At the risk of being brutally honest... Being poor for me goes like this:

Being poor

As a child, I didn't know I was poor. There was always food in my mouth, clothes for me to go to school and play in, hot bath water, the tv was on, and I had toys. My mom was, as I recall at that time, happy and in love with her husband and 3 small children. I had loving grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. We had family get-togethers, presents at birthdays and Christmas, and always had fun outdoors. 

As a teen, I knew very well that we were in the lower bushel of the basket. Spring Vacation wasn't something we planned to spend away on a sunny beach or taking family group pictures with the Grand Canyon in the background. I wasn't able to get the same expensive perms as the other girls at school. Name brand clothing was something I thought only super rich people could afford, which meant I thought nearly everyone at my pathetic school was super rich. While other kids talked about the latest movies at the theater, I couldn't fit into their conversations because I wasn't able to afford to see them. The latest albums weren't in my budget, either, so my tapes were usually mixed tapes I made off the local radio station's "Top 9 at 9" list that I strategically recorded while hiding under the covers in the room I shared with my little brother. And usually I had to ask someone else to make me a tape of their favorite songs so they'd give it to me so I'd have a tape to use in the first place. I was too proud to just ask for a blank tape because they'd ask me why I couldn't get them myself. And when I was recording those songs, I had to make sure I got only the songs and not the commercials so I wouldn't use up the entire tape. Sharing a bedroom with your little brother when you're a teenage girl isn't exactly conducive to a "cool" lifestyle, but neither is having to do so because the only other bedroom in your house belongs to your mom, step-dad, and baby sister. Also, my "bedroom," wasn't even really a room at all, but more of an enclosed back porch with no heat, air conditioning, or closet. But it was enough to fit 2 twin beds, a dresser, a shelf, and my brother's toys. Oh, and my bedroom door was a sliding glass door that I covered with a sheet for privacy. Try asking even your closest friends for a sleepover... No really, ask them. Let me know how that turns out. 

The rest of the "house" was tiny, lending itself only to a small living room, dining room, kitchen, and bath/utility room where pretty much every water pipe ended up. Like I said, 2 small bedrooms with only 1 being a bedroom. Most of my mother’s clothes were left in garbage bags that lined the walls of her room, and only her nicest things and personal possessions were in her actual closet. Her bedroom and living room where the only ones that had carpet, the dining, kitchen, and bathroom all had dingy linoleum. My room had some cheap, thin outdoor carpeting that didn’t give our feet much cushion from the nails in the boards underneath it. My bedroom walls were comprised of a thin layer of drywall with either very little, or no insulation at all.

I don’t remember much about our furniture, but then again, there’s a lot about that tiny, old, pea soup-colored shack that I’d just assume forget.

I remember not having a shower, only a tub, and sometimes having to share bath water with other members of the family because we didn’t have enough hot water for us all to bathe in one day/night. So we had to be quick as not to leave the next person with cold water in the tub we just bathed in. We typically had to share towels as well because it cost too much to wash that many clothes and use more water. And since this room was the only bathroom in the house, it wasn’t uncommon for us to have to use the toilet while one of us was taking a bath. (Usually my poor mom who probably just needed some peace for a few minutes, sacrificing her moment so we could pee.) But this also meant us not having peace either since she’d have to be in there doing laundry.

The room just off the bath/utility was the “garage,” though it never housed any cars. It was more like a shed, but had a door that led into the bathroom. It had a window and it always scared me to look out there. It was filled with “junk” my step-dad brought home from the salvage yard where he worked. Old tools, rusty metal things here and there, old tires, car parts, garbage bags filled with aluminum cans, and more junk. There was 1 lightbulb that lit up in the center of the room, which only made it creepier. I still have nightmares about that place.

We had, to my recollection, only 1 or 2 heat vents in the house and no central air conditioning. During the winter months, we shivered under the covers as the kerosene heater blazed throughout the night, centered between the dining room and living room. (This was the center-most part of the house, so this made it “fair” to everyone. Keep in mind, this meant having to keep the bathroom door closed so the heat would remain in the living and bedrooms, so if you got up in the morning to pee or take a bath, you were basically walking into a freezer.) And because of my sliding glass bedroom door, my brother and I were always left very cold and he’d usually end up sleeping with my mom, sis, and step-dad in their bed. Summers were just as brutal as the 1 window a/c unit blasted only when it was absolutely necessary, with a box fan circulating as best it could.

Our kitchen was about the size of a closet, but it was enough for my mom to prepare our meals, do the dishes by hand because we had no dishwasher, and look outside to see us playing in the backyard.

Looking back, I’m not sure where my mother found her sanctuary there, if she did. Her bedroom, as I said, was extremely small, and was shared with my baby sister, whose crib was nestled in the corner. A full-sized bed, a dresser, and small closet was about all one could fit in that room, so space and privacy wasn’t something I believe ever existed to my poor mother in those years.

The things we did have in the little shack weren’t the nicest things, but we did our best to take care of them. Because we had to. We didn’t have the luxury of just going out and buying something new if what we had broke or got too old. In fact, if something had to be purchased, it became a big stress point for the whole house. If my step-dad couldn’t find it at the scrap yard or if someone wasn’t tossing it on the curb, we went without for a while.

Most of the necessities, especially our clothes and shoes, were purchased by relatives, usually my great-grandmother, or others at birthdays and Christmas. When I turned 15, I was able to finally buy my own things after getting my own paychecks from working at a nearby Rally’s fast food drive-thru restaurant. I wasn’t able to work much because laws and school prohibited it, but I made enough to start supplying myself with the things I both needed and wanted as a teen girl. I remember buying my first pair of Levi jeans all by myself, and thinking how amazing it felt to finally have something I wanted without having to wait to ask my family or wait until my birthday. And after that, the shoes I wanted. And after that, I began seeing movies in the theater with my friends. And after that, I began going to high school football games and spending my own money on food and renting VHS tapes at the movie store. Suddenly I was fitting in with other kids and was understanding what everyone was talking about and realizing what I had been missing. I remember buying makeup and fixing my hair the way other girls did and thinking I’d finally be accepted into more social circles. Maybe now, those super rich kids would stop making fun of me. Maybe now I’d have the life I really wanted.

It was around those early teen years that my parents decided it was time to either move, or keep their land and just bull-doze the shack and build a house. But building a new house proved to cost too much. So instead, they opted to purchase a modular home and have it placed over the remains of what once was our old shack. Even though my step-dad had pretty much ruined the natural beauty of the 1.5 acre lot with his “collection of crap” as now call it, the modular home they chose was actually quite nice and brought a completely new and reasonably attractive look to our yard. It took some time, but once it was completed, I wasn’t too ashamed to have friends over anymore. It was new, we all had our own rooms, it was very spacious inside, and for the first time in my life, I had real sleep-overs. Since I was 5, I had been sharing a room with my brother…and now I had my very own room! I could decorate, I could hang my clothes in a walk-in closet, and I could take a shower in my own bathroom! When you walk in the front door, you entered a “front living area,” and straight ahead was the dining room with sliding glass doors that led out the back. To the right of the dining room was a nice, open kitchen with tons of cabinet space, an island, and a dishwasher! To the right of that was a nook where my mom could sit and write letters, and just beyond that, an entire room dedicated just to the washer and dryer! To the right of the front living area was a beautiful and spacious master bedroom with a master bathroom to die for! A walk-in shower, 2 sinks in separate areas, and in the corner was the biggest bathtub with jets I had ever seen! To the left of the dining room was a den area with a fireplace, and to the right of that were the other 3 bedrooms just for us kids! Mine was the biggest with biggest closet, of course…and I definitely wanted that room because it overlooked the driveway and road. (I like to face the sunrise, so this worked out perfectly for me.)

I remember us kids running around constantly for the first few days, just running through the house like we were in a mall. It felt so big to us. And we were so happy. It was truly one of the best moments I remember during those times. We didn’t have to move away from our neighbors and best friends down the street, and we finally had a nice place to live…with heat and air conditioning!

But the joy didn’t last long. Riding on a bus in the country isn’t always easy when you’re poor. Everyone knows where you live, sees the outside of your home, sees the beat-up cars in the gravel driveway, and also sees the “collection of crap” that remains. Everyone knows you’re not suddenly “super rich.” In fact, they know it so much that they feel you need to be reminded. Even though I knew it wasn’t a big 2-story brick home with white shutters and a wrap-around porch with a 2-car garage and paved driveway, I still felt proud to live there. But that pride went away the moment one of the older kids on my bus said, “So now you live in a trailer?”

A trailer. It was as embarrassing to a teenager as living in the projects. It was the country equivalent to living in subsidized housing in the city. And now, rather than feeling proud of my new home with my nice, new walls and carpet and dishwasher and bedroom, I was again, reduced to being called “trailer trash.”

But I quickly rebounded when my very close friends agreed to sleepovers at my new house and we had some pretty awesome times there. I began dating and wasn’t ashamed of where I lived. I knew it wasn’t going to grace the covers of any Home & Gardens magazine, but we took care of it and my mom began planting some beautiful flowers, trees, and bushes that made for some pretty great landscaping. And even though the walls were paper thin and the gap under the doors was big enough to squeeze a loaf of bread through, it felt like home to me. It felt like the first home I had since we moved from our apartment when I was 8 and into that rickety old shack we had just torn down. And it remained my home until my step-dad kicked me out when I was 16. From there, I would bounce from friends’ and relatives’ homes until I was finally able to take care of myself at 22. Now, 25 years later, it is still home to my mother, where she lives alone, keeping up her garden, watching her grandchildren run around those same floors, and finally having the peace she so desperately needed.

25 years…seems like a long time, doesn’t it? You’d think after 25 years, I would have forgotten what it was like to be poor. I would have forgotten that I ever watched as my mother refused to eat dinner so she could make sure us kids had enough to eat. You’d think I wouldn’t have noticed when she washed the dishes using only cold water because either the water heater was broken, or maybe she just didn’t want to make the electric bill go up. You’d think I wasn’t paying attention when I’d see my great-grandmother reaching into her wallet to hand my mom a stack of cash to hide in her dresser to pay the bills my step-dad wasn’t able to pay. You’d think maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t listening to her cry in her room at night because she was scared the water guy was coming to turn it off the next day. You would think a kid like me wouldn’t pay attention to the amount of times she’d wash her shoes in the washing machine with baking soda to remove the grass stains so she could wear them to the store and not be ashamed. Or the times she stayed up half the night watching old re-runs of shows she grew up watching just so she could find something to laugh about. Or the time she tried studying for her G.E.D. so she could feel smart enough to get a job to help make ends meet. Or the jar of change she’d dump out, looking for quarters to give us for lunch money. You’d think after 25 years I wouldn’t know what that’s like.

But you’d be so wrong.

25 years later, I’m a poor mom. I have a 10 year old beautiful daughter, I work full-time for, what I thought was, a big and wonderful corporation, I have a decent car, I rent a 3 bedroom house with a garage in an ok neighborhood 1 mile from her school, I have a cat, I pay my own bills, we have food in the cabinets and refrigerator…Yet, I can’t help but wonder if in 25 years she will see that things just aren’t the way a little kid sees them.

To my daughter, she sees that she has toys, video games, I make dinner every night, she has clothes to wear, hot water to bathe, blankets to keep her warm, the tv turns on, we have a decent car, and she has a cat.

But what she doesn’t know is that I’m on the edge of being homeless. I don’t have outstanding credit card debt, I don’t waste my money on things we don’t need, and I don’t go on any trips or vacations or eat out. I don’t purchase expensive clothes, I don’t buy jewelry. In fact, I don’t buy anything other than exactly what we NEED. But the cost of living versus what I make, has gotten completely absurd and to a point where I honestly don’t know what I am going to do anymore. I’m alone and living paycheck to paycheck, which has become impossible to do.

When I agreed to rent this house, I did so with the intention it would be a “family” home. I didn’t know if that would ever pan out, so I needed to be conscientious of the fact that I would have to be able to afford the rent and bills on my own. I needed a solid house in a decent neighborhood close to her school, with a yard for her to play and be safe. This house has a privacy-fenced in backyard where we used to have a swingset. I wanted to turn the backyard into an oasis of plants, a firepit, a hammock, and games. I wanted the back porch to be an area like my great-grandmother’s where everyone would come and I’d entertain our friends and my daughter’s friends. There’s a park down the road and I figured it would be a place we’d ride our bikes to on the weekends to play baseball, swing, and maybe picnic. The owners of the house are religious and have 5 kids of their own, so this house was filled with family love before I began those dreams myself. At the time, I was working full-time at a cigar lounge, where although my hourly wages wouldn’t alone pay for it, my tips made up the difference. And with the help of friends, little by little, I acquired household items and was able to start making a life for us here. It has become “home” to she and I and we love it. But I’ve never felt like this was a real home, mostly because we’re in Florida and because I know rentals are only temporary. Nevertheless, it’s been a safe haven and it’s kept us off the streets. All my daughter knows is that she has a lovely little home where she feels protected and loved and is surrounded by her stuffed animals and we make some pretty amazing meals here.

What she doesn’t see… is that when we are at a gas station or restaurant, I grab handfuls of napkins and plastic utensils and stuff them into my purse. The napkins I use in my bathroom as toilet paper so I spare the regular toilet paper for her bathroom, which saves me money on buying more. The plastic utensils I use when she’s with her dad so I don’t have to use water or dish soap.

She doesn’t see me make one pot of coffee to use for the entire week. She doesn’t see me using baking soda instead of toothpaste. She doesn’t see me having to break into her piggy banks to pray for a couple of dollar bills or quarters to use as gas money. She doesn’t see me hanging the wet clothes over the backs of the dining room chairs and couch because the dryer has been broken since last summer. She doesn’t see me skipping breakfast and dinner when she isn’t here so I can be sure the food lasts for the next time she is here. She doesn’t notice I’ve lost 15 pounds in the last couple of months because I can’t afford to eat. She doesn’t see that I haven’t been to the doctor in over 8 months because I can’t afford to miss work for doctor visits I can’t afford, even though I have amazing insurance and the co-pay is only $20. She doesn’t know that there are days when I can’t get out of bed because I’m in so much pain that I can barely move, so I miss work and now I’m at risk for being fired for missing so many days. She doesn’t know that I buy the cheapest shampoo and soaps. She doesn’t know why I only shop at the cheapest grocery store. She doesn’t know that I re-use the same plastic Solo cup every day for weeks at a time so save on dish soap and using the hot water. She doesn’t know that I had to use the cash people gave me for her Girl Scout cookie sales to pay the electric bill and now I don’t have that money to give the troop leader. She doesn’t know that I had to take out cash advances to pay the rent. She doesn’t know that many of my recent clothes have been free from the thrift shop where I volunteer. She doesn’t know that I only have 2 pairs of jeans that fit and the shoes I wear to work hurt my feet. She doesn’t know that I’ve sometimes had to use sand I dug up from the side of the yard to use as cat litter and that I’ve had to sometimes feed him my own food because I couldn’t afford litter or food for him. She doesn’t know that I’ve had to wash her blankets because the cat puked on them from eating the human food I had to give him. She doesn’t know that I have to lie to all my friends when they ask if I can meet them for a movie, lunch, dinner, drinks, or any social function because I can’t afford to go or use the gas to get there. She doesn’t know that license was temporarily suspended because of my medical condition and that I risked everything to drive her to her dance competition in Orlando one weekend. She doesn’t know how badly my lip was bleeding from biting it because I was so terrified I’d get pulled over, get into an accident, or get a flat tire on that drive to and from her competition. She doesn’t know that I went to jail for drinking and driving last year and that I have a serious problem with alcohol. She doesn’t know that when I have to leave her at home alone for 2 hours for my “doctor appointment” every Saturday morning, that it is really court-ordered counseling that costs me $150 a month. She doesn’t know that when she isn’t here, I am alone every single night wondering how I’m going to afford to keep my car, my car insurance, and my license, all because I had too much to drink while taking my seizure medication that night. She doesn’t see or hear me crying in my bedroom. She doesn’t see me in pain every time she wants to go see the latest movie and I can’t afford to take her. She doesn’t see me making up excuses in my head as to why we can’t go out to dinner once in a while, or just stop for an ice cream cone. She doesn’t hear me pecking away at the laptop every night Googling ways to make extra money when you have none to start with. She doesn’t see me shying away from lunch invites from friends at work, telling them, “Oh, I have to run to the bank or I have an appointment,” when in reality I simply don’t have any food so I just drive down the street and park so no one notices. She doesn’t know how badly I wanted to be present for my grandmother’s funeral, but couldn’t because I couldn’t afford a ticket or the time off work. She doesn’t know the only reason my hair is so long is because I can’t afford to get it cut, so I just trim the ends myself sometimes. She doesn’t know the reason I stopped going to the gym wasn’t because of my MS, but it was because I couldn’t afford the membership any longer. She doesn’t know that the time I tried to ask a friend of a friend to help me print and promote my paintings, he asked me for sex as payment, so I turned him down, ruining my chances at having someone I know give me a discount on printing my work to sell to try to make extra money. She doesn’t realize the real reason I cut the crust off the bread isn’t because I thought she’d like it better that way, but its really so I could use the extra parts to make an apple dish that would last her a few breakfasts. She doesn’t ask why we eat so much pasta or soup. She doesn’t wonder why we don’t go anywhere on the weekends when everyone else is out enjoying the beautiful weather. She doesn’t wonder why I use paper towels from work as pads instead of buying tampons. She doesn’t know I hoard all the expired food when the vendor comes each month to throw it out at work. She doesn’t know I use company envelopes to mail in my fine and probation payments every month. She doesn’t know I pushed the utility bills out another month so I could buy her Christmas presents. She doesn’t know I still only sleep on one side of the bed because it hurts too much to think of the other side as being empty. She doesn’t know how much my heart aches to be loved by a man who loves everything about me, gets me, understands my past, and who will want to be a partner and supporter to me. She doesn’t realize how much I hate living here and how I don’t fit in. She doesn’t know how much happier I’d be somewhere else, with people I know and love and in an area where I can live in the country and nature. She doesn’t know how much I miss hiking and camping and exploring. She doesn’t know that I am too scared to do those things alone because of the horrible creepy people out there in the world these days. She doesn’t know that I have given up so many of my own dreams to ensure hers are met. She doesn’t know that I’ve taken over 1 million pictures of her growing up because I want to remember every moment with her. She doesn’t know that I can’t afford to print them out so she’ll have those tangible memories as well. She doesn’t know how scared I am of my illness and how I’m absolutely terrified that I won’t live to see her grow old or remember who I am. She doesn’t know that I only make just over 2 thousand dollars per month and that every single penny goes to rent, car payment, car insurance, gas, electricity, water, phone, internet, lawn care, groceries, and paying off my DUI. She doesn’t know that her father, too, is an alcoholic who had a horrible DUI a few years ago and that he refuses to seek treatment. She doesn’t know that she carries the gene for alcoholism. She doesn’t know that she may struggle with depression or anxiety like her parents. She doesn’t know that I am trying very hard to get through each day and that it’s difficult at times. She doesn’t know that I am doing everything I can to fight this and that I will be victorious. She doesn’t know my father left when I was a baby and never returned. She doesn’t know I was beaten by my step-father. She doesn’t know I was raped by a guy I dated. She doesn’t know I was sexually, physically, and verbally abused by other men I knew. She doesn’t know that I cry every single night from the guilt I carry from my boyfriend’s suicide over 20 years ago and that she saw and spoke to his ghost when she was little. She doesn’t know that I just need sanctuary. She doesn’t know that I just need a break. She doesn’t know that I just need help. She doesn’t know that I’m scared. She doesn’t know that I am poor.

One day, I know she will know all of this. But I don’t ever want her to see any of it.

-Angie Hart

Ready for Surgery!

Surgery date: Wednesday, May 22, 2013 approximately 9:30am.

In just under 3 days, I'll walk in the doors of the Melbourne Outpatient Surgical Center breathing in the last breaths of air as the woman I am today. I'll get called into a room where I'll be asked to change into an over-washed piece of cotton that "ties in the back," be asked to put my belongings into a locker and take the key with me into the room where I'll crawl onto a cold, hard "bed." I'll wonder if they noticed I went against their instructions and gave my eyelashes a gentle coat of mascara and decided to buy cherry chapstick at the last second Tuesday night. Several strangers will surround me, asking me mediocre questions like "Ya feelin ok? You ready for this? Did you remove your nail polish from your toes? No body piercings? All jewelry is off? Are you cold?"  ... Then the questions will turn into directions... "Ok, Angela, I need you to just sign here, initial here, and sign here..This form is for us..it says you are allowing us to do the procedure today and that you are doing so willingly... This form says we are not responsible if your heart sucks ass and stops mid-way and you die. Ok, now  give me your arm, relax, you're gonna feel a pinch, and then you'll feel a little shot of cold as the medicine goes into your vein, ok?" They'll proceed to cover my chest and belly with cold, round discs attached to electrodes to monitor my vitals. I will want to remove the stylish blue elastic paper cap that covers my hair, but will be told to "keep that on, please, Angela." This will remind me that I left my phone in my locker because I'll want to take a quick snapshot for you guys at home. I'll tell them I forgot to take off my vagina piercing... I don't have one, but I figure if I say that, they'll let me back to my locker no questions asked. Pretty soon, anxiety will set in as the reality of what is about to happen finally hits home and I start wondering if I'm doing the right thing... if this is really necessary... will I care that I don't look "like a woman" anymore? Will my daughter have to go through this some day? Will I live through the procedure? What if I don't? Did I turn off my hair straightner? Did I feed the cat and give him fresh water before I left this morning?"  - And soon, as the medicine begins to take effect,  those very normal, natural questions will turn into those of non-reality based ones like, "What if my doctor and nurses sexually abuse me while I'm under? How will I ever know? Are there cameras filming this? Should I have hired a camera crew? Is it too late to call them? Is it normal that I feel like I'm on a merry-go-round? Why does my doctor look like Doogie Howser? Isn't it funny that there used to be a show about a kid doctor named Doogie HOWSER and now there's a show about a doctor who acts like a kid and his name is HOUSE? Coincidence? Maybe I should be writing this down in case I have some streak of genius and I forget it...cuz this is funny shit! What if I don't even have cancer... what if when he did the lumpectomy 2 years ago, he planted something inside there, like one of those little pills that you put in hot water and it dissolves and a dinosaur-shaped sponge erupts from it! It's all a conspiracy! What if this is some weird alien experiment? I think they should have done a sequel to E.T. They would have had to leave Drew Barrymore out of it, though, cuz mixing drugs with aliens is wrong. Speaking of drugs, this shit is pretty good...Funny how Angelina Jolie got her tatas chopped off right before me. I think it's weird that she goes by "Angie", too. Did she really have sex with her brother? I like Billy Bob Thornton. Bad Santa was fucking hilarious...lol... little black dude.. was he the same guy that was the limo driver in Me, Myself, and Irene? Man, these drugs are killer... I wonder if I ask them to "keep 'em coming" will they? Who decorated this place? Are they serious? Cream-colored frames with a peach matte? And why so many paintings of the beach? Am I in Boca? I wanna see blacklight posters and watch Super Troopers! Man, syrup sounds good right now. I'll be glad when I can eat....Where are my legs? I see them, I think...but I don't really feel......."

++++++++++++++++++

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Angela? Can you hear me? How are you feeling? You're in the recover room, now... just relax. If you feel sick, let me know so I can help you to the restroom to your left, ok? You'll be here for a few more minutes until you're able to stand and walk. If you aren't ready, you can stay here until you are. You did great, Angela. The surgery went smoothly. Doctor Talbert will see you in a bit and talk to you about everything, ok?"

And that's pretty much all I will get until he does talk to me.... He'll tell me about how big the incision is, how much he had to take, what it looked like "in there," and what I can expect from this point on. I'll shake my head, wince in pain, ask about pain medication, ask if I'm ok to attend Comedy Night at work that night...he'll say no, I'll be bummed about it., but I won't argue with him for the sheer fact that arguing makes me tense, and tension leads to muscle strain, which leads to me feeling pain... I'll go to Walgreens, get my "goods," go to McDonalds, go home, and flip through the channels. I"ll try to remember to call my mom who will be worried sick all day until she hears my voice... Then I'll pass out. I'll get on FB at some point, barely able to type, give some random details about the day, tell you all how much I love you, demand pie, then go back to bed. 

So yeah...until I have that talk with my doc at the end of it all, this is all I know for sure... ;)

Big Bird, shmig bird.

It's difficult to take these men seriously when the seriousness of the issues has gone to the toilets. If you were to review the transcript from last night's "episode," you'd be reading on a 2nd grade level. At no point were these two speaking as though they were any more intelligent than the next guy. Having rehearsed the information provided for them by their staff and public relations team, their usage of terms was limited to basic, everyday banter. I remember seeing debates from those in the past, asking myself "what does THAT mean" and "that guy is smart and seems to know wtf he's talking about."  Hence, the dumbing down of America. Stop using all these keywords and catch phrases and remind me that a highly educated man deserves to be in The White House. 

Both these assjacks were firing off the pointed finger, blaming the other for this and that, and rambling on about they THINK they're going to be responsible for initiating these great schemes of theirs. However, what I didn't see or hear was either of them taking responsibility for the crap that's messed us up over the years. It's ok to admit to failing at something, as long as you own up to it and make it a point to either fix it, or come up with a better solution. I'm pretty sure that's all we want, as a nation, is to be told what will be done to fix it and prevent it from happening again.

Another thing I saw last night was the complete lack of respect these men have for each other, particularly Obama with Romney. While I'm on neither side, I found it irritating to see a grown man fail to acknowledge his counterpart by making direct eye contact with him. Romney was on point with most of his topics, I have to admit, and would directly look into his opponent's eyes as a man should do. Obama spent his time looking down, out at the crowd, at the mediator, or at the camera. I don't care if the guy is telling you how he slept with your mom last night, you look a man in the eyes when he speaks to you. 

Where has that level of respect gone over the years? Have we become so casual of a nation that we are starting to act like we're just sitting around in Uncle Bill's basement in our sweatpants, talking about the things we'd do if we were King? Because that's what last night looked and sounded like in comparison to times when shit was REAL. While Romney has a more "elite" appearance in terms of the hair and the chiseled features... he still doesn't get my vote for a MAN'S MAN. When I think of casting my vote for a guy to RUN this country, I want to see/hear someone that DEMANDS my respect! Dammit, PROVE to me what you promise. PROVE to me that YOU are the guy for this job. PROVE that you're intelligent enough to rule this Earth. PROVE to me that you're the better opponent! PROVE to me that your confidence has actions to back it up, rather than just an ego fueled by money and payoffs. Conduct yourself with an air of pride, like you should, and MAYBE I will take you seriously. Until then, expect the lesser educated of the country to react the way they've reacted today. 

Quick List of Things I Do NOT Like

Of course, leaving room for more, these are the things that rolled off the top of my head this evening:

1.) Clowns because they're crazy, killer pedophiles

2.) Zombies because they're stupid

3.) Horror Movies because I'm too sensitive and I have nightmares that would make Wes Craven and Stephen King cry, wet their pants, and make love to each other. I don't need to see them in film version.

4.) Clowns because they're completely unnecessary

5.) Harry Potter because they made too many of them and I got over it before it began

6.) Lord of the Rings see above reason

7.) Twilight because even homosexuals agree it's far too gay

8.) Vampires because, like zombies, they're stupid

9.) Most birds because those fuckers can see everything and can fly and peck your eyes out and reach into your ears with their beaks.
10.) Snakes that move quickly. If they're just sitting there, minding their own business.... in a cage... I'm ok with that. But no sudden movements, especially in my house or near my car. eek.
11.) Clowns because those fuckers stole my fucking cotton candy when I was 5
12.) Winona Ryder - if I have to explain why, then you're just as much of an idiot as she is.. or you're a guy who wants to bang her, regardless of her lack of talent.
13.) Johnny Depp and most of his films EXCEPT "Donnie Brasco" and "Blow"
14.) Charlie and the Chocolate Factory... Willy Wonka,etc. It just freaks me the fuck out.
15.) Most 80's films - Haven't completely pin-pointed an exact reason, but I'm sure it has a lot to do with the fact that I didn't see them at the time they came out because I was either grounded or doing stuff that I'd later be grounded for.
16.) Star Trek because it can never be Star Wars
17.) That strange speech impediment that has been trending in Hollywood, seen/heard on such notables as Adam Brody ("The O.C.") and Emma Stone (redheaded chic from "Superbad") and you can catch it from time to time if you watch Reese Witherspoon, Kaley Cuoco, and even Jennifer Aniston. Once you hear/see it, you can't undo it and it completely ruins that actor for you. You've been warned.
18.) Krystal burgers - they're not White Castle
19.) Tunnels, elevators for periods longer than 10 floors, closets, small bathrooms, and coffins. 
20.) Celery - self explanatory
21.) Most celebrity websites, news feeds, tweets, news, gossip sites, etc. Unless it involves Dave Grohl.
22.) Pirates - they're dirty, their teeth are rotten or missing, and they must smell bad.
23.) Most books because my ADHD has screwed me royally.
24.) Roller coasters
25.) Rednecks. Not country folk... but REDNECKS. Especially the ones who hang fake ball sacks from their trailer hitch.
26.) Ferrets. - Which will most likely be owned by the above "types."
27.) Melons (Watermelon, Honeydew, Canteloupe, etc) - Just the texture. The juice is pretty damn awesome... just can't eat that shit.
28.) Raw onions - I can eat them sauteed or fried.
29.) Pittsburg Steelers fans (most of them, anyway. I do have a few friends whom I love that just happen to like that team. And it's because of that love that I look the other way.)
30.) Derek Jeter because he's an ass
31.) Religion because its stupid and has led to the birth of such things as hate, greed, war, murder, ignorance, and will continue to do so despite my best efforts to change things. :(
32.) Stairs - If you don't already know why, remind me to tell you when you're older.
33.) Bad breath - come on... who doesn't?
34.) Living in a neighborhood, apartment, condo, etc. If this world is so fucking big, why can't I have my own share of it to enjoy without listening to someone else disturbing my peace?
35.) Hippies who took it too far. (you completely ruined it, dude.)
36.) War
37.) Cats that don't let you pet them.
38.) The fact that most Mexicans don't have necks. It bothers me. It's not a racist thing... its just a biological fact that I'm not comfortable with. I'm sure they'd agree the extra height would be nice.
39.) Most drugs and the way they destroy lives.
40.) Alcoholism - Again, if I have to explain this, you're an idiot. Go get hammered with Winona Ryder and walk into traffic.
41.) People who don't acknowledge the possibility that things may not be what they seem.
42.) Litterbugs
43.) People who call themselves "hunters" but don't use the animal for a god damn thing except to get bragging rights or post the pics on FB.
44.) People who make fun of the homeless. Regardless if they're on drugs, smoking cigs, or tipping back a bottle of beer.... you don't know HOW they got there, so shut the fuck up.
45.) Clowns because face makeup is stupid
46.) Sexual offenders... unless they're the "good kind" hehe
47.) Strip clubs. - Used to go to them to seem like I was the cool chic/girlfriend. Not anymore. The smell is just too much these days.
48.) Cherry Vodka - Thanks, Danny.
49.) Moth balls - takes 30+ years to get that smell out of your nose.
50.) Rush
51.) People who don't wipe down the equipment with sanitized towels after using it at the gym. SERIOUSLY, YA SICK FUCKER!?!? They're provided... right over there! Grab them BEFORE you use the machine so you won't have to walk over there or forget after... geez.
52.) Shrimp, unless it's made "Key West" style.
53.) Lobster - I'm pretty sure I'm still allergic to it... won't take that chance.
54.) That puke green color on cars. It just looks bad.
55.) Anyone who drives an Acura NSX - because I want one
56.) Speed limits
57.) The fact that you need to make a sand castle with really moist sand... which means you have to create it closer to the wettest part of the beach... which is near the water's edge... and it eventually ends up doing exactly what you think it'll do: comes up and washes it away. wtf.
58.) Having the people I love, like, or wanna hang out with.. be so far away.
59.) Not having a job.
60.) Death

Facebook: Not My Friend

Facebook: NOT My Friend

Being sick for the last several days kept me from logging into Facebook and really caring about the posts I was reading. It's the same old thing over and over. Pictures of trips, pictures of bars, pictures of kids, pictures of food, pictures of accomplishments. I've done it, too...

And if it's not pictures, it's a brag fest about where someone is checking into, where they're going, or who they're with, or what they've just purchased.

None of these mattered to me before. Sure, I enjoy seeing pics of my close friends and their accomplishments, children, or major events. But before, they would have e-mailed me a link to an album or just sent me pics in the mail.

Before... there used to be a tangible relationship between friends and family. Something you could touch and hear and see right in front of you. A hug was a warm embrace from someone who cared about you. Not a "poke" brought to you by a click of a button a thousand miles away.

Seeing a friend on the weekend was an exciting and comforting thing. You looked forward to being able to see them face to face to talk about the week's events, share stories, and be upset that you couldn't spend MORE time with them because of all the things you want to talk about.

These days we already know everything going on because it's posted everyday. So when we finally DO sit down with our friends face to face, there is less to talk about, and the excitement of seeing them isn't as high as it used to be. The next thing you know, one person is digging their phone out to cure their boredom with none other than Facebook.

Where did this sense of feeling like we need to be constantly stimulated by other people come from? Why are so many people entitled to know MY business? Why do I feel so freaking special that I should know everything about them? Was curiosity ever this big?

I don't ever remember a time when I would call my friends to tell them I was walking into a particular location. I can imagine it would have gone something like this:

ring...ring... ring...
Beth: "Hello?"
Angie: "Hey, Beth Ann! Guess what?"
Beth: "What?"
Angie: "I am walking into McDonald's RIGHT NOW!!
Beth: "Ok?"
Angie: "Just thought you should know. In case you were wondering where I was and what I was doing right now. This is what I'm doing!"
Beth: "Uhh... ok. I gotta go. Bye."

See? A complete waste of a phone call, interrupting my friend's precious time, to tell her something that has no bearing on her life whatsoever. She would have thought I was nuts! ( I am a little, but that's beside the point.)

Today, we assume too much. We assume our friends will no longer care about us if we're not in their face all the time. We assume they all want to know is what we're doing and who we're with. We assume we matter more than what we actually do. What kind of an ego do we really have that we assume what we do matters MORE than what their other friends are doing and that we should take the time to type it out and make them waste THEIR time reading it? Who the hell are we?

Now let's face it. I'm not a big phone person at all. I rarely talk to my own family, let alone my close friends. But true friendship means not having to talk to each other all the time, not having to shove current events in our faces, and knowing that our busy schedules prevent that from happening. We understand each other and know we love each other without all that stuff.

So what is having 200+ friends on Facebook mean? It means we have an ego and that we're actually more disconnected from our friends than we think.

Being disconnected is the single most dangerous thing for this world. Being disconnected is what causes so many misunderstandings, which can lead to problems, which can lead to bigger problems, and eventually we've lost touch with all things that truly matter. A manager who is disconnected from his employees can never understand their needs, making a difficult work environment. A parent who is disconnected from their child, will one day ask themselves why their child is in trouble or getting bad grades in school. A leader who doesn't listen to the needs of the people, will ultimately be hated by them. Disconnected leaders turn into breeders of unfortunate events, causing more problems that lead to more problems. In case you didn't get all that, I said being disconnected leads to problems.

Being a member on Facebook has taken so much out of our lives. We spend HOURS and HOURS scrolling and scrolling through endless pages of information that really have no importance to us. Sure, there are specific areas of content that benefit us in some ways. But the bulk of it is completely useless in our real lives. Society has us brainwashed into thinking we NEED to know everything about everything. We NEED to be in touch constantly to stay informed and to keep up-to-date with current events. We NEED to have our phones with us at all times because we might miss something. We NEED to use our phones as a means to avoid conversation with someone if we're uncomfortable.

I once heard someone say they were talking to a bartender recently who felt his job was pointless these days because of the lack of conversation that goes on with his customers. In the good old days, a patron would pull up a bar stool, ask for a beer, and converse with the bartender. They'd talk about sports, the weather, their shitty day, women, or whatever they could think of because that's what people did to form relationships and rapport. That's how networking happened. These days, he said it's rare for someone to WANT to talk to him. The minute they arrive, they order their beer, and then proceed to play on their phone, text someone, talk on the phone with someone, or go on Facebook. The only time they talk to him is to ask for another drink.

We've completely lost that sense of fellowship in the world. And this will ultimately be our demise.

In the time you took to post something about where you were going or what you're doing, you could have been enjoying your REAL life even more. Your REAL life doesn't involve your phone, your computer, or knowing what everyone else is doing. Your REAL life is what you're missing out on and if you're not living it, you're basically dead. What is the point of all this world if we're not exploring it, touching it, listening to it, smelling it, and tasting it? While you're posting about where you want to go, someone else who understands what it means to really live their life, is already there, and utilizing their time more wisely.

I'm not against Facebook. I'm just going to be less involved in it. It's an awesome world out there. And I deserve to enjoy it.

Her First Day of The Rest of Her Life...

This morning, while lost in a sea, filled with parents sitting alone in their cars, some trying to hold back tears while others were in a full panic attack... I was reminded of just how much one small person can make an impact on your life.

When I was a child myself, I remember thinking how awesome it would be if I grew up and had 9 sons... to create my own baseball team.

When I was a teenager, I remember thinking how awesome it would be to NEVER have kids at all.

When I was in my early 20's, I remember thinking how I wasn't entirely certain children would be a reality for me considering the way my life was so "up in the air." And if I did have a kid, it would have to stay a small baby because all the "kids" I knew at the time were brats.

And now, I'm lost in a sea of parents who look at their children and wonder how I ever thought any of the things I thought before meeting my child.

Today, as she begins her first day of VPK and will inevitably begin the journey of her school life, I, too, am in tears over just what this day means.

After jumping down from her car seat and into the morning sand just outside the parking lot, she walked up with pride and fear both present in her eyes. Proud of her Dora the Explorer lunch bag. Proud of her "tap shoes" that aren't tap shoes at all, but merely her plaid, beat-up strapped shoes from Target. Proud of the way I fixed her hair and left it long in the back so she could swing it around and show her friends how the length of her hair is comparable to that of Rapunzel's in the movie "Tangled."

The pride I can handle. It was the look of fear and uncertainty that I can not quite seem to get under wraps. What do you do in a situation like this? She's been in pre-school a few days a week prior to this, but going full time, 5 days a week... in a new room, a new teacher, new "friends," new cubby, and new class name.... was a bit scary for her, I'm sure.

After taking her picture in front of the school sign to document this "wonderful" occasion, we walked in the door where we were immediately overwhelmed with what felt like THOUSANDS of parents, kids, and teachers jamming the entrance, halls, and rooms. It was loud as you heard kids crying, kids laughing, and parents arguing with each other in confusion. Her hand in mine, I guided her in the direction of where her new classroom would be and reminded her that THIS would be her new room. I showed where her new cubby would be, and she quickly placed her lunch bag into the small 12" x 12" shelf hole, labeled with a blue bird and her name, and continued to look around for signs of familiar life. If I paused for a split second, I could see other parents hovering or leaving quickly depending on their situation. You can always tell the first-timers because of their inability to either leave their child's side, or the room, or even the hallway. The parents who have done this before or have kids used to being in a pre-school type setting, are the ones who are in and out the door in less than 3 minutes as if they were dropping off mail at the post office. But the feelings are the same for both parties involved. If you're a first timer, you hate the thought of leaving your child. If you are a pro, you hate it, but you've developed a "survival mode" button that you push just before getting out of the car to take them inside.

Once we placed Eeyore into her cubby, we were ready to find her teacher and classmates located in another area of the school to prepare for "Circle Time." This is where the exchange is made. I hand off my daughter to the teacher, and in return, the teacher gives me a "look." This look is the most important aspect of the exchange, as it's a promise to you that your child will be safe, cared for, and educated while you're away. I, as a parent, have my own "look" to give the teacher just after her look is thrown my way. My "look" goes a little something like this:

"I have just given you the heart of my soul: the tiny hand of my child. While I'm away, I expect you to protect her, feed her nutritiously, hold her if she's frightened, care for her wounds if she falls and skins her knees, put the hair tie back in if it comes out, teach her to be kind to her classmates, educate her and encourage her intelligence, make her feel loved and appreciated, and remind her that I will be there soon to pick her up. If you cannot perform these duties or if you hurt her in any way, I will hunt you down and kill you."

That look only lasts about a millisecond. But it's there. And she knows it. So it's all good.

Once I'm certain that look has been understood and there aren't any questions, I can leave.

And so I did. I walked out with a mission. My mission was to get the hell out of there before I completely lost it in front of everyone and made myself look like an asshole. While doing so, I completely forgot to pick up the paperwork I was instructed to take with me. I suppose my horse-racing blinders were in full effect, allowing me only to see the front door and from there, my car. "Why did I park so far away" I thought to myself. But as I flip-flopped down the path toward the car, I couldn't help but notice I wasn't alone. I saw other parents forcing their kids to stand in front of the same sign, taking their picture. I saw the "pros" practically shoving their kids to the front door in a hurry as the little ones rubbed their eyes, signalling they had just woken up. I saw the "first timers" with the look of "huh?" on their faces. And then, as I approached my car with my keys in my hand, I saw a woman sitting in her mini-van, just staring toward the school. I could tell the way the sun was reflecting off the tears rolling down her cheek, that she was feeling the exact same way as me... And even though I consider myself a "pro," at that very second, I once again felt like a "first timer."

It was kind of like when you see or hear someone vomiting: When you see someone else doing it, suddenly you feel the urge to do it, too. And so, once I got in and started the car, I tried to drive away quickly as to let her have her moment. But when I glanced back at the school with it's little fence, barn-like appearance, and kids running and playing on the playground... I found myself needing my own moment. Traffic streaming down the road allowed for me to begin crying... And of course, eventually I had to pull out onto the road... But nothing stopped me from allowing those damn tears to fall down MY cheek.

My only consolation: Knowing that I gave her teacher "the look."

Fireworks & Thunder Over Louisville

As far back as I can remember, I loved fireworks. I loved the way they looked, how they sounded, and usually the situation through which I was viewing them, was pleasant. The setting was always something that led me to believe it was an exciting time for everyone involved. I remember growing up in Southern Indiana and going to the Greentree Mall to see a fireworks display around the age of 3 or 4. At the time, the Greentree Mall was a booming atmosphere of shops, food, and a good sign the economy was in a decent place. I never understood the connection of the mall to the fireworks. Maybe someone will explain that to me later. But at the time, it didn't matter. I just knew I was there to see something beautiful and amazing. How I got there, or who I was even with, must not have been as important at the time because I don't remember faces. I only remember noticing the bright colors against the black sky, trying to decide which was an ember, and which was a star...And then being surprised either way. I remember fighting with myself on which burst I thought was more awesome than the other: The way the gold weeping willow seemed to strike me in a way no other had... or whether I preferred the giant purple one with the little yellow one going off right in the middle of it... Then again, my favorite color is red, so I am a little partial. Regardless, the moment seemed to end WAAAAY too soon. I'm sure I was the kid who fell asleep in my car seat on the way home due to the traffic being backed up. And if I was with my mom, she usually had some rockin tunes blasting on the radio in the green Buick, which put me straight to sleep without a fight.

A few years after, I had a brother and a cousin to share my happiness with. They were small, but it didn't matter to my grandpa, who thrived on getting the most illegal fireworks from Tennessee he could buy. I remember one year for the 4th of July, he came back to our great-grandparents house with about 6 large brown paper sacks FILLED with bottle rockets, missiles, pagodas, snakes, firecrackers, roman candles, fountains, sparklers, and jumping jacks. I remember him laughing really hard one time after lighting a pack of those really loud whistling missiles... he had no idea how many it really was. He lit it, stood back, and let it happen. About 5 minutes later, he was nearly in tears from laughing. He thought it was so funny they kept going and going and going.. making that louder than life sound. You know the one. It's ridiculously high-pitched and sounds like the neighborhood is being bombed. Keep in mind this was a typical neighborhood in Southern Indiana. It was a little street with beautiful, yet modest houses planted about 20 feet from the next with green yards and blooming flowers. The kind of neighborhood anyone would love to live in if you're into that sort of thing. Having these kinds of fireworks was illegal in Indiana, and if anyone was going to cause a stink about it, it was going to be the people in this neighborhood. Looking back on it now, perhaps Paw-Paw was tearing up because he was thinking of what it would be like in prison. At any rate, he had a great time putting on a magnificent display of beautiful fireworks...

UNTIL.... we took things to the street. I'll never forget this particular night. It was probably just after 9 o'clock when Paw-Paw emptied out the rest of the little fireworks onto the sidewalk. My step-dad showed me how to light the snakes and sparklers while my grandpa prepared for his last hoorah. Before I could get my sparkler lit, I heard a noise I'll never forget. The sound of a fuse being lit, and then this whizzing/whirring sound coming from the street next to me. I turned to see a beautiful ball of light bouncing around in the air and back to the ground like a bunny! It was SO AWESOME! "Paw-Paw! What is that?!?!," I asked with excitement. He said, "It's a Jumping Jack! You like it?"
Just as I was about to answer him, he lit another one. The pink one I was watching was quick to die out on the side of the street. So I was anxious to see the next one! All of a sudden, there it was! A bright green one! It was SO COOL! I was in total awe of these little things! But before I knew it, my demeanor changed as the jumping jack hit an angle of the street and quickly began to come my way! It was coming at me so fast, jumping up and down, that it almost seemed to be chasing me! I ran as fast as I could to the yard, but it was still coming for me! It hopped the sidewalk and went straight into the grass in front of me where it fizzled out. I was HORRIFIED! After that, those kinds of fireworks were never given a second chance in our family. From there out, we'd stick to things that didn't take on robotic or life-like characteristics.

Later in life, as our family grew, against my wishes, we moved to the "country," where the sweet smell of gun powder came in different forms. Mostly that of my neighbors with shotguns, or sometimes, my step-dad with his own shells to fire off when the clock struck midnight on New Year's Eve. But having that land and being in a place where we could make a lot of noise, made it easy for us to host fireworks displays of our own on the 4th of July. I remember having a volleyball/badminton net, games of all kinds, folding tables with food, and everyone invited brought bags of fireworks. It was a picture perfect setting, I suppose. Family with a bunch of little kids running around. The older kids wondering how much longer we had to be there, the parents yapping about whatever they yapped about, and the grandparents rattling off their latest list of physical problems and who just died. But no matter how many worlds we may have been apart, nothing brought us together quite like a few folding chairs and some fireworks. Us kids would always try to "help" the dads with lighting the fireworks. The moms would yell at the dads for allowing us to use matches or a lighter. And in the end, we'd make the best of that argument by sticking with sparklers. We'd try to show the little kids how to make a circle in the air with a sparkler... followed by writing your name in cursive. The boys would be contemplating how they'd sneak a package of fire crackers from the bag. The grandparents kept a close eye on their watches, knowing damn well they couldn't drive in the dark, but never admitting it. If the neighborhood friends weren't already around, they were probably busy doing the same thing at their house just down the street. And even though I wanted to be with them and play have a good time, I was ok being right there in that moment with my family. It wasn't often that we got together for things like this, so why not enjoy it? My step-dad fashioned a device from which to shoot off the bottle rockets. He basically said "Screw the bottle" and opted for a pvc pipe stuck into the ground instead. It worked perfectly! From that launch site came an hour's worth of beautiful, loud, and bright fireworks into the sky above us. My great-grandparents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, mom, brother, and sister sat there as my step-dad lit the fuses of hundreds of brightly colored, paper-wrapped, gun powder-infused cartons of cardboard. It really was awesome.

It only happened once or twice after that one time. And it was never the same. Cousins didn't come because they were older and wanted to do something with their friends, grandparents moved away, aunts and uncles decided to go somewhere on their own to watch fireworks, etc. I thought I'd never get a chance to feel that way again. To see fireworks in that way, and get from it what I had always gotten from it: happiness and amazement.

Then came Thunder Over Louisville. Since the early 90's, Thunder Over Louisville has been the ceremonial kick-off to the Kentucky Derby Festival in April. The festival is a giant party and basically gets the public excited and riled up for the Kentucky Derby held 2 weeks later on the first Saturday in May. Thunder is also a big giant party, but it ends with the largest fireworks display in North America. All day, people from all over gather in the streets closest to the river in Southern Indiana and Louisville, Kentucky to see a huge air show filled with all types of airplanes, helicopters, and sky divers. People gather throughout the banks of The Ohio River with blankets, chairs, coolers, cameras, strollers, radios, and picnic baskets. There are vendors of all kinds lining the streets with food, beer, soda, funnel cakes, corndogs, ice cream, nachos, burgers, elephant ears, popcorn, roasted pecans, pizza, art, jewelry, t-shirts, toys, and of course... glow sticks. The docks of the river are overwhelmed with boats of all sizes. It's not uncommon for some people to tie their boats together and host a multi-boat party. People just climb aboard one, drink, eat, mingle..then go to the next. And if they aren't having a boat party at the dock, they're out in the middle of the river with the best view of the fireworks at night. This all-day event is truly an amazing and incredible time for anyone who has the balls to go and park and endure the traffic later. Music is playing and when the fireworks begin, the music is synchronized to the sounds and lights and design of the fireworks. There are 2 barges in the river on either side of the bridge that launch the exact same fireworks at the exact same time. Then, there's a 3rd launch site, which is the bridge from Southern Indiana to Kentucky, where some of the most beautiful fireworks seem to pour over the sides like a waterfall... It's amazing. And when that time comes, you'd better have a good view, because you do NOT want to miss a single moment. From the moment they begin, you're immediately transported to a time when you were a kid. Everything in your life goes away. Your problems, your worries, your stress, your sorrow, your job, your finances, your broken hearts, your physical pains... It all goes away. And this lasts for an hour!!! And no matter how old you get, how tough you may think you are, you know you're going to get choked up when you're watching the red, white, and blue fireworks going off to the song "God Bless the USA" by Lee Greenwood. You can lie and say you didn't get a little teary-eyed, but everyone's done it and it's a part of life. Suck it up and let it happen.

The last time I was able to see those fireworks, I was in the presence of some of my closest and dearest friends. It was 9 years ago. I don't know when I'll be able to experience it again, but I know when I do, I'm going to feel exactly the same way I always do, and I'm going to love every second of it.

Here's to all of you who get to experience that today... may you get fat on funnel cakes and beer, may you get high from the doobie-smoker a few blankets over from you, may your bladders be tested while waiting on the next available port-o-potty, may your mind play tricks on you while watching running kids wearing glow-sticks around their necks at night, may your feet hurt from the long walks you'll endure, may your coolers be ransacked by teenagers in search of booze, may your blanket become garbage once you realize it's not gonna make it, may your children give you hell, may your asses hurt from sitting on the ground all day, may your folding chairs give way somewhere around 7:20pm, may your eardrums be blown somewhere around 9:08pm, and may you all have large tanks of full gas for the inevitable long wait in traffic somewhere around 10:30pm. Please do not drink and drive. Please do not discharge your gun. Please do not get into a fight with that white trash guy you want to punch so bad. And PLEASE remember to ENJOY THE EXPERIENCE! :)