eunice ann

tales of a girl trying to make sense of it all.

lingering.

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onion on chopping block

As I was in the midst of my bi-weekly refrigerator purge and pantry clean-out, I discovered a couple of moldy onions hanging out in the middle of a bag, threatening to spoil the whole bunch. I always thought that it was a bad apple that was notorious for this task, but I digress.

After tossing the offenders, I decided that I would heroically save the rest by chopping them up immediately and freezing them. My hasty decision left our entire apartment reeking of onions for hours. 

I made the mistake of putting a couple of them in a container in the fridge, expecting that I would be using them within the next day or so. Despite my best efforts to rid the house of onion odor, every time I open the refrigerator, I am knocked over by the smell of raw onions again.

Onions are weird. In their raw form, they are pretty offensive. They smell bad, they make you cry, and they come wrapped in a skin that is simultaneously paper thin and impossible to remove. 

The experience of breaking an onion down into something useable is so miserable that there is an entire industry dedicated to mitigating the pain of doing so. Rather than deciding that we cannot deal with onions, we’ve simply managed to find a better way to be around them. Side note: onion goggles are legit the best thing ever invented.

onion goggles at Rivers and Roads
I am no rookie when it comes to cutting onions by the bushel. Rivers and Roads Coffee.

But once they are peeled, chopped and cooked, they add a unique dynamic to any dish. Leave the onion out of something and the difference is noticeable. The flavor just isn’t quite complete. These awful little buggers have managed to worm their way into necessity. 

They are also no stranger to being turned into life metaphors either. From their many layers to the way they survive such a thin skin, it seems that onions are constantly being compared to something in life. 

As the faint odor of onions permeates my home, I think about pain and the way it lingers long after the offense has been committed. There are some pains that still hurt me as much as they did when they first happened, like breaking up with my boyfriend earlier this year, or the way my mom treated me as a teenager. In their memories, those moments are likely all but forgotten, but I can remember the sting of their words as though it just happened. Tears prick my eyes the same way an onion does the moment my body realizes what is happening. 

I think about how hurt and betrayed I have been by Alissa’s father and his family and all of the abuse we have endured the past two years. It is bitter in the same way an onion tastes when you bite into it raw. Like the onion, they have no idea how distasteful their behavior has been to me. 

As much as that lingering pain still reminds me of the hurt I’ve endured, it also serves to remind me that something better is coming. 

When you cook an onion down, the smell begins to change. The fumes stop hurting, but they are still there. Although the lingering scent of cooked onion isn’t much better, the way the onion has changed makes a difference. It adds flavor and texture. It gives character to the foods that you make. So many of my favorite meals begin with sautéing an onion. It’s no wonder that I am able to draw this parallel with life.

I think back on the most painful times in my life and wonder if I would change them. I almost always come to the conclusion that I would not. If we remove the pain from our pasts, we become flavorless and flat. The experiences we have, both good and bad, are what build our character.

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of The Kindred Voice to encourage more people to write and share their stories.

forgotten, or maybe just ignored.

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One of my favorite things about being a member of the H & L Writes group is that each Wednesday, the editors ask us to share what we’ve written in the past week. One of my fellow writers posted about disappointment during the holidays and it really resonated with me. Or maybe the better term is that it triggered me. 

When Alissa’s dad first decided to be involved in her life, he really struggled with a lot of the parenting things that seemed to come naturally to me. Granted, he didn’t get the five year head start I had on him, but some of his parenting missteps really threw me for a loop because they seemed like common sense.

She started kindergarten that fall and I was struggling to save money so we could move out of our friend’s basement. One thing I had been looking forward to, however, was taking Alissa for her very first back to school shopping experience. It was a tradition that my mother and I had when I was little with (mostly) good memories. (There was one year in high school where there were not a pair of jeans in a hundred mile radius that I liked. There may have been screaming and pouting.)

He agreed to join us and offered to buy the clothes that we picked out. It was a win-win. I could have the shopping experience with my daughter and I didn’t have to stress about how to pay for it. He would have the opportunity to bond a little with the child he had only come to know in the past two months. 

When he canceled on me once, then a second time, I got really frustrated. We needed to get this done because school was starting in just a few days. When could he realistically meet us? A big fight ensued and later that evening, he dropped by a huge bag of new clothes that he and his friend had picked up at Kohl’s. 

I was livid and he didn’t understand why. He had taken the one thing out of that experience that meant the most to me: taking her shopping to pick out her own outfit. It hadn’t even dawned on him that how I felt mattered.

When Christmas came a few months later, I took Alissa shopping so she could pick out gifts for her dad. I assumed he would do the same. He and I exchanged texts, coordinating what we were getting her so that we didn’t overlap and so we could agree on an appropriate “Santa” gift. I was really excited for Christmas. 

He came over to our house early in the morning and tucked the gifts under the tree. When she woke up, we enjoyed breakfast together and began opening gifts. One by one, the gift paper was torn open and I sat and watched, waiting for there to be one for me. 

There wasn’t. 

I chalked it up to the fact that he was a new dad and probably wasn’t thinking. He had never had to take a kid shopping for presents before, so it just must not have occurred to him. 

The next year, we went to his house. She opened present after present. Nothing for me. Although this year was even more awkward because I didn’t have the buffer of the gifts from my family to lessen the blow. As we drove home that afternoon, I cried. I wasn’t sure if I was more upset or frustrated that I didn’t matter enough to shop for. 

The following year, it was the same. Although he did give me an envelope with $50 shoved inside. That was even more upsetting than not opening a gift from my daughter. It wasn’t about not getting presents, it was about not being important enough to even consider when he was doing his shopping. Don’t get me wrong – I never expected him to get me a gift, even though I always got one for him. It was that I expected him to teach our daughter about the spirit of giving and to think about someone other than herself. 

I never said anything to him about it. I didn’t want to pick a fight because I knew he wouldn’t understand anyway. I just sulked and tried to figure out if there was a way that I could teach Alissa how to think of everyone special to her when planning her Christmas shopping. 

A year later, my dad took up the slack after I told my parents about it. While it was nice not to sit empty-handed, that was also the year that Alissa’s dad joined me and my family for the festivities. My parents both got him gifts, and miraculously, he bought me a new coat, which I desperately needed. And I didn’t hate it, which was a friggin’ miracle. But he didn’t help Alissa shop for me and that dashed my short-lived hope that things had finally changed. The coat was just a bonus.

There was one more Christmas that he celebrated with Alissa before he lost his rights to see her. I wasn’t there. I didn’t want to be and I was fine with it. He still didn’t take her shopping for me and I finally stopped caring. I had learned that I just wasn’t important enough to him to consider teaching his child how to give. 

showing compassion.

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compassion is kind

Six summers ago, I was coming home from picking Alissa up from summer camp when we got into a car accident. As the insurance statistics tell the story, we were just a few blocks from home, stopped at a stoplight. The light turned green, we all started to go when a car a few ahead of me suddenly slammed on its brakes. 

In turn, we all slammed on our brakes. Except for me. My flip flop got caught on the gas pedal and I slammed on the gas, ramming my car into the car in front of me. We pulled our cars into a nearby parking lot and my heart raced. 

I had been out of work for two months and I was quite impatiently waiting on a job offer from a company I had been interviewing with for a month. I was late on rent, my car payment, and everything else. My car insurance had lapsed and I had just gotten a traffic ticket four days before. The last thing I needed at that moment was a car accident.

“I can’t afford this. I can’t afford this. I can’t afford this.” These words were racing through my mind on repeat when the driver of the other car got out to inspect the damage. Her bumper had a few scratches on it, but was otherwise fine. My car was leaking antifreeze everywhere and was definitely not fine. I burst into uncontrollable sobs and all of my frustrations and stresses came tumbling out with them.

We exchanged information and she told me that she didn’t think we needed to call the police or file an insurance claim, but that she did want to get her bumper fixed. I didn’t tell her that my insurance was lapsed, but I breathed a sigh of relief.  She said she would get an estimate and let me know. 

I got the job, but the damage to the car was far more than I could afford. I ended up “selling” the car to the repair shop in lieu of payment and the bank took the rest. The woman I hit called me back a few days later to give me the information about getting the bumper fixed, but after that, I never heard from her again. 

I went four years without a car after that day. I relied heavily on public transit to get to and from work and to get Alissa where she needed to be. It was horribly inconvenient most days, but it was what we had to do.

There were days between paychecks when I was scraping together change to have enough bus fare for us to get to school and work. There were other days when I had enough to get to work, but not enough to get home. I would surreptitiously check the trash cans around the bus stop or train station, hoping to find a transfer pass that was still valid. I hated that I was doing it, but it was better than calling in sick for work because I could barely afford the $2.25 to make it there and couldn’t afford to make it home.

There were times that I even tried to pass off an expired transfer slip, hoping that the bus driver either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t care. I always had grave anxiety, wondering what I would do if the driver wouldn’t let me on the bus.

One day, I was $1 short and had no idea how I was going to pull off a ride home. I was feeling particularly desperate and I boldly asked the stranger waiting with me if she could spare the difference. She couldn’t, she answered, but she handed me one of her prepaid passes instead.

Overwhelmed with gratitude, I thanked her and silently vowed that the next time I saw her, I would return the favor. I never saw her again.

This morning, I took the train downtown for a meeting. Since I have had the luxury of owning a car again, riding the train seems to be more convenient than driving. I jumped off the train and got a cup of coffee across the street from the station, and as I was doubling back to head toward my meeting, I noticed a woman rummaging through a trash can. The bag was mostly empty; it looked like it had been changed recently. I walked past her and out of the periphery of my eye, I saw her walk to another trash can.

I stopped and watched as she dug through that mostly empty can and moved to the next. I recognized that look of sheer desperation and defeat. I was never as brazen as to dig so obviously, but I knew what she was looking for – a discarded ticket that she could still use. 

I dug around in my purse for every spare bit of money I had and walked up to her. 

“Excuse me, do you need a bus fare?” I asked.

“Yes,” she answered. 

I handed her all the money I had, not sure if it was quite enough and said, “I hope this helps.” 

She thanked me and said, “God Bless You” as I walked away. 

The idea of compassion had been weighing heavily on me all day today as I thought about how we’ve gotten to a place where we can show so little compassion for our fellow humans. I think to the many “debates” I’ve had on Facebook about immigration, welfare, and transgender rights and wonder at what point we stopped looking at each other as people and started looking at each other as liabilities. Is it really that hard to show a little compassion, even if you don’t understand what the other person might be going through? 

The compassion of a woman who was entitled to file an insurance claim and sue me for damages, allowed me to deal with a car accident for no money out of pocket. 

The compassion of a stranger enabled me to pick up my child from school on time in a moment that I had no idea how I was going to get to her (or home) at all.

Because of my choosing to show compassion today, someone else got what they needed. It didn’t take much effort on my part, it just took recognizing someone in need and helping them as best I could. It took stepping out of my comfort zone just a little bit to spread some love. My day went on fairly unchanged, but for all I know, my small act of compassion changed someone else’s life.

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of The Kindred Voice to encourage more people to write and share their stories.

a writer’s challenge.

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Well, it’s safe to say that I completely failed at Write 31 Days for a second year in a row. Although to be fair and a little less negative, I did complete one more day this year than I did last year. So that’s a win.

I ended up drafting a few ideas and failed to be organized enough to see it through. I also realized that my idea was far more emotionally challenging than I expected. 

As much as I love to write, I’m finding it to be more of a challenge to commit to a writing schedule. It’s hard finding time when I run a business for the majority of my week and also work two other part time jobs on the weekends. Plus I have a middle school aged child and book club and, and, and….

It’s so easy to find excuses not to make the time to write. 

About a week before the end of October, as I was lamenting my inability to uphold a commitment to myself, yet again, I decided that I was going to do something about my writing. I took on an even bigger challenge than Write 31 Days: I committed to NaNoWriMo. 

I’m pretty sure that makes me crazy. 

Thanks to an amazing coach and support from one of the writers I met in H&L Writes, Sandra Hults, I got excited about NaNo, despite thinking about maybe doing it back when I first started this blog in 2005. I had no idea what in the hell I was going to write about, even up to the moment I sat down to write the first words (in NaNo speak, that makes me a Pantser) of this novel I had committed to writing in a month. 

The first few days, thanks to Sandra’s amazing coaching skills and the cheerleaders from some fellow H&L Writers who had joined, were really easy. I was blowing through my daily quota with ease and I was thinking, “Yeah, yeah, I got this.” 

That excitement lasted for about a week. 

Then I had a day that was incredibly busy and as I crashed into bed at 11:00 pm, I realized I had not written a thing. I contemplated getting up and spending some time writing, but my body just didn’t want to cooperate. The next two days were equally busy and I didn’t write. 

Before I knew it, 5 days had gone by and I hadn’t written a word. And it was easy for me to just stop writing because I still wasn’t sure what the hell I was writing and that it just didn’t matter anyway. 

But the guilt of missing all of Write 31 days got to me and I sat down and put some more words on the page. And then I didn’t write for another 8 days. 

I could have just as easily given up a second time, but I was determined to get it done, no matter how shitty my first draft ended up being. I committed to hitting my 50,000 word goal before the month was out. Having missed almost half the month, I now had to write upwards of 3400 words a day to finish on time. 

Some days were a real struggle and others came with just as much ease as the first week did. I had a couple of marathon writing nights, but I did it. I won NaNoWriMo 2018. 

I still can’t believe that I did it. I’m not sure if what I put on paper will actually become anything, although in my late-night delirium a few nights ago, I came up with a whole twist that I really loved and think I could run with. So we’ll see. I’m going to put it on the shelf for a couple of months and then come back to it. 

Now that I’m not busy with that, it’s my hope that a much more regular writing practice is in the cards for the future. 

current mood: surviving.

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The past couple of weeks have been incredibly challenging for me. I was already on edge because the anniversary of finally getting a conviction in my daughter’s child abuse case is coming up at the end of the week. As fall sets in, while I’ve never been officially diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder, I wouldn’t be surprised if some day I am. The moment the chill in the air set in, my desire to hide under my blankets kicked in. Watching the testimony of Dr. Christine Blasey Ford was triggering for me. I knew better than to watch it, but I felt I needed to be there in solidarity with her. I understand her pain. 

I’ve literally spent the past week in my cocoon, hiding out and simultaneously trying to have a voice in all of this kerfuffle. 

I honestly can’t tell you if there will be a theme in my Write 31 Days challenge. For now, I’d like to start my survivor’s memoir and share the stories on how I’ve survived the past several years of ongoing trauma. I have many stories to share–maybe not quite 31–but my goal will be to get these stories out.

I will warn you that some of my stories may be triggering for you as well. I have stories of physical abuse, emotional abuse and sexual assault to share. If you do feel triggered, please know that I understand, I support you, and I want you to do what you feel is best for you. 

This post was written as part of the Write 31 Days Challenge. While I will do my best to keep to the theme of “Survival,” what comes out each day may vary. The goal is just to keep writing.

boundaries.

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posted-rules

I have always sucked at making boundaries. I know that it stems from a deep-seated need to be loved and accepted and so I tend to put up with a lot of crap from people for far longer than I should. Thankfully, therapy is curing me of that, but I know I’m not alone.

Perhaps it’s a female thing that has been bred into us by society that we must be yielding and not disrespectful. Yet, by not being willing to set boundaries, we’re disrespecting ourselves. In the end, who is more important to show respect to, yourself or someone else?

It is easier to set boundaries than it is to change them, but many women (myself included) struggle to put them in place to begin with. However, when we do find the courage to set boundaries, we are often quick to justify them, even before the other party has had an opportunity to react.

Thinking about why it is so hard to set boundaries and why we justify the ones that we do set, I had an epiphany. Boundaries are really just a set of rules. If you want to interact with me, these are my rules. Outside of a court opinion, when do you really see rules accompanied by a full justification of the rules?

You don’t see a “No Smoking” sign posted and question it. There isn’t a secondary sign that says, “We don’t allow smoking because this is a public area and the Attorney General has issued warnings about second hand smoke and we are doing our part to mitigate the risk to those that find smoking offensive.”

So why on earth do we feel the need to justify our personal set of rules? 

I recently divorced my mom primarily because of her lack of ability to respect the boundaries I set in order for us to have some semblance of a healthy relationship. It was my last ditch effort at salvaging something from the wreckage of years of emotional abuse. She could not honor those boundaries and I chose to walk away.

I struggle a lot with putting up boundaries in my business. In the world of marketing, scope creep is a common project management nightmare. But every single time I need to speak up and remind a client that the task they are asking of me is out of scope and I will need to charge more money, I get this overwhelming anxiety and fear that the person on the other end is going to get mad or that they will take their business somewhere else. But the fact of the matter is, if they respond in either of those ways, they aren’t someone I want to be doing business with anyway. 

It does not matter why you have a certain boundary. If it makes you feel safe and whole, that is all that should matter. It is not your responsibility to help someone understand the reasons behind your boundaries. It is your responsibility to ask them to be respected. 

Photo by Raphael Mittendorfer on Unsplash

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of The Kindred Voice to encourage more people to write and share their stories.

waiting.

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Writer’s Note: This is a stream-of-conscious journal entry I wrote on May 9, 2017, where I spent close to four hours waiting in a small conference room for the first Pre-Trial Conference hearing in my daughter’s child abuse case. Although the case was settled by plea agreement five months later, our civil case is still pending. Some of the semantics I used I now understand are inaccurate. Some of the statements I made appear to support the arguments that have been made against me about my motives in pursuing charges against my daughter’s father and can potentially be used against me in the future. Even so, I am choosing to publish the raw, unedited journal entry because when I ran across it the other day, I was amazed at the power it still has to show the gamut of emotions that ran through me that day. As I begin the emotional journey of preparing to tell our story, this seemed like a good place to start.

I’m incredibly anxious right now–I have no idea how this is going to go today. I’m waiting in a room next to the courtroom so I don’t think that I will have to face Dale today. It’s sort of unfortunate, actually. I was hoping to be able to look him in the eye and let him know that I am here for her.

woman writing in journal

The attorney just came in and it doesn’t look like we will be able to bump the charges to a felony because of the severity of the injuries. I do hope that we can still seek some jail time for him. It isn’t right for him not to spend some time alone in jail. 

Now, more than ever, I want to take Alissa away from here–to someplace where we can enjoy the freedom of not having to consider him any longer. 

I am disappointed that things turned out this way. After all the work I had done to add him to her life–after all the grace I extended him–after being so understanding and forgiving–for him to hurt us so much is just devastating. 

And to think, just two years ago, my life–our lives–were on the border of perfect. 

Funny how quickly life can change. 

It amazes me how many people show up to court in jeans and t-shirts. Where is the respect for our country and the due process of law? Unbelievable! Then again, it just goes to show the general lack of respect that is happening in this world. When did everyone stop being so kind? Or have we always been horrible people, but we were just better at hiding it? 

I think about the masks we used to wear as a society–the front of the house, so prim & proper while the back was overtaken with weeds–the inside was unkept. I think in some way, social media has become that mask–we put only our best forward, save for the odd argument that the nosy neighbor overhears. 

But I’m not sure if it’s better to show our brokenness so casually. 

The think about Brit’s program that is so amazing is that so many strangers can come together and be so supportive of one another. But is that a good thing, that we can trust strangers with our deepest fears & flaws, but we cannot trust those we are closest to with the same? 

I wonder why that is.

I am resisting the temptation to bide the time with my phone. It’s crazy how tethered we are to those things. Had I known I would be waiting so long, I would have brought my book in. 

There are so many things I wish I could say to Dale, but I simply don’t believe he has the capacity to understand. I genuinely believe that he has no moral compass and no concept of how he’s hurt Alissa.

I still feel unbelievably idiotic that I was duped by him. I would not give Alissa back for the world, but if I could make him anyone else in the world, I sure would. 

I hate him so much. 

I do appreciate the lesson in resilience I am being taught. Three years ago, I thought that the stuff with my parents was going to break me. But it didn’t. I just don’t understand why my child had to be hurt for me to be taught this lesson. 

Maybe it isn’t about resilience, but forgiveness. I know that I will get to a point of being able to forgive my mom for all she has wronged me. But how am I supposed to forgive Dale for hurting his own flesh & blood? First, by denying her, then by strangling her to the point that I have to wonder if she will ever be the same.

I often wonder how this trauma will affect her relationships as an adult. I know right now, she’s starting to like boys, but will she ever be able to develop the deep, intimate bonds of love & trust with someone? Will she turn to other means of coping–drugs, alcohol, reckless sex–with the pain she’s been caused inside?

How will I fare? I already know that I have no desire to open myself to someone else. Todd was it. He’s probably the last man I will ever give my heart to. 

Please God, send Dale to jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. 

The DA just came in–they are asking for a continuance–RRR! Have you not had enough time to prepare for this? Why are you fighting? Do you need time to concoct more lies? To find enough people to testify that you aren’t a total piece of shit?

I just want to be done with this so we can start to move on. I needed resolution today. I needed to know that he is going to be punished. I need him to not be free to do as he pleases. Fuck. 

This cannot be happening. How is he getting away with this? You choked my daughter and have been so unbelievably detached–you only care about yourself. You care nothing of what this is doing to her. 

Alissa is going to be devastated. 

How do I make him disappear? I hate that little fucker. I need him to be punished for what he has done to us.

They are going to ask for a continuance for “new discovery.” Bullshit. What the fucking hell new could have possibly come up? What a fucking dirt bag piece of shit. He’s fighting this because he does not care one bit about how this has affected anyone but himself. Fucking hell.

I’ve been waiting an hour now, hoping to be called up soon. I’m ready. I am going to advocate for Alissa. She deserves justice. It’s not my fault that the defense has not had time to prepare. 

The DA said that we could consider dropping the charges to get a plea, but I’m not willing to do that. We will go to trial if we have to, so that Dale’s shit baggery can become public record. 

Fucking bastard.

The courtroom is quite busy today. So many people are coming in and out. I’m just waiting my turn–anxiously. Journaling is helping to keep me calm, so that is good. Lord, please protect Alissa.

I don’t know how I am going to handle breaking the news to her. The good thing is, she’s on to him. She totally knows what a selfish piece of shit he is. You want to show the world your true character? Let’s go. 

My daughter deserves better. 

I am so grateful for my tribe. They have all been unbelievably supportive of us. It is a true testament to what living a good life will do for you. 

I am starting to feel nervous. 

I can do this. 

You are amazing. You have the power, wit, and wisdom to protect your daughter. You are strong and confident. You can and will advocate well for her. You have an amazing support group that is going to provide you collective strength. 

You’ve got this!

Today, when all of this is done, you will go home and be the best mom you can be. You will love your daughter and show her that you are here to protect her. You will get through this with strength and dignity.

I am so amazed at my ability not to lash out and say things that could be used against me. 

I am not a perfect mother, but I do put my child’s best interest in front of my own.

renewal.

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woman-driving

I hadn’t owned a car in four years, so having a valid driver’s license wasn’t even on my radar until I decided it was time to buy a new car.

My license had expired almost a year prior, so the morning before I went to the dealership, I thought it would be a good idea to renew it, in case I wanted to, you know, test drive a car. 

I Uber’ed over to the DMV office so I was there right as they opened. Unlike the last time I had gotten my driver’s license renewed (which was also a big to-do), there was no line wrapped around the building waiting for the doors to be unlocked. I stepped up and grabbed my number.

Four! Yessssss! (This is the equivalent of hitting the lottery jackpot, isn’t it?) I may or may not have done a little dance in the foyer before taking my seat on the bench that I’m sure was a repurposed church pew.

Number two was called and I took a quick glance at the checklist of items needed to renew your license. I was missing proof of residence and I had moved (several times) since the last one was issued.

Shit.

I jumped up and called another Uber to pick me up, take me home and bring me back. It took all of ten minutes round trip. I leapt out of the car, ran into the DMV and grabbed my new number. 

Eighty-six. What the fuck?! Did I hit a time warp while I was gone?

I slumped down in the church pew and waited my turn, which miraculously took less time than I was expecting with that garbage number. Perhaps more people forgot required paperwork at home too. I stepped up to the window and handed the woman my documents while casually joking about how lame I was for not making it in to renew it for almost a year.

She glanced at my old, useless license and said, “Wow, you barely made it under the wire! Four more days and you would have had to re-take the driver’s test!” She laughed, I laughed.

Whew.

Click. Click. Click. “Oh.” 

“What?” 

“Looks like your driver’s license is suspended.”

Suspended?!?!

“You’re going to have to take that driver’s test after all. But first, you’re going to have to pay off this outstanding ticket.”

“What ticket? I haven’t had a car in four years, and the little bit I drove, I certainly never got a ticket.”

Clickety click. “Looks like from June 15, 2012.”

Four days before the accident that totaled my last car. It’s all becoming clear. I got pulled over for texting and driving (well, updating my Facebook status about a stellar Habitat for Humanity Selection Committee meeting, yep, that definitely could have waited). It was a $72 ticket that I had shoved into the glove box, hoping to pay it within a couple of weeks when I got a new job. It was probably still in there when I had the car hauled off a few days later, and I never went to pick up my personal effects from inside because, you know, I didn’t have a car.

“It’s going to be $350. But you can’t pay it here, you have to go to this website to pay it and you won’t be able to renew your license until it’s paid. You’re going to have to take both the written and the road test as well.” 

Oh my god, are you fucking kidding me? I’ve been driving for 23 years and I never even took the road test. I just took driver’s ed and brought my little yellow card down to the DMV and they gave me a license that didn’t expire until I turned 60. Why did I ever leave Arizona? Wait–don’t answer that. 

She continued while I was lost in my reverie. “You can pay it today, but it generally takes a couple of days for it to catch up to our system, so you won’t be able to renew your license until Tuesday at the earliest.” 

Shit. I’m supposed to be buying a car this afternoon. 

Since my boyfriend at the time had been kind enough to arrange a personal meeting with the GM of the dealership, I really didn’t want to cancel. I paid my ticket and headed to the dealership for my appointment and proceeded to look at a selection of cars that were curated for me by the GM before turning me over to one of his salespeople.

“Which one do you like?” the salesman asked. “Do you want to take one out for a drive?”

“Well, about that…my license isn’t valid and I can’t get it renewed until Tuesday at the earliest, so I can’t test drive anything today.” 

“Oh. Well today is Friday. There is no guarantee that these cars will still be here on Tuesday.” Typical car salesman. “If you put an offer on one, I can hold it until then.”

Interesting. I thought about it for a minute and ended up putting an offer on a cute black Lexus sedan and got approved the following day. I now owned a car. That I couldn’t legally bring home. Doing things backward is the story of my life.

I headed down to the testing office of the DMV first thing on Tuesday morning and was surprised at my dumb luck that once again, there was barely a line. I couldn’t believe my luck.

I stepped up to the counter, smiled at the grumpy looking man and explained that I needed to renew my suspended license.

“Well, first you’re going to have to pay a reinstatement fee of $85. Then, you’ll have to take the written test. That will cost $11. It’s 25 questions and you’re allowed to miss 5. If you fail, you can take it again today, but it will cost you another $11. If you pass, you’ll be issued your driver’s permit, which will cost you $16 and then you take the road test before you’re issued a new license.”

“I only have to get 80% to pass? That’s a B minus! No wonder no one can drive these days. You don’t even have to get an A on the driving test to pass!” I laughed hysterically. Grumpy DMV Guy was not amused.  He pointed me to the computer terminals where I would be taking the written test.

I swept through the first several questions with ease, but as I got into the thick of it, I missed a question about cell phone usage. 

Cell phones were barely a thing when I got my driver’s license. I was still begging my parents for a pager. I did know that the ticket for texting and driving cost $72, or $350 if you waited four years to pay it, but that wasn’t on the test.

I got through a few more and got another couple of questions wrong.

Marijuana was also not legal when I got my driver’s license. How am I supposed to know that the rules are different than using alcohol? Isn’t the general rule of thumb that pot and driving don’t mix?

I looked down and I was on question 25 out of 25 and I had maxed out my number of allowable incorrect answers. My heart started beating a little faster, my palms started sweating and my breath got really short. 

Gotta get this one right. I’m already a loser who got a B minus on her written test after making fun of all the losers that got a B minus on their written tests. I cannot bear to go back to Grumpy DMV Guy with a failing test.

I don’t even remember what the question was, just that I wasn’t sure and I totally guessed at the answer, clicked submit and held my breath. Pass.

YESSSSSSSSS!!!

I stepped back up to the counter, feeling accomplished and Grumpy DMV Guy flatly congratulated me, then informed me that there was a three week waiting list to take the road test. 

THREE. WEEKS.

I am never getting my driver’s license renewed. 

I didn’t think that the car dealership was going to hold my car for three weeks. 

I headed in to work and as I was retelling the saga of getting my license, a coworker overheard and said, “you know there’s a private place right next door to the DMV that will take you out for $75.” 

Of course Grumpy DMV Guy didn’t tell me that. At this point, renewing my driver’s license has cost me a total of $462, what’s another $75?

The next morning, I went into the testing center and paid my $75, but they didn’t have an appointment available until the following afternoon. 

I am never getting my driver’s license renewed. 

When I returned the next day, the girl at the desk did not get the memo that I needed to use one of their cars for the test, and she had the last one out with another student for driver’s ed and told me that they would be gone for four hours.

I am seriously never getting my driver’s license renewed. 

I must have looked like I was about to cry because after explaining how I bought a car that I can’t bring home until I have a valid license, because mine was unknowingly suspended for an old unpaid ticket, she offered to let me use her personal car. While I admired the offer, I told her I couldn’t let her risk her job for that, and I would just have to come back the next day. I was frustrated and tired as I went to leave, another instructor pulled up with a car and I was able to complete my road test that afternoon.

I passed. I didn’t even care at that point if it was legit or out of sympathy. I walked into the DMV, slapped another $25 on the counter and was told I was not allowed to smile for the camera.

It’s fine. At that point, I didn’t want to smile anyway. 

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of The Kindred Voice to encourage more people to write and share their stories.

forgiveness.

by

Today, Alissa started 7th grade. It was bittersweet for me. Not because of how quickly she’s growing, but because I have been fighting this feeling of failing her all summer long. 

Many of you know that running your own business is a lot of work and a lot of uncertainty. Especially financially. This summer was a major departure from last summer for us, where I had a steady paycheck and I didn’t have to say “no” to pretty much everything, or scrape change together so she could have an afternoon at the pool with friends. It’s been something that I’ve struggled a lot with this season. My business is officially only four months old and while I’ve enjoyed the freedom that working for myself has provided, I haven’t loved the spotty income. I know this is only temporary, but for all of my adult life, I’ve managed to tie my feelings of worthiness to the sum total in my bank account. 

We had big dreams for the summer. We were going to spend two months traveling and experiencing new things. We were going to find a new place to live and get Alissa a new dog. We were going to put together Alissa’s dream bedroom. We were going to do a lot of things. 

And I failed to deliver on every single one of them. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t afford to. And that killed me.

Last week, we went back to school shopping and Alissa had done a great job of getting the school supplies list organized so that we could find everything in the store easily because she knows just how much I loathe this necessary task. What she didn’t do, however, was take into account my limited budget when selecting her items.

When we started looking for the first item on her list–a box of markers–I noticed that she had chosen a set of $5.99 dual tip Crayolas and I panicked.

“Why do you need these markers?” I asked.

“Because then we don’t have to buy two sets of markers,” she replied. Her reasoning made sense, but not to my budget conscious brain.

“Well, two sets of markers at $0.99 each are still less than these fancy markers.”

“But then I have to have room for two sets of markers.”

She was great at justifying her selection. I was not great at being argued with. I said, “I can’t do this right now,” and left the cart with the lone pack of six dollar markers sitting in the middle of the aisle and walked out of the store. 

I was more upset that I actually had to care about the fact that I couldn’t afford six dollar markers than the fact that I was arguing with a 12-year-old in public about markers. A year ago, she could have had all the six dollar markers she wanted.

This is the first year that she didn’t get a completely new outfit for the first day of school. I had bought her a new pair of sneakers last month, but getting a new outfit just wasn’t in the budget this month. I feel like the world’s worst mom because I couldn’t do our usual back to school shopping ritual this year. 

I know, first world problems. 

But the funny thing is, as much as I know that she cares that she didn’t get a brand new backpack or a brand new outfit this year, she was far more forgiving of me than I have been with myself about it.

I have been beating myself up for weeks because my business is still a little groundling and I’ve used up what little nest egg (aka our travel fund) I had been subsisting on to get us by. The child support that I was finally awarded back in March has been coming in so inconsistently, I have had to stop adding it to the budget. I feel like I’m failing my daughter, but I realized that I’m not. I’m actually showing her what it looks like to chase your dreams with unwavering confidence. 

When she’s older, I hope that she’ll look back on this time of struggle as a positive stepping stone. One where she saw her mother commit to something so fiercely that she beams with pride when she tells others about it. 

I’m learning to forgive myself for making the choice to start a business instead of finding a new job. Although this summer lacked the paycheck and the travel that I had anticipated, it did allow me to spend so many days with Alissa, and that time will be cherished forever. 

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of The Kindred Voice to encourage more people to write and share their stories.

the slob.

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I pulled a pair of dirty underwear out of the crease of the couch this morning. You would think that it surprised me, but it didn’t. It’s starting to feel obnoxiously normal these days.

  • messy-room
  • cluttered dresser

My 12-year-old daughter is a total slob. Last week, she spent hours looking for her favorite pair of shorts only for me to discover a few days later that they had been swallowed by the same chasm the dirty underwear came from. I’m scared to think of what else is in there.

Although she successfully rearranged all of the furniture in her room by herself last month, I haven’t actually seen the carpet since sometime around Christmas when she bought a new rug on Amazon. I have no idea if the rug is even still in there.  

She spent the night at a friend’s house the other night, and when I went into her room to feed her fish, I’m not sure of what I stepped on in the four-foot path from the door to where the tank is. As far as I know, nothing that crunched under my feet was alive at any time. The jury is still out on that one.

After I fed the fish (whom we’ve had for six weeks now and we are both amazed she is still alive), I took a glance around the disaster that is her bedroom and spied a heap of dirty tissues crowding the floor, next to the empty wastebasket. I scooped up the tissues, only to find them intermingled with a few smelly, crusty socks. These socks were only a mere foot away from the laundry hamper, which, instead of being filled with dirty laundry, is filled with an electronics graveyard and some other random things. The dirty laundry is currently hanging out with the pile of clean laundry, still with creases in it, on the floor.

On the other side of the bed a dried-out disc of fluffy slime caught my eye, clearly forgotten in the middle of play. I tossed it in the trash can, thankful that this blob wasn’t stuck in the carpet like the last one and spied a can of Pringles laying under the folds of a blanket. I picked it up, expecting it to be empty and was surprised to find a brand-new can, just cracked with only a few chips missing. I was shocked not to find an army of ants teeming from it.

I could have spent more time in there, but then I might not be here to write this post.

When she got home later in the evening, I told her that her room was disgusting and that she needed to clean it up. Her response was probably the most shocking of the whole ordeal–“It’s really not that dirty.” And then she launched into several examples of why my perception was inaccurate. Her explanation of why the tissues didn’t make it into the basket was because she had forgotten to put a bag in it. So, rather than getting a bag and throwing away her things appropriately, she decided to toss them on the floor. 

This coming from the kid who brought out a coffee mug that was growing a layer of mold with the remnants inside the day prior and now refuses to drink from it again, even though it’s been washed.

I’m not the tidiest of people, I’ll admit, but when I’m offended by her slovenly ways, I think that says something. I’m not exactly sure how to remedy this situation. I mentioned the article I read online the other day about the habits of tidy people, hoping that would instill something in her, but she kind of looked at me with a blank stare and continued on with whatever she was doing.

I’ve considered taking to the public shaming my friend did once last year by posting the photos of her room on social media. Somehow, I think all that will get me is a few comments in support of my dilemma.

I remember just a few years ago, being grateful that I wasn’t the mom of a boy. Boys are gross and disgusting. Boys smell and sweat. And boys of this age leave sticky things laying around that I don’t even want to touch.

Turns out, girls are just as bad.

This post was inspired by a prompt or theme from illuminate. This monthly membership was created by the editors of The Kindred Voice to encourage more people to write and share their stories.