Has Vegetable Salty.

For those of you not reading the comment sections (shame on you) my friend Gina linked to a very funny review of some apparently very bad Mexican candy.

I read it and it made me laugh and it cheered me immensely, so I advise you do the same.

Thanks Gina!

Also, now I am really worried about my daily intake of ash.

email, part 2.

Okay. I believe I finally have my email woes cured. I won’t go into detail about the issues, but everything seems to be in proper working order, so let’s keep our fingers crossed. Just know that the problem was my fault, because I’m a doofus. I was trying to set up a forwarding thing and I ended up creating some sort of loop and it was all just a mess. Never mind, it isn’t important. What matters is it’s all fixed, so email away!

I got into a huge argument with my mother on Monday, in which she basically told me that I am to blame for all of her stress, her high blood pressure, her poor health and the fact that they only have $1200 a month to live on. I am not sure how all of this is my fault, but clearly staying with my parents until I can manage to find a place to live is not going to work. But I have two lovely lovely friends who agreed, in fact insisted, I stay with them until I can move.

I gotta say, I really hate all of this. I really hate that I am about to turn 30 and I have no house, no car, no job, no money and a baby on the way. I hate that almost everyone I know in the world is thriving in their adult lives, with real adult problems and real adult solutions. I really hate that the person I am depending on is a 22-year-old boy who loves me and loves my baby, but not quite as much as he loves drugs.

I really hate that I’m smart and capable and strong yet I can’t seem to make my life into something functional and good.

But there are things that keep me afloat. My friends. I love that I have such amazing friends. Everywhere I look, there are these people surrounding me who care about me so much and would do anything to help ensure my happiness. And not just because I’m pregnant. The other day one of these friends was saying to me how lucky she felt because she had such cool, wonderful friends. And I told her that it says something about her, that if she finds herself among so many good people, it means that she herself must be pretty cool. And I can tell myself that right now, when I’m feeling so low. These people that I love and admire and respect so much truly genuinely enjoy and love me right back. I can’t be so bad after all, can I?

Anyway. I am tired of talking and thinking about depressing subjects (aka my life). I will talk about something happy. On Monday, I signed up at Target for a baby registry. It was so much fun. I got to walk around with that little scanner gun and pick out all these neat things for the baby. The best choice I ever made was deciding to keep this little guy inside me.

In other news, I almost got a really great job. It wasn’t a high-paying job, but it looked fun and rewarding and challenging and a good opportunity. The company loved me and wanted to hire me, but guilt and responsibility overcame me and I had to tell him that I was pregnant. I didn’t want to abandon them in 2 and a half months when I leave to have the baby. I felt that they needed to know going in that I would need some maternity leave soon.

But I guess I did a good job of hiding the pregnancy, because they were very shocked to learn this news. They were kind about it, happy for my upcoming motherhood and appreciative that I told them. And of course by law they have to still consider me for the position, otherwise it would be discrimination. But I made it clear they didn’t need to worry about me causing any sort of trouble for them. I said in a couple of months, if whoever they hired wasn’t working out, give me a call. And that was that.

And for those of you who know me, you will be shocked to learn that I let two of my friends buy me a maternity dress. Yes, it is true; Christa has been wearing a dress, a real actual dress. It made them extremely happy and I liked the dress and felt it looked okay, so it all works out.

Good god, what is Ryland doing to me? Now I’m wearing dresses? This might very well be the 1st sign of the apocalypse.

the past vs my future.

When I was 17 years old, I got into a huge fight with my father. I don’t have any idea now what that fight was about, but it couldn’t have been anything serious or drastic. I was a good kid—I never drank or did drugs of any kind, or dated boys or stayed out late or stole things or cause any kind of trouble that “bad” kids did. I worked a part-time job and babysat regularly. I got excellent grades in school and was loved by all my teachers. I usually spent my Friday and Saturday nights at Marianne’s house playing Scrabble or just reading a book. So on that particular day, when everything in my life changed, I can only assume we were arguing about something silly, something typically teenaged and normal. Perhaps I hadn’t done the dishes or I had mouthed-off to my mother. Something in my brain tells me it had something to do with my mom, that maybe my dad was making me apologize to her for something I said, some rude or flippant remark I made. Who knows. But she was definitely there when it went down, standing in the kitchen watching and listening but doing and saying nothing at all, even when things got so crazy and my dad became a madman.

What I remember clearly is saying that I hated him and my mother, and when he told me to take it back I refused. Naturally, he slapped me across the face, hard, and dared me to repeat what I’d said. I was 17. So I did. And he slapped me once more, harder, angrier, told me to say it again. I did, louder this time, tears stinging my eyes, my face red and burning. He slapped me again, and then again, encouraging me to keep saying it, because he could go on like this all day and all night. He kept hitting me and pushing me, there in the kitchen. As much as it hurt, I refused to give in, so through my tears and his smacks, I said, “I hope that makes you feel better, I really do.” And that just set him off. The hits kept coming and I was using my arms and hands to cover my head and face, to protect myself, and he just wouldn’t stop, even as I pleaded with him. I got away from him and ran down the hall into my bedroom, thinking I would be safe, but he chased after me, telling me I’d learn respect if it was the last thing I did. I scrambled across my bed into the corner and curled up into a ball and he followed, this time using his fists to hit me. He finally stopped when he saw the blood on my face and I was hyperventilating from crying. He left the room without a word.

I sat there for awhile before I called Marianne, sobbing and asking her to come pick me up. She showed up 15 minutes later and I left with a pile of clothes and my school books. I didn’t go back home for quite a long time. On the ride back to her house, Marianne kept asking me what had happened, but I couldn’t talk about it, it was embarrassing and shameful and it hurt too much. When we got to her house, Marianne’s mother stood in the hallway, hugging me and smoothing my hair and comforting me and telling me everything would be okay. I won’t ever forget that.

The next day at school, one of my English classes was held in the library. I was sitting at a table alone, with my busted-up, fat lip, when I broke down and started crying. My teacher sat down next to me and asked what was wrong. I said simply, “He did it again,” meaning my father had beaten me up again, which was the truth.

What happened after that feels like one of those stories you read about or see on TV, where something small snowballs into some regrettable tragedy. Mrs. Kirk (the teacher) was one of my favorites and we were relatively close, considering I was just another one of her students. I had baby sat for her and she liked me. Mrs. Kirk took me to the nurse and told her that my father had molested me again. Because she had misunderstood my words. By that point in my high school career, I had begun writing about molested children, disguised in various fictional or non-personal roles (like a speech I did for Mrs. Kirk’s class). She was not a stupid woman and to any observant adult, it was clear that I had experienced sexual trauma at some point in my life, not through anything I said or admitted to (because back then I couldn’t even admit it to myself) but because of what she and other teachers had read and understood from my assignments in class, from my behavior, from my demeanor. When I said “he did it again,” I meant physical abuse; she took it as sexual abuse.

That afternoon, in the school nurse’s office, the nurse sat me down and examined my face and lip and then asked me point blank if I had been molested by my father. When she asked me, I just stared at her, stunned into silence. No one had ever asked me anything like that before. I was so hurt and so angry and more confused than any teenager has a right to feel. Everyone was looking at me, expecting me to say yes, needing me to say yes, staring at me, waiting. I wanted everyone to just leave me alone. I was so furious and hurt by my father and I wanted to hurt him, I wanted to lash out. So I said yes. Yes, he touched me inappropriately, when I was a little girl. I said he only did it once and he never had sex with me. I thought that admitting this small minor thing would make them go away, that I would be left alone, that it would all blow over and life would go back to normal. And I could tell from their faces that is what they wanted to hear from me, so very badly.

But what I didn’t know was that Mrs. Kirk and the school nurse had a legal responsibility to report what I’d said to the authorities. I was still staying with Marianne. By the next day my whole world fell apart. My dad was in all sorts of legal trouble. The police went to my parents’ house, as well as social workers. My little sister was 9 at the time (and still sharing a bed with my father, which everyone at social services and the police department ate up with relish) and they were going through the procedures to have her removed from the house. My sisters were beyond angry with me, calling me at Marianne’s house to yell at me and tell me how awful and horrible I was and asking why I would tell such outrageous lies, that I had caused my father to cry. My mother told my sisters she no longer considered me her daughter and refused to talk to me at all. I felt pressure from everyone and everything and from deep inside me as well.

Despite his behavior, I loved my father and it was killing me to think of all the trouble I’d caused for him, for something that wasn’t even true. To imagine him crying, that really just made clear to me what I had to do. I called up the detective and the social worker and told them that I’d lied. That I’d made everything up just to get back at him. None of it was true and they could put me in jail or whatever they wanted to do, but that my dad had done nothing wrong. All the charges were dropped and my family eventually forgave me, although it was a long, long time before my father could even look at me, much less talk to me. My mother, however...well, she never forgave me. She started talking to me again and my sisters stopped hating me as much. Things smoothed over. Time helps to heal a lot of wounds, you know?

Years later, I went to one of my sister’s therapy sessions, at the request of her therapist. The whole debacle came up, and I explained to Jennifer what happened. No one in my family ever bothered to get my side of the story and they never knew what pressure had been put on me to say what I’d said. I have to say, that session really helped to heal some things between us and brought us closer together.

But what I wonder now, all these years later, is why no one in my family believed me. Why everyone assumed I was lying. And what I wonder now is—what really happened to me? There are oceans of things that I can’t remember, that I’ve blocked out, that I can’t begin to consider or imagine. And I have so many questions, and I know I will never find the answers, because there are no answers.

Why does my mother dislike me so so much? Even before I gave her any good reason. My whole life, as far back as my mind can go, she hasn’t liked me. What did I do? What didn’t I do? Was I that rotten of a child?

Why does my father, even today, make me feel just a little bit icky and a little bit anxious, way down deep inside me? Why do his eyes feel a little bit leering? That queasiness I have around him sometimes, this unsettledness, this desire to hide every part of my body from him...it seems like I’ve felt this my entire life. Why? Is it because he reminds me of my uncle, his brother? Is it because he’s just a man? Or just the first man to ever see me naked? Or am I just some crazy messed up girl?

And the nightmares and panic attacks that come from these vague hazy dreamlike recollections of mine, of a figure, a man, standing over me in the dark, as I lay in bed? Why does the strong stench of beer on a man’s breath make me so nervous? Why do I hate being touched, especially from behind? Why does Gordon’s touch sometimes make my stomach roll over and bring a thick choking taste to the back of my throat?

Why did he really beat me up that day? He hadn’t hit me in years. What else happened that I don’t remember? What happened when he followed me into my bedroom? And why didn’t my mother stop him?

Why did I say he molested me?

My father loved me. I was his little girl, his favorite. He took me out to restaurants, just me and him, and he bought me presents, better than those he got for my sisters, and he made me his special sandwiches late at night when I couldn’t sleep. He let me fall asleep on his lap watching TV at night. On our family vacations, when we’d drive across country, he used to let me sit between him and my mom in the front seat, after everyone fell asleep, and it was dark and quiet and sweet and he’d tell me stories and let me hold the wheel. He let me have and do anything I wanted when I kid. I was his little girl. He loved me. He would never have done that to me, never hurt me. Sure, he would beat me, he beat us all. That was his way of disciplining us. But not that. He wouldn’t do that. No. No.

He scares me sometimes because he reminds me of my uncle, that’s all. Please don’t let it be that I say it was my uncle because he reminds me of my dad.

There is so much I don’t know, so much lurking beneath the surface that I’m terrified of uncovering. Was it my father? My uncle? Neither? Honestly, I’d rather go my entire life believing it was my creepy dirty alcoholic uncle than knowing it was my father. I refuse to believe it was him.

What little I remember, what little I allow myself to deal with—it could have been anyone, really. But I know that he was dark, with dark eyes and stale breath reeking of beer and he said this is how we show love.

God damn it, what happened to me, why can’t I just remember? It’s there, I feel it, but I can’t find the edges, I can’t make out the shape, I just know that it’s massive and looming over my whole soul, casting me in a deep shadow that I can’t escape.

Does my mother hate me because I took away her husband? Or does she hate herself for what she let happen to me? That day, when I was 17 and he was out of his mind, why didn’t she stop him, why did she stand there silent and approving?

Why does sex become such a burden, such a painful difficult act for me, once I become familiar and filled with love for the man I’m with? Why can I only enjoy sex when it’s with someone I do not love or know very well or am not in a serious relationship with? Am I doomed to pay for my past forever, a past I am too scared and too weak to remember?

My dad has never apologized to me for that day. Neither has my mother. They’ve never apologize for anything. I would like to hear that someday, but I know it will never come. Mostly, I just wish I was the daughter they had wanted.

Tonight, as I sit here alone in Morgan and Tiffany’s spare room, I don’t think I have ever felt such immense, drowning loneliness. Despite the great love and support I’m being given from my friends and from Gordon’s family. I don’t deserve such kindness from them. My choices have been poor and I have to accept responsibility for the position I’ve put myself in. But I can’t help wishing I had never been born.

But you know something? Right now, this very second, I am feeling Ryland moving around inside me, and as I stroke my belly and whisper to him, I know that I’ll be okay.

the email situation.

Okay, so it does appear that my email is not working right but I am busy fixing it so everyone be patient. I’ve been told any messages I’ve been sent are still there, so hang in there! c-love to come shortly.

I Give Up.

This entry is going to be nothing but me bitching and moaning, so you’d probably do best to skip reading it today.

So. Here I am at home, and have been for 3 weeks now. And I’ve been trying very hard, so very hard, to be nice and understanding and minimize the discomforts for my parents of me being here. I know that it is not easy having me here and everyone’s routine is messed up, so I am trying. But it just isn’t working. I am butting my head against a brick wall and as I stand here with blood streaming down my face, all they can manage to do is criticize, that my blood isn’t red enough or thick enough or gushing out like it should be, I can’t even bleed right, what is wrong with me.

My mother hasn’t stopped being Ms. Bitch Royale since I got here; thinking every little thing I do, like breathing for instance, is some grand conspiracy against her. She acts so horribly utterly INCONVENIENCED by my presence (yet my other sisters and their kids can spend months at time here and she rejoices like it’s the goddamned second coming). Her big problem is that, after almost DYING last year from a heart attack and subsequent quadruple bypass surgery, she has started smoking again. Only she thinks she is doing it secretly and no one knows. She must really think we’re idiots. Anyway, so now with me around constantly she is forced to go to even greater lengths to hide it. She looks horrible, she is being sneaky and bitchy because she knows she shouldn’t be doing it, and takes it out on everyone around her, but mostly me, as if I am to blame for every one of her problems, as if I alone am the sole reason for her unhappiness and poor health. And you know what? I don’t care anymore. If she wants to kill herself with those fucking cigarettes and blame me for her miseries, then so be it. It’s her life and I am sick and tired of feeling responsible and bad about HER choices. It’s pretty sad when you get to the point that you begin to wonder how much better off everyone might be right now had she actually died last year.

As for my father, well, he isn’t so annoying, he’s mostly harmless, but he never has anything nice or positive to say about me or anything concerning my life. I must have been a really rotten child to induce such loathing and disappointment from them. And all he does is watch TV all day long, which really gets on my nerves. How can anyone possibly watch that much TV without dying or committing suicide? I really don’t understand. From morning until night, that TV is on, buzzing and hissing and eating away my sanity, and he sits in that chair doing nothing. What my father needs is a job, because if I have to hear one more time about how broke my parents are I am going to scream. No one seems to have a problem complaining to me about MY lack of a job or the manner in which I spend what little money I have, but god forbid they turn the spotlight on themselves.

AHHHH. It’s just making me nuts, like unbelievably crazy I-am-going-to-rip-out-every-blood-vessel-in-my-body nuts. This is why I left! This is why I moved as far away as I could from these people. They hate me, I hate them, and we’re fine with that arrangement when I am living thousands of miles away.

I have a job interview tomorrow, so hopefully I will be able to move out ASAP and the tension will ease up and I can see these people as little as humanly possible.

And if I don’t find a job soon I’m in big trouble. The money I had managed to save is disappearing quickly. And nothing new is coming in, which is very stressful. I thought I was broke before? HA! I was living like queen of the world in Boston. Reality can be so cruel, so so cruel. I have no idea what’s going to happen when I have to stop working to have the baby. Maybe I can sell a kidney or something.

Also, are people getting my emails? Because no one is writing me back and I’m feeling lonely.

Mexicans everywhere.

Over the weekend, I went to Texas to visit my dad’s family. It was a lot of fun, I got to see people I haven’t seen in years and ate a lot of good Mexican food (real homemade Mexican food) and heard some great stories about my dad and grandparents. My dad grew up very poor, which I already knew, but hearing the stories made it seem even more real. Sometimes it is hard to imagine your parents with real lives and histories and childhoods. My folks have always just been Mom and Dad to me, not Ann or Henry, not separate people who did things and had friends and lived lives before I came along (or my sisters). But that is as much my parents fault as it is mine, because they never talk about themselves or tell us things about when they were kids. Other than yelling at us when we did wrong things, they weren’t very communicative, especially when my sisters and I were growing up.

Anyway. It was a good time.

I am starting to get very worried about finding a job. Then again, I haven’t actually APPLIED to any jobs, but I am still worried. Money issues are my biggest stress right now, like most people. That and the labor talks in hockey. and the presidential election in November.

I devoured book 6 in the Dark Tower series (for those of you unfamiliar with the Dark Tower series, SHAME ON YOU). Now I gotta wait until September for the last book and how the hell am I supposed to read the last book of the greatest series with a baby crying and wanting my attention?!

Well...

Hockey as we know it is over.

Let the mourning begin.

I blame everything on Gary Bettman, the worse commissioner in the history of the entire universe.

Here is what bothers me about the looming lockout. I think both sides, the players and the owners, have valid points. But the people who pay the most, who suffer the most, are the fans. And without the fans, there wouldn’t be an NHL. If it weren’t for us watching the games and going to the rinks and buying the merchandise, there would be no disagreements or CBAs or salary caps or anything at all. So with both sides threatening no hockey season next year and analysts saying that the NHL couldn’t survive such a lockout, it makes me sick that there has to be even such issues. The fans make hockey what it is and I am sick of all the greedy bastards keeping us from enjoying it.

ANYWAY.

I was thinking about how I feel now that I am back in Tucson, and I am not very thrilled with it. I like being around my friends, but my parents are driving me nuts already, I am worried about getting a job and I am hoping I didn’t make the wrong decision by coming back. Then I think about it a little more and I would probably be just as unhappy in Boston. Once I get out of my parents house and into my own place with all my stuff comfortably surrounding me, I am sure my outlook, disposition and constitution will all improve drastically.

This is my only hope.

the cup.

it is very hard to believe that either the Flames or the Lightning will have their names inscribed on the Stanley Cup this week. Who would have thought one of these teams would be champs at the end of the season?

Clearly, it is of utmost importance that tampa stupid bay does not win.

No Florida team should ever have possession of the cup. their names on it would be sacrilege. no argument. end of story. period. fin. The Flames have won before and if they fail to win this year, my faith in hockey will be smashed.

I hope you are all watching the finals, because these could quite possibly be the last professional hockey games we can watch for a long long time.

Also, screw tampa bay. SCREW TAMPA BAY.

as I swelter.

I guess moving to Tucson in the summer, when I’m almost 6 months pregnant, wasn't wasn’t one of my better ideas.

oh well what can you do.

I say “screw tucson, screw summer, screw babies, screw it all.”

I am too hot and fat and grumpy to talk much right now.