Love Letters: Surrogates.

I've lived my life with a long succession of surrogates.  My sister-in-law came into my life when I was three years old and has always been my surrogate sister and a damn fine friend.  I claimed an older couple at church as my "grandparents" since I grew up 500 miles away from my extended family.  I several brothers from other mothers and sisters from other misters. I even have a surrogate dog who comes to visit a couple times a week.

My desire for and inclusion of surrogates in my life probably stems from the aforementioned 500 miles separating me from grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, not to mention being the youngest of two by 13 years.  But never mind the reasons, I have a really awesome hand-picked family of some of the finest people I know.

Well, I have a new surrogate.  Steve's mom, Jeanette, and I have decided to be each others' surrogate mother-in-law/daughter-in-law.  Jeanette was best friends with Sue, my mother-in-law.  The fatal wreck that took Sue happened while she and Jeanette were out farting around one afternoon.  I'd met Jeanette before that day, but keeping in touch with her seemed like the thing to do at the time.  She was dealing with survivor's guilt plus injuries from the accident.  I guess I just wanted her to know that B and I did not hold her responsible (the other driver took responsibility at the scene) or hold any resentment towards her.  She's been sort of...on the periphery of my life ever since. 

Back in October, her father, who was in his 80's, passed away.  She and Steve don't have any family in town, so from the moment Grandpa's health took a turn for the worse, I glued myself to Steve's side, like it or not.  When he passed, I told Steve to get in the car and take me to their house so we could get it ready to receive guests.  We cleaned and cleaned all day.  Steve's best mentally when he's busy.  By the time his folks came home with a bucket of KFC, we had that place fully in order and ready to deal with whatever the next few days threw at them.  And I stuck by Steve's side every day, right up through the funeral, until the pictures, flowers, and mementos were taken from the church and unloaded into the house.  Jeanette thanked me for taking care of Steve and keeping him level and mellow, and for all the help.  Without even thinking, I said "That's what family does."

In the days following the funeral, Jeanette asked Steve if she could trade in her current daughter in law (her other son's now-ex wife) for me.  That I was the kind of woman she wants as a daughter-in-law.  Steve told me about this, and it really made me think.

Here I am, 30 years old, with all my older-wiser female figures hours away.  And I miss my mother-in-law like mad.  We acted more like friends than in-laws.  We had cross words exactly once in the three years B and I were together before she passed away.  She was my homegirl, my co-conspirator, a culinary inspiration, and a Jill-of-all-trades with an amazing wealth of life experience.  There hasn't been a day to go by that I haven't thought about her or wished I could call and ask her advice on so many things.

And here's a woman who I love and respect who has many of the same things to offer who wants someone to have that kind of relationship with.  And me?  Well...I really wanted that, too.  So, the other night, I told her (very awkwardly, of course) via text message that I was adopting her as my mother-in-law.  She was delighted.

Since then, we've chatted via text nearly every day.  We've formed a tradition of a weekly lunch and stitch-n-bitch.  She taught my how to knit (and I'm doing it very, very badly, I'll have you know), and I'm teaching her the basics of crochet this week.  I really enjoy our time together.  She has so many stories and a wicked sense of humor.  I feel like something has really fallen into place for me.

Nobody can or will ever replace the one and only Sue, but I think Sue would be really pleased to see that her daughter-in-law and her best friend have found such an awesome friendship with each other.

Love Letters: My favorite teacher ever

 In the spirit of Tori's DonorsChoose contest (DonorsChoose for teachers--Go! Enter! Now!), I decided to dedicate my first official Love Letter to Ms. Deaton, the best history teacher ever.


Somewhere around the second grade, someone decided I was smart.  From that point on, it was "gifted" this, "accelerated" that, and "early" the other.  By the time my junior year of high school came around, needless to say, I was burnt out.  Worn out.  I felt like my brain was crammed full, and that there was no possible way I could fit anything else in there.  I was also fighting ADHD, undiagnosed at the time, so lecture classes were always my worst. 

My junior year, I opted to take Dual Enrollment US History instead of the more strenuous AP program.  History was never one of my academic strong suits, but what can you do but suck it up and muddle through?

It only took a week or two to realize that this class was going to be different.  Note-taking was usually my only saving grace in lecture classes, but I noticed a pattern developing.  I'd start the class diligently scribbling notes, and maybe 30 minutes in, I'd put my pencil down, kick back, and just...listen.  The way she talked about history was so incredibly engaging.  It was storytelling, not just recitation of names and dates.  She liked to slip in those "naughty" facts that the history books leave out, too.  By the end of the first month, her class was my favorite and I was maintaining an A average.  She engaged us.  For the first time ever, even with a history teacher for a father, I LOVED history.

Fast forward to just before the second semester of my senior year.  I sat in the vice principal's office with my current schedule and a course catalog.  I explained that while my four of my classes were year-long and ongoing, I had two periods to fill.  I'd squeezed out all the academic juice my high school had to offer.  I proposed a solution--night classes at the community college in exchange for leaving after my second class of the day, around 11am.  College algebra and--you guessed it--World Civ with none other than Ms. Bonita Deaton, the best history teacher.  The VP went for it, and the next thing I knew, I was a part-time college student.

The World Civ class was no different, better even.  Engaging, thought-provoking, history-as-storytelling.  Even better, Ms. Deaton became my friend, since college doesn't have such a strict culture of division between students and faculty.  I was sad to see it end, sad that in the fall, I'd be leaving for South Carolina for college and that I wouldn't get to plunder the course catalog for every single class Ms. Deaton taught. 

I haven't seen her since, but I feel that without her, I never would have developed an understanding of our past as both a country and a planet.  I'd have no frame of reference for politics or world events.  I'd be just another sheep bleating "Four legs good!  Two legs bad!"  She found a way to reach me that no previous teacher had, and for that, I am eternally grateful to her.

You can tell a lot about a person by the contents of their music folder.

Screw iTunes, you hear me? Screw it. I have Rhapsody, both on my computer and my Droid, and I'm a fan. Well, until I wind up out in East Jesus and the signal cuts out and I have to switch over to music stored on the SD card on my phone...but enough about my first world problems.

I discovered tonight that, much like iTunes, Rhapsody lists your most frequently played artists if you can find the Magical Hiding List Widget. So, time to give the top 5 due props.

1. The Talking Heads--Whooo, big shocker there! CAN YA BELIEVE IT? I love The Talking Heads, I love David Byrne, True Stories is my favorite movie, and I have nothing more to say on the matter.

Favorite song?



2. Robyn--Ok, I actually am surprised by this. I'm guessing that maybe this list is more like...recent listens? Because my beloved Greg Smith just turned me on to Robyn this past weekend. Anyway, she's totally rad, and I've been all "OMG CHECK THIS CHICK OUT" to anyone who comes within 5 feet of me.

Favorite song?



3. Girl Talk--This one's no secret. This is what I put on pretty much any time I have a lot of driving around town to do. When you live in Small Town, USA and don't have to drive more than 10 minutes to get from place to place, it can get annoying stopping mid-song. So why not pick the glorious ADHD Audio Theater that is Girl Talk?

Favorite...track?



4. Primus--The husband and I both have a deep and abiding love for Primus and Les Claypool. They're one of those rare bands that I discovered in junior high and still love. What more can I say, shit's solid.

Favorite Song:



5. Regina Spektor--Welp, I have a vagina. That pretty much explains it. I kid, I kid! Regina is incredibly talented and creates haunting beauty and poignant truth with her words and voice. Should you see a pink haired fat lady singing along with the radio in a small blue car, that would be me and Regina, just jammin'.

Favorite song:




Hmm. That was fun. I think this might become a regular thing. Tuesday Tunes? What say ye? Feel free to suggest a better name. I'm not feeling terribly original right now.

On so-called "biological imperatives"

Tomorrow, I will be 30, and not once have I felt or heard the ticking of the "biological clock". Sure, there was a time when I thought I would have children. When I was a little girl who played with dolls, I thought babies were pretty rad, and that I'd definitely like to have some. After I grew out of the dolls stage, I really didn't think much about having children, just that it was something that I'd do because that's what people do, right?

High school was when I was introduced to the full reality of babies. My brother and sister-in-law had my nephew when I was a junior. Of course, I immediately loved him, redness, wrinkles, flakiness, and all. Around that time, a few acquaintances and friends became pregnant, and after the initial shock, they all seemed to be pretty psyched to be having a kid. My mind recoiled in horror that this is something that people my age, with the whole world in front of them, considered to be a good thing. Sure, it's either make the best of it or get the big A, so I suppose they were putting on the brave face, which is commendable. At that age, I can't say that I would have chosen to keep the pregnancy.

But back to my nephew. I'd occasionally watch him for a few hours so the grown-ups could do their thing, and boy, did that drive home reality fast. Around that time, I also babysat an infant and his five year old brother (who routinely kicked my ass at Mario Brothers), and as much as I enjoyed the time when the infant was calm and curled up in my arms sleeping or just hanging out and drooling on himself, it always scared me silly when he'd start crying or screaming. OMFG. The diaper is dry. I just fed him. I am holding him. CLEARLY THIS CHILD IS IN MORTAL PERIL. I had that experience with both my nephew and my infant charge, and boy, that feeling of panic does not suit my disposition in the least.

Still, I felt that once I was the ripe old age of, 25, I would be this totally different person, ready for the 9-to-5, a nice, clean-cut husband, a house in the suburbs, and a couple kids. Suffice to say, my life didn't turn out like that. At 25, I'd been dating my now-husband for over a year. We were in dire straits financially, just barely making enough for both of us to survive. Money was incredibly tight for us for the first few years we were together, so tight that when his roommate went nuts (literally) and told him he had two weeks to get out, the best option was for him to move in with me. We'd been together for two weeks at the time, and my family wasn't terribly pleased with this, but thankfully they understood that, as someone new in town, I had very few options. My roommates had just moved out on me, too. I couldn't afford my house alone. Brandell didn't have deposit money. So we made an agreement that regardless of what happened with our relationship, we'd always put our friendship first, and if we had to part ways, we'd continue to help each other until he could find another place. Thankfully, that wasn't necessary.

About two years into the relationship, we started talking about eventually (OH GOD, NOT NOW, OF COURSE, BUT EVENTUALLY) having kids. Two seemed like a good number. Eventually, we'd want to do this. Eventually, it would seem like the greatest idea ever, and we'd go for it. We'd grow up. We'd settle down. One day, the urge to have babies would start to percolate in both of us, just like it does for every human...right? A year later, we'd decided on ONE. ONE KID. THAT IS ALL. And for the love of butter, NOT NOW.

About a year later, something just...clicked. We were talking about kids, all the money and hassle involved, the patience both of us lack, the sacrifices we'd have to make, the frequent migraines we both have, the fact that both of us get very, very annoyed in the presence of anything loud, and the fact that neither of us felt any particular drive to be a parent. Neither of us craved that opportunity to nurture and teach a small human. We have friends with kids, and while we're totally fine with playing aunt and uncle for a few hours at a time, by the end of it, we're both thinking "DEAR GOD, GET THIS THING AWAY FROM ME!" I can't remember who said it first, but it was probably me. "We just...shouldn't."

That settled it, save one moment of reconsideration at the urging of a friend. She wasn't trying to pressure me, she just wanted to make sure I'd fully weighed my options, and the experiment she suggested, "Spot the Good Kid", absolutely changed my attitude towards other people's children (yes, curmudgeonly 20-something, there ARE good parents in the world), but further cemented my resolve not to have my own, there's been no looking back. We agreed that if, later in life, we felt we'd missed out on something important, we'd get involved as foster parents, or perhaps consider adoption.

Last summer, I was working at a call center when I, for lack of a more fitting term, completely lost my shit. I was constantly anxious, and the depression that I'd gotten a pretty good handle on over the past few years came roaring back with a vengeance. I immediately got involved with my county's Behavioral Health program. Soon, I realized that if I was to have any hope of being a functional person, I was going to need to be on an antidepressant for the rest of my life. Quitting for a year and a half or so (pregnancy plus breast feeding time) would likely result in a nasty downward spiral, culminating in horrible postpartum depression.

My fibromyalgia diagnosis absolutely cements it. I can't imagine the pain I'd endure carrying a child to term with absolutely nothing to mitigate the pain I already have just lugging my carcass about. Once the child was born, even if I opted out of breast-feeding to resume my medications, what would I do on the bad days? Sometimes, a gallon of milk feels like the weight of the world. Lack of sleep makes my symptoms worse, so until the baby started sleeping through the night, I imagine I'd be pretty miserable on a daily basis. And the migraines. Oh god, the migraines. Mine last anywhere from hours to weeks. How the hell could I possibly care for a helpless infant in that state?

I know that my husband would do his best to help, but he's got his own set of issues, physical and mental, and it wouldn't be fair to him to have to constantly pick up my slack.

But you know what? I'm 100% fine with all of this. I simply do not want to have a child. I will be a proud aunt. I will be a good godmother. When I have the spoons, I will give my friends some free babysitting so they can enjoy the luxuries that I have every day, like an uninterrupted shower, a chance to sprawl out with a book, or go to the mall or grocery store, or hell, spend time with other adults.

Brandell and I agree--we love our life as it is. We have my family, for better or for worse. We have an amazing chosen family of friends. We have our cats, who we love and spoil--who ARE our furry, mostly self-sufficient, quiet, cuddly kids. And most importantly, we have our freedom. Not only can we do what we want, when we want, we can do absolutely nothing at all, and I swear to you, that is my most cherished freedom.

So no, I'm not some evil child-hater. I believe that people who truly want and have the ability to care for children are the ones who should have them. We are not those people.

Yelling into the void.

It's been an interesting week or so, adjusting to the news that was dropped on me on March 8th.  It's cool, though.  I'm cool.  Oddly enough, I'm somehow comforted by just knowing what's wrong with me. 

I'm a bit off my ass on meds right now, but I wanted to go ahead and get this up and running.  I've been promising myself forever that I was going to start my own blog.  I suppose I've just been waiting until I had something substantial to write about on a regular basis.  As fabulous as my rants and diatribes are, I'm not the angry person I used to be, and would have zero luck trying to keep an active blog based on sheer piss and vinegar.

So, about me.  I have nine days left of my 20's, and one of my best friends flew in from Denver to help me celebrate.  I have two epic weekends lined up, and I feel incredibly lucky that I'm currently receiving the medical care I need to be able to keep up!  I've been married for about a year, but my husband and I have been together for seven years and have gone through what seems like more than our fair share of things getting really real.  We are owned by two parakeets, two cockatiels, and two very round cats.  We don't have kids, and we have no intention whatsoever of having kids.  We strongly suspect our house was built by Dr. Frankenstein, and we share it with two resident spirits.  I have a pretty...eclectic personal style, and haven't been able to keep my hair a color found in nature for more than a month or two in the last decade.  I adore piercings and tattoos, and I'm mad as hell that pretty much any oral piercing will likely offset the delicate balance that currently keeps my teeth in my head.  I think I'd look amazing with a labret.

I recently realized that I have exactly zero recurring commitments.  No job (due to Crazy), no church (due to an aversion to religion), no clubs (due to being a total misanthrope), no volunteering (I used to volunteer at the animal shelter, and getting back into that is a goal of mine for once I'm feeling better)...just...nothing right now.  I've been declining for probably five years, with the last three being a pretty quick downhill slide.  More and more things kept disappearing from my life due to frequent migraines, constant back aches, and killer fatigue.  I don't like that.  I want to do things.  I want to go to school.  I know for sure that I want to go to tech school for something like graphic design, veterinary technician, cosmetology--the list goes on and only gets more random.  I've been terrified of choosing a program, getting enrolled, and finding out my body and/or brain simply will not allow me to go to school or function once I get there, or be able to perform in the real world once I'm done.  But I'm going to make this happen.  I've had a sealed copy of my high school transcripts in my desk drawer for a few months now.  It.Will. Happen.

I try to keep myself out of trouble, though.  Clearly, I am an internet addict.  I also love cooking (when my back will let me), crocheting, jewelry-making, and sewing.  I have a shopping habit that's more useful for getting me into trouble than keeping me out of it.  And my roommate and I spend the summer trying to cram in as many trips to Madison Blue Springs as possible.  It's a spiritual thing.

I'm vain enough to carry on about myself for a few more pages, but I'm going to quit while I'm ahead and go sleep somewhere that won't involve waking up to a keyboard face-waffle in the morning.

<3