What I Learned This Weekend And Wine

After 13 years of marriage, I am always surprised when I learn something new about my husband or when he lends some insight into who I am. He knows be better than anyone. It happens in random spurts and when I least expect it. A couple of months ago, after years of riding on carousels with our kids, he informed me that he absolutely hates carousels and always has. This would have been helpful information to know when the kids were begging to ride on one and I thought he was avoiding it because he was being a cheap asshole.

This weekend we spent some time at Fisherman's Wharf, saw a game in Oakland and did some driving/drinking in Sonoma. He drove, I drank. Wine country was my favorite. After two tastings, a shot of sherry and a full glass of Pinot Grigio, I turned into Chatty Cathy and my husband and I began talking work and life purpose. He shared, I shared and then it happened. I told him how much I love writing, but how I'm losing passion because I don't have the thousands of people I wish I had reading my blog every day. I have a problem with patience. I compare myself to other writers. I see someone else doing it and I'm sure that since they've done it, there is nothing left for me to do. It's all down hill from there. Here is what my husband said "You give up way too easily. I see it with so many things you do and I don't understand it. You are an amazing writer so why would you give up now?' It was hard to hear because it was true. I lacked a trait. Perseverance. I've seen the billboard with some famous person on it and under their face, in gigantic letters, PERSEVERANCE Pass It On. No one passed it on to me.

I don't remember ever feeling that I could persevere. If I wasn't good at something right away, I was done. If I wasn't as good as someone else, I was done. I tried sewing and if what I made didn't look my mom's, who had been sewing for a couple decades, I decided I wasn't good at it. I tried debate class and there was someone who was better at it, so I quit. Then there was massage, which I was good at but never gave myself enough time to be the best at, so I stopped. My life has been pocked by one unaccomplished goal after another. I thought I wasn't funny because my husband said he was. There couldn't possibly be two funny people in one marriage. This sounds fucking weird, but I hid my sense of humor for many years because I felt that I couldn't compete with someone who proclaimed they were 'the funny one'.

This time, I am not giving up. I am learning perseverance. I'm researching the shit out of it, living it and passing it on. I have too many amazing humans in my life who see something great in me even when I don't. Thank god for that. When I don't want to write or update my blog, my husband nudges me until I'm so annoyed that I do it out of complete fucking irritation. When I am sure someone else is better at humor writing, my mom reads my blog and tells me that she has never read anything better. Ever. My daughter tells me weekly that she is proud of me and that she can't wait to be 18 so she can read my blog. For them, and one day for myself, I persevere.

I Missed You And Pictures

I missed a day!!! I wanted to miss today too, but that's how I get into a funk and stop doing anything constructive. I haven't ran in a couple of weeks and it will take an army of drill sergeants to get me in my running shoes tomorrow.

I promised pictures and they are here!! I hope you have enjoyed following me around San Francisco and New York. It's been a fantastic journey that I never want to experience again.

Ever since I was a kid, I couldn't be away from home for more than a couple days without wanting to sob on the front porch and call my mom. I still haven't grown out of it. When we got back from Cali, I had a great day with my kids eating fried foods, shopping at the dollar store and cuddling. I wanted to stay home and cancel our trip to NYC. I  wanted coffee out of my own mugs, to drive my kids to school and to sleep in my own bed. I admit that I wasn't very excited to leave. We had planned these trips months ago and it seemed plausible to be away for a week, home for two days and gone for another six days. On our way to the airport to embark on our NYC trip,  homesickness punched me in the fucking gut and I felt like crying when we left our sleepy faced little monkeys in grandma's car. I wanted to grab the door handle and refuse to go. I was sick of security screenings, sitting next to strangers, restaurant food, tourist prices and staying busy so I could forget how homesick I really was.

We had a fun trip and I am so glad we were there to celebrate with our friends, but it was a lesson learned about two trips in a row. Never again. We are home for six weeks and off on another adventure with the kids at the end of May. While it is a hell of a lot more work to travel with kids, it makes me feel more at home when I wake up to little smiling faces and stomping feet next to my bed. It beats room service any day of the week.

We spent an entire day walking Central Park and I was shocked to find a waterfall in the middle of this huge city. After taking a landscape architecture class last year, it was amazing to see what kind of creative talent it took to create this sanctuary in the middle of chaos. There was a reservoir, a pond, gardens, a castle and beautiful foliage around every turn. This was my favorite day in New York.

My hubby is a huge Yankees fan and has been since he was a little tyke. His dream came true this week when he was able to see a game at Yankee Stadium in NYC. To watch someone you love get giddy about crossing something off their bucket list  is pretty heartwarming. Even for a hard ass like me. It got even sweeter when he realized where our tickets were, row 5 from the field. I don't think there was one minute that entire night that he wasn't smiling.

Having friends who live in the city you visit is a blessing, pure and simple. We spent the afternoon with a friend I had met when I worked at Starbucks and she pointed us in a very sweet direction. There was a little bakery with even littler cupcakes and they came in all sorts of yummy flavors. They were the size of a fucking ping pong ball. Adorable!! We bought a dozen and as you can see they barely lasted long enough for a quick pic. Make friends and tell them to move to cool places so you can come visit and take advantage of their local status. Thanks, Jackie. :)

I would also like to give a shout out to my friends Scott and Brent who were married this weekend in the most beautiful ceremony I have ever attended. I did not get permission to post pics so you will just have to use your imagination. It confirmed what I have believed for most of my life, there is not just one way to love. Their commitment and love for one another is breathtaking. I would like to vote for them to be the poster kids for why gay marriage is marriage and should be legally accepted as such. Love is love, bitches.

Perky. A Memoir.

Remember back before you birthed children, nursed babies, gained 50 pounds, lost 30 pounds, gained it again? That time when you could describe your boobs and butt as perky, not just your personality. I love having a perky personality, but what I wouldn't give to have the body of a 21 year old for one summer. I don't think I would even wear clothes at all, I would just wander around town in a bikini waiting to be arrested for indecent exposure. I mean what would that be like?
I have gained and lost so much weight in the last 7 years that the folds of skin are something to be photographed and sent to Guinness World Records. I never thought I would really have to fold up my boobs accordion style and stuff them into a bra, but my last visit to Victoria's sealed the deal, my boobs are officially deflated. I try to imagine what my body will look like when I am 90 and it makes me cry. It also makes me work harder at my marriage in hopes that no other man will have to bear witness to the situation under my clothing. Working out is great but there is really only one way to get rid of this extra skin and absolutely no way to make gravity work with me instead of against me.
These deep caverns on the side of my thighs that are lovingly called stretch marks, look more like the Grand Canyon painted a beautiful purple. My kids favorite pastime when we are cuddling in bed is to have mommy make a bagel with her tummy fat and believe me it is one supple, delicious looking bagel. Cream cheese, anyone?
So, since I don't have a Delorian to take me back 10 years ago I have decided to finally accept my saggy boobs, triple butt, and chicken arms. I am wearing a string bikini this summer, possibly to a pool near you. Until I can justify spending thousands of dollars to cut my body apart and tighten this shit up, it's time to get perky about all of it.

Wine-ing

As previously stated, I can't drink like I use to back in the day. I'm older and after giving up alcohol during my pregnancies, I have a low tolerance. Which is great at the bar because I'm a cheap date. My husband has made it his mission in life to question my ability to drink more than two beers.
Him: "You sure you want that third?"
Me: "You sure you want to see me naked at some point in the next 6 months? Mind your own business."

But he's right, I have had a few brushes with vomiting after only a couple hours of drinking and one episode of Double Dragon. Google that and then try not to judge too harshly. That particular event occurred at my sister's house after an 8 hour shift, no food and a bottle of wine. Not my proudest moment.
As I have been writing more, I can see why so many writers, past and present, have been alcoholics. It is very challenging to rip your soul out in words every single day and then feel like you haven't contributed to society in any functional way. Writing a book is especially taxing on my self esteem as I am not sure if or when anyone will ever see it, publish it or love it. It's like running in circles and telling everyone that's your job. It creates an overwhelming desire to drink.

Alcohol also has a creative element to it that I am sure any artist can attest to. After a couple of glasses of white wine, I have a slew of ideas for my blog, my book and for articles that I feel are like nothing anyone has ever written before. Then I sober up and wonder why anyone reads the shitty shit I write. It's enough to want to commit myself to a psychiatric hospital and go crawling back to Starbucks begging for my "real" job back. If you are interested in working your ass off, feeling like you haven't done a damn thing and becoming an alcoholic, become a writer.

Don't forget to check out my article about marriage and faith on mythirtyspot.com and follow me on Twitter @BrasherMandy. Strangely I have 300 followers over there, because there seem to be other like minded drunks who think I am as funny as I do.

That's It, I Quit

Hold on to your granny panties for this revelation....I over-committed. Again. Remember when I needed a job where I was moving around all the time, you know, like 5 weeks ago? Yeah, about that. I loved being on my feet all day, I loved the people I worked with and I was finally getting good at it. Then Tuesday happened. We had a full day of cleans scheduled, my husband had to take the puppy to work, the kids had soccer and drama class, and the neighbor who picks up after school didn't pick up after school. When I got to my phone, 30 minutes after school ended, I had a barrage of messages asking if I could pick up or if the kids could walk home. I couldn't pick up and it was pouring rain outside. We were having a freak thunderstorm that was complete with thunder, lighting and sheets of rain that would drown a small child in five minutes flat. I scrambled to make phone calls, attempting to find out where my kids were. Did they get picked up? Were they trudging through a river, barefoot and uphill both ways? My husband confirmed that they weren't home, my neighbor confirmed that her husband was running late, and I confirmed that I was in the midst of a mommy panic attack. Drama class started in fifteen minutes, soccer in thirty minutes and my husband was home with a puppy who was full of shenanigans. I was at work. I couldn't deal with any of it over the phone and it was making me crazy.

When I got home, my kids were soaked, my husband looked ready to throw in the towel and everyone was piled in the car on their way to late starts at each and every activity. This wasn't working. That evening, I talked to my husband about an extra cleaning job I had picked up in trade for free yoga classes. He wasn't as excited as I was.
"So, now your going to be gone two full days and three nights a week? This is what you want?"

I admitted that I don't know what I want. It changes all the time and I take on too many jobs for one glaring reason....I want to prove that I am worthy. Worthy of a nice home, a great husband, money in the bank that I don't work for, and worthy to live a blessed life. I don't know who I need to prove it to, but I feel like I need to prove it. Very rarely does my husband question why I do the things I do and when he does, I know it's not working.
"I like having you as a stay-at-home mom. I like that you are writing and taking care of the house. I can make money, that's not a problem."

It's only a problem for me. A problem that I have been obsessing about for the entirety of our marriage. I stayed home when my kids were babies, worked minimum wage jobs as they got older and have never made as much money as my husband. It's a pride thing. We are in it together and he is supportive and I have let it become my issue. So, I quit. I quit my cleaning job. It's one of those lessons in life that makes me crazy because I want to commit to everything, forever, and be great every single day. This time I get to commit to letting it go and finding the joy in that.  

Image courtesy of careerrocketeer.com Check out their awesome post about how to quit a job the right way. http://careerrocketeer.com/2011/03/resignation-without-reservation-the-how-tos-of-quitting.html

Tomorrow....For Sure.

If you are not married with kids, this may not make any sense to you. Or if you are a sex addict. Or you're a man. When you squeeze an actual human being out of a hole the size of half dollar, you may lose the desire to ever see a penis again. When this happens, don't judge yourself and don't tell your husband that you will never have intercourse with him again. He may hide in his office and take up a part time job as a professional viewer of free porn. I know how you feel, friend. I had two babies and I was sure after losing that much blood and being up 24 hours a day taking care of newborn, I was never going to have the desire to bone again. I remember dreading my six week check up, I didn't want the thumbs up to get frisky and I knew I couldn't lie to my man and tell him that the doctor had forbid me from getting laid for at least another 18 months. Just to be safe. She wouldn't say that and I would come home to a raging hard on. Here's how I got past my fear, lack of a sex drive and starting loving my husband again.
Ask for help and when he helps, let him do it his way. Let him rock the baby to sleep at night while you take a hot bath and shave your giant 70's bush.  It's a win win for everyone. You are physically preparing to be seen naked again and your husband gets to bond with the baby. Take him up on his offer to do anything you usually do. And bitch, please don't mother him about it, he is your husband not another kid to train. He won't do it your way but it will get done. End of story.
Stop hating your body. It does look different and for many of us that will not change, even with diet and exercise. My last child was born almost 7 years ago and I am in better shape than I have ever been, but I will always have extra belly fat and stretch marks. It is a reminder that I gave birth to two beautiful babies. I always think of my daughter when I start to complain about my stomach...I wonder what it would sound like to be in her shoes listening to me complain about what she did to my body? That must be a slap in the face. I get to love my body at many different sizes and be seen naked by the person I married at all different sizes. My husband gets to have great sex at all different weights, why can't I?
My last piece of advice has saved my marriage. Sex was our fight. Always. I wondered what was wrong with me, what was wrong with him and when it would get better. During one of our many counseling sessions, one of the therapists advised me to start my morning off by thinking about sex with my husband. To tone down my OCD tendencies during the day and give myself a rest so that when it was time to get hot and heavy, I wasn't exhausted. She told me to think about all the wonderful things my husband does, about when we first met, what qualities I loved about him and surprisingly enough, it worked. I took care of me when the sun was up and in turn, I was able to take care of business at night.
I realized that my need for perfection was keeping me from having amazing sex. I was spending so much time taking care of a baby and trying to be superhuman that I didn't make time for the other person who made this journey possible. I hated my chubby body and I had ridiculous expectations. That shit had to go out the window and fast. When I started asking for help and let go of every detail, I had energy to laugh and love.
It's completely fucking normal to need some time to heal and don't be afraid to share that with your partner but when it's time, don't let your insecurities keep you from getting a good romp in the sack. You need it as much as your man does. Maybe more, mama.

Cookie Cutter Nothing

I find joy in the most ridiculous things. Taking pictures of cookie cutters for a post I haven't even written, makes me giddy. Last week, I carefully arranged sticky notes and took more than one photo of them, as well. My mind is a cluster fuck of ideas that could only be labeled artistic by a mental patient. It's a running theme in my life.

When I was a kid, I never felt like I fit in with my peers. I have never had a sense of style, a clear grasp on the male species or a nuclear family. While everyone else was watching Star Wars and playing on this new contraption called Nintendo, I was playing baby dolls and mastering the art of the board game. As I got older, I continued to dress in thrift store clothes and could never put a definitive label on my musical taste. It was an absurd mix of Neil Diamond and Rage Against The Machine. In short, I've never been cookie cutter anything. I longingly watched 'normal' kids start dating and make a skirt/boot combo look runway worthy and I wondered "If I had that outfit, would it change my life?" or "After my nose job, can I look forward to the opposite sex noticing I am alive?" My hope was that one day I would fit into some mold that made me appealing to someone in any way possible. I was weird and unwillingly to see it as a positive.

After high school, I left my small town life behind for the bright lights of the city and a desire to be a new me. I still couldn't dress myself and my obsession with gay men kept me in the dark about how homely I really was. While I had great friendships with women, I was super awkward on the dating scene. Take for example the time I was on break from class, sitting outside on my giant cell phone and talking with a young man I was spending time with. I never had a firm grasp on what our relationship was, but I got to end the conversation and proclaimed my love for him. Dead silence. I quickly hung up my brick phone and accepted the fact that I was a fucking weirdo who would never have a normal relationship. I have always done things in the wrong order, with the wrong people while donning an eclectic mishmash of clothing.

When I met my husband, I attempted to freak him out by pretending to be a super slut. It didn't work. His fashion sense was worse than mine and he saw something in me that I had yet to see in myself. He thought I was pretty and wanted to have full conversations with me. And he was straight. It didn't make sense. In true fashion, I was engaged to him within a month and struggling with how I, off all people, could be a wife. What kind of girl was I? I farted, burped, ate full meals and smoked on the patio while my fiance studied for exams. Any man in his right mind knew I wasn't marriage material. I anticipated the day he would finally realize what a mess I was and make a beeline for the Witness Protection Program. He never did.

Nothing has changed. I am a mother. A mother who lets her kids eat sugar packets at restaurants and pick out their own clothes. I am a runner. A runner who smokes and will never pound the pavement for longer than 30 minutes. I am a wife. A wife who doesn't make the bed and has no problem farting before/during or after intercourse. I am a friend. A friend who adores you and will never remember your birthday. I am a music lover. A music lover who rocks out to Flor Rida alone in my kitchen and then proceeds to scream the lyrics of Nine Inch Nails while picking up my kids from school. It makes no logical sense. It used to bother me that I didn't fit some cookie cutter profile, but the older I get the less I care. I will admit to wishing I could wear bright lipstick and put an outfit together, but some things just aren't meant to be.

My Vow Of Celibacy

In the midst of all the arguments, discussions, and court cases about what marriage is, I want to share with you my experience of "gay life". Whatever that means. I grew up in a small town within a family who had little education and very little worldly experience. I had no contact with homosexuals, African Americans or big city culture until I was in my late teens. I love my parents and hold no ill will towards them for my childhood, but my dad was a bigot and his ideas about other people stemmed from his service in Vietnam and his career as a police officer. Everyone was evil and everyone was guilty. People who weren't like us were considered "dirt bags" or "fagots". I remember when I found out that in Britain, a fag was a cigarette. I would humor myself with the word combinations my dad used when he saw homosexuals. When he yelled "What a bunch of fagots " while driving down the road, I imagined a pack of cigarettes walking down the street smoking another pack of cigarettes. That's some funny shit. I knew I didn't feel the way he did about people.
As a sophomore in high school, I was befriended by an older group of teens who spent weekends in the Avenues of Salt Lake, drinking, smoking and having interesting conversations with homos. I was initiated. I spent most weekends meeting gay couples, drinking Vodka and finding out what it really meant to be gay. What it was like to come out to your family, to fall in love, to hold hands in public, and to find pride in the way you lived on this planet. It was amazing!! During this time I met a young man who I was instantly attracted to. I did not date in high school and had very little experience with guys up to this point. He was tall, dark and handsome. Very handsome. I knew I wasn't alone in that description because everyone we spent time around seemed to drool in his presence as well. I fell in love. With my gay best friend.
He was constantly complimenting me on my beauty and wanted to hug and kiss me every time we had been away from each other for longer than two hours. We shopped together, went out to dinner and spent time with his family. My parents met him and my dad stopped calling homosexuals "fags". He told me "He is just a really great guy". I knew that already. I didn't feel pressure for sex and that was great for me because I had very little interest in that. I wanted to feel like someones number one priority and I finally did. We vacationed in Mexico and spent late nights talking love, politics and what we would do for the rest of our lives. I fell hard.
He dated and had sex...with dudes. I knew that. I didn't date or spend time with anyone else. There was one person I wanted to be with and it was him. I thought it was the perfect relationship for me. I told him that I could spend my life with him. He could be married to a woman while he lived his life away from me however he chose. I decided, before I knew better, that sex wasn't a necessary part of a loving relationship. I could curb my jealousy and we could live happily ever after. Looking back, that was the most egotistical thing I could have proposed.
Some people may look at this scenario and see a gay man taking advantage of a young girl or think that it would be the perfect solution to a complicated life. It was not. To be married to someone you have no desire to be intimate with, would be torture. For both of us. While I thought I was making his life easier, I was asking him to sacrifice his dreams to make me happy. He wanted to marry the love of his life, a man. He wanted to share a home and a bed with a man. Not because he didn't love me but precisely because he did. As a friend.
I tried to live a strictly celibate life by marrying a gay man. It didn't work out that way. I moved away, we both grew up and we finally learned how to be without each other. He found the love of his life and I found mine. We all deserve to share our life with not only our best friend but someone we can feel intimate with. A partner of our choosing. Isn't that what it's all about?

(This is an original work and should not be shared, copied or changed without permission from the author, Mandy Brasher. Contact her at mbrasher823@gmail.com)

Hunk o' Junk

It's Twisted Tale Tuesday which equates to me blabbing about whatever the hell I want and you coming along for the ride. Don't forget to follow me on Twitter @BrasherMandy and keep up on what a twit I really am.
The idea for this post came to me as I was getting stoked for one of our many vacations. Luckily, I married a laid back guy who is super fun to travel with and loves to spend money on trips. We have people ask us all the time "How do you take so many vacations?" We are not rich and we are pretty frugal travelers, but here is the real secret. We drive old cars.
It has been years since we have had a car payment and I don't think in the twelve years of our marriage, we have ever had two car payments simultaneously. A vehicle, in our eyes, is a hunk of metal that needs to get us from point A to point B with as little hassle as possible. I can name every car I have ever owned and not one of them was bought new nor did I ever carry a loan for longer than two years on any one of them. Car #1-The Lemon-1989 Volkswagen Fox. Volkswagen only made this car for a couple years and let's all thank baby Jesus for that. I doubt I will never own a car with more mechanical and non-mechanical issues than this car had. The broken latch on the hood caused a couple cracked windshields while I was driving, random alarm that we couldn't turn off, transmission issues, consistent brake issues, wiring issues and finally a nondescript problem that caused me to leave that hunk of junk on the side of the road one hot summer day and never look back. I hitched a ride from there and walked to work for a few weeks after. Car #2-The Sport Car-1992 Mitsubishi Eclipse. I absolutely loved this car and I felt like a rock star when I drove it all over Vegas during my single, childless years. Car #3-1997 Nissan Altima- Needed four doors in a hurry when my first monkey was born. Car #4- 2001 Honda Odyssey. You may be surprised to know that this has been my favorite vehicle so far. Having an infant and a toddler was a big enough headache and this little ditty helped immensely. Remote controlled doors, heated leather seats and a DVD player made this the Corvette of Mommy vehicles. Then gas prices hit $456.98 a gallon and seeing myself as others did, blasting rap music in my minivan while my kids hid in the back, made me rethink the van sitch. Car #5 2004 Toyota Corolla. In terms of practicality and gas consumption, this bitch is the best hands down. I drive it now and don't foresee needing another vehicle for a long, long time. Instead of shelling out tens of thousands of dollars for new cars, we have saved and either paid cash or got very small loans through our credit union that we paid of quickly. No fancy dealerships or free hot dog upgrades. We buy used and we are proud of it. Traveling is possible for us because we don't shell out $800 or more per month for a brightly colored hunk of metal.
I was turned off to fancy cars at a very young age, which makes driving a piece of shit a whole lot easier. I admit to profiling people who drive cars that cost more than our yearly income and I cannot be swayed in my deeply held belief that they are all self centered, holy-than-though, non-tipping, arrogant pricks. I think it stems from my childhood memory of a  visitation weekend with my bio-dad who is a car guy. I was piled into a two-seater Porsche with my five other siblings for a trip to the drive-in movie theater. My practical side was screaming "What the fuck!!!" and my teenage side was screaming "This is the most embarrassing moment of my entire life!!". It soured me on fancy cars and people who think they are fancy enough to drive aforementioned cars. It's a fucking car!!!
I would never drive something that my kids couldn't barf in, my dog couldn't shit in or that I would be scared to smoke in. I would much rather tour a Mazatlan beach horseback or share cocktails with my husband in San Francisco than stress about someone breathing on my $50,000 SUV. It would force me to then worry about where to park my asshole car and whether or not I looked dressy enough in pajama pants to drive my kids to school. It's a lot of needless work. I hope that when people see me in my POS car they think "Holy shit, is that what she drives?". It is. The part you don't see is me relaxing on the beach, with a Margarita and a great novel, while you wax that behemoth in your garage. Enjoy your $750 car payment, sucker!!!

C'est La Vie

What is the old adage...bad things come in sets of three? Once you hit three you are somehow more likely to have a million wonderful things happen? That may be true but I think I had worn out my lucky streak because the last two weeks have given me a violent case of diarrhea and I am pretty sure it's not normal to feel like your stomach in on fire every time you digest food. Ulcers anyone?
I had a good streak and I will be the first to admit it. Great job, friends, happy kids, wonderful marriage, reliable cars, enough money to be comfortable and an all around stable life. Then we went on vacation. It was wonderful until we were heading home and I saw black smoke pouring from the back of our van. Between the tow, the fix, the unexpected radiator, the rental car and gas to drive over 2,000 miles we completely wiped out our savings. Let the panic attack begin. So is that one bad thing or like five?
Since this little episode it seems that every time I turn around something in the house is broken, ruined, needs replacing or is leaking. Is it possible to be tested to the point of sheer madness? Every time I get the mail it's another unexpected medical bill, dental bill, or we-want-to-fuck-you-over bill and frankly it's more than my little heart can stand. I am pretty sure I hit my three....or fifty. I want my lucky streak back. I read about a woman who has won the Texas Lottery four times at a grand total of 24 million. YES PLEASE!!! Thank you for the reminder that money is not everything and the best things in life are free. Got it. Free won't fix my car, my dishwasher, buy school clothes, pay medical bills or buy groceries. It also won't pay for the lifetime supply of Tums that I am going to need after living through the last 14 days.

It's All Fun And Games...Until.

                                                               That's me....age three.




We all have stories about how our parents ruined our lives and how they saved our lives. Hopefully there are more of the saving stories for most of us. As I get older I am more able to understand the sacrifice, love and patience that my parents had to put forth everyday in order for me to become an adult. It wasn't perfect and none of us are. I strive to give my kids the best everyday, but the reality of raising kids is that I will fuck up and they will hate things I did as a parent.
The list of what I hated has shrunk the older and, hopefully, wiser I become. They may seem insignificant or enormous depending on your own experiences. I hated that my biological parents couldn't stay married, that we didn't have money for vacations, that my biological dad wasn't in my life, that I wasn't pretty in high school, that I didn't go to prom, that I had to emotionally take care of my brother and sister, that I was held to a different set of rules, that my dad didn't hug me as a teenager, that my mom didn't stand up for herself, and the casseroles. I hated those fucking casseroles. No one advises you before you get pregnant that you will not only have a baby to care for, but a marriage and yourself.  It took the birth of my own children to give my parents the appreciation they deserved all along.
The things I loved about my childhood greatly outweigh the previous hate list. I loved living in the same house for most of my life, having siblings to play with, celebrating holidays, that my mom worked at home, that we were close to my grandparents, that my mom talked to me, that my dad worked very hard, that my parents stayed married, that we were taught a strong work ethic, that we laughed, that we had pets, and that we lived within our means. It's funny to look at both lists and realize that without one we could not have had the other. My mom stayed home to care for us and that meant less money. My parents stayed married because my mom didn't stand up for herself. Those are the tough decisions you have to make as a parent. Will it ruin your kids forever? Probably not. If your intention is pure and you do the best you can, kids are pretty resilient.
I make mistakes. My kids act out. We cry and wonder how we'll get through. I've slept in my kid's beds all night so they would go to sleep. I've served cereal for dinner and forgotten to make lunch. I've raised my voice. I've hid in the bathroom with my phone for a moment of solitude. I've questioned my husband on his handling of punishment. I've thought about leaving. I've turned the TV on for hours so I could get something done. I've held doors closed and locked myself in my room. No one is perfect. I've also done amazing things that I hope my kids will remember for the rest of their lives. I hope they feel loved, cared for, appreciated and heard. I know I do.

Wrap It Up

This is a piece I wrote as an entry into a writing competition that I did not win. Needless to say, I spent a few days contemplating my asinine writing aspirations before realizing that I can't win everything. That's a tough lesson at 34. 

My first introduction to sex was the traumatizing experience of walking in on my parents having intercourse. I was 7.  Our suburban rambler wasn’t equipped with locks on any of the doors, including the bathrooms, and there was never really a need. My dad bathed with the door open in order to shout requests for a new bath bar or a clean towel, all of which he somehow never planned to use until he was submerged in water. While we understood the sanctity of one another’s privacy, there was little need to lock someone out of any particular room. As kids, we understood that if our parent’s door was closed, it meant nap time. My mom never napped, but my dad was an avid believer in sleeping at least 15 hours a day.

The day of the incident, all three of us kids were wandering around the house screaming for mom. Our parents bedroom door was closed, but we were bound to find mom hanging clothes on the clothesline outside or sewing in the dining room. We trekked through the entire house, all of us searching different areas until it was clear that she had gone missing. I made it to the end of the hall and in front of their bedroom door with the intention of informing my dad that mom had been kidnapped. I swung open the door and procured an image that continues to be burned into my soul. I have no memory of the day I learned to ride a bike, what my kindergarten teacher looked like or what I got for Christmas when I turned 12, but this is an image that keeps on giving. With no blankets in sight, I witnessed my dad jump up completely nude, revealing my mother’s petite frame underneath. His penis swung from side to side as he ran towards their bathroom. They were both yelling for me to close the door, but I was stunned into paralysis. After a 20 second span that felt like decade, I jumped back and slammed the door behind me. I needed to know what was happening in there. It was also imperative that I let my siblings know that something more treacherous than a kidnapping had occurred to our mother.

“I found mom.” I screamed.

They both came running towards me and I shuffled everyone across the hall to the bedroom my sister and I shared. Being the oldest put the responsibility on my shoulders to clear up the confusion, but I was too shocked to do anything except lie.

“They are taking a nap, so we need to be really quiet and stay in here.” I informed them.

I think it was clear to everyone involved that the napping story wasn't true, but until I got the gory details of what was really happening, I had nothing.

The next day as I was helping my mom do laundry, I asked her what they  were doing on top of each other with no clothes on. Naked wrestling? It was the first of many sex talks that I would subject my mother to. I was completely enthralled with the details of genitalia and naked bodies. I asked too many questions and felt that conversations needed to continue for an absurd amount of time. Every sexualized moment I saw on TV  was another opportunity for dialogue that my mother could have lived her entire life without having. I needed to know everything.

When I had children of my own, I wasn't thinking about how to talk to them about sex. I was worrying about whether or not they would latch on to my nipple and if I could handle another shitty diaper without hiding in a closet with Mr. Vodka. As my daughter got older I realized that we were similar in many ways except one. Sex talk, intimacy on TV and kissing between her parents embarrassed her to no end. She got angry and attempting a conversation about any of it was impossible. She hit fifth grade and was eligible for maturation class, which consisted of a film roll tutorial circa 1954 about abstinence until marriage. While we can all agree that abstinence is a noble idea, I wasn’t going to bet my daughter’s adulthood on someone else’s sexual ideals. When I was her age, I was barraging my mom with questions about blow jobs and birth control. One year I  used my birthday money to purchase Love and Sensuality, which I read cover to cover numerous times. Sex didn’t embarrass me, it intrigued me. I was concerned that she wouldn't get enough information until it was too late to really need it.

I found my opening one evening sitting on the end of her bed wishing she was still toddling around in poopy diapers. I told her that we needed to talk about sex and that I was sorry if it made her uncomfortable. She began fidgeting and I gave abstinence-only a second thought. Perhaps she could weather the storm of adolescence without her mom’s birds and bees talk. There is no guidebook that details the perfect age to explain sperm or when you should talk to your kids about masturbation. My mom was thrown into it by a strange child who was born with an unnatural interest in sex. I wasn’t going to have it that easy. We got through the penis into vagina spill and she finally asked a question. This was the moment I had been waiting for.

“So if boys don’t want to have babies, how do they do that?”

How do you describe a condom to a 10 year old? I hadn't gotten the memo on that either, so like most things in child rearing, I winged it.

“Well, there are these things that cover up a boy’s penis called condoms. They are like Saran wrap for your privates.”

When it came out of my mouth I felt like a genius and a moron all in the same moment. The genius part because it seemed pretty accurate and a moron because I immediately imagined her substituting a roll of Saran wrap for a box of condoms. Her face scrunched up and her eyes looked like they were liable to pop out of the holes in her skull.

“That is gross, Mom.”

“Well, it’s not really Saran wrap. I am just trying to give you an idea of what it looks like and how it works.”

She then informed me that she knew all she ever needed to know about sex and that I was welcome to leave her room at any time. The sooner the better. In my attempt to keep my daughter from being a teen mom, I had traumatized her in the same way I had felt traumatized by seeing my parents boning. My hope is that at the very least  it opened a dialogue between us so that she can get the real deal on premarital sex and not a heap of bullshit from her uninformed pals at school. Thankfully, the lock on our bedroom door will keep her from living with a visual of naked, aging parents for the rest of her life. I still don’t understand where those blankets were.

I Ask, The Universe Delivers:Two More Days of Giving.

Image property of buzzle.com

Monday July 7, 2013 Day 3: Scary Hair

I don't do hair. That's why I decided to cut mine super short last year and I only attempt to grow it out for about 30 days until I have a mullet and realize that I look like I have given up on life, at which point I cut it again. My extremely small list of hairstyle abilities includes pony tails, side pony tails and regular braids. The end. My daughter has beautiful long hair and access to internet videos that instruct you on thousands of hairstyles that look more intricate than than a boondoggle bracelet. Unfortunately, she has grown up having mediocre hairstyles or bob cuts, which I always suggested for my convenience. If shaving girls' heads for summer was a thing, she would be in trouble.

She had been asking me to watch this video for a few days and I felt that I would rather eat pickled beets while doing back bends than play beauty shop. It was an updo with an upside down french braid and messy bun at the top.
"I don't know how to french braid, kid. You need to talk to Grandma if you want fancy hair like that." (I'm known to pass off that shit to my mom because she is good at everything. Everything.)
"Mom, it shows you how to do it step by step. Please. Just watch it and see if we can try it on my hair."
After a a challenging day with my son he was finally crying for dad in the other room, so I sat with her on the couch and watched the video. This would be my gift to her.

We watched and researched and I wasn't sure I was up to the hair challenge. Then we spent an hour in my bathroom trying two different hairstyles, talking about girl stuff and laughing. I tried french braiding for the first time in a decade and when I showed her my failed attempt, she melted my heart.
"It's beautiful, Mom. I love it."
I'm pretty sure she gave me a gift far beyond the hour I spent fixing her hair. Far beyond.

Tuesday July 8, 2013 Day 4: Ask And You Shall Receive. For Real.

I was planning to make zucchini bread for my next door neighbor who keeps her yard beautiful year round and who is a very private person. I'm not sure we have spoken more than a few words in the two years since we moved in. While I would still give that gift, it would become clear that I was meant to give two gifts today.

As I am driving my daughter to her acting class I have a strange thought "If there were a panhandler on my trip today, I would give them money." There aren't panhandlers where I live. We live in a small golf community connected to two small town and while I'm sure there is a homeless population, we don't see it. There are no cardboard signs or people on the street corner with guitars and change jars. In the twelve years since I moved back here, I have never seen a panhandler. I have seen people selling puppies and tamales at WalMart and people hitchhiking on the main road, but never a panhandler. My thought seemed silly and fruitless. I would be baking when I got home and gifting my neighbor.

As I drove back through town to pick my daughter up a couple hours later, I saw a young woman on the corner of the main road. With a cardboard sign. "Struggling and disabled. Anything will help."
Wait....what????? There is no possible way I created that. Is there? I keep driving and commit to stop on my way back so I won't be late picking up my daughter. I had planned on giving this woman the two dollars I keep in my change holder for car washes and drink stops, but as I get closer I know I need to pull a $20 bill out of my wallet. That is 1/4 of my spending money for this pay period. Any Starbucks coffee, racer back tank, movie ticket or meal out with friends comes out of this money and I spend it wisely. It has to last. It was weird, but I didn't worry about what I couldn't buy this week. I have all I need...a nice home, my health, food in my fridge and more clothes than I could wear in a month.

Here is my other hang up. Is she really disabled? What will she do with the money? This is always where I go when I give money, but part of the challenge is to give with your whole heart. I began to say an affirmation in my mind in order to move past my questions.  "Today I give without judgement". And I did.

I parked the car, got out and asked this young woman how she was doing.
"I've been better."
"Well, this is for you. I hope it helps." I said.
"Thank you and God bless."

He already has.

Check out my new post on mythirtyspot. Success and marriage. What it means when one person is making it  out in the world while the other one is at home.
http://www.mythirtyspot.com/2013/07/his-mine-and-ours-when-your-spouse-is.html

My Giving Challenge: A Prayer, A Gift For Me, and Rolls

Day 7: A Prayer
I don't pray. There was a time in my life when I was active in an organized religion and a time immediately after that when I gave up on anything spiritual. I am only now beginning to find a happy medium that works for me and prayer hasn't been something I have implemented into my spiritual journey. I have a strange idea that it has to look a certain way, me on my knees in a floral nightgown next to my bed with my hands in just the right position and specific words being said in order for God to hear me. I don't wear floral nightgowns.

Last week, a wonderful woman passed on to the other side and she was married to a man who has been a huge part of my families' life. He has now been a widower three times and is one of the sweetest, most loving men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. As I was getting ready for bed Friday, I thought about the funeral services I would be attending the following day and I felt an overwhelming need to say a prayer for this man who just lost his wife. I didn't kneel and I probably didn't say exactly the right words, but I said a prayer for him. That was my gift for the day and I am starting to think that maybe God doesn't care what kind of pajamas you wear when you talk to him.

Day 8: A Gift For Me
Don't get your panties all bunched up over the title of this day, I know what you are thinking. "Isn't it about giving to others?" The answer to your question is that this challenge is about giving, period. I am not planning to spend the next two weeks treating myself to hundreds of gifts or forgoing giving to others, but I am starting to believe that old adage about filling your own bucket. Saturday was a draining day. After fighting with my son about going to a birthday party (what kid would rather stay home??? MINE), attending a funeral and coming home to mountains of laundry and a hungry family, I was wiped out and I didn't have a clue how or what to give to anyone else.

After fulfilling my duties, I told my hubs that I was going for a run. I haven't been running in weeks and if I couldn't run I planned to walk, crawl or hide under the neighbors shrubs. Regardless, I needed to get out of the house, by myself. It sounds crazy, even to me, but going out into that stormy evening and moving my limbs felt better than any therapy I have ever paid for. I didn't take my usual route and I ended up at our local lake, but instead of rushing back to the long list of responsibilities I had waiting at home, I sat by the edge of the lake. I watched birds float overhead and clouds roll across the sherbet colored sky and I stopped worrying. There are only a handful of times when I allow myself to be unproductive, to watch the world go by and it felt like a gift. A gift to me.

Day 9: Rolls
My grandma did everything. I could fill a 300 page book with all the amazing things she accomplished in her life, as a parent, a grandparent, a runner, a friend and a caretaker. She was inspiring and I thought she would live to be 100 years old. There would be plenty of time for me to learn all her recipes, make a quilt with her, hear about her marathons and eat her food. She had a brain aneurysm on Christmas Day five and a half years ago and passed away.

I have been missing her terribly lately and on Sunday I was thinking about all the times we use to go to my grandparents' farm for Sunday dinner. My cousins, aunts and uncles would be there and we would eat and laugh and play games until the sky got dark and we begrudgingly went home. My grandmother always made her whole wheat rolls and anyone who ate them will tell you that those rolls were the highlight of the meal. On Thanksgiving, we never noticed the turkey or the gravy, we wanted to know where the rolls were. As a kid, I thought every grandma made rolls with wheat that she had ground that morning and in quantities that could feed an army.  I was kind of an idiot.

My sister, who was clearly smarter than me, had obtained our grandma's roll recipe before she passed away and I found it in my cookbook over the weekend. There were few real measurements, a glob of this and a few of these and no details about when to add the yeast or how long to let the rolls rise before putting them in the oven. Grandma never used a recipe, she had been making bread her whole life so there was no need to wonder if you had to add the oil now or if the water was warm enough for the yeast to work. She just knew and I miss that.

I shared my grandmother's recipe online as my gift for the day. Family members and friends alike were interested and excited to have access to those rolls and a piece of our history. Grandma would have wanted it that way.

If you missed my article on mythirtyspot last week, here is a link. It's all about work, marriage and what it means to take a backseat to your spouse's success.
http://www.mythirtyspot.com/2013/07/his-mine-and-ours-when-your-spouse-is.html

My Giving Challenge: Food, A Bag and Thanks

Day 5: Dish Bitch

I have never struggled with food insecurity. I have never gone hungry lest by my own choice. I have never stood in a food line or looked into a bare pantry. I have also never volunteered my time to serve those who know what it feels like to desperately need a hot meal. There have been many times when I have donated to food banks, given cans of food to the Boy Scouts and added a buck at the grocery store register for a local soup kitchen. Those things are well within my comfort zone. Seeing it firsthand...not so much.

I had the opportunity to volunteer my time this week to serve at a soup kitchen and I signed up without really thinking it through. That's the only way that I knew I wouldn't be able to flake out. When the time came to leave work and make the thirty minute drive, I was moody and  I didn't want to go. I only knew one person there, I wouldn't know what I was doing, there would be no parking, they wouldn't need me and on and on the story went. There were few times during my drive that I contemplated turning around, going shopping, stopping at a coffee shop or faking an illness to get out of my commitment. This was way out of my comfort zone, which is exactly why I showed up.

When I arrived, I was greeted by Russ, the person I knew, and immediately introduced to everyone else. There was a large LDS youth group, a few regulars, some employees and a man with blue bandanna and a Jersey accent, John. He was harassing Russ and when it was time to get started, he began recruiting for dish duty. Russ had wanted me to be on the line filling up trays, but the larger volunteer group had that area covered, so I raised my hand.
"I'll be on dishes with you guys."
John didn't look too thrilled to have me on the team and when I volunteered for pots and pans, I thought he was going to have a coronary.
"I don't let ladies in my dish pit, I just want you to know. It can get real crazy back here."
He was tough on the outside, loud as a motherfucker and pretty good at intimidating people. It would have worked on me, except my dad could be his evil twin. I grew up with that shit, so I let him know what was up.
"I've been doing dishes since I could walk and you don't scare me."
The other two guys in the dish pit laughed.

The first group let in to eat are the families and the disabled. As I watched a young woman strap her baby in a highchair and get her three other children trays of food, I imagined her standing outside in the sweltering heat waiting for a chance to feed her kids. I can't imagine what that is like. There were older men in wheelchairs and young men with mental illnesses, there were women with all their belongings in a backpack and teens who looked too young to be away from home. To say it was humbling would be an understatement. Then there were the amazing people who work at this soup kitchen and start their day at 6 am, while I am still sleeping. They begin prepping for the meals that they will serve before most of us are getting up for work and the majority of them are volunteers. They show up every single day to serve this community.

Back on dish duty, I was scrubbing the shit out of the pots and pans, throwing them in the sanitizer and cleaning my area as I went along.
"She's pretty good, huh?" Russ nudged John. "You ever have someone detail your sink in the middle of a rush?"
John came over to check out my work and to remind me, once again, that he doesn't let ladies in his dish pit.
"Only my wife's been back here, but you come back whenever you like."
He thanked me numerous times and patted me on the back. We posed for a cheesy photo, covered in soapy water and dinner leftovers, all of us grinning from ear to ear. As we were leaving, John reached over and gave me the biggest bear hug I have ever lived through.
"I best be seeing you back here in my dish pit, you got it?"

Oh, you can bet your sweet ass I'm coming back, someone's gotta scrub those pans.

Day 6: A Bag and A Card

We went grocery shopping yesterday and as we were grabbing veggies, I spotted a lady in a wheelchair heading straight for us. I was pushing one of those fucking carts that moonlights as a race car with my 50 pound kid twisting and turning the fake steering wheel. These things are harder to maneuver than a semi truck on a sheet of ice. I stayed put, as to not injure her any further, while she reached for a bunch of broccoli from behind me, barely able to pull it off the shelf.

(A little side note before we go any further, I don't offer help to strangers. I am afraid that they will be angry and yell at me, or that they are ax murderers who want to kill me, or that I will have to make small talk about weather and cute kids during the transaction. It makes me uncomfortable.) 

Against my better judgement, I asked her if I could grab a bag for her broccoli, since the store designers seem to think that only people who stand at 5'9 or above deserve the luxury of a plastic bag.
"That would be great, thank you."

As I was walking away with my bag of broccoli, she began talking to me again. Initially, I was concerned as per my side note above.
"They have a deal right now where if you get one of these white bags, you can fill it with all the produce it can hold for just $10."
I feigned interest initially because I thought she blowing smoke up my ass and then I noticed a sign giving me the exact information she had just offered.
"Thank you so much." I smiled as I grabbed my white bag and began a competition in my own mind for who could fit more shit inside of it.
(Another side note, I fit fifteen pounds of produce in that bag at a total cost of ten dollars and the checkout lady seemed as impressed as I was. Winning. I'm the winner of that fake contest.)

I also wrote a card to someone in my life whom I love very much and haven't had much contact with recently. This will be a reoccurring theme during my giving challenge, because I want to train myself to send love and gratitude via snail mail on a more regular basis. There is nothing sweeter than finding a brightly colored envelope addressed to you, stuck between that bullshit magazine you never read and the water bill you want to hide in a vat of coleslaw. Handwritten cards are where it's at, bitches. Tell a friend.

In the book, The 29 Gifts, the author talks about how when you begin to give consciously, you will begin to receive. You can call it what you want...karma, good juju, or just chance, but it happens.

Here is a list of what I have received this week.

-Cookies and a card from my neighbor who I rarely talk to. (In the card, she refers to herself as "weird and anti-social". Just my kind of peeps.)
-Two meals paid for by my dad. (Who hides money under his mattress and claims to be broke all the time.)
-Eight dollars off my grocery bill.
-Five days of feeling grateful, happy and stress free. I haven't done laundry and my sink is full of dirty dishes, but I am so fulfilled.

It's fucking weird.


If you haven't checked it out already, here is a link to my article on mariashriver.com.
http://mariashriver.com/blog/2013/07/what-i-learned-from-the-end-of-my-parents-29-year-marriage-mandy-brasher