A Villians Gotta Vill.....

In a past work life, I not only forced the good people I worked with to watch "The Bachelor", I also subjected them to my thoughts about each episode. I'm no longer working with those fabulous peeps, but I still have things to say.

And so....here are my thoughts on the Shit Storm formerly known as The Bachelorette, by Dori Robinson Smeltzer

It's unfortunate that the producers decided to sift through rejected applicants from ALL the prior seasons and bring them back to woo Kaitlyn. But it is what it is. I honestly think poor Kaitlyn would have better luck finding a decent partner at a bar in Sully, Iowa (and there is no bar in Sully) So, you catch my drift.

As the season progresses, I will develop monikers for everyone on the show, but it's too early for that. For now, you will have to deal with my random thoughts. If you have difficulty with this, call my husband Hot Dave. Much like JJ, who offers classes in sabotage, HD can offer lessons in random thoughts.


Jared: Cheekbones/Black Eye. Willing to be punched repeatedly. I want to like him, but sometimes I think his eyes are crossed. And that his hair needs a good shampooing.

Shawn: HOT HOT HOT. He has a very tall head that reminds me of an eraser. Strangely, I think I'm okay with it.

Tanner: Needle Nose. Looks like a country singer.

Chris: Already named Cupcake, for obvious reasons. DOES ANYONE SEE THE IRONY IN KAITLYN CHOOSING A DENTIST????? It’s too bad he is probably gay. That could cause problems down the line, but if she can get a new grill, it's worth it.

Justin: No name. His only distinguishing feature is his shiner. He needs to step up his game. Half of the men in the house have black eyes. Set yourself apart with a cut lip or a broken arm, man!

Ian: BIG TALL GLASS OF CHOCOLATE MILK

Joshua: Hot Welder slash Boy Next Door

Joe: Okay, at first blush, I thought he was a. a serial killer and b. wearing a very tall hair piece. That aside, this Kentucky dude has been growing on me. Perhaps it was his willingness to air his left nut on national television…I can’t put my finger on it. Ewwwww. Wait. I didn’t mean on his nut. I mean, I guess I COULD technically put my finger on that, but I’d rather not. In any case, Kentucky Joe Nutter Butter is a true contender.

Tony: Healer Has A Dealer. Tony wants us to know he has a business, a dog, and bonsai trees. And…..a serious anger management problem. He has the heart of a warrior and a gypsy soul, and he sees the world thru the eyes of a child. As we all know now, he took his childish eyes and left the show….for which I am very thankful. I like that he said he was on the show to help people understand what they really want. Hey, Tone. You know what I really want? For you to get a haircut. And shove one of your bonsai trees up your gypsy soul.

JJ: No name, because he isn't worth it. I hated him on sight. And with every second I had to watch his smug mug, I hated him more. Also, what is a “former investment banker”? Does that just mean “formerly employed”?

I realize I didn't catch them all, but eventually it will happen if they survive the next rose ceremony. Side note: wouldn’t it be funny if they called it the Bros Ceremony? I’ll work on that.

Now let’s talk about the dates, starting with the Sumo Idiocy, aka, Nuts And Butts On Parade.

For a brief second (and before I realized Clint is shorter than my five-year old), I thought he and his topknot were looking good. Cupcake was clearly terrified about chipping a bicuspid. NOTE: Someone used the phrase “man meat” during this date. If you are a God-loving citizen, you WILL work that into a sentence or two this week. Example: Whoa, I’m so glad I don’t have man meat. That would be like a long trip on the Struggle Bus.

Tony may have the heart of a warrior, but he also had a very unsettling crease in his man diaper. After smack talking and then wildly attacking the 600 pound man, he was beaten. And then he traded in his child eyes for some angry, bitter eyes. He wanted to know why everything was about aggression....and all of his questions were shouted in...yes, sheer aggression. He and his uncomfortable crease want to go on a boat ride, or perhaps sky diving. Those ideas sound ridiculous, but since he is currently wearing a loincloth, I can’t really blame him. Big thanks to Kaitlyn for subjecting everyone to Tony deep breathing to keep his primal instincts at bay, followed by a quick moment of meditation, followed by hawking up a giant loogie. Is this a new form of relaxation? Hmmmmm.

Now is the time of where I tell you what Tony says, and what I secretly say back to him from my couch:
Tony: “I want you to see the real me.”
Dori: “Dude. That is the LAST thing you want. We would rather see Kentucky Joes Jewels than the real you.”
Tony: “I’m here for you.”
Dori: “You are actually here to flex your six pack on television, and to steal hair products from the other men.”

Unfortunately, my private couch moments with Tony were interrupted when I noticed that JJ HAS BACK ACNE. Only mean people have back acne. Or people with short arms, because they can’t properly reach their backs. In either case, he potentially has back acne AND short arms. No. No. A thousand times NO.

Thankfully, they clicked right through the rest of the sumo scene, with Clint quickly kicking everyone’s ass and then taking a selfie with a bunch of girls in the background. This is confusing on so many levels that not even I can speak sarcastically about it. Later, back at the hood, Clint decides that since he threw a bunch of other (tall) men on the ground that he deserves special recognition. Hate to break it to you, Clint….Kaitlyn is too busy tongue wrestling with the other men in the house to worry about you.

JJ, meanwhile, is wearing some seriously bad pants. So we now know he is unemployed, has back acne, short arms, and also bad pants. And although Clint is acting like he wants to put a ring on it, I’m here to tell you that no truly gay man would wear pants THAT BAD. Trust me on this, people. Clint and JJ bonded over turtles and wrestling moves. Oh, and clearly, shared showers. (Psssssst. JJ!! That was NOT a turtle!!)

Kaitlyn and Benzie had a one on one date. Yeah, I know it’s Ben Z. But isn’t Benzie cute? Who doesn’t love this handsome devil? And who doesn’t think that the Basement date was stupid and pointless? What kind of gas were they REALLY going to shoot into the room? Unless they had Britt outside lined up to fart into a tube that was piped directly into the room, I’m not feeling it.

I can sum this date up quickly – Benzie is clearly a descendant of Angela Lansbury with his clue solving skills. He’s afraid of snakes. Kaitlyn has an aversion to doves. None of these facts stop them from engaging in a make out sesh in the Terror Room. Then finally, Benzie and Kaitlyn get in the hot tub. That took long enough! Benzie tells his story about his mom, making me love him all the more. Forget Kaitlyn. Forget Hot Dave. I am going to marry Ben Z. Or adopt him. Or move to Missouri and do both.

Second Group Date – Sex Ed Gone Wrong, aka POOR PARENTING CHOICES ARE REAL. I don’t care if they ARE child actors, this is too much.
This whole scene made me so uncomfortable as a parent that I’m keeping my comments brief. Ryan. Where did he come from? He has great hair, and is clearly a vagina expert. Although I've dated men for less, I think Ryan will be returning to his real estate career quickly. Josh jumped right into Your Monthly Visitor with gusto. I admire that. True, I do wish he didn’t believe that tampons have a rip cord...perhaps cows feel differently, but I don't want a parachute in my swimsuit area. Do you? Then Ben H. came along and blew everybody out of the water. Well done, Ben H! I can’t stop picturing him as a giant sperm with legs, but I have that happen with a lot of people. It’s okay.

To wrap it up, Kaitlyn then made out with Jared. And then Clint. Gay or not, I can tell by the way he kisses that he has a weiner the size of a gherkin. Then she made out with Cupcake and Ben H. and probably the producers. Kaitlyn! Honey!! That’s enough, now. Save something for Episode 3.

As if Ben H. couldn’t be any cooler, he also said my favorite line of the night, “That was a big ten minutes.” Let’s all carry that forward. Tomorrow, we must each have a big ten minutes. I do NOT want to see pictures. Just do it.

Between now and next Monday, I’d like each of you to ponder the worst line of the night……A villians gotta vill. What does that mean? And if that is true, let’s consider other applications. It works at times…A drivers gotta drive. A shooters gotta shoot. But then, much like JJs bad pants, it goes awry. A pirates gotta pie, for example. A mustache has to must? A Bachelorette has to Bach? Yes. Batch JJ and Clint together and send them far, far away.

Until next week, my friends.

Like An Old Friend

Oh, my. It's been quite some time since I blogged, something I started doing because I was alone and afraid and in need of a listening ear...and here is where I found it. And oh, the hours I spent pounding on my keyboard and working out the kinks! In my wee house in Sully, in the wee hours, I wrote and wrote and wrote, while my wee children drooled on their pillows (or mine...let's be honest).

Some of those thoughts I shared right here...and so many I didn't. Those remain unpublished and unread, and tucked away...beside the worst memories, the worst nightmares, and all things unspeakable. They can stay there. I might read them one day. I might share them with a soul or two....or I might just let them rest. The beauty lies in knowing that I get to make those decisions.

So. Why did I stop writing? That is simple. I'm no longer alone, just a tiny bit afraid now and then, and thank the sweet Lord, virtually surrounded by listening ears these days. But truth be told, I really miss writing. This blog is like an old friend that knows nearly everything about me, demands next to nothing, and sends me a card every birthday, even if I don't deserve it. I'm happy to see this old friend again - to talk about old memories, that crazy Kentucky Brown Bear recipe I tried tonight (I swear to God, that's what it was called) and about what may or may not happen tomorrow. I'm looking forward to writing without a dark cloud hanging over my head. It's not all sweetness and light, but I have fair doses of both and man, I dig that.

Speaking of old friends...just last night I was involved in a group chat on Facebook that nearly had me whizzing my drawers. I will identify the other parties involved as only C and J, as they may not want to be named...and I, of course, am playing the part of D.

C: OK you two...I just couldn't help but send you a quick note. I was going through some of my crap and found a stack of notepaper notes (how much do I love that she described them that way?) between the three of us. I was sitting on the floor of my basement snorting and laughing out loud. J is constantly apologizing for her handwriting (which is perfect, by the way) and D is telling me exactly what she is wearing, and all about her torrid love affairs. (And folks, there were none. What an imagination I must have had!) This is some pretty intense reading!!

D: Please. J had the most perfect handwriting EVER. And she got boobs first. So unfair!

C: I know! She was so advanced.

J: OMG. How embarrassing!

C: Oh yeah, baby! You had it going on!

D: Remember when Mr. Becker read one of our joint notes OUT LOUD? Mortal embarrassment!!

At this point, we talked about whether or not we would be attending our upcoming 25 year class reunion. I couldn't help resorting to a bit of peer pressure when J seemed reluctant to commit.....

D: J. You MUST attend. Or C will publish your notes in our hometown paper.

J made some completely desultory (and ridiculous) comment about herself. And wisely, I responded with this nugget:

D: Stop the madness. Wear a low cut shirt and all is well.

C: I also found a pic of us being grapes for some Homecoming thing. Our. Hair. Was. HUGE.

And then...the three of us went on and on, complimenting each other on our respective bleached, permed and spiral curled hairstyles, thanking each other for friendship, and simply being supportive, kind long-term friends. I've been on this earth for 43 years, I've been a girl for all of them, and I know the rarity of that type of genuine, uncalculated kindness. I think we all need a little more of that. I think we all need to give a little more of that.

It's funny how things come full circle. I've lived in my new hometown for over a year now, and I have had the good fortune to make some seriously cool girlfriends. I call them hens, and the name fits. They strut, they fluff their feathers, they peck at the varmints. Simply put, they took me in. And not so many evenings ago, they came to my house with their childhood photos in hand, and we laughed until we cried. We were rowdy and bawdy and crude...but not - never - towards each other. In fact, I held on to some of these comments that night,

"I love how you feathered your hair! It was so....artistic!"

"Wow. I didn't know you were born a boy, but you made an excellent boychild. And I'm sure your weiner was superb."

"Your bangs were crooked, but in a very shabby chic way. Honest."

I think the lesson here is clear. Be kind. Give it away, because there is so much more to be had. Get out there. Cook that Kentucky Brown Bear. Tell one of your girlfriends she had a great weiner.

There is something good to be found in nearly everything, if we just push back our permed hair and look for it. I'm looking. Are you?

And speaking of pictures, this here is Miss Penelope, biking her little legs off in pursuit of corn.

Yesterday I stood beside the casket of the man one of my sisters loved with all her heart, and watched in agony as she bid him farewell. She spoke to him from her heart. She whispered in his ear, stroked his hair, kissed his lips. I had promised myself and my sister that I would be there for her support, but for a few moments, my mind was reeling at the love and strength that I saw. My sister was clothed in a snazzy skirt and heels, but when I looked at her through my overflowing eyes, I saw her gleaming in armor. My sister was a warrior of love and grief, and she conquered both.

For months now, I have been reading and researching warriors, and battles, and bravery. I have written on my heart the names of women and men who have given their lives for a cause they believed in. I have found myself amazed, stunned, frightened, breathless, and occasionally filled with a sense of wild exhiliration. From the time that Joshua fought the battle of Jericho, history is chock-full of warriors who have laid down life and lance for what they believed in. I have no concrete reason for this research, beyond the fact that I felt compelled to do it. But this evening it hit me that I have been surrounded by warriors my entire life, and that I carry a sizable shield myself.

I rose before the sun on the morning we were to bury my sisters' husband, determined to steal just a few moments to myself....to sort my thoughts and catch my breath, and to raise a few fervent prayers for the day ahead. Text messages were buzzing in from friends and family, as were email messages from the office and school.....all of which I successfully ignored until just one caught my eye. With a racing heart and turning stomach, I read a message that informed me that my ex-husband had somehow stolen a photo from my Facebook page, and posted it on his own. A photo of two of my children, both his former victims....a photo I had snapped in my very own kitchen on Easter morning of this year. I realize that the phrase, "I feel violated" is often used as a punchline these days. That aside, there is no other term that can more aptly describe my reaction.

Once upon a time I described myself as a victim of domestic violence. Then....after time (and extensive therapy and soul-searching) I called myself a survivor. Both statements are factual. But I write this tonight as a warrior - a warrior against domestic violence, yes. But more specifically, I am waging a war against the man who bestowed upon me those titles, the monster I continue to fight, and the sociopath who sees nothing wrong with stealing and posting photos of his former victims.

The day will come when the state of Washington will decree that said monster is permitted to be in the same room with my innocent, precocious, larger-than-life daughter Penelope. Parental rights aside, Penelope has done nothing to deserve such treatment. She has never been exposed to evil or depravity. She thinks that rainbows are real, that Santa Claus is in the nearest chimney, and that my kisses truly heal all boo-boos. She loves and adores a man that she calls Daddy of her own accord, and he is not the creep who claims her as if she is a piece of furniture. Her tenacity and her intelligence are inspiring, and I will never stop swinging on her behalf.

I have a nine-year old son who still flinches if you reach for him too quickly. I have a nine-year old daughter who cannot bear to be startled. I cannot stand the smell of vanilla, the sound of rap music, or any surprise that is orchestrated outside of my knowledge. I have a costly and ridiculous security system on my house that I activate nightly, and years worth of sleepless nights that I have logged, checking and re-checking locks and watching out darkened windows.

There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to bury my story. Those were the days when I still assumed the shame of what was done to me, and to my children. But here's the scoop...I didn't ask to be abused, nor did my children. We were conned....manipulated...bamboozled, if you will. And now our warrior eyes are wide open, and trained on the one person responsible.

I ask you this, and only this. Read our story. Post it. And post it again. I know that I am not the only woman or mother in this position, but perhaps I am the only warrior brave enough to speak the truth.

There was a time when I woke every morning to look into the face of abuse and cruelty and deception. I am sharing my story because I swore to myself some time ago that I would not allow any other innocent women and children to suffer. As Yehuda Bauer once said, and as I remind myself every day, "Thou shalt not be a victim, thou shalt not be a perpetrator, but, above all, thou shalt not be a bystander.”

Tiny Bubbles

It's been a while since I wrote anything worth posting (in my humble opinion) on this little blog of mine. It occurs to me that I've been living in a bubble, provided by the state of Washington via a domestic violence protection order. Bubbles don't last forever....and sadly, neither do protective orders. So tomorrow, in the middle of a busy day at the office, I will go behind closed doors and wait for a call from the Family Court in Washington state. I know that my attorney will be on the other end, as will a Judge and a stenographer, and I expect that my evil ex-husband will be there as well.

You see, my beautiful little daughter Penelope turned three years old today....and for me, that means my days as of late have been filled with cupcakes and Dora bracelets and pale pink balloons...and after all of the party favors are cleaned up and everyone goes home, I wrestle with my fear into the wee hours of almost every morning.

Penelope has had a domestic violence protective order in place since the tender age of one. The state of Washington only grants protective orders of this type for one year at a time for minor children, in the hopes that the abuser will mend his/her ways and suddenly emerge as a model parent. If there were an icon for dripping sarcasm, this would be the place to insert it. So, August of 2011 was spent writing motions and wrapping presents.....and we all got the gift we wanted the most.....a swimming pool for Penelope, and a protective order for another year. Now here I am another year later, asking for another year of protection for my daughter. The financial cost of this process is literally smothering me. I expect to make a monthly payment to my attorney in Washington for the rest of my life. I cannot begin to describe the emotional toll that this process exacts.

I don't talk about this openly or with any sense of ease, as it is painful and yes, still shameful to me. But every year when I write a motion and beg the court to further protect my daughter, I am required to recall the past. I have to write motions and eventually give testimony about the war zone in which my kids and I lived, and that nearly breaks my heart. I was raised with the mantra, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." It makes me laugh now, remembering some paperwork that I had to fill out for the court in Washington two years ago....some idiot handed me a form that asked me to say something "nice" about my ex-husband. The only thing I could come up with was, "He is tall." I said something nice. Now I am speaking only the truth. And tall, short, or otherwise, he is dangerous.

If you are reading this, pray. Pray for my strength tomorrow, and pray that I am given the fortitude to say what the Judge needs to hear. Pray that Penelope passes safely from 3 to 4 years of age without being exposed to evil. Pray that I eventually go to bed and sleep. Pray that Roan and Posey are no longer afraid. Pray that the birthday wishes that I sent up on Penelopes' behalf are granted.

I have my notes prepared for tomorrow, and at the top of them is a verse that has been sent to me over and over.....2 Corinthians 3:12 "Since we have such a hope we act with great boldness."

I have hope. Pray for boldness.

Things I Like....and Things I Do Not

Things That I Like:

-The smell of clean laundry.
-The smell of your skin when you come in from a walk or run on a cold, windy day.
-Chocolate.
-Giggling. I think there is far too little giggling in this world. I intend to change that.
-When Sadie dreams, and her little dog legs twitch, and she yelps in her sleep. I like to imagine that she is dreaming of walking on a doggie runway somewhere, and that she is yelping everytime a young pup throws a rose in her direction.
-Turtlenecks. Yep, I said it. I do!
-Taking a shower before I take a bath, to avoid sitting in my own filth.
-A warm hoodie.
-Waking up in the middle of the night, looking at the clock and realizing I have several hours of sleep still coming my way.
-Puppy breath.
-Tiny silverware. I cannot resist it, and have been known to slip it into my purse or my bra on occasion.
-Kissing. Oooooowwwweeeeeee do I love me some kissing!
-High heeled shoes, both shopping for and wearing.
-Poetry, but only if I can understand it.
-Childrens' books written in rhyme. So much easier to read.
-Snuggling. Spooning. Holding hands, pinching behinds, and waking up in the middle of the night to find his hand on my hip. Is there any better middle-of-the-night feeling?
-The freedom to be completely honest.
-Eye contact.
-Slipping into my home pants and slipping off my bra at the end of a long day.
-New projects.
-Music. Music. Music.
-Laundry. The sorting, the washing, the drying, the folding. I get a charge out of knowing I have filled the closets and dressers in my home with fresh, clean laundry.
-Pooping. Look, Freud had plenty to say about it, but I think it is great.
-New tennis shoes.
-The stars, and the wonder of lying in the backyard or the driveway and looking at them with people you love.
-A warm car on a winter morning.
-Being Dutch.
-Peroxide.


And conversely, Things I Do Not Like:

-Bullies. They bite the big one.
-Taxes.
-Stains on my carpet.
-Stinky bathrooms. Have you ever noticed that the bathrooms at drive-in movie theaters are the most foul?
-Arrogance.
-When my dog digs in the trash for diapers...and finds them.
-Dirty ears.
-Freezing rain.
-Cold toes - mine, or that of my children.
-The life envy I experience when I watch a Lifetime movie.
-The miles that separate me and my sisters.
-Interrupting. Seriously, now.
-People who judge other people.
-AKA...self-righteous behavior.
-Creepy men.
-Women in the workplace who don't support other women in the workplace.
-Women who work outside the home who don't support women who stay home.
-Women who stay home who don't respect women who work outside.
-Any person (male or female) who refers to Father/Child Time as "babysitting". Oh, hell to the no.
-Gossip. Save it for 90210, people.
-People who post on Facebook what they are making for dinner, or how many loads of laundry they have washed. Seriously....nobody cares. Say something funny or inspiring, or say nothing at all.
-Unibrows. My son is 8, and I am already talking to him about the wonders of waxing...
-The strong, silent type. Be strong. But for the love of all that is good and holy, don't be silent.

Things We Can Count On

A wise friend recently told me that I should write just how I talk. I'm not sure everyone will agree, but it made sense to me. So tonight I'm on my couch, with my faithful sidekick Sadie snoring and farting beside me, and I'm talking. I guess I'm talking to you...

Here's the thing. I check out my brows in the mirror every day, and I tend to think they look just fine. But then every once in a while I glance in the rearview mirror and nearly gasp in horror to see my brows in the light of day. Good God, there are times when I make Brooke Shields look as if she has alopecia. It doesn't matter where I am headed, or if I am looking in the rearview mirror to see if the officer behind me has noticed my plates are expired.....only the brows matter at that point. And yes, that often means I pull into the parking lot at the office, grab the tweezers I keep in my car (yes, I do) and take care of those bad boys there and then. I've learned to improvise. One moment we think all is well, the next moment we are wildly plucking our brows in full view of our co-workers. This is the stuff of life. If you don't believe me, take a look at your brows, my friend.

Every night when I tuck Penelope into bed, I say to her, "Do you know what?" And every night, she looks me in the eye and she nods, with her signature grin. It nearly takes my breath away, despite the fact that this has been our routine for months. She does know. She knows that what I'm going to say next is, "I love you soooo much." I'm grateful and relieved and delighted that my 2 1/2 year old daughter knows without a doubt that I love her soooo much. It's a gift, and one that I wish we had all been given.

I make a habit of reminding myself, my staff and my kids that the one thing we can rely on in this world is that nothing remains the same. One of my favorite quotes has always been, "If you are going through hell, keep going." Sometimes, that is all we can do.

I returned to Iowa some time ago, skinny, scarred, and scared. There were many nights when I kept my composure just long enough to get my kids into their beds, after which I would crawl under my (borrowed) covers and cry into my (borrowed) pillow for hours. I cried so long and so hard that my eyes ached. I knew that the very next night, I would do the same. It was what I needed to do. I didn't miss my past life, or my past love (if you can call it that). I missed knowing how I would feel when I woke up in the morning. I missed the ability to look people in the eye. I missed knowing how to respond when kind-hearted people asked how I was doing. I missed the ability to walk down the street without feeling ashamed of what had happened to me. It is a huge cliche' but I missed me - the smart and sassy woman who didn't have second thoughts, and who didn't apologize for her opinions. I guess I was mourning the loss of that Dori, and the circumstances that brought me to that loss.

But every morning, when my alarm went off, I put my feet on the floor and I stepped into the next day. My heart wasn't always in it, but it was the right thing to do. I thank my Iowa work ethic, my Dutch heritage, and my parents for giving me the fortitude to keep breathing when everything in me wanted to give up, close my eyes, and stay under the covers. Oh, and having a screaming baby in a crib two feet away and two hungry seven-year olds circling my bed didn't hurt, either.

As it turns out, if you do just that...just keep going....one day you fall asleep because you are tired and content, and not because you have swallowed a sleeping pill. And one morning you wake up and you know it's okay to stay in your warm, cozy bed. Not because you want to avoid anything outside of that...but just because you are 40 and tired and you have a sweet, spitty toddler next to you who wants to snuggle. And one day, you look someone new in the eyes, and you aren't afraid anymore.

Much like my errant eyebrows, this change crept up on me. Without realizing it, I cry less. I laugh more. I let people into my life and into my heart, and I don't question their motives. I don't look over my shoulder as much. I sleep at night, and my dreams are filled with the wonderful strangeness of past highschool teachers and aquariums and fields of corn...and yes, those dreams where you go to school in your pajamas (do we ever get away from those?) I can't recall the last nightmare I had.

This very morning I woke up and I looked around my messy, haphazard bedroom, which is still lacking any artwork on the walls, but boasts an impressive collection of pacifiers on the nightstand. And in that moment between hitting snooze on my alarm clock and putting my hand up to feel how large my hair had become during the night, I smiled. Crazy eyebrows and crazy ex-husbands aside, I am one very lucky lady. And you know what? I love that. So. Much.

Three Reasons

I saw the musical "Showboat" many, many moons ago, and as is typical of me, I instantly ran out and bought the soundtrack the next day. I have that soundtrack on my ragged Ipod, and I listen to it daily. I'm listening to it now. One song is called "Can't Help Loving That Man of Mine". Look....I'm not even going down that road. BUT a portion of the lyrics speak to me..."Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly"...it seems to say that we all do what we gotta do. I understand and embrace that concept.

Today I spent three hours driving to the Omaha airport with my sister Deidra and my niece Maddison, so that Deidra could catch a flight back to Utah. She flew Roan and Posey from Utah to Iowa a week ago after their annual visit with their Dad, and it was time for her to return "home". It's still hard for me to accept that any place she calls home is so far away from me. Again, fish gotta swim. Birds gotta fly. The drive passed quickly. Maddison read a book for the first hour, while Deidra and I de-briefed about her visit. We talked about the controversial Pork and Chicken Night at the Coffee Cup Cafe, and laughed about the wild game of Uno Attack that took place at our parents dining room table. Soon, Madds joined us in discussing the merits of a hospital bed that would allow patients to "do their duty" while seated in bed, but without a bedpan. Due to pending patents, I cannot reveal further details, but let me say that intricate diagrams were created.

Maddison and I bid farewell to Deidra at the curb, and shared a few moments of silence as we left the airport. And during the next three hours as we ate up the miles between Epperly Airfield and Sully, Iowa, we talked. We laughed. We even shed a few tears. And I was reminded, as I have been so many times over the years, that I am an incredibly lucky woman.

Yes, I have men in my life who will always be dear to my heart. My brother-in-law Kendall, who has been a part of our family for what seems like forever (or even longer, in his estimation.) My brother-in-law Jeff, who sung the first lullabies my kids had ever heard. My Dad, who spent a lifetime in a cloud of hairspray and lipgloss and snagged nylons, to emerge on the other side as my hero. My brown-eyed son Roan, the one who hugs me at the most unexpected moment, who called me from Utah dripping in homesickness, the one who has wanted nothing more than to sit beside me and hold my hand since he was a baby. I want them to receive the credit they deserve. But tonight the women in my life are on my heart and my mind.

I have three sisters who make me laugh wildly, and who hold me when I cry. I have a mother who may not always approve of what I do, but who has steadfastly remained in my corner. I have two nieces who are wise beyond their years. They amaze and astound me on a daily basis. And yes, I have two daughters. They are separated by six years and sixteen pounds. They inspire me, they challenge me, they exhaust me. I look into their big blue eyes, and I know. I know they are a gift from God. I know that my heart has reason to smile. I know that I will do everything in my power to help them find the confidence, the kindness, the moxie to do what they gotta do. Fish, birds....they will rule both. And then some.

I told Maddison tonight that I believe that I met and married a monster for three reasons:
1. I was meant to be a mother to Penelope. And that wouldn't have happened otherwise.
2. Although I wish it weren't mine to bear, I was the only person who was going to fight and fight and fight until he was backed down, if not defeated. Two other wives and countless girlfriends had escaped and decided it was too risky. I escaped and decided he had to be stopped. And clearly, I was the one who had to stop him.
3. I will take what happened to me and I will use it to help other women. I will someday look other victims in the eye and I will say, "I am living proof that there is life on the other side. I will help you find it."

Earlier this week, I arranged a meeting at the eye doctor for my Posey. She needed to pick out her first eyeglasses, and I wanted her to walk into the fray with resources aplenty. We stormed the clinic - Posey, my Mom, Sister Deidra and Niece Maddison (and yes, Roan, with a frog in his pocket.) Posey picked out the frames that she felt were best for her. And I wrote a check, and while I silently prayed that it wouldn't bounce, I silently thanked the forces of the universe that allowed me and my daughters our grace and good fortune. It must be somethin' that the angels done planned.

Tra la la.

21 Days - Day 3

OK, OK. I am making my own rules now. 21 days of writing. I'm gonna do this. But....the 21 days may not be consecutive.

Here's the deal. Sometimes the things I write (such as my blog on Day 2) are heavy. It takes a lot of time and energy to write them. And it takes more time and energy to shed them. I've been shedding. I've been thinking and praying and hoping. I kinda feel that I should burst into song at any moment. Tra la la la la.

We recently celebrated Independence Day. It's a wonderful holiday, and I love the BBQ's, the parades, and of course, the fireworks. But this year, Independence Day has an even more personal meaning. I spent the 3rd and 4th of July communicating with my attorney, as we worked together to prepare my motion for a renewal of my domestic violence protection order. In the fine state of Washington, where my DVOP was granted, the "law" requires you to request a renewal exactly 90 days in advance of the expiration date. For me, that 90-day mark is July 7th. Let freedom ring, indeed.

I sent my attorney my declaration earlier this week, in which I stated that I was afraid for my life, and for the safety of my children. I wrote that I had given up a lucrative position, a beautiful home, and a network of colleagues and friends to escape my situation. All of those things are true. And none of them matter to me, not in comparison to the safety and security and happiness of my children. It hit me today that I would gladly pay this price and then some for my kids. Roan is learning to hit a baseball with a bat. Posey is toothless and lovely and a budding artist. Penelope counted 1...2....3 today for the first time. What does it matter that I am afraid, really? If they are happy, I am happy.

This is the stuff of life.

My Name is Dori - Day 2 of 21

My name is Dori, and this is what I am....a college graduate, a daughter, a fierce negotiator, a friend, a singer, a successful businesswoman, a loving sister, a writer, a reader of hundreds and thousands of novels, a person who cares about people and who makes a point of asking the right question at the right time. I am a mother. I am the person that many people reach out to for help and guidance and love. I am also a survivor of domestic violence. And I believe that if it happened to me, it can happen to anyone.

My name is Dori, and this is what I am.....lucky. During the two years that I spent with my abuser, who happened to be my husband, I was beaten, I was shoved, I was locked out of my own home in the pouring rain, I was jailed, I was called a whore and a slut and a worthless bitch, I was left stranded at countless restaurants and stores, I was homeless, and I was afraid. And still, I am lucky. I got out.

My name is Dori, and this is what I have become...a woman who speaks the truth. I spent over two years lying to every person I loved to keep my dirty little secret under wraps. I told concerned co-workers that everything was fine, and that I was wearing long sleeves in July because I was cold blooded. I told the nurses at the hospital that my husband was under a lot of stress and acting completely out of character when he stormed out of the hospital the day I was to deliver our daughter. I told my girlfriends that I was happy and secure in my marriage, and that the fact that my husband tried to bed them was amusing to me. I am smart and I am tough and I believe in honesty, even when it hurts. And I lied every day. I have no doubt that there are other women living the same lie - because the truth is too horrible to accept, much less admit to anyone else.

The million dollar question that everyone eventually asks is this: Why did you stay? It is difficult, if not impossible, to explain to anyone who hasn't been there. I stayed because I was convinced that if I did everything "right", he would no longer be angry. I stayed because he said I was the problem. I stayed because he told me he would take our baby from me. I stayed because he promised me he would take medication and see a counselor. I stayed because he had pushed my friends and family so far away from me that I felt alone. I stayed because I felt sorry for him, because he had buried us in so much debt that I couldn't see my way out, because he made me believe that I was worthless and ugly and pathetic. I stayed because I was deeply ashamed of what my life had become. I stayed in the hope that the rare moments of normalcy would last. And ultimately I stayed because I knew that leaving him would be the most dangerous decision I'd ever make.

My name is Dori, and I've only just begun.

21 Days - Day One

Monday, June 27th

I've been told that if you want to develop a habit (like jogging, or making your bed) that you should consistently engage in the desired activity for 21 consecutive days. As of Day 21, voila! A habit is born. Although I have many habits I should rid myself of - picking at my cuticles, and humming "Like A Virgin" while grocery shopping, to name a few - I want to re-build my writing habit. And so, for the next 21 days I'm going to write a little something every day.

Long pause. OK, this is harder than I thought.

Top Three Giddy Joyful Events
1. Roan and Posey played in their little league ball tournaments over the weekend, and both the MudHens (Posey) and the Red Sox (Roan) were champions of the tournament. We celebrated with lots of sugar and a late movie Saturday night. Roan or Posey didn't grasp that it was pretty amazing for them to be champions when neither one of them hit or caught a ball the entire season. Ignorance bites, but innocence is bliss.

2. After purchasing a used guitar in 1999 in Utah and moving it from state to state to another state since then...I'm finally going to learn how to play the damn thing! I worked up the nerve to approach our local guitar instructor at the ball games on Saturday, and I will be his newest pupil in August. I believe that a happy home should be filled with music, and I'm hopeful that the sounds I one day produce on the guitar will be mistaken for that.

3. Our deck is almost finished! I'm amazed at how that little wooden square has transformed our home and brought us to much happiness already. We've got two lawn chairs, a garden hose full of excellent water for guzzling, and Barbies. What more do we need?

May you always be as happy as you've made me tonight. (OK, I totally stole that line from Barbara Mandrell, but I've always wanted to use it. So just work with me.)

Cheers.

A Walk Down Memory Lane.....with a stain

I love my sisters. And despite their penchant for occasionally ripping the armpits out of my sweaters with wild bar room dancing, or the fact that one of them rear-ended me once in a mall parking lot and then laughed so hard she nearly wet her pants....I know they love me back. As Pam Brown once said, "Sisters annoy, interfere, criticize. Indulge in monumental sulks, in huffs, in snide remarks. Borrow. Break. Monopolize the bathroom. Are always underfoot. But if catastrophe should strike, sisters are there. Defending you against all comers."

It sounds as if Ms. Brown has some great sisters. But she ain't seen nothing compared to mine. Yes, they have annoyed and criticized me. And they have defended me. They have also held me while I cried, helped me buy bras and maternity pants, held my children in their arms with as much love as I do, cut a rug with me on dance floors from London to Myrtle Beach, and they have never failed me. They are my freedom and my anchor. They are the source of some of my fondest memories, one of which I am writing about today.

One summer Dad decided to surprise Mom by re-painting our old picnic table with redwood stain. More accurately, he decided to surprise Mom by having Sister Darci and I re-paint the table. This was during the era when redwood stain was all the rage, and Dad knew Mom would want to remain at the tiptop of patio fashion. In order to maintain the element of surprise, he decided that Darci and I should be hidden away while we created our masterpiece, so he hauled the picnic table into our (un-ventilated) garage, rolled the doors shut and opened up a can of stain. I was five years old at the time, and Darci was a wise and wicked seven. Dad left her in charge and disappeared to "mow the lawn"...code for smoking a cigarette behind the garage.

I staggered towards the table with my dripping brush in hand, ready to work. Darci, however, had other ideas. She leaned in closely with a buck-toothed smirk and simpered, "Wouldn't you like to look like an INDIAN????" Perhaps it was the age advantage, perhaps it was the fact that I weighed about 32 pounds and was instantly gorked on stain fumes....but for some reason it seemed like a wickedly clever idea. Of course I realize now that I should have run screaming in my hand-me-down Keds into the house, but I didn't. I dumbly nodded. And a story was born.

About 20 minutes later, Dad emerged from a cloud of cigarette smoke and whipped the garage door open to check our progress. Even though I often forget my commute to the office, and sometimes have trouble recollecting my social security number...I am certain that I will never forget the look on my fathers face at that moment. Never. Ever. There I stood, in the middle of the garage, wearing nothing but a sad pair of blue flowered undies. Except for the two white circles Darci had kindly left around my eyes, every inch of my skin was covered in redwood stain.

And for those of you who haven't had the pleasure of being painted with a dangerous chemical...let me tell you...it burns. I did the only thing my five-year old self could do. I moaned and cried and may have even gnashed my teeth. And I ratted Sister Darci out without a moment of hesitation.

Let me pause for a moment to explain that my Dad really does love children, even his own. I am confident that it never occurred to him that shutting two young girls in a garage with a can of paint was a bad, if not potentially dangerous, idea. This is the same man who burned railroad ties in the furnace to save money, and who was kicked out of a junior high school skating party for initiating the worlds' largest skating chain. He didn't MEAN to poison us, or deplete the ozone layer, or cause little Kimmy Van Genderen to knock out her front teeth....those things just happened. His heart has always been in the right place. His head...not so much.

On that fateful day, Dad realized that he needed to remedy the situation - and quickly. My mother was inside putting a final coat of "Luck Be A Lady" on her nails, and she would soon wonder why all was silent in the backyard. After attempting to spray off the stain with a garden hose and realizing that it was impossible....thus the word stain, Dad reached for his trusty gasoline can with a grim look on his face. I can only imagine that wild animals caught in traps must bear a similar expression, seconds before they begin gnawing off their own appendages. The next ten minutes were filled with Scrubbing (Dad), Swearing (Dad), and Screeching (All Me). By the time I wearily climbed back into my Garanimals Ensemble of the Day, I resembled a small, hopelessly depressed orange pygmie covered with a nasty rash. Dad picked me up and said, by way of encouragement, "Well, kiddo, you don't look nearly as bad as you smell."

They say that if life hands you lemons, you should make lemonade. To that I can only say Pffffffffffttt. In my world, if life hands you a can of redwood stain, you should make the most of the situation to get your sisters' new hairbrush, a trip to Rite Aid for glittery lip gloss, and your choice of Disney movies every Sunday night...for as long as you smell. Cheers.

If I had another child, I'd name it Scotch Tape...or maybe Scotchy

May 18th

Eight years ago today I became a mother for the first time - twice - when Roan and Posey came into the world. I know every mother has prego stories, and I'm no exception. However, I'm completely bored with the thought of discussing morning sickness and swollen ankles and buying undies of an alarmlingly large size (but golly PETE, have you seen those undies???) Rather, this is a reflection on the journey Roan and Posey and I made together to reach that first May 18th.

I think every mother worth her salt loves to celebrate the birthdays of her children. For me, I have twice the joy and twice the gratitude...and not just because I have twice the children. Roan and Posey came early - way too early, and it's no exaggeration when I say that they are little miracles. Although I don't always show it...like when Posey asks me why I never comb my hair (usually on my way to work), or when Roan makes the armpit fart sound for the 216th time at the dinner table....today I am simply wallowing in it.

I am the second sister in my family to become pregnant with twins. For all those pesky people who want to know, no, we didn't use fertility. We are just fertile. My brother-in-law once - and only once, due to the wrath he suffered - proudly referred to us as Double Yolkers. Sister Darci had twin girls ten years before me. And, as is typical of Darc, she sailed right through the pregnancy with her belly blazing a way through Wal-Mart aisles across Iowa. At 39 weeks she was induced and my ultra cool nieces were born. They were big and healthy and beautiful. I was quite confident that I would have the same experience. I had apparently forgotten that Darci and I have many similarities - but vast differences. For example, while Darci was helping my Dad chop firewood, I was inside highlighting interesting passages in the Encyclopedia Britannica. While she was racing a minibike around our backyard, I was wearing a skirt on my head and impersonating Crystal Gayle in the living room, complete with candlestick microphone. When someone needed a babysitter, or a housesitter, or someone to cleverly design their new kitchen cabinets, they called Darci. The only reason anyone called me was to see if Darci was home. Regardless, I felt certain that even my affiliation with Wonder Darci would work in my favor.

So imagine my surprise when, at 20 weeks, I went into labor. Instead of having baby showers and nesting, I was rushed to the hospital that day, and there I stayed. In fact, I was a full-time resident until the very day I reached 29 weeks, which just happened to be May 18th, 2003.

I met other women while in the hospital who relished their bedrest. They knitted sweaters and wrote long letters to their grandmothers. They played online games, designed baby announcements, watched soap operas every morning and napped every afternoon. They were peaceful and relaxed. And I wanted to punch them in their smiling, pregnant cow faces. Didn't they realize that the world was going on outside? And we were missing it? Didn't they know I had a surgery center to run, parties to attend, and a nursery to decorate? And didn't they lay in bed in fear every night, as I did, and worry obsessively that their babies would fly out of their uterus at any moment if they so much as sneezed? Clearly, they did not. I retreated to my room and entered a phase that is best described as The Great Depression.

Under normal circumstances, I'm just not the lay-around-and-relax kind of gal. I'm more of the run-your-ass-off-all-the-time variety. So when my activity was suddenly, completely, unilaterally curtailed, I became a nasty little prego. A caged animal on a double dose of hormones, if you will. For some reason I still cannot explain, the only item that temporarily soothed my inner beast was Scotch tape. Poor Sister Deidra was living nearby at that time, and she became not only my link to the outside world, but my supplier. She would speed to the hospital after putting in a full day at a demanding job, and spend her evenings engaged in such fine activities as helping me pee in a bed pan, inspecting my belly button at my insistence to see if she could see the babies coming out, rubbing my feet, opening and then closing the curtains at my whim, fetching pudding, then a spoon, then a different spoon, damn it, didn't I say spoon not a spork?, then a different flavor of pudding. When she finally escaped my clutches and walked (or ran, God love her) down the hall, I would snatch up my phone and dial her mobile. And I would sob uncontrollably. When she would ask me what I needed, the only thing I could squeak out in reply was, "MORE TAPE!!!!!" She brought it to me in packages, in rolls, in dispensers. Colored tape, double-sided tape, scented tape. Dr. Seuss could write a series of books about my love of tape and its' many uses. To this day, she and I cannot enter a Fred Meyer or a Target together without her instinctively turning to me and asking, "Dor, do you need any tape?"

Almost nine weeks and nine gazillion rolls of Scotch tape later, Roan and Posey made their debut. At the ripe old age of 31, I was convinced that I had seen and done all that mattered, and that kids were like icing on an already very satisfying cake. And then came that moment. The moment when they held up my teeny, tiny Posey and I looked into her enormous blue eyes for the first time...and I was lost and found and everything in between. Just one minute later, I had the same experience while gazing into Roans sleepy brown eyes, already fringed with to-die-for lashes. I was forever changed. In the span of two minutes, in an operating room in Salt Lake City, I became a mother. Had I not been numb from the chest down, I would have leapt off the table and wildly hugged every pregnant cow face in the hospital.

Eight years later, with my kids tucked into their beds and my sisters and I wildly texting each other into the wee hours, my heart smiles. I don't think parenthood is for everyone, and I will be the first one to support your right to remain childless. But I'm grateful for every fingerprinted window, eye roll, dental bill and call from the teacher, because each one reminds me that I am the lucky mother of two vibrant, sassy buck-toothed kids who defied all the odds to be here today.

Happy Birthday, Roan and Posey.

Home Is Where the What Is??

5.12.11

The kids and I have been living in our "new" house for almost three weeks now. I can't quite get past the feeling that I'm just visiting. I catch myself thinking that I will call the former owner and ask her why she chose that color for the laundry room, or if she has a trick for making the shower stop leaking. I picture the two of us sipping hot tea and chatting about how the snag in the carpet happened, and maybe kneeling side by side to scrub at a pesky spot on the kitchen floor. Then I realize that if I hate the paint (which I do), I should change it. And if the shower leaks (and it so does), it's mine to fix. The house - and the yard, the appliances, the front door that blows open every once awhile, despite being locked - they are mine now.

And so is the anxiety of living "alone" again.

It is technically true that I don't live alone, as I'm very lucky to have three constant companions in Roan, Posey and Penelope. But I'm the only GROWN UP in our home, and that means that all dog vomit, paper cuts, unpaid bills, mystery smells, spiders and scary night noises fall firmly into my domain. When you don't have another grown up to turn to and say snidely, "Can you deal with the laundry FOR ONCE?" you tend to feel alone. And you know what? I can deal with alone. It's the transiency I would really like to shed.

It's a fact that my concept of "home" has taken a sound whacking over the past few years. The last home I owned was in Washington, which I left when my crazy (then) husband - side note, he's STILL crazy, just no longer my husband - threatened to kill me and my children. I left suddenly. I left without a plan. Hell, I left without my toothbrush and most of my clothes. I left with the knowledge that if I stayed, something terrible was going to happen. I left without knowing where the four of us would sleep that night. However, thanks to the goodness and courage of my friend Cheryl and her husband Gordy, we found a new home, albeit temporary. The four of us slept in their family room on mattresses lined up side by side on the floor. Believe it or not, we had fun. We played and laughed and watched goofy movies. While they slept peacefully at night, I cried. Time passed. I spent dozens of hours and thousands of dollars in family court, fighting to protect myself and my little family. And when that was taken care of, we moved yet again into a space that I never dreamed I would inhabit after the age of 18. Yes, friends and neighbors. You know it. My parents basement.

There is a reason why we grow up and leave our parents homes, and both my parents and I are painfully aware of those reasons. If Alex Trebec had a category entitled, "Reasons Why Parents Should Avoid Co-habitation With Their Adult Offspring", my mom and dad and I would ace it. 1. Knowing Too Much About Your Parents Bathroom Habits 2. Being Unable to Lie around in Your Underwear on Saturdays 3. Wishing Nobody Could Hear You Whisper Scream at Your Children, etc. That said, we made it work. And despite my sassy mouth, I will never be able to thank my parents sufficiently for taking us in and holding us close.

And now....here we are. In our home. And while my kids sleep peacefully, I clean and I sing and I pray. And I wait for the day that home feels like home again.

Home Sweet Crazy Home

Last night the kids and I had our first meal in our "new" home. Life has been full of twists and turns for us, and although this is the fourth home I've purchased in my adult life...this one represents not only home for us, but much more. Safety. Security. A new start. Family. Strength.

And with all those deep thoughts, I looked around the blanket last night (I can't look around the table as we don't yet have one) and saw the same look of giddy happiness on all of our faces. We each expressed that happiness in very different ways.

Roan announced that he had to poop the second we walked in the door. Lucky for us, the previous owners had left us a roll of toilet paper, and Ro disappeared into the bathroom, seemingly to make his mark. 12 seconds later he emerged, looking rather unsatisfied. After running through (and receiving emphatic NO's) to my usual list of mom questions following an aborted bathroom break 1. Is the toilet plugged? 2. Is it overflowing? 3. Did you put something other than poo in the toilet? I pulled him aside for a private moment. Roan seemed flustered. I attributed this to constipation...and was mentally reviewing the items I had at the ready to remedy such a problem (prune juice? beer? a cup of joe?) when he announced that what he REALLY wanted to do was PEE OUTSIDE. I pondered this request for about 3 seconds. And then I nodded. We high fived. He whizzed in the bushes and all was right with the world.

Penelope march-sprinted through the house at top speed, screeching "UP!" and "PUPPY" and "Slimcankdooderot" at random moments. (yes, she really does say that, at least that is what it sounds like). She licked a few walls. She sat in my lap and smiled.

Posey, in her typical seven-year old trapped in a 35-year old body style, dashed to her room and began deciding where every piece of furniture should be placed during the move. We had our usual mother/daughter tussle regarding such vital topics as the panties she will wear the first night in the new house, the first friend she will have overnight, and her proposal regarding a flashing NO BOYS ALLOWED sign on her door...and then we did what girls do. We giggled hysterically, applied fresh lip gloss, and went back to the kitchen to bark orders at the menfolk - namely, my Dad and Roan.

It seems that we all constantly define our own sense of normal. I'm thrilled that very little about my children is normal. I'm proud of their complex little selves. And I am deeply sorry to our new neighbors for the sight of my half-naked son in the backyard tonight.

Until next time...

To A Fine Feathered Friend...

Many, many moons ago, I found myself in the unfortunate position of housesitting for a boxer named Louis and a bird named Bob. How did I find myself in this position? Well.....I was working for a company in Salt Lake City and our office was comprised of 47 Mormon men, all over the age of 50...and three non-Mormon people - me, Shari and Bill. The three of us instantly became fast friends, based on our love for the occasional swear word, a Christmas party that involved wine, and the fact that we didn't wear any special underwear (aside from those Shari and I purchased on long lunch hours at Victorias Secret) under our work clothes.

At the annual holiday party, which I attended wearing a tight cashmere sweater and a black mini skirt (with tights, for the love!) as if to emphasize the fact that I was not part of the "in" crowd, I met Bill's wife, Barbara. She was dynamic, straightforward, and just a little bit scary. I thought I could handle her. I was sadly mistaken. After the Christmas party, Bill approached me and suggested that I might house- and pet-sit for him and Barbara...since I was clearly single and lacking any life whatsoever. I stupidly agreed to the proposition.

In a speedy and almost blinding turn of events, I found myself sitting at the very well-polished kitchen table of Bill and Barbara...and of Bob, the most vile and evil bird in the world. When I arrived, Barbara offered me a glass of wine. I accepted. As she poured my glass, she casually lifted Bob from his spacious cage in the kitchen and deposited him on the table. I took my assigned seat and reached for my glass of wine in an effort to ease my nerves, only to hastily draw my hand back as Bob the Bird from Hell raced forward and tried to peck me. Barbara laughed. I'm going to say that again, just so you understand. Her small and probably diseased bird tried to harm me. And. She. Laughed. Could a burning bush have spoken more clearly to me at that point?

However, I remained at their home and never drank that glass of wine as I learned the many rules of how to care for Bob the Bird and Louis the Dog.
1. Never look Bob in the eye. It angers him.
2. Louis cannot navigate the many stairs in our beautiful and pretentious home. You must carry him up and down the stairs. Repeatedly.
3. Never mind that Louis weighs 180 pounds. And/or that he drools incessantly. Carry him, you sucker! And be grateful that we let you stay in our lovely home.
4. We left you some risotto in the fridge. It is just about to age out....so eat it quickly.
5. Bob needs to be let out of his cage to spread his wings every evening. If you could gaze at him (but not in the eye, you idiot) lovingly and sing an Irish ditty, that would be helpful.
6. If Bob wants to climb up on your shoulder, let him. You need to say POOP before you let him mount you (seriously, could this be any worse?). He poops on command. So command him to poop. Then clean it up (the table is highly polished for a reason), then let him climb up your hand with his itty bitty scratchy claws until he reaches your shoulder.
7. He may peck your ear mercilessly when he reaches your shoulder. He may draw blood. But at least he isn't pooping on you.
8. Again, isn't this better than your low-rent apartment? Did you eat the risotto yet?

Bill and Barbara left for destinations unknown. I lugged Louis to the sofa and switched on the cable television, after throwing that disgusting risotto in the garbage. Just as I was about to embark on a marathon viewing of "The Betty Broderick Show" with Meredith Baxter Birney, I heard a strange noise. A clicking. A repetitive clicking. Louis was unresponsive, aside from some ferocious farting. I turned towards the clicking sound and emitted a long low howl.....as I witnessed BOB THE BIRD clicking down the hallway (also highly polished) towards me.

I flew into an absolute panic and raced about the room trying to figure out how to get Bob back into the kitchen and his cage WITHOUT TOUCHING HIM. After trying in vain to convince Louis that Bob looked like a tasty little dog snack, I resorted to sliding a pillow under Bob's feet and sprinting back to the kitchen at top speed. I may have inadvertently looked Bob in the eye during this time period, which explains why he raced across the pillow and tried to take a chunk out of my arm. I lobbed him through the air and on to the top of his cage and stood panting in the kitchen, hoping against hope that Bill and Barbara hadn't installed security cameras.

Bob stood on top of his cage with his little feathered chest puffed up, awaiting my next move. I could hear the strains of the opening segment of "The Betty Broderick Show" starting up in the living room, and knew I had to act quickly. In the hopes I could scare him into his cage, I began a complex series of sprints across the kitchen towards Bob. When this proved ineffective, I added a wild waving of my arms to further inspire him, but Bob valiantly held his position. Finally, in sheer desperation, I donned some oven mitts and made one last dash across the kitchen with mittened hands waving, and added a screeching war cry just for safe measure. Bob lunged towards the hole in the top of his cage as if he was going to comply, but tried to execute a last-minute change of heart at the last second, turning his back to the hole. But by that time I had reached the cage, my war cry still echoing, and I gave him a firm slap on the back with my oven mitt, sending him tumbling down the little ladder and onto the floor of his cage. He was too dazed to race back up the ladder before I slammed the door shut, sealing the deal with two expensive French cookbooks, a rolling pin and a snow boot - just in case Bob had some strange surge of adrenaline and came seeking revenge.

Strangely enough, that was the last time Bill and Barbara asked me to house sit. I can only imagine that Bob clued them in to my behavior through a complex series of wing movements and angry pecking on a doll he fashioned in my likeness. After years of counseling, I was able to put the Bob Experience behind me....although I still tend to twitch a little whenever I hear the Betty Broderick theme.

To Posey

Dear Posey, my sweet little seven year old daughter,

A week or so ago we had a moment that is still in my mind. I had been STRONGLY ENCOURAGING you to get your skinny bootie into the shower so you could get to bed on time, and you had been resisting with all your might. We had one of those fierce stare downs that only mothers and daughters can appreciate, and just when I was starting to worry that you might win the doorbell rang and I dashed downstairs to pay for the pizza I had ordered for dinner (post stare down, obviously).

When you and Roan came downstairs to eat - Roan excitedly and you begrudgingly, Roan reported to me that "Posey said she hates you sometimes, Mom." Before I could even register a response, you burst into hysterical tears and threw your arms around my waist. Now, I've heard plenty of other mothers tell me that they were heartbroken or angry when their kids said they hated them, so I waited for a few seconds to see if I became furious or maudlin. And you know what? Nothing even close to that crossed my mind. I hugged you and attempted to peel you off of me, as you were not only gripping with all your force, but also seemed intent upon burying your nose in my belly button...and I did something that felt so simple and yet a little profound...I told you the truth. I said, "You know what? You probably do feel like you hate me sometimes - like when I make you clean your room, or take a shower, or tell you that no, you cannot lie naked on your bedroom floor and read magazines instead of putting away your laundry. And you want to know a secret? I said that about my mom when I was a kid, too. I never really meant it - I just said it when I was mad at her. So it's okay that you feel that way sometimes, as long as you know that I get on your case because I love you and want what is best for you." And you looked at me with those enormous blue eyes and even though you were still crying your face off, you gave me a teensy little smile that told me you understood.

Just as I was about to whip out my camera and set up the self-timer to capture the Supreme Parenting Moment on film, Roan piped up with, "Yeah, I get it. I haven't hated you since I was at least three, Mom. Now can we have some pizza?"

And life goes on.......