Mom, I Am All Adventured Out..

Growing up I was blessed with being able to travel with my maternal grandparents several times a year.  Ranging anywhere from Disneyland and Sea World to camping and boating.  I was with my grandparents at  Lake Powell the day it was considered officially full in June of 1980. Lake Powell is my favorite place in the world and the resting place of my grandparents.

Except for the times my grandfather flew us in his Cessna, vacations were usually started with a Bronco pulling a trailer or a boat name The Beverly Anne II.  The drive was usually long enough for something to leak, break, fail, catch fire, or blow out along way.  Adding  adventure long before we were screaming at the darkness in Space Mountain

It was my grandmother who gave me the term “adventure” during those times that I still use to this day.  Living in a 30 year old pink single wide trailer with only a swamp cooler to get through the Vegas summer heat, was quiet an adventure.  My grandmother took one look at the trailer and told me to just pretend I was on a camping adventure.  There was even a big pine tree growing by the back door, reminding me of many Colorado camping trips.  After spending two summers “camping” and being pregnant with my second child we thought it better to end that trip and bought a house.

When the market went to shit in Las Vegas and we made the mistake of re-financing beyond our means we lost our home we had for eleven years.  So we started a new adventure in Arizona.  While most of my family lives there I was not really close to them.  I had spent 17 years in Vegas, I did not know them and they certainly did not know me.  They thought they did after reading all our private letters and journals, something I think they are proud of.  I do not think they would like me to do that to them. Actually, the thought to do that would not cross my mind.

A week before Christmas they kicked us out with our twelve year old son.  They have lied, stolen, and have turned into people I do not know.  I had an awesome childhood which makes what they did even more hard to deal with.  Something changed when my maternal grandparents passed away.  I know in my heart there is not a chance this would be happening if my grandfather were alive.

My grandfather’s favorite holiday was Christmas, and I think he sat in Heaven watching what was being done to his great grandchild, and if you can get pissed in the afterlife, I am certain he was.  My son was in a hotel room with his mom and dad who were on the verge of breakdown, while my parents got drunk with my daughter on a little holiday vacation at a bar in Laughlin.  Something is very wrong with that.

Two weeks after we were kicked out and we had been living in hotels, I told my son to think of this as an adventure.  I even said we could just live in hotels for a year while I wrote about our adventures.  Nothing is as easy as it sounds and hotels got expensive.  A twelve year old needs to be in school, not sitting in a McDonald’s on my laptop while his father and I figured out a way to get 60 dollars for a night at hotel in the ghetto.

A few weeks ago I was talking to my son about our adventures and he said something I will never forget.  He said “Mom, I am all adventured out.”  It broke my heart to hear him say that because I knew this adventure was not the kind my grandmother was talking about.  However, this adventure taught him to have compassion for others I have never seen, especially in a twelve-year-old.  Everyone we have come across has told me what a helpful and kind kid he is.  Teachers are telling me he is intelligent and articulate.  That being said, our adventure has done damage to his trust in people and given him a fear and an uncertainty a child should not have to deal with.

I know there are families and children who have horrible lives compared to ours.  I thank God every day for what we do have and I know it will only get better.  We will have the adventures my grandmother talked about, and our son will learn to trust again.

 

Our Valley Verde Sundays

I remember Sunday afternoons running through the trees. The sound of fall leaves being crushed under my tennis shoes as I reached the big flat rock I knew so well.  It was part of the mountain, but so barren and grand it looked out of place.   I felt the sting of the brisk air as I ran up the side, slowing only to drop to my hands and knees as the slant of the rock reached towards the heavens.  With the grand rock behind me, and my goal reached, I stood on the edge looking down. Not knowing how blessed I was to see the beauty of that untouched valley below me.  The sun setting and my stomach growling, I turned back to look towards the house. Closing my eyes I could see the chili simmering as the game of trivial pursuit was being put away. I raced the sun running back down the mountain,  Again, slowing on the huge rock as I looked like a crab climbing down. Reaching the house, I opened the mud-room door, the smell coming from the kitchen making my mouth water as I kicked off my shoes.  The chili warm and spicy, mellowed by the honey dripping corn bread filled my rumbling stomach.. As I half listened to the stories being told, I let the voices turn into a calming white noise.. I was content, I was safe. Years have passed. The calm voices are long gone and the beauty has been touched by greed. But, I will always be blessed to have known, and now be able to, cherish the memories of our Valley Verde Sundays.

Follow Your Coyote

Their path you are to follow looks clear…It looks easy…It is like walking on air…For miles you can see the open space in front…Nothing clouds the view…you can see everything ahead long before you have to adjust your step..You turn to look over your shoulder…You can see a reflection of the path in front of you…Everything is the same… You start to wonder if this is all there is on this well-worn road…

The Monarch touches your hand for a split second, pulling your eyes to follow..He dances around the bright blooming flower that grows on the side…The humming bird drinks her nectar…You wonder…Can no one else see that beauty…Why do you stay on this path…

Spun360

Spun360

You continue on, every step becoming like last….The Coyote plays hide in go seek, watching as you walk…The flicker of his ears allowing the sun to reflect the morning dew as it flies through crisp air…His dark eyes searching your soul, wondering if you have the fearless craving to seek out more than you understand…

A small break appears in the cactus and trees that surround you…Sitting on a rock…the Coyote stares…waiting with his knowledge for you to follow…You stumble and you fall…You cry out as the cactus are sharp and rocks do not bend…

You stand proud with bloody knees and scraped elbows pulling the quills out…Next to you are those who laughed when you followed the Coyote to your own path…You will heal…Your mind is quick…Your heart softens into kindness…Your eyes able to see beauty they cannot….

And you will follow…What is Yours…

Leaving them to continue on What is Theirs…Only following their own refection…

English: Coyote at Ridgefield National Wildlif...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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Picasso Of The Lopsided

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Pablo Picasso - L´Arlequin
 (photo: oddsock)

When your family acts if you do not exist it is extremely liberating.  It is natural to want approval from them concerning everything you do.  As a child you bring home the clay pot that looks like crap, but you do not know that, and your parents do not see it as that.  They look at it with big eyes and smile at you. You watch their reaction and think you are the freaking Picasso of lopsided clay creations.

By the time you are an adult you know their looks of judgment. You know the tone they speak to each other in when they disapprove of your new clay pot.  While a piece of it will always reflect how you were raised, once into adulthood the creation is your own experiences.  You can see endless colors reflecting as the sun drifts off to sleep, waking the night with purple and pink.  Your clay becomes soaked in bright and bold.  You are once again the Picasso of your creation. However they cannot see it, their color blindness allowing only the black and white to exist.

Ignorance On Your Angry Chair

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The idea to merge the camera and phone into one, is genius. I was able to take full advantage of it as I was texting on my way to our current domain. To “coexist” you have to acknowledge there is someone besides you trying to survive in this world.  When you ignore their existence because you do not like their faith, lifestyle choices or the way they express themselves, your ignorance can cost more than money.

I have used bad language a time or two through out my life. Some ghetto slang may even be spun into it depending on the situation.  I cannot say they are my proudest moments in life, but I am certainly not ashamed of them.  Some colorful F-Bombs are justified at their moment of birth.  Life stirs up some shit, conception takes place, and before you know it you are watching your baby F-Bomb grow into a giant as it hits your target.  It is at that moment, snowflakes of the ignorance turn into a blizzard, and you better take cover.

Most control their F-Bombs around certain people and situations.  Make it out of your thirty’s not having found yourself wearing the bracelets of a pissed off cop you met while running your mouth, you’re probably good.  Ignore someone’s existence by cutting them off in traffic, they might toss you a F-Bomb and go about their day. Have a crazy ex-husband who is not to be ignored on the road, and  the bombard of F-Bombs that bounce about might sting you. Watch the bounce evolve into idiots having a pissing contest with their side arms a few times, it will change your perception.  The F-Bomb wont kill you, the stray bullet might.

The poster child for true ignorance is the one who sits high up on their angry chair, filth dripping down his mouth from the afterbirth of racial slurs he creates.  His ears become born again virgins, his eyes suddenly blinded by the F-Bombs you throw trying to stop his storm of shit.  He rises higher fueled by that which he claims to despise.  His storm sucking your despair into his lungs, it has become his crack cocaine. You cease throwing, his crack gone, his angry chair full of pride and ignorance engulfing him as he screams for more.

Phoenix Bad Ass @ 80-Days -Bring It On, Punks!

It has been exactly eighty days since we sat at our McDonald’s for the first time.  If I had looked into a crystal ball ninety days ago and seen even a silver of the first few days, I would have taken the crystal back to the fraud who sold it.

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It was only a few hours earlier you had reached out to your parents in an effort to get your son out of the mess.  You were completely ignored.  You spend Christmas hearing you need to go to a half way house.  You start to see this reaches farther than you could imagine.  You wast days trying to get anyone in your family to see how insane this is. You do not know they are the insanity.

Orders of protection are filed. You are floored with lies they say so easily.  You start to put things together. Times and dates are making more sense. You ask for a hearing on something you do not care about.  You want to know if they went into your private papers.  You have your answer.  You cannot believe they thought they could spin it into something.  You keep waiting for Ashton from MTV’s Punked  to walk out.

You still get emails from out-of-state saying they hope you can get some help.  Your weeks out and you wonder exactly what kind of help they think you need.  You learn information that makes it crystal clear how this started.  You could kick yourself for trying to explain anything to your parents.  They are so past not helping, they are growing tired of kicking dirt in the hole they threw you in.  You start telling them to back off.

They keep coming at you.  The poor little Saturn that has gotten you everywhere deserves a break.  You get money to get your Explorer running.  They find out.  They lie to the tow company, it is abandoned they say. The email says the charge for day one is the same for day 10. They lied.  You tell them to back off.

An email sent to you sarcastically saying “what did we do, what did we do”.  You wonder at what point will they see this for what they made it into.  You will never speak to them again. They are concerned about your son.  They are asking others questions, trying to find out any information.  They want him.  You remember when they would not take him.  They will never see him again.  You know the picture they are trying to build of who you are. They think they know you.  You know they don’t.  You tell them to back off.

You watch your son as he opens the door for her, his voice deep talking about hot fudge sundaes.  You think about the past eighty days and know there nothing you cannot do.   You know God does not give you more than you can handle. He knows you are a Bad-Ass.  You tell them….. BRING IT ON…

Doing Christmas…The Fest Way-Part One

I woke up on Christmas with my head throbbing.  I had not slept very long and had wasted too many hours trying to respond to more bullshit.  We were a week out, and I was still being accused of things I could not make up if tried.  I kept waiting for anyone in my family to explain what the hell was going on.  They must have been busy with the holidays and all the joy that comes with it this year.

King Shit’s email on the night of the 18th was full of “blah, blah”.  However,  one sentence stood out, ” I’d have to tell him about the Dumb Shit’s missing DVD player and drugs that were gone after you both were over there cleaning.”  The person KS wants to tell is my son, because apparently KS has no ability to decipher sarcasm. There was a lot more he would “have to tell him”.  I saved him the trouble and printed it out. Now my son can use the wisdom it contains as a guide to get through life.

My father had also sent an email about the mysterious “missing” items.  I did not read it until after K.S’s ramble, but his included a little more F-you in it.  His let me know that my mother had felt so bad she bought Dumb Shit a new DVD player.  If anyone would have bothered to ask, we would have given her one of five that we own.  I often wonder what they think I was going to do with another one, pawn it for fifty cents of crack?  Oh, wait I guess it would be for fifty cents worth of the same “pills” they all take.

Since every dime we had been able to scrape up had been to keep a roof over our heads, there was not much for Christmas.  When my son asked if his gifts from everyone were in the truck that was parked by KS’s house I wanted to throw up.  I had sent emails to my parents demanding a few things that only came out because I was pissed.  However, the one demand I did mean was they needed leave their grandson something for Christmas before they went on their “holiday”.

Another family member did tell me later that they did not know where to leave anything. That is ironic because the one person who took ten seconds to think about my son managed to get us some goodies without even seeing us. I remember Christmas as a child, and I know for a FACT that my deceased grandparents would have made sure I had something.  Even if my mother was sitting on the corner smoking crack after stealing their diamond’s to buy it. I guess the fact they think I am not entitled to human decency, runs through my blood into his.

In our mad rush to get out of the Hell House, we left our son’s PS3 in the room.  In a week we had gone from you can come by to get your things anytime to ” step foot on the property and I will call the police.”  Which by now there was no way I would step on the property without the police. So much shit had been made up I had no idea what was going to come next.  Maybe… steal my grandmother’s antiques?

Within two days of the “missing” DVD player KS had spun a little story about “antiques”.  I would like to think that one of them had made a comment to him about how asinine the DVD player sounded.  However, now these were not missing, I was “planning” on stealing them so I think he had digressed a little.  My father did send an email asking if it was true that I was planning on stealing some items from my grandmother that had been under fifty feet of dirt and crap scattered across a half an acre of backyard.

The police followed me to the Hell House to get my son’s PS3 on Christmas Day.  I had promised him I would get it and I do not promise my kids anything unless I know I can make it happen.  However, if I had known KS was going to play dirty I might have thought twice before making that one…