Survival of the Most Untrusting

It's next to impossible to explain myself at all anymore. When I'm questioned about my responses to adversity, pain or emotion, I draw a blank. I know what's going on with me, but I have no idea how to draw a road map of it for someone on the outside trying to look in. Fostering a relationship with someone requires trust and vulnerability. I have the best intentions of really giving that to the other person, then they slip up and make a stupid decision or neglect the process for a bit, and I'm done. I can't reengage, and in no time at all, my heart and mind are a million miles away. I am stuck in survival mode and I can't flip the switch. Maybe someday I will be normal me again. Maybe this is normal me.

My subconscious doesn't trust me anymore and is in control of the drawbridge leading to my heart. I can love a person all day and night, but the subconscious will pull that drawbridge up faster than you can slap your mama if it senses a reason to raise the guard. I am an understanding, forgiving person. I believe in 100th chances. My subconscious does not. I'll tackle that one of these days. The honest truth is I don't really trust my judgment, either, when it comes to letting my guard down and opening up. I tend to give too much and too soon, so hell, let the subconscious have its way with me for awhile. If people are meant to be in my life, they will fight to stay. If not, the extra effort necessary to gain my trust will be too much and they will go. That doesn't make me sad. It makes me relieved.

The exceptions are those people who have been with me through the worst of our struggles and know what I'm working with. These people feel my anxiety and see the brokenness in my eyes. They get it. They tell me when I'm being unreasonable and paranoid. They expertly lead me in the right direction when I've lost my way. I don't have to explain anything. They know, and they get it.

So to those of you that watch my anxiety soar through the roof when the mailman knocks on my door or know you can text me at 3 am and I'll respond because I rarely get sleep, thank you. And to those of you debating whether or not it's worth the fight to get close - yes, it's definitely worth it. But I'll help you pack your shit if you decide to tap out.

My Friends are Funnier than Yours

There are advantages that stem from surrounding oneself with like-minded individuals. This is a real, quite serious conversation between two friends, possibly one of them named Chassati. I didn't realize it was funny until we read back over it. It is obvious that *someone* may have been cursing occasionally in this conversation. Please note that I whited out the actual words. I'm trying to be nice, folks. No need for passive aggressive hate mail. It's funny and you know it.

Charles Bukowski, Literary Boss

Breathtaking animated adaption of The Man with the Beautiful Eyes

Tired Mama

Don't be like the rest of them, Darling...

I've been quiet for awhile. I haven't been too busy, just quiet. Life speeds up, then slows down. I could say its unmanageable at times, but it isn't. We always manage to manage. Word modifying a word. Shameful.

Anyway, I've been quiet. There have been things to process, and you know I internalize eons before I externalize. Believe me, its a good thing for everyone outside of my box. I've continued to be amazed by people on all ends of the spectrum of humanity. I generally love the humanness of people. The flawed, hasty, emotional, chaotic mess that makes up all of us is beautiful and sacred somehow, and touching that makes finding the eye of our storms that much more precious. However, some parts of the raw human underbelly are downright shitty and offensive. Ha, yes, this girl right here said "offensive." I know you're thinking, "What in the holy hell has taken over her mind? Nothing offends her..." Let me tell you, some things absolutely offend me and should offend you, too, if you're worth your weight in beans as a person.

If you are petty, you offend me. Since Webster defines "petty" as not very important or serious, I know no two people have the same definition. What is petty to me is maybe important to you, and that's okay under most circumstances. After all, my toilet paper rolls from the top, not the bottom, and if you screw that up in my house, I'll come behind you and fix it. Ridiculous to some, important to me. Silly example, but you get the point, and easily forgiven. I fix the toilet paper, you call me neurotic and obsessive-compulsive, I agree with you, we laugh. Done.

Here's a not-so-easily-forgiven example: You actively or passively criticize my manners, mouth or parenting. Sisters and brothers, we are navigating life to the best of our abilities while we are hear on Earth. All of us struggle, and all of us wake up day after day with the intentions of doing better than we did the day before. You don't get a thank you note following a gifting holiday? I suggest you let that thought pass out of your mind as quickly as it came in. If thank you notes and general accolades are the backbone of relationship maintenance for you, please bow out now. We are real around here, and we think about real things and have real problems. I grew up southern, and female and Baptist. I get the social importance of thank you notes and casseroles. However, at some point, after shit got quite real for us, it just seemed a little silly. I'll oblige those who came before me and send thank yous and deliver casseroles when it fits into my already busy, complicated, atypical world. But if I don't, I don't and you be grateful that your world allows you the time and energy to actually ponder such pettiness... of course, maybe only in my book, but that's the one I'm writing.

I'm thirty-three years old and sometimes, I have the mouth of a well-educated sailor. Little passive comments and scoffs are not going to change that. Believe me, I could be judged for a lot worse. I seek and nurture relationships with family and friends who love us for us. Period. "Catholic guilting" doesn't manifest change any more than "Baptist bureaucracy" manifests organization. (Side note: I love my Catholics and my Baptists... If the previous analogy left you feeling butt-hurt, eat a Snickers. You'll feel better.) If your take-away from this post is that I said shit a few times, please lose the link and reconsider your place in our lives. Why are you here? Self-imposed obligation? Curiosity? Spite? Go. Go now. The kids and I have been throwing away that kind of litter for years now and lately I've gotten more aggressive with it. Again, petty. Be thankful you have a spare moment to ponder my soul due to my affection for profanity. I promise, my soul is just fine. If dropping the f-bomb in traffic is the worst thing I do all day, we should all feel lucky.

Parents are really catty by nature. Seriously catty. You see me correcting my son at a restaurant or bribing my daughter with a treat, you smile and walk on by. Most parents who feel the persistent urge to "help" me through situations or offer unsolicited advice come from affluent, two-parent families in the suburbs. That's not us and I am not interested in what you have to say if that is you. Guess what. I don't have anyone to clean my house, pay my bills or discipline my children for me. I do that. All of it. By myself. So before you criticize corporal punishment or suggest that I should "hug it out" with my kids, consider the differences in our situations. Mutual respect and a sense of perspective goes a long way. I do things a certain way generally because I have to, not because I want to. I wish I got to sit around and do fun, June Cleaver, Pinterest activities with my kids all day and had someone else to worry about the finances and the spiritual well-being of my family. Turns out, that wasn't the hand I was dealt, and I'm doing the best with what I have. If you aren't helping, you're hurting, and we are simplifying around here. I've been apologizing for silly things for far too long. I am who I am for very specific reasons. If you have questions about why I do and say what I do and say, please feel free to ask. I want to fill you in if you are truly interested in understanding. However, if you are driven by the need to teach me a lesson or prove a point, you can pack that shit back up and move on down the road. I'm not interested, and I promise, neither are you.

My Blatant Prejudices on the Road

I've received some negative feedback lately surrounding my gym routine. "Chass, you work out too hard." "Chass, you aren't a spring chicken. You're going to pull something. " "Hey, don't be so hard on yourself. You've had two kids. Some things just won't ever look right again..." For the record, I do not do squats and flip tires and pull sleds because I want to look awesome on the beach. I do it so my heart won't convulse and explode when some assholette (it's a word because I just used it in a sentence) whips her itty bitty car in front of me, causing me to slam on my breaks, spill my effing venti dark roast with cream all over my vehicle, while simultaneously shooting me the bird.

Every once in a blue moon (maybe weekly...), one of my lovely children will let some naughty words fly. I used to say, "Ohhhh my... Well, their dad is a welder and he works nights so you know how that goes..." The excuse is becoming lame and transparent, since they haven't seen Ren since last April and he's been in jail since July. (If that's news to you, please go to the verrrrry earliest blog post and read until you run out of tissues. I do that from time to time... shhhhhh...) My children know dirty words because traffic and people in it completely make me lose my shit. I try to say, "Awwww, darn," or "My goodness, you silly son of a gun..." but it's hard to teach an old dog new tricks, and pretty much impossible to clean up my language in traffic. I'm not giving up hope. Maybe some day "You silly goose!" will subconsciously fly out of my mouth just as readily as, "You sorry sack of shit" does now. Maybe. Until then, here's a list of my blatant prejudices on the road, and some of the reasons I judge and curse people I don't even know almost daily. Okay, for sure daily. You already know I've taught my kids bad words... Why lie now?

#1) If you have work boots upside down between the bed and cab of your truck, I will let you merge every.single.time. You may even get away with slowing down a few miles per hour (only a few) after you get in front of me. I love you work boot guys. I always thought my husband was his sexiest when he was in his work boots, jeans and t-shirt ready for work. Maybe the thought of a man actually working for a living is just crazy attractive to me. I don't know. I don't make the rules. Work boots in the back will get you places, bro. Just a little behind the scenes hint from this girl. Use it at will.

#2) If you have a tiny little car and an enormous ichthys on your vehicle, do not cut me off and shoot me the bird simultaneously. You'll get a dose of stink eye that will melt your back tires. Now, ten years ago I would have pulled over and whipped your ass. Thirty-three year old me will curse you and judge you and give you dirty, dirty looks. Now, that isn't what Jesus would do. I know that, but sometimes my temper forgets. At least I won't whip your ass or flip you off back. Progress. Its a process, friends, not an event. I am a believer and love Jesus with my whole heart, but we all have our immaturities, and "Traffic Chass" probably isn't the best example of Christianity or God's love. It goes without saying that I will never have a Jesus Loves You bumper sticker or the likes of it. Not a good witness, people. I know it. If you're speeding around, spilling people's coffee and flipping them off, peel that shit off of your vehicle and have an extra beer after you put the kids to bed. There's less shame in that than showing the whole world your ass. It helps, believe me. 

#3) If you have an itty, bitty, teeny, weeny vehicle, drive like it. Know your place in the food chain of vehicles. I almost killed a family of four yesterday because they whipped out in front of me in a tiny Honda. If I'm bigger than you, it takes longer for me to slow down. Seriously, I'm not just being an assholette. Physics is not on your side. Again, I don't make the rules. Also, bigger vehicle equals bigger blind spots. If I can't see you whipping around in traffic causing chaos, I cannot slow down, back off and let you continue your dickery (shhhh... I used it in a sentence...) undisturbed. Most of the time, I am transporting my two and three year old. Unlike the ten-years-ago me, I will let you prove to the entire world that you are stupid and inconsiderate in peace. I don't want trouble, conflict, collisions or high blood pressure. If I can't see you, I can't effectively avoid you. Slow down, use your blinker and merge when the lines say you can, Tiny Tim. The road is no place for "little man syndrome" or "attention whore syndrome." I see you, and I will validate you with my severe stink eye. We are all stressed and in a hurry to get somewhere. I do realize all of this is common sense, but that's an almost extinct commodity these days. I'm not counting on it to pull us through. 

#4) Do not drive it like you stole it... especially if no one ever anywhere would ever want to steal it. Do not dress it up. Just like you can't turn a whore into a housewife, you also cannot put custom rims and a system in a rusted out 1971 Plymouth Cricket and call it awesome. Remember that Adam Sandler song, "Piece of Shit Car..." (Here's a link if you weren't a teen in the 1990s...) I had a friend who will remain nameless that fit the bill. However, he had no idea and was under the impression that his vehicle was the hottest, most coveted car on the road. He himself was not one bit hot, so he banked hard on that horrible atrocity of a car to land him chicks. He had it reupholstered in blue and black zebra print to match the custom paint job... Sad. No one could save him from himself. We were at the lake one summer and I literally heard him tell a girl, "Don't get so excited, baby... Its just a car." She was not excited. She was laughing hysterically AT the car. He mistook her fascination and uncontrollable giggling as genuine interest... again, sad... but true. Please learn from him. Call it what it is and have realistic expectations. Four bangers need exhaust systems just as badly as my lawn mower. Don't embarrass yourself. Remember, we are laughing at you, not with you...

#5) I do not want to play "name that tune" with you at every stoplight, stop sign, railroad crossing, etc. Neither does anyone else. I promise. I have a fabulous Bose system in my vehicle, and I use it at will. I blast NWA, Aretha, Hank Williams, Jr. and Bleu Edmondson whenever I feel like it. If you don't feel like it, that's okay, because you'll never know. I know how to work my volume knob and I do often. I don't want to know what music you have playing, or if you have any playing at all. Further, I don't care to have my rims rattled off by your unintelligible bass. If my son says, "Mama, what's that noise??" and its your stereo... I may roll down my window and request that you turn it down... Your music shouldn't teach my kids naughty words or sexual positions. When Kannon fathers a child at 15 because Ludacris suggested "tappin' that ass in the public bathroom or in the back of a classroom," we are showing up on your doorstep. Have some moral integrity and give your "nice" speakers a break. 

#6) Newer doesn't mean better. If your 2014 Cadillac with custom plates cuts me off, then slows down to 55 in front of me, we have problems. Automatically, Outkast's "Roses" starts playing in my head. Guess what, I genuinely prefer my vehicle over yours. It may be two body styles behind, but it has some balls under it and gets the job done nicely. I'll be driving mine long after you've gone upside down on yours twice... because you are silly and have bought into the mentality that newer is better. Don't act like your poop smells like roses out there on the road. You need just as much smell-good spray, as my grandma used to say, as the rest of us, even though you probably fail to use it. And, if your attitude on the road says anything about you in general, you probably don't know the value of a polite courtesy flush, either. In short, we won't ever be friends, and I'd prefer that you didn't even buy me a beer. Harsh, but I feel quite strongly about this. Driving a fancy schmancy vehicle does not make you exempt from using your blinker or stopping for a school bus or any other general rule of the road. Be nice. Oh, and good luck paying that thing off.

#7) Tailgating is not allowed. Ever. If you crawl up my ass on the road, I will brake check you. Immature, absolutely. Some things can't be helped. And really, you deserve it. I've done this to my own mother on several occasions. Cause and effect, people. If I have a car full of people or am in an exceptionally lovely mood (won't happen), I may simply slow down to 20 or 30 miles per hour below the posted speed limit. I can have a Sunday drive any day. Sun roof open, windows down, excessively big sunglasses on singing at the top of my lungs while the radio blasts (... but not excessively loud...) old school Alabama... all while going 30 in a 65 miles per hour zone... with you on my ass getting progressively more and more angry by the moment... oh, and there's a mobile home on wheels next to us so you can't get over... Okay, so you get the picture. Stay back. You should be able to see my back tires. If you can't and you push the issue, they may wind up in your lap. No one wins if things go that route.

#8) Last but definitely not least, do not "holler" at me at a stop light... or really, anywhere. Thank goodness my windows are tinted almost illegally and the howling children in the backseat usually make even the hoodiest of hood rats think twice... but sometimes I still am the lucky recipient of compliments such as, "Hey, Fine Ass... You comin' to my place?" (last Monday) or, "Hey, me and my buddies are going to XYZ. Follow us there." Okay... just no. Who do these people pick up like that? Who are these people? How can we keep them from breeding? I'm someone's mom, and if I'm out past 9:00pm, its because the kids had to pee four or five times while we were grocery shopping and it took us two and a half hours to get nine items. And seriously, maybe you can tell I'm female, but that's about it. Hit up the 86-year-old grandma sitting on a phone book in the Lincoln Towncar behind me. She looks lonely.

Eight is my favorite number so I'm stopping there. The moral of this blog post: Get your head out of your behind and follow the rules of common courtesy and social interaction on the road. Cause and effect. You're nice, I'm nice. You're an asshole... well, I speak asshole, too. Save us all some irritation and mind your manners.

"And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love." 1 Corinthians 13:13

It's important to believe in happily ever after. It helps. I don't know if I'll ever find that one person to spend happily ever after with, but just the hope it offers is really nice. The general consensus of the masses is that we should say "I love you" more... and there are endless examples of this everywhere we look... "Love makes the world go 'round." "All you need is love." False and false. That mentality is bullshit. We should mean it more and say it less. Love has become an excuse and a loose interpretation for any number of things, at the very best.

Love is a get-out-of-jail-free card in our society. "But I love you..." And that is supposed to mean what? The definition of love varies so drastically from person to person. We give it so much power... to make or break days, months and decades, if we allow it. I sit in Starbucks and work on my computer... or read while I'm eating lunch... or write while I'm soaking up some vitamin D in the park... and I hear a socially predominate idea of love resonating so much more than any other... "... if he loved me, he would have put the clothes in the dryer," "... if she loved me like she says, she would let me go out with my boys," "... if he loved me, he wouldn't have slept with her," "... if she loved me, she would remember that I don't like crunchy peanut butter." I actually have heard every one of these and then some in the last few weeks, and every time, I cringe. So self-serving. Me, me, me. I'll tell you what it means to love me. This is the definition we are told to conform to... Its easy, comfy and sexy.

I have been married and divorced twice in the last ten years. I am far from an expert, but I have chosen the wrong path more than once in my life and I do know a few things for sure. Love is not self-serving. Love is not romance novel material. It isn't sexy or gentle or smooth. It is serious, intense and uncomfortable... and requires an individual to sacrifice and plow through virgin snow with vengeance and disregard. And you have to do these things and expect nothing. Shakespeare once said, "Expectation is the root of all heartache." Part of love is not expecting and letting go when your brain and pride tell you the complete opposite. Sure, you don't want to hurt, but loving means you definitely will at some point. Lovers, kids, grandmas... No kind of love is immune. Heartache is part of love, and ultimately makes it stronger and more stable. We are taught to avoid heartache and despair at all costs. If you love, these things will find you. But, trust me, its not as awful as you've been lead to believe and not all bad, either. Alice Walker once said, "Nobody is as powerful as we make them out to be," and that is real talk, my friends. But you are never more powerful and confident than after you've conquered a huge storm in your life, even if you crawled all the way through it while sobbing hysterically. You made it through, and it makes you more powerful and better armed to fight another day. And how much more do you have to offer those you love after fighting hard and coming out on top and stronger than ever? So heartache and despair really aren't the enemy in love. In fact, we need them to chisel us into a more complete person.

Love is hard and intense and really very exhausting sometimes. Please remember, though, that hard and intense and exhausting aren't necessarily negative. I have been told I love very hard, and I do. I take that as a compliment. If I love you, I will walk through hell for you. I really will, and I will have a smile and a hug for you when we both make it out. I do not expect that from anyone else. Most people aren't capable of it, and that's very important to accept. I can take a lot of hits in many different ways, and I don't mind doing it if it helps the ones I love. Everyone has their strengths. 

Loving hard means I don't say "I love you" lightly. It's awkward when someone says it and you don't say it back... and that's been me a lot over the years. However, I've never said it and wanted to take it back. Relationships fail as time persists, whether they be friendships, family or romantic in nature, but fault seldom has anything to do with love. We are all human, and that tends to get in the way. Obviously, none of my romantic endeavors have withstood the test of time, but I don't regret a single one of them. Regret is a waste. I've learned from each of them and chosen differently according to what I've learned. I'm discovering more about myself, others and the world around me daily. My wise friend, Yvonne, periodically reminds me that it is a process, not an event. I appreciate that more than I can ever express. I forget that, and I push... rush things... try to conclude an event when the process continues to rock along, whether or not I prefer it that way. Take potty-training a two-year-old boy with a very strong personality and a very charming smile, for example... Process, not an event, Chass. Take a breath. We are all human.

But, being human is okay and beautiful. Every single member of my family is very human, has unmistakable, obvious faults and every single one of them is immeasurably beautiful. I learned what love means from my family. It sounds cliche, but its true. I was and continue to be taught to love hard and completely and every chance I get. My cousin, Katy, remembers every birthday, anniversary and holiday. She makes every single one of us feel special with her kindness and consideration, and she does it without expecting anything. She's a busy mom of two and a devoted wife, but she takes time out of her world to bless ours, and that is lovely and beautiful. I remember birthdays days in advance, then I forget, then I remember again in the shower the day of... I'm just not that good. My grandmother used to peel the strings out of my celery. Seriously, she would peel every single string out of the celery because my whiny ass didn't like chewing it. And occasionally I would get mad for some crazy, unsustainable nine-year-old reason and scream at her and tell her I hated her and she would grab me, hug me tight and tell me it would really hurt her feelings if she thought I meant that but she knew I didn't. Then she'd ask me what I wanted for dinner. Love. No expectations. Hard. Thankless. Life-saving. Life-giving. So beautiful.

That's how my kids love and that's how God loves. It isn't a coincidence. We try other ways and explain it in language and deeds that are easily digested and fit best in our busy, frivolous lives and into this brutal world... but the truth remains. The greatest of these is still love... we just have to suck it up and love like we are made for it, because really, we are.

.My grandmother had a huge pot of potato soup waiting for me the day after I had my wisdom teeth removed. On the way to her house, I told Carlo, "Damn, the only thing I can imagine eating is my grandma's potato soup." And, poof, there it was. 

New Year's card from January 2000... She wasn't impressed with my choice in men or lifestyle in general at the time. This one has a little zing on it but its important.

... from Hannah, February 1995

Happy 2014... We are READY for a new chapter...

Our little family is SO ready for 2014. This past year has been the absolute hardest, saddest, most gut-wrenching, heart-breaking year of my 32 and I'm looking forward to a new chapter. I'm tired of fumbling around with broken pieces...