Big Helpers

Every home boasts its own unique dialogue. We form terms of endearment that may, or may not, sound so endearing to foreign ears.

For instance, I call my husband an asshole with the utmost love and honor I can give him. He is a wonderful, caring, loving man. He is my best friend.

And he’s also an asshole. He is. He’ll tell you himself. And at midnight when he turns the lights off while I’m in the bathroom and I open the door to pitch black only to have him leap from the floor at my feet and scare the piss out of me…he is, in fact, an asshole.

We also say things like, “Seatbelt stupid.” Which is the family friendly reminder to buckle up.

Or “I’m a biiiiiggggg helper.”

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Helping me with the dishes…

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This is a big helper.

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Big helper.

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This is another example of a big helper.

Big helpers are characteristically famous for not actually helping. They do something, however small, and immediately claim fame for doing it.

While this is sure to provide a good laugh in my house, followed by pats on the head and goading comments of, “Oh what a big helper you are!” and “Aren’t you such a good boy/girl?” or “Awww, want a cookie?”…the world is full of people who actually believe they need some kind of recognition for being a decent human being.

We are living in a country where there is a serious possibility that the biggest bully to ever kill, skin, and wear a mongoose as a hairpiece stands a chance of becoming our President. We have formed a panel of liars, thieves, and bullies to promote the never-ending message of violence and hate.

And we’re sitting back, watching it happen. Voting this term is difficult. The choices suck, at best, and the few shining beacons of light (*coughBerniecough* my only voter opinion drop, I promise) are forced to battle for a stage against the reality star drama of the popular candidates.

I continue to hear people say that they aren’t even going to bother to vote, that there is no point, that their voice doesn’t matter, or the choices are too bad…

I’d like to respond, “Suck it up.”

I’d like to say, “Too fucking bad.”

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Oh yes…

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I’d like to tell them, “It’s your responsibility and if you jerk around with that, you get absolutely no right to complain when this shit show hits main stage.”

Instead, I’ll ask this: Won’t you all please go get yourself a little I Voted sticker? You totally deserve it. You did something amazing.

What a big helper you are.


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The Skinny Girl Rant

It was your typical last day of school. I walked hand in hand with my three year old daughter, enjoying the breeze of a warm sunny day lightly tease her golden curls. I let go of her hand and watched her run to her best preschool friend as I joined the girl’s mother for the rest of the walk to our cars. We exchanged the normal small talk and answered questions about plans for the summer. Then she said, “We should get the girls together sometime over the break.” I suggested swimming because it’s summer in Texas, and it’s hot.

She stopped in the middle of the parking lot, looked down her nose and scowled at me as she said, “Well I’m not going swimming with you. Maybe if you had more of a mommy body,” and then walked to her car like she didn’t just insult me. In front of my daughter.

I said nothing, waved her farewell, and buckled my daughter into her little safety seat. Then I sat in my car, hands firmly gripping my steering wheel, shaking my head wondering what gave that other mother the right to talk to me that way, to make me feel bad about my body, to look at me with disgust.

Why is this acceptable?  Why did I not say something to defend myself? Why did I let her talk to me that way? Not only did she shame me in front of my daughter, she did it in front of her daughter, too. She pointed out our differences as if appearance is all that matters. What does this say to our girls?

I’m angry.

I’m disappointed.

I’m hurt.

And I’m sick of it.

differentTruth: people have been saying things like this to me my entire life. Some things were worse. As a teenager, I was mocked for being thin, for not having boobs, for not having curves. Kids teased me relentlessly calling me “twiggy” or “lil’ bit” or my favorite “mosquito bites.” Girls constantly said, “Why don’t you eat a hamburger…or two?” And when they felt kinder, they said things like “You’re so skinny,” which was not a compliment.

Today I often hear, “You’re just so lucky because you’re naturally thin.” “It must be nice to get to eat what you want and not gain weight.”  “You must have good genes.”

What if I turned the table on the other mother at the school? What if I said, “Nah, I don’t want to go swimming with you because you haven’t lost all of your baby weight?” What if I said, “Maybe you should eat fewer hamburgers?”

That would be called fat shaming. We’ve read the articles. We’ve nodded along, appalled at the audacity of people to hurt other people for their weight. We argue that it needs to stop. Yet, when we flip the coin, and the skinny girl sits in the hot seat, it is suddenly okay that she gets berated for her body type.  It’s okay for that mom to tell me that my body isn’t good enough to be in a swimsuit in front of her. It’s okay for someone to tell me that my figure is disgusting. It’s okay for someone to say to me, “Eat more.”

And that is the definition of a double standard.

I have a confession to make. I absolutely hate to wear a swimsuit in front of another woman, and it’s not because I don’t like my body. I hate the judgment. I loathe the looks, the whispers, the mean girls who so clearly are talking about me, so this summer, I even bought a special swimsuit to wear around the other mommies.  And then I took it back. Because I refuse to cover up my body for the sake of someone else. I refuse to allow another mom to make me feel bad about being fit. I refuse to succumb to the mean girls.

Let me clarify something. I work really hard to maintain my weight. I spend hours in the gym. I go to bed sore every night. Every.Single.Night. I don’t keep junk food in my house because I have no will power. I don’t eat fast food (often). I drink about 130 ounces of water a day. I don’t eat after 8:00 pm (except for date nights). I make healthy choices most of the time. I work really hard to maintain my weight, and it doesn’t come naturally.

As a teenager, yes. I was naturally thin…to a fault. Try being sixteen and the only girl without boobs in the locker room. Try being the girl whose ribs stick out no matter how many “hamburgers” she eats. Try being the girl who’s different and can’t do anything about it. Try being the only girl who doesn’t get noticed by the boys because she looks more like them than the girls. While my closest friends were buying sized C bras, I was crying in my bedroom. While they were getting felt up for the first time, I was playing basketball with my brothers.

As I got older, I finally began to gain some weight. When I had a car accident, I was forced to be in a wheelchair, and I gained the much needed freshmen 15.  I missed my legs. I missed aerobics, and as soon as I gained the ability to walk again, I went straight back to the place where I always found solace. The gym.

In my twenties, my metabolism slowed down, I experienced the heartache of infertility, and I gained thirty pounds. I was unhappy. I didn’t feel good about myself. I didn’t like who I saw in my reflection, so I made the decision to lose the weight, to pull out of the darkness, and to carry on with or without a child. I lost the weight. It was a struggle, and I worked really hard to do it.

Several months later, I saw the two lines on the stick for the first time. I gained thirty five pounds, and when I delivered that beautiful baby boy, I only lost 7 lbs. 9 oz.  The other twenty seven pounds didn’t come off over night. I worked my ass off to lose that weight.  And then as soon as I was back in my skinny jeans, I got pregnant again and had to start the process from the beginning.  Why? Because it’s important to me that I like what I see when I look in the mirror. I do it for no other reason. Three years later, I’m in my skinny jeans again, and I’m proud of my body.

I still have insecurities. I still see the places on my body that are forever changed by the precious beings that it carried, but my love for myself is what drives me.  How dare someone say I don’t have a “mommy body?” This body carried two babies, delivered two babies, and nursed two babies from my breasts.  Does it look different than other moms’ bodies? Yes. Is it better than their bodies? No.

Different isn’t better or worse. It’s just different.

It doesn’t matter whether or not I have good genes, or if I’m “naturally thin.” It doesn’t matter if she isn’t thin. None of this matters. It’s not a competition.

We are women.

It’s time we take a united stand and stop shaming each other.

We must break this cycle of meanness. We need to find the good in each other, to point out the beauty that we see, whether it’s external or internal beauty. We need to teach our daughters to do the same, to build someone up rather than tear her down, to make her feel good about herself rather than break her spirit. To remember the Golden Rule. To be proud of her reflection whether or not she sees curves or flab, cellulite or bones, muscle tone or baby weight.

It is our jobs as mothers, aunts, sisters, friends, women, to teach our daughters. We are the ones who are responsible for breaking this mean-girl cycle. We must let our younger generation hear us find value in other women. Stop gossiping. Stop pointing out each other’s flaws. Stop allowing your insecurities to fester into bitterness. Don’t let these girls hear you say, “I’m fat.” “I’m ugly.” “I’m not good enough.” “I’m not pretty enough.” “I don’t fit in.” Be proud of yourself. Praise yourself. Applaud yourself out loud in front of these girls.

Allow them to join a world where they can find safety and solidarity in the presence of other women rather than shrink or retreat away from them. Pave the road to better self-esteem. Show them they are valuable, no matter what they look like on the outside, by finding value in yourself first.

My name is Mandi. I’m 36.  I’m 5’3”. I weigh 120 pounds, and I’m not ashamed of it.

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unnamedMandi is a happy-go-lucky  Texas girl. She loves tell stories, laugh, and have dance parties in her kitchen. She tries to keep life simple and to live on the bright side. To learn more, visit her at: Cellulite Looks Better Tan and connect with her on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.

 

The Curse of the BFF

This is my very first time writing a guest post. Also, I am PMSing like a rage monster. (But I’m still cuter than Edward Norton, Eric Bana and Mark Ruffalo combined.)

*whewf* Now that THAT’S out of the way…

I feel the need to say that I love friendship.

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I’m super cheesy that way. Finding — and then subsequently hanging out with — people that make you feel like you’re not the only weirdo on the planet is cash money. Men and Women in Community instead of Competition is powerful. As long as your common denominator isn’t bullying other people or loving the Biebs, then FRIENDSHIP HO!

However, I have a problem with the title “BFF,” Best Friends Forever. I see it all over the place, mostly amongst 13 year olds whose feelings about anything last approximately 2 weeks.

Now, maybe it’s just me, but being a good friend is a marathon. Not just a wedding, but a marriage. You have to be IN IT TO WIN IT, and you can’t be the only one in the relationship who feels that way, you darling little Golden Retriever of Loyalty, you!

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If you ARE, then you have no cash money. You have slavery. And, chances are, they like it.

And if you’re under the title of BFF with that person from the time you’re pre-pubescent, it’s way easier to lie and rationalize yourself into adulthood about who they really are.

bffOn the scale of Best Friends Forever, from You Make Me Happy To Be Alive to  BFF? All You Do Is Make Me Say “EFF EFF EFF”, I’ve had them all.

I’ve learned that sometimes people are assbutts, and sometimes I’m an assbutt, and sometimes you realize that what you wanted in a BFF at 13 is not what you want at 25.

People change, and I’ve found that women change a LOT in particular. This doesn’t have to be a bad thing. But ladies, let’s be honest, sometimes it is.

How can we make it better? How can we be a true BFF that stands the test of time? I mean, I get it, not everybody is meant to be BFFs. There are levels of friendship that start at acquaintance and work their way into depth.

But we can still be nice about it.

Here are some Valuable Lessons Life Has Taught Me Like The Heartless Bitch She (Sometimes) Is.

1. Don’t Hold Grudges

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No matter the amount of time you have been friends, one of you is going to mess up eventually. Don’t be surprised or shocked, because, friend, I just gave you the heads up.

If they say they’re sorry, forgive them and move on.

If they DON’T say they’re sorry, you should probably still forgive them and move on because you deserve more than to be held captive by bitterness. **However, if they have a habit of not apologizing even when they know they’ve effed up, consider that this might not be the best quality in a BFF**

And if they’ve said they are sorry, and you’ve said that you forgive them but you haven’t really cause you never know when you might need to bring it up at some distant point in the future to make them feel bad, then guess who is the naughty BFF? YOU, sweetie. DON’T BE A GRAVE DIGGER.

2.  Be There For the Big and Little Stuff

As much as you possibly can.

Some friends are only interested in drama. Unless you’ve got something BIG going down, talk to somebody else. Their shoes are like “What extra mile?”

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Excuse me. Being there for someone means that even if their little story about the nightmare they had 3 days ago is boring you to tears, you’re gonna listen. You’re gonna put your arm around them and say, “That sucks. Good thing dreams aren’t real.”

THAT will get you much further than THIS.

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Big stuff is important too. Engagements, weddings, babies, funerals, break-ups, the list goes on. I’ve done my best to be present at every single one of those events in my friend’s lives. It matters to me.

Dear friends traveled from all over North America to be a part of my wedding, but one of them who couldn’t be there is still mad and won’t talk to me because I got married anyway. Apparently, I forgot that that day was about her. Don’t be her.

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3. Don’t Let Your Personality Burn Bridges

I’m weird. I’m an extrovert who thrives on people but still needs alone time every once in awhile. I have friends who are like that as well — I also have friends who just never. get. tired. of. partying.

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and others who only want to see me in their computer.

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At first, I thought introverts hated me, but now that I’ve matured *a little* I see that it’s not about ME, and it takes all kinds of kinds to make a world.

That being said, can I make a suggestion?

a.) If you are painfully shy or introverted but you love your friends, please try to tell them or show them in some way, at least once a week. It doesn’t have to be face to face. It doesn’t have to be a big long speech. Just let them know you care, because they can’t read your mind and you wouldn’t want that anyway. I know it can be really exhausting talking to people, but a little really will go a long way.

b.) Likewise, extroverts? Be cool, dayum. I know you’re a social butterfly and you gotta flap those wings and BE FREE GIRL, but ya know what is also cool? Making rooted, lasting connections with fewer people. Remembering them. Being intentional and meaningful rather than being perceived as flaky and superficial.

4.  Chicks Before Dicks

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New love. We know how spine-tingly, tummy-full-of-butterflies, and full-abandoney that makes us. It is so easy to jump with both feet into a new relationship, where you’re so consumed with each other that this other person is the only one that matters and how did you ever live without them before?

(I probably shouldn’t only say “chicks before dicks” when referring to relationships; I know that there’s more to the relationship spectrum that just guy/girl. It just sounded clever, aight?)

Either way, it’s not cool to abandon your group of friends for months at a time while you surrender to a haze of Eat, Significant Other, Sleep (?), Repeat. It’s healthy to maintain all of your relationships with balance. What happens if you break up? (OMG, I’m TOTALLY NOT SAYING you would EVER) You think you can just saunter back in on your friends’ lives as though you didn’t just ignore every phone call, text and email they sent you over the past 6 months? It’s shallow and selfish to assume that they will just pick up where you left off.

Or maybe your Love is Eternal and you’ll be together for 50 years until you die.

At some point, you’re still gonna need some friends.

5. Do The Elsa and Let It Go

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If you find yourself in a relationship where you’re being forgotten, undermined, gossiped about, mistreated, given the run-around, and ignored — it’s time to cut ties and say goodbye.

It’s gonna feel like a break-up AKA suckage to the max. Tears, stress-eating and thinking of them every time you hear what was once your favorite song.

I know. I’m in the middle of a break-up right now. I lost a decade-long friend 2 years ago, and occasionally, I’m still tortured by memories of her in dreams AND waking. We had *some* good times, mostly when she was single. But even then, she always had to be better and prettier and more noticed than me. She was rarely honest with me about her true feelings, so I was always left guessing.

After the debacle of her not being able to come to, or be in, my wedding (Her exact words were, “Maybe one day I’ll be able to forgive you.”), the camel’s back was broken. I decided I deserved better, and I let her go. Just quietly; there was no big argument or fallout, only silence.

She’s basically my source for this entire post.

If you’ve had a shitty friend, I’m sorry. You deserve better, and Better Will Come.

If you’ve been a shitty friend, I’m sorry for that too, and it’s not too late to change.

I think the problem can be boiled down to two opposing sides of the attitude spectrum.

“I’m better than everyone”……………………………………………….”Everyone is better than me.”

If you join ranks with someone because their life is “sad” enough that they make you feel better about yourself, it’s not going to last.

If you join ranks with someone because you’re jealous of how amazing they are, and you can’t stop comparing yourself to them so you only get close just to be able to imitate them, it’s not going to last.

The root of both of those philosophies is that you really think it’s all about you.

And friendship can’t survive when you’re just looking out for Number One.

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Why don’t we commit to: celebrating the successes of our friends, recognizing that comparison is the thief of joy, and to loving others the way that we love ourselves?

Other women may have put me down and held me back, but I will not continue the cycle because all they did was teach me what not to do.

If enough of us do this, then maybe the BFF can be redeemed.

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Told ya I was cheesy.

*****

Processed with VSCOcam with c1 presetHola! I’m Carly Butler Hutton, or rather, Button. I’m a birth doula, cupcake maker, ex-illegal immigrant, and I’m the newest cool person you know. Gimme a shout, eh? 🙂 Carly Hutton blogs over at Growing Butterfly, tweets @carlymbutton, Instagrams @carlymbutton and Facebooks as “Carly Button Loves.”

I’m the Slut in the Grocery Store

I am your sexy eye candy.

I’m only here for you to stare at, to whistle at, to mumble comments under your breathe like some creepy mustached pervert.

This is obviously what I want.

This is why I came here.

I got up this morning and chose clothing based solely on how I thought you would react.

I was looking for a reaction.

To the guy I met in the grocery store today…is this what you think of me? Because when I walked past you, toting my little shopping basket, you paused in the aisle. Your eyes did an exaggerated roving gesture, full head tilt and all, from my feet to my chest and back down. You never even made eye contact with me.

“Damn that looks good,” you said.

That?

That as in my dress, because you can’t have it. It won’t fit you and it really isn’t your color, dude.

Or that as in my body, because that’s not some thing that you get to just give your approval of, claim like an image you post on Facebook of some car/shirt/pair of shoes/house that you want. My body doesn’t go in that list.

But it’s okay, because I ignored you. I said nothing and kept right on walking.

I went and got the bread I came there for.

Except I met you in the line and you were saying it again.

“That looks good.”

And I ignored you.

And then you said, “Bitch.”

Now, because I ignored you…because I didn’t turn around and give you the green-light to go ahead with your degrading attempt at flirting…I’m a bitch.

slutSo now I’m a bitch who came to the grocery store dressed up simply to tease you into thinking you had a chance, because that’s obviously the only reason I would have for coming to the grocery store and I just knew you’d be here.

I must be a tease as well.

That’s me: the slutty, bitch, dick-tease at the grocery store.

You have said less than ten words to me, but they were powerful enough to put me in my place, to make me feel tiny, insignificant…wrong.

So when I turn and blast you. When I growl out, “Just shut up.” When I practically run to my car and lock the doors and head back home to change my clothing, because I don’t want to go to my children’s school in a dress anymore. When I feel less pretty and wipe off my lipstick, because I worry it makes me look like a slut…

Just know that all you had to say was, “You look nice today.”

And I would have smiled.

And I wouldn’t have been a bitch and you wouldn’t have altered my day in such a negative way.

I would have smiled.

I would have said, “Thank you.”

 Herstory Lesson: Don’t let someone else’s ignorance mess with your identity…or your day.

 

She is Raging

Trigger Warning: This post makes reference to miscarriage, loss, pregnancy. 

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I want to sit back and write something witty. I want to grab you on the first line and take you along some story’s path, so we can come out together at the end, holding hands and feeling quite proud of ourselves. I want to have words to give you, sprinkle around your mind like beautiful confetti.

But I don’t have it today.

I’ve got nothing to give.

I think all in all I’ve been handling this well. I mean, by the definition of “well” that everyone around me uses.

“Oh, she’s good.”

“She’s fine.”

“You look well.”

She’s not good. She’s staring at her Facebook and seeing post after post of baby bumps and nurseries and baby showers and count downs and newborn photos. She’s not good, because she’s angry and she’s jealous. It’s not that she isn’t happy for them. It’s not that she doesn’t wish them the best. She just wishes she had what they do. She wants in on that little world again.

She’s not fine. She’s standing in the checkout and people keep opening their mouths.

“How far along are you now?”

“You’re barely even showing.”

“How’s baby doing?”

When are you do?”

And so she has to say that the baby is gone, again and again and again. The words stick in her throat and she’s choking on them, bending over to let them fall out of her mouth with a delicate thud. She’s not fine and she’s sick with speaking of it.

She looks well. She lost what weight she’d gained and she has more energy. The pregnancy had made her so sick. She looks healthy again. There is color in her cheeks and her hair has regained its bounce. She gets dressed a little more often. She paints her face. She crawls into bed with her husband, aching and needy and everything is back to the way it was and her world has settled into a muted thing, because she is well and so she is waiting. Waiting for her body and his to have that tiny moment of collision that will breathe new life into her womb and it terrifies her.

But she’s raging.

She wakes up and groggy eyed checks her email. Entirely too many messages, but it’s the morning routine. And she sees the words:

You haven’t purchased anything off your baby registry. Sign in now to get everything baby needs! 

So the company attached a coupon to ease the burn behind the idea that she is such a bad mother-to-be, she hasn’t even bought anything off her list. She has no crib, no carseat, no newborn diapers. She has no bouncing chairs, no teething rings, no footed pajamas. She has no formula, no Tylenol, no soft and fleecy blankets.

But she has rage at seeing it.

She has pain that sparks behind her eyes and they’d call them tears, but they burn hot streaks down her face and she thinks she could set the entire world on fire with her emotions overflowing.

She is raging.

And her husband comes home and kisses her on the head. He asks, “What’s wrong?” And she tells him, “Nothing.” 

And she pushes the rage back long enough to kiss him. To make him his breakfast. To prepare herself for getting the children up. It’s a matter of survival now and she can’t be the woman she’s supposed to be with everything snapping apart. She shoves it down, like a pill stuck in her throat. She buries it deep.

Congrats on the new baby! He’s beautiful.

The nursery looks wonderful. You all got a lot of work done.

Good luck at the hospital. You and baby are in my thoughts. 

Look at that bump! Any day now. . .

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Herstory Lesson: “You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.” – Ernest Hemingway

The Telling

Last, but not least…Here is the reader’s choice from my latest book, The Telling.

Submissive

I like a dominant man in my life. I like someone who is in control. I like to think I’m in control, pretend it, brag about it, lie for it. I like that I know, that he knows, that I know I’m not really in control.

We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to.

The perfect line. The perfect pitch. He’s already made the decision, but poses it in such a way that I can make-believe it is mine. I like to take what doesn’t belong to me.

He’s a steamroller in my life and I like to be laid out flat. I like his hands on my chest, pushing me down whenever my back turns to the span of a bridge. His hands on my thighs, forcing me flat, flat, flat. Yes. Yes, I like that.

He makes me crow like a rooster and I want the world to know I’ve seen the sunlight. It’s like daybreak bursting to life inside me and for a split second I’m lit up brighter than a Christmas tree in Times Square. My body becomes a beacon, a calling card, a flash bang grenade and it draws more, more, more. I want a sunrise that keeps coming, up and down like a yo-yo on fire.

I like when everyone can hear my sunrise, my daybreak, my rooster call.

I’m vocal about it.

I’m in charge of it, or so I pretend.

Want it now? Click the picture to go to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!
Want it now? Click the picture to go to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!

We still have one day of the contest left! Get over to http://facebook.com/HistoryofaWoman and LIKE my page to be entered for a chance to win a copy of one of my books! Your choice!

History of a Woman

Like I started the other day, I am sharing the reader’s choice from my second book, History of a Woman. Enjoy!

The Check

The check came once a week and on it, in the tiny, informal script she could see the statistics. She saw the demographics, the signatures, the dates, the times, the dollar signs and the cents. The sense. Pay to the order of the single mother, the broken hearted, the lost and struggling. Pay to the order of that bitch who walked out, that gold-digger, that useless leech.

Twenty dollars and thirty-two cents. Thirty-six dollars and seventeen cents. That was the breakdown. That was division at work. That was the price tag, per child, per absent father, per paycheck, as order by the court.

So her son was worth $20. 32 a week. He was worth one pair of sneakers, plus tax. He was worth a family dinner from KFC. He was worth two Wal-Mart brand t-shirts and a pair of jeans with the little buttons inside to adjust the waist so they wouldn’t fall off his thin hips. He was worth one pack of the good brand of nighttime pull-ups and a fruity flavored Tummy Yummy.

$36.17. She was worth fifteen dollars and eighty-five cents more than her brother. And why was that? Because she is the older of the two? Because she came first? Because she was left behind first? That extra fifteen dollars and eighty-five cents makes her worth ice-cream at school for an entire month. She is worth two of those scarves from Target that she wants, because all the other little girls are wearing them. Thirty-six seventeen means she is worth one new dress and stockings to match. She’s worth a movie date with her mom and maybe, just maybe, she’s worth popcorn with extra butter.

She stares at the names and the dates and the amounts. She pulls out her calculator, because she’s logical, because she’s sane, because she knows there must be some algorithm in play that dictates the price attached to another human being’s name, date of birth, and social security number. Somewhere inside her children’s DNA is the bar code that is engraved with all this information. That’s why she couldn’t find it. That’s why the numbers never came out right.

One month is $81.28 and $144.68. That’s school supplies for both, new book-bags and lunch boxes, and for her daughter, that means she’s worth a new pair of dress shoes where her toes won’t hang over the edge.

One year makes them worth $975.36 and $1,736.16. He is four, so that means he’s worth $3,901.44. She’s six, so it’s $10,416.96. Right? That makes sense, she figured. I mean, by the time they are grown, their price-tags will be immense. They will be worth so much…so very, very much.

And that was the game. It was all a gamble. They had set the bet and she had called. Not only had she called, but she’d raised. She’d raised and raised and raised. She met each of their bets and doubled and tripled them. She’d paid in her part, and not only with money, but with her time. With her kisses, her late night wake-up calls, her trips to the family doctor, her white hairs, her once a month new toothbrushes, her story times.

So when those men would show back up, she’d be able to look them in the eye. She’d be able to say, “Hey, I figured it out.” She knew her child’s worth and she’d raised the bet. “It’s on you now. Call or fold.”

Want it now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!
Want it now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE!

Remember the contest is still going on until December 15th! Visit http://facebook.com/HistoryofaWoman and LIKE my page for your chance to win a copy of one of my books! Your choice!

Wake Up a Woman

I recently asked some of my readers what their favorite story or poem was from each of my books. After figuring out which was the most popular, I decided to post that choice here.

But that’s not all, because that would be relatively boring.

Not really…but this part is more exciting!

I’m doing another contest!

CONTEST CONTEST CONTEST

Yep. You could win a copy of one of my books…I’ll even let you choose. All you have to do is find me on Facebook (http://facebook.com/HistoryofaWoman) and LIKE my page. Yep. That’s it. I’ll gather all the new names and on December 15th will draw a winner. That’s only a few days! So get on Facebook and click that Like button!

Now, for the reader’s choice from my first book, Wake Up a Woman:

This is an Uprising

I need your attention

for just a moment,

a minute,

an ounce of your time

and you better give it

’cause I’ll only say this once.

I need you to know

that I’m okay.

I’m alright.

I’ve settled my accounts

and I know who I am,

and I’ve accepted that.

I have a firm grip

on my identity,

and what you think of me

is just as true

as what I think of me,

and that’s alright.

You hear me?

It’s alright,

’cause I can handle

the way you describe me to your mother.

I’m an artist,

a student,

a tutor,

a writer.

I actually read for fun.

I’m a Goddess of the Household Duties:

the Queen of the Laundry,

the Ruler of the Dishes,

I can make bread,

fry bacon,

boil eggs,

and bake a cake,

all the while

showing my dominance

over the hills of coffee grounds.

And I’m alright

with the way you talk about me

to all your friends.

“She’s a freak in bed,

got an amazing ass,

and gives the best head.

Don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like my,

my sweet,

my baby,

my doll,

my love?”

And all those other sweet,

choke-on-the-sugar

words you spill in my ear at night.

I’m a “cunt,

a bitch,

a whore,

and a slut,”

whenever you’re pissed,

and that’s alright.

I’ll be that,

as long as you get to be

a “douchebag,

an asshole,

a dickhead,

and a bastard.”

I’m the Master of Imagination

and I make one hell of a Mother.

So, you promise your own

a herd of screaming,

wailing,

red-faced babies,

and that’s alright

’cause I’ve done it before and

I’ll do it again.

Ain’t nothing to it!

I’m a taxi driver,

a short order cook,

a night owl,

an instant human,

just add coffee,

an amazing

baby-making machine.

I’m a cow with a pump

hooked to my chest

and I’m feeding the world.

I’m a woman,

a daughter,

a sister,

a mother.

I’m a friend,

and enemy,

a lover,

an ex –

I’m a woman,

so at times

I’m PMS personified.

I’ve got every limb I need

to kick your ass

and might just have

the strength to do it!

I have been stepped on,

stepped around,

and I’m stepping it up.

I’ve been trampled,

I’ve been beaten,

bruised,

and scarred.

I’ve been raped

and forced,

pushed

and pulled.

I’ve fallen down

and got back up.

Sometimes, I just laid there

and took it.

I’m weak and frail,

but I’m not porcelain.

I’m girly in ribbons and bows,

but I got a pair of nuts

to make Chuck Norris jealous.

Are you listening to me?

I’m telling you I’m alright.

I’m okay.

I can look in the mirror

and know every day

just who I am

and who you think I am,

and that’s alright too.

I am unknown,

uncaring,

unaffected,

unemotional,

and in charge.

I’m the leader of this pack,

the glue that holds the family together,

and I’m only out in the open

screaming at the top of my lungs

when it gets to be too much,

too often.

I don’t drink

’cause I’ve got a low tolerance

and one of them would have me

on a tabletop somewhere,

losing clothes

like I’m losing hair.

I dance like a white chick,

all elbows and knees.

I sing like a wounded cat

and play drums on my steering wheel.

I’m a woman so I can’t drive,

can’t parallel park

and can’t reverse.

I’m run into

and away from

and around

mailboxes,

ditches,

people,

responsibilities.

I like language

and can’t master my own,

but I’m a true professional

at the Art of Sarcasm.

I say, “I’m fine”

when I’m not,

and “nothing’s wrong”

when everything is.

And “whatever” is the equivalent

to a nuclear warhead

landing on your face.

Do you understand me?

‘Cause I’m a woman

and I want you to listen

as much as I want to talk.

I’m me.

I’m alright with that.

I’m okay.

I’m stoic.

I can look in the mirror

and I know who I am.

I’ve been stabbed

and poked

a million times

by needles of every shape

and size.

I treat my body like a canvas

and here I am,

a work of art.

I dye my hair

like I change my underwear.

So you can take

a new girlfriend to bed,

red,

brown,

blonde,

black,

blue,

purple.

Doesn’t matter,

I’ll be what you want.

It’s amazing

what a little

Revlon,

Maybelline,

L’Oreal,

Vicadin,

Exlax,

cocktail can do to a woman.

I am Cosmo,

Maxim,

Playboy,

and Good Housekeeping.

I wear skinny jeans

on my fat days.

I wear pantyhose

to streamline

a beeline

straight to my boobs.

I wear a bra

’cause some man said I should,

even though

I got nothing to put in it.

So I’m thankful for Victoria

and her Secret

gave me something to expose.

I’m a model,

a calendar girl,

a rockstar,

in my mirror with a hairbrush

and I’m belting out the tunes

of punk rock,

oldies,

metal,

and the classics.

I’m a country girl

with an affinity

for hip-hop.

I am tuneless,

tasteless,

careless,

and passionate.

Are you still here?

Hang on,

’cause I’ve only just begun.

I’ve just got going,

just got started,

and I’m not there yet.

I’m equipped with high tech

plug-ins.

I’ve got a vagina,

a pussy,

a cunt,

a hole,

and it’s been stabbed,

and poked,

prodded,

and stretched.

It’s bled,

and pushed out life.

I’ve got an attraction

and you can’t deny it.

It’s dress and silk in the day,

and leather and lace at night,

And I don’t get it,

I’m confused,

but I roll with it.

‘Cause you want it,

and I can handle it.

I do.

I’ve seen myself do it.

I am uptight,

upbeat,

upchucking,

and this is an uprising.

This is an acceptance,

of who I am,

and who you make me.

And that’s alright.

It’s okay.

I’m telling you I can handle it.

I’m allowing,

alluring,

and an illusion.

I am me.

I am woman.

And I’m alright.

Want a copy now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE.
Want a copy now? Click the picture to go straight to Amazon! AVAILABLE ON KINDLE.
Image

Warning! New Book! New Book Alert!

Warning! New Book! New Book Alert!

Yes, I finally finished it. It’s only been about two years in the making, but finally, The Telling is complete.

The history behind this little collection: I opened my website up for anonymous submissions from women and asked them one simple question: If you could say anything, to anyone, without any consequences, what would you say?

The responses I got were priceless. Women from all over opened up, vented, laughed, and shared their pain, their anger, and their worries.

It was a snowball effect, and my own therapy sessions grew more and more interesting the more I discovered that it’s okay not to be the “perfect” mother, sister, daughter, wife…

I like not being perfect, and these women, they liked having a moment to let it all out.

Hear them roar.