I suspected I've been being lied to all along. I'm a smart girl. I may not be very good with algebra or formulas but, basic addition I can handle and I know when 2 + 2 does not equal 4. I have common sense and too many things weren't adding up. Yet coming from someone close to you, you don't want to believe they couldn't tell you the truth...unless they needed to protect someone else, someone worth more to them.
I don't like lies. I don't like them at all. I don't like people who pretend to be something they are not. I don't like silence in place of truth - for that too, in my book, is a lie.
Why do people lie? Why does anyone lie? To save themselves? To shift the blame? To cause trouble? I don't know the answer, maybe there isn't just one. If you know me, you know that I am well read. I will never try to answer a question if I don't have a well researched answer, or the answer is something I know to my core, I like to be informed. I need to know. I don't like to be wrong. It's not because I have to be right but, more that I need to be accurate. I don't like inaccurate information. Yes, I do admit when I am wrong, maybe not right away but, I will. I also am not afraid to say that I do not know or I don't understand. I am not afraid to ask questions or look something up. I frequently visit the dictionary, the Urban Dictionary, news or search engines to understand.
I generally say that I don't lie and maybe that's not all the truth. I try very hard not to lie. I wholeheartedly believe that the truth is always the best option. I believe it's better to make someone cry with truth than to smile with a lie. When asked a direct question, I am a deer in headlights and the truth spills. Do not tell me secrets, do not ask me to help plan your next surprise party, because I will, with ZERO malice or intent, spill the beans!
To be lied to, or lied about just hurts and it's simply not nice. Sadly, for the rest of my life, I'll always wonder if you're telling the truth to or about me. Thanks for ruining my trust in you.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Friday, January 10, 2014
Music
I talked about the movies I like, and you all know that I read tons of books. I don't think we've talked much about music.
My sister asked me today if I was totally country and well, that's my core base but, the answer is I listen to it all. I listen to it all.
I watched the CBS special a few weeks ago Garth Brooks Live at the Wynn and I was totally taken back to my youth. My mom, like his dad, was old country, Loretta Lynn, George Jones, Mickey Gilley, Neil Diamond, Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash, "Haggard '|'and Jones '-'" (If you saw the special, you know what I mean.), Tom T. Hall, and oh man! I could go on! I loved that stuff. I think of road trips with my mom and that old country...just takes me right...to the back seat of that big old blue Chevy. Sitting on the hump, between David and Val, heading up to my grandparent's farm.
Jeremy bought me the Garth Brooks Blame It All on My Roots box set and I'm telling you. This. Is. The. Story. Of. My. Life. Every time I watch the DVD, it brings tears to my eyes. I also was the youngest of 6 kids and I absorbed every note that was played in that house (or the car). I remember lying on the floor in the living room listening to record after 8 track after record. Or up with my sister Val in her room, lying on her bed just lost in it all...until Warren Zevon's Werewolves of London came out - dang! I didn't sleep for awhile after that one and now it's one of my faves, "I'd like to meet his tailor". Don Henley's Dirty Laundry and REO Speedwagon's Time for me to Fly. Cruising around Manistee with my brother in my dad's old Chevy with the windows down and whatever cassette tape blaring - The Tubes, J. Geils Band, Huey Lewis and The News, The Police, Aldo Nova, Toto, and I could go on!
I said my mom was country, my dad was hymns, Christmas music, and I'll always remember Roger Whitaker, John Denver, Frank Sinatra and Tennessee Ernie Ford - "Hurry up and shut the Door!". I struggle at Christmas because I remember singing carols with him, oh his voice!
My sister asked me today if I was totally country and well, that's my core base but, the answer is I listen to it all. I listen to it all.
I watched the CBS special a few weeks ago Garth Brooks Live at the Wynn and I was totally taken back to my youth. My mom, like his dad, was old country, Loretta Lynn, George Jones, Mickey Gilley, Neil Diamond, Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash, "Haggard '|'and Jones '-'" (If you saw the special, you know what I mean.), Tom T. Hall, and oh man! I could go on! I loved that stuff. I think of road trips with my mom and that old country...just takes me right...to the back seat of that big old blue Chevy. Sitting on the hump, between David and Val, heading up to my grandparent's farm.
Jeremy bought me the Garth Brooks Blame It All on My Roots box set and I'm telling you. This. Is. The. Story. Of. My. Life. Every time I watch the DVD, it brings tears to my eyes. I also was the youngest of 6 kids and I absorbed every note that was played in that house (or the car). I remember lying on the floor in the living room listening to record after 8 track after record. Or up with my sister Val in her room, lying on her bed just lost in it all...until Warren Zevon's Werewolves of London came out - dang! I didn't sleep for awhile after that one and now it's one of my faves, "I'd like to meet his tailor". Don Henley's Dirty Laundry and REO Speedwagon's Time for me to Fly. Cruising around Manistee with my brother in my dad's old Chevy with the windows down and whatever cassette tape blaring - The Tubes, J. Geils Band, Huey Lewis and The News, The Police, Aldo Nova, Toto, and I could go on!
I said my mom was country, my dad was hymns, Christmas music, and I'll always remember Roger Whitaker, John Denver, Frank Sinatra and Tennessee Ernie Ford - "Hurry up and shut the Door!". I struggle at Christmas because I remember singing carols with him, oh his voice!
I was born in 1973. My eldest sister had just graduated high school and my brother (the last before me) was 9. If they were listening, I was listening. Bob Seger, John Cougar, Styx, Boston, Kansas, James Taylor, Gordon Lightfoot, Chicago, Simon and Garfunkel, REO Speedwagon, Jim Croce, The Eagles, .38 Special, CCR, Skynyrd, Blondie, Fleetwood Mac, Abba, Rod Stewart, Billy Joel, and anything and everything in between. I followed the hair bands into the 90's Bon Jovi, Poison, Motley Crue, and others like The Outfield, and yeah...
Let's not forget the thing that relates to me most and the real reason I begged my husband for this set, my sister Gloria. She was always up to something and for awhile, she played guitar and she'd come home for a weekend and I was her biggest fan - well, this Garth Brooks show is much like it was to be her audience. It was her, me and her guitar, Mr. Bojangles, The 59th St. Bridge song, and Billy Joel - always something Billy Joel. She was my own personal concert in our living room and I LOVED it. She'd play until her fingers got sore, and I'd listen until I had to go to bed.
Sadly, I'll never, ever be able to collect all of the favorite songs of my youth, of my life but, it's fun to go back every now and again.
I'll leave you with an old favorite of George. Enjoy!
Let's not forget the thing that relates to me most and the real reason I begged my husband for this set, my sister Gloria. She was always up to something and for awhile, she played guitar and she'd come home for a weekend and I was her biggest fan - well, this Garth Brooks show is much like it was to be her audience. It was her, me and her guitar, Mr. Bojangles, The 59th St. Bridge song, and Billy Joel - always something Billy Joel. She was my own personal concert in our living room and I LOVED it. She'd play until her fingers got sore, and I'd listen until I had to go to bed.
Sadly, I'll never, ever be able to collect all of the favorite songs of my youth, of my life but, it's fun to go back every now and again.
I'll leave you with an old favorite of George. Enjoy!
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Writing in 2014
If you haven't noticed, I've been writing a little more often. I'm trying to use the app on my phone a little more, just to clear my head if need be.
When I write, generally there is a trigger, something that engages my mind and until I purge the thought, if you will, I can't rest.
I never intend to hurt anyone. I come here as a journal. It's easier for me to write here knowing my greatest critic doesn't have access to a computer and that knowing gives me such freedom to type my heart out because I never have to be afraid of my papers being found. Sure, my blog publishes to social networks and sometimes I hide them, sometimes not.
I really am in such a great place in my life. I've run out of anger, tears, and deep frustration. I'm comfortable with myself, my life, my direction, and my place in it. I've found my smile, my laugh again and I love sharing it.
I don't know what this year is going to bring to me. I hope it's more happiness, more understanding, more compassion and more of all the things I'm learning to love about myself. I hope it gives me more to write about.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Someone else's child
I have a mother. I love my mother. I am a mother. My kid loves me. It's different.
The word "mother" is full of mixed emotions for me. I don't have the words, or the memories to my childhood. I have little blips. Little 10 second movies here and there. I truly don't remember much but, I remember something that stuck to me when we applied for foster care, and it may be hard to understand if you didn't live it - kids, even abused kids, love their parents, no matter what has happened, been endured or seen or done - kids love their parents.
I have one mother. Faults and perfections, she is mine. My one and only. I love her. I can't have a healthy relationship with her. She is still my mother. She has taught me freedom, independence and how to be kind. She taught me how to listen to my conscience and to hold my head high even when I'm feeling terribly low. She showed me stubborn, she taught me pride.
She showed me the faces and families of domestic violence and what those poor people tolerate at the hands of another. I met a woman and her children who were abused by her husband, their father. I sat with this woman and her purple face with the swollen eyes, split lip and her broken heart, and listened to her tell me her mistakes, how it started, where she went wrong, how it escalated, how she left and I promised her to be stronger than she was, to always stand up for my kids, for myself. I've kept that promise. I will never forget her. I'll never forget her broken face.
Maybe my mother didn't do a lot of things right, maybe she didn't do everything wrong. I don't know. I know where I'm hurt but, she showed me to be strong, to do the things you don't want to do. To take care of the rest. And to keep on keeping on. I'm keeping on.
As I get older, I remember more of the things she'd say. For instance, "I bet he's as nervous to meet you as you are to meet him." or "No point tripping over your tongue, he puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like you do." I always took those little quips to heart. Holding on to some hope that she was trying.
I have a mother. Maybe she wasn't the best mother. She didn't bake cakes or carry cookies. She missed basketball games, PTA meetings and threw awful birthday parties. She didn't do a lot of the things that I do now, and maybe I do them because she didn't but, at the end of every day, she's still my mom.
She can't be replaced.
I can't call another woman mother, be accepted as a part of someone's family or think of another woman as my mother for the terms "mother" and "family" to me are bittersweet. It's too hard to let go of the past hurt yet, I can't give someone else that title. I have my brother and my sisters and we're learning to make that work too. They're mine and as angry as they may make me sometimes, I'll defend everyone of them should you say one thing against them well, Hell hath no fury.
You see, I'm already someone else's child. I have been for a very long time. You can't bring me in and treat me as yours. I don't want to attach the old negatives to a new relationship. I'm not a stray dog. I don't know what you'll do to me if I pee on your floor and I can't risk finding out. I'm not yours to claim. You can't bring me in and treat me like I've always been a part of your family. I'm new. I'm not used to your family. I may not even like it. I'm my family, it's mistakes and correctness - all of it. You either accept me as such, or you don't. You can love me but, I can't be yours. I have a family. I'm someone else's child.
* I do have to mention here that I do have an extra family that I am so thankful for. You see, they took me in when I first moved here. They gave me the family I needed at that time. Mom & Pops left the door open for me and let me come in one step at a time. They let me find my way to them, what ever path I needed to take to get there. They just left the door open. Eventually, I came in, took my coat off and stayed for while. And even when I did, I was part of the family but, I wasn't theirs, I wasn't treated as theirs. I will always cherish that family for loving me when I wasn't even sure I loved myself.
The word "mother" is full of mixed emotions for me. I don't have the words, or the memories to my childhood. I have little blips. Little 10 second movies here and there. I truly don't remember much but, I remember something that stuck to me when we applied for foster care, and it may be hard to understand if you didn't live it - kids, even abused kids, love their parents, no matter what has happened, been endured or seen or done - kids love their parents.
I have one mother. Faults and perfections, she is mine. My one and only. I love her. I can't have a healthy relationship with her. She is still my mother. She has taught me freedom, independence and how to be kind. She taught me how to listen to my conscience and to hold my head high even when I'm feeling terribly low. She showed me stubborn, she taught me pride.
She showed me the faces and families of domestic violence and what those poor people tolerate at the hands of another. I met a woman and her children who were abused by her husband, their father. I sat with this woman and her purple face with the swollen eyes, split lip and her broken heart, and listened to her tell me her mistakes, how it started, where she went wrong, how it escalated, how she left and I promised her to be stronger than she was, to always stand up for my kids, for myself. I've kept that promise. I will never forget her. I'll never forget her broken face.
Maybe my mother didn't do a lot of things right, maybe she didn't do everything wrong. I don't know. I know where I'm hurt but, she showed me to be strong, to do the things you don't want to do. To take care of the rest. And to keep on keeping on. I'm keeping on.
As I get older, I remember more of the things she'd say. For instance, "I bet he's as nervous to meet you as you are to meet him." or "No point tripping over your tongue, he puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like you do." I always took those little quips to heart. Holding on to some hope that she was trying.
I have a mother. Maybe she wasn't the best mother. She didn't bake cakes or carry cookies. She missed basketball games, PTA meetings and threw awful birthday parties. She didn't do a lot of the things that I do now, and maybe I do them because she didn't but, at the end of every day, she's still my mom.
She can't be replaced.
I can't call another woman mother, be accepted as a part of someone's family or think of another woman as my mother for the terms "mother" and "family" to me are bittersweet. It's too hard to let go of the past hurt yet, I can't give someone else that title. I have my brother and my sisters and we're learning to make that work too. They're mine and as angry as they may make me sometimes, I'll defend everyone of them should you say one thing against them well, Hell hath no fury.
You see, I'm already someone else's child. I have been for a very long time. You can't bring me in and treat me as yours. I don't want to attach the old negatives to a new relationship. I'm not a stray dog. I don't know what you'll do to me if I pee on your floor and I can't risk finding out. I'm not yours to claim. You can't bring me in and treat me like I've always been a part of your family. I'm new. I'm not used to your family. I may not even like it. I'm my family, it's mistakes and correctness - all of it. You either accept me as such, or you don't. You can love me but, I can't be yours. I have a family. I'm someone else's child.
* I do have to mention here that I do have an extra family that I am so thankful for. You see, they took me in when I first moved here. They gave me the family I needed at that time. Mom & Pops left the door open for me and let me come in one step at a time. They let me find my way to them, what ever path I needed to take to get there. They just left the door open. Eventually, I came in, took my coat off and stayed for while. And even when I did, I was part of the family but, I wasn't theirs, I wasn't treated as theirs. I will always cherish that family for loving me when I wasn't even sure I loved myself.
Friday, January 3, 2014
At the Movies
I have a secret thing for 1950's/1960's era movies. I don't think I've ever admitted that...well, except maybe to Jeremy.
Doris Day, Cary Grant, Brian Keith are my true favorites! And then there's also James Garner, Henry Fonda, Maureen O'Hara, June Powell, Sandra Dee and so many more!
And the movies!
Pillow Talk
With Six You Get Eggroll
Singing in the Rain
Please Don't Eat the Daisies
Spencer's Mountain
Move Over Darling
Gidget
Operation Petticoat, Father Goose, On Moonlight Bay, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Your's Mine and Ours, Flipper, and again so many more!
You'll have to look them up yourself but, I remember watching some of these on a Saturday maybe Sunday afternoon when I was a kid and I don't know...they brought in such values, morals, principles (I'm big on those things) but, they brought family too. Some in different ways than others but, be it Mr. Eckland and Catherine with all the girls stranded on an island or Gidget off chasing Moondoggie, while her dad is trying to set her up with someone more suitable, these movies are just clean and wholesome. I like that.
I struggle with movies now. New movies. They just don't hold my attention. They're either too fleshy, too bloody, too explosive, too corny, too over the top and I lose interest so fast! Call me old fashioned...I don't mind.
Time's up. The Bishop's Wife (I jumped back even further to 1947) is on tonight!
Thursday, January 2, 2014
"Skype with Swami" 1st Edition
I've had a few little visits with spirits again and I have to share these stories because they're so awesome! I do some of my best "listening" through email or chat so my sister and I call this "Skype with Swami". I'll continue to share these stories under this title, well because It's fun and I have to call it something. Honestly, I need to journal them to remember. Please understand I can't put these out here exactly as they happened. They're very close but, I have to protect the identity of the people involved. Know I'm sharing as much as I can as honestly as I can.
1st instance: Dimes
I was talking with a friend on a popular social networking site and she had asked me how to get a sign from a loved one. She said she had already asked and didn't get a response. I remembered one of the talks I'd gone to (I read this in a book also) with a psychic. She had talked about loved ones who had passed leaving dimes as signs of their presence in our lives. For instance, she was typing on her computer, got up for some coffee and returned to find a dime on her keyboard. She lives alone.
I asked this girl to ask her dad to leave her dimes. As always, the response was "Why?". The best answer I could give was, "They're less common than pennies." I didn't tell her - the voices said so!
A little later she came back to me, in tears and said, "Before my dad died, he gave me a really old dime. He told me one day it would be worth something. I just found out it's worth more than I thought. Thanks for helping me find my sign."
2nd instance: Perfume
A friend of mine lost her mom a few years ago and has been missing her terribly. At the same time, I've had this woman with me who had strong perfume. She was quiet, polite. My friend had mentioned to me about if I do readings but, she was quite hesitant and shyed away. The woman stayed with me, kind of on the fringes. My friend crossed paths with me commenting on this social networking site and my right arm started shaking like CRAZAY!! And I finally realized the perfumey woman belonged to her. The woman kept saying, "ask her about the perfume, she'll know, ask her, ask her! Did you ask her? You have to ask her! Ask her!" I didn't know this friend's mom and when I did get into a conversation with my friend, I asked her about the perfume. Sure enough, it was an old family joke they had with her mom. It was so good to finally match this woman! I think she came to me last (2012) December!
It's interesting to me, these spirits. You see or hear of mediums contacting the deceased with a predetermined agenda but, for me, my spirits hold the agenda. They come to me, they give me some goofy quip "Tell her about the perfume" and dimes than leave me to figure out what that means and who it belongs to. There are no directions or instructions. No manual how to match them up with their people.
So...I have this man here. He came in last night or the night before, he smokes cigarettes...anyone want to claim him?
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