Glo Blog

The other neighbor complained.  Renters.

At first, he thought the chickens were ours.  So in the driveway he pulls, in the company truck, no less, as we were just getting back from a nice lunch.

“Are those your chickens?”, he says.  He is a burly and rather large. man.  I get the idea the seat has a permanent dent and the springs are singing.  “My wife hates those chickens.”, he says out the window.   “They are shitt’in all over the place.”

“Nope”, my husband says, “not ours”  

Never mind the fact that one of those chickens, despite the obvious affection previously demonstrated for my beloved, had the nerve to , well, shit on his tractor seat.  His beloved tractor-defaced.  There are some rules that just should not be broken when it comes to tractors and chickens.  But even then, he liked having the hens coo and cluck behind him as he wandered.  Men.

“Well,” Mr. Burly says( he never bothered to introduced himself), “I just might have one for Thanksgiving if they don’t stop shitt’in all over our yard.  “Free range my ass.”

My daughter is laughing at this point.  No doubt the use of “shit” and “ass” got her going.

With that, burly man is out the drive way and onto the neighbors.  The ones who own the chickens. 

And then, no more chickens.  No more mornings with the hens.  No more free ranging from here to there, a scratching and a clawing at bugs. The dance is done.  Cooped up for good.  Huddled together, red feather to red feather. Nipped beak to nipped beak.

And we always thought it would  be the raccoons and coyotes to get to them first.

 

 

 

There.  It’s done.  Another Thanksgiving put to rest.  I am grateful.

Not that I am against holidays.

Ours was actually good.  Quiet.  Roaring fire, table set with something new, something old and my daughter ate something other than mac and cheese.  I’d call that a success.

But still.

No matter what, holidays seem to always set the family dysfunction dial on default.

Forget the years of therapy.  We always go back.

Our family is based on triangles.  I blame it on my mother-who got it from her mother. Is it a southern thing-we southern gals?  Triangulate and step back.  I have been trying, with some success, to step out of the triangle and be a circle.

Just be a circle.

But with the holidays the reset button is adjusted and with one phone call, the triangle is set in motion and before you know it, there we go again in the funk of conversation.

It goes something like this:

My father, who long ago divorced mom will call and say:

“Why hasn’t your brother called me?”  “I called him and he has not called me back.”

“I am sure he is busy dad.”  “Happy Thanksgiving”

“Oh, right.”  “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Horseshit”, and then he is off on a tangent of things gone wrong in the center of his Universe.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love my father.  It’s been a long and expensive road to wind back to being in the same room with him.  But I did it.  And still I bob and weave when he says things without thinking. We fixed the triangle-morphed into somewhat of a circle.  A bouncing ball of boundaries.  It seems to work. Our father daughter dance is no longer full of one of us stepping on the other’s toes.

Invisible pink protective bubble goes up and I am my own person.  Not the 12 year old fighting for her identity.

“Just relax dad.” I feel so grown up now.  My own circle of a woman.

“He will call you when he has a moment.”  ” I am sure.”

I change the subject.  Something about tending to the turkey I have in the oven.

Then I call my mom, who despite no longer knowing what day it is, what time of  year it is, or anything beyond a five minute stretch of time, still knows how to triangulate with the greatest of ease.  God bless her.

“Happy Thanksgiving Mom.”

I just spent five days with her.  She is oblivious.

“Are you and the family coming here for Thanksgiving?”  Who is flying in and who needs to be picked up from the airport?’  ” When is everyone getting here and where is everyone going to sleep?”

“Mom”

There is silence.

And then she chimes in.  “I hope you don’t think I am cooking a turkey?”  ” I did not plan on cooking a turkey.”

There is silence.

“I make the best pecan pie you know?”

“Yes, mom, I know.”  “Dave is coming in for Thanksgiving….only Dave.”  ” There is plenty already cooked for Thanksgiving.”

There is plenty cooked because I could not bear for her ( or my brother for that matter) to not have the scent of something familiar wavering through the house.  On the day of thanks there needed to be the smells of home-only if it was to come from heat and serve.  There was a complete mini Thanksgiving meal all prepped and ready to go.  All her favorites.  Not that she would eat any of it-but it was there.  Never mind the pecan pie came baked fresh from Food Lion, there was pecan pie by damn.

“Oh.”  she says.

“Is he bringing Sam?”  She is off the turkey now and onto Sam, my brother’s dog.

“Yes, mom.”

“”Well, that’s good….. Sam and I will go for long walks on the beach and Dave can get some rest. He works so hard”

My mother has not been on the beach for nearly two years now.  Her beach.  She would walk for hours-and now the stretch of beach was like a danger zone-a place of no return.  Never mind the shells not to be discovered-she needed the comfort of something else now.  It seemed to be okay for her to sit and look at her beach,  her ocean, if only from the front deck.

And then, with the greatest of ease:

“Call you brothers and tell them…………”

And so the triangle begins.

“I love you mom.”  I say.  “Enjoy your Thanksgiving with Dave.”

There is pure joy in her voice.

“Dave is coming down for Thanksgiving?!”  she says.

“Yes mom, and he is bringing Sam.”

More joy from her end of the phone.

“You know, I wish your brother would find someone”

And then we are on the same conversation about how wonderful my brother Dave is( and, well, he is) and why he can’t find anyone.  She actually, at one point tried to fix him up with one of her aides-early on.  Sheila.  Or whatever her name was.  Turns out she had lots of names and was stealing all of mom’s medicines and slowly moving into mom’s house.  I knew something was up when Sheila, crazy Sheila-or whatever her real name was, called me to report on “our mom”.  I flew back down to North Carolina a day after that phone call-and the next day crazy Sheila was gone. As well as a month of all of mom’s meds, several pieces of clothing, a 24 pack of toilet paper ( really?)  a carton of cigarettes and what else I will  never know.

So much for background checks.

It never would have worked out with my brother Dave any way.  Crazy Sheila. Or whatever her real name was.

“I gotta go mom.”

We hang up and I call my brother Chris.  He does not answer the phone.  Either by choice or not, I am not sure.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”  I say and continue on before the beep.  ” Call Dad and don’t forget to call mom and….then, right there in my seconds or so of salutation, I feel the triangle closing in.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”   “I love you.”

And I leave it at that.

 

*this post is from last year.  My mom passed away in July.

Women who actually wipe the seat off after peeing all over it.

Actual apologies.

Exceptional teachers getting rock star and sports star payment increases.

Lousy teachers who actually get fired.  For good.

Elementary schools that remain elementary until the 6th grade. 

Fine arts accepted beyond just “band” and “chorus”

Accountability.

The end of starvation in my town.

The end of small minds in my town.

A reputable grocery store and positive economic development in my town. ( see above)

Acceptance.

Tolerance.

Connect and create as opposed to memorize and purge.

Healing wounds.

Meaningful politics…….( I know it does not exist)

Politically correct for the right reasons.

Sarah Palin remains in reality TV and does not become part of the real world.  ever.

Peace.

The same breaking news that does not last all day.

Truth. ( In everything)

“You are nothing but a bitch”  And after not so much of a blink of an eye, I responded,  “That’s Ms. Bitch to you.”

Let’s go kick some ass.

Yesterday,  my daughter got in the car and after a few moments of silence-she said to me,” well, she’s at it again.”  And then she started to cry.

My Ava has been the target of a  nine year old she devil.  It actually started in third grade and I thought, after numerous times of sorting it all out, that said she devil would go away.  But no, she was back with a vengeance.  At nine, this child seems to know it all and has a problem with those who refuse to listen to her.  While 90% of her is all verbal-most of what she says packs as much a punch as if it were a right hook indeed.

The child’s mother has admitted in a meeting her precious she devil “has a problem with your daughter” -“besides,” she said, taking a drag off her cigarette, “my baby is just being a  girl.”   “And, she said, looking at me, your daughter is such a tomboy.”  Another drag from her cigarette.  There is only one other time I wanted to rip someone’s head off-both had to do with attacking my daughter.

Yesterday, when my daughter wanted to be Martin Luther King for a classroom reading-said she devil raised holy hell in front of the class and made sure to let Ava know how she felt about it.  “you can’t play him-you are a girl”…and then it went on to other things I refuse to repeat. It would be one thing if the she brat was acting solo-but no, she has an entourage of three.  Little mouths spewing grown up words not knowing the impact they carry.  Shame on them.  More shame on the women who are raising them.

I am done with the female bullying epidemic.  It’s got to go.  It is nothing new;  it’s just in the news more and more- so everyone is riled up on the topic.  Everyone is vowing to take a stance.  Since when does being a super bitch win a prize?

I was bullied in third grade.  I still remember every exact detail. I can still see the faces of the three girls who cornered me in the green grey tiled bathroom.   It was not what they did-it was what they said.  I don’t remember how it was every resolved. Isn’t that something?  I was not bullied again until high school-but by then I had a better handle on who I was and while it was still horrific-it did not torment me like it did in third grade.  High school was the last time I remember actual bullying.  After college-and then on to the real world-bullying was called other things:  Harassment. Insecurity. Low Self Esteem. Poor People Skills.Arrogance.  It was bullying.  And it was nothing new.   Mean girls are mean girls and mean girls learn from mean mothers. Mean girls grow up to be super nasty super bitches-they just get better at slinging the arrows.

Just recently, me and some of my besties, ranging in ages from late 20′s to 40 sat around sipping wine and wondered, out loud, what is it that makes women so nasty?  Those shades of nasty that go from right in your face to subtle little remarks that linger. Little posts disguised as status updates.  Jealousy posing as “advice”. And my personal favorite:  Concern smothered in a patronizing hug-complete with a slight pout.” Ohhhhhhhhhh, they will say, looking at you with sad eyes, “Are you okay???” And you know they don’t care.  Not one bit.  Are grown women really this miserable?  Is reality TV to blame?  All those real housewives weekly on display behaving badly for fame and fortune? Inflated lips with inflated egos. I personally think they sold their souls to the ratings devil. And might I add, no amount of plastic surgery and no amount of filler works on an empty soul. The price of fame?  Of importance?

Yes, I know there are exceptions-but in the work I do and have done for years, and from seeing first hand the nasty daughter to nasty mom ratio-the exceptions are rare.  AND, the bullying is starting earlier and earlier.  And if you think for one second girls are not as mean as boys when it comes to bullying- think again.  Our middle school is deep in the mean girl thick of things. Girls threatening to stab one another and leaving bomb threats on a bathroom wall. Role models indeed.

Our  high school is having a run of girl bullies too.  I know who they are and I have seen what they do. I have also been fortunate enough( said with loaded sarcasm) to see how their moms treat the world ( and their daughters, if you want to get right down to it) Daughter does what mommy does. It is all they know.  They actually think their brand of cruelty is original.  Especially with the influx of media and technology.    No one has told them what they lack in originality and courage-has  simply been  replaced with a text or status update.   It has all been done before.  Technology just gives them a cowards distance.

I have long suspected schools are taking on more and more social services.  Merely getting an education is moving further down the list of what schools provide.  Students are parenting lousy parents, working incredible hours to supplement family income, getting pregnant and dropping out all together and getting lost in the media blitz of reality television. Getting lost, period.  It does not take an education to be an idiot-or for that matter a bully.  It takes a heck of lot of insecurity and fear.  Daughter does what mommy teaches.  But what is it exactly?  What is that thing that trickles down from mother to daughter that becomes the lowest point of teaching?  Of becoming just like mom?

Daughter does what she learns and if what she learns is blaming, and spitting upon and lying-then it is to be expected.  One mom in particular,gem that she was,wanted a school to fire me because “I did not treat her daughter like the star she was”  The list of claims this mom had went on to read like a page ripped from the diary of an 8th grade girl sure the world was against her.  I thought it was a joke.  But no,there it was, this list of things, hand written by the mother-turned in to the principal.  It was embarrassing for me to read.  I actually began to feel sorry for the woman.  She was still stuck in 8th grade.  And raising not one but three daughters.

“Well, then”, psychologists will say, “we have to teach the parents”-

“We must go after the parents and teach them”  “Educate them”

Won’t work.  Those very parents will not attend a workshop, symposium, or training session designed to point out the obvious.

“Don’t tell me how to raise my kids”  they will yell across the room. And the cycle will continue.

So we must raise our daughters to be more self confident.  More certain of choice. More empowered by who they are and to value that power.  We must never miss an opportunity to show them the strength of courage, the impact of kindness, the wisdom of education from every available source. We must raise super women-and let them know they can be anything, even Martin Luther King.

Get the civility back.  Please.  I loathe the simple “can’t we all just get along?” usually said with a sigh and the head titled to the side and a smile.  Well, no.  We can’t.  There are some people I just don’t want to get along with.  ever.  But when I see them, I am civil, as rules apply. I am never outwardly nasty.  Even if in my heart of hearts, I’d just as soon pull a Alexis Carrington on their ass.  I don’t. It is ingrained.  But lately, everywhere I go, it seems as if civility has become a litmus test for the human condition.  Humans are failing.  And the age of civility, or rather lack there of, is getting lower.  Beyond the brat stage-not only rude-but stupid rude.  Stupid rude is when someone has become so focused on being rude-they no longer make sense.  Not that stupidity makes sense anyway…or rudeness for that matter.  Attach rude to stupid and you define just about everyone I saw at the “big giant mega store” on Halloween.  And it was only 11am.

I don’t want to hear -rather be forced to hear conversations on cell phones while I am waiting in line.  I don’t care if: 

 He owes you money.

She’s a skanky ho.

You ain’t got, tired of any one’s shit, pregnant, not pregnant, fat assed, out of work,not gonna do, to tired to, how you are going to get to, the  mall, the store, the emergency room, need cigarettes, McDonalds, a pumpkin, or haircolor( that clearly is not your shade).

Stop yelling at your kids, or your mother, or your father, step father, babydaddy, babymama, put some clothes on, please, pull up your pants,get a larger size, quit getting in my way, stop showing your ignorance, your ass crack, braless wonders, overhang ( men and women) stop rolling your eyes, acting like you are ghetto,emo or anything else you are not, stop texting, or acting like you are, please, please, please…. just say thank-you.  Just say please.  Just because.

Hold the door open if anyone is justthisclose behind you….and try a little kindness.