Dear Granny

Dear Granny,
I miss you. I miss you like it was yesterday. I don't like remembering the day you passed, but you were always practical, so I'm sure you would tell me to go ahead and talk about it.
It's strange, I don't talk about you that much. I don't know why, because, I think about you every day. You and Grandpa were such a huge part of my life. I don't think I would've had the life I have now if it hadn't been for you. So, here's the part where I get sentimental.
Granny, I miss your smell. You always smelled like those little Avon lipstick samples and something akin to potpourri, but not quite. I remember sitting at your vanity at the foot of your bed with the immaculate chenille bedspread, and thinking that I would be just like you when I grew up. I remember playing pretend in the pantry. All the canned okra, peaches, tomatoes, apricots, berries and everything else. I remember walnut season. Grandpa was a something, wasn't he? Picking the walnuts, shucking the walnuts. Going back to school and being so embarrassed about my nails being stained black. It was dirty work in my mind, at the time.
So many memories in that little house on the corner of Olive and Newcomb St in Porterville
The day you passed, a little part of me did, as well. The day Grandpa passed was also hard. However, we're doing well. Sam has a son, his name is Benjamin Ira Kirby. You'd adore Sams girlfriend. Actually, that doesn't sound good enough. Kalindi is my sister in law, and the proud mother of your great great grandchild. She's amazing, Bens amazing, Sams amazing, the whole Kirby Rogers clan is amazing! . I recently got married to the love of my life, his name is Peter. I was married once before, and in a few other relationships. But you once told me when I was ten, that sometimes, you have more than one great love, but you only have one true love. Well Granny, I found my true love.  We'll be trying for a baby after the new year, and if it's a girl, she'll have your name as a middle name. I digress. Sam has a bachelors degree, he graduated from Humboldt State with honors, and he is an amazing artist. I went to Cosmetology school, and I'm now licensed and working in the industry. There is so much else, but I will save it for another letter. I hope you're proud of us. Give Grandpa a hug from us
Love always,
Sarah Kirby Lopez

How Could You?

Dammit, Javier! I hate you right now. It keeps hitting me right upside the head that you're gone. Just out of nowhere . And then I start bawling. How could you be so stupid? Do you have any idea how much pain your stupid fucking choices have caused? Dude, I don't think you're Mama's ever going to get over it. She's not doing too good, bro. It's aging her a little every day. She's just so damn sad. I can't really compare my pain to hers, but it still hurts pretty bad. I'm so mad at you. Do you have any idea how ugly I am when I cry?
I just miss you. We all do. No amount of wishing, crying, or being angry is going to bring you back, though. So, I guess I'll just deal with it. I love you, you asshole.

Why

Why? Why I am always doubting myself?
I am constantly thinking that I am too fat, that I have too many pimples, that I suck at my job, that I'm ugly. What the fuck? None of that is true. Why do I think that? I spent most of my morning crying, because I felt this way. And it's absolutely untrue. I'm one of the prettiest broads I know. I rock at my job (I'm a hairstylist), and I am just amazing all around. So why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we hate ourselves? Why don't we just love that little bit of jiggle in our wiggle? Why can't we look in the mirror and say, "Damn, that chick is fine"
I am absolutely fucking over it. I'm going to stop asking myself why. Because the answer to that question is,  "Why not?"
No matter what, you're good enough. Regardless of any doubts you may have about yourself, you are a bad bitch . I love you, and you should too. Now, let's go run the world.

Fuck Your Life

Scare of fucking my life. I woke up to someone breaking into my house, and someone standing in my bedroom. I don't understand why, but I somehow turned on my lamp or maybe he did, I don't know, I recognized him. All sucked up, shot out, hollow, like  shell of his former self. Fuck. You're a junkie piece of shit. I always called you Brother, you called me Sis, because we got each other. But you fucked up.
You grabbed my arms,pinned me, and for second, I thought you might do the unimaginable to me, They tell you to stay calm and use a soft voice when facing an attacker. For once in my life, I whispered. I looked into your dead zombie fucking eyes and, said, "Brother, please don't do this"  I said it more than once, maybe three times.I have never been more scared in my life. You reached down, I thought you were going to touch me, It was making my skin crawl. I almost threw up but I  held down the bile, I didn't want to make you more upset. I was terrified at the thought of actually being raped. This would fucking hurt. I kept saying "Brother please, please. We've been through things together. Remember yard duty at St Johns all the fucking leaves we had to rake?"  I finally saw a reflection, maybe a tear. He jumped off and ran. If I owned a gun, I never would have been able to catch a head shot. Who cares? I would have preferred to shoot him in the back. Live like a coward, die like a coward. I don't give a fuck how high you were, I've been there, done that. And I never did anything like the shit you pulled. We were at St John of God together, you met my mother for chrissake. You were my brother from my another mother. Now you break into my home, and nearly violate me? Oh fuck no, you got it twisted
Last time I saw you, was almost two years ago. Gaby and you were clean were clean, she was pregnant.  You called, you and your cousin needed haircuts. I cut hair, played pool, it was fun, that was the **** I will always remember and on the way home, I kept saying how proud I was of both of you. We took pics that night, like a family reunited. I 'm sure they're on my Facebook somewhere. You and your cousin took me home, you shook my husbands hand. Yeah, my husband. We got married recently, and try to lead a normal life. We work hard for everything we have, which is admittedly not much. But ITS OFF LIMITS. OURS NOT YOURS . I'm pissed. How fucking dare you, you lowlife piece of shit? Everyone has given you a million chances. Your family, your sons mother,your other sons mother, everyone expects better. Oh wait, no they don't, they've given up. After rehab, you always would call me to see if I was doing good, because you were sucking at life. I was always there for you no matter what.
But now? You're a fucking bottom feeder. You fucking drain people. You suckle until the tit is dry. Way to go "dad", for going to one whole soccer game.  And child support payments? Who needs them? I can't wait to buy you a fathers day card! Because, you're just the best ever. Gee, why don't you get them a nice card for all the birthdays, soccer matches, mothers days, anniversaries, even Christmases, that you forgot because you're a selfish, self absorbed asshole that was either  fucking loaded or in prison. The fathers day card will be nice and sparkly, and then we'll sign it, "Thanks for being a dick" .
You might wanna keep your head down. You got a surprise coming. Maybe tomorrow, the day after, maybe next week. Who knows? Doesn't the element of surprise just get you excited? Here's a little tasty tid bit for you.... Just found this about an hour ago...... Drum roll please.  You're a fucking pedophile. Lewd and lascivious acts with a minor under 14, 17 counts. That was in Florida. Did you think no one would find out? It's public record you fucking idiot. Only a few bucks to get the info online. What about the THREE. FUCKING. RAPE. AND. SODOMY CHARGES. IN IDAHO. Go team! It would likely be in your best interest to turn yourself in. The authorities might keep you safe. Or maybe, not. Hopefully they get to you before the homies do. Either way, you're quite literally fucked. Do you know how much  inmates hate pedophiles? Do you know what happens to them? I'm sure you do, you've served a couple of terms.
I wanted you to learn . But you don't have it in you. Fuck your life.  I'm not interested in buying your bullshit anymore. I used to love you, but now I would rather watch a speeding train shred you on the track. The way you're going, your life will end in some disgusting gas station bathroom with a fucking needle in your arm, or your neck , slumped over, covered in your own vomit, sitting in some one elses urine. Good luck with that.

Wax

Dear Javi,
I miss you. I'm trying not to get too emotional, because I know you hate when I act like a girl. So, I'll man up and stop crying. However..... I want you to call me again and get on my nerves because you want me to walk to AMPM with you. I want to hear you call me your only "seester"  again, I want you to ask me why I wear so much makeup and tell me that I have a big head one more time. But that's not going to happen. You're gone, permanently, you're never coming back.
  You would have hated the funeral. You were on display like an object, not like a person. Two weeks had passed. I feel like they should have laid you to rest long before, but, I don't call the shots. I sat next to your mama, she is so strong, she barely shed a tear while she was sitting there looking at her first born child in a casket. And then I had to get up, because it was my turn to speak. I got up there and spoke with you right behind me in that fucking wooden box wearing the clothes that I had picked out for you. I said some nice things about you, because you're my brother from another mother, I don't remember exactly what I said, it's kind of a blur.
You should be proud of me,I didn't fall apart. Well, maybe a little.  Because, I don't know exactly why people do this, but everyone walks past the casket, paying there last respects. Everyone was touching you, and I thought to myself, "Oh hell no! I'm not even going to look, let alone touch him" But when I walked past, I couldn't help myself. I leaned down and kissed your cheek. Your skin felt like wax. Like really cold, hard wax.  I will never forget the way it felt. Just like I will never forget you.
You made some bad choices,and one final stupid mistake, but you certainly did not deserve to die the way you did.
Just so you know, I'm still mad at you. I know I'm being selfish, but what the fuck am I supposed to do without you?  Little things remind me of you, like a song or a smell. My grief ebbs and flows, just like the ocean. Sometimes it seems like I'm drowning, and sometimes I'm just getting my ankles wet. There is a place in my heart where you will always live. And that place will never go away. I will visit you there from time to time. There is one thing I know for sure, I will see you again someday, my friend.
Love always,
Sarah
P. S. You still owe me $10

Transformation Tuesday

So it's Transformation Tuesday. I have definitely transformed. I went from being broke, depressed, and emotionally vacant (not to mention gross looking) in 2011  to loving my life and being fine as hell in 2014. Am I conceited for saying that? Fuck no. And if that's your opinion, crawl back into your hole and choke on your negativity. There is a huge difference between confidence and conceit. Confidence is looking in the mirror and saying "I ain't mad at that at all, let's go have a rad day". Conceit is looking in the mirror and saying "I don't like what I see, but I'll pretend I do, and then make everyone else feel bad about themselves."
If you relate more to my latter statement. Good luck and enjoy the ass whooping you're about to receive. Bitch, I don't play.
I am absolutely sick and tired of listening to some of the most beautiful women I've ever seen hating themselves. I'm tired of hearing about how you think you look fat/old/ugly etc.
You don't like the way you look? Transform yourself. I don't mean you should change the way you look. Transform the way you think. Love you. All of you. We're not perfect and never will be. Perfect is really hard to live up to, and I'm not even interested. Just do you. I'm definitely going to keep doing me.
If you're still not convinced, come have a chat with me. I promise, you don't look fat in those jeans, that pimple isn't obvious, and no, you don't jiggle when you wiggle. At least not as much as you think. It's Transformation Tuesday, but what are you doing for the rest of the week? I'll just be over here, kicking ass and taking names.
Now, who's looking forward to Way Back Wednesday?

Sunshine

Sometimes, we fuck up. We ignore what the universe is providing us. We would rather deny the sun, and live in darkness. Mark my words, it's a mistake. I recently made such an error.
My blog is all about honesty.The truth hurts, but so does life. So let's put it all out there. I'm not big on lies these days. 
I really thought that I was ready to end it. I was so depressed, so stressed. I thought "Fuck it. I'm done"
I went and bought the cheapest fifth of vodka I could find. I also spent $20 on 10 Norcos. I was really going to do it. Then, for some reason, I fell asleep. When I woke up, the vodka was still sitting there, so were the pills. Which by the way, I had crushed for easy digestion. I was so fucking disgusted with myself. Like "Really? Why would you think this wasn't a life worth living? So what, the gas and the Internet has been turned off, you can turn it around, kid."
I immediately took the bottle and smashed it, done. The pills I begrudgingly threw away as well. You wanna know the most interesting part? This didn't actually happen.
It could have. I was really feeling bad. But I'm back. I won't ever ignore the sun again. Because I have too much to live for. I have people in my life who love me. I have a nephew who hasn't met his aunt yet. I have friends, some whom I've never even met, who are pulling for me. Most importantly, I have the spirit of a Kirby. I can't turn my back on that. The strong will survive. And I am nothing if not a survivor. Mom and Dad (and everyone else) I hope you're not too mad at me for this. I hope you understand my point. You've loved my crazy ass for 32 years, let's keep it up.

A Letter to Maya

Dear Ms Angelou,
I hate to bother you while you're up there singin` and swingin'. So I'll keep it brief.
There is a part of me that does not grieve for you. Only because you have lived a life so full, so rich, painful, but triumphant. Your 86 years with us must have been exhausting, and your poor body just needed the rest. It was your time. I can accept that.
There is another part of me that weeps every time you sneak into my head today.  I feel as if I lost a member of my own family. I know that our backgrounds and lives were completely different. I would never compare my caged bird to that of a slave. However, I must say, you did teach me how to make that  canary carry a tune.
Regardless of race, upbringing, religion, you, Ms. Angelou, are a prime example of the fact that we are all the same in a way. We love, we get angry, we laugh, we yell and scream, we make mistakes. We hurt, we cry, and sometimes we get our innocence stolen. I won't elaborate on that, because I'm sure you already know.
I remember the first time I read I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. I was 14, and it was assigned reading (I wasn't expecting much, I was an angst ridden teenager) But I saw something of myself in those pages. I didn't want to give the book back, so I hid it under my mattress. I read it probably 50 times in two weeks.
I guess what I really want to say is thank you. Thank you for being bold, and putting every piece of yourself out there for the world to see. If you hadn't, I seriously doubt that I could have done the same in the past few months. You inspired me to be bold. Secrets will choke you if you don't cough them up, you helped me get that infection out.
You will never truly die, Ms. Angelou. There will always be a little piece of you in my soul, and I'm sure you will exist in the souls of many others.
Long story short, I want to be just like you when I grow up. 
Now, get back out there on the dance floor. I'll see you at the crossroads.
All my love,
Sarah Kirby

Truth

After a long meditation, careful thought, and some input from the voice in the back of my head who's two favorite words are “Fuck it", I've decided to be honest. I've already told my mama, which usually means my daddy knows, and I've told my Gma. So all of the important parties have been informed before this shit hits the Internet.
I stayed cancer free for an entire year. I had a slight scare a couple months back when my estrogen levels were sky high, but I was cool. Then, after another set of blood and tissue samples showed that my white blood cell count was unusually high, further probing was required. Turned out, cancer no longer felt that my cervix was a warm and welcoming environment. So, it decided to hit the bricks and move into my pelvic lymph nodes. I panicked when I heard that. I won't lie, I broke the fuck down, locked myself into a bathroom at the oncolgy center, and did a little damage to my right hand when I punched the wall in frustration.
The only thing I could think was, "It's spreading, which means I'm going to die"
That shit fucked me up. It took me back to times where I had prayed for death, even attempted to hurry it along more than once. How ungrateful can one person be? In some way, I felt that this was my penance. For squandering the gift that had been bestowed upon me. I walked out that day, shaking, sobbing, and resigned to an early death.
Since then, I have had my pelvic lymph nodes removed. A very simple procedure. My post op samples look good, and I'm okay. For now. Do I know for sure that it won't ever come back? No more than I know whether or not I'll get hit by a bus tomorrow.
Here's some facts on truth. You may think that you're sparing someone by hiding it from them, and maybe you are. However, if no one knows the truth, no one will come to your rescue. They'll all think everything is fine, that there's nothing to worry about. I'm trying really hard to get off of that lone wolf status and rejoin the pack. It's not the easiest thing in the world, I still don't really like answering the phone, or telling the truth about what's really going on. I'd still rather text you that I'm doing fine, and then go cry by myself. Twisted? Yeah, slightly. But it's me, like it or not.
So, now that I'm done confessing  what's your truth? You don't have to tell me, just tell someone, anyone.
Much love to anyone who reads this. Some days, you're the only backbone I have. Peace and blessings.

Learn To Walk

If you put all of your fucked up business out on Facebook for everyone to see, expect a response. This shit is killing me. When you post a bunch of shit about your man abusing you and fucking with other broads, people who love you are definitely going to respond with some anger, that's what they're for. Your family has your back and would do anything to help you out and make you feel safe. So the next day when you start posting pictures of you and homeboy taken after you bailed his ass out jail for yet another domestic charge (when you still have visible bruises) don't be surprised when everyone is hating on him. I know first hand it's not easy to just walk away from that kind of situation, I'm also guilty of staying way too long. But at some point, you have to say enough is enough. I guess the 12 years you've thrown away with him, all the trips to the emergency room, the broken bones, the bruises, the times you couldn't even get out of bed to get the kids to school because he hurt you so bad, debt accrued with the bail bondsman, the shame and humiliation , haven't seemed like valid reasons to get the fuck out. Everyone has been backing you up for years. You're family begs you to grab the kids and come home. And what do you do? You change your number, go incommunicado on everyone. Thing is, you're burning your bridges. You can't help someone who won't help themselves. If you continue to live this life, I'm not in it with you. I'm sure that seems harsh, but it's tough love, and I'm not the only one on that team. It's bad enough to see these ridiculous pictures you post and have you go off on me and everyone else about how it's none of our business. That's not even the worst part. The thing that's eating me alive is this sick feeling I get when I think about the future. Sadly, I'm pretty sure the next time I see you in person, you'll either be in a body bag or a fucking casket. If you were ever to call me or show up on my doorstep with your kids and your bags packed, I got you. Come on in we'll figure it out. But instead you just talk out of your neck, you don't need me or anyone else. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for your babies. Because right now, you're son is watching, learning how to treat women. Your daughter is watching, too. You're teaching her that it's acceptable to be treated this way as long as he apologizes and buys you something after you're done cleaning your own blood off the kitchen floor. I hope you read this. I hope it pisses you off to the point where you grow a little bit of backbone. Open your fucking eyes, and then call me when you can see clearly again.

Chafing

I don't know if any of you have been blessed with having your mother and your grandmother alive at the same time, and sharing in your life. If you have, and they're as close to you as my mother and my grandmother are to me, it's great, but God bless you and may the force be with you. It's fantastic, but at the same time, does it not want to make you scream and say "Fuck my life! I need some Gold Bond!“
I can see that you're unclear. Let me swoop you under my wing. Sometimes, a conversation will occur between yourself and either Ma or your Gma (as I so lovingly call them), that you will have to pass on. It will go down like this :
Me: Blah blah blah (doesn't really matter what I say, fill in the blank)
Ma or Gma: Blah blah blah whatever I say will piss her off. (again, fill it in)
But then, magic occurs. Like, real Disney style, pink clouds and glitter, POW, The middle generation. I pass it on, laughter happens. I convey exactly what needed to be said, with no irritation involved. Why? Because sometimes, being the middle generation makes you the medicated powder that prevents chafing. The chafing? It's similar to the feeling that you get when your panties have been rubbing against that spot on your thigh and your no-no. It's raw, and you can't ignore it. There is a strange bond that exists between us. Three generations of women who are highly opinionated, independent, and well.... Slightly bitchy. We can discuss anything. Love, sex, vaginal discharge. Are you disgusted yet?  Good, my work here is done. Gold Bond Forever!
This is dedicated to my Mom and my Grandma, my two best friends. Xoxo, love you too much!

Pretty Bitches Don't Have To Be Polite

Yeah, I said it. I'm a pretty bitch, and I don't have to be polite. Men break their necks looking at me. They open doors for me, buy me things, and in return, I use them and throw them out like yesterdays garbage. I roll with other pretty bitches. We're friends, but not really. We're all horribly insecure, which makes us mean. We talk behind each others backs, steal each others men, look each other straight in the eye and lie our asses off. Because that's what pretty bitches do.
Hit the breaks, man. You know that's some bullshit, right? I'm about to redefine what a pretty bitch is. I'm gonna break it down, Websters Dictionary style
Pretty Bitch: (noun)
A rare creature who embraces her flaws, and views all of them as something that makes her unique instead of ugly. Tends to be independent, intelligent, and confident.
Here's the thing, ladies. Being a pretty bitch doesn't require thin thighs, perfect hair, or a flawless complexion. I weigh a good 220 lbs. I'm excited when I fit into a size 16 without Spanx. I torture my hair into submission, and right now? I have a zit that would make the Grand Canyon insecure. Please understand, none of that shit matters. You wanna be a pretty bitch?  The only requirement is showing up. I'm sure you look in the mirror and notice the eyebrows that need waxing, the roots that are out of control, an ass and thighs that didn't used to have quite so many dimples.... I could go on. Now, flip that shit around. I myself haven't had children yet. Most of you have. So ignore that superficial nonsense. Damn, girl, you didn't just plant some flowers, YOU GREW A HUMAN BEING. And then you pushed something the size of a watermelon out of an opening the size of a lemon. Congratulations, you're a fucking trooper. Even if you are among the childless, like myself, chances are you've pulled yourself through some rough times.  And if you haven't? Come sit next to me.
For me, being a pretty bitch isn't about isn't about looking down my nose at anyone. It's about looking up at those who came before me. There have been a few super confident women in my life who have inspired me to be the best version of myself that I can possibly be. I pray I never let them, or myself down. Head up, chest out. This is how pretty bitches roll.

I'm No Savior

I really want to come clean about why I'm so angry about domestic violence. This shit is dangerous. This has been burning a hole in my soul (not to mention my stomach)  I am neither a victim or a survivor, just a girl who fell in love with the wrong dream once upon a time. Part of me is terrified to write about this. My parents will most likely read this,  and I don't want to cause them pain. The other part of me tells me to get this dirt off my shoulder and take a deep breath of clean air. Because I owe it to other women of my ilk. This is the raw,  brutal truth,  and it's not for the faint of heart.
My ex husband was violent long before we were married. I still remember the first time he hit me. Some stupid argument ended with him backhanding me several times across my face. I ran to the bathroom, locked myself in. My eyes were already swollen almost completely shut. The bruises were already forming, as were the petechial hemorrhages in my eyes. I forgave him,  he begged and cried that night. He brought me ice packs and vicodin to help ease the pain that he had caused. I look back on that night, more than a decade ago, and I think to myself   "Why?". There is no answer,  no logical conclusion. Over the next few weeks  he laid off my face. This isn't to say he stopped hitting me, just not my face, Mostly because those black eyes and broken nose caused my boss to tell me to stay home and until they faded. So that put a huge dent in our income.  I was waitressing at a very busy restaurant located on a well traveled highway. I was making damn good money,  but when that money wasn't there,  I was a fucking punching bag.
I've had people who know me now tell me that they can't imagine me not fighting back or allowing it to happen. I didn't start out going down with out a fight. I fought back,  and hard. I've always been a scrapper. However, he was bigger and stronger, and always told me that as an ex Marine, he could kill me with his bare hands. I believed him. I  mean, he obviously had  skills when it came to subduing me. There were so many times when I would come to with him standing over me saying,  "Get the fuck up,  you're still breathing"  At that point in my life,  I really did want to stop breathing. I wanted him to kill me so I wouldn't have to do it myself. There comes a time when you're just fucking tired. You don't have the energy to fight anymore, death starts to sound delicious, just close your eyes and never open them again.
When you're in that spot,  there is no light. No sunshine, no yellow brick road.
The worst part is, just a few  months after he broke something besides my nose, it was just my wrist, I went ahead and married him. It was an excellent wedding, enjoyed by all. I remember just soaking it all up, enjoying the little bit of his good  moods. People always said that we were a beautiful couple. We were,  we looked great in pictures. But what was truly going on was blackout dark.
He waited almost 3 months after the wedding to hurt me again. This time, he choked me until I passed out and then dumped dirty kitty litter all over me. When I got up and tried to go take a shower, he held me down and told me to "marinate in it'.
The next few years consisted of episodes similar to this. I always say that we had different needs. I needed him to get a job and act like a husband, he needed to lay around, drink beer that my two jobs paid for  and beat the shit out of me for sport.
By the time I was 24, he had broken my nose twice,  fractured three of my ribs, broken my left wrist twice, knocked out one of my back molars, and caused a curvature in my upper spine that still won't go away. And the best was still to come.
Eventually,I  could no longer keep us afloat. Always having to move,  never able to pay rent, evictions and repossessions were the name of the game
So we had to move. This time to Missouri, where. he was from. I hated the idea. And I could have stayed in California, if only I could have swallowed my pride, and told mom and dad that I didn't want to go. Unfortunately, I didn't. I went along,  thinking that the train wreck that was our marriage would  magically improve, and I'd be a fucking Disney Princess.
Things looked pretty good for awhile. He was in a great mood, catching up with all of his old friends. I was working (of course) he was actually in some pulling some income doing masonry work. It didn't last long.
Time out.  You may not want to read the rest of this. Turn back now if you're not ready for the gritty, ugly truth. I won't blame you one bit.
July 17th 2006 was the first time he raped me. Some people don't understand how a husband can rape his wife. Married or not,  sex should never be painful, you should never have to beg for him to stop. I  just had to stop for a second, and take a deep breath and remind myself why I'm doing this. Sometimes honesty fucking sucks. So get honest, Sarah. He didn't just rape me, he also sodimized me. Right now, I can't believe I just put that out there, and I am so tempted to delete it. It's humiliating and embarrassing. But fuck, if I don't say it, who will? I know I'm not the only one. And I was raised with the belief that silence cures nothing, it just creates more ugliness. So there it is. It's out there.
For anyone who has ever been in an abusive situation, you know it escalates. He became increasingly more psychotic.  One night, he stabbed me. Right below the left side of my rib cage. He used a K bar, for those of you who don't know, it's an extremely sharp,  double sided blade, meant to be used in close combat. I think he scared himself that night.. The knife went in a good inch and a half, maybe a little more. When he pulled it out, I went to the bathroom, cleaned it,  and used super glue to suture it.
It was at this point, I knew  that I was going to die. I looked into the mirror and was faced with my own mortality. I couldn't figure it out. What the fuck was I doing? This was not how I was raised.
But I still couldn't stand up for myself. I don't know why.
A few days later, I was going to go out with some friends I had met at work. He was from this area, he had been going out with the boys. I wanted a girls night. He said he was OK with it. And seemingly he was. Until I started doing my hair, which was down to the middle of my back at the time. I was curling my hair and he walked in, demanding to know why I thought I needed to get all dolled up,  since I was just going out with the girls. I tried to keep it light, telling him he always shaved before he went out, so why can't I curl my hair. Wrong move.  Checkmate. He grabbed me by the back of my head and slammed my face into the toilet tank. I could barely breathe , I was choking on the blood pouring from my nose and mouth. The last thing I remember before I blacked out was him saying,  "looks like it's nice and hot for you".  I don't really remember what it felt like when he raped me with that curling iron, I was barely conscious. My sickness continued. The next day, I was in the ER due to the nasty side effects that come with that sort of violation , I was actually texting him to ask if he was OK. Because he was so upset with himself, don't you know.
The point of me telling you this is not to scare you, shock you, or make you hate men. I love men, they're slightly retarded at times, but there are a lot of good ones out there. If you're in a situation , and you need help, there are lots of us out there to help you. I don't have all the answers, but I have resources. There are people who will make the safety and well being of you and your children top priority. We're here for you. You don't have to be alone.

What Family Feels Like

Its sad, but there are far too many people in this world who know what its like to fall into the solid but comforting embrace of family. Fortunately, the universe has blessed me, and I know exactly where to turn when I need that sort of warmth.
Growing up, it always seemed like my family (my parents, myself, and my younger brother) were somewhat odd in comparison to other families I knew. For one thing, we were all together, under the same roof. Before anyone gets their panties in a bunch, I am absolutely not criticizing families that are split due to divorce or anything else. I'm just saying that it was somewhat of a rarity.
That wasn't the only difference. Its hard to explain, its more of an essence or an aura that set us apart, rather than a list of black and white reasons. We were always (and still are) a tight unit. Through thick and thin, arguments and resentments, hurt feelings and other nonsense, at the end of the day, we're all Kirbys, and we love each other fiercely.
I'm the oldest Kirby child. Mom and Dad got married when they were 17 and 19, respectively. A little over a year later, I was born. Surprise!  Yep, neither one of my parents are quite 20 years my senior. In a sense we grew up together. I remember a lot of things, there were struggles and strife, no doubt. Mostly though, I remember always feeling safe and secure. Mom and Dad never failed me there.
When I was about 6 1/2, my brother Sam was born. I was perfectly content being an only child, but my parents had the audacity to go ahead with having another child without consulting me. Yes, even at that tender age, I had a bad attitude and a slightly diva-like temperament. I eventually got used to the idea of a sibling, and I must say, when he finally debuted on the scene he was pretty cute and entertaining. For all of you with siblings, you know that shit don't last. We grew into typical siblings. I was the bitchy, bossy loudmouth who always got in trouble, ( still am) while Sam was the quiet conniver. I laugh when I think of all the times I got in trouble because I have no ”inside voice" , and Sam would win, because he knew how to torture me silently. This is not to say that he was the villain, I was definitely meaner than he was capable of.
One of the things that happen when siblings have a large age gap like ours, is that you stop growing up together at a certain point. I became an adult (albeit a poor excuse for one). I moved out at 21, married later that same year. Sam was still in high school. Over the next few years, I lost myself in an ugly relationship, and an even uglier battle with drugs and alcohol. That's a whole different story, so I won't expand on it right now. Sam went off to college, and I moved out of state.  I remember during that time, I missed my family, but mostly Sam. I felt like I was missing a lot of really important stuff. For one thing, the kid was growing up to be a hell of a lot like our father. Smart, hardworking, honest. Also quite a bit like our mother, compassionate and headstrong. Good shit.
I eventually moved back to California, and due to Sam being on the  North coast, and me in the high desert ( and the fact that I still hadn't pulled my alcoholic head out of my ass) we only saw each other on holidays. My relationship with my entire family was extremely strained during this time. (Did I mention my head up my ass?) Long story short, I eventually handled my business, went to rehab, and set about getting a life. When I got out of rehab, Sam had been with Kalindi for maybe a couple of years, I'm not precisely sure. I had met her when Sam graduated from HSU, but I've always felt that people I met before I got clean in late 2011 should be revisited. So my sober self hadn't spent a significant amount of time with her. Until her, myself, and my mother sat and played marathon rounds offers rummy around Christmas that year. Wanna get to know someone? Play cards with  them for 6 hours or so. I definitely liked her, she fit in well  and didn't seem to want to run screaming into the hills, because Kirbys can be slightly overwhelming.
Let's fast forward again. After cleaning up my messy life, I finally graduated beauty school, and celebrated by catching a train up to Humboldt to see my brother and my sister in law. (That's right, I said it. I'd call her my sister but that would be creepy. This ain't Arkansas) I was stoked. Sam and I hadn't really spent more than 48 hours or so together in years, and I was really looking forward to getting to know Kalindi even more. I spent an amazing week with them. Doing nothing more than just chilling, talking, eating. You know, FAMILY stuff. I got completely reacquainted with my little brother, yes basically the same kid. Just taller, hairier, and more responsible, but with the same intelligent and creative spark in his eyes. Maybe even more importantly, I came to adore Kalindi. She's perfect for Sam, an excellent balance. When you grow up the way I did, with young parents and a sibling this much younger, its almost like being a third parent. You get a little protective about people who come into the life of the one you hold dearly. I have no worries, however. The day I left Arcata after my visit was bittersweet. It was a little teary, but its always difficult to leave something that makes your heart sing. On the sweet side, it was excellent to see that kid, who is the spitting image of our father, all grown up, doing his thing and starting a family with an amazing woman.
Did I say starting a family? OK, well it hadn't happened yet at that point. Several months later, I received the best phone call ever. There is a baby on the way.  End of next month sometime. I'm going to be an aunt. I'm beyond excited about it. I always knew he'd beat me to the punch, and I'm OK with that. At a point in my life, I swore I'd never have children. I may be reconsidering that. But I digress. That kid that our amazing mother father raised? He's going to be an amazing father, just like Kalindi will be an outstanding mother. I'm feeling pretty damn blessed right now, because family is everything. And mine is getting bigger. For some, family has nothing to do with blood or birth certificates, but the people who are there for you with a smile and a hug, who stick it out with you, accept your faults and admit their own. Family is a feeling. You can't buy it, trade it or steal it. It comes from a place within you that no one else can ever touch. Its priceless, hang on to it at all costs, its worth the fight, so don't give up the ship.
Here's to the future.

A Follow Up

So, I haven't posted about Staceys memorial service. I haven't really felt like it, I felt like some things should be held close for a minute before we let them go. But here's how it went.
First, let me describe what I was wearing. A red dress, with one long sleeve and the other with no shoulder attached by a gold chain, and of course a pair of 6 inch heels. She had told me at one point to wear something trashy to her funeral. It wasn't totally trashy, but I feel like she would have approved. The service was held at a private home. it was a packed house. At least 60 to 80 people. There were chairs set up in a semi circle in a huge family room. Her two boys were there, looking like little men in their suits and ties. They were so polite to everyone who came by and said "I'm sorry for your loss". I said nothing to then. Just hugged them. Kaleb, her youngest said to me, "I like your dress. You smell really good." I kind of laughed and thanked him. I went to sit down in the third row, that's when Sergio came up to me and said "Come sit with the family". I've said it before, I have no idea what I did, but I'm honored to be considered part of the family. I sat down in the front row with the boys, Staceys mother, Sergio and his parents. There was a table with pictures of Stacey. Some alone, some with her family. One was right after the first time I had done her hair. She had so much hair. Immediately, my morbid brain jumps to that sick feeling I had the first time I washed her hair after chemo and it came out in gobs in my hands. Fuck that, this isn't about me. Stop having ridiculous thoughts. I'm looking at the people filling up all the seats. It's getting to be standing room only. I'm getting a little nervous. I'm really going to have to read this shit and say "dick sucking" in front of all these people. Kill me now. Please let a giant tornado come through and whisk me into oblivion. Yeah, that never happens when I need it to.
My incessant nervous foot tapping must have caught Sergios attention, because he leaned over and whispered "Check your phone". My phone was off, of course, and buried in the depths of hell that is my purse. I found it and read the text he had sent, "you'll be OK. Just read it. Btw you're up first"
What the fuck? First? Can I at least get an opening band? Guess now would be a good time to start breathing.  Here's my introduction.
"Friends and family, thank you for being here to celebrate the life of the love of my life, the mother of my children, and my best friend. I think you all know that Stacey was a special kind of crazy. There is someone here who I think can describe her better than anyone else. Sarah, no editing, please "
OK so this is not how I pictured my big moment. More like a thank you speech to the Academy. But here I go, devil in a red dress and a pair of hooker heels. Deep breath.
I read it. I did pretty good, no serious breakdown. I made sure I kept my head down, no eye contact. I got a few laughs, but who cares, this ain't Midnight at the Apollo. I just kept reading, knowing full well that if I looked up at her two now motherless sons, 13 and 9, her mother who couldn't understand why she was burying her  32 year old daughter, and a husband who was barely holding it down, I was gonna fucking lose it. I read through my first blog post, and I was OK. Until I got to the end, when I read this. "Stacey was not only my client, she was my friend, and a kindred spirit.  She he didn't lose the fight,  she finally took pity on the other team and threw the game. Girl , wherever you are right now, I hope you take pride in knowing you took care of your boys right up to the end. They will always have the memory of a mother was a fighter, a nurturer, and an all around badass. Someone who loved them with a fierceness that no one will ever match. The moment that Sergio  called me and said these three words to me,  "Sarah, it's over"  will always be in my heart as one of the saddest, but also one of the proudest of my entire life. Sad, because I'm going to miss your crazy ass, but proud because Sergio told me that I was only the second person he had called. I am beyond honored that you and your family considered me that important. I don't know what I did, but I am forever in your debt. You taught me some things. One of my favorite quotes of all time is "Tell them to fight faster. Don't give up the ship." Captain James Lawrence, his dying command aboard the USS Chesapeake, War of 1812. It fits you to a T, my friend. You just fought faster, knowing you were going down, but you'd be damned if everything else was going to fall apart in your absence. One of the last things you ever said to me was a text that read, "I read your blog. Who's dick do I have to suck to get a mention? “ I wrote about you that night.And still, no dick sucking required. I would tell you to rest in peace, but that ain't you, sugar. Give em hell, and fuck shit up. That's how girls like us roll. Stacey Renee Ridgemoore-Valenzuela you will forever be my main bitch. I love you."
So, I kinda fell apart when I was reading that, and before I was halfway through, her husband just came up and held my hand. Not in creepy way. Just like a hey, we're friends and we're gonna get through this kind of way. The rest of it is kind of a blur. Others spoke, there was so much to say about her. We could have been there all night, days even.
Sometimes,  on your journey, you meet someone special. You meet people who help to shape your life, and you usually don't realize it at the time. So embrace every moment, every friend, chance encounter; and every moment of your seemingly silly, insignificant life. It's cliché, but tomorrow really isn't promised. The pain of loss is nothing compared to the pain of an empty life.

Loose Ends

There was a time, a fairly recent time, when I believed that everything happens for a reason. Now, I believe that some things happen for a reason, and others are overlooked and slip between the cracks. That's why I want to tell you about my friend and inspiration, Stacey.
I met Stacey a couple of years ago,  when I was in beauty school. A lot of the "clients" you get in beauty school generally fall into the categories of elderly, poor,  or both. Because, really, who else wants a $4 haircut besides those who only have a couple bucks in their pocket, and can't really see the bald spot you gave them?
I'm still not sure what possessed  Stacey to walk in that day,  but I won't ever forget how she set her sights on me. My station at school was directly behind the reception desk, I was the first student you laid eyes on when you came in and decided to put your  hair in our hands. This was especially hard for me, because I had quite a bit of disdain for most of the clients who walked in there expecting five star steak and lobster treatment on a Kraft Mac and cheese budget. Did I mention that I have a bad attitude in general? If you know me, shut up, I know you know. If you don't, then buckle up buttercup. Anyhow, I was going about my disgruntled business when I heard the following exchange.
Stacey : Can I get someone who's about to graduate?
Receptionist :We can't do that, it's a school, everyone is learning. We have a list of available students and we assign clients accordingly.  If you have a specific student in mind,  you can request them by name.
Stacey; What about her (pointing at me) with the drag queen eyelashes? She must have some kind of balls if she can walk out of the house like that."
At this point, I was almost offended. But I was wearing falsies that only a tranny could love, and I kind of sensed a kindred spirit.
The receptionist explained that you could only request a student by name. At which point, I turned and pointed at the "Sarah" embroidered on my uniform top.
Stacey: Brain fart! How can I forget? Sarah, I want Sarah to do my hair
The rest is history. I saw Stacey a few more times while I was in school,  and when I graduated,  we exchanged contact info, because she swore she would follow me to whatever salon I was working at once I was licensed.
Now,  for anyone who has ever been to cosmetology school, you know that your "regulars" always promise to follow you to the moon and back,  but it rarely happens. Months later,  after I had passed my state board exam and had been working for a little while, I got a text. It said, "Hey Sarah, maybe you don't remember, but my name is Stacey, you did my hair at the beauty college a few times. When you get a chance, could you give me a call? “
I was stoked. Not only was I scoring the elusive post beauty school client, but I adored Stacey. We really were pretty similar. The same age, same warped sense of humor, both trying to build a respectable life after a slightly checkered past filled with a few demons. I called her that afternoon. It wasn't quite what I was expecting.
She informed me that just a month prior, she had been diagnosed with non Hodgkins lymphoma, stage 3. She was undergoing treatment, which of course was making her quite sick, and preventing her from leaving the house overmuch. Could I possibly make a house call? Her exact words were "I look like a down on her luck crackwhore. Roots for days, and you know how hairy us Mediterranean women are. Bring your full arsenal “
I didn't hesitate. I showed up at her house the following weekend with a large rolling suitcase packed with waxing supplies,  and enough bleach, color, toner and styling products to keep a small Texas beauty pageant going for a month.
I had never been to her home and never met her family, which consisted of her gigantic husband, a former player for the LA Avengers before they folded in 2009, and her two sons,  13 and 9. At this point, she just looked tired, and her prognosis was relatively positive. She showed me around their home, the highlight being her near restaurant like kitchen and a pantry that's almost half the size of my apartment. She had turned her passion for cooking and feeding people into a small, but successful catering business. I spent at least 8 hours there that day, doing her hair, giving the boys haircuts, and eating the most amazing mustard glazed,  whole roasted chicken that has ever graced anyone's taste buds. Which of course,  she wouldn't divulge the recipe for. I left that day thinking how cool it was to make a new friend, especially since we all know that is no easy feat after 30. I couldn't wait to take my boyfriend and stepson to meet them. I didn't hear from her for a few weeks, and decided to call her up to see how she was doing.
I immediately felt sick when her husband answered her cell. But he assured me that it was just a particularly nasty round of chemo keeping her down,  and could I possibly come by soon to do Staceys hair?
It had only been just shy of four weeks since I had last seen her, ad so I tried very hard to hide my shock. Stacey has a very average build, not thin,  not heavy. The 20 or so pounds she had lost left her somewhere between Victoria Beckham anorexia and the improbable Barbie figure. (she told me that if I were going to describe her, to be sure to mention her 38DD breast implants)
Gotta love this girl because the first words out of her mouth were "The fuck? Don't just stand there. Just because I'm dying doesn't mean you don't work for me anymore. Get to it.“
I had to laugh even though the word  “dying “stole my breath.
Over the next two months, I went over there about once a week. I watched the toll her illness was talking on her, her husband, and her boys. The first time I finished shampooing her and held huge handfuls of hair, I was stunned, sick to my stomach. Her response?  "Just think of how much of that expensive, high class bleach you're gonna save."
A side note :Experiencing this first hand is nothing like the movies. On the one hand, it's surreal, but at the same time, it's as blunt and real in a way that only the truth can be.
I would love to say that this is going to be one of those amazing, potent stories about a battle fought hard and won.
I went to see Stacey today. Surprisingly, she still has quite a bit of hair, enough to wash, dry, and curl around her face. Her eyebrows are gone, which perturbed her to no end. She says  "If I had known how much tweezing, waxing,  and threading I could have saved, I'd have started praying for cancer by the time I was twelve years old"

My last couple visits with Stacey have been brief,  and quiet. Today was different. She was sitting up in bed with her laptop and various bills and paperwork surrounding her, with a rather thick pair of reading glasses that swallowed her tiny face. She was setting up all of the  household bills for auto pay. "I  can't believe I've still been paying bills by check all this time. At least this way, Sergio won't even have to think about it.  Poor thing is gonna be so busy with the boys and their activities"
I sat there for a minute before she answered the question I couldn't bring myself to ask.  "They say I could have six months or so left. Fuck that. I can't do another six months. They can't do another six months. The sooner it's over, the sooner they can get on with their lives. Ain't no one got time for that!"  I know I was supposed to laugh at that, but I couldn't. It wasn't the words she said, it was the way she said them. Matter of fact, so clearly a mom.  Taking care of everyone until the end. It was strange, she hadn't been this lively in a while. It's like God knew she needed to handle her business.
She surprised me again when she asked me to help her into the kitchen. I couldn't fathom why, but when I got her settled,  she started rattling off a list of things to get from the pantry. I hadn't been in that pantry since my first visit months earlier. I almost choked when I flipped the light on. It was like walking into Costco. Cases of bottled water, soda,  juice, etc, dry goods,  canned food,  snacks,  toilet paper, paper towels stacked floor to ceiling. Like she was stocking up for the end of days. Which I suppose she is. The chest freezers in the utility room were stocked just as heavy. I gathered everything she asked me to, and took it into the kitchen. After following her instructions for a minute,  I realized that she was teaching me her secret recipe for that mustard glazed chicken I loved.
'Seriously,  cheer the fuck up while you cook. Depression makes food taste like shit, and you're responsible for feeding all of us tonight. " I can't help laughing and flipping her off.
" Bitch don't kill my vibe. And by vibe, I mean don't burn the sauce. " she tells me. I say something about how I wish we had known each other longer,  like before she was.... And I trail off.
" Before I was what? Dying? When did you turn into such a whiny little Bitch? It's OK to say it. I know I'm dying just the same as I knew Santa Claus wasn't real by the time I was four. Baste the chicken. "
Eventually, dinner was ready. We all sat around, eating and talking about wildly inappropriate topics, it reminded me of my own family around the dinner table when I was a kid.
Eventually, it was time for me to get home. Stacey had nodded off on the couch. I helped Sergio get her in bed. I said my goodbyes and went home. About an hour later, I get a text from Stacey.
"I read your blog. Who's dick do I have to suck to get a mention? Post mortem fame is overrated "
Here you go,  Stacey, no dick sucking required.

BFF's?? Or, Why We've Grown Apart

I wish life was simple like kindergarten . Black and white, no gray. If you were new in school, you went and sat down with some other kids who also chewed with their mouths open. BAM,  next thing you know  tether ball is happening. Got a crush?  Throw sand in his eyes and call him names until he follows you around in  your polka-dots, Mary Janes, and  pig tail cuteness Or was that just my experience?  I'm sorry, Gary what's-your-name,  (my first boyfriend in kindergarten) I was just cutting my teeth. But I digress,  Loyalty,between family, friends, lovers, etc, ais a question that should never have to be asked. Loyalty is not a hobby,  it's a way of life. You should never have to look around and wonder,  "When the shit goes down, who will be there?"  Loyalty is an unspoken bond. I feel that if you and I were friends,  and were tight, like ride or die,  stuck like  glue, end of times tight, neither one of us would have room to question the validity of our relationship We would go down in a blaze of glory Thelma and Louise style if need be. Why?  Well,  duh, because of that whole ugly incident in the parking lot of the honky tonk. Sorry, I amuse myself at times.  We could go on the ultimate road trip,  let's do all the things we talked about when we were seventeen,  and run from the law because I just shot a man,  Thelma!  Yeah, I know we've all seen it. If you don't mind, allow me to enjoy my cinematic love of it all.  Unfortunately,  I am no badass, shot taking,  pistol toting Susan Sarandon, and  I have no desire to ever drive off a cliff o  jump out of a perfectly good airplane  or No one wants to sacrifice everything for the one they love,  and if you do,  you may want to reevaluate your priorities. Two does not equal one,  no matter how you slice it. You should never have to compete just to stand shoulder to shoulder,  you should never have to hear your secrets fall from a strangers mouth. You should never have to feel as if your heart is breaking, when you helped that person pick up the shattered remains of their own. Instead,  focus on the sweet simplicity of holding hands or going out for coffee. Or the seemingly mundane intimacy of knowing what cereal they like,  or what TV show they're currently addicted to. Any relationship, whether platonic or romantic,  is a lot like skydiving. Whether solo or tandem. alone or in pairs, you pull the cord,  leap, and hope the wind catches you before the ground does. The  important thing isn't who pulls the cord,  but who throws caution to the wind, grabs on, and rides it out with you.

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Shameless

This is going to be a quick one and it's mostly for the ladies. So check it out just a quick thought:  When was the last time you looked in the mirror and were happy with what you saw? Even if you're wanting to lose a few pounds, or you're not thrilled about the gray hairs that are suddenly creeping up, and oh shit, are those crows feet? Can you look past those things and still think to yourself "I ain't mad at that" Self esteem....one of  our most precious and endangered resources. Love yourself first, everything else will fall into place. Easier said than done, yes?
There are a few things that you will need to change in order to feel beautiful. First, look at yourself in the mirror.... Naked. Yep,  do it. Stop avoiding it. I did it.  For way too long,  I let society, my own fucked up psyche,  and a string of unworthy assholes tell me that I was fat, ugly, and not good enough. It's not easy to  come back from that. But it is completely doable. So stand there. Take a good look.  There will be a point when your view is obscured by the tears welling up and streaming down your face.
If you really want this its entirely possible. It will hurt, but pain tells us that we are still alive, do it.
Look at every dimple, every stretch mark, every scar. Look at it as a reminder. To us and everyone else, that we have lived this life,  and I that we are not ashamed now , nor shall we ever be. Now here comes the important part. And probably the most difficult. Look yourself straight in the eye and say to yourself, "I love you. And I will never stop loving you no matter what comes, good or bad.  I love you and I have your back, always"

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I Didn't Break It (and other tales of misplaced blame)

 Sometimes, life blows. I mean to say that it can often make you want to drink yourself into oblivion, throat punch someone, and/or set houses on fire. What separates the women from the girls, the men from the boys, or more specifically ME  from about a third of the population is this: I don't drink, ( haven't in nearly 2 1/2 years), I can't afford to bail myself out after the arrest that would surely follow me assaulting someone, and EWW I would never be able to wash the smell of a structure fire out of my hair. Basically, self control is what's keeping me (and possibly you) afloat. It seems simple. But sometimes its like trying to chew and swallow a mouthful of peas. I hate peas, you can substitute something else. You keep chewing, and chewing, it just keeps growing in your mouth, after gagging a few times, you finally manage to swallow. Ugh. Gives me heartburn just thinking about it.  I have been told that I have my fathers keen sense of the obvious and my mothers audacity. If you've never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Kirby, let's just say its a deadly combination when left unchecked. As I continue to mature, slowly but surely, I try my damnedest to filter myself. I try to hide my evil on the inside. Because, quite frankly, most of you simply are. Not. Ready. For. This. So, i try to use my powers for the betterment of society (look at me and the big words Check out the big brain on Sarah) Allow me to illustrate.
 I was in Target earlier today. The lines were pretty long, but I didn't mind, I had nowhere important to be. A youngish mother, maybe mid to late thirties and her teen daughter were behind me. Oh...one more disclaimer.... I have no children of my own. I have a 13 going on 35 year old step son, and the limited amount of
 time that I have been blessed with in his life in no way makes me an expert in parenting. Which is precisely why this is about common decency and not child rearing. If that doesn't satisfy your urge to tell me why my opinion is incorrect due to lack of experience, dont let the door hit you in the ass, doll face.
Anyhow, mom and the teen, who I will call Pumpkin from here on out, are behind me, and here's how it unfolds:
PUMPKIN: Stop acting so fucking stupid, mom. Just because you were a whore and don't know who my dad is doesn't mean I'm gonna be knocked up at 16.
Mom: (quietly) Pumpkin, we do know your dad. I don't know why you say that.
PUMPKIN: then why doesn't he pay child support? Everybody I know gets checks from their dad. We don't get shit! If he was my dad, he'd pay for stuff. I fucking hate you. You make me sick.
At this point my eyebrows are raised so high that they're on the back of my neck. This line needs to MOVE.
Mom: can we discuss this later?
PUMPKIN: When? You're never fucking home.
Mom: I'm sorry, I have to work. God forgive me, I have to keep a roof over your head and clothes on your back.
Mom almost sounded like she was growing some back bone...almost.
 PUMPKIN: you look like shit when you cry.
Then she stomps out, and yeah. Mom is crying a little. She catches me looking, shrugs and says " Teenagers" with the saddest, most artificial laugh I've ever heard. By this time, I'm entering my debit pin and grabbing my bags. Mom is pulling out coupons, paying part EBT, part cash, part debit card. You know what really got me? There was a single tear caught in her bottom lashes, right above a dark circle that screamed "IM TIRED!!!" That one fucking tear. It really broke my heart. My life is hard, but I'll probably never understand what it's like to walk a mile in her shoes.
So I walk out. There's Pumpkin. Smoking. And texting on a very pricey phone. I typically hear two voices in my head. One says "Go home, Sarah" and the other says " Don't pass this up, kid." The latter is louder and pushier, which is why we get along so famously. Uh oh. Pumpkin is about to get squashed. (Dont judge me, I rarely come up with puns)  Time for another disclaimer: WARNING: Don't try this at home. Or at Target, Walgreens etc.
Me: (in a panicked, breathy voice)Hey!  That was your mom in there? Behind me? Holy shit, she collapsed, she's not breathing, they called an ambulance.
The color drains out of Pumpkins face, she throws the cigarette down and starts back toward the entrance.... and nearly collides with Mom. Who of course, is fine. Health wise, any how. I wait, patiently, for baby Lucifer to absorb the reality of what's taken place.  And oh, wow, she is one pissed off demon spawn. Like Medusa with tacky eye makeup.
She starts to scream about how evil it is to mess with someone like that, how much I scared her, she loves her mom, bullshit, lies, bullshit blah blah, and my personal favorite" You're going to hell!" I must say, I'm proud of myself. My typical response in this type of situation would be to go toe to toe with this broad, regardless of her age or experience. I told you. Im maturing. I'm trying to WORK on  myself. So, when Pumpkin started running out of steam, I said to her,
" I hope this gave you a reason to think about what a mess your pathetic, insignificant life would be without your mother. Regardless of what some douchebag does or doesn't do for you, your mom didn't break anything. But she was the one left to pick up the pieces. If you want to criticize someone take a long hard look at yourself, Pumpkin. Because from where I'm standing, you look like you got it pretty fucking good."  Mom is standing there with years streaming, and says "Thank you". So now I'm crying. I gave her one of my cards. She texted me a while ago. This was what it said:
"Thank u so much for today. I love my kid, but I'm tired of being blamed for falling in love with the wrong person. I work so hard to do everything I can because its my responsibility, and I still feel like she hates me. Hopefully she'll grow out of it. Today, you made me feel like someone is on my side"
Does this make me a a superhero or a patron saint? Fuck no, I'm just like everyone else, but with a bigger mouth. If Mr Rodgers was alive today, he'd lace up his Keds, throw on a spiffy cardigan, and  turn our attention to the picture frame on the wall where we would get a guided tour of the Personal Responsility factory, brought to you by the makers of Self Respect.

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