Ultimately, the dog is responsible for my happiness.

I'm having one of those days. Contemplation runs rampant. The thought that's eating me to day is:

Ultimately, I'm responsible for my own happiness.

That's a lot of work. It feels overwhelming.

I'm already expecting a confrontation with Heifer tomorrow. I asked a simple question, and I expect to be blasted for it. I know that's her kick for power, her making me feel bad, and I'm letting her do it by letting it get to me, even when I know I'm in the right.

You have to understand, though, I still feel guilty about letting two Dobermans eat a pair of socks I took off a toddler for whom I babysat. I pulled them off, they gulped them up, and bam. I even explained to the parents what happened, and they laughed it off.

Poor dogs.

I see so many people say this: "Fuck guilt."

Okay, so how do you do it?

I feel guilty for being angry. Even the bible says, "Be angry, but do not sin." I tell my kids, "You can be mad at each other all you want. Yelling and screaming or otherwise working out your problems is perfectly acceptable. I draw the line, though, when you get insulting." I don't like them calling each other idiots, retards, spazzes, or fags. I guess that's pretty normal, huh? Point for me.

If I have to get mad, I feel guilty. Problem is, I know that my "angry" goes so far down that I'm obsessing about possibly getting my feelings hurt tomorrow. I know I'm going to crumble. I probably won't even shoot back a quick-witted reply, although I've already got an entire list running through my mind. Why? Because it will be my fault if she gets mad, then. I'll be perpetuating the problem.

I'm not sure this is making complete and total sense, so let me keep going. Maybe I'll get the concept straight in my own mind. This is how writing helps me most, keeping up a steady ramble until I can see it in print. It might also be justification for flight of ideas, who knows?

I have always been affected by others' negativity. I went for a temporary transcription job once at a really nice hospital. The lady for whom I took over constantly nagged and bitched about why she wanted to leave so badly. Never once did she say anything directly involving me; in fact, when she saw my abilities, she was quite complimentary. However, I could tell within an hour that it was HER who had the problem, not necessarily the others around her. How many temps do you know who are given parting gifts (hospital T-shirt, beanie babies, and a card), including your own personal specimen cup of gallstones and kidney stones? I know; I'm weird, but they're so interesting, and they knew I found them fascinating. I loved the pathology staff. Even the doctor, who had so many quirks, didn't bug me nearly 1/10 of what the resignee insinuated he would.

I want to fix things. I tell jokes and prostrate myself all the time. I'll do anything to blow sunshine up your ass, dammit. I want to make life better for other people, but how do I fix me?
I'm broken. I'm not incapacitated, yet, but I can sure see me becoming that way. I'm having dreams about running away from home, chucking my cell phone into the ocean when my kids start calling, crying, "Mommy, when you coming home?"

The other night, I whined about "when do I get my break?" Why haven't I created my own?

Quitting smoking would be so beneficial. Funny excuse?

My physician says, "You need to quit smoking."
I said, "Yeah, but I'll take hostages."
He said, "Just throw them away!"
I said, "The hostages?"
He got mad at his assistant, who left the room grinning.

I don't like me when I don't have my habit. I also use the excuse that, unless hub quits, I really don't have a chance. I could, you know, cut back. Chantix is a possibility. So why haven't I done it?

Another break: Lose some weight.

I don't eat a lot and I eat healthy foods (I don't like prepackaged, and I'd rather make it from scratch), but that's not the problem. My butt is stuck to this seat so much, either by work or by hobby. The dog needs walked; I could take him. Why don't I take mini breaks throughout the day to get away from it all?

Another break: Take a ride on the metrolink somewhere. Cheap, no wasted gas, but...I'd have to rearrange my entire schedule to do it. I hate changing stuff around.

Another break: Hang some laundry lines outside. That one I might be able to do. Just need to think about how to do it and dodge our all-to-frequent raindrops, but it will keep the natural gas bills lower. Ameren's really jerking us around over here.

Another break: For every negative, look for a positive. Okay. This one I'll have to work on over time, ingraining a new train of thought. Let's say that Heifer gets to me tomorrow. Why don't I go play with my dog, who loves me? Take him for a walk? Let's say the kids fighting gets to me, and I need to leave in order to keep the negativity from getting to me. I take the dog, who loves me, for a walk. Two possible solutions in one? One for my mind and two for my waistline? Go look for some beauty while I'm out and about?

Huh. It all comes back to the dog, who loves me whether I'm in my PJ's with a hole in the leg or if I'm wearing makeup. Interesting. I guess I could talk to him while I'm out. I guess crazier things have happened.

Except I'm still embarrassed about banging my head to Ozzy Osbourne in my car when I was 17, and some guy made fun of me from his car. I'm still embarrassed about my appendectomy experience, when I was freaking 9 years old, and the nurse told me to pull a cord if I needed some help. I just had surgery. I left my clothes on the other side of the room, and I hurt and it looked slippery, so I pulled the cord. When I looked out, no less than 10 emergency personnel and my mother, who looked absolutely faint, stood out there. I pulled the emergency cord. Whoops. Or when I was six and didn't realize the cow poop was deeper than it looked. I got sucked down up to my calves.

God, I suck. I refuse to put myself out there, lest I look stupid, and Heifer's making me feel and look stupid. Yet, if I want to make someone smile, I'm stupid on purpose, but that doesn't bug me. Why?

I'm the kind of person who can make all kinds of funny comments from the back of a crowded room but, Lord, put me in front of all those people, and I'd rather die. Why?

Mom asked me what my favorite Easter memory was. I told her that it was my worst AND my best. She made me a cute bunny outfit with a fluffy tail for a school function. The worst part of my 6-year-old self had to shake the tail at the audience, who laughed and laughed. I ran off stage from embarrassment. The best part is that my dad took the bunny ears from the brand-new costume, told us we couldn't peek, put them on, and hid eggs in front of God and everybody in the neighborhood, wearing those stupid ears.

And I loved him for it.

And Mom still has that costume.

Now I'm embarrassed for being such a whiny-ass bitch. I don't do this anywhere else, just here.
Maybe that's a problem in and of itself. How are people going to know what's going through my mind unless I tell them? God, I might hurt their feelings.

I call Ovis Ovis a wimp. Maybe I need a mirror.

So why don't I get embarrassed when I wear my slippers and flannel sleeping pants to get milk and soda? Because they don't question my intelligence. They don't question my honesty. They don't question my dedication. If my kids go with me, I will put on jeans as not to embarrass them, but the slippers...no way are those coming off my feet. They're nice ballerina slippers. I have four pair so I can wash and keep them looking good. I have one set for nearly every shirt I own. Heh. How's that for pathetic? I have more slippers than I do shoes, which is one pair of tennies. Like I said, I don't dress up much and I don't go to church, so what's the point?

It's also interesting to note that, although we definitely need the $$, I really work because it makes me feel good. I'm good at what I do, which is why any challenge to the contrary (i.e., Heifer), makes me feel like I've been bitch-slapped. I don't do what I'm not good at, or what makes me feel inferior. Sad, but true. I'm a quitter. I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I know transcription is going obsolete, maybe in the next 10 years. Instead of renewing my LPN license, I'm looking at school again for web developing. It's not expensive, and I'd probably be good at it, or competitive enough not to look stupid in front of my peers, who will probably be mostly male and very, very young. Actually, that's sounding kind of fun, now. When I go, I'll probably have classmates not much older than my son! I can be the geek room mother! Woo hoo! Forget the scouts...

I just re-read this. It's rambling, but I think I need a source of unconditional love, i.e., the dog, motivation to get out of here, i.e., the dog, and assurance that I'm not a complete and total idiot, i.e., the dog.

I can't walk the bunny...

Resurrecting beauty on Easter

Today is Easter.

Churches will play "Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?"

Maybe a church will have a soundtrack of the sickening noise of the nails being hammered into Christ's hands.

No one will have a dry eye. They will feel the humbling feeling that someone would love them so much that they died for them. Their lack of worth will make them crumble with gratitude.

I'm not there.

I should be, I guess. I believe.

After the shock of the crucifixion, the pastor will launch into the days where Jesus went down below to minister to the dead. It's a sketchy part in the Bible, yet the most fascinating part of the entire story to me.

Then, the congregation will launch into the beautiful refrains of "Christ The Lord Is Risen Today" and "He Arose!"

I should be there. I can't go. I'm grateful, but I can't go. I won't set foot in a church. I won't be among those people who are so heavenly minded they have no earthly good.

Crystal, you've touched me again. This is so profound:

"It never occurred to me that I can examine the past and accept that my childhood was not normal without being vindictive or resentful toward my Mom and Dad. They screwed up a lot; so do I. It doesn't make me love them any less fiercely than I do and it doesn't make me think for one second that they were bad parents."

That's so much what I needed to hear! It's the absolute truth. I know I complain about them here, but I do love them so much and still want to be with them, but I know they don't understand. They think they're "forgiven," i.e., perfect, and that's okay. They think I'm not. I understand why they do, and it's okay. They just put me on the prayer chain, and that is so funny to me, but it's okay. It's how they think I need dealt with, and that's okay. That's how they show me they love me and are concerned for my well being. I blogged recently how they came to my aid for just my laundry. They're GOOD people, but they're also involved with and tend to gravitate toward these people:

Love thy neighbor as thyself, the church chants. As long as they're Christians. They can't risk the stain of being around nonbelievers.

I've gone into the past here before where my father accused me of being possessed because I had terrible headaches that "possessed" me throughout the week, but he only saw the ones that kept me from attending church on Sundays. I can still see the road we traveled, the gravel turning, and the car we drove. It hurt. It really, really hurt...especially when, a year later, we discovered that my thyroid manufactured no hormones whatsoever. I started medication, and the headaches never came back. But he only remembered the Sundays I didn't complete the family row in their pew at church. He never acknowledged the possession accusation and, in fact, used it a few years later when he felt moved by God to buy us a car (I loved him for it; don't get me wrong), but it was a lemon upon purchase and was a lemon the two times we drove it and it was a lemon on the third time we got it and tried to start it, and it died. Somehow, it was our fault the car didn't work; my possession spread to cars, apparently.

Around the same time as the first possession accusation, I remember a beautiful pants set that I wore to play piano for church. Afterward, the pastor's wife pulled me aside and told me I couldn't wear pants if I were to play in front of the congregation. Okay, no problem. It was the most beautiful outfit I owned, Sunday wear, but if she wanted skirts when I played, I could see her point of view. A few Sundays later, I, in the same outfit, went to church, but my name wasn't on the bulletin to play. The choir's pianist got sick; could I fill in? Sure. I sat down and learned the music for a few minutes, we rehearsed, and I got a good idea when I needed to back off my part so the soloists could have theirs. We had a great time with fellowship and appreciating each other's God-given talents. I forgot about everything. It had been a long time since I remembered what goodness God gave to this world. We totally gelled during the performance. I felt God's presence. He wrapped his arms around the congregation in a big thank you for our devotion to him. But the pastor's wife pulled me aside. "I told you not to wear pants if you were going to play!"

By that time, after the possession accusations, after the years of being subject to the dogmatic Christian life, that was the last time I went to that church. I felt blessed, as had so many others, yet she hadn't felt it, the wife of the pastor of the congregation. It wasn't me trying to impress the congregation that morning; it was a mesh of God-given talent to perform something beautiful.

Ruined.

Since then, I've found fellowship with patients and their families. I've seen more goodness from CNAs who swear endlessly to staff, but in the room with a patient, the patient cradled in their arms, a fragile, bent, pain-ridden person, they croon to them and help ease their pain so that the simple act of getting them dressed for the day isn't the worst part of it.

I've seen a great-grandmother give up her entire life to make sure her grandkids can *make* it. She drinks a lot, cusses more, and smokes weed. She also kicked a crack habit a few years back by herself. "We are the righteousness of God through Christ Jesus," in lieu of goodbye to her friends and family is her favorite credo.

I see the goodness of life outside church, and it's beautiful and nonjudgmental. It's the lady who blocked a toddler's path in the grocery store as her pregnant mother huffed behind her. It's the stock boy who didn't need asked to pull a heavy box down for a grandmother, waiting until she saw what she wanted to offer his help. It's the guy behind the kid in line who is 15 cents short to buy a candy bar, and the gentleman just whips out a $5 and says, "You just keep the change, son." Two beautiful people smiled and grabbed a few bags out of their cart so I could have theirs on a busy, busy Saturday at Wal-Mart.

There is so much beauty to see outside the church, but some Christians miss it. They're too busy seeking each other's company to see how much good is left in the world.

My dad started to see it when he started dying. I'll never forget the day a band at my sisters' talent show played a song by the Red Hot Chili Peppers that he'd never heard. They looked grungy and wasted, but my father saw how amazingly they played. He shook their hands and complimented them, his hair just starting to grow back from the last round of chemotherapy. He shook the hands of the kids he'd rather see rot in hell than let me hang around with years before--I was so proud. My grandparents on my mother's side always saw it, and my aunt, too. My mother is starting to see it, as her youngest children enter the secular world and my kids who are in the secular world. They're beautiful. There's nothing wrong with them. My son, the eldest, is a kid magnet. When he goes to church, although he doesn't do it often, there's a group of kids and he's in the middle, directing play. At family functions, nobody asks him to, but the adults find themselves being able to visit without distraction, because my son--MY SON (hear with deep emotion and extreme pride)--has decided to organize 10 to 15 kids of varying ages and keep them all interested, be it outside with a football or inside with a PlayStation and decks of cards. My daughter--you just don't meet her, you experience her. Meeting my temperamental Sunshine on a good day (LOL) is like walking into an aura of someone who gets it. She might not know you, but she can, and you want her to. At 11, my baby is the best hugger known to man. He senses a bad day. He's the hardest to get to do chores, yet if I'm really, really struggling to get through the day, suddenly I have a steady supply of whatever I need, because he's in here every so often to see if I need something, from a soda to cookies, and he knows what I need without asking, because he'll wrap his arms around my shoulders from behind and rest his chin on the crown of my head.

I don't think possession got me my children. Again, I complain about them here, but listening to them giggle and laugh in the front room together is what God must feel when angels sing.
Maybe, Lord, I'll be able to blend the two sides of life and beauty I see together. Maybe, someday, I'll go back to the traditional "fellowship" of believers. I believe, Lord. I do.

I need to work on forgiveness. I need them to see what I do. I'd love to walk into church with a bunch of "sinners," from alcoholics to corner workers, and take up the back three pews, just to see Christian goodness. I know you could spot the ones who felt the call to all right away, welcoming them for their chance to see the goodness.

Your resurrection means a lot less to those who can't see the goodness resurrected anywhere else with You. Help me help them see what good is without putting on their church-influenced goggles. Help ME see what is good in THEM, since my goggles were church-influenced, too.