You can’t read my shirt. But it says, “Mama Needs a Drink”
You can’t read my shirt. But it says, “Mama Needs a Drink”
My dad said hi to me from heaven today. But let me give you some background if you’re new here.
I was born to parents like a really long time ago. I grew up and stuff and like a couple of years ago, my dad died. Unexpected, natural causes, traumatic, yada yada…all those fancy words.
So today I am driving down a semi busy road in my town (speed limit 50) when in the distance, I notice what appears to be a car show.
No. Don’t look.
Do not look for it, Her et al., it will just break you heart all over again!! No. NO. NO!!!
Oh look. There it is. Candy apple red, 68 VW Bug Show condition and “that” guy who bought it standing next to it.
I slammed on my brakes. Middle of the road! From 50 mPh to zilch. Luckily no one was right behind me.
And I gasped. It looked like it did the last time I saw my dad try to jam all 9ft 6 of himself into it. (Slight exaggeration).
It was at that moment that my dad said hi to me. By throwing a gigantic live wild turkey at my windshield. Which I luckily had missed by centimeters thanks to having slammed on my brakes! Those stupid turkeys should be flightless birds and they agree with me as evidenced by the fact that they can’t get any higher that 4 ft off the ground. Or at least this chap couldn’t.
My dad use to send cardinals for my hello’s. I guess he’s assumed it’s been long enough to move onto the more humorous signs from heaven. We do have a cardinal in our neighborhood but it’s a female and I call it Grandma Dorothy. She’s loud and it makes to me.
Anyways, thanks for looking out for me stinker!
My heart hurts for Syria and it’s innocent.
The ones who are there because they were born there and look at their lives.
Iran, Russia, France, UK, and US, we meet there. In Syria and do this to their homes.
The hell they’ve gone through and now…
Total “wait for it” video. You know the Christmas program is done when the kid starts throwing up gang signs! I laugh so hard I think I peed a little.
Please share the joy.
With my medical background I get really nervous working with raw chicken. But sometimes I’m like, “Well a little salmonella poisoning could be good for the waistline…”
Thanksgiving means my husband gets a day off. He needs it. They “rolled out” a new system of something and it didn’t go well.
They never do. Whoever coined that phrase was trying really hard to figure out something else to call this “really shitty new thing the boss is going to make you do.”
I remember when I was working and we “rolled out” a new documentation system. We had to have extra staff on hand and our meals were catered that day. Because rolling shit out sucks.
“Republicans roll out a new tax plan.” Sound better than “republicans typed up thousands of pages of new tax shit you won’t read and it’s going to really screw you over!” (It’s ok, I can that because I’m a republican.)
In my opinion, the only successful roll out in modern American history is Ludacris’s 2009 hit track “Rollout“.
“It is just a phase.”
Spoken at me, not with
As if to negate independent thoughts, expressions, translation of life
Blend all lives into one brown blob and crown it normal
But, as a pin on a map, an address, gps coordinates, I exists. Am composed of mass, occupy space, every last cell and atom.
Bringing with it a singular view with which I create my story. One step and word at a time. Each phase building upon its predecessor.
Each step brings a new perspective.
And in that moment my phase is my reality. A dynamic reality. Ever changing to reflect my existence. To differentiate.
Similes: Phase and reality
Honor it as if you approved it or take you blob and go. I refused to fit a mold. But this I promise you, should I ever disagree with your shoes, I’ll notify you and expect they be thrown out.
Those shoes? They were just your phase, right?
What happens to my baby for the three hours she is out of my sights Monday through Friday?
Because she’s been doing this for a week now and she’s down a pound, begging for naps, and acting like she’s never been fed.
I send her to this primary colored looking baby love-me-land looking all tidy with her pigtails and cute dress. And I pick up this wild eyed, frizzy haired monstery midget with marker hands who is now dressed in someone else’s clothes, has one ponytail (I think), and a demonic voice is coming from her general direction demanding Spaghetti-O’s.
I can’t keep those things on the shelf either. Stupid Spaghetti-O’s (no I won’t Google how to really spell it!) And we’ve moved on to the “feeds 16 monsters midgets with marker hands” cans but it doesn’t matter because kid doesn’t even taste them. I’m thinking about getting her a straw next time to expedite things.
Oh and, I’m only allowed to warm them in the pan whilst she’s ripping her strangers clothes off with closed eyes, SCREAMING how she’s not tired. So about 30 seconds of “cooking”. But then they’re still, “TOO HOT MOMMY!”
My God people, be good to your teachers. I’m pretty sure most of them are currently thinking “why the hell didn’t I become a dentist?”
The toddler of the house has been talking about this toy at her new preschool that she just has to have for Christmas.
It’s been described to me as, “2 fuzzy heads that you put tiny colored fuzzy squished balls in and then they fall out!” Apparently this is SO HILARIOUS!
Finally after scouring the world wide internet to no avail, I got the bright idea to follow kid into preschool and have her show me said wonder toy!
Behold, 2017’s Christmas must have toy:
Save your pennies folks!
I saw my dad as ten foot tall and bullet proof as a child. Heck, even as an adult!
The truth? He was 6 foot 2, and experiencing crippling flashbacks of horrific wartime moments that included having a pallet of live ammunition dropped on his hand and then being Life-flown to army hospital only be to returned to the front line a few days later, being in the vehicle of a car that was being shot at while it reversed and drove over the little boy shooting at them, and watching the man next to him be killed.
Vietnam killed my dad; he died in 2015.
It wasn’t the Agent Orange (although I’m sure we will later find some connection to that and the significant physical and cognitive disabilities in my sister).
It was PTSD. I don’t think I need to spell it out, you’ve heard of that monster. It’s been all over the media. Its gaining support and momentum from everyone! Except the government. He didn’t sign up for the war. His soul wasn’t built to kill. But the one place these men and women were told to turn to, were told that they would take care of them, turned their back on our heroes.
That too is all over the media. You’ve heard of that monster as well. The failing VA. But let me tell you what happened to my dad after his diagnosis.
He had to surrender his guns. His 2nd amendment was ripped away.
He had to “secure a fiduciary”. It was me, his child. He was told his child was of more sound mind to handle his finances than he was.
He was denied disability for two years after taking an early retirement. He had to retire early because his VA therapy meetings and doctor appointments consumed his time. He had very little to no money for those two years being a divorced man.
And on top of it all. He never slept.
He always saw that little boy in his
Disease processes secondary to Agent Orange that my dad was diagnosed with:
-Diabetes mellitus, type II
-Ischemic Heart Disease
-Peripheral neuropathy, early onset
He was being treated for severe depression, anxiety, and insomnia in addition to the PTSD and above mentioned diagnosis. But those diseases had consumed his life. And not at all by his choice. The appointments and meetings and medicines. As so often done in the medical field, a list of meds and diagnosis replaced a person. Became the person.
But he seemed so peaceful and happy the year before he died. So involved with the family and relaxed and social. So at peace. We just didn’t know that he was finally at peace because he’d made a decision to take back control of his life and…quit.
The day my husband and I found my dad on his floor was the day before we found out that he had quit taking all of his medications. Quit going to all his appointments. Quit begging the government for help. Quit.
The official cause of death was natural causes, likely cardiac.
But Vietnam killed my dad.
This is the cost of war.
written by my dad after being diagnosed and subsequently declared “incompetent” related to his PTSD