I’m supposed to be at an ashram in the Sierra Nevada foothills, meditating and doing yoga with a bunch of blissed-out white people, but I’m not. But we’ll get to that in a moment.

The place was fucking beautiful. Green grass, ponds, flowers, stone walkways. Giant weeping willows, hammocks, sprawling oaks. The cabins were just rustic enough to seem earthy as opposed to “run-down.” I pulled up and felt a sense of relief just to be out of my house. Here we go. Nature, meditation, yoga. I SHALL BE FIXED.

Fixed from a dark mental place. I was not doing very well. A couple weeks before I stood at the GET SPIRITUAL NOW gate (It doesn’t actually say that. I just made that up.), I realized I was moving from “dealing with tough circumstances” to “not dealing with anything” due to an internal sense of hopelessness and the related apathy. I saw myself crushed under the weight of my own self-pity, of my childlike tantrums that my life didn’t look as it should, that I wasn’t getting “what I deserved,” that it wasn’t “fair.” I had become identified with asshole circumstances of my life and I couldn’t wrestle myself free. I knew I had ceased functioning but couldn’t figure out how to get past the paralysis of my feelings.

So, like any white middle-class northern California woman in despair, I bought a Groupon for a “Beginner’s Yoga and Meditation Retreat” at an ashram in Grass Valley. They kept referring to us as “The Groupon People,” which hopefully sets the stage for what I’m about to tell you.

Allow me to say it bluntly: If I see one more blissed-out Caucasian bouncing around barefoot in white flowing pants and a small smile of “Damn it feels good to be more enlightened than you” plastered on their vegan-fed faces, I may die.

I’m not talking about the people attending the retreat. I’m talking about the people running it. The ones who were apparently on “a spiritual path.” The volunteers (dressed in yellow and white) who were studying under the head “Swami,” who wore all orange.

One woman had actual flowers IN HER MOTHERFUCKING HAIR, and literally pranced. As in, gently hopped instead of walked. She was the skinny prancing flower lady.

I thought “maybe she’ll get strangled in her Tibetan prayer flags.”

This is why I’ll never be a swami.

A bunch of the volunteers were running around barefoot. My friend and I found this baffling because we were supposed to take our shoes off inside the buildings, presumably out of respect and cleanliness, so if they’re barefoot outside and walk inside, aren’t they still bringing the dirt into the room?

But one looks much more spiritually connected while barefoot, and that’s what’s important here, folks.

All the signs said “Blessed self” at the beginning. So it would say “Blessed self, please don’t put your tampons in the toilet.” Or something like that. I found that hilarious. “Blessed self.”

But if they actually believed we were all “blessed selves,” if their respect for us ran so deeply, as fellow manifestations of the Divine Creator, what’s with the air of smug superiority?

Check it out, blissed ones: I don’t care how many chants or “asanas” you do each day, you’re still an asshole and therefore missing the whole damn point.

Statues of Hindu gods and goddesses lined the back of every room, but since none of us knew what any of it meant, it felt like a stomach-turning display of cultural appropriation. The statues had “meaning” and “depth” only because they were from “over there,” from far away. It was the eastern mystery and “otherness” that made them compelling and “deep.” To illustrate this point, I can only imagine people’s responses if there was a bunch of Judeo-Christian images and statues surrounding us. All the yuppies be like “What? Jesus? Fuck that shit. I grew up on that. Give me some nice deep sublime Hindu stuff!”

Meanwhile, there’s a dude with a pile of flutes telling me to chant something in Sanskrit to “wake up.” Weird thing is we didn’t ask him for help, or even indicate we were in the market for energy advice. His pretentiousness dripped from him like agave syrup in June.

I tried to kill him with my eyeballs.

He spoke to us like we were absolute morons, pathetic little creatures come to lap at the bowl of his insight. And I suppose it was kind of true, actually.

Pretentious dicks are bad enough, but pretentious dicks WITH FLUTES? I just can’t. I mean I literally cannot. Make me a white-girl “I can’t even” meme because ladies and gentleman, I can’t even.

The main teacher dude, another white guy with serene expressions, Swami something (they all changed their names to something more spiritually appropriate, like “Padma” and “Kala.” I felt like saying “You know your name is Kelly or Nathan. KNOCK IT OFF.”), anyway he lost me on day one when he refused to answer the question of a socially awkward teenager dragged there by his mother.

Deep Swami Guy said he wore orange as a symbol of him “burning up the karma.” The kid asked “What does that mean?”

Pretty relevant, I’d say.

But Swami Dude didn’t answer his question. He laughed and said “Well that’s a big question. There are whole classes just on that concept.” And with an air of “sucks to be you, small human” he moved on.

NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE. If you can’t explain something in a few simple sentences, YOU DON’T ACTUALLY KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT. If you can’t put into layman’s terms your vast spiritual truths, you don’t understand them. Period. Game over.

And sorry dude, you don’t get to dismiss Super Annoying Teenage Gamer Kid in the front row because his questions aren’t feeding your ego appropriately. Of course he’s super awkward and annoying, but you’re supposed to be seeing his buddha nature, aren’t ya?

And the lectures on “prana” and how we should eat and “transform compassion” in all this esoteric bullshit nonsense. So much theory. So much in-the-clouds bullshit. Big concepts and big words and “deep philosophical truths” and “profound spiritual insights” are used for one purpose: To mask the fact that we have no idea what the fuck is actually happening.

In other words, Swami dude, you’re just as captured in the ego structure as I am. You’re convincing yourself you’re “deep” and “spiritual” because you’ve learned a bunch of scriptures and chant and live in an ashram and shit, but real teachers aren’t pretentious, and they don’t spout deep thoughts all the time. They’re on the ground, right here with me and you and all the other Groupon humans, and when they talk you know they’re speaking truth because it is you in the deepest part of you, not just some fancy idea that sounds good but has no practical application.

We feel more human in the presence of these teachers. Not less.

Oh, but how these earnest, lovely imposters helped me.

God damn it they gave me everything I needed.

In the late afternoon of day 2, after sitting through 2 more hours of esoteric posturing, I packed up my shit and left. I drove to a hotel in Sacramento, ordered some Thai food and went to bed at 8:22pm, alone. I slept TWELVE SOLID HOURS. Twelve, people.

I walked out of that place because I realized two things: 1.) I need some privacy and sleep; and 2.) Nothing will “fix” me.

There is no escape from reality. There is no silver bullet and there is no “fix.” No ashram, no teacher, no guru, no wilderness and no words. No change in my life circumstances.

My problem is not my life. My problem is that I’m battling my life, refusing to accept it as it is. Some things have happened recently that have deeply hurt and tweaked my family. I cannot change the past. My husband is working out of town and I’m struggling with the weight of these kids, work, and my powerlessness to change any of it right now.

But I refused to accept these things.

Instead, I was kicking and screaming and thrashing against it. Fighting it. But I can’t win this fight. Life is. Reality is. I can work with it or die from insanity trying to beat it. I was on the path to the latter.

It isn’t about loving it. It isn’t about even liking it. Accepting reality is about freedom, a little serenity, and effectiveness.

One of my greatest teachers told me: “If you’re in the living room and you want to be in the kitchen, first you have to realize you’re in the fucking living room. Otherwise you’ll never know to get up and walk into the kitchen.”

You see, simple? I have to accept the truth of my life as it is RIGHT NOW before I’ll understand how to effectively move in new directions. I was stuck and dying and wasting time knee-deep in futility. It looked like resentment, anger, self-pity and fear.

So thank you, out-of-touch swami and swami wannabees with your flowing linen pants and serene smiles, for being just like me: Broken, kinda pathetic, judging too harshly, working like hell to get someplace new, oblivious to the fact that we’re already there, and everything we need is right here already.

(But please, stop being a dick. Nobody likes enlightened dicks.)

I’m headed back to the ashram of my insane family.

Tomorrow my husband leaves again.

I’ll miss him like crazy, and in a week be back to mind-numbing exhaustion, but I think I’ll start meditating again, and it appears I can sorta do yoga, and that’s some healthy shit. Healthy shit is good.

And goddamn that weeping willow taught me a few thousand things. And the king-sized bed with the clean white sheets, thank you. You just told me everything I needed to know.

Nice to be back where I can listen again. Nice to have a few minutes to write to you. Nice to be alive.

Om Shanti, motherfuckers.

Swami one, two, three and four.

I recently encountered a mother who won’t let her teenager read mythology because it violates “God’s word.” A friend of mine, a preschool teacher, told me about a family that forbade their child from participating in yoga, because it wasn’t Christian. We all know families that allow only the music, books, media, etc. that reinforce their religion, creating a little silo of existence, separate from the evil outside world threatening to contaminate their child.

This is a bad plan. This is a very bad plan. You know why? Because it’s illogical.

Why does God hate logic? Does God hate logic? I don’t see why he or she should hate logic. Logic is some totally solid stuff. Logic is da bomb.

I can’t believe I just said that. I really am a nerd.

Anyway, let’s get one thing clear: I am not a God-hater. I am not a religion hater. I am not even an atheist. I used to be an atheist. I used to be one of those people waltzing around announcing with an almost palpable arrogance: “I am an atheist. I am a ‘free-thinker.’” But then I heard a loud “pop” as my head was removed from my ass and I realized I had simply chosen a new God. Namely, Science and Humanity. I had determined that the only valid “way of knowing” is found in that which we can “see” or “prove.” And I thought this made me a “free-thinker.”

Bullshit.

A real free-thinker recognizes that “seeing” and “proving” are slippery at best, and there are many, many forms of ontological knowledge (ways of knowing). A real free-thinker recognizes that the human brain is finite and conditioned and rather pathetic when held against the mystery of our existence. The vastness of eternity, the cosmos, the universe – whether we like to admit it or not- is impossible to grasp by our feeble brains, so the brain-created assertion that “THERE IS NO GOD” is as “simple-minded” and “small” as the assertion that there’s a white dude up in the sky running this show. It is merely a NEW form of comforting oneself. Some are comforted by “There is a God.” Others are comforted by “There is no God. Science is God.” What’s the freaking difference?

Why can’t we just keep our minds open and accepting to god and no-god and creator and non-creator, based on the truth or our existences, as they evolve and unfold in whatever messy directions they may take?

Clearly I have some strong opinions on this topic, but it’s another piece of writing. Let’s stick with the whole sheltering-your-kids discussion.

This plan, though it sounds sort of good in theory (kids won’t be exposed to “impure” things that will lead them to trouble), fails in execution. It may not fail with every kid, but I promise you it will fail with many, if not most.

First of all, it isn’t sustainable. Haven’t you ever thought about that? Unless you plan on homeschooling your kid for the rest of her life, or locking her in a basement, which I think is like totally illegal, your child will at some point, LEAVE YOUR FOLD. She will walk off, into the world, where sex and drugs and liberals live (sorry, I couldn’t resist.).

Also gay people.

Your child will live in the world. Period.

So how is it logical to prepare your child for a life IN THE WORLD by sheltering her FROM THE WORLD? See? Illogical.

Further, do you really have so little faith in your kid’s judgment? Think about what you’re saying: “Hey kid, since you’re clearly incapable of choosing for yourself that which is moral/immoral, good/bad, spiritually uplifting or draining, I have decided to POLICE EVERY ASPECT OF YOUR LIFE on your behalf even though some day you will have to make these decisions on your own.”

To prepare you for those decisions, I’m going to never let you make those decisions.

No really dude I don’t get this. This makes no sense.

And check this out: Do you or do you not want to empower your child to carry with him the connection with God you’ve fostered? Do you or do you not want your child to develop a real, sustaining belief?

If you want that, why would you take it upon yourself to create, nurture and sustain that relationship? Are you God? Because it sounds to me like you’re trying to be God.

And if you are policing every area of your kids’ lives, making sure it all complements your religion, then you are effectively erasing any REAL experience your child may have that would in fact foster a faith in whatever it is you’re trying to instill.

In other words, God either is or isn’t. Your God is small or your God is big. PICK ONE.

If your God cannot sustain the evil of the world, if your God cannot stand face to face with the crap of humanity, well what’s the point of having a God in the first place?

If the only way you can have a relationship with your God is to never encounter that which goes against him, well then, wow. Creator of the universe? Huh. No. Sounds pretty weak sauce to me.

Plus, if your child chooses another path, if your child is exposed to yoga and Greek mythology and suddenly “goes astray,” isn’t that better than a FAKE EXISTENCE BASED ON YOUR TEMPORARY POLICING?

How little interest do you have, really, in the individuality of your child? I don’t let my kids do and watch whatever they feel like. In fact, we don’t even have a television. I won’t let my daughter read the Hunger Games, but not because it’s “immoral,” but rather because I don’t think she’s mature enough to handle the immorality. Murder. Too much for this kid at 11-years-old. My kids also don’t watch horror movies. I’m not talking about making reasonable decisions based on a child’s maturity. I’m talking about BLOCKING age-appropriate material because it doesn’t align with your religious beliefs. I’m talking about forbidding certain things because it doesn’t reinforce your own religious stance, even if the child has an interest in such things.

Isn’t it better to just tell kids the truth?

Hey kid, yeah, watch this TV show, but notice the way the women are objectified, acting like fools to gain the attention of men.

Hey kids, go ahead and drink, but know your mama’s an alcoholic and you’re playing with fire.

Hey daughter, yep. Fine. Have sex before marriage, but let’s talk about unwanted pregnancies and all that entails.

Sure, get hooked up with kids who are stealing and doing drugs, but know that the depth of pain in your heart as you try to look at yourself in the mirror each morning will be immeasurable. Also you might go to prison.

Wow, listen to that song, kids, the way it makes life seem like nothing more than the endless pursuit of material goods.

Hold what gives you peace. Hold what gives you meaning.

But by God let your kids find the same.

Let them find the power they need.

Let them find the faith that withstands all attempts to shake it. Whatever that looks like. Truth becomes truth when it is LIVED, not when it is TOLD.

This is where the freedom lies. And really, in the end, isn’t that all we want for our kids?

Joy, and the freedom to live it.

Or at least the chance to find it.

I agree with this dude who said parents need to calm the fuck down.

I would like to add that people need to grow the fuck up. From this point forward, we shall use the acronym GTFU. Sometimes, that’s the simple answer. Calm the fuck down, GTFU.

Personally, I’m pretty tired of people walking around as if they’re grown up, only to commit some fatal juvenile act outta the damn blue, signaling a formerly unknown, totally unmanageable well of immaturity. It’s actually rather disturbing. You’re hanging out with somebody all chill and shit thinking “Yeah, look at us, two adults.” And then boom! It happens and you’re all “Oh, wow. I was wrong. You’re my tween.” Possibly my toddler.

I mean come ON, I’m immature. But even I have figured out a few things during my years, and my bar is low I assure you. Some things just aren’t right, and whether we want to or not, at some point, in some areas, we simply must GTFU.

So in the interest of helpfulness (not really, I actually have no interest in being helpful at all), I have compiled a list of behaviors that really signal a need to GTFU.

This list is not comprehensive.

15 SIGNS YOU NEED TO GTFU

1. Finding yourself disturbed for more than 12 seconds by something you read on The Twitter. Check this out: There’s real life and there’s social media.Twitter falls into the category of “social media.” Social media is known to be the gathering ground of all idiots of the world, because not only are they idiots, they are INVISIBLE IDIOTS, which empowers the shit outta them. So, since it surpasses standard dumb exponentially via the blessing of anonymity, social media weirdness needn’t compel serious introspection or offense, but rather one thought and one thought only: What the hell is wrong with these people? And then you get back into real life.

2. Getting unfriended on Facebook results in days of thought and emotional turmoil. If you’re pissing people off, you’re doing it right. Well, usually. Unless you’re Rush Limbaugh or a proponent of this website, which promotes the equal treatment of white people (because that’s obviously always been a problem). There’s no way anybody on that website is doing it right.

3. Involving yourself in every corner of your kids’ lives, telling yourself it’s “for their good.” Look, the rest of the world knows you need to GTFU, because really, it’s all about you. You have not realized your childhood is over. Ship fully sailed. Please stop controlling your kids to bolster the value and meaning of your own existence. We are now in grown-up mode, where we reflect on past mistakes with a mix of nostalgia and horror as opposed to attempt to FIX them through innocent children. Get with the program!

4. You are offended/disturbed/made to feel funny by women breastfeeding in public without a cover. Masturbate, watch porn, move to Denmark. DO WHAT IT TAKES TO FIX YOURSELF.

5. You are in your 30s and think it’s acceptable to smoke weed and play video games all day while your partner goes to work.

6. You are the partner of number 5 and defend him(her?) to your parents by saying things like “But we’re in love.”

7. U write all correspondence like ur texting.

8. You play Candy Crush. Dude I’m totally joking. Just got addicted to that shit last week. However, if you play Candy Crush and send repeated requests for it, you may need to GTFU, realizing that most people with brains do not play stupid candy games on their iPhones. And if they do, they deny the shit out of it. So deny your shit like the rest of us! (for real though, lately, my house is so messy I choose to sit on the couch and wait for more Candy Crush lives as a new form of denial.)

9. When you’re angry at a friend, you prefer The Passive-Aggressive Unfollow rather than an actual conversation. Look. Good old face-to-face conversations tend to be more effective than a silent click and seething disdain. While I can get behind the “unfriend” as joyfully as the next guy, if you are going to remain a fixture in my life for reasons beyond my control, can we just talk about our issues directly rather than dance around “follow” lists?

10. Wearing sweatpants with words on the rear.

No wait. Actually I’m not done with the Passive-Aggressive Unfollow thing. You see here’s what makes your move childish and infuriating: YOU KNOW THE UNFOLLOW WILL IGNITE A CONVERSATION so it isn’t that you don’t want to talk, it’s that you want to poke me and prod me until I say “Okay, FINE, what is it. Why are you mad? How can I make this better?”

Newsflash: That’s what kids do. GTFU.

11. Yelling at check-out people instead of managers. Everybody knows it’s not their fault. We’re all watching you yell at the pimply faced 18-year-old Target check-out-guy nursing a hangover and general malaise are thinking one thing: “What sort of asshat thinks it’s this kid’s fault the headphones were marked on clearance and now they’re not?” GTFU.

12. You have a beard like this guy.

I’m kidding. If you have a beard like this guy, you have reached the pinnacle of manhood. You have no further to go. Stop now while you’re ahead. YOU WILL NEVER GET MORE GROWN UP.

13. Judging people’s maturity by their facial hair. OH FUCK YOU. It’s a reliable maturity indicator.

14. Making duck face in photographs, seriously. 

15. Dismissing entire pieces of writing on account of one typo. Grown-ups have been the asshole, probably on more than one occasion, who suddenly for absolutely no apparent reason emails “there” coworkers and gets a reply from them, reads it, notices the typo in shock and horror, requesting immediately that those same coworkers hold her head in a full toilet bowl until she stops squirming.

Life is no longer worth living.

Okay if you think grammatical errors or looking like a douchebag signals the end of the world, you should probably GTFU, because actual grown-ups have realized we’re all douchebags who do the wrong thing, piss people off, and people piss us off.

And rather than pout and freak out and unfollow each other, we can just talk about it, like big people.

Or we can write about it on our blogs, sure the offenders won’t see anyway, CAUSE THEY’VE ALL UNFOLLOWED YOU.

OMG

I need to GTFU.

Leave me alone. I’m need to go play Candy Crush in my sweatpants with words on them while I unfollow people who were mean to me on Twitter.

And then I’m going to try to follow my own advice, which would be way easier if I didn’t hate advice like a fucking 16-year old.

No but really. The passive-aggressive unfollow thing is super uncool. I stand by that one with every shred of my immature heart.

So I’m sitting here at 10:30pm on the Sunday of one of the longest, strangest weeks of my life. On Monday we came home to find the door to our garage kicked in and all my jewelry stolen, along with the laptop that housed a lot of writing (some unpublished) and a year’s worth of family photos.

I remember the feeling of looking at that open, emptied jewelry box, where my necklaces and rings and earrings used to be. I threw my hand to my mouth and sucked in air as if somebody had punched me in the gut.

They took almost every piece of jewelry I’ve ever received from Mac: thirteen years’ worth of anniversaries, birthdays, Christmases and Valentine’s.

Once, when we had only been together about 3 months (he was 19 and I was 21), we were driving along this country road on the way into town, and I started bitching and moaning about how he never bought me flowers. Yes, I know. Impressive. I kept on and on and he was silent, probably wondering how he got hooked up with such a nutjob. He let me really get pissed, elaborating for him all the ways he sucked as a boyfriend (well at this point we had been living with each other for 2 months and 29 days so I felt like we were an old married couple), until all the sudden he pulled the car over in the middle of the country. He was angry. He said “Really? I don’t buy you flowers? I never buy you flowers?!”

He got out of the car, went to the trunk and came back with a flat rectangular box, wrapped in flowered paper.

Inside was a beautiful pearl and white gold chain necklace.

We both cried when we recalled that story.

The bastards don’t know that story, but they have the necklace he handed me that day, when I felt my heart explode and realized I should never, ever accuse this man of lack of romance and generosity, lest I have my ass handed to me again.

And you know I’ll tell you the feeling of violation, to know these rat bastard fuckers stepped on my boy’s bed and pillow on our floor where he sleeps. To know they walked beside our kids’ rooms. And to realize after a bit of time passed that clearly the person knew our house…that it was not done by a stranger, and we have ideas but no way to prove it…and the fuckers wore gloves and we used to have an alarm system but never used it (so it was disconnected)…and I used to keep my jewelry in places other than the box but I didn’t that time…and I knew we lived in a shit neighborhood and should leave…God the regret and rage and hatred and terrifying sense of violation. We’re already broke. I’m already feeling lost and tired with little clue where to go with my life.

And then this? Damn I got wrapped around the axle, folks.

I got so desperate I texted a friend of mine who has an uncanny ability to tell me the most painful truth imaginable. His words pierce, because they’re true, and they hurt like you wouldn’t believe, but they never fail to help me see things in a new light, and be set free.

He said “Yeah, that’s happened to me a couple times. I figured they needed the stuff more than I did.”

Fuck you and your compassion, dude.

And then the killer: “Things happen as they happen, Janelle, the pain is from us fighting what is.”

And I knew then the way to freedom: Get in the moment. Fully accept what’s happening. Let go of the story, the story I’ve attached. Events have no inherent meaning. They are just EVENTS. They are just life happening. I place the value on them. I decide if they’re “good” or “bad.”

The next day I read this post by the glorious Meg Worden and I almost puked it was so right on.

What’s the truth? They took stuff. They TOOK STUFF. In other words, nothing. They took nothing. That stuff has no meaning. I give it meaning. Someday I’m going to be dust in the earth. What the hell does jewelry matter?

The man who handed me that necklace is by my side. The family we built together is by my side. We’re all here, alive, to whine about shit that doesn’t matter.

The last time I checked, the brain that created that writing is still attached to my neck.

And then I told you people about it and an outpouring of love came my way. People offered me money and to send me laptops. My friends called and rallied and invented Mission Impossible style investigation crews.

And we realized we’ve been sitting on our asses not making changes we’ve needed to make for a LONG TIME. We hate this house. We hate this neighborhood. We need to get the hell out. This was the kick in the ass we needed.

I got to watch myself get ALL BENT OUTTA SHAPE about stuff, expensive stuff, and I saw the insanity of my attachment to those items. Who cares? No really. WHO CARES?

This is life. I am a living breathing being with a gorgeous healthy life. Take it all, motherfuckers! Take every last shred of what you want. You must need it more than I do.

We woke up Saturday morning and realized they had broken into my husband’s work truck. They stole his tools and a generator that was chained to the bed of the truck. Bolt cutters.

So we were burglarized twice in 7 days.

Take it all.

Take every last bit.

(Of course now you’ll have to get around a sick-ass alarm system my brother bought me, and sent my way, because I’ve got people that love me in a way that takes my breath away. And you’ll have to FIND something of value since literally I have $100 worth of jewelry left other than the rings on my fingers, and we have no television or electronics. We have no material items of value in this house. It’s actually rather freeing.)

But here’s the craziest shit you’ve ever heard: A few months (um, two?) after we met, Mac proposed to me with a very simple white gold band with 5 or 6 small diamonds spaced around the circle. I thought it was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen. On our one-year anniversary, Mac sat across from me at a restaurant and presented me with a big ass diamond ring (well, big to me). He had saved his money all year long to buy me that ring. When he gave it to me he said “I know you always say you don’t care about big rings, but I thought you might like a shiny diamond on your hand.”

I almost fell over.

For a long time I wore them together, but at some point I removed the small band and I never found it again. I haven’t seen that ring in at least 7 years. So often I’ve thought about that simple band and felt sadness that it was gone. I mean talk about sentimental. That’s as meaningful as jewelry gets. But I dismissed it as another casualty of my drinking. One more thing I lost. Or gave away, depending on how you look at it.

Well, last Monday as I walked up to the empty jewelry box, my heart pounding in fear and sadness, I saw something shiny in the space where the stolen drawer had been. Grabbing it, I knew immediately what it was. I gazed in awe at the simple diamond band my husband gave me thirteen years ago, the companion to the ring still on my finger. It must have been jammed in the jewelry box somewhere, and when the burglars yanked the drawer out it was dislodged, and it laid there untouched, waiting for me.

So they gave me back the most precious piece of jewelry I owned, and they lit a fire under my ass, and they showed me how much love I’ve got pouring my way from friends and family and people I’ve never met, and they reminded me of the insanity of attachment to things, of the idea that stuff matters at all.

I’ve got a life to live.

I’ve got everything I need.

And those bitch douchebag degenerate fuckers reminded me of that.

Maybe I should be thanking them. Or maybe, I should do as Meg says, and just stay neutral. Let life happen as it does.

No, I hope they burn in hell. Not really. But sort of.

Whatever. On Saturday, after we found out they stole from us again, we called Mac’s work and the police, and hit the fucking road. We were headed to Santa Cruz to celebrate Rocket’s 8^th birthday, which is tomorrow.

I ain’t got time for that shit. You want it? You can have it. I’m neutral enough to realize that.

I’ll be busy living a real life.

You know one of the best parts about being a failure in a former life is a profound awareness of how infinitely good this life is, now, with all the shit that may come. Because I went to the beach to celebrate the boy who was out of my life for two years. AND NOW HE’S BACK and SO AM I.

Alcoholism stole from me more than some weak-ass burglar ever could.

And that will never be lost on me.

And it will never be stolen.

So bring it, bitches.

I’ve got nothin’ but love for ya.

Happy birthday, little buddy.

On an eerily related note (sometimes timing is uncanny), I’ll be talking about my story of alcoholism on Tuesday night at 6pm PST in a live-streaming event (Google+ hangout) sponsored by LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER and The Partnership at Drugfree.org. This blog tour is a part of The Partnership’s work to  #EndMedicineAbuse, Please join me on Google+ (you can RSVP here if you want) or view live on this YouTube channel. Hear new/original work by me and 11 other bloggers on the topic of personal connections to addiction, substance use, and/or what we want children to know about the medicine abuse epidemic. I really hope you check it out, and maybe invite your teenagers to listen. I’m speaking directly to them.

1. We got new neighbors. I’m going to tell you about it by quoting myself on Facebook: “I wish I could find the words to adequately express my delight upon learning that an enormous crowd of loud not-quite-teens-anymore moved next door to us. Right now I am listening to squealing females, cheesy white-people-drunk music, and occasional announcements such as “that’s my song!” or “pass the lighter.” If I had a shotgun y’all might not see me for awhile.”
2. Fyi, quoting yourself feels oddly narcissistic.
3. Anyway I ended up calling the cops on them, which was weird for me, since I distinctly remember being the kid who got the cops called on them, and hating it. I wonder if I would have kept doing it back then if I knew how much we were annoying the neighbors. Yes. Yes I would have.
4. It has been eerily beautiful here – sunny and like 65 degrees. Amazing. I want to be concerned about the lack of rain but I’m too busy enjoying the sunshine. Kinduva vicious cycle.
5. My husband works so much (usually 6, sometimes 7 days a week) that sometimes I wonder if we shouldn’t just downgrade our life to ridiculously minimal levels so we actually, oh I don’t know, LIVE. This grind just kills me sometimes. This somewhat-poor-person grind. This working and struggling. And then I hear things like Beyonce renting out an entire floor of a hospital for like a million dollars and redecorating it and I want to vomit at the self-importance of some people – the excess. I don’t know why, but something about that just makes me ill. I hear that her security wasn’t letting parents visit their babies in the NICU. Of course I read that in the news so it probably isn’t true. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if it were.
6. I wish Pinterest would give me back my life.
7. And to the scoffers…check it out: I didn’t think I’d get roped in – actually had high hopes of the opposite. But then I started doing it and realized it’s strangely fun. GREAT. Another online distraction from reality. Whee.
8. Georgia got sick again last week, so if you’re catching a bit of negativity in my tone, it’s from exhaustion and a little frustration. I’m so tired. I’m tired of snot, mostly. It’s just always there in great quantities and though I’ll save you the details, it somehow gets ALL OVER HER which means it’s ALL OVER ME. I don’t love it.
9. February is often a weird month for me. If there’s a “dark” month for me, it’s this one. I tend to feel a little down and sort of disillusioned and lost. And then it always passes in March. Always. Unless it comes back, which it occasionally does in intervals associated with PMS – which kind of makes it not count, right?
10. So, in super boring news, the widget on the left “Google Friend Connect” is going away March 1. Not by my choice. Google is eliminating it for people who don’t use their blogging program. Pricks. So if you follow via GFC, please choose another follow method (or leave me, but at least say “Goodbye, it’s not you. It’ me” before you go).

Valentine’s Day is coming up. We’re gonna have some fun with that.

Have a great week, you guys.