The family you choose

Aunt Barbara and Mr. Buffie
September 2002

Is this unique to my family or do you have relatives who don't share your DNA but they're in your heart in the same place as someone who does?

My mum and dad used to tell me that we had two kinds of family members, the ones we're born with and the ones we choose.  And it wasn't uncommon in my family to like the chosen ones more than a couple of the blood relatives.  (They know who they are...)

I have the extremely good fortune to have five aunts - the best in the world, actually.  Three of them are my mum's sisters and two of them are my mum's BFFs.

The horrible reality of life is that it ends.  I lost my Aunt Merilyn in August of 2001.  Last night my Aunt Barbara passed away.

My Aunt Barbara had been struggling with 'a touch of the emphysema' for a while.  She recently got sick with the flu and it was too much for her body to take.  Mum said I should be comforted that she isn't suffering anymore.  I'm not comforted though.  I'm eaten up with self pity because my heart is shattered.  Broken beyond repair.

I don't mean to sound insane but people like Aunt Barbara are supposed to live forever.

Aunt Barbara was the kind of person that if you were going to visit, she was going to feed you.  A lot.  Aunt Barbara gave me my first grown up cookbook.  Between her and my mother, I should have hella mad domestic skillz but I inexplicably have none.

She was determined to teach me to make basic sugar cookies once.  I remember thinking it was the most labor-intensive thing I had ever done.  I was covered in flour and had practically destroyed her tiny kitchen but she didn't give up.  She even tried teaching me how to make icing.  We ended up with probably 10 edible cookies, a couple of which you could almost tell were supposed to be Christmas trees, but that was more a credit to the green frosting than anything I did.

And my Aunt Barbara loved me anyway.  I think she loved me almost as much as my mum does.  I know she did.

Every stupid school play, she was there, even if I only had one line.  If I was sick, she was calling every day to talk to mum and check on me.

When my mum was staying in Wichita to take care of her sister after she had a stroke, Aunt Barbara was constantly stopping by to make sure dad and I were fed, clothed and loved.  I was in my late teens, capable of taking care of myself and dad for a few weeks.  But Aunt Barbara couldn't be convinced without putting her eyes on us and checking the cabinets to make sure there was food in the house.

One of her sons did inherit her culinary magic and it was at his restaurant that Mr. Buffie proposed to me.  Aunt Barbara knew I was getting engaged weeks before I did and I'm sure it took every ounce of willpower she had not to tell me what was going to happen.

She didn't have much and didn't want for anything either.  She believed in God and Heaven and she lived her life to make the world a better place.  She accomplished that.  In a million ways.

In her eyes, everyone deserved love and she gave it more freely than anyone else I know.  She didn't care about your politics, whether you smoked, drank or swore.  It didn't matter to her if you went to church or not.  She wasn't impressed by executive titles or fat bank accounts.  If you were a good egg, she could tell and she would treat you with the same kindness, patience and love she gave her own children.

I don't believe in God or Heaven but at times like this, I admit I feel conflicted.  I'm as passionate about my atheism as my spiritual friends are about their faiths.  And feel truly lucky to have friends who are live-and-let-live kinds of people.

There's no way Aunt Barbara can just be gone.  I can't fathom it.  To think there's nothing left?  No.  That's unacceptable.  She would have agreed.  If she believed she would go to Heaven, then she did.  And it's fine if I want to think about her that way.  And if it's not fine, I don't care.  I'm still going to think about her that way.

Yes, she'll live on in my memory, in my heart.  And I'll have to figure out the other ways she'll live on but I will figure it out.  I know she's gone and I can still feel how much she loved me.

Right now I'm wallowing in sadness.  She'd be disappointed in me if I kept this up for too long but it's going to be one of those nights where I finally get calmed down then in the quiet, my mind goes to painful places and I'm sobbing again.

Death is the end of life but is it final?  Don't ask me.  I have no idea.  Aunt Barbara would say it's the beginning of a new life in a better place.  I hope that's true because she deserves it.

Old ghosts in a boat

http://sooperdave.deviantart.com/art/fuck-you-kitty-198707722

Back when Mr. Buffie and I first moved to KC (he technically moved /back/ to KC) we went to work for a long-established production company whose owner died without a will and the company was purchased out of probate by an investor who turned out to be a garden variety con man.  To give a very short version, after 6 weeks of bounced paychecks, I had enough gas one morning to get to work but not enough to get home.

That day, I drove to the office, sat in my car in the parking lot and cried for a while.  I had only been here for a year and suddenly we were, for all intents and purposes, unemployed and financially ruined.  I felt alone.  My family and friends seemed further away than they ever had before.  Life fell apart and we have never fully recovered from it.

Instead of working yet one more day for free, I went to the corporate office (I had enough gas to get from Downtown KC to the Plaza) where the “CEO” was.  The temp/receptionist wouldn’t let me past the lobby and the “CEO” wasn’t about to come out there and talk to me, knowing he owed me money.  So I told her I would be squatting until someone gave me enough money to leave.  And squat I did.

My mobile phone bill was paid up for at least another month (unfortunately for the “CEO”) so I called a local reporter and advised I had a decent business news lead.  The reporter told me to stay put and someone would meet me there to talk about a possible story.

While I was squatting, I made small talk with the receptionist, that’s how I found out she was a temp from an agency.  I told her that was good because if she’s on the “CEO’s” payroll, she’s giving away her time.  She understood my situation but she had to follow orders so he wouldn’t tell the agency bad things about her.  Fair enough.

Hours passed and there wasn't jack shit to do but look out the window, sneak as far down the hall as I could when the receptionist wasn't looking and noticing what a fucking mess had been made of what used to be a nice office.  The majority of it was a construction site where everyone went home one night and never came back.  There were parts of cubes, desks, a random dust-covered chair under light fixtures that were about 50% installed and dangling from the ceiling with wires sticking out.

Mr. Buffie was back at the studio finishing up a refresh on his resume and demo reel and told me he would meet me there as soon as he was done.

Finally, the “CEO” had enough of me in his unpaid-for lobby.  At times, I admit, there was a touch of acting out, knocking on the wall, letting him know I was still there and still had bounced paychecks with his signature on them and how I parked next to his Mercedes SUV and could he give me a ride because I had no way to get home other than my own two feet.  I might have made a comment about putting a bit in his mouth and riding him horseback down I-70, but I don’t recall…

His ‘assistant’ R.J. shows up.  And I know this can’t be good.  Several other people tangled with R.J. before and something about R.J.’s 6’4” frame and 350 lbs of muscle made them back down in a hurry.  But I wasn’t that girl.  I was broke, desperate, a little stupid maybe.  I was nose to chest with a wall of big, angry felon (assault conviction, did time in Leavenworth) who was about to literally pick me up and throw my ass out into the middle of 47^th Street.

I can’t adequately describe how perfect the timing was but just as R.J. and I began to physically altercate, Mr. Buffie came through the door and between the two of us, R.J. was removed from my three feet of personal space.

The story made the news and the "CEO" was exposed.  The company was officially dark the next day, partly because the sheriff came in and seized our equipment.  Too many creditors had filed court documents demanding it because, well, con men aren’t exactly known for paying their bills.

With help from the Jackson County prosecutor’s bad checks division, I recovered all but about $1,000 of what was owed to me and it took them almost a year to get as much as they did but I’m so thankful for them.  Other employees didn’t fare so well.  Not my fault they don't know how to deal with a bad check.  Or so you'd think.  But you'd be wrong.

In fact, I find out last week, nearly 10 years later, that several of those employees BLAME ME for the company closing.

Just like me, these people also had SIX WEEKS worth of bounced paychecks yet the company closing was my fault because I went to the “CEO’s” office and when he wouldn't pay me enough to even drive home, I called the local media.  That’s what closed a 25-year-old business… an office assistant/stylist demanding a month and a half of salary owed to her.  I sank the ship.

In the extremely rare event that any of you come across this blog and you recognize yourself, eat a sack full of dicks.

You had plenty of time to prepare or are you so delusional that you thought if you just kept showing up, the creditors would go away and money would magically appear in your bank account?  Don’t be mad that I decided to take action.  Or are you jealous that you weren’t brave enough to do it yourself?  You’re the kind of chickenshit who peels off a band aid, one painful hair at a time.  Fuck that shit.  Rip it off and get it over with.

Anyway, former shipmates, you can blame me for the big hole in the boat if it makes you feel better.  It doesn’t affect me one way or the other.  But you should know, it’s been almost a decade now.  Isn’t it time you started getting over it?

(And one more little note, be careful who you shoot your mouth off to.  You may hate me, but not everyone does and word travels fast.)

Butthurt

For the sake of discussion, let's say a federal law passed making one person in charge and that person tells us all what to do right down to the gnat's ass.  Let's call this person Supreme Leader Butthurt.

Tell me how this is good for any human in any way?  Other than you could chain us to a line in a factory and force us to produce widgets for 12 hours a day without payment.  But I'm not talking about that extreme.  I'm talking about how we believe, how we spend the money we work for, what sort of work we do, or even how we cook meals at home.

I ask this because it was implied today that those who do not bring their lunch to work every day are somehow not living a responsible/healthy/worthy life.

In fact, there was nearly a lecture about saving money and eating healthier (Supreme Leader Butthurt clearly never ate my cooking) because those who bring their lunch every day are more better at living good than those of us who don’t.

I bring my lunch when I can.  A little less in the summer because it's nice to get out of the office; good for my mental health.  (Supreme Leader Butthurt probably doesn’t ‘believe’ in mental health or the lack of it.  This is likely the kind of person who blames an individual for not thinking happy enough if they’ve got chronic depression.  Because, y’know, science and neurons and shit = not to be trusted.  Creationism, now THAT is science.)

But Supreme Leader Butthurt wants to tell us how to live.  Why?  I don’t know.  I assume I am not the only person who has encountered somebody who wants to be a supreme leader.

Again, for the sake of discussion, let's peek into a pretend life under Supreme Leader Butthurt where I go to church, I spend an hour a day exercising (SLB recommends high-impact cardio), and I keep my house, office and car spotless and organized perfectly and I have a daily routine that includes specific manners of grooming and all that other stuff, all outlined by this supreme leader.  And because Supreme Leader Butthurt says life must be lived 'family-friendly' that means I am no longer allowed to use ‘dirty language’ or look at naked bits (let alone enjoy it oh fuck no, oops, bad word, go to jail) or drink or pop pills and I must watch the local and national news every evening after dinner and then do responsible things before going to bed promptly at 10:30 pm.

Let’s say I do all that.

Now I’m a carbon copy of of the supreme leader, except still sort of inferior because I don’t have a penis.

Also, in Supreme Leader Butthurt's world, femaleness, fatness, gayness, non-Christian-ness and non-whiteness exist but it is STRONGLY FROWNED UPON and failure to assimilate = go to jail.  Women are subservient.  We’re allowed to drive, work and get an education but we live to serve our husbands and we hold no authoritative positions in the office or the home.

Gay people are required to pretend straightness.  Pretend everything, unless you naturally happen to be a white, athletic, genius white male straighter than straight perfect reliable tireless Christian.

So I'm doing all the right pretend things.  I’m living my pretend life Supreme Leader Butthurt style to the max.  Is anyone happier besides the supreme leader?  Is he truly happier?  I’m not.  Mr. Buffie won’t be.  No one else I know will have any more or less fucks to give than they already do about how I brush my teeth or whether or not I've packed a lunch.

Am I missing a point?  What’s so fucking fantastic about making everyone live to this one particular way of life?  Or is are control freaks just pompous, pious fucktards?

None of us are perfect and I’m definitely not family-friendly fun but I’m not a suicide bomber either.  I’m not an extremist, I’m not violent or dishonest, I don’t steal.  People are not afraid I will eat their children.  Most people, anyway.

The worst things Supreme Leader Butthurt can say about me are the same allegedly "bad" things anyone else can say.  I’m fat; I swear perhaps a little too much; sell semi-naked pictures of myself for money; I’m an anti-prohibitionist and I’m atheist.  Why do these things matter to anyone at all except for me?

I. Just. Don’t. Get. It.

Miss Jackson if you're nasty

If one of you wants to control my uterus, you can.  I don't mind.

I'll even pay the doctor to take it out because, by some miracle of the infant baby Jesus, I'm a piece of shit semi-liberal with a JOB.  Amazing, right?  I have my own private benefits, too.  But they don't cover uterus eviction.

You're going to have to provide your own container for it though.  I have no idea what will match your decor or if there are special storage instructions.  Remember, I'm (technically, registered Independent) semi-liberal (socially liberal, fiscally mostly-conservative) so I'm too dumb to research anything on my own or take responsibility for anything, ever.

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