head ache like no head ache ever.Nik looking at me.  Fine.  I'll get up. Really noodle? Yes, wakey wakey.  I just want to cry, but she has a way of letting me know; lets me know all is fine.

Walk. I want to sleep. I order a bloody mary and waffles.  I get bloody mary and two ham and cheese croissaunts.  All I want is water, bing tastes like shit.

She says to Dave, don't think her sister would like first class stuff.

Nope.  Sis hates it. 


\Jens wants REAL china...oh mother of god here we go

I can have a dd

I made it to Shanghai.  Sister was late, but i cried again when I saw her.  I have missed her so much...telling me, so wise, just how it is.

I've missed my sister more than just about anything.  I can tell her anything...which is nuts considering she's 13 years younger and decades wiser.  She puts me at ease. 

She's late and I'm wandering the airport looking for money exchange.  when she gets there, i look right, and there it is.  We ride the MegLev and she tells me she found a killer place to stay in the international district...where I can have a decent bed.  I didn't get any money.

I don't want a bed.  I want to get lost.  In a country of 1.4 billion people, I expect to get lost. 
We go back to the house with a maid.  I'm not comfy in this place.  The maid waits up for you...like mom...except Mom never dealt with Bei Zhou.

WE were hamered.  Listened to bands playing American bands that we couldn't name.  Smoke double happiness.  I need water.

Can't drink the water in China.

Call home.  For the first time ever, he misses me.

Its two in the morning and I'm supposed to catch a plane to China in three hours.  Normally, this would be a no big deal.  I've travelled a lot.  But, for the last four days, since my husband announced to me he quit his job, I've been puking my guts out and have shit myself dry.  I guess I should have seen it coming, but nope...denial rears its ugly head.  That bitch karma is slapping me in the face.  All I can do is hug the toilet and simmer in the boiling anger that I wasn't included in this decision.  I really want to kick him in the balls, but there is also a part of me that says, "You saw this coming.  You planned this.  You said, one day, it would be fine." 

I don't feel fine.  In fact, I feel like shit.  I grab the toilet and heave.  Telling myself we're fine, and really we are, but its a big decision, realising after ten years of marriage just exactly how much on the whim of someone else you teeter on the edge. Actually, I lie in that sentence.  Because, I have always, since the second time I said I do, let it be known, I'm my own person. Didn't even change my name for five years.   It just now dawns on me how much of a reality I denied and I spew bile again.  Sick.  I am physically sick. 

Brian wakes up and comes in the bathroom.  "Why are you up?"  He's been so nice since it all happened....which makes it harder, because I want to be mad. I want to spew the vitriol he did every day while that job ate away at his soul. I want to rage, but I hold it in...as much as I can until it wrenches my gut and I grab the ceramic again. 

I heave and heave, "'Cause I'm SICK!"  I say, but really want to scream.  He thinks I'm nervous to travel.  "You've been all over.  You'll be fine!"

I'm not fucking fine.  I slam a grand in savings every month, my kids go to private school, and you're telling me I have to go back to the THING I worked my ass off to get out of.  Friends hate us.  Won't speak to us.  I want to scream.  I've known its all your world and we just happen to be a part of it, but it sucks.  Ten years and I don't even get a heads up.  I'm mad, but I shouldn't be.

I try to find empathy and compassion.  In all of my life, those are the things I have relied on.  I pray to the virgin and lean on hope.  I'm terrified.  I don't understand any of it; making a decision without thinking of anyone else. I'm a control FREAK and I'm supposed to leave the country in 2 hours.  I heave again as I try to get up off the floor.

I saved enough for the trip and got a loan to finish the house.  I'm telling myself and him I should just stay home.  He won't have it hanging over his head.  All I can think is, 'You couldn't wait two weeks?" Two effing weeks?

I'm so mad, I've called a cab. He wasn't honest that weekend away. Betrayal, crosses my mind.  "I'll have the house done when you get back," he says.

I run back to the bathroom.  I close the door and sit on the floor and bury my hands in my face. 

There were two roads leading out of the town I grew up in.  I took the first one out...after reading the consequences.  Granted, I came back, on conditions...most of which were his.  I can't leave.  I can't do this.  Over and over and over.  Sacrifices.  I want to scream at him, "Do you KNOW where we (read 'I' )could be without your mother effin' commitments you just threw away?"

I want to SCREAM....scream, "Do you have ANY idea what I gave up?  What  I could have done?"

But, I don't.  I puke again.

I send the cab away.  Back to the bathroom.  Bile.  Anger.  Bitterness.  I stayed for you.  You don't even give two thoughts to me.  Bitter.  Not even with the sweet.

I load the suitcase and he askes if I'm alright.  One block and he has to pull over.... so I can puke again...in the middle of John Adams Blvd.

He's mad, angry...everything that has been the last 7 years. Words from his mouth have more bile than my gut.  I look up in the middle of a gag and finally find the balls to say, "This isn't me.  Not my fault.  I know you did it for me, but stop.  Enough.  I've dealt with this for years.  You're done, please let me be.  It isn't my fault." And it hits me, really, it isn't. 

I didn't make those decisions.  Never did.  It isn't my fault.

I get on the plane and cry to Shanghai.  For 22 hours I sob. 

The girl next to me on the flight to Denver asks if I'm alright...when we land.

I eat goat cheese ravioli in Vancouver and a lady comes over and tells me to have a better day.

The young boy on the plane to Shanghai looks at my tears and tells me they clean the soul.

I sob when I see my sister.  Dave says no tears so I stop.


The Naked And Famous – Punching In A Dream

I will eat noodles

I can't decide if I'm terrified or excited.  I've had the gut-wrenching, oh-my-gosh-I-want-to-puke feeling in my stomach for a week.

When my little sister was about three, because I had nicknamed her Noodle, I told her that some day, we'd get on a plane and go far across the ocean and eat noodles in Italy.  I remember it was a sunny day, and she was standing in the back of the red Dodge while I was driving.  The air conditioner wasn't working, and I was really just trying to keep her distracted so she didn't puke in the car.  She was notorious for that when she was little.  She had on a white outfit with big red polka dots, and I had put her hair in ponytails.  "Jens," she said as her eyes got really big, "I love noodles!"

We both remember that day...me mostly because for some crazy reason I feel like I need to keep that promise I made at the ripe age of 16.

Noodle is now spending her days lounging in Shanghai...when she isn't getting hauled to the police station for hours of questioning.

In five days, I'm getting on a plane to meet her in the Middle Kingdom.  A place I have wanted to visit since I was a tiny kid and someone told me if I could dig a deep enough hole, I'd come out in China. In high school, for academic decathlon, we studied Chinese history for social studies one year, and it only peaked my curiosity.

In five days, I'm getting on a plane, traveling for 22 hours and 55 minutes, to meet my sister in a place where aside from three words, jai mei=little sister, bu=no, and tsing-tao ('cause this girl WILL need a beer), I know nothing of the language.  I've read everything I can about the customs and culture, refreshed up on the history, know enough not to mention Tibet or Taiwan or anything about Japan and WWII, and still find myself absolutely terrified.  Excited as hell, but mortally terrified.

The first rule anyone ever tells you when you travel is this: Do not draw attention to yourself.  Seems easy enough...until you consider the fact that I'm 6'1", white, and have blonde hair.  I also tend to talk with my hands, ALOT--a small detail every single book I have picked up for this adventure tells me NOT to do.  Let me repeat the importance of this: I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO TALK WITHOUT USING MY HANDS!     

I once took my sister snowboarding, when she was 10, on a 30" powder day and abandoned her at the top of the mountain and told her I'd see her at the bottom.  I taught her how to hit road signs with my empty beer bottles on the way home.  We taught her how to say bad words, and told her the dentist was mean and drilled holes in your teeth.  She loved ham, and I told her, after she spent a day playing with baby pigs, she was eating "pig bum."  I once told her the boogie man lived in her closet, and she refused to sleep in that room ever again--which only bit me in the ass, 'cause forever after, until I moved out, she slept in my bed.  For some strange reason, this is the same person that also wrote a paper in high school about how I was her hero...see, she's just not right in the head.

Now, with all of that Karma on my shoulders, I'm trusting the victim of my horridness, who also happens to be the girl who spent three months of her life pretending to be a cat, to pick me up in one of the biggest cities in the world then show me around the place.  I'm questioning my rational ability right now.

I now understand why a persons criminal record is erased at 18.  Dumb ass promises should be erased from the record as well! Teenagers do NOT make rational decisions, and I should not be held to that promise.

Actually, I'm so excited I've found myself for the last three days telling anyone who would listen, "HEY!  I'm going to China!"  Like they care.  Then I find myself at the most random moments wanting to squeal like a little kid "EEEEEK!!"

I'm terrified, and I haven't done anything I have found this terrifying since I left my first marriage.  But, I am going to stare that fear in the face and defeat it, and have the time of my life.

There are so many things happening right now that have me scared.  Change is scary in so many ways, and I'm actually more scared of the changes that I will be coming home to.

I felt like my entire life crashed to the ground a week ago,and that is not even a metaphor, and I almost cancelled the trip.  But, I will be a pheonix, and I will stand up to take the next punch.  I am reminded of harder times, years ago, and if there is a way to figure out the rest of my life in ten days, walking through ancient temples, laughing with my sister, eating noodles, and remembering the things that really matter in life, I intend to find that path and leave my footprints in it.

I bought a new leather bound journal.  I have been so blocked, for so long, I'm just hoping a new pen will fill the pages and free me from the hell that has been on my shoulders for over a year and only leaves me with blank pages.

I've never been much of a talker; writing has always been my means of communication, so when it fails me, I feel lost....something I've felt for a while.  So, maybe getting lost, in a language I don't know, where I am so different I'm foreign (LOL), thousands of miles from home, intruding on the kindness of others, is maybe a way to find yourself.  Maybe its a way to reconnect with how strong you really are.  A way to remember that when you feel your weakest, its the universe's way of reminding you how strong you really are.  Maybe we all need reminded of our humanity, by throwing ourselves at the mercy of others, and having faith that no matter where you are, kindness is universal.

So, I will eat noodles and I will fill that journal with words every day.  I will find the words I have shoved into the dark, and I will give them light.  I will make sense of it. I will put one foot in front of the other, and break a trail if I have to.  I won't be scared...of my words, or of people, or of change.

Mother IS Half a Word

Every year on Mother's Day when I would tell Gram J to have a happy one, she'd say, in all seriousness, "Mother is half a word."

I always laughed and am very fond of repeating it for the laughs it generates...especially when I preface it with, "My Nan always said..."

Back then, I always thought the other half of the word was the mother of all curse words, and the one that whenever I said it, and I tend to say it frequently, Nan always made me put a half dollar in the swear jar at the bar when I worked.  I say it enough it seriously started eating into the tips.

Anyway, the Time cover, with a 26 year old mother breastfeeding her 3-year old son (who is standing on a chair to reach), is burning up the feminist blogosphere.  Honestly, I could give two shits about the photo.  Its the caption that set me on fire--"Are you MOM ENOUGH?"

The article is actually about attachment parenting, another topic I'm not delving into, but boy does everyone and her dog have an opinion about breastfeeding and what makes a woman a "good" mother.

What I'm really tired of, REALLY, is the division among women that arises anytime it involves mothering.  Seriously.  Nine times out of ten, the first question a mother-to-be is asked, aside from "When are you due?" is, "Are going natural or not?" This is inevitably followed by "Are you breast feeding or not?"

Then there is the head shaking, the eye rolling, the "Let ME tell you how you are wrong, and how it makes you a VERY BAD mother, because your decision obviously proves you are a selfish, clueless individual."

And the ones that really make me want to pull out my bitch slapper: "OH!  You wooork.  Someone else is raising your kids."  Or, "Oh, you stay at home and your kid's still that big of an asshole? You must not be motivated enough/smart enough to do anything else."

And, this, my friends, is where I totally lose it.  Because 99.99% of the time, its another mother passing judgement. 

All of this arises from ONE.SINGLE.THING.  Because I have a functioning womb (and you too, if you do), I am supposed to believe that my single greatest calling in life, the holy grail of all womandom, the ONE and ONLY thing for which I will face judgment in the hereafter, is how I measured up to societal standards of motherhood.  I have two words for that, and I say them in my best Trucker-From-Thelma-and-Louise impersonation: "FUCK THAT!"

The panties are probably starting to bunch, but stop fooling yourself and get off all of your righteousness.  EVERY mother is a working mother, and EVERY working mother is a full time mother.  With all the expectations we put on our own heads combined with those of society, are we EVER mom enough?

Sure, abandon your children.  You're not getting mother of the year.  Lock 'em in a car while you get liquored up, you deserve jail and for someone else to get the little angels. BUT, you generally do the best you can do, teach your kids how to behave and function in society, give them all the love you have to give, and give it the old college try and end up with a functional human being, you did a pretty good job and all of that trauma and guilt you inflicted on yourself for at least 18 years, usually gets you the Mom blue ribbon.  Just look at how many followed the book and ended up with a 30 year old still living in the basement.  Nothing is guaranteed and judgement from others only compounds the difficult decisions we make every waking moment.

I'm tired of hearing women attack women for how they give birth, how they feed and for how long, and whether they stay home or work.


Being a mother is the most difficult decision any woman EVER makes.  You choose to give up everything to helicopter your children, good for you.  You have my support.  You decide to keep on, keeping-on with what you love, and make time for yourself once a while, you still have my support.

I'm not attacking you for any choice you make, and I am a firm believer no one should.  The best you can do for your child is what you know, deep in that maternal heart, to be right and good.  Make educated decisions based on what is right for you and your children.  No one, EVER, has a right to tell you how to do it.

And, this is why I was so upset about "Are you MOTHER ENOUGH?"  This is an article about parenting.  PARENTING.  Last time I checked, in the absence of a tragedy, a child HAS TWO PARENTS.  Why in the name of all that is holy is it STILL all about mom?  Why is it mom that always gets asked if she made the right decision and tortures herself day and night wondering if she did right?  Because really, and I know I'm a radical, but REALLY, back.the.fuck.off..  Seriously.  Back away. Preferably very slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.  If I wanted you there, you'd be the other parent.

The answer, like it or not, is that most women still make less than men, and  we strive to live up to the expectations, our own and society's.  Kids get sick?  Mom takes off work because it makes economic sense to do so or because "that's the way it's always worked."  At least that's what everyone thinks.

Look up the Mommy tax, and you'll find it hits men just as hard.  Men with children are likely to make less than men who are kidless.  Can't find good childcare?  Most likely mom's gonna give up the paycheck for the same reasons.

These statistics are changing; more women are graduating from college than men.  More and more women are becoming the primary bread winners, but the expectations of being a mother linger. Its beyond time for a change.

My mom was always fond of telling me in high school that no one gets pregnant on accident anymore.  I believe that is true.  I also wholeheartedly believe that when you decide to become a mother or father, a parent, you take on an obligation to hold yourself to that obligation and a standard to do it the best possible way you can. I am the first to admit there are many things we OWE our children.  Guilt over them isn't one of them.

No one gets questioned about everything they do, everything they don't, more than a mother---and its almost always by other mothers.  The guilt mothers carry is sometimes overwhelming and all consuming, and no one will ever convince me that its not because we are held to a higher standard in parenting. Its the ultimate catch-22.



I love being a mother.  My children have saved my life, and that is not being overly dramatic.  But, I have to admit on this, with ALL the judgement it will bring, my husband is a better PARENT. I've learned, after lots of tears and guilt, it doesn't make me any less of a mother, or mean I'm a bad mother.  I hold myself accountable for my faults and know what I am better at and what I can do better at. He just really, truly is better at it than me.  I should probably be ashamed at that, but I'm not.

What women need is a realization that we are all in this together, and we need to stop attacking each other for the decisions we make as mothers, or to not be mothers. We need to stop handing out tickets for the guilt train to every woman that chooses something different than ourselves.  We need to stop hijacking motherhood to support our self-worth.

What we REALLY need to acknowledge are the policy issues affecting FAMILIES--equal pay, affordable child care, PARENTAL leave (notice I didn't say 'maternity leave').

Because until we realize 'mother' IS half a word--half of parenting--we're dooming half the world's population to a load that was never meant to be carried alone, and we're doing it to ourselves.

Strangers

The church bells are chiming, calling everyone to Mass. I'm skipping today, a fact that will add to my guilt tomorrow. But, for now, I'm trying to relearn just living in the moment and getting back that free-spirited, not anal person I was ten years ago.

Last Tuesday, I was having a crap day. Honestly, last week I walked around in the 9th circle of hell, with a solitary ray of sunshine. Four simple words from a few people gave me the only smile, "Things will get better." And, they will and are.

But, on Tuesday, I didn't want to cook. I didn't want to do anything once I got home but free the girls from my bra, save my feet from my heels, and stare off into space with a glass of Pinot. If I learned anything from the past week, its this: heels are torture to which I will no longer subject myself, no matter how awesome they make my calves look or how much longer they make the legs appear. Too bad Chico river shoes don't POP with slacks.

Anyway, I bought Chinese, and not because I necessarily care for it, but because I needed a damn fortune cookie. I love 'em and hang onto them until they come true, and when they do, I tape them in various places to remind me. I have a pile of them in wallet, waiting.

I ate too many deep fried crab thingies, didn't touch the rice, and gagged down some moo goo gai pan (what, exactly, is that sauce on Chinese food?!). All I had was cheap chardonnay, but what the hell. I wasn't about to hit the wine store. I didn't want to see people laughing and joking, or crying about a bad day at work. I didn't want to make a decision on which bottle to buy or have the too kind drummer, who knows too much about my past, recommend a bottle. I didn't want to swim anymore. Treading water sounded like a chore, and I was ready to sink--into a too hot tub of water filled with lavender bubbles.

My fortune, at the time, was a little bit of a let-down: "A chance meeting with a stranger will change your life." Humph. Nice to know, and I stuck it in the back of my wallet and retreated to my tub.

Wednesday, after the stress had peaked, I bellied up with a shot of Turkey and a Guinness, trying to be alone. A tall red-head came and sat right beside me; I had to move my purse and was more than a little irritated, thinking, "The whole damn bar is open; I'm not in the mood to chat." I had a shitty attitude, and didn't necessarily want it to change.

I downed my shot, about gagged, and pretended to text, still feeling the burn. She put a few bucks in the game at the end of the bar and lit a cigarette. I turned my glass, to make sure I kept the head on the Guinness the same all the way around, in that stupid neurotic way I have. She said, "You look really familiar," and asked my name.

"I get that a lot," and I told her. She told me I looked like Kelly McGillis. I laughed, bought another beer, and was irritated she was putting ice in her wine. One of my biggest pet peeves. "When I was young and thin, I used to get Kim Catrall," I chuckled. "Thanks."

"Sucks getting old, doesn't it?" She said.

She asked where I was from and what my maiden was. When I told her, her jaw hit the floor and her lips pursed. She got really quiet, so I asked what was up.

I had to pry it out of her and promised not to give her up, so I'll just say that after that conversation, I know I've judged people too harshly and that there is always another side to every story. When you know the laughter that leads to the tears, that people aren't heartless and really never mean to hurt anyone, that people really do love and lose, it can change how you've looked at a lot of things and people. And really, it wasn't that different from my own story and motives. I just wish I would have known her side, years ago. But then, again, I probably wouldn't have been accepting of it.

It feels good to forgive...it feels better to know you never had to, but sometimes we're too late to let the people that need to hear it, know that.

Its amazing, the web that weaves, the lives that intertwine. Compassion is a funny thing; how sometimes, no matter how much you or people you love have been hurt, you can still find it. Sometimes, no one is to blame.

I told her to go to his grave, that no one would care.

Everyone deserves to say goodbye and heal. Because, I told her, as I quoted my soul sister, "You can't help who you love. That's why they call it falling."

Waxing my lip

I had to take a "strengths assessment" a few months ago at work. I am convinced it was a direct result of me answering "no" on an "anonymous" survey regarding worker engagement to the question of whether or not I am given the opportunity, every day, to do what I do best. The fact that 5 people answered the same way, and I know a total of 5 people who were asked to take the strengths assessment kind of proves my point. My new "assignment" confirms my suspicion even more.

Anyway, my second strength was identified as "Connectedness." Which in lay terms, the book tells me, means I am accepting of all kinds of people, I see boundaries but look at them as fluid, see myself connected to everything in the universe, more than likely "know" a higher power, and am very unlikely to question why bad things happen to me rather than other people. I am "spiritual in nature."

I guess some of that Buddhist meditation has worked--though I am far, far away from enlightenment. For the record, I don't recommend TRYING to get this strength on any assessment, because it means you will be put into a position where you get to deal with the difficult people all day, EVERY day. It does NOT mean you will get to work with the gay guy who gives awesome advice about shoes and the best and cheapest wine.

To be honest, I was pretty shocked at how well that little quiz described me. Seriously, I am the type that will stand at the bananas at the grocery store, eying the regular bananas and the organic bananas. And, having had to read some paper in Environmental Philosophy back in 1999, regarding the amount of greenhouse gases produced to bring us bananas (I actually picture the boats and trucks in my brain), all the workers exposed to pesticides in the banana farms (I will actually see some guy named Pedro in red, faded cut-offs, and a blue shirt going home to his family on hard red clay, his children running to him), the labor, the lack of fair wages, and deforestation, and I will spend no less than 15 minutes debating whether or not to buy to the organic bananas for 3 more dollars or to say to hell with bananas all together.

I will give the guy on the corner by Wal-Mart the few bucks I have in my pocket, and if I don't have any, the whole way home and most of the night, I will lie awake in bed wondering if he would have taken a check and think about how cold he is right now, or how he had a shitty day and really needed a beer and ponder my Karma.

I don't usually view this as a strength. It drives me f*n insane! But, it gives you a little background to my day today.

Since Grandma died, well, honestly, since Sheridan's dad died, I have been trying to run from catastrophe and just tread water--which means I drown myself in things that take my mind off bad shit. So instead of finding center and listening to the universe, I run like a chicken with its head cut-off creating ever more stress and a higher bar for achievement while convincing myself I have conquered the OCD because I no longer wash the windows every two weeks.

So, I got a massage today, for the first time since I found out Grandma was sick, which my masseuse kindly reminded me was in '09, bought some new essential oils from her, came home, put some lavendar in the bath, and soaked with a glass of wine.

To be totally honest, I haven't been this relaxed since college when Treasure and I had that four-foot bong we named "Eddie," after the Iron Maiden skeleton, put a towel under the door, filled him with wine, and proceeded to see how big we could go without passing out. We then watched Oliver Stone's "The Doors" which somehow led to a deep discussion on Freudian theory. But, what you should really know is that when I got out of the tub and was as mellow as the Dalai Lama on 5 klonopin, I decided I needed a pick me up without losing the mellow, and mixed the lemon oil and a little more lavender with my lotion. I now smell like lemon scented Pledge. I. Shit. You. Not.

So, while being convinced this must have been exactly how June Cleaver smelled, and then convincing myself that I was one aromatherapy session away from my husband deciding we need separate twin beds, I was checking out the 'stache on my upper lip and the chin hairs that need only a big mole to grow out of to convince me I'm officially old.

See, before my brother was born, my great grandparents babysat me quite a bit. My Grandma Viv drove this huge car, but she was so short, she looked through the loop at the top of the steering wheel to see over the dashboard and out the window. I remember driving down Blattner Lane, for some reason I think it was summer, on the way to Wanda's, the lady with seriously PURPLE hair, (not tinted, F*n PURPLE!!) and the light was just right, and she had this mole on her neck with this LONG-ass black hair growing out of it, and being all of three or four (my brother was born when I was four and she died right before he was born, so I know I was YOUNG) I remember thinking, "She's a WITCH!" And, by God, she was a GREAT-GRANDMA so she was old--as in "Little House on the Goddamn Prairie" old!

So, my mind immediately went to all the women in my family who have these hairs in unnecessary places. I remembered the tiny pan my mom kept her wax in that she would put on the stove--usually a Thursday before Dad came home for the weekend. My aunts telling jokes about Italian women inventing Velcro when their sweaters stuck to their mustaches. The Pied Piper working construction and all the iron workers making fun of her for icicles, yes icicles, forming on her 'stache.

Which led to me to grab the wax and proceed to walk around the house with blue blobs on my upper lip and entire neck...a spectacle to which the four year old commented from the peanut gallery, "Dude! (yes, it is the new vocabulary word of the week) You really DO have a MUSTACHE!"

Yes, I have a mustache. And, just in case you suffer from ASSburger syndrome (SIC intended) or a mild case of autism and cannot read social cues, I'm pretty f*n sensitive about it. It immediately takes me back to when I was 6 feet tall as a twelve year old and all those smart ass little boys calling me an Amazon.

So, I was standing in the mirror, ready to pull that wax off, contemplating all the girl-power in the family that those mustaches symbolize, wondering if my great-great-great grandmother in Sicily ever worried about such trivial B.S., and if not, if maybe that was where all the no nonsense, take no shit or prisoners, attitude comes from in this long line of bitches, when I grabbed and pulled.

All I can say, is it hurt like a motherf*er; I said words I would like to say my children NEVER hear, but do, and the stream of profanity was only matched by the tears that welled-up in my eyes. All deep thinking ceased, all thoughts of anyone or anything outside of my own realm of pain stopped. Me, myself, and I were all that mattered in the whole universe.

For all of my "connectedness," I could give two shits about how this hair on my lip ties me to the women I love. It seriously, honestly, PISSES ME OFF!