Ah! Two posts in one day! I'm dizzy with excitement. Let me tell you why I now post again even with my just-turned-two-years-old distraction wrangling around on my lap! Carol Davis- Morning Show Host Extraordinare and THE most entertaining woman attending the Proverbs 31 conference in June, "tagged me"! I'm not sure what I'm suppose to do, but I will tell you I about passed out with joy that someone other than my mother was reading my blog. (Sorry, Mom!)
The drill:
1. Link to the person who tagged you
2. Post the rules on your blog
3. Write 6 random things about yourself
4. Tag 6 people at the end of your post and link to them
5. Let each person know they have been tagged and leave a comment on their blog
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up
So, apparently, this is less like freeze tag and more like, "Hey.... do you remember when your Grandpa told you not to reveal anything about yourself that you wouldn't post on a billboard? Let's do it anyway!"
1. If you were to climb into my bed and fluff my pillows, you might just find hidden treasures. I tend to take things off while napping... my watch, hair-ties, maybe even the phone.
2. When I was waiting for my husband to get out of the slammer (don't I sound trashy?) I measured the time by a little toenail experiment. I went out for a pedicure just a couple of days before his incarceration (see, not so trashy) and applied light pink polish. Because I was too labored with kids, work, depression, and oh, yeah... kids, I didn't have a chance to get another one. So, after a few months, I got curious and wondered if I'd have ANY toe polish left when the hubby got out. Guess what? It takes exactly eight months for my large toenail to grow out.
3. My favorite kind of film is a documentary... action films put me to sleep.
4. I am not responsible enough to have a cell phone. In the last ten days I've misplaced it countless times and as of now, haven't seen it in 6 days. It doesn't really bother me and the mere fact that it doesn't, drives my friends and family nuts.
5. As a young girl , I would sometimes comfort myself by quietly singing an obscure Amy Grant song when I felt lonely, insecure or afraid. In my most distressful adult moments, I sing it in my head.
6. I am a dental oddity. I enjoy straight teeth even though I sucked my thumb until I was... um.... lets just say old enough to have a crush on The Karate Kid.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Real Men Take Out the Trash
In the time it took to for me to drink a sinful double-tall-decaf-mocha-breve, I was reminded of why I call my hometown, “Fishbowl, USA”.
I was simply sitting at the coffee shop, enjoying both my highly coveted window seat and my high fat, high sugar coffee bomb. I felt rather urban with my laptop and all. I fooled myself into thinking I was just an anonymous, city-dwelling girl who scored a great seat by an electrical outlet. My fantasy was short lived.
I was interrupted when an Old Friend walked in. Old Friend being someone my age that has known me long enough and well enough to recall in detail the contents of the proverbial trash can that sits outside my home. It’s a rusty dumpster filled with the stinking, rotting, scraps of sexual abuse that God asked my children to quit hiding and my husband to purge. And guess who wants to dig through it?
He sits down next to me and with the kind of lowered voice reserved for widows, the destitute and sometimes those who don’t speak English, asks, “how are you?” My mind goes blank for a moment.
Oh yeah.
I’m suddenly in the category of people that evoke tremendous sympathy from others because of a random, tragic life experience. In these moments, I can either give him an easy-breezy “I’m Great!” (which, said just right will be taken as the blow-off it’s meant to be) or, I can bite on his invitation to walk around in my trash with an honest, vulnerable smile. Because, that’s all it takes, really. Any sort of opening, and people will bite on a chance to walk in garbage.
A better Christian would’ve seen this as a time to lead this lost soul to Christ. A stronger woman wouldn’t have cared if he were offended by “I’m GREAT!” A more prepared version of me would’ve foreseen this. But on this day, I was none of those things.
I allowed Old Friend to say ignorant things to me. I allowed him to talk about my family as if he had walked in my shoes. Somehow HE needed to talk about my situation, and I passively indulged him. In this hour long, roller-coaster ride of a conversation, here are just some of the comments that have lingered:
“I can never forgive your husband. I don’t even have the time of day to think about him. If I were you, I couldn’t live here. I don’t know how you do it. I had a bad childhood, too but I must just be a stronger man. A bad childhood seems like a lame excuse. When I think I’ve had a bad day? I just think about you and I feel better.”
And I thought I was just going out for coffee.
The struggle I have with all of this isn’t about what Old Friend said. God has been so gracious with me. He’s gifted me with more than enough grace to spare for this situation. Old Friend has not walked in my shoes. Old Friend may even need to talk about this more than I do…. After all, he was also disappointed by my husband’s actions. For that, I will not throw a stone.
But.
My dumpster? Consider it hallowed ground, Old Friend. That garbage was drug outside with blood, sweat and tears. Removed with heartache, passionate faith and heroic strength. The mere fact that you even know it exists is a privilege. When you walk by and turn your head in horror, remember this: I’ve known you as long as you’ve known me. As far as I can tell? We’re different in only one way.
My trash is on the curb.
I was simply sitting at the coffee shop, enjoying both my highly coveted window seat and my high fat, high sugar coffee bomb. I felt rather urban with my laptop and all. I fooled myself into thinking I was just an anonymous, city-dwelling girl who scored a great seat by an electrical outlet. My fantasy was short lived.
I was interrupted when an Old Friend walked in. Old Friend being someone my age that has known me long enough and well enough to recall in detail the contents of the proverbial trash can that sits outside my home. It’s a rusty dumpster filled with the stinking, rotting, scraps of sexual abuse that God asked my children to quit hiding and my husband to purge. And guess who wants to dig through it?
He sits down next to me and with the kind of lowered voice reserved for widows, the destitute and sometimes those who don’t speak English, asks, “how are you?” My mind goes blank for a moment.
Oh yeah.
I’m suddenly in the category of people that evoke tremendous sympathy from others because of a random, tragic life experience. In these moments, I can either give him an easy-breezy “I’m Great!” (which, said just right will be taken as the blow-off it’s meant to be) or, I can bite on his invitation to walk around in my trash with an honest, vulnerable smile. Because, that’s all it takes, really. Any sort of opening, and people will bite on a chance to walk in garbage.
A better Christian would’ve seen this as a time to lead this lost soul to Christ. A stronger woman wouldn’t have cared if he were offended by “I’m GREAT!” A more prepared version of me would’ve foreseen this. But on this day, I was none of those things.
I allowed Old Friend to say ignorant things to me. I allowed him to talk about my family as if he had walked in my shoes. Somehow HE needed to talk about my situation, and I passively indulged him. In this hour long, roller-coaster ride of a conversation, here are just some of the comments that have lingered:
“I can never forgive your husband. I don’t even have the time of day to think about him. If I were you, I couldn’t live here. I don’t know how you do it. I had a bad childhood, too but I must just be a stronger man. A bad childhood seems like a lame excuse. When I think I’ve had a bad day? I just think about you and I feel better.”
And I thought I was just going out for coffee.
The struggle I have with all of this isn’t about what Old Friend said. God has been so gracious with me. He’s gifted me with more than enough grace to spare for this situation. Old Friend has not walked in my shoes. Old Friend may even need to talk about this more than I do…. After all, he was also disappointed by my husband’s actions. For that, I will not throw a stone.
But.
My dumpster? Consider it hallowed ground, Old Friend. That garbage was drug outside with blood, sweat and tears. Removed with heartache, passionate faith and heroic strength. The mere fact that you even know it exists is a privilege. When you walk by and turn your head in horror, remember this: I’ve known you as long as you’ve known me. As far as I can tell? We’re different in only one way.
My trash is on the curb.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Where There's no ego, There is no Limit.
I just did something a little bit bold. I posted a question in the prisontalk.com forum and in that post, invited readers over. If you came over, Welcome! What you should know is that as of now, only three people read this blog: My mother, Jenn (who was kind enough to leave a comment- thanks, Jenn!) and myself. You may have just doubled my readership.
Until today, I've been struggling with whether or not to disclose the nature of my husband's crime. Dragging my feet a bit, I guess. Wives of criminals suffer as many punishments as their husbands when they are incarcerated, but when your husband is then known as a sex offender, these punishments become even more shameful and ultimately more burdensome. Because one of the consequences of the crime is for my husband to be listed on the sex offender registry, our family now lives in a new reality. A reality where privacy and discretion even for the victims no longer exist. Where even the innocent are punished every day. The only modern place where a person's basic civil rights don't seem to apply. It is an instrument of punishment done in the name of safety used in the same humiliating fashion as stocks.
My husband was inappropriate and sexually compulsive within our family. When the matter was disclosed to me, I first maintained the safety of every family member and then supported my husband as he dealt with his demons and encouraged my children as they dealt with theirs. Practical advice from legal counselors and friends was to do what most families do: try to work it out within the home in fear of the legal consequences. At the time, I was determined to "do the right thing" and not just allow punishment, but even ask for it. I question the wisdom of that decision every single day yet even as I say that, I know with certainty that this experience has allowed our family to see each other as heroes, find more freedom than bondage, and to clearly hear the voice of God in this painful valley of life.
On the internet, we can be anyone we want. We can have a new identity by escaping into a fictional person altogether. We can choose to disclose just enough information of ourselves to create an inaccurate caricature of who we wish we were. For the first few posts, I happily and wrongly avoided the topic of sexual abuse. In part because this blog could've been an escape. In part because knowing my mom was my only reader makes posting here feel much like the time she found that note in the wash.
Because Prison Talk served me so well, I felt it would be a disservice to all the people in the Loving A Sex Offender forum to have anything less than the truth here on my site. If you are really here, Thank You. Thank you for your replies when I posted in the middle of sleepless nights. Thank you for your wise legal advise. Thank you for your love, acceptance and comfort. Thank you for your 24 hour, 7 days a week saving grace.
Love,
"4tress"
Until today, I've been struggling with whether or not to disclose the nature of my husband's crime. Dragging my feet a bit, I guess. Wives of criminals suffer as many punishments as their husbands when they are incarcerated, but when your husband is then known as a sex offender, these punishments become even more shameful and ultimately more burdensome. Because one of the consequences of the crime is for my husband to be listed on the sex offender registry, our family now lives in a new reality. A reality where privacy and discretion even for the victims no longer exist. Where even the innocent are punished every day. The only modern place where a person's basic civil rights don't seem to apply. It is an instrument of punishment done in the name of safety used in the same humiliating fashion as stocks.
My husband was inappropriate and sexually compulsive within our family. When the matter was disclosed to me, I first maintained the safety of every family member and then supported my husband as he dealt with his demons and encouraged my children as they dealt with theirs. Practical advice from legal counselors and friends was to do what most families do: try to work it out within the home in fear of the legal consequences. At the time, I was determined to "do the right thing" and not just allow punishment, but even ask for it. I question the wisdom of that decision every single day yet even as I say that, I know with certainty that this experience has allowed our family to see each other as heroes, find more freedom than bondage, and to clearly hear the voice of God in this painful valley of life.
On the internet, we can be anyone we want. We can have a new identity by escaping into a fictional person altogether. We can choose to disclose just enough information of ourselves to create an inaccurate caricature of who we wish we were. For the first few posts, I happily and wrongly avoided the topic of sexual abuse. In part because this blog could've been an escape. In part because knowing my mom was my only reader makes posting here feel much like the time she found that note in the wash.
Because Prison Talk served me so well, I felt it would be a disservice to all the people in the Loving A Sex Offender forum to have anything less than the truth here on my site. If you are really here, Thank You. Thank you for your replies when I posted in the middle of sleepless nights. Thank you for your wise legal advise. Thank you for your love, acceptance and comfort. Thank you for your 24 hour, 7 days a week saving grace.
Love,
"4tress"
Friday, June 27, 2008
Rubber Boots and GQ
When we were first dating, I used to snoop through my husband's medicine cabinet. Not that he would've minded, or even that he was hiding anything. But, in my foraging, I found a couple of midly-shocking bits.
First of all, my husband is a strong, fisherman of the Alaskan variety. He has been in the fishing industry for over twenty years. His hands are rugged and thick. With ease he can work heavy equipment, effortlessly haul whale-sized fish aboard, and hand pull an anchor from 300 feet of water. On any given day, you can almost bet he's wearing a pair of rubber boots, polar-fleece and rain gear. Might I add, he's also the kind of guy that makes even rain gear seem GQ worthy.
Which is why I was so shocked to discover his bathroom secrets. Behind the mirrored medicine cabinet, I found... Biore Pore Strips! Teeth Whitening trays! Astringent! I don't really know what I was expecting? Maybe Bunion removers or drugs? But here, these beauty aids were proof that even my burly, rugged fisherman works a little at his looks. Aw. How cute is that?
I was remindid of this when I came back up to Alaska last week. I was getting all settled in and unpacking my goodies, combining our toothbrushes and merging our shampoos. When I started placing things in our medicine cabinet, I felt like I did on my first few bathroom snoops. Between the time he was released from prison and me movin back in, he had purchased enough new products that I felt as if I were discovering him all over again.
A new brand of toothpaste sits next to a fancy blue and neon green toothbrush. He now uses very cool swivel-head, triple-blade razors (I already tested them... they're great!), a "made from organic oats" face lotion made especially for dry skin, and even Chap Stick. Chap Stick? Who is this man?
I'm having a great time finding out.
First of all, my husband is a strong, fisherman of the Alaskan variety. He has been in the fishing industry for over twenty years. His hands are rugged and thick. With ease he can work heavy equipment, effortlessly haul whale-sized fish aboard, and hand pull an anchor from 300 feet of water. On any given day, you can almost bet he's wearing a pair of rubber boots, polar-fleece and rain gear. Might I add, he's also the kind of guy that makes even rain gear seem GQ worthy.
Which is why I was so shocked to discover his bathroom secrets. Behind the mirrored medicine cabinet, I found... Biore Pore Strips! Teeth Whitening trays! Astringent! I don't really know what I was expecting? Maybe Bunion removers or drugs? But here, these beauty aids were proof that even my burly, rugged fisherman works a little at his looks. Aw. How cute is that?
I was remindid of this when I came back up to Alaska last week. I was getting all settled in and unpacking my goodies, combining our toothbrushes and merging our shampoos. When I started placing things in our medicine cabinet, I felt like I did on my first few bathroom snoops. Between the time he was released from prison and me movin back in, he had purchased enough new products that I felt as if I were discovering him all over again.
A new brand of toothpaste sits next to a fancy blue and neon green toothbrush. He now uses very cool swivel-head, triple-blade razors (I already tested them... they're great!), a "made from organic oats" face lotion made especially for dry skin, and even Chap Stick. Chap Stick? Who is this man?
I'm having a great time finding out.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Scratched Retina
When I come back from trips, my cat gives me the cold shoulder for a couple of days. This is the cat that for some reason, would pounce on me in the middle of the night and then gently bite my chin until I'd respond with a backhand. It was the second strangest thing I've had a cat do to me. The first kitty-puss in my life did something even more bizarre.
She sucked on my eyelashes.
What's even worse is that I LET her! At only 8, I had a new kitty who was having some sort of separation anxiety from the her mother and one day while I was lying on the floor, she came up to my face and started "rooting" near my eye until suddenly she was latched on to my lid and lashes. I figured it was no big deal since I could still watch the Brady Bunch with my other eye. I'd lay there, sucking my thumb, with a cat nursing on my lashes. It wan't really the sucking or my obstructed view of Bobby Brady that finally got to me. It was the kneading of her paws and the occasional sandpapery retina lick that finally made me stick her tail in her face as a substitute.
From that day on, we had a tail-sucking cat.
So, when I returned from being at the very awesome and very powerful Proverbs 31 She Speaks conference, I was surprised when instead of my current cat putting me on ignore, the baby did. After he did the "mommy's-home!" celebratory jig, he remembered that I left him for THREE LONG NIGHTS. It was nothing but the cold shoulder and the stink eye for the rest of the day.
I have a pretty good chance of making it up to him because tomorrow I'm flying he and his brother to Alaska. He'll be officially reunited with his daddy. Although the baby has been visiting him over the winter, my 7-year-old son, (aka, "Lambchop") has not. It will be a special day for our family. (Must say a big thanks to hubby's probation officer for taking the extra time to re-evaluate his interpretation of the conditions of probation and do everything he could to help make this happen! I don't think there are many men in the system who actually take measures like this.)
So, by tomorrow, I'm sure the "airplane! Airplane! AIRPLANE!" ride, will put an end to the baby's grudge. Can't wait.
She sucked on my eyelashes.
What's even worse is that I LET her! At only 8, I had a new kitty who was having some sort of separation anxiety from the her mother and one day while I was lying on the floor, she came up to my face and started "rooting" near my eye until suddenly she was latched on to my lid and lashes. I figured it was no big deal since I could still watch the Brady Bunch with my other eye. I'd lay there, sucking my thumb, with a cat nursing on my lashes. It wan't really the sucking or my obstructed view of Bobby Brady that finally got to me. It was the kneading of her paws and the occasional sandpapery retina lick that finally made me stick her tail in her face as a substitute.
From that day on, we had a tail-sucking cat.
So, when I returned from being at the very awesome and very powerful Proverbs 31 She Speaks conference, I was surprised when instead of my current cat putting me on ignore, the baby did. After he did the "mommy's-home!" celebratory jig, he remembered that I left him for THREE LONG NIGHTS. It was nothing but the cold shoulder and the stink eye for the rest of the day.
I have a pretty good chance of making it up to him because tomorrow I'm flying he and his brother to Alaska. He'll be officially reunited with his daddy. Although the baby has been visiting him over the winter, my 7-year-old son, (aka, "Lambchop") has not. It will be a special day for our family. (Must say a big thanks to hubby's probation officer for taking the extra time to re-evaluate his interpretation of the conditions of probation and do everything he could to help make this happen! I don't think there are many men in the system who actually take measures like this.)
So, by tomorrow, I'm sure the "airplane! Airplane! AIRPLANE!" ride, will put an end to the baby's grudge. Can't wait.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Burnt Sienna with Carnation Pink High Notes
I noticed it the first time I visited him in prison- he didn't smell the same. In the 8 months he was locked up, I was allowed to hug my husband four times. Each of those times, I nuzzled my head to his chest and tried to drink in the moment with all of my senses... but that smell... fruity? And where was it coming from... his scalp? Deodorant? Was he now using foot spray or what? Whatever it was wasn't necessarily bad or anything-just new. An imposter smell to replace his usual one. Which, if you must know, smells exactly like Crayola Crayons and is only noticeable once in a blue moon. (Or would that be a Cornflower Blue moon??!!)
Anyhow-the books and the comforter I gave him for Christmas…. Fruity. Wallet? Infused with the new fruity smell, too. At first this was totally annoying (Ok, not annoying enough to re-wash…) but now I find it oddly comforting. After three weeks out of prison, it feels like somehow this nightmare didn’t really happen. While we’re back into the swing of business and some the basics of life, it’s so easy to compartmentalize the prison time. It would be nice to pretend it didn’t happen, but it did. So, that pseudo smell? It’s simply tangible evidence that my husband really did return safely from a trip to another planet. He survived. WE survived. We’ve got alien aroma as proof.
Anyhow-the books and the comforter I gave him for Christmas…. Fruity. Wallet? Infused with the new fruity smell, too. At first this was totally annoying (Ok, not annoying enough to re-wash…) but now I find it oddly comforting. After three weeks out of prison, it feels like somehow this nightmare didn’t really happen. While we’re back into the swing of business and some the basics of life, it’s so easy to compartmentalize the prison time. It would be nice to pretend it didn’t happen, but it did. So, that pseudo smell? It’s simply tangible evidence that my husband really did return safely from a trip to another planet. He survived. WE survived. We’ve got alien aroma as proof.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Sleeping Octopus, Hidden Tentacle
If you've ever walked around with an octopus stuck to your face, you may be able to grasp the concept of how frustrating it is for me to fly with my nearly 2-year-old son. After just one flight with him, I'm physically altered. Aside from wearing both my coffee and his cloudy, backwashed cup of water on my pants, I also have blurred vision and teeth gnashed down to the nub. He doesn't scream, cry or make such a pest of himself that other's are inspired to double up on their birth control, its just that he glaums on to me and grasps every single object he can or can barely reach ... just when I get him in a tolerable position, like perched along the cliff of my knees, I'll catch one of his body parts covertly stretching out to make contact with things that are just slightly out of reach. Even if it means the perfect stranger next to us who's all... "Maybe if I concentrate really hard on this book, I can ignore your son's outstretched big toe stroking my wrist hair." At one point, Squigglepuss managed to balance somewhere up near my clavicle, slump over my head, and inform that same gentleman next to me that we were On. The. AIRPLANE! AIRPLANE! AIRPLANE!
Now I'm sleepless in Seattle. I should be getting some rest because I 'm catching a flight to Alaska in just two itty- bitty hours, but I simply can't stop the celebration of being the sole occupant of my personal bubble. A celebration that can only happen because finally, Finally, FINALLY, the baby and his tentacles have slipped into a jet-lagged coma.
Now I'm sleepless in Seattle. I should be getting some rest because I 'm catching a flight to Alaska in just two itty- bitty hours, but I simply can't stop the celebration of being the sole occupant of my personal bubble. A celebration that can only happen because finally, Finally, FINALLY, the baby and his tentacles have slipped into a jet-lagged coma.
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