We Sold Their Lives Today

We sold their lives today.

Sixty years of collecting,

lying there like so much rubbish,

just waiting for someone to make an offer.

Selling memories is heartbreaking business.

First it was two for a dollar,

then six for a quarter,

and finally,

ten for a penny.

I waded through

too many

salvaged coffee cans, flower pots, and garden tools.

Shame on you, Grampa.

We all thought Gramma was the pack-rat.

Everything is half off.

I watched her struggle to maintain composure

when the offers were low;

she wanted to hold on to that tiller-

the one he used for so many years.

I wanted to scream “NO!” for her

when she sighed consent

and hung her head,

too weary and old to

argue again.

So many times she heard it-

“Do you want to keep this?”

“Take it,”

was always her reply.

What she meant was,

“Take it, because I have to

know my memories are being held

onto by those I love.”

We hauled them away by carloads, their belongings.

Some were worth much;

others just worth the idea,

“This was Grampa’s.”

or

“This was Grandma’s.”

Now they’ve become our memories.

Memories of the time when

we couldn’t

make time wait,

and our hands were useless to

stop life.

For Grampa

I noticed the sky this morning,

the morning you left us.

It was beautiful;

rose-colored and coral.

I thought of the old saying-

you know the one-

Red sky at morning,

sailors take warning.

And I started to cry.

It wasn’t warning sailors,

and I knew it.

It was warning us,

all of us that are left

that the world would be a little bit darker soon,

because you were going Home.

I knew;

that was why I held your hand maybe a little bit too tight

right before I had to go.

I figured it might have hurt,

but I knew you wouldn’t mind.

You would have done the same

if you’d been able to.

Now I have to figure out

how exactly my little boy is going to

grow up knowing just what a great man you were.

He’ll only see pictures of you,

the ones that prove me right-

that you were the best-dressed man that ever lived,

and so handsome.

(More handsome than all your brothers. Shhh.)

When he grows up,

he won’t get to remember what it was like

to wander through your garden with you,

admiring the stunning array of flowers

you and Gramma worked so hard on.

My son will never watch

Gramma, with the most tender of touch,

comb back the glorious strands of white and grey

from your forehead.

You know, I didn’t mind it a bit

when you missed a haircut or two.

There are far too many balding older men in the world.

It always seemed a shame to clip

the admirable abundance of hair you retained.

I’ll tell you a secret now.

Don’t be mad.

I always hated your favorite hymn.

In the Garden was never quite grandiose enough for me.

But you know I’ll play it for you anyway,

when it’s time to say goodbye.

The words, I really don’t mind, though.

And when I am digging in my own dirt,

I’ll sing them to myself

and think of you.

“I come to the garden alone,

when the dew is still on the roses…”

I maintain my opinion that

Crystal Gayle was always prettier than Loretta Lynn.

I keep saying it,

hoping you’ll come back and argue with me.

Loretta never knew what she was missing,

but all the rest of us will,

until we see you later.

 

Is This Love?

I think it is.

Everybody, meet Stevie Monroe. Part English Mastiff, part Newfoundland, all adorableness.

The Diary of Sparklebumps- May 29th,1994

A continuation of yesterday.

We went to Auntie’s today. It was fun. Paul (my cousin’s friend) is kinda cute. When we got back, I actually got to hold my kittens. There (oops, they’re) so cute! We watched It’s A Wonderful Life, and I really realized how wonderful life is.

Summer of Love

There are times when I can be an absolute bore. Or boar, depending on the day. I know it’s quite impossible for you to believe it, after all I’m so sparkly and witty and all, but all those sparkly witticisms can take a toll on a person, so much so, that all she wants to do is sit and read. (To be honest, that’s really all I want to do on my non-witty days too.)

Anyhoo, I , perhaps unwittingly, made a decision that I would no longer be waiting for the good times to happen, and that I would forcibly cause them to happen. Which is why I made a point to go with my Rockstar to his boring -ass late-model races this summer, and the zoo, with my friend from work (where we witnessed giraffes copulating for the mere seconds that I guess it takes), went to see my favorite band in the ghettos of Spring Lake Park (more on that later) and am working on a fabulously legendary costume for the Renaissance Festival which I shall attend with my Delightful.

This may seem like small and uninteresting turds to some of you, who travel the world and dine with kings and such, but considering that this was the first summer in 3 years when I’ve actually been able to get out of work occasionally, it is huge. I may even get to go to the South Dakota State Fair. (Which I only want to attend to see if their deep-fried goodnesses are a rival for Minnesota’s.)

In order to keep my Rockstar’s daughter from being bored at her mother’s while we slave away at work during the days, she goes to S.D. to visit her grandparents, so she hasn’t been around much since school let out. There was a few days where I got myself out of my selfish reading slump enough to take her to the beach, and then there was today.

I was not exactly thrilled at first when my Rockstar suggested that I watch his Daughter on my half-day off yesterday, but then I thought of all the wonderful things we two could do together. Apparently, the Daughter had been racking her brain too, for she woke me up with a schedule. It was to be like school, complete with bathroom breaks and recess. I acquiesced to her request, and off we went.

I wondered how long it would take her ADD self to realize that a half hour of quiet time (her idea, mind you) was too long, and I was right on target when 15 minutes went by and she was ready to go outside. We went, and she realized her friends were out, so Teacher Daughter  said I was “allowed to read” while she “did important teacher stuff.” I obeyed.

Our “field trip” for the day was a walk to McDonald’s to meet my Rockstar for his lunch break. We realized we had left entirely too early, and decided to take silly pictures of ourselves along the way, which resulted in a fit of giggles. After a healthful lunch of French fries and sugar-filled soda, we walked back, marching in time to each other, and busting out laughing when we weren’t.

I’ve come to realize this having a non-Daughter is not as tough as it sometimes seems.

We’re All Mad Here

I received a visit from the people who bore me this morning. While normal family gatherings are complete with hugs and mashed potatoes and maybe a beer or two, this one seemed like more of a covert encroachment.

I may not have yet mentioned that a few weeks ago, I decided to in not such impolite words tell my parents to fuck off. I admit, I was not raised to so forcibly express my emotions to my elders, (the whole, respect thy mother and thy father thing) but I had decided that since my parents didn’t have the balls enough to tell my half-sister they no longer wished to know her, I would show them mine and tell them I no longer wished to know them. After all, don’t we all get to blame our parents for our fucked up lives at one point or another? In actuality, I didn’t blame them for a thing, because really, if they hadn’t been the way they had, I wouldn’t have turned out as delightfully disturbed and amazing as some of you all think I am.

Anyhoo, I was in my car for a moment when I saw their desert-colored Chevy and mini camper circling me in the work parking lot as one would imagine a shark would circle. They parked, and I took in a deep breath to prepare myself for the onslaught of “we love you”s, and “we pray for you every day”. I was not to be disappointed.

After receiving a hug from my upset mother while receiving a pitying look from my father for my eternal soul, they asked what it was that had happened to cause the riff I had specifically created between us. I told them that they have three other children, none of whom want to see them, and though I had not exactly been rude about it, I agreed with their decisions. My parents then went on to say that my siblings chose the lives they live, and that it was not my parents job to fix them- to which I silently wondered why I myself was not allowed such luxury.

Then, my mom announced that they had been informed by a family member of a certain blog I had created- a blog of such filth and pollution that it could hardly be named. After asking why I would call myself “the bookstore whore” (because they so closely read and interpreted my insane ramblings), my mother asked if I was, in fact, possessing of multiple personalities- because the sweet little church girl I was FIFTEEN YEARS AGO was nowhere apparent in the last 2 of 446 posts I’ve written. I nodded, admitting that yes, there is no way possible that I could be possessing of only ONE personality- one of a girl who was raised in church and then left out in the real world to make her way.

“Well, maybe you need some help; maybe you need to talk to someone.” They had chosen that moment to announce that this was an intervention- the time to save me from my fucked-up and histrionic self, the time to rescue me from my back-slidden ride into eternal damnation. My father alternated between trying to hold his tongue and sporadically bursting out with reassurances that God loves me and the like. My mother broke the news that all my aunts and cousins are “deeply concerned” about me, because I am living a life of apparent derangement with my Rockstar (a title at which my dad scoffed condescendingly at) and working as a Pizza Slut while playing piano on Sundays at my Auntie’s church, and writing about it for “the WHOLE world to read!” (They seem to think that I am up for any naughty deeds with any man who asks, despite the fact that I mention my Rockstar and our relationship on nearly every post. I do not deny that I am up for anything, but as far as with who- I choose my Rockstar until he chooses otherwise.)

I began to realize at that moment that while my parents are maybe partially right to be concerned over my supposed lunacy, that the fact that we were having such a conversation in the parking lot of a mall in the blustering wind while I was supposed to be working was, in fact, madness incarnate. I announced that there was no need to further our discussion, for the crazy don’t know they are crazy, and will forever argue with a person that their opinions are correct.

I do not know what will happen from now on, but I have been assured by the people who see me on a daily basis that, while I am quite kooky in my own way, I have a long way to go before I am tranquelized and made to wear a straight-jacket as my fashion statement.

As for multiple personalities, I don’t think I’ve had one yet that people haven’t found charming.

 

The Woman In His Life

I had a good talk with my beloved brother yesterday.

I’ve mentioned him on occasion, but because of my early onset of Alheimer’s that I seem to be suffering from this week, I do not recall exactly what I have written about him.

My brother is the product of my flaky mother and her first asshole husband. (Which technically makes my brother only my half-brother, but we shall not split hairs- mainly because the ones on my head are already split.) Let us just say that because of the tender age my mother was when she gave birth to my sibling, he did not receive the care he perhaps may have gotten if she had been 30 and fully matured. He was 12 when I was born, and excited to have a beautiful baby sister who was me.

I was far too young to remember much about the time he lived with us before my dad kicked him out for smoking pot, but I remember fondly the brotherly love he bestowed upon me- namely, flicking the end of my nose, (that hurt like a bitch!) and swatting my ass with a flyswatter after I repeatedly spit on his leather jacket, which I did only to show off to his friends. I did not get know truly know him until I was 18 and out of the house, because my parents treated him as a pariah, and were afraid he would be a bad influence on me. (As if I wasn’t a bad enough influence on myself.)

My Brother had a nervous breakdown at his last job, around the time I got to know him, and was diagnosed with depression and some other mental issues I fail to recall at this time. I remember the first time I went to visit him after not knowing him for most of my life, and found that he was not a normal person- mainly because he was much kinder, and more sensitive and loving than the normal people who go around only caring about themselves every day. We fast became friends, despite being complete opposites- he was raised with no structure while I was raise in an invisible churchy prison; he has no job while I have for the most part worked overtime my entire working life; I have a faith I believe firmly in, while he hasn’t an idea what to believe.

Because we did not exactly grow up as brother and sister conventionally do, we have many conversations that I’m not sure normal siblings have. We talk of love, and sex, and dreams. He told me of the one woman he truly loved, a 350 lb. black woman who he had worked with and gone to movies with who had been 15 years his senior. I told him of my deep desire to have children, and of how we should start a band, because he plays drums and I piano, and we both adore music.

When I was with my ex-husband, he could not understand why I visited my brother so often. “He doesn’t have a job” and “He lives off of disability” were his repeated statements. I tried to explain to him that a job (or lack thereof) does not make a person who they are, unless they intend it to be that way. While I do not necessarily carry a deep devotion to family, I see my brother as my brother, whether he has a job or smokes alotta weed or is depressed more than the average person.

About 9 months ago, my brother told me he met a girl, and I was ecstatic for him. It did not take me long, however, to realize from what he told me that this bitch was a crazy useless ‘ho, who perhaps unintentionally was preying on my brother’s sensitivity. I could not hide my dislike for her when he introduced her to me- after I left she was quick to ask my brother if I hated her.

I’ve not had a lot of time to go visit my brother in the last months, but we’ve talked on the phone enough for me to know he’s had a tough time letting go of this insane chic, but when I talked to him yesterday, he calmly told me he has come to a conclusion: He is convinced that I am the woman in his life.

His statement is not to be thought of in disgusting incestual terms, for he means it not in that way at all. All he meant is that I am the one woman who has always been there for  him, and never let him down, and never expected anything from him except for him to be himself. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that he has been that to me as well. He always is happy to see me, and expects naught from me except my sisterly love.

Incidentally, I’ve been together with my Rockstar for 3 years, and he has yet to meet my brother, “the man in my life.” Don’t ask me why, because I know not the reason.

Too Much Style (For Some People)

It is true that I use fashion as a means to express my personality. No, I do not agree that you are what you wear, because I know many amazing and interesting people who wear nothing exciting at all. And sometimes there really is nothing more comfortable to wear than a pair of yoga pants and a white Tshirt. (sans bra, of course) But if one were to look into my closet, their eyes would be blinded by a sea of satiny, overly decorated fabrics. My dresser drawers are stuffed with sparkly, fashionably-torn leggings and jewel-toned turquoise blue jeans. The amount of black clothing I own is minimal, yet necessary, because of the many rainbow colored shoes I possess. If one of the afore-mentioned boringly-clad people would come over to my house and ask to borrow some clothes, it is safe to say that they would be distraught to find nothing that would fit their less-than-desirable fashion standards. (or their chests.)

While it is true that bold decisions in fashion may be questionable at times, I have yet (almost) to have anyone blurt out, “Your outfit is hideous!” as I walk by in my banana-colored peep-toe pumps and poofy silver skirt. My Rockstar, though open-minded about fashion, has complimented me only on my more conservative ensembles, yet appreciates the fact that there is effort put into my getting dressed every day. A Sunday morning would not be complete without at least one individual at church stopping me to openly admire my new pair of stillettos, or my ruffly green blouse. Aquaintances have described me as dressing as a “prom queen” or a “fashionista”, and to that I reply, “What the hell is wrong with that?”

The other day, my Rockstar’s daughter and I were deeply engrossed in the painting of many Christmas presents. We were carrying on a lovely conversation that somehow turned to makeup and fashion. The day before, the Daughter had mentioned the excessiveness of the makeup I was wearing, and since she has never been bothered by the glitter and sparkles before, I decided to ask her about it.

“So I wear too much makeup, eh?” I asked proddingly.

She shrugged. “I don’t think so; I think your makeup is BEAUTIFUL, but my mom says you do.”

Ah.

“She also says your clothes are really ugly.” She continued.

Normally, I would take offense, but since the “ugly” comment is coming from a person devoid of fashion personality, I feel only pity.

“Oh. Well your mom’s clothes are a little bit less flashy than mine.” I replied democratically.

“Well, I don’t think your clothes are ugly at all! I think they’re awesome! The very first time I saw you I thought how I wanted to look just like you. My mom tries to put makeup on like you and then she’ll come out of the bathroom and be all like, ‘Oh, don’t I look BEAUTIFUL?’ and I tell her, ‘No way, Mom, you look ugly like that’ and then she gets really mad, but it’s just because she doesn’t know how to put makeup on like you do. And all her clothes are BROWN.”

I refrained from letting the “heehee” that was floating around in my brain seep out from my mouth. “Well, maybe she just didn’t have anyone to teach her how to put makeup on. But you know, lots of makeup should never be used to cover up your face. You should only use that much for fun, ok?”

“Yeah, I know.”

We continued painting in companionable silence, my little fashion protege’ and I.

I do not feel malice or animosity toward the Daughter’s Mother, because I realize she is just using her jealousy as a defense mechanism. Even without having her ex as my Rockstar and her Daughter as my Almost-kid, I would still have more wit, and personality, and boobs than she. But if she would ever ask, I would also have the decency to coach her in makeup technique.

If you are wondering what this person looks like, you may refer to here.

 

 

Bitch? Please.

I have a brother.

I don’t know if you’ve been paying enough attention to know that.

Despite having the same mother, we were raised on the complete opposite ends of the parenting spectrum. Where I was raised in a strict and suffocating household, my brother was oft times ignored and then left to his own devices. Upon my arrival into this world, my brother was then treated as a irritating leftover from a previous life, and I was withheld from his aquaintance in the hopes that his juvenile delinquency wouldn’t rub off on me.

Many years later, after he was hospitalized for having a mental breakdown, my shy self felt it necessary to get to know the brother I remembered from my youth. We soon became fast friends, and I realized that we are truly related, as we both inherited the one good trait our mother possesses- empathy. We both of us at times worry about other people’s feelings more than our own, which sometimese results in our own misery.

Being the sister of a brother I did not know deeply from youth, the subjects of our conversations may not necessarily be the norm between siblings. This may be the reason I ended up knowing about my brother’s unbelievable decade-long dry spell.

My brother’s non-self-imposed celibacy had throughout the years been the butt of jokes between us, yet I was greatly relieved for him when he called a few months ago and revealed that he had once again lost his virginity. He rambled on about his newfound sex partner, and then proceeded to shock me with the information that he was, in fact, not in a relationship, but had gained a fuck buddy.

Let me be clear- I condone all forms of sex (that do not include animals), and so a fuck buddy relationship is not what is shocking. The fact that it is my brother, who has the somewhat-womanly mentality that sex actually means something, who is having a fuck buddy is what’s shocking. Upon receiving more information, I found that his “buddy” is in love with her baby daddy, and from the sounds of it, likes to use my brother to buy her alcohol and to babysit her kid. My brother assured me that he was fine with the situation, but after receiving many phone calls from a deeply sensitive brother who is upset because of his feelings for a certain someone, I find myself to be unbelieving about his assurances.

I was willing to give his “buddy” the benefit of the doubt in the beginning- perhaps she was just lonely; perhaps she realizes my brother is a good guy and wants more to do with him; perhaps she will someday forget about her baby daddy and live happily ever after with my brother. Perhaps.

I went to visit my brother this last week, and after spending the day with him and hearing all about how terribly this woman makes him feel, I was intent on never meeting her. From what he told me, she needs a shrink and a beating. I found that I am more than willing to be the one to administer said beating. Imagine my irritation when the bitch calls my brother when I’m visiting, and insists on coming over to meet “the wonderful sister he talks so much about.” I could not contain my inner groan when my brother informed me his bitch was on her way over.

I rolled my eyes and told the truth. “Look. I wanted to meet her because you like her for whatever fucking reason. Sadly, after hearing you say ONLY negative things about her all the day, I must tell you that I no longer have that desire, and so I must depart before this devil woman arrives.” My brother, while maybe disappointed, understood where I was coming from, and so walked me out to my yellow truck. Sadly, I was unable to make a clean getaway, and the bitch wandered out of her building and sauntered over to meet me.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you! Oh! You’re so pretty! I can’t believe how pretty you are!” She gushed and continued. “Your brother’s a good man. He’s a really good man and my son loves him.” I agreed whole-heartedly that indeed my brother is a good man, yet in my head I was wondering why on earth any woman would introduce her child to a fuck buddy. Like kids don’t have enough going on to confuse them. I civilly accepted her hug, and automatically returned it (because I cannot NOT give a hug) and then gracefully waved a non-friendly goodbye.

A few hours later, my brother called to confirm that I returned home safely, and corroborated that I am not the stellar actress that I thought I was. He said to me, “Yeah, as soon as you left, she asked, ‘She hates me, doesn’t she?'”

For the record, my histrionic personality makes it impossoble for me to completely hate her, because she said I was pretty. But the healthy side of me does indeed loath her.

Victory of the “Evil” Almost Stepmother

I have mentioned on several occassions the existance of my Rockstar’s Daughter. In the mentionings therein, you may or may not have noticed underlying tones of irritation, aggravation, or exasperation. (These due to the fact that after almost three years, I still on occassion will hear, “He’s MY dad; this is OUR house; why don’t you go live somewhere else.”)

No, it is not all bad, this parenting of a child not of my loins. For example, she had begun to word things as I do, which is in a manner not of this world, and she carries within her the same fondness for princess movies and high heels as I. So, if we sat around all day watching The Princess Bride and Princess Cariboo while alternately sauntering around in stillettos and fancy dresses, the relationship between us would be one that would create awe in those who observed it. However, though I am not a parent myself, I am aware that at times, princesses must be put away and rules must abound; mainly the finishing of one’s homework before bedtime. This has always made me worried that I am seen as the Evil Stepmother that you hear about in those fairy tales in the Daughter’s eyes. (They always have fabulous makeup, but it’s not exactly what I aspire to.)

A week or so ago, I went to purchase groceries and was immediately distracted upon arrival at the store by the giant bins that held massive and slightly deformed pumpkins. It is my belief that in going through life, in order to be happy, one must revert to the acts of their childhood, and not always take things so seriously. While thinking so, I picked out the most round and only barely-marred pumpkin with the intent of making it a date with the Daughter and carving it on my next day off. This may seem like an overtly obvious act one might perform with a child, but being not a parent myself, I do not always think that way. I arrived home with Stan in my arms, (so I had named my round orangy friend) quite proud of myself that I had so unselfishly thought to include the Daughter in Stan’s facial formation.

My Rockstar thought it a grand idea. In fact, so grand an idea he thought it that when he went to pick up his daughter the next day, he stopped and bought each of them another pumpkin, so that I could have Stan all to myself. The carving of pumpkin flesh commenced on the next day, upon the floor of the living room.

At first, I was thinking that perhaps my idea for child/ almost stepmother bonding time was a bad one, when the Daughter immediately began crying and whining because she didn’t know how to carve her pumpkin and was too impatient to let me show her. I diffused the situation by releasing the Tickle Monster on her, and soon her tear-stained face was aglow with delight. My Rockstar soon joined us, and then we were a family stabbing our unassuming jack-o-lanterns on a Sunday afternoon.

My Rockstar’s Dad called at one point, and he left the room so as to give himself privacy. The Daughter and I carried on a conversation, about school, and boys, and then it somehow turned to the subject of her mother.

Now I am selfish and histrionic enough that every fiber in my body wishes to point out the flaws of she who birthed the Daughter any time her name comes up. Luckily, I have just enough common sense to NOT do that exact thing, but instead just nod and listen when the Daughter drones on about her less-than-ideal mother. In the end, this has served me well, because nearing the end of the conversational subject, the Daughter, of her own volition and without any coaching from me, said something I would never have expected to hear from her lips.

“I wish YOU were my mom, and not my mom.”

Upon hearing those words, I immediately had the urge to jump up and issue a warrior’s victory cry, but thought better of it when I realized I was weilding a non-sharp pumpkin-carving instrument. Instead, I chose my responding words carefully.

“Well, you already have a mom, so maybe I can just be your second mom, and then you’ll have twice as many people to love you.”

This solution seemed satisfactory to the Daughter, and we continued to create pumpkin art in an amiable silence. But I will tell you the victorious warrior in my head was making a pretty big racket.