Thursday, May 31, 2012
In school I learned from my peers not to like myself much. According to them I was too short, had 4 eyes, and when my front teeth still hadn’t surfaced by 7th grade I was deemed a freak. I got a partial plate that year, and from that moment on if I wasn’t a freak before I surely was a freak there after. Certainly not good enough to be called a friend, especially by the bosom buddies I ran with who had just discovered boys. Worse yet when the boys had discovered them, I suddenly was regulated to the sidelines. They still said hello and made small talk, but from then on I became the loner that I am to this day. Over the years I have learned to accept it as fact.
Back then the rejection hurt. I didn’t understand it. It is not like I smelled. I wasn’t obnoxious. My mom used to tell me if I was nice to everyone, they in turn would be nice to me. My mom lived in her own fairy story where she was certain simply because a lot of people said hello when we went to football and basketball games that I had oodles of friends and therefore I was popular. I don’t think she ever believed me when I explained that they were merely people I knew, acquaintances at best. We didn’t hang, we didn’t eat lunch together, and we never ran around together on the weekends. When it got right down to brass tacks, I didn’t have close friends.
Marrying an abusive alcoholic when I was 19 didn’t improve my outlook on myself much. I should have said no but at that point I didn’t have the guts. The guy liked me enough to want to marry me, and even though I had clear misgivings I went through with it. In hindsight, it was the biggest mistake of my life. I should have had the balls to say no, shove my bridal bouquet right up his a$$, and run hell bent for election out of that church until I seen day light. Instead I said I do and endured 4 and ½ years of being that asshole’s punching bag simply because I wanted to be apart of a twosome. I know now I didn’t deserve that treatment, but at the time I endured it, was ashamed by it, and was certain I must have done something to deserve it or he wouldn’t have felt the need to dish it up.
I eventually found the balls to stand up to him, but at that point I didn’t do it for me. By then I didn’t give a tinker’s damn if he killed me. The one thing he wasn’t going to do was start bullying my mom. I stood up to him, and he divorced me. Evidently a punching bag with a backbone loses its appeal. Once my mom died, I embarked on a journey to find myself along a road littered with mistakes. In a last ditch effort to find happy ever after I paid a dating service to literally find me a husband. If they couldn’t I was resigned to live out the rest of my days alone. I had nothing to lose, and little confidence there was anyone decent out there who would want the likes of me. I paid for Matchmaker to find me a man with little hope that they would. Guess what, they did and I married him and had two beautiful kids. I gave up my full time job when the first arrived to be a full time mom and have been at it ever since.
By the time I hit my 4th decade of life on this planet I was beginning to wonder if all my life was going to amount to was wiping butts and noses. I prayed about it and almost instantly the opportunity to write online for this company fell into my lap. I began blogging, and slowly but surely found my voice. By the time I did, the company had gone under and I was left without a website, the small income they paid me, and once again grasping for straws. Fortunately I had learned from my experiences and I designed this website and continued on. Somewhere along the way I became a writer. It wasn’t something I imagined I would be doing, but I have found I can’t imagine life without doing it. I have no idea where my words flow from, only that they do. Words flow as easy as the air I take in and out.
After over 40 years of living , I still enjoy being quiet, although now my quiet is punctuated with giggles, a good dose of silliness, and the capacity to say just about anything. I no longer take anyone’s $hit and have no problem speaking my mind. I am happier now than I have ever been. I am capable of the outrageous, but at the same time walk the world with a fair amount of common sense. I am loyal and kind, incapable of dealing with drama, and as one dear blogging buddy recently said a straight shooter. I have a habitually sunny disposition and plenty of empathy and compassion for others. I expect very little, and celebrate everything.
I can handle anything life throws at me, even when I think I can’t, I manage. I can be hilariously funny without even trying and I have an amazing ability to find the funny in just about every situation. I have found a deep faith in G0d that sees me through anything life throws my way. I live daily with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. My self esteem issues have come a long way. I am me, like me, love me, hate me, take me or leave me, I am what I am for better or for worse until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
When I was little, there were always monsters under the bed. I could hear them; at least I thought I could. I could hear them moving about, and if I listened close enough I could hear them breathing. As soon as the light went out, something began rummaging around beneath.
I wasn’t afraid of the dark. I was afraid of the sounds, whether imagined or otherwise. The terror was real. I was sure each time the light went out, something was going to get me, eat me alive, and spit me out. I had no idea what was under the bed, but I had little doubt something lurked there.
During the day, I often would fearfully look under the bed and find absolutely nothing to be frightened of. I could see a dust bunny or two, stray cards from a game, a forgotten book, and perhaps some dirty socks. I never saw anything that would or could make those G0d awful sounds whenever night came and only the moonlight lit my room.
Having to pee in the night was the worst. I would wake up having to go so bad and knowing if I did, that monster might just get me before I made it to the toilet. The soft orange glow of the night light in the corner did little to dispel my fears. I didn’t have a lamp beside the bed in those days. The only way I could catch the monster in the act was to leap out of the bed, race for the switch plate on the wall near my bedroom door and flip the switch instantly illuminating the room with light. The only problem with that idea was that if I wasn’t quick enough the monster might reach its big hairy arms out from the dark recesses from underneath my bed and grab my ankles. If it did, I would be lost. Not only that, I would soak my panties in the bargain. I could feel my heart race as I tentatively placed a foot to the floor. The air in the room was cooler as it hit my bare leg than it had been under my toasty warm covers. I could have sworn I felt something swish past my leg and dart under the bed and I hiked my foot back under the covers.
“Lord, please help me get to the toilet!! I have to go! I am afraid!!” I prayed to myself. I really had to go now. I surely didn’t want to wake the whole house and have everyone know what a scaredy cat I was. I had to get a hold of myself. With determination I dropped both feet to the floor and raced hell bent for election to the light switch near the door, flipping on the light as I slammed into the wall. The room was instantly illuminated, and except for me completely empty. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief and raced for the bathroom to relieve myself once and for all.
The rest of the house was dark, but the bathroom was lit by the soft glow of the night light. I settled on the potty and steeled my resolve. “There is no such thing as monsters!! There are no such things as monsters!!” I chanted trying to convince myself. I washed my hands, splashed water on my face, and drank a small drink of water. I couldn’t prolong the inevitable any longer.
I silently went back down the hall to my room. I counted to three, switched off the light, and made a mad dash for my bed. I jumped in the bed, threw the covers over my head, and laid back down willing myself back to sleep. I had escaped the monster this time. I said the time honored prayer I uttered every night before I slept “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take and please keep me safe from whatever is under my bed!!” Relieved, I settled deep into my covers drifted off to sleep once more.
To a little kid like I was in those days monsters under the bed are very real. When I became a mother I read somewhere that being scared of the dark or of monsters under the bed was a rite of passage for childhood. Most everyone goes through it. At that tender age, the imagination is a wild and untamed beast. As I aged, I learned to tame my imagination and keep it at bay. Monsters no longer join the dust bunnies and stray socks that live under my bed. I am no longer afraid until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
From the moment we take our first breaths the clock starts ticking. It isn’t long before we realize when our belly aches it is time to eat, and when the diaper is feeling a little soggy it is time for a change. Tick Tock goes the clock and we learn to use the potty while grown ups cheer around us. Hooray! We learned how to aim, and where to head when that urge takes over.
Before long, tick tock goes the clock and we are walking, talking, playing, learning, dancing, and learning to love. We grow up, fall in love, and may even get married. Tick tock, it don’t stop. It just keeps going. Time waits for no one. It may seem to move at a snail’s pace at certain times in life. For example, when you are pregnant, time moves slow. Days feel like months, and months feel like years made even more unbearable by the fact you grow as big and round as the blueberry girl in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Tick tock goes the clock and nothing lasts forever, and soon you are blessed with a beautiful baby.
The next thing you know the process starts with them. You are older and a little wiser, and if you didn’t feel wise when your toddler was hurling a $hit filled pull up at your head declaring proudly that “I pooped Mommy!!” you surely did when you dodged the bomb and their aim missed their mark. You survived the round the clock feedings. You learn by trial and error how to be parents.
That clock keeps ticking and babies grow into toddlers and then into kids off to school to learn all that life has to offer. You stop to catch a breath and wonder where the time went. Wasn’t it just yesterday they were babies? No matter how much you wish to freeze them at that size forever, time stops for no one. They grow up, and you grow older.
Tick tock goes the clock and you realize how precious time is when someone you love dies. Your heart breaks, and you are sure time will stop. Surely it will not keep on going without them in your life, but it does. One minute they are here, and the next in a blink of an eye they are gone never to return, sometimes without any warning or a final goodbye. It has always boggled my mind how that can be so, how someone who has always been there can no longer be.
Time waits for no one. Time marches on. It continues with us or without us. I spend all of my time counting the days as they drag by until my husband comes home again. While he is here we rush around, enjoy each other, and make each precious moment count. All too soon, he is back on the road once again and I am here missing him. Tick tock goes the clock. Whether the time flies or drags, it constantly passes and evolves. I have learned to make the most of each day, live life as if each day was my last simply because the clock is always ticking and today could very well be my last until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Would you rather have your favorite beverage on the rocks or a relationship on the rocks? I would rather have a drink personally. Dealing with some people requires a drink, and quite a stiff one at that. Better to be numbed by the glorious effects of alcohol than deal with their venom completely sober. Relationships on the rocks are just a pain in my a$$ that I would rather not deal with. I have no time for them. Get along or get out of my life, which is my motto.
Some people who shall remain nameless live to stir the $hit and love nothing better than to ruin the holidays with their drama. What do they get out of it? Are they looking for attention? All they get when they involve me in such activity is left to stew in their hatred and discontent alone. I have no intention of rewarding such behavior with my presence or subjecting my family to it. The irony is, when you refuse to play along…the instigator ends up ruining their own parade in the end.
For the record, I pride myself on telling it just how it is. I don’t like liars, and I don’t play games. I am me, take me or leave me. I would rather live in a world with no chaos, happiness, rainbows, and fanciful unicorns hopping about than get involved in mortal combat with some idiot craving attention. It is just the way I am. Someone who makes up lies about you is not on your side, and will never be your friend. Your relationship is on the rocks and will forever stay that way.
For better or worse I tend to cut poisonous people out of my life after giving them more chances than they deserve. I avoid people like that like the plague. I don’t understand their viciousness and have no tolerance for the evil that lives within them. For obvious reasons, I don’t want people like this for company and I sure as hell don’t want my husband or children anywhere near people like this either. It leaves me with a small circle of trusted companions who I love dearly and will go through the fire for. Life is entirely too short to fill it with people who get their jollies making others miserable. Ever noticed how the person pointing fingers screaming liar, liar is the biggest one of all?
The same person will show the rest of the world an entirely different face designed to garner sympathy much like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It is funny how that venom ricochets back like a cursed boomerang. As they say fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me. If you can’t handle yourself any better than that then our relationship will remain on the rocks, I will learn not to trust you, and see you for the unstable psychopath you are until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
When I was a little girl I never fancied myself growing up to be a writer. I wanted to be an artist, famous preferably. As I grew, my dream evolved. I still wanted to be an artist, but my art gradually took different forms.
All through school I expressed myself through my art work. I drew and painted and once in high school took every art class I was allowed to. I loved art, and was totally driven. At the same time I became interested in music. I spent all of my teenage years going to Oak Ridge Boys concerts with my mom. If they were anywhere close, we were there. Even when they weren’t close, we were there. My mom loved them, and loved to travel and took great pleasure in combining the two. I knew I wasn’t very musical even though I always sang in the choir and enjoyed it. What really fascinated me was running the sound system. When it came time to choose colleges, my art took a back seat and my desire to be apart of the exciting music business took center stage.
It didn’t take me long to realize that my heart wasn’t really in it, and I followed my heart back home to Indiana. Once again the passion for my art screamed to be noticed. I enrolled in graphic design school part time and followed my dream. I was dedicated and completely focused on the brass ring until my mom got sick. At that point taking care of her took more and more of my time and my art began to slip back into the shadows. By the time she died, I knew I had no more desire to draw, paint, or be perfect. I was consumed with grief. At that point in my life I simply knew that my days as an artist were over. My heart had shifted gears and my life drifted for several years while I struggled to find my way.
I learned a lot during that time period. I learned that I liked doing things that had no grey areas. Either it was right or wrong with no in between. Art is measured by other’s opinions. I found when I created my art; I put entirely too much of my soul into each piece along with the blood, sweat, and tears. Each criticism became a personal attack instead of encouragement to perfect my work. I realized that kind of system drove me bloody insane. I could not do it anymore.
At that point I realized that what I really wanted when I grew up was pretty simplistic. I wanted to be happily married, have a home of my own, and be someone’s mommy. Providence knows women all over the world have managed to accomplish that, so surely I could. All of a sudden, it seemed like my lofty ideals that once meant so very much no longer mattered. I wanted to be a wife and mother and that became the number one priority on my list.
At this point in my life, I no longer draw or paint. It is not that I can’t, it is that I choose not to. Instead I write and paint with my words. Paired with the perfect visuals and the perfect music to illustrate them to my satisfaction, I find myself still painting a fabulous picture. This picture is much more satisfying and can be perfected with spell check. Maybe that is why I feel compelled to do it. I have finally found an outlet for my creativity that works for me. It is fun, and I like to have fun. I like to laugh. I am simply incapable of acting pious and like I have a broomstick rammed up my a$$. I like to act nuts. I am not sure what I want to be when I grow up or that I even want too, but I think I am headed in the right direction until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
This week for the GBE2 we were challenged to pick a line from a book and write from there. The following story is purely fictional. The line I chose was taken from one of my favorite books and favorite series, “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone” written by J.K. Rowling.
“Can we buy all this in London?” Harry wondered aloud. “If you know where to go.” said Hagrid.
Having never been to London before, I was more than a little in awe of my surroundings. Harry and I struggled to keep up as Hagrid led the way onto London’s underground where we rode to the West End and finally disembarked near Piccadilly Circus and walked towards Leicester Square and Charring Cross Road. Without Hagrid, I am sure Harry and I would be lost. We both struggled to keep up. We turned down a small alley way that was littered with a few shops. With purpose, Hagrid headed straight for a door that had a broken sign hanging over top which read “The Leaky Cauldron”. To look at the place from the outside, I would have guessed it had been closed long ago and that no life occupied it now.
He opened the door to reveal a dark, dusty pub filled with several people enjoying their lunch. It was obvious Hagrid was a regular, because the bartender greeted him by name and offered him his usual. Everyone stopped in mid sentence and stared in our direction. All of a sudden, people rushed forward to greet Harry. “Bless my soul, if it isn’t Harry Potter!” “Not today, I am just taking Harry and Kathy to buy their school supplies, lots to do.” Hagrid quickly brushed them off as he led us to the back of the pub.
We went out the back door and Hagrid quickly pulled out his magical umbrella and tapped the bricks in front of us. The way opened up to reveal a street beyond thriving with activity and filled with witches, wizards, and their children scurrying about their arms laden with their many purchases. I felt as if I had entered a dream, where everything was not as it seemed. There was so much to see, I honestly didn’t know where to look first. One thing was certain, it seemed only Harry and I was astounded by our bustling surroundings.
Even more wondrous was the shop windows filled with things I had never imagined before like shiny brooms, colorful robes, books of every size, cauldrons, and everything one may need to be a proper wizard or witch. I still couldn’t believe I had been invited to attend a place called Hogwarts and all those amazing curious things that had happened in my past could be credited to unbridled magic!
Without money, Harry and I wouldn’t be even able to make a dent in our school supply list so the first stop on the agenda was the tall, imposing Gringott’s Bank at the end of the street run by strange little creatures that Hagrid called goblins. I had heard of goblins around Halloween, but never fancied myself meeting one. Hagrid told the goblin in charge that we were there to make a withdrawal out of our vaults. “I have a vault too?” I asked Hagrid in disbelief. “Of course you do, Kathy! Your aunt has taken care of everything!” My aunt, which aunt? Holy crap, I have an aunt who was a witch and I never knew or guessed? We were led to a small cart, and I immediately started to freak out.
The cart looked foreboding and a little to much like a roller coaster ride for my tastes. I did not want to get on the blasted thing but had little choice. Feeling scared, I boarded the small cart and it took off like a bat out of hell with me screaming my happy a$$ off in my fright. No one had prepared me for this!! I held on for dear life alternating between praying and cussing like a sailor. Thankfully, the cart soon skidded to a halt before a vault and the goblin jumped off to open a little door which revealed a cave filled with gold. My jaw dropped. Hagrid stepped out, gathered up enough gold to make my purchases, and just as quick we were off again winding around curves and plummeting down hills with me screaming like a banshee. I felt my stomach roll and my lunch rush back up in my throat as I shut my eyes tight. Quickly I swallowed it back down, and was grateful to have survived the experience when the cart finally came to a stop.
We left Gringott’s Bank to discover Diagon Alley bathed in sunshine. We visited Flourish and Blott’s for our spell books, Madam Malkin’s for our robes, and the best place yet, Ollivander’s for our magic wands where after several unsuccessful explosions a wand chose me. Next we proceeded onto the Magical Menagerie where Hagrid assured us that owls were loyal, useful creatures and a wonderful choice. Even though I gazed longingly at the cats, in the end I carried away a lovely owl in a shiny, golden cage. Harry and I were both beaming by day’s end and armed with everything we would need for a successful year at Hogwarts from owls to wands to spell books.
After escorting us to the train station, Hagrid disappeared leaving Harry and I to find Platform 9 ¾ on our own. We discovered a kind wizarding family who happily explained how to get on the platform, and before long I was facing a brick wall and running hell bent for election straight towards it with my trolley certain I would end up sprawled in a heap covered in cuts and bruises. I made it to the other side and discovered the Hogwarts Express waiting for me. The train whistle sounded, startling me from dreamland. I suddenly woke and sat up in bed. The Harry Potter book I had been reading fell to the floor with a thud. My heart raced, and my mind struggled to grasp what seemed so real could only have been a dream until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.