he was himself – he was inaccessible to us in a gruff grown up way. The man was fucked up in his own right and working on destroying his health, his relationships, his life. We were only there to be witnesses, unlike with my mother where we were woven inescapably into the destruction she wrought.

And there was one thing that my father did for me when I was young that made me love him to this day. When I was little Sesame Street was the premier kid’s show to watch. There was no Dora the Explorer or Blues Clues for competition. When we turned on our t.v. in the morning Sesame Street greeted us with it’s primary hued puppets and sing song lessons. Of all the characters on the show, The Amazing Mumford was by far my favorite. The Amazing Mumford was a magician that never seemed to get his spells just right. He always turned people into chickens or made cookies appear when he was trying to make a dove disappear. The magic words he used on this ill-fated attempts were “Ala peanut butter sandwiches!!”.

Now, The Amazing Mumford was not as popular a character as, say, Big Bird or Snuffle-whateverthefuckhisnameis. It was nearly impossible for my mom to find character goodies for me to deck myself out in (’specially considering almost all of our clothing came second hand from church donations or thrift stores). So it was always a surprise and a delight to me as a child that my dad remembered my love for The Amazing Mumford. My dad didn’t remember such things. He still can’t remember how to spell my name correctly (and HE picked it). I’m not sure he could even really tell my sister and I apart when we were small, despite the fact that she was a rounder, darker, more vivacious child. For whatever reason, he remembered Mumford though and every time that we’d visit, when he’d make his specialty lunch for us (peanut butter and honey sandwiches, which I can’t eat to this day without nearly choking on the nostalgia), he’d always say with great flair and dramatics ‘ALA peanut butter and honey sandwich!!” when he placed mine before me. And for a few brief moments, my dad loved me and only me, seperate of the other children, and this was a new and overwhelming thing to experience.

When I was eight, my uncle, my dad’s only living relative save the brood of children the uncle spawned, was released from prison after a decade long stint. Family legend has it that Uncle E had shot and killed the middle brother of the family during a long drinking session one night. The middle brother was apparently depressed and unable to pull the trigger himself and had resorted to nettling his hot tempered siblings in the hopes that they’d take up the pistol and do the dirty work for him. My dad left the two arguing brothers and went on a beer run and returned to one dead brother and another that wouldn’t see freedom, his wife, or children, for many long years. Regardless of whether the family stories have it right or not – we were never aware of any uncles that existed on my dad’s side of the family. On my mom’s there was a whole host of fucked up aunts that trooped in and out sporadically, only congregating all together for funerals and those meetings always ended in loud unruly arguments and years-long grudges. So imagine how it was to be told that not only did we have an uncle but he was a criminal that had apparently murdered our other uncle.

This, my friends, is how everything in my father’s life was and is. Shrouded in mystery, legend, and alcohol soaked myth. Along with these magically appearing uncles, we also had nearly a dozen just-add-water and watch ‘em grow sisters scattered throughout the country. My father, despite the haggard effects of alcohol, drugs, and too many ‘good’ times, is a lady killer. It seems he manages to spawn another little girl every two to three years. I’ve stopped keeping count. I’ve also stopped being surprised when girls with vaguely similar eyes and mannerisms show up on my doorstep and hope to bond. I suppose that’s another good part about moving away – I don’t have that to avoid any longer.

Anyhow, when this sprung from earth completely formed and six foot seven uncle appeared on the scene, my dad decided to take off to the uncle’s home state for a visit. He packed only a suitcase, leaving a one room shack without electricity or running water full of his paintings and carved figures with a front yard peppered with ornate rusted metal sculptures and a beer bottle walkway leading to the dented door …. and three children who fully expected their father to return in a few months to his once-a-month-or-so life with them. Instead we received a postcard of a city we’d never heard of in Ohio (my sister and I looked it up on a map afterward and both of us were still puzzled by it even after seeing the red dot marking it’s place) explaining that he’d decided to put down roots there and inviting us to come and visit some time.

We were not in the position to be that hurt or shocked by his defection. To be honest, our life at that point was made up by the lies and cruelty of the adults that surrounded us. We also knew that our father found us to be more of a nuisance than a pleasure to have around. Often he would be scheduled to pick us up and we’d sit on the front stoop with bags packed, eager and waiting, until dark fell and our mother’s temper snapped. Then, mom would load us all in her car and she’d drive around hunting for our father. When she found him she took one of two tactics: her favorite was to take a baseball bat to his car and bust out his headlights or windshield, shouting at him when he appeared at the door of whatever place he’d been hiding out at, “NOW you have a reason not to come and see your kids”; her other method involved invading every bar and friend’s house of his that she knew him to frequent, dragging the three of us behind her like exhausted bedraggled proof of his negligence. She’d triumphantly point us out to everyone and crow, “they were WAITING for their father and he never showed up”. Shaming him didn’t work as well as attacking him, though and the baseball bat was often employed. Looking back on it now, I wonder how it was that she was never stopped. He was known to befriend the shady rough underbelly of society. We grew up watching the men fist fight around the campfire and the women scream and tear at each others hair. The rapport of a gun being pulled to bring order back to a gathering didn’t scare us as much as it should have. My mother’s ability to strut into any of those places and attack one of their accepted companions is just more proof of how scary tough that woman was.

Through the years my feelings toward the man whose loins I sprung from have varied from one extreme to the next. My brother and sister seemed to settle quickly on hostility and resentment and they stayed in that camp for quite some time, a place my mother was happy to see them in. I wasn’t as easy to scare away. Some part of me insisted on keeping in contact with him even when he didn’t reciprocate and when my mother discouraged it. I wrote to him several times a year from the day we got that postcard until I was in my teens. Even then I touched base with him every so often to make sure he was still alive and kicking. He suffered a cancer scare a few years back and recovered with amazing speed and returned to the bottle with even more dedication.

In the past couple of years I’ve changed greatly. I don’t know how obvious it is to any of y’all (well, I’d say any of the old school readers from my brgriff or sanetwin days will agree), but I’ve become an entirely different person than I was as a teenager. Perhaps this happens for everyone. I’m glad to say that it seems to be for the better for me. While I’m way more introverted than I ever have been, I’m also more soft spoken, more tolerant, and less quick to anger. My temper, when it does show, is nothing compared to what it once was. I like to stop and think through my actions now (whoa). I try to help others as much as I can and my family has become more important to me.

As a result, my dad has entered my mind lately. I’m afraid that he will die without Analise really getting to meet him. The last time the two of them saw each other she was only a toddler and she has no idea who he is. More than that, I’m afraid that he’ll die before I’m ready. How incredibly selfish of me, huh? While I try not to dwell on my mother and her impact on my life and my mental health, I know that one day I’ll have to face the death of my parents and I’ll have to deal with the feelings I’ve kept tamped down for all these years. With dad, I have a strange urge to understand him and his motives. And even if I can’t do that – to let him know that I don’t hate him and I’m not mad at him for leaving so long ago. A part of me thinks that he was doing what he thought was best – trying to save us from who he was and the mistakes he was bound to make. The other part is pretty pissed off that he left us at our mom’s mercy.

He’s announced his intentions to visit at the beginning of December. He’s been talking to my sister on the phone (whenever they both have phone service), to the point that a candor and a commradory has built between them. With me, it’s text messages. A joke every now and then, a picture of him smiling uncomfortably, a quick hello. He tells my sister that he doesn’t know what to say to me, he thinks of me as a different sort of person than himself and my sister. The lifestyle I choose, the fact that I went to college, hell I guess even the way I talk, have worked together to alienate him. He has a wary pride in me based entirely upon a distant glimpse into my life.

Likewise, I’m uncertain what to say to him. His pride puts me in a position that I’m unsure of how to handle. I don’t feel as if I’m anything to be proud of. I want to be able to take my life into my hands and hold it out for him to look down into and see something wonderful or great cupped there in my little hands, proof that I did something, am somebody, am worthy. It’s all mixed up in my head – this wanting to impress a father I barely know, feeling as if I’m nothing impressive and despairing that he’ll get to know me and see that and ….. then what?

Perhaps I’d be better off handling it how he did all of those years ago; when he wanted to show me he loved me but he didn’t know how. When he hits town, I’ll invite him over for lunch. I’ll use an old family recipe and make up something he’ll like. And when I place it in front of him, I’ll say, “ALA peanut butter and honey sandwich!”.

Editor’s pick by Loralee of Loralee’s Looney Tunes: This is the first post of Geek-Betty’s that I ever read and it grabbed me by the heart and shook me to the core. Her bio pretty much says it all, “I’m not your average garden-variety PTA mom. This blog is not PG-13. I live with bikers, date musicians, have a sailor for an ex-husband, and I am related to a family of schizophrenics and manic depressives. I am bipolar and constantly teetering on the verge of poverty, heartbreak, or insanity. I heartily enjoying cursing, drinking, sex, and knitting. “ She is raw, honest, moving and funny and I recommend giving her a read and/or following her on Twitter.

When Every Little Bit of Hope is Gone, Move Along…

Jen Playgroupie — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 12:56:16 +0000

{by Melissa from Rock and Drool}

It was August 1999. I was a 30 year old mommy of two small children. I was the wife of one really screwed up little boy stuck in the body of a 33 year old man. Yet, I was no one. Just an empty shell.

Things looked pretty from the outside. Pretty house. Pretty cars. Pretty kids.

On the inside. It was ugly. I was dead and rotting. I felt lifeless and completely without any hope.

I was teetering on reaching maximum density. I was also precariously balancing my sanity. I was beyond misery and I didn’t want company. I wanted to stab my husband in his sleep. We couldn’t have that though. Because who would raise the kids if the dad was dead and the mom was in jail? The system? Hell to the no. I hated him though. With every fiber of my being.

It was bad. Not in a violent sense. There was just nothing worth saving there. But I wasn’t ready to jump off that high dive.

Until, one afternoon in early August. I snapped awake from a short nap. He was the first thing I saw. I looked at him, sweating on the exercise bike that was in our huge bedroom. And I knew it was finally over. Whatever guilt that had been holding me captive in that house, it had lifted. My fears and my conscience screamed that I was free to go.

And I did.

I grabbed clothes and toys. Enough to keep my 1 1/2 year old and 3 1/2 year old dressed and busy for the next couple of days until I could come back to the house when he wasn’t there. I grabbed some essentials for myself. Loaded the stuff into laundry baskets and placed them in the trunk of my car.

As I was strapping the kids into their car-seats, I explained to them that we were about to go on an adventure. Then I turned to my husband and told him that I was leaving. He stood there. Clueless. Not sure in what context I was using the word “leaving” in.

I climbed into my car and I backed out of that driveway.

I swallowed down my anxiety and directed my focus ahead.

I put my car into drive and moved forward. Taking with me, not only my children and my stuff. But a sense of hope. Something that I hadn’t felt in a long time but was so relieved to know it was still there.

With a head full of anticipation and a heart FULL of hope, I popped in a CD and played my favorite song of the moment, Beautiful by TLC, I told my babies that everything was going to be just fine. I knew it would be. I finally felt it from deep within me. It had been there. Waiting. All along.

And we drove off towards it.

Melissa is a mom and writer, but not necessarily in the order, as it depends on the moment. She shares her life’s triumphs and struggles on her blog, Rock and Drool. This powerful post of hope after dark days, can be read in it’s original form with all the supportive comments on her blog. Follow Melissa on Twitter, she’s always willing to join in the conversation. You can subscribe to Rock and Drool here.

Loads of Hope for the Holidays

Please join us at Blog Nosh Magazine as we share stories of hope this holiday season in support of the Tide Loads of Hope program, a mobile laundromat offering laundry services to families affected by disasters.

Share your own stories of hope, along with Blog Nosh Magazine, Velveteen Mind, and a gathering of inspiring bloggers, and enter your own post link in the blog carnival below. Explore featured bloggers as well as three featured posts selected from carnival participants listed in the linky (that could be you!).

Lend your voices now, then participate live during a two day event in New Orleans, Sunday and Monday, December 13 and 14, as we tweet stories of resilience from laundry recipients and volunteers on the ground. Follow along on twitter via #loadsofhope and be sure to follow @TideLoadsofHope.

Learn more about how you can extend hope to families affected by disasters by visiting http://tideloadsofhope.com

Blog carnival hosted by Blog Nosh Magazine, sponsored by Tide Loads of Hope.

How do the holidays fill you with loads of hope?

Hope, full

Robin Pensieve — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 14:00:57 +0000

{By Robin from PENSIEVE}

I’m sure it all started with visions of sugar plums, dancing ’round my head like Coyote’s stars after Road Runner smacks him in the head with a cast iron skillet.

At some point in Christmas Past, these were my illusions of grandeur:

Children (freshly scrubbed, neatly dressed and mannerly) joining my husband (dressed in a crew neck Christmas sweater and slacks) (yes, slacks, that’s kind of important) and me (pearls and a June Cleaver dress, bosoms unnaturally pointed and waist the size of Scarlet O’Hara’s–let’s be realistic–after giving birth to Bonnie Blue) decorating tree and home. Efficient and precise, my husband, would string the lights as the children tenderly unwrapped each ornament, taking time to recall memories or giver attached to each. Aussie, head resting on crossed paws in front of a fire’s roar, would gaze sleepily upon our merriment. I’d stop long enough to serve hot chocolate with mounds of whipped cream and offer home made cookies, each a Martha Stewart masterpiece. I’d hesitate with intention to capture the moment, wanting to catalog the scene in my heart and mind, not daring to interrupt the feng shui with camera and flash. There’d be much laughter and story telling, and one of us would eventually find our way to the piano, where we’d all join in a hearty performance of the “12 Days of Christmas”. They’d always let me sing “Fiiiive…goooolden….riiiiings!” because they know it’s my favorite.

Well, buckets of rain on my delusional Rockwell-esque Christmas parade; the Road Runner must’ve smacked ME upside the head with a skillet! When all is said and done, I’m pretty much the one who does it all.

This year, dripping martyrdom and attitude, I found myself wondering “Is it worth it?“ They’d notice, of course, but would anyone care if I didn’t decorate our home?

I toyed with it.

I dared myself.

I thought “if this isn’t radical Christmas change, I don’t know what is!”

Somewhere between evergreening our mantle and stringing garland on entryway stairs, it occurred to me why I would invest so much time and energy into a holiday tradition. It’s not tangled in the wrappings of gifts given or received. And while I so delight in spending time with family and friends…and inhaling the scents and tastes of the Season…I realized my true motive–why I care about serving my family in this menial, thankless, beautiful way–it’s a simple expression to honor a King.

The tradition of Christmas is rooted in the hope
offered by a King who Himself embodies hope…
who not only offers hope, but IS hope.

Last night, I caught the end of “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” in particular Linus’ recitation of Luke 2:8-14, his response to Charlie Brown’s meltdown over questioning the meaning of Christmas. It ends, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

The holidays are filled with unending hope because of their genesis.

Believers and non-believers alike are moved during the holidays, perhaps more than any other time on the calendar, to consider and act on the behalf of those in need. They–no, WE–become vessels of hope because of our investment in other people’s lives.

We manifest hope by ringing bells and dropping coins in red kettles…

…by packing shoe boxes full of gifts…

…by sponsoring a child and releasing them from material and spiritual poverty…

…by praying for our friends, those IRL and those online…

…by being generous…always…

and sometimes by washing clothes for someone else.

~~~~~~~~~~~

So…I decorate our home. A simple offering for my family. Delusional ideals of what “Christmas” is supposed to look like have been replaced with remembering. Refocusing. “Giving” in the best sense. These decorations are symbols of hope to me, constant reminders to be hope to those who need it most.

I really should thank my family sometime .

~~~~~~~~~~

Loads of Hope for the Holidays

Share your own stories of hope, along with Blog Nosh Magazine, Velveteen Mind, and a gathering of inspiring bloggers, and enter your own post link in the blog carnival below. Visit Blog Nosh Magazine to explore featured bloggers as well as three featured posts selected from carnival participants listed in the linky (that could be you!).

When you join the carnival with your messages of hope, be sure to invite your own readers to participate in this online event by linking to the chocolate-covered center of the carnival here at Blog Nosh Magazine. You are invited to grab any of the Tide Loads of Hope graphics you see here, including the tee shirt badge below (linked to http://tideloadsofhope.com), as all proceeds from sales of Tide Vintage Tees support the truck and keep it on the road, ready to help when disaster strikes nationwide.

Blog carnival hosted by Blog Nosh Magazine, sponsored by Tide Loads of Hope.

How do the holidays fill you with loads of hope? Do share!

Wonderwall

Amy Turn Sharp — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 09:03:22 +0000

{Originally Published on Sweetney}

When I made my list of the best 25 songs of the last 25 years a few weeks back, I burned, just for my own private listening enjoyment, a mix CD comprised of those select tracks. Since that time its been on heavy rotation during the 20 minute commute to and from M’s camp each weekday — I’m lucky enough to have a kid who’s tolerant of Mommy’s need to CRANK THAT SHIT UP — and in that time she’s absorbed all the songs and picked her favorites, notable among them the well-aged Oasis tune Wonderwall. It’s a song that for all its obvious magnetism and hookiness I’ve never fully understood. I mean, what’s a Wonderwall, anyway? And what, if anything, does it mean for a person to be that to someone else? Still, questions of signification and metaphor aside, each time the spare guitar strum of that track begins to play on our car stereo I see the joyful recognition wash over M’s face in the rear view mirror, and when the lesser of the brothers Gallagher begins to sing she does too, word for word.
. . . . .

On Sunday, we finally told her about the split.

For those of you who’ve never gone through a separation (and seriously, here’s hoping none of you ever have to), the awful, soul-rending anticipation of having to break this news to your child — the tiny, blameless person who you’ve made it your life’s mission to protect and shield from all hurts and pains — is psychological torture of a magnitude it’s difficult to fully wrap your head around. Over the course of the past few weeks I’ve said to friends, relative to the crushing dread I felt about having to do this, that I now understand why people stay together for the sake of the kids (or, rather, tell themselves that’s what they’re doing — it’s probably closer to the truth to say they’re staying together for the sake of not having to deal with the anguish and guilt of having to tell the kids). It is the worst thing I could ever imagine having to do, and believe me, I can imagine having to do a lot of pretty awful things. Like having to attend a Celine Dion concert, or watch the complete filmography of Paris Hilton, for example. YES, THIS IS EVEN WORSE THAN THAT.

So Jamie came over Sunday morning with the idea in mind that this was the day. No way out but to barrel through it together, however ineptly, and hope to god we don’t have to look back on this as The Day We Shattered Our Daughter’s Identity, Crushed Her Spirit, And Destroyed Her Self Esteem For All Time. I think some of my generalized terror about this event can be traced back to having known a few very seriously broken human beings who pointed to the cataclysm of their parents breaking up when they were a kid as the hot molten core of their volcanic screwed-up-ness. And when I say “human beings” you should read “people I dated.” This is definitely NOT how I want my daughter to turn out.

We sat down on the couch, all three of us together, Jamie on one side of her and me on the other. I wrapped my arms around her, squeezed her tight against my body, and started speaking.

And every word was stumbling, and my brain stuttered and sputtered, and I thought I’m failing, miserably… I can’t do this. But I did. And when I said the words, those life-decimating words I’d avoided saying for so long, her head shook lightly, No.

So I held her tighter, and kept talking. And she was so quiet, not saying a word, that my brain started filling in her silence with fear, with my own fear, with my fear that I’d just done something horrible to this person I love more than anything in the world, something that I could never take back, and how would I ever be able to live with that?

When I stopped speaking I felt like I’d run a marathon, and I could hear my heartbeat thumping in my ears.

Finally, she said, “And you won’t argue anymore?”

I looked at Jamie, and he looked at me. “No, we won’t argue anymore.”

Her eyes lit up. “So you’ll both be happy now?” she chirped.

And this is about when I started crying. Because I am so ridiculously, obscenely blessed, no other response was possible.
. . . . .

As we wound through the ragged streets of Baltimore this morning on our usual trek to camp, she asked again to hear Wonderwall. “I’m going to sing it,” she announced, as if willing my attention to bend itself to her 1st grade vocal stylings. And as she sang I listened — her high trill an awkward mate for the track’s somewhat grating, nasal vocals — and tried to follow a thread of coherence through the lyrics, to make some kind of sense of what Noel Gallagher was trying to say, and what in all of that my daughter connected so deeply with.

Then, just as the song rose to its swelling chorus, my throat involuntarily tightened, and I felt tears start to gather in the corners of my eyes. I sang along, too:

And all the roads we have to walk are winding
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding
There are many things that I would
Like to say to you
But I don’t know how

Because maybe
You’re gonna be the one that saves me
And after all
You’re my wonderwall

And suddenly, just at that moment, I understood exactly what the better Gallagher brother meant.

Editor’s Pick by Amy Turn Sharp of Doobleh-Vay: Tracey Gaughran-Perez is an online maven. A force of awesome nature. I love this post , her blog, and all of her writing. She has some wicked cool sites like MamaPop, and We Covet. Visit her today , follow her on twitter, and subscribe here.

I didn’t set out to write about this.

Megan Jordan — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 09:03:46 +0000

{Originally published on Diet Coke-Fueled Life.}

I was going to write about working and respecting bosses. About how sometimes they make decisions you don’t agree with, but you suck it up and play the game. About how you don’t send nasty emails to someone who’s overseeing a project you’ve been invited to work on, especially when you’re in the wrong, and the project manager is awesome (me).

That lead to the only time I’ve not sucked it up. The time I stopped playing the game and stood up for something.

In July 2002, a co-worker, Ally Zapp, left her job at US SAILING to pursue other opportunities. Two days later, she was murdered. I was the PR person at the time, so I had the horrible job of fielding reporters’ questions while in full-metal shock along with everyone else. Although a national organization with international ties, only a couple dozen people worked in our offices, so we all knew each other well. We all loved Ally; she was so darned nice. One of those people you couldn’t possibly be mad at for anything. One of those people who made a difference. I wished I could be even a tiny bit like her.

Rather than showing our love and support for her and her family on July 18, our organization offered up a platitude along the lines of wishing her family the best in a difficult time. Local media. National media. That was all I was allowed to say. And I kept saying it, apologizing at the same time for not being able to offer more. I was worried about my job.

Finally, an AP reporter I’d already spoken to half a dozen times told me a rumor was circulating around the media outlets that we weren’t saying anything more because she had done something wrong at her position–that’s why she left the job, that’s why our lips were sealed.

I put him on hold. I got up, shut my door, returned to the caller. I told him if I said something on the record, I’d lose my job. As a mom and a wife whose husband rarely worked, losing my job would have meant losing a lot more.

When I knew Ally, I was in a new and already unhappy marriage. I had a handful of good, close friends he bad-mouthed every chance he got, pulling me away from them, and away from my close-knit family. He and my son didn’t get along. On top of that, US SAILING was going through a major upper-echelon overhaul, causing mounds of unhappiness and stress. And my best friend was moving two states away. I was in a bad, bad place all around.

I gave the AP reporter the contact information for the part time job she also held, a stationery store, if I’m remembering correctly. I told him we loved her and were all devastated. I told him no way could she ever have done anything wrong. I didn’t tell him there was no way I could stay at this job when I had to hide to share the good things.

On her last day, I had the chance to say goodbye to Ally, but I didn’t. I’d just had an argument with my then-husband and didn’t think I’d be able to handle her kindness, her happiness. I didn’t say “see you later” or “good-bye” or take one of the hugs she gave everyone. I have few regrets in my life. This is not only one of them, this is the biggest and strongest.

I left the job soon after.

I’ve been thinking about Ally a lot lately. I don’t know why. We’re coming up on the seven year anniversary of her death, although I didn’t realize that until I just looked it up. I’ve been thinking about how she surrounded herself with people she loved, how she lived a genuinely happy life.

I’ve also spent a lot of time lately thinking about the people I have in my life. About how I’ve finally surrounded myself with people I love. I rarely let anyone get away without a hug. How I’m finally living my own genuinely happy life. And I have Ally to thank for it. I only wish she were here to share it.

*****

Here is a link to The Ally Foundation.

Mission: The ALLY Foundation’s mission is to prevent opportunities for violent sex offenses, to educate the public and advocate for necessary changes in culture, attitude and policy.

Vision: Our vision at The ALLY Foundation is that of a society with No More Victims. The Foundation believes it can assist the greater community in achieving this common ideological aspiration by first stopping all known sex offenders from reoffending.We have the knowledge about how to best proceed, but need more action in the fight against sexual violence. The Foundation seeks to quickly advance this important social movement.

Editor’s Pick by Dr. Karen Rayne from Adolescent Sexuality: This post was my first introduction to Diet Coke-Fueled Life, and I was immediately touched by the honesty and rawness of what Penny had to say. As a sex educator, I find that there is mass lack-of-understanding around sexual violence, and I work every day to push back against this harmful ignorance. Read Penny’s original post here.