About Me

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A Well Traveled Woman
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The smell of cows and corn fields remind me of home.  I'm from a small town in a loosely populated mid-western state.  As a kid I built a "save the salamander sanctuary" in our back yard.  Every...single...one of them died and I bawled.   My blue banana-seat bike was nick-named the "blue-light special" and hidden behind a lilac bush I camouflaged my face with mud while slinging bombs at my 2 younger brothers.  I was shy, awkward, skinny and never felt too comfortable.  My best friend lived down the street.  She was AWESOME!  She had a mullet!  Which we called the Fem-ullet.  Her mom always had Capri-Suns and she had a slobbery-kiss giving chihuahua named Frisky.

Frisky had a thing for my best friends sister's hair.  Her hair was shiny platinum blonde and fell to her waist.  The weirdo chihuahua loved to to get all messed up in her hair and chew it.

We died laughing one day cause there was a foot-long string of hair coming from it's little anus with a tiny chihuahua-turd dangling at the end!  He was running around chasing a stranded turd on a string of hair that hadn't finished digesting somewhere in his large intestine!!  Our sides ached, we couldn't breathe and tears squeezed from our little 9-year old eyes!  We laughed and laughed!

Seems I mention poop a lot...see here and here and here.  Poop is funny, even for a girl like me.
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My Dad didn't think poop was funny.  Being nice wasn't natural for him.  His eyes were steely blue,  he was ridged, yelled at a lot and thought spanking was good idea.  He was a talented spanker, a gift he inherited from his father.  Sometimes I thought it was a bit manic.  I wasn't happy at home and I learned more about being mean than being kind.

He's an artist and our house was always filled with buckets, cans and bottles of paint.  My brothers and I were latch-key kids and after school was the best time of the day; 
we were unsupervised!

The garage housed a massive collection of spray pain., I was fascinated with the endless colors and textures.  We sprayed everything: the walls, the tool bench, sticks, rocks, spiders and styrofoam.  Have you ever seen what spray paint does to styrofoam?  Try it.  My brother spray painted his arm and then lit it on fire!  He scorched one eyebrow off and lost part of his coat sleeve.  Yes, we were all spanked when my Dad got home.

My Mom thought poop was funny, until she caught the scolding look my Dad sent her.  She was quiet and seemed afraid.  I love her.  She was soft and kind, she liked to fish, had long strawberry hair and wore pink homemade pants.  She made me a matching pair.  When we were too poor to buy a real Cabbage Patch Kid she made me one out of nylons!  It was perfect.  She was an awful cook but she always made a delicious breakfast.  It's still my favorite meal.

She was creative but my father squelched it with criticism.  Somewhere along the way I lost respect for her; she never stood up for her children or herself. I felt sorry for my Mom and knew she wasn't happy either.
   
Math hurt my brain.  I wasn't a savvy cook. Baseball, basketball or volleyball always ended with me on the bench with a goose-egg and ice pack on my head.  I got fired from my paper route (allegedly, I threw all the newspapers in the garbage).  At 13 I got caught stealing a piece of candy from the gas station. Classic!!  I was voted class president my freshman year but was replaced by the v.p. when I never attended an officers meetings.  My drama teacher always cast me in the most minor of non-speaking parts. My spirit was adventurous and not afraid to try new things but, honestly, I wasn't very good at any of them.

Seventh grade rolled around with its hairspray, big hair, acid wash jeans and an annoying monthly visitor called a period.  This year the high school running coach asked me if I would like to train with the JV cross-country and track team.  So I did.  This skinny, clumsy pre-teen was finally good at something.  I was fast.  My first pair of running shoes were a cheap pair of white Keds but that didn't matter, I was still fast.  My lungs were strong and the farther I ran the fast I went.   By my freshman year I was faster than anyone in my school.  Running healed me.

Nothing in my childhood built my self-worth more than being good at something.


My husband didn't just hurt me.  His sex addiction hurts our daughter too.  She's a little girl becoming self-aware on the edge teenage befuddlement.  Can't he see how necessary he is? Doesn't he know his love can teach her she's safe and adored as herself and not a sexual object? He can offer her confidence to stand up for herself and say "no".  Has his power and influence as a father escaped him?  Doesn't his wholesome attention and affection provide a solid foundation for her self-esteem? This is heartbreaking; I can never offer the same gifts a loving father can give her.

My heart beats faster as my Keds propel my feet and my self-worth takes root, making permanent residence in my heart. I think it's time to take her for a jog.  Oh, and we'll be sure to dodge any unassuming piles of poo!

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