“That’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard,” says one of my good friends, Susie. She’s speaking of the great metaphor that we use when our husbands talk about their ex–girlfriends—“band camp”.... READ MORE
The other day, Calvin and I had to do some errands at Wal*Mart. I stayed in the car with Fern and Oopie, because Fern was sleeping and Oopie needed to breast–feed. It was... READ MORE
I’ve had a blog since 2009. I stopped posting in 2012 because it was either my blog or my kids. I worked full-time. I just had to make my priorities. I miss blogging,... READ MORE
I have to update on the yelling status of Fern. I have done really well, and so has Calvin. My yelling factor went from about a 7 to about a 3. I would... READ MORE
It’s finally spring. Thank god. My lingering, post–partum, hormones are getting the best of me. The lack of sunlight and warmth, were getting to me too. I have tried to take the girls outside... READ MORE
The place where I live, in the Northern United States, there are a lot of miseries and hardships. The cultural traditions are backwards and behind. People here are simple–minded and lack their teeth. Sadly, alcoholism and prescription drug use is a constant reminder of the hardships these people endure. It’s almost like a dark cloud is looming over us all the time. We live along the Appalachian trail, but aren’t considered “Appalachia.” Why Appalachia isn’t referred to the culture here, is beyond me. They need to stretch the term a little further north.
Some of the things that is rampant around here are domestic violence and molestation. The sad part is the molestation never gets reported. The children suffer in silence.
A few years ago, this girl went missing. Stepford Hollow is a place that nobody routinely visits. It’s in the depth of the this Northern US pocket. It’s an offset of a town called Strepford. You don’t go there unless you have to. Usually the only people who enter this place are passing “big rig” truckers, or service people, such as town workers.
My, eighteen–year–old, cousin drove through this area a few weeks ago, with his friends for a cheap thrill. He said he wasn’t scared—I somehow find it hard to conceive. I willing to bet my life they were all fearful and uneasy. I can picture it now in my head, death–metal blaring, slow driving, and the eerie feeling that some like to call, “fear factor.”
There is a family that lives there who has a notorious reputation for being simple–minded, incestuous, and downright evil. I heard stories of law enforcement back in the day that wouldn’t even drive down the Hollow. The Wiley’s live there, pronounced “why–lees.” Everyone jokes and agrees not to drive the Hollow or you’ll get the “Willies.”
One morning I was perusing my Facebook page and noticed a copious amount of posts referring to Neveah Collins, a girl that I have never heard of until now. She became a local celebrity overnight. She was celebrity with a horrible tale—she was murdered, and she was from the Hollow.
She was last seen in her living room on her computer. She is an 11–year–old girl with brown hair and blue eyes. She is about 5 feet tall and is very shy.
Things in our town were different that day. People didn’t let their kids walk to school, doors locked, guns were kept closer, and everyone’s minds were on that little girl. We all held our kids and thanked God for our every moment with them. My eyes glued to the television, my fingers stuck to the keyboard of my computer refreshing our local news station, and my mind was in constant wonder of this little girl’s where–abouts.
Three days later they found her—dead. They found her in a river, wrapped in a blanket. Who did this and why? Why would you? Our hearts poured out for this little innocent girl, her mother, her family and her sister.
“When I die young” by The Band Perry, was popular during this time, and every time it played on the radio, I thought of her, I thought of Naveah, and the torture she went through. I was very scared.
There was much speculation, there were fingers pointed, but to this day, there has never been an arrest.
This child killer still lives among us—free.
“That’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard,” says one of my good friends, Susie. She’s speaking of the great metaphor that we use when our husbands talk about their ex–girlfriends—“band camp”. And she’s still talking about it four years later.
When I started dating Calvin years ago, he told me that most of his girlfriends got annoyed with him because he speaks a lot about his ex–es, like ALL THE TIME.
At first I didn’t mind at all, I wanted to hear the stories, mostly for selfish reasons—like a primitive cave—woman, I wanted to hate them, all of them, and pull them by their hair. But after a while, the novelty wore off and his galling narration of his earlier romances, got to me. REALLY got to me.
He had a plethora of stories, and these stories I didn’t want to hear about, yet I kept hearing them, and hearing them, and hearing them, and you get it, right?
I told him time and time again that I didn’t want to hear his stories, and neither did anyone else, especially if we were around our friends. It was kind of uncouth of him. It’s like he didn’t get it, and kept doing it. I swear he didn’t think he was being rude, he would just relate the topic and felt he had to tell where his thought process was which included an ex-girl friend. “People need to know that this ‘friend’ was my girlfriend.” he would say.
He could have just said, my friend, or this friend of mine, or this person that I knew.
What was I to do?
Make fun of him, that’s what.
Getting mad at people just automatically makes them do it again. It’s true, trust me on this one.
I remember this like it was yesterday. Another girlfriend story ensued. I said, “Every time you tell a girlfriend story, it’s like you keep saying, ‘And when I was at band camp’ (with an American Pie innocence), and you sound like a fool.” And when I was at band camp, and when I was at band camp, and when I was and etc…
My friend, Susie and her husband, made it so easy for me because they played along. In fact, Susie does it to her husband too.
Four years later, when there maybe “one of those” stories coming, Susie’s husband always says, “Is this another band camp story?”
Calvin reads this blog of mine and I do love him dearly. If you knew him the way I do, you would know that he told these stories in, unimpeachable–innocence.
The stories now, are far and few between.
The moral of the story is that people like to get in trouble (why, I don’t know), and being made fun of is not cool, especially at band camp.
The other day, Calvin and I had to do some errands at Wal*Mart. I stayed in the car with Fern and Oopie, because Fern was sleeping and Oopie needed to breast–feed.
It was a rainy day. The sound of the rain hitting the roof of the car, and the dark gray skies gave the parking lot a doomy, yet comforting feeling all at the same time. I knew that Calvin was going to be awhile, and it was okay. Oopie was satisfied with her breast–feeding and Fern was in a blissful slumber.
I had a lot of time to think in that thirty minutes, or so, that Calvin was gone.
I come from a small, rural, town in the Northern, United States. This is the sort of town where everybody knows everybody, and everybody knows everybody’s business. It’s easy to have a love–hate relationship with a town like this. On one hand, they say it takes a village to raise a child, and here, you have that village to help you. On the other hand, you can’t do anything without everyone knowing about it.
In just the thirty minutes that Calivin was gone, it was amazing the stories I knew about the people who were there in the parking lot. They may have been there long enough to get in and out their cars, and do their shopping but they were there.
Wal*Mart is the only place around here to shop for groceries because the next closest supermarket is at least forty to fifty miles away. It’s that sort of thing when the big coöperation comes in and puts the locals out of business. Because that ‘s exactly what happened to this small town—big coorperation took over.
There was this girl parked next to me that I knew from high-school. She came from a good family and somehow ended up on drugs and recently lost custody of her children. I wondered if she had stolen anything today, because she usually does. She was with a bunch of friends, that obviously was into the “same” things that she was. Obviously there were none of her kids with her.
Next came out this woman who, at one point, didn’t like my older sister very well. She distasted my sister, by jealous association. She dated my sister’s ex–boyfriend, had a child with him, and has since moved on. I’m pretty sure, she doesn’t hate her anymore. It’s amazing what jealousy can do, because she’s a nice girl and I think she now has something in common with my sister—irritation for the same human.
Oh, then there was the family of six, that probably shared one brain synapse among all of all of them. (Not sure which one of them was using it at the moment.) They filled their car—with what I’m sure, was government funded, processed, food—and drove off in that car, that was either borrowed, or never will pass inspection again. It’s like we live in Appalachia Well, technically we are on the trail, but not part of the stigma.
Then there was the teacher and his new girlfriend. He obviously divorced his wife, which was too bad, because she was so cute and nice. I heard he cheated on her with this new woman. He’s so healthy and so is his ex–wife. This new girlfriend doesn’t look as much into health as he does. Another cause of cheating by “opportunity.” I bet someday he really regrets it, and is jealous of her finding someone twice as good.
See what I mean about everyone knowing everything? I barely even know these people, but I know all about them. I know that there is two sides to every story, but…
This is just some of the people who I saw that day. You should see the days of the fifth–of–the–month. NEVER go to Wal*Mart that day. NEVER, especially if it’s a Saturday. This is the day that food stamps are mailed, or become active on people’s EBT cards. It’s crowded and there’s never any food left. Aisles are jammed, people are in your way, and everyone wears their pajamas. Yes, I said, everyone where’s their pajamas. The pharmacy line goes on forever.
Calvin came out of the store, I put Oopie back in her car seat, and we drove off. I, normally, would have never given these people another thought, except I am writing about them in this blog post. It’s amazing the diversity you see, just in the parking lot in a matter of a short time, or maybe I should say, “The lack, there of.”
I’m sitting at my car in the parking lot at work, on my last day before I am officially a non-employed person (by choice), and I hear this song by The Killers, called “Mr. Brightside.” How weird. Really? How so?
This song reminds me of Calvin and his ex-girlfriend. We all worked together, about ten years ago, and I remember the night she said, “Gertie, I have to tell you something. I’m dating Calvin, but don’t tell anybody.” I said, “Awesome!” I was really thinking, What the fuck, are you serious? How the fuck did you get so lucky. I’ve, like, had a nurse-doctor crush on this guy for years. WHAT THE FUCK.
I always acted happy for her. I always joyed at her stories. I really just wanted to hate her, but I’m too nice for that.
“I’m coming out of my cage
And I’ve been doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all
It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss”
Well, I never kissed him first, or even had contact with him other than professionally, but when she told me she was dating him, this is how I felt. Why do I waste my emotions on something that will never be. Why does the nice guy always finish last?
When the song came on the radio, back then, and I heard this line, “Now they’re going to bed and my stomach is sick…” I couldn’t help but think of them.
“…Now I’m falling asleep
And she’s calling a cab
While he’s having a smoke
And she’s taking a drag
Now they’re going to bed
And my stomach is sick
And it’s all in my head
But she’s touching his chest
Now, he takes off her dress…”
Before I drove off, I sat there, in my car, just looking at the building, reminiscing, and then this song played on the radio. The memories of that place; the joys, the sorrows, and the jealousy.
“I just can’t look its killing me
And taking control
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea
Swimming through sick lullabies…
…But it’s just the price I pay…”
We are getting married in July, Calvin and me.
“Cause I’m MRS. Brightside.”
I’ve had a blog since 2009. I stopped posting in 2012 because it was either my blog or my kids. I worked full-time. I just had to make my priorities. I miss blogging, but I still have my gripe with the bloggy world. I’m sure it’s because I’m jealous. As much as I would love to put my every minute into it, I just can’t. Now that I’m going to be a stay at home mom, or the oh-so-annoying acronym, SAHM. I guess I have a few extra minutes now to do this, and not many I assure you.
Back then, I did not post photographs of Edwin’s private moments, I posted photographs of hemorrhoidal cream, with a caption that says, “I bought this for the town of [Insert name here] to cool off the all the assholes.”
Sometimes I wonder if mommy bloggers wait for stupid things to happen to their kids so they can post it. Yessssssss! Johnny got a broken leg. Awesome, more followers. I can blog about it. My husband and me had sex last night, now I can write a blog post about like the one I read named, “Yes, I’m Going There.” @[insert name of blog here, because I’m not going there] (I would put links to these blogs, but I’m not here to be a bully.) I don’t give a shit about your post-delivery vagina.
Which reminds me of the next mom blog that I wanted to write a long comment after her article but I didn’t. It was titled, “Ten Ways to Affair Proof Your Relationship.” It had the usual set of stereo-instructions that we’ve all read a million times; have sex, touch, don’t fuck your bosses wife, don’t fuck your nurses, take a shower, and etc. As long as I follow these ten easy steps, I will never worry about it again. Ever.
Just to let you know, cheating isn’t all what you think it is. People don’t cheat because their sex lives suck, or their lack of communication and trust, they cheat because of opportunity—alright, I know what you are thinking, some people cheat because they’re unhappy, their partner is an attention whore, or worse, a sex addict—but in reality, the majority of people cheat because of opportunity. It all starts with an innocent text over common likes, or gossip. Maybe a few weeks later, another text. Oh wow. Now its exciting and you think, I wonder when I’m going to get another one. Next thing you know it’s a full-fledged SEXTual affair. Did you know emotional affairs can be more harmful than physical affairs? Next thing you know sexting is boring and you want more. The physical affair ensues.
How did this happen?
You thought you were happy, didn’t you?
Your first thought was, this wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I’ve seen it happen to people close to me, people who I would have NEVER thought it would happen to. I hope that it never happens to me because I love Calvin more than anything, like REALLY love him.
Oh dear, you forgot TRUST, and ANTI OPPORTUNITY. I guess that means do not go to a bar, shut off the internet, no more cell phones, and NEVER leave your house again.
I’m sorry. I went off on a tangent. That’s what happens when I read a post with lack of substance.
I followed this one mommy blog faithfully, until she posted a photograph of herself looking like Frankenstein, while blow-drying her hair. I had to delete her. Seriously? I honestly felt embarrassed for the woman. Calvin WOULD defiantly fuck his nurses if he found out I was doing that.
Posting photographs of your kids? I don’t know how I feel about it. I guess it’s no different from Siri Cruise being all over the tabloids. Perverts, perverts, and more perverts. There are so many of them.
I’m not sure hate is the right word, but I defiantly have mixed feelings about them. I often wonder how people come up with the stuff that they do. I think a lot of it is “blog-filler”, and lacks anything worth keeping my attention. Please let me know if you come across a good one, because I love reading noteworthy blogs, and there are some out there. You just have to dig.
I have to update on the yelling status of Fern. I have done really well, and so has Calvin.
My yelling factor went from about a 7 to about a 3. I would say that a 3 is normal for raising a good, well-rounded, child.
We went to Boston for Calvin’s birthday and a Red Sox game. What a great trip.
I never yelled at Fern, except for one instance –she wouldn’t go into the stroller. This was necessary because it was impossible to carry her as we walked around the city. I yelled, she screamed, and then I realized that wasn’t the answer. I only yelled about it once and Clavin said we shouldn’t yell because, at this point, she was having a major meltdown. During this catastrophe, it was almost physically impossible to get her strapped into the stroller. I stopped, redirected the entire situation into a positive one, I was firm and made my point without yelling. After that one time, she went into the stroller with the safety straps buckled and by the end of the trip, she was riding in the stroller willingly, in fact, she ASKED to go into the stroller.
I don’t know what makes me yell sometimes. Maybe it’s my hormones, or maybe it’s my badly presented demeanor, but the fact is, it doesn’t work. It really just makes them “used” to it, and then they don’t think it’s a big deal anymore. And do I really want my daughter used to this behavior?
This week Fern has been much more calm, I even got her to learn what is was like to whisper, and she does it. We had some major meltdowns last week during my yelling frenzy. I’m talking meltdown after meltdown. This week we had some, except they were much more spaced out.
I will continue to be more relaxed, and I will keep my rules consistent. I will say that, “Yelling is not the answer.”
Just a side note that has nothing to do with this post. I saw these street vendors with paraphernalia about “Boston Strong”. I hope that all the proceeds go to the victims and these people aren’t profiting off this tragedy. I know they need to make a living,but seriously, the money needs to go to the victims or maybe to EMS, for them to continue to give stellar service during these horrific times.
It’s finally spring. Thank god. My lingering, post–partum, hormones are getting the best of me. The lack of sunlight and warmth, were getting to me too.
I have tried to take the girls outside when it’s warm out, especially Oopie who needs the vitamin D. Apparently it’s lacking in breast-milk. I have a headache today, which I know is from lack of fluids.
I ran in the house to get a bottle of water while cautiously watching Fern and Oopie from the window. I went back outside and took one sip and then had to cater to Oopie’s breastfeeding need. I turned and looked at my water and saw this dandelion had put in there by Fern. I didn’t know whether to be mad because I was so thirsty, or to give her a big hug, because it was spring and that was a nice gesture. I gave her a hug, of course.
Today I didn’t mind her constant noises and two–year old sounds. I put my head on the ground with my eyes closed (Oopie was in her “Bumbo” seat). I just listened for her sounds. It was so soothing. This is what my, overwhelming, mind of mine needed, two seconds of peace and sunlight.
Sometimes, I read blogs and wonder how the hell do these women have time to do all those things, writing, social media, photography, etc. Do they sleep? Do they ignore their families. I do this when I’m sleeping, or should be sleeping for that matter, or otherwise this would not be possible.
I love my fern, and I love my Oopie. I’m having a better day today, and so are my beautiful girls.
I think that I am going to try a different approach of disciplining Fern. It seems that the exact day that she turned two, is the exact day that she turned terrible, just like they say in all the literature.
The screaming fits are enough to send Calvin and me to the bottom of my wine bottle, and maybe even down a second one.
We are handling these scream fests by screaming back. I’m pretty sure this is exacerbating the situation. She screams, I scream, and we all scream. After an intense screaming match, the adrenaline jollification sets me off into a spiraling downfall of remorse. Now, my two–year old daughter, thinks her mother is a bitch. She retorts the insult with her painfully loud screams.
“Gerti, please don’t yell today no matter what she does, because she’s only two, and she doesn’t understand,” begs Calvin. “I won’t,” I say sarcastically.
When she does something bad, it’s like I have a built–in yelling reflex, and at times Calvin does too. It’s not working. As we speak, she is spilling milk right next to me, trying to get my Ipad all wet. I’m not going to yell. I’m going to calmly explain why this behavior isn’t acceptable. I will get down to her level and hug her when I’m done rationalizing to a mind that can’t rationalize.
I am trying a new approach this week. I am going to let her do whatever she wants. By doing this, I will not get mad and yell. Maybe she won’t do things for my negative attention, yes Gertie, she just wants YOUR attention. The two things I won’t compromise this week are her safety and her bed-time.
I think that some bad children are home-grown. If you need advice on growing your own, just ask me, because I seem to have a flourishing garden.
I’ll update next week on the “do what ever you want” scheme. I let you know if it works and if behavior on both ends are improving.