—-

Yay… it looks like we are. And now that it is even later, I will sum up what I took 311 words to say earlier.

1. I’m back
2. My son and I will be baking cupcakes from a kit (a Yule gift) and uploading our kitchen hi-jinks weekly
3. Work is great but crazy. Still LOVE what I do. But 2012 is the year of moderation. No more 10PM nights for me and my team.
4. I am writing a book series. No, really, I am.
5. I will be using this spot for fun, release of frustration, etc. If you are family or friend, and I allude to you here (no names will ever be used) I am JUST BLOWING OFF STEAM. Everyone needs a way to do it. This is mine. I love you, you love me, allow me my area to do my thing.

Less than half the words I used before. HAH!

Here’s to 2012. Let’s make it great (or at least better than last year.)

Last night Sailor Hubby and his brother had a text-flame war. The F-bomb flying across the Sprint/AT&T cell tower expanse. The subject? Their father and how he is doing after his surgery. Not that the brother actually cares. He said so himself. (There is no love loss between my in-laws.) But I suppose a little remorse took root in the brother’s soul and he decided it would be a good idea to ask about dear old dad. So Sailor Hubby told him he was out of surgery and recovering. The next night, shit storm hits.

In order to figure out how the train got so far off the track, Sailor Hubby asked me to go through the texts to see what was said when and by whom. Ah, late night inebriated texting. It’s the best! Moving backwards through all the “f-you”s and “your [sic] a joke”s, I finally came to an incongruous text. From Sailor Hubby. Which didn’t fit the “Dad’s doing fine” theme that preceded. This text was something to the effect of “Put your best man on the job. Thumb firmly up his ass.”

Upon alerting Sailor Hubby to this lovely missive, he swears to me, jumping up and down that, “No, that went to Boss Man.” No, honey, it didn’t. It went to brother. “Shit!” Yeah, ya’ think?

The joy of brothers. The wonder of men with fuses the length of a gnat’s penis.

*******

Today I went grocery shopping with Marine Dad. Finances are tight here in the Unicorn universe. Hell, they’re tight all over. Luckily, Marine Dad is around to help with life’s needs. In preparation of the upcoming rough month, we have filled our pantry and freezer with enough food to last for, oh, say, a month. We are very thankful Marine Dad is able and willing to help in times of need.

Spending time outside the home with Marine Dad is always an adventure. The Publix shopping was fairly uneventful (though the family scandal stories on the trip there were enlightening.) The only slight hiccups were the “milk incident”

Him: “What’s the story with the milk?”

Me: “What do you mean, “What’s the story with the milk?”?”

Him: “What’s the story with the milk?”

Me: “Um, we need milk.”

Him: “Not here, we’ll get it at Aldi.”

Me: “Um, okay?”

After check-out (during which he goes outside to smoke) I and the bagger come out with the groceries. As the bagger goes to put one bag in the truck and Marine Dad tries to take it, bagger says, “This one is heavy.” And in the most sarcastic tone he could muster, Marine Dad says, “Of course it is.” So I chime in, “Dad, I bagged that one.” No response. Gah.

Off to Aldi for the milk. And as we pull into the lot another car has pulled in just before us. Low and behold, said car takes the first of the handicapped spaces forcing Marine Dad to park in the second space, further from the door. The look of pure hatred given to the poor old (at least in his 80s) man was thoroughly uncalled for. But I suppose to be expected as the man was wearing his Army Vet hat to Marine Dad’s Marine Vet hat. Embarrassing is your father walking around another persons car looking for the handicapped sticker. REALLY?

Oh, and if that weren’t enough for one trip to one store… After we grab our few items and move to the front to check out, Marine Dad cuts off another guy in line! The man was right there in line behind the woman who was currently checking out. She had put her cart at the end of the conveyor belt blocking the man’s way to stand closer. When she pulled her cart in behind her, Marine Dad rolled right in behind that. That embarrassing handicapped sticker search was nothing compared to this. I apologized to the man who graciously said to go ahead. Marine Dad, upon hearing this says, “Oh, did I cut you off at the pass?” and proceeded to guffaw.

Dear Earth, please swallow me.

*******

Last little story. About my dogs. They can’t digest canned food very well. If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, the gas has poisoned the Unicorn universe and we have all succumbed. In lieu of flowers please support your local humane society.

In other families, this might not be such a big deal. In MY family, it isn’t. But in my husband’s family it is.

And that’s all I’ll say about that.

Suffice it to say I love the man and hope everything goes perfectly.

In celebration, we took a trip to a local winery which, contrary to the sign out front, was actually closed. It was pretty in a barren sort of way. We have decided to go back in the spring.

After the frigid trip to the closed winery, we rode around the occasionally slick roads of the North Georgia mountains, then went to dinner at a new (to us) Mexican restaurant around the corner. It was delicious.

Now, I am heading to snuggle time with Munchkin. Though he has no school tomorrow (the roads are still to slick for the buses in our area) we’re all a little tired and ready for quiet time.

**Note: I know I missed a day of NaBloPoMo. I am really pissed about that. My internet was down and we couldn’t get it back till today. GRRRRR.

A good friend passed away last Friday; Good Friday. It was a complete shock and, yet again, I was reminded of how short life really is and how we have to make the most of the time we are given.

A little story about my friend to give you an idea of why I’m out of sorts. She was only 46 years old. We worked together for 2 years, then again for 2 months. She was a very nice, albeit it very nervous, person. And her death seemed to be under “mysterious circumstances”… at least to me. She was found at the bottom of the stairs, unconscious, and they (her Eagle Scout son, then the paramedics) were unable to revive her. She was living in the same house with her two children and her ex-husband.

Yes, her EX-husband. <sigh>

The first job we worked together, I remember twice she was missing from work unaccountably. The first time was extremely early in my days at the company, so I thought it was just an illness as she said. The second time was round after round of illness (herself, her kids, herself again, her parents) and she was let go from work. I felt those measures were a little harsh, but she had missed 3 weeks of work with all contact starting with our boss.

I then heard from her off and on for the next couple of years. She never could find a job she could stay in for very long, though she was an excellent bookkeeper. Then a position came open at the new company I was working for. I suggested her for the job, which she was able to land with no problem whatsoever. During her short stay at this job, I found out she had gotten a divorce, and the problems which arose from those proceedings were what lost her the job at the first company we worked for.

Then she mentioned she was still living in the same house with the man she had divorced. ?!?! Paying him rent to live there. Presumably it was for the kids (15 & 18, now), but still. And then to find out the daughter was siding with the father and was constantly at odds with her. It just sounds terrible. And after a couple of weeks, there were phone calls from the ex, “checking up on her to make sure she was actually working”.

Then she got sick, and missed a few days of work. And one of the kids got sick from her and she had to stay home. Then the water heater went out and the ex wouldn’t take care of it and she had to stay home to meet the plumber. Then her mother got sick and she went to Pennsylvania to care for her. All the time the phone calls were initiated by her boss, asking where she was, would she be coming in today? And I called a time or two to see what was going on, but she wouldn’t talk to me. She was given till after the holidays to get everything squared away and come back fresh, but “she didn’t make it back from Pennsylvania in time.” She was let go.

I understood why we had to let her go. She wasn’t coming in. She wasn’t communicating with anyone. She wasn’t doing her job. So I called her to find out what was happening. She never returned a call. I don’t know if she was embarassed because I had suggested her and it didn’t work out? If she was mad that she was let go? I just don’t know. She finally called her boss for a reference, but that was all. So then I got mad. Why wouldn’t she call me back? I stopped trying. I missed calling on her birthday.

Then I find out she’s dead.

That and the way it happened were stressful enough, but then talking with her parents threw a whole new bright, ugly light on things.

She JUST told her parents a month ago she had gotten a divorce. She’s been divorced since midway through 2008. She begged her parents not to tell his parents.

Let me repeat that… she didn’t want his parents to be told, because he didn’t want his parents to know. WTF???????

The whole “sick, kids sick, mother sick” spiel was not true. She never went to Pennsylvania to visit a sick mother. She told her parents she was working too hard to come up. Her mother even said, “He really messed her up, bad.”

So now I wonder, what did I miss??? I’m pretty sure there was emotional abuse going on, but the periods of missing work, were those times it became physical? And why didn’t she let anyone in? Family, friends, anyone?

So I apologize I haven’t been around. But I won’t apologize for why. I’ve been mourning a friend. And I wish there was something I could have done to help her.

If you are ever in a situation like this… PLEASE allow someone to help you.

It was a bottle of Percocet, or should I say the generic version of it, Oxycodone.

Me: “I can’t take this.”
Him: “Why not?”
Me: “I’m allergic to Codeine?!?!”
Him: “That has Codeine in it?”
Me: “?!?!”
Him: “Huh, I didn’t know that.”

<–>

I talk to you a lot. I don’t know if you know. I’d like to think you do. I wonder often, “What would Mom do now? What would she say? Would she have done the same thing?” I haven’t dreamed about you in a long time. I think I’ve really only had one or two dreams about you. But I have daily reminders here. Constant reminders. Your wedding set, your urn, your face staring back from the mirror. Good reminders, save for the urn.

I really miss you. I wish you could have stayed a little while longer. We really could do with some Mom advice. The Mom filter and guide are truly missed on the home front. Just having you around to talk with every once in awhile would be nice. Seeing K graduate from Princeton and go on to become a doctor. You’d be so very proud of her. I am. I think I’ve finally found my own niche. It’s not music, which I’m sure is a disappointment, but it is creative and it is in food and beverage and I love it. And Munchkin is growing up. He’s smart, but lazy academically. I know you would have some words of wisdom there.

God, there are so many things to tell you. I wonder if you know? I don’t know how to put words to them. I don’t even know why I’m writing this post. But I wanted to remember you on your day. So here I sit, in front of the monitor, near midnight at the end of your day. After manically cleaning the house, thinking of you, talking with K, a brief talk with Da and an email with The Aunt.

I relax here now with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company. Now the tears come. Now I quietly celebrate you.

I wonder how much of it is due to things happening in the world of late that are just finally getting to me. Between the economical situation the country, or should I say the world, is going through. The political landscape is changing. I’m hoping for the better. I was hoping for the better. I didn’t count on hatred and bigotry being so wide spread.

Yes, I live in the south, so yes, I know it is there. Daily. In our faces. There. The kid down the street with parents teaching him hate. He tries to rebel, but it’s so ingrained as he says he isn’t, he is. The people in the grocery store who stare and change directions to avoid. The snide comments. The demeaning attitudes.

Damn, even my friend. How do you deal with that? I mean, I’ve told her not to forward me certain emails. I have Snoped most of the crazy emails she has sent. I have made my opinion clear. Especially as regards the most recent presidential election. I am thrilled with our President-Elect. I am hoping, though he is bringing in some old names, he will still bring the needed and necessary change for our country.

But because she didn’t vote for the President-Elect, because she was raised in the south and was not taught to be a tolerant person, does not mean she can or should forward such an offending piece of crap. That was beyond the mere political prattle normally forwarded. That was flat out racist, demeaning, embarrassing, and frankly completely and totally inappropriate.

I was so upset, I was actually speechless. For  quite some time I’ve been speechless.  I couldn’t even bring myself to bring it up to anyone as to how to address this. I mean, we’ve had enough differences and have been fine with them. But I think this time she really crossed the line.

It is too late for me to actually say something about this. I’ll have to just let this particular one go. But from now on, I will be deleting those emails and asking not to receive them. Because, yes, I could just delete them. But one could take the responsibility to not blanket forward every “joke” or other piece of crap received.

It’s the decent thing to do. Take others’ feelings into consideration.

The month you chose to leave us. Not when your body gave out, when you gave out.

Leaving your family to wonder, “What the fuck?” Was it really that bad? Were you really that alone? Did it always have to be about you? Did our lives have to constantly swirl around the nucleus of you?

I was an outsider. Always an outsider. Even when I married your youngest. Especially when I married your youngest. Though I was the one who brought him back to you. Begged him to make amends. Opened the lines of communication you had closed down years before.

While I was carrying your grandson, I still was the enemy. The phone calls and messages. The verbal abuse. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I eventually cut you off. No more. I took control of my happiness and took you out of the equation.

On the birth of your grandson, your son gave in. He called you. He invited you to the hospital to see your “only” grandchild. And I grudgingly let you back in.

We forgave you all of the drunken paranoia. The neediness. The abuse. We came back again. And again. But I don’t forgive you passing it on. That’s just bullshit.

We wanted you to be a part of your grandson’s life. That was more important than anything else. Giving him family. Letting him know where he came from, even if it wasn’t ideal. I mean, whose life is truly ideal? Everyone is screwed up to some extent.

But you kept pushing. And pushing. You never stopped. You even pushed your true love right out the door. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He was sick, and worried about being so. But that wasn’t important to you. Just how it negatively impacted what you wanted to do. So you pushed more.

He set you up in a small apartment, near us, near shopping, near public transportation. He loved you but couldn’t live with you, so he left.

We tried to fill the void. We visited when we could. We talked to you all the time. But it wasn’t enough.

It was still about you. More than ever. The paranoia got worse. You just knew we were in contact with him. Knew where he was. But he kept his secret well.

You warned us. One night you called, drunk, angry, accusing. You scared all of us. The ones who stayed, cared, or at least tried to. I offered to come see you. To calm you down. I was warned by your own children not to. You had been someplace like this before in the past and you fight back with real weapons, knives, fists, teeth. And these people were more afraid for me than they were for you.

What does that say? An “outsider” was more important to your own offspring than you were?

We called your doctor. He told us to call the police. They took you to professionals who could help you. But you can certainly be charming when you want to be. Or when you feel you need to be.

You were out the next morning. Back on the meds you threatened to take. The threat that caused us to call the police in the first place.

The meds we told the doctor you shouldn’t be taking. Why he didn’t listen, I’ll never know.

We had a nice family day. Your youngest, your grandson and me. We went to Busch Gardens with his work. The company holiday outing. We called before we left to tell you we would be by when we got home to visit for a little bit. But when we got home, the shit hit the fan.

We stopped to freshen up. We didn’t want to visit you all messy from a day at the park. You were such a stickler for everything being neat and clean. So we stopped. And the phone rang.

Where the hell have you been all day? There was a company outing. We’ve been trying to call all day. Why, what’s wrong? It’s about her. What’s wrong? Are you sitting down. I don’t want to sit down, what’s wrong?

She’s dead. She killed herself. There was a note. The police want to talk to him.

I knew it. I knew she was going to do this. I told the doctor. I told the police. Why the hell didn’t they listen?

So you left. No way to turn back. A letter on the door, “Don’t come in. Call the police.” A letter on the kitchen table outlining why you felt you had to go. Telling your youngest how much you love him. Next to a birthday present. One for him and one for your grandson.

They wore the shirts. I want you to know that. They did wear them.

But you still aren’t forgiven.

Your other grandson. The one no one cared about or asked about. The one who had JUST come back into our lives. He was 13. He didn’t get it. He asked once, “Why did she do it? Did she not want to at least meet me? To get to know me?”

My heart broke.

He came home to bury you. I got to help him. I picked your clothes. And your casket. I hope you like them. Everyone else seemed to. We put your angel with you. To watch over you and take care of you.

Most of your family came. People I had never heard of. It seems your family never stayed close. I never heard from any of them again. Nope, not close.

I played at your funeral. Greensleeves. Even your oldest cried. He told me if I ever did that again, he would hit me. I took it as a compliment as he pulled me into a big bear hug and asked me to play it when he goes.

We’ve never been to visit your grave. I don’t know that we ever will. The shady little spot near your sister. It holds nothing for us. At least not right now.

Your grandson, my son, asks about you every once in a while. We only tell him the good things right now. He doesn’t know you chose to not be here. Maybe one day we’ll tell him the rest, but he’s too young to know. When are you old enough to know?

Even though you are still unforgiven, we do think about you. We wish there had been a different outcome. We try to look past the hurt and anger. But it is so hard. So for now, thinking about you will have to be enough.