Too Soon?

Random thoughts and observations that weren't appropriate last week, but I find funny now...

*Sooooo my grandmother died while she was in the hospital. How exactly should I respond to the "Satisfaction Survey" that the hospital sent her in the mail this week? It says that if she is unable to complete it, then a member of the family can do it for her. I just don't know what to put. "Level of care" On the one hand I'd give them a 10, but the overall goal was to make it home and if we're using her house as "home" and not "heaven" then...I guess I have to give them a 1. I think I'll skip it.

*She and I were on the same bank account because she was one of those old people who didn't trust "those ATM cards" and she no longer felt safe walking three miles home from her bank every week with "all that money" ($200). So anyway, I ended up on her account and after I put her obituary in the paper I got a call from the bank. Now it's a really small bank with only two locations in the world (both in DC). The lady said, "I just saw Louise Allen in the obituary section, and I had to call to see if that's the same Mrs Allen who used to come up here every week."

"Yes, I'm sad to say that it is." Now I expected some anecdote about my grandmother coming up and giving them hell because she didn't have a photo ID, but still acted like they should just know her since she's been a member since the 50s. Nope. The lady said, "Okay I was just checking. We have a lot of senior citizens here, so every morning I check the obituaries to see if one of our members has passed. I'll contact social security and have her deposits halted. Thank you...oh and my condolences."

*You don't really learn the business side of death until you serve as executor of someone's estate. For example...did you know that there are burial upgrades? I didn't know that caskets went inside of a burial vault. I thought they just lowered the casket into the ground. They actually lower it into a sealed container. That container was $1500 if I bought it from the cemetery or $995 if I got it from the funeral home. Who doesn't enjoy whistling the low prices smiley face song from the Walmart commercial whilst grieving? Upon hearing that I purchased the vault from the funeral home the SALESMAN at the cemetery (who works on commission) told me about the "dangers" of the cheaper concrete vaults.

"Some people don't know that the concrete ones flood during a storm. But a stainless steel one is waterproof and will keep your grandmother dry." I wanted to say, "I doubt that drowning is a concern at this point," but I held my tongue. Then we talked about mausoleums vs in-ground burials. Oh! And there are PREMIUM spots in the cemetery. Five rows closer to the road is an extra $500 automatically. If you want to be in a premium garden then it costs another $1500 or something like that. What makes it premium? "They have themes." Yep. Like a Disney resort, the cemetery has themes. The giant cross is "the garden of faith," while the big American flag is "The Garden of Service." Again, I held my tongue and didn't say, "Is the view any different from inside the casket over there? Will you move her if she doesn't like it over there?"

Midday Update

***Midday Update***

Soooo I've had a headache for the past two weeks as well as a sinus infection and sore throat that hurts so bad that I keep waking up in the middle of the night feeling like I'm choking. Now I found a remedy or rather a short term solution in the form of Nyquil. To prevent my liver from dying a painful death, I take it every couple of days. Yesterday was that day.

I had my daughter last night so to prevent the Nyquil from going to waste (we know her sleep habits), I ran her ragged all yesterday. She went to school then we went to the playground, ran to the store, did suicides up and down the street...She was tired by 5pm. She almost drifted off, and to prevent that I gave her a cup of Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough Ice Cream. She was back to coke level intensity in no time.

Eight o'clock came and I gave her a bath and put her to sleep. I took my Nyquil and went to bed right after. At precisely 2:04AM I heard someone asking for a banana in between rapping the first two lines of Mama Said Knock You Out. "Can I have a banana? Don't call it a comeback, I been here for years..." I thought she was talking in her sleep, but she was wide awake. "No, you can't have a banana. Go to sleep. Stop rapping."

The next thing I know, she teleported from her bed to mine and I felt her feet standing on my chest. It took everything in me not to hurt her. I vaguely remember what happened after that. I remember unlocking my phone and handing it to her. I woke up every few minutes to find her watching a different show through the Netflix app. I finally got up around 5. I made her breakfast and just sat in silence at the table.

I kept staring at the clock on the stove. "Baby step to 8:00. Baby step to 8:00." I was counting down the hours until I could take her to school. I get her to school and I keep telling myself that all will be well when she gets out at 11:30 because she'll come home and take the nap of naps. I don't even bother trying to fall asleep during that time. I don't want to oversleep and live up to the stereotype. Besides, I had to make her pizza to take to the class picnic at noon anyway. But when she gets home...she's gonna sleep.

I get to the school at 11:30 and I don't see her in the circle singing with the other kids. My first thought was that someone kidnapped my kid. The teacher points to the corner. My daughter is knocked out on the floor. "She fell asleep as soon as you left. Normally we would've woke her up, but when you said she'd been up since two, I just felt bad for her and decided to let her sleep. She should be well rested now for whatever activities you have planned this afternoon."

[Insert every curse word you can think of]

 

 

Zion Elementary School

Yesterday was my daughter's first day of school. I was running around like it was prom. I wanted it to be a smooth transition so I convinced Co-Parent (CP) to dedicate the entire weekend solely to the child: breakfast and lunch in her honor, the playground, and even Chuck E Cheese. My favorite, however, was Back to School shopping at Target where I broke out my phone and started playing the Andy Williams song (from the Staples commercial back in the day) "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year." People stared at me, CP disowned me, and I did everything but glide around the store on the back of the cart.

No one was going to steal that moment from me. No one! CP asked, "Why are you so excited? How is this any different than when she went to daycare six months ago?" Infidel. Daycare, like this life, is temporary. Daycare can be taken away. As much as it cost me, it almost was. But public school...that's different. There are laws in place to protect my right to send my child to school. No one can deny me this one. It's guaranteed. Public school is Zion!

When I was little my grandmother used to drag me around to her Senior Club "field trips." There was always some person who would burst into an impromptu testimony. We were in Shoney's one day and the clam chowder must've filled this woman with the Holy Spirit. "My right ankle been bothering me, but that's alright because when I get to Zion...and I sit at the feet of the Master, my ankle won't trouble me NO MORE. They ain't got no gout in heaven, THANK YOU JESUS!" Everyone kept eating as if she hadn't said a thing.

Well, I stayed home for almost three years with my daughter. Life for me "ain't been no crystal stair." If anything, there were times when it was more like falling down a flight of crystal stairs. You've read my posts; it was challenging at times to say the least. I made it through by looking forward to my own personal Zion. On any given day I could've been that woman at Shoney's:

"You know my daughter had a meltdown in the car today and started throwing shoes at me from the backseat like they were ninja stars. The first one caught me off guard and almost made me crash the car on the Beltway. But when she gets to Zion Elementary School...and I look in her teacher's face...there will be no more thoughts of safe dropping her at the fire station...the principal will say, 'Well done thy good and faithful servant!'"

Guess what, y'all. I made it to Zion! Believe it or not, the emotion that overwhelmed me wasn't relief, but hope. I joke about her being a gremlin, but that's my baby. She started her first day of school and now I get to see if all of that time I spent with her pays off. Did I prepare her properly? Even if I did, this milestone signifies a change in my role. It's now my responsibility to cater my knowledge and experience to her needs. Yesterday was her first step on the path to success. I can't walk it for her. Some things I can't even warn her about; she has to learn for herself. I have a little less than 15 years to teach her to fly against the gravity of a world intent on pulling her down.

I'm up to it, and strangely enough I'll miss the days when I never knew what direction a shoe was going to come from.

No More Daycare Tuition!!!

Homegoing Celebration For My Daughter's Daycare Tuition

Prayer.......................................................................................................................Ordale J Allen
Scripture...................................................................................................................Ordale J Allen
Malachai 3:8 "Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me"

Selection...................................................................................................................Daycare Choir
"The Wheels on the Payment Screen Go 'Round and 'Round"

Words of Remembrance.........................................................................................Family and Friends

Obituary:

Daycare tuition was with us but for a short while, yet his presence was always felt. He employed two teachers, two aides, a director as well as an assistant director. He is survived by a son and daughter (Before and Aftercare Tuition), and a host of extended friends and family.

If tomorrow starts without me
and a payment is not due
I hope that you are happy
For you are now in public school
We'll meet again one day my friend
in this life or the next
You'll go to camp when the school year ends
Just wait til you write that check.

Interment will take place immediately following the service at the Bank of America in downtown DC. There will be a repast on April 15th on IRS Form 1040, Line 48 Deduction for Childcare Expenses.

And It's Done.

And it is done.

I woke up three times last night from the extreme sensation that someone was sitting on my chest while simultaneously strangling me and pouring flour up my nose. Headache, sinus infection, something that feels like strep throat, and this tightness in my chest...those are the major symptoms. Dizziness, nausea, and the other stuff are riding the bench on the team that's trying to beat me down. I guess you can call it stress. I'm built for it, so I just call it Thursday.

It got really bad though during my grandmother's eulogy. I spent most of the week trying to figure out what to say. I didn't know how to sum up her life, but I knew I had to say something. As the time got closer and the line of people got shorter, I knew I had to come up with something...so I just winged it. People kept saying how nice and friendly she was. One person even said, "She always had a pleasant remark." I lost it at that point. How dare they take my grandmother's name in vain. lol

I got up and said that I understood why they said what they did. It was the house of the Lord after all. Still, I felt they were doing a disservice however well intentioned. Talking about Louise Allen without mentioning "Grandma" was like talking about Clark Kent without mentioning Superman. She was Superman to me, and Grandma was not nice. Grandma did not mince words, and she would tell you about yourself through a tongue that was so sharp it could cut down a mountain.

I told a few stories, the same ones that I've already told on here. People laughed, people clapped, and then I sat down. The stress wasn't completely gone, but I put a few of its players on injured reserved. I felt better after I left the cemetery. I even started laughing at one point and played the last voicemail that I still have on my phone through the speakerphone. It was of her saying that she may not answer when I call her, but she's still around and to come on by. Even out of context, it still fit the circumstance. That relieved even more stress. Still, not all of it...but enough.

Enough to immediately leave the funeral and break open my shirt to reveal my own "S" on my chest. I had parent orientation at my daughter's new school an hour after the funeral. I went there, then back to the gathering at my mother's house. Tomorrow...chaperoning a trip to the zoo for my daughter's last day in daycare. Then it's all about her this weekend as I try to ease the transition to her new school...Next week, we're on half-day schedule so I'm doing drop off and picking right back up 3 hours later. Then on to cleaning my grandmother's house out some more (I have to sell it).

Rest? Sleep?

I'll try to squeeze it in around October.

...Long Live The Queen

I feel obligated to write something about my grandmother, but I have no idea what to write. She passed four days ago and I've been writing and deleting posts since then. For once it isn't cliched to say that words can't express what I feel.

My grandmother used to send me money in the mail. That's random, and I don't know why I'm writing about this. It just popped in my head and made me cry when I thought about it, so I'm "thinking out loud." I was in college and I'd get a letter, which I knew was from her because she had really bad penmanship. She also didn't care what greeting card she picked up. She just needed something to go in the envelope.

So I'd open up the letter and inside would be a card that said, "Congratulations Graduate" and inside she would scratch out the pre-printed message and write something like, "Hello Ordale. It's 2:35 on Wednesday. I hope you get this. Here's a little something for you. It's cold up here. I'm heading out to the store. -Grandma." But the message never ended there. It would almost always continue:

"I really hope I have the right address. I couldn't find the book that has your address in it, so if somebody besides Ordale gets this, I hope you go straight to hell!"

Along with the card, she either sent $5 or a money order for $25. It was the same every time, and every single time she wrapped the money (order) up inside a piece of aluminum foil. She was convinced that the postal service could detect cash in envelopes, but the aluminum foil would throw them off.

I don't really have a point to telling that story. Again, that was me thinking out loud. I really don't know what to say about her passing. Now that I think about it, maybe it's for the best. I've been trying to come up with the ultimate send-off, but while that may be appropriate for some, it isn't for me. A send-off is a way of saying goodbye. There's too much finality to it for my liking.

My brain works in odd ways, especially my memory. The slightest thing can set off a vivid recollection of an entire conversation that happened over 20 years ago. When you have someone that special to you who seemed to do everything in her power to be present in your life...that's an ultimate gift to have. I'm eating a Chips Ahoy right now and it's reminding me of the time we were in Safeway back in 1990 and I begged for... You get the point.

As long as I live, so does she. Normally I don't post people's names or pictures. Just because I've shunned anonymity doesn't mean they have. But, I don't think my grandmother's poltergeist will be too pissed if I declassify some things. After a two year long introduction (evidenced by the nearly 70 posts I've written about her), ladies and gentlemen I am proud to present my grandmother...Mrs. Louise Allen

[caption id="attachment_3561" align="alignnone" width="300"] Me and my grandma[/caption]

Court Jester

If you're ever bored, head down to the DC Superior Courthouse. You should be able to find entertainment anywhere in there, but my personal recommendation is the Family Court area. In just one hour I lost hope for humanity, but gained confidence in myself. It balances out.

It's funny because even if you're there for jury duty, they still assume you're there for a child support hearing. Just out of sheer curiosity, I took a trip down there. There was just an endless sea of angry guys lined up waiting to go in with their free legal aid rep in tow. The highlight of this trip was a guy who was cursing out the clerks because they duplicated his court dates. "What don't you understand? Yall got me coming down here three times for the same thing. It's an error on your part!" The clerk took off her glasses, put on her "negro please!" face and said, "No, what you don't understand is that there are three different plaintiffs for each of these three cases." It took him a while to get it. It wasn't a duplicate court case. All three of his kids' moms filed at the same time.

The highlight, however, had to be a conversation I overheard between two women. I would transcribe it for you, but unless you're fluent in Ghettonics (the Latin equivalent of Ebonics) then it wouldn't make much sense. Basically one lady was telling her friend about why she was filing for divorce. Apparently her husband had been living off of her for two years, and when he was finally approved for disability, he refused to share it with her. To add insult to injury, his disability counted as household income, which terminated her state aid.

She tried to kick him out, but he refuses to leave saying that it's as much her home as it is his. She disagreed because he moved in with her due to the fact that he was homeless when they started dating (no clue how that courtship worked, but whatever). She said that the two of them got into a heated argument over the weekend and he started punching her. She was very proud of the fact that she manages to hold her own every time they come to blows.

My personal thought is that the fight wasn't fair due to the next point she brought up. He has AIDS and suffers seizures. It was during their fight that he went into a seizure and collapsed onto the ground. "Girl, as soon as he went down I just started stomping on him." Apparently, she kicked him repeatedly during his seizure, and when her legs grew tired she began to hit him with items in their living room: vacuum cleaner, TV remote.

She asked her friend to keep this confidential, because he is threatening to press charges. She plans to say that he injured himself during the seizure.

 

So yeah... If you get bored, please stop by the DC Superior Courthouse located at 500 Indiana Ave NW.

Hand of the King

I remember sitting in my grandmother's kitchen when I was about five years old. Two unnamed relatives came by to visit around ten on a Saturday morning. "He's still here!? Why do you always have him? He ain't your responsibility. If she didn't want any kids then she shouldn't have had him." I wish I could say that I overheard this conversation, but that would imply that the people saying this weren't standing five feet in front of me. My family never really was big on feelings.

No sooner than I could feel like shit, my grandmother revealed the big S on her chest and said, "Don't come in here talking that shit to me because I don't want to hear it. It ain't none of your damned business why he's over here. Ain't nobody ask you to keep him. I keep him because I WANT to and you if you don't like it you can get your ass out my house." (Self-esteem returning to normal)

There were many people who made me feel like I was in the way growing up, but my grandmother wasn't one of them. No matter what her plans were, I never felt like anything was more important than me. If she had something to do, then I just tagged along. Walking thirty blocks to pay the light bill? I'm going too. Sitting in choir rehearsal for 40 days and 40 nights. Me (and my transformers) too. And if she wanted to go see a movie starring "that man, uh, what his name...with all the moles on his face...Morgan Freeman!" then she wasn't gonna let a little thing like 1st Grade stop me from going with her to see Lean On Me too.

To be honest, I think a lot of my personality can be attributed to her, which is a sweet thing to say as a 31 year old. When I was 8, but still acted like this, well that was something entirely different. "You shouldn't say stuff like that around that boy. He's old enough to understand you." Her church friends always worried that my developing mind would be warped by their blunt and totally-inappropriate-for-church conversations. I knew who was sleeping with who, who was "on that stuff," and who her entire pew of cohorts felt could and could not preach "to save their damned life." But as my grandmother often retorted, "He ain't stupid enough to repeat it. It'll be the last breath he ever draws."

As I got older, our roles switched. The same person who taught me to add and subtract was asking me to add up her bills to make sure her math was right. The one who signed my permission slips was now having me look over her mail to see if I could make sense out of what "those people" were saying. And then one day the same person who used to threaten to beat me half to death if I didn't let the doctors give me a shot was now handing me a paper naming me her power of attorney for her own medical issues.

Instead of a shot to make her better, she's entrusting me to have the strength to do what she thinks her own children won't be able to do: pull the plug. Anybody else's grandmother would've had a heartfelt speech prepared. Not mine. "I'm giving it to you to do, because the rest of 'em are too fool to do it. I don't want them sittin up around me crying like a bunch of fools. Just let me die and move on." People who don't know me very well assume I have no emotions. Maybe now they understand what it was like growing up in Sparta.

So now here we are about two years later. Things aren't looking too good, and I've spent the last couple of days repeating to doctors, nurses, their witnesses and my family, my grandmother's wishes. Of course, in the moment, no one hears what she wants. They hear what I'm saying. Telling someone not to even try to revive a person if their heart stops is hard to hear. Telling them not to use a ventilator and to let them suffocate to death is also hard to hear. But trust me, as hard as it is to hear, it pales in comparison to what it feels like to say it.

So in 2013, yet again, as it was with my marriage it is with my grandmother...I love a woman so much that I have to be willing to let her go.

Don't Relax

Someone important is in the hospital. I'm not really in a posting mood, but I suppose I need to give my mind a break. So here's a brief interlude...

I'm not here to argue the merits of natural hair versus processed hair on black women. Even if the hair on the top of your head is no longer than the hairs in your eyebrows, it is still yours and you can do whatever you want. I never thought I would ever have to say this, but...

DO NOT PERM YOUR THREE YEAR OLD'S HAIR!

I was sitting in the waiting room of the ghettoest hospital in America when I looked over and saw a little girl who couldn't have been a day over three climbing on the chairs with a fresh perm. And yes, I know a hot comb's work when I see it. She didn't have it pressed...it was permed. And they had the nerve to put a style in it. She looked like a black version of the Bob's Big Boy mascot. I wanted to slap the hell out of both of her parents, who (no surprise) looked like they were about four years older than she was.

Then, when the little girl started acting like a three year old (getting restless, running around) her "father" said (direct quote here), "What the fuck you doin? Sit down somewhere. Here, you want some juice?" He then proceeds to hand her a bottle of blue "juice," which any true ghettonian (myself included) will immediately recognize as the old 50 cent juices that you could get from the corner store or the ice cream truck.

Parenting pro tip#7: Sugar, especially refined sugar, turns children into bolts of lightning.

When the juice "surprisingly" failed to calm her down, he offered her some cookies. I just sat there and waited for Wile E Coyote to come up with another brilliant plan. Then it hit me..."At least this dude is taking care of his kid." I simultaneously felt better about the situation and worse about society's situation as a whole. When the bright side of watching someone create toddler strength Red Bull is "at least he's there," something is wrong with society.

This has been the condescension/judgment interlude. Now back to our regularly scheduled program: Stress: Home Edition!

Replay

One day in the 5th Grade, my teacher made me stand in the hall as punishment for talking back. A girl from another class walked by and, for whatever reason, seeing her triggered this idea: What if I live to be old--like 50--and then die but wake up tomorrow as my ten year old self? That thought would return to me at least once a week for the next 20 years or so whenever I found myself bored enough to daydream.

It's an idea that I immediately tried to write as a book, but the problem with being 10 is that your idea of what 50 will look like is pretty vague. I tried again in high school and college to no luck. By then I was experienced enough to perhaps appeal to young adults, but my writing was so bad that even after taking a prose course as an elective, I still sucked. My professor felt compelled to tell me that although I got a C in the course, it was merely due to the fact that it was the lowest he could give me because I turned in all the assignments.

My last attempt at this story was sometime in 2008. I'm sure I have copies of it on a hard drive somewhere. My character who bears an eerie similarity to me in terms of looks, personality, height and name wakes up in 1987 in his five year old body. He has complete recollection of everything that happens over the next 21 years and conspires to get rich through gambling on sports events and using those winnings to buy all of the hot stocks of the 80s and 90s.

The big reveal in my story was going to be that every time he got back to his original time, he'd die and wake back up as a five year old. It would become something of a curse to him. Now, in hindsight I realize that I was ripping off a series of movies like Groundhog Day, but when that initial idea came to me back in '92, it was a truly unique idea...or so I thought.

I just spent the last eight hours reading a novel called Replay by Ken Underwood from cover to cover. Earlier in the day I thought about my story and my fascination with time travel and googled great time travel books. It was repeated on all of the lists that I found on various sites. I had to go to the library to drop off a book anyway, so I just picked it up. I didn't read the synopsis or have a clue what it was about.

I read the first few pages and my mouth dropped. It was my unique idea. The author stole an idea that I came up with 21 years ago. I always worried that if I waited too long to finish my book, however crappy the writing was, that someone would come along and do the same thing. I checked the front of the book to see just how recently I'd been ripped off.

1987.

So if I'm correct...this man stole my idea five years before I conceived it, and I'm supposed to believe it's just a coincidence that the same year he stole it is the magic year of my story. Seriously though, I was really shocked. There's nothing new under the sun, but a lot of the events and character actions in the book occur just as they did in mine. To be fair, it's now one of my favorite books and he wrote it better than anything I had in mind. Still...it's weird to find out your brainchild was conceived and birthed years before you ever thought of it.

King of the Concrete Jungle

Random Memory #453 as spurred by the random word generator.

Today's random word is Bobcat. Today's random memory is brought to you by my parents.

It's been well documented throughout this site that my family members are the primary (or better yet ONLY) reason that I have trust issues. I was already born with an abundance of gullibility, but they just pushed the envelope.

One day my father decided to take me hiking. I was about six and was familiar with the term, but the average inner city child hikes almost as much as he skis. It would be years before I would realize that in order to hike, one must actually be in a rugged terrain of some sort. Without that knowledge, I believed that Fort Dupont Park in Southeast was THE popular destination for hiking aficionados.

Of course this belief was provided by my father who had me go so far as to get a large stick to use as a walking aid for when the time came. If you aren't familiar with the park, let me describe it for you. Go to your window, and look out at the sidewalk. Imagine a few leaves scattered on the ground and there you have it...the great outdoors of Fort Dupont. Don't bother looking it up online. The pictures are a lie. Many a field trip was taken to the "nature center" where we held real live crickets captured in the wild by the brave men and women of the National Park Service. Once they had a snake, but it died while we were there.

Anyway, we were "hiking" along when I guess my father got tired (or bored). "Wait a minute. I think we might have to turn back. This might be a territory of the mountain lions. See that track right there? Yeah, that looks like a mountain lion print." I start freaking out, which I guess was the wrong response. For whatever reason, he and my mother were really big on me not growing up to be a punk. He wanted me to eagerly embrace the idea of battling it out with this imaginary creature he just made up, while my mother felt that the proper response to four 20-something drug dealers chasing me off the playground was to run home, grab a broom handle or a 2X4 and go back up there.

"What you scared for? You got a stick! If one of them comes, use it!" I didn't know what the hell a mountain lion was. I was six. I was dumb enough to believe we were actually on a mountain range in the middle of DC. Did I seem like the type of kid to instinctively fight off a hell cat? I was scared out of my mind, and him randomly yelling "RUN" a few minutes later didn't help.

I don't know how I found my way back to the car...Oh wait a minute, it was Fort Dupont Park. Walk a few minutes in any direction and you end up on a street in front of a bus stop. I hopped in the care, we went home and he laughed the whole way. I told my grandmother what happened when I got home and she just gave me the stare of disappointment. "How can you be so damned fool? You believe anything anybody tells you!"

This coming from the woman who told me that black Santa Clauses work for the real (white) Santa Claus who doesn't like going to black neighborhoods.

3 Years!

According to the "Your Domain Is About To Expire" email I got today, apparently it's been three years since I started this site. Long after I'm famous, some historian will challenge this post and note that the first post was actually in October 2010. Pay him no mind. My first Wordpress post was in October. I actually had two or three different websites with the same URL up until I finally settled on a blog. And boy, did those things suck.

One was a magazine styled website where I actually tried my hand at writing code. Considering the last time I'd written any form of computer code was in high school...you can guess how it looked. The other had drawings that I did by hand, like a comic book of my thoughts. I have a hard time drawing stick people, so it was short lived. Even when I finally settled on a blog, I couldn't figure out what format to use. If anybody has been around since the beginning...God bless you!

I have to admit that I don't really like the current layout (theme), but I don't have the energy or time to devote to really designing it the way I want. This year, however, I promise myself that I'll do a better job of proofreading these things before I put them out. Judging by some of these posts it's hard to believe that I actually majored in English at some point in my life. My other promise is to try and get back to the funny stories. I read through some old stuff and actually laughed quite a bit. When I got to the more recent stuff I was like, "Damn, what happened?"

It's been a rough year so far. The hits just keep on coming, but one thing people have always told me is that they appreciate my ability to find humor in pain. If you can make people laugh at themselves life gets a little easier. Wish me luck on that one.