It was 12:30pm last Sunday in a liquor store. You stood in front of me at the checkout in a ruffled skirt and combat boots and tights. It was too hot for such a get-up. You’d probably been wearing it since Friday, when things were better.

Your hair was sticking out and frizzy around a few-day-old braid.

When you turned I saw tattoos along the side of your face. Your eyes were swollen and your face pale. The alcohol radiated off your body, smacked me into 7, 8, 9 years ago.

That sweet-stale reek. Cigarettes. Sweat.

“Can you give me a deal on a pint?”

Rot-gut whiskey. My kind of girl.

“No, sorry.” He offered a vague smile. I considered setting down my stuff because my arms were tired and achy against the cold drinks, but I didn’t want you to feel rushed. You had enough stress.

“Well give me a minute. You know I’m good for it. How much do I owe you?”

Your feigned cheerfulness made my heart damn near crack.

One dollar and 7 cents more for the rot-gut pint.

You dug in your bag and folds of your jacket and pulled a nickel or two from the plastic penny holder on the left. I used to do that. Saved me a few times too.

Seven cents short.

I opened my purse to grab you a dime when you said “Hold on!” and ran to the back of the store where you grabbed a dime on the ground. You placed it on the counter triumphantly.

“We’re good today, man!”

I was happy you didn’t have to take money from me. I was happy you got your pint without a front or a handout, and I was happy you could kill the shakes and in your head I knew you were thinking “I’ll be okay today” and I was glad that moment was happening for you though it won’t be enough, my friend.

It will never be enough.

There will never be enough.

You grabbed your whiskey and turned around, looked at me right in my eyeballs and said: “Any day now I’ll be back to my normal self.”

I gasped. Punched in the gut.

It was only your words. I nodded. I smiled. I couldn’t speak.

I watched you walk to your bike.

God dammit why did you say that to me?

Why?

Of all the people and things and moments in the world I stood behind you on just another alcoholic day in a liquor store and smelled your and my old smell and you spoke the saddest words maybe I’ve ever heard in my life and your watery eyes were mine again yet they were not. Because I’m free now.

Why?

I’m a stranger to you. A nobody. A nothing. When I was you I would have turned away from a woman like me, all clear-eyed in the midday with kids and shit.

Oh fuck you lady. Fuck you and your decent life.

(And then, in the throes of the morning, begging god to join you.)

I know you. The pain. The hope. The energy in the unopened bottle. The strength pulsing through the walls of the glass in your hand. Just this last pint. Just this one. I’m okay today. It’s okay.

Tomorrow I’ll pull it together.

And tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll be me again.

Any day now. Any day now I’ll be myself again.

I wanted to stare at where you last stood and take in that moment. Instead I met eyes with the man behind the counter. Time to pay now. Time to go on. It felt weird, again, to be on the side of normalcy. It still feels weird after 6.5 years of sobriety.

Me and the dude at work. Me, buying water and red cups because my kid was sick and we had to drive home and I thought “Well this will hold puke.” Me, with my kids in the car. Me, tired from being up all night in a hotel room during a trip gone awry. Me, clear-headed, tired, frustrated with the day.

Me, lost in the web of the normal sober shit.

You buying a pint with scavenged change at 12:30 in the afternoon sure tomorrow will be different. You telling me you’re okay while you stink and waste away. You riding away in hope, until the shakes come again. Me pulling out my debit card and spending $9.00.

I used to grab pennies out of the plastic thing to buy pints. Ancient Age whiskey, a pack of Pall Malls, and a Coke if I had extra money. If I think really hard maybe I can remember the exact amount of those three items. The cost of okay. The cost of the day.

I’d dig in the folds of my car. Under rugs and in deeper and deeper spots as if I hadn’t looked there already. Sometimes he’d give me a pint on credit. But never the Pall Malls. He knew I’d be okay without those.

I always paid him back as soon as I could because I knew I’d need his help again.

After the first pull hit my gut I’d feel hope and the shakes would quiet and I’d know just like you tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow I’ll call my mom and get sober. I’ll get with my kids and work. I’ll call my dad. I’ll tell him. I’ll eat some good food and clean my car and above all I’ll never drink again.

Any day now I’ll be back to my normal self. Any moment. Maybe this moment.

Right after this pint.

I want to tell you lady that the most important word in that strange sentence was “self.” The word you can’t forget. The word you can’t let go of. You have one. It’s there. Buried beneath a few thousand years of separation and pain, or so it feels, but it’s still intact, on fire, alive, pulsing through the reek of shame and humiliation, the part of you who looked at the woman behind you in line and knew you were the same.

I’m still thinking of you now. A week later. I wish I would have bought you the pint. I wish I would have handed it to you and said before you could even speak “I see you.”

There is a better way.

There is another way.

“Any day I’ll be back to my normal self.”

I want to tell you that you will not. Not here. Not like this. I want to tell you come on over here. I want to tell you there is hope. I want to tell you you’re dying. I want to tell you don’t have to live this way anymore.

I want to tell you I see god in your cracked open eyes.

It’s been a week, and I still love you.

We went to Target recently and sure enough there were no signs indicating which toys were for boys and girls. Lemme tell you what happened because it was traumatic. Plus, I think I may be on the cusp of uncovering a major conspiracy.

First, my 5-year-old daughter got all confused about which aisle was her section because the Great Wall O’ Pink was so subtle she failed to notice it. You know how kids are. I had to steer her in the right direction but she still went to the science kits.

Lo and behold, next to those science kits was a DOLL.

As in, a baby doll.

Well, Target, this is some disturbing left-wing propaganda! Next thing you know she’ll start thinking she can be a mother AND a doctor. Thanks a lot. That will take a decent amount of work to undo.

No worries though. I gave her a stern talking to: “Honey, princesses don’t do science. Princesses study the humanities because they’re better equipped for sensitive artsy things like Jane Austen and feelings.”

Anywho, my son looked right at me and asked “WHERE ARE THE TOUGH TOYS?”

Growing obviously confused by the subpar signage, he too started wandering over to the doll area. Of courses I rapidly explained that he may not play with dolls because nobody likes nurturing males.

The whole point is to block boys from such things so they grow up with a clear idea of gendered work expectations. It bothers me that Target is now placing the reinforcement of heteronormativity and traditional masculinity more squarely on MY shoulders and I resent it.
As if I don’t have enough to do.

After he was safely set up with things that make loud sounds and kill things, my daughter started crying because she couldn’t find the fairy-themed-pastel Legos.

As you know, girls are unable to play with Legos made of primary colors. They try, but their minds are not built for that sort of thing. They end up confused. My girl got so upset I had to get down to her level and remind her of every Disney princess saved by a man. Nothing soothes a confused female brain like remembering she too may someday marry a wealthy white male with a large home and horse.

So my daughter is tearfully staring at red blue green and yellow, lost and afraid, demanding to know where the soft hues of pink and purple went, and I had no explanation for her because THE SIGN WASN’T THERE SO IT WAS HARD FOR ME TO TELL WHICH AISLE WE WERE IN.

Luckily I remember just in time to look for The Wall of Pink. Always look for the pink!

Safely back in the pastels, I realized my son had once again followed us. Normally I would point to the sign above my head that said “Girls’ Toys” but THERE WASN’T ONE so I had very little evidence to prove this aisle was off limits to him. Then I had a terrifying thought that stopped me in my tracks: what if my SON picks out the fairy themed Legos for himself?

Wait. Target. ARE YOU TRYING TO TURN OUR KIDS GAY?

That’s it, isn’t it? You are on a mission, probably funded by those fluffy-headed supporters of gay marriage, to turn all kids gay by forcing girls to play with Hulk (that buzz cut, remind anyone of butch lesbians? Coincidence? I THINK NOT.) and boys to play with FAIRIES.

Ahem, fairies?

I’m onto you. I know what’s happening here. You’re trying to get my girls to play with primary colors and my boys to strap on fairy wings in attempt to make them forget Jesus.

Jesus HATES FAIRY WINGS.

Was this Obama’s idea?

It was, wasn’t it?

Thanks, Obama.

I STAND WITH KIM DAVIS!

I also heard you let women breastfeed anywhere they want in your stores. Exhibitionist trashy weirdo slut store!

Off Target, Target.

Wait, what were we talking about? Oh yeah. Right. The degradation of America’s youth through left-wing propaganda involving toy aisles.

Maybe you think you’re being sly but I’m a damn sharp tool. I’m the sharpest tool in the shed. Nothing gets past me.

And let me make something clear: You won’t be ruining my kids any time soon. I’m going back to Walmart, a place with nice traditional values like gendered signs and worker exploitation.

I’m an AMERICAN. I have RIGHTS. Kim Davis! Jesus! Straight people!

Gendered toy aisles!

Target, you almost really messed us up.

But we’ll never surrender. The fight is real.

Eye of the tiger, America.

ALL GIRLS HATE CONSTRUCTION STUFF TARGET duh 

Okay, that’s it. I’m officially unmotivated. What the hell happened? I was doing just fine. Well, mostly fine.

I’m never doing THAT FINE. I’m something of a disaster, most of the time. But I DISASTER WELL.

Disastering is one of my most reliable talents.

Does that ever happen to you? You’re going along with your life and it’s pretty cool when all of a sudden BOOM. Monotony. Boredom. It all feels worn out and tired and lost and weird and possibly, at 2am, utterly meaningless?

Or maybe I feel worn out and tired. One can never be sure.

I like to feel sorry for myself. It’s my special spot I love to hate. My therapist – who my friend and I (yes we oddly have the same one) lovingly refer to as The Jedi Ninja – says I like to beat myself up mentally. Something about shame.

So, she’s given me some affirmations. I’m supposed to say them. As in, to myself.

As she sat there across from me in her immaculate office smelling vaguely of peppermint and excessively healthy houseplants, I thought to myself “No way in hell am I going to spew nice little affirmations, lady. I LIKE MY PAIN.”

I’m not Stuart Fucking Smalley.

Jesus.

Come to think of it I’m not Jesus either.

But I started thinking about how after I yell at my kids I start a tape in my head: “Figures, Janelle. Of course you do that. You’re an asshole. And mean. A mean asshole. You’ve been that way forever. Remember when you were a kid? YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN A DICK.”

Or after I eat the 3^rd cookie because I “need something to pick me up,” a new tape starts: “Fat ass! Nasty human. What the fuck is wrong with you? Remember when you were SKINNY? Remember THAT? Oh you loser. You’ll never feel that good again. You’re disgusting.”

I’m good enough and I’m smart enough and doggone it people LIKE ME!

Oh, fuck you Stuart. Nobody likes you.

When I got sober, the person most pivotal in my recovery told me something profound. And I don’t mean sort of profound. I mean like SUPER FUCKING DEEP AND LIFE CHANGING.

Sit down, and listen. It goes like this: Nothing changes if nothing changes.

Whew. Yeah. I know.
Go ahead, Take a moment if you need it.

No no. Don’t turn away. That right there is some crazy shit: We have to physically, actually DO something different if we want new things to happen in our lives. WE CAN’T JUST THINK ABOUT CHANGING.

We have to move our feet in new directions. And our arms. And even our hands. ALL THE BODY PARTS. We have to move our bodies in completely new ways to make new shit happen in our lives.

As I write this I’m realizing this information is probably obvious to every adult on the planet.

Oh well. Whatever. I got sober at 30 and that thought had never occurred to me. I truly believed that if I THOUGHT something enough times it would happen.

I believed if I thought about something, it would change.

The fact that this never worked was insufficient evidence to deter my faith in the efficacy of Thinking About Doing.

(hahahahahahha!)

And that’s what’s up with these stupid mental tapes. I realized recently that some silly part of me seems to think that if I BEAT MYSELF UP enough times, my behavior will change under the weight of my wrath, or something.

Funny thing though: That never happens.

You know when I lost all that weight? When I started exercising and eating better. WHO WOULDA FUCKING THUNK IT?

Turns out self-hatred is a terrible calorie burner.

You know when I became a writer? When I started writing the words.

I know. I know. I’m a pile of wisdom.

Somebody build me an ashram.

Anyway, I’ve been trying the mental-bashing-routine for a few thousand years and it appears to have gotten me precisely nowhere, so I decided I’d give that old therapist a try.

So yesterday in the shower I started repeating the most ridiculous parental goodness affirmation I could think of: “I am a patient and loving and compassionate mother.”

I said it over and over again. Out loud.

I felt like a fucking moron.

Later, in the evening, I made a joke with my oldest kid. I did something nice then said “You know, I did that because I am a PATIENT and LOVING and COMPASSIONATE mother.” I exaggerated each word.

She smiled and said “I know.”

And I almost fell over. I am loving. And I am compassionate, but patience has never exactly been my um, thing. Actually no. Wait. I’m super fucking patient.

For 2 solid minutes.

TWO SOLID MINUTES folks. You can’t teach that.

It felt nice to hear my kid say that, though. It made me smile and I realized I’m probably not quite as bad as my brain would have me believe.

I don’t know. This has been a tough year. And just when I was in a bit of a groove I decided to take on a couple classes at a local university because I love this school and I love the professor who asked me but now I’m working 5 days instead of 3 and I’m no longer solely “self-employed” and I feel set back a bit, like I had a good thing going and “ruined it.”

And when I teach I have insomnia. It’s a thing. I must have a sleep-stress threshold past which my brain is all “fuck you and your desire for rest,” and apparently, teaching college crosses the threshold. And when I’m tired I lash out irrationally and lose it even more, and faster. I’m tired of Mac working out of town. I miss my baby. I’m sick of driving kids everywhere all fucking day forever into the night.

I AM A LOVING AND PATIENT AND COMPASSIONATE MOTHER.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure. Let’s affirm. I’m affirming my ass off.

Okay fine. It feels good to switch up the narrative a bit, even if I do think it’s bullshit. And I’m tired of the ridiculous brain punishment. That shit doesn’t work either. At least this is more pleasant, and vaguely amusing.

I am Stuart. Hear me roar.

Therapy hour with Janelle has come to an end. I gotta go pick my kids up from school.

With patience. Compassion. And love.
Ha. Ha. Ha.

Wait. I’m not done. My good friend told me the other day she just feels numb, like it’s all work. And I want her to know I feel the same. I feel the same sometimes, CL.

We get lost. We get found. We get bored. We get beat down until we change. We repeat the same same same until we throw our heads back and scream a new line.

Sometimes it’s “FUCK THISSSSSSSS!”

Sometimes it’s a ridiculous affirmation.

Our kid turns 10. The years seem stolen. Our oldest says she knows we’re patient and loving. We laugh cry silently.

We get a Jedi Ninja therapist we join a gym we get a kitten and name it Kimchi we pick up our kids we blast some music we miss our lifecrimepartner we make it one more day.

We write insane shit and remind ourselves “Doggonitpeoplelikeme!”

Until next time, whackos, I’m yours in the crazy.

He turned ten yesterday. She picked him out a bar of homemade soap with a rainbow on it. And she’s wearing a BIRD JUMPSUIT. Fuck it. It’s all good.

No.

Damn.

I can’t make it.

You tell us about it, teacher, how it’s a blast. How we should come. How we’ll love it. I need no convincing. I love pumpkin patches. I love the fall. Before the words have fully left your mouth I check…nope. Working that day.

I can’t not show up to work. Maybe I can get a sub. No, not really. I teach college. You can’t really just get a sub, or “call in sick.”

You’re still talking about how wonderful it is. The picture you paint makes my gut hurt and face smile. I see my kindergartener on the train ride, scaling the haystack, picking out the perfect pumpkin. I tell myself “We’ll go as a family. We always do.”

I tell myself it will be just as good. My heart sinks just the same.

I see her there with other parents. I see them with their phones, taking pictures. Maybe my kid will be in the frame, in the background. Along the sidelines of the frame, near yours who sits front and center.

I wonder if she’ll wish her mom were there. Let’s be honest, there’s no way she’ll even notice. She’ll be having a great time, as she should.

I know that, yet I kinda wan to quit anyway.

In the 4^th grade classroom they’re going to the Maidu museum. Oh, it’s amazing! The other moms coo.

Damn! Wednesday. I teach that day too. He’s almost 10. He wouldn’t let me hug him the other day before school. He’s getting so big. Oh, lord I want to go. To not miss out. I think of the twinkle in his eye if I could tell him “Hey! I’m going with you on the field trip!”

He’s not too big for that.

I was never the kid who’s mom worked in the classroom, drove the kids on field trips, manned the carpool. My mom was busy making a living to keep us alive. I didn’t feel deprived. I didn’t feel resentful. I was elated to see her at the end of the day. Period.

And she was always there. Our dinners were heaven around the little table. I’d crawl into her bed when I needed it. She never said “no.”

On the weekends she took us on impromptu camping trips and to the beach and made us hot dogs in the fog while the ocean roared behind us and I knew it was right in the world because she was there.

She was always there.

No, not always. Not at school.

But everywhere else she circled me like sunlight.

And I knew it. I felt it, no matter where I was.

I tell myself it’s the same with my kids. I know in my heart it’s true. I don’t remember a single incident of sitting at school wondering “WHERE’S MY MOM?” I was just glad we were on the damn field trip I the first place.

The mom who can’t come. The mom who isn’t on the trip. The mom who works.

Sometimes I can come now. I have a little more flexibility.

Some don’t.

Some can’t come at all, ever.

I see you.

I hear you.

I know what it feels like to be the mom showing up in work clothes 20 minutes late to Back-to-School night, scanning the list of meetings and events and assemblies and this and that and “You should come” and “Volunteer please” and every one at 9am 10am 3pm and the sinking reality of you aren’t going.

You talk to your child, pick the most important. You can make it to one, I’m sure. The boss will give you the time off. Maybe you’ll just lie. The pumpkin patch is not a business priority. Odd.

I don’t want to go to all. Screw that. I’ll leave that to the helicopters. But I’d like to make it to a few, and volunteer a few times. I’d like that, you know?

I know what it feels like to sit torn in two. I HATE THE PTA I SHOULD JOIN THE PTA I WANT TO WORK I HATE WORKING I NEED TO WORK MAYBE I CAN CUT EXPENSES I LOVE HATE MY CAREER DO I EVEN HAVE A CAREER I NEED SOME INCOME WHY IS CHILDCARE SO EXPENSIVE WHERE DO I FIT IN THIS MOTHERFUCKING PICTURE?

A million questions theories scenarios reasons feelings but fuck all that.

I just want to talk about the 45 seconds when you realize you can’t make it to the pumpkin patch field trip and wonder for a second what the hell you’re doing and what she’ll think or won’t think and how your mom was there or not and how it was and is and will be okay, even when it’s kind of not.

You and me. We can’t make it together.

You and me. We’ll make it together.

And so will they.

they’re fine. we’re crazy. it’s all as it should be.

*******

Join me for my last writing workshop of 2015.

There are only 5 spots left. We’ll have a hell of a time getting to know each other.

Let’s do this.