Acceptance is Key.

Y’all, it’s possible this post is going to be a teensy bit cranky. Just a teensy weensy.

So, before we begin, I will insert this:

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And voila. A smiling Corgi will cover a lot of ills, I tell you.

And now, *slaps hands together* let us carry on with the grump.

About six months ago, as bedtime, my husband informed me that he was going to take a life insurance policy out on me.

Don’t worry, this is not the grumpy part. But, before I actually dive into that, let me ask you something,

I ask you, dear reader, WHY does my husband decide to make these sorts of statements when we are both lying down, PRONE, past ten o’clock pm? Bedtime, for him, is a time to discuss filing our taxes, or the strange hiss/rattle that the back end of the car is making, or the strange hiss/rattle his backend is making, or what Trump said recently. All of these are things he likes to discuss when I am PRONE.

The nerve.

Ok, let’s break this down: Prone Momsie = Near Coma, Come Lord Jesus I’m TIRED, Momsie. Leave me da heck alone.

I do realize this makes the marriage bed sound sooooooo exciting. Perhaps I need to add here about how our marriage bed is also “Where the Magic Happens,”
but that’s another post for another day.

Plus, let’s just be realistic. Whenever anyone refers to their bedroom as “Where the magic happens,” I get even more snarky than I thought humanly possible.

BUT I DIGRESS.

The news about the life insurance did have me at, “Oh no he’s trying to kill me and get a million dollars” for about four minutes, then I remembered that with our standard of living he would probably make enough to cover the funeral expenses and maybe buy a new Earthway 2030Pplus Deluxe Lawn and Garden, 65 Lbs Fertilizer Drop Spreader, and that’s it.

Well thank YOU big insurance company for taking my husband’s Earthway 2030Pplus Deluxe Lawn and Garden, 65 Lbs Fertilizer Drop Spreader away.

All the man wants is a damn lawn that is well fertilized, and you are denying him that. Which, clearly, is un-American.

Yes, I shall explain.

It all started with the questionnaire.

I love questionnaires. As one who is in recovery, I LOVE  them. Know why? Cuz I always get to gleefully put a big fat X next to “NO! NO WAY! I do NOT!” next to the “Do you drink alcohol?” question.

This is so fun! I put a big huge X and I kinda linger there and smile to myself, and okay, I know, I take fun where I can get it, people.

Other things I get to say NO to on the questionnaire! So exciting!

  • Crack use
  • Smoking
  • Smoking and doing crack at the same time
  • Foul language
  • Endless youtube sessions about dogs were saved from the streets of Peru and now live a happy and serene existence without mange.

Ok, it’s possible the last two were not on THIS questionnaire. But this question was:

“Have you ever abused alcohol?”

Yep. Yes. Yepper. I did. I abused it. Big time. No light banter here, alcohol and I were in a very twisted relationship and there were breakups and bad choices yelling and lots of things. And so, I checked “YES” and felt good. Joyous. Free, perhaps. I was being honest in all  my affairs.

So that’s when the letters started arriving.

The letters were polite and full of questions. They asked things like:

  • When did you start abusing alcohol?
  • Where?
  • How?
  • Why?
  • Do you have photographic evidence?
  • Can you offer any sort of proof that you are, as of now, TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY OKAY?

Ok, I added that last one, but I get their point. I do. It’s just that I ANSWERED all of these letters, that came, weekly, to my mailbox, all asking the same things, and I got a bit tired of it. In fact, after a while, there were three thoughts that started to creep into my brain:

  1. This is what they do to murder suspects. They just keep asking them the same questions and they’re waiting. Just waiting FOR ME TO CRACK.
  2. Why do they keep repeating themselves? Are they on crack?
  3. Maybe…I could, maybe… just lie.

I did not lie. I kept filling out the forms, even when the last one came, asking for dates and times certifying my alcohol abuse and when it started (heck fire people. Like, I don’t know… DID YOU READ MY BOOK?).

And I would mutter things like, “Yes. YES. I am a FREAKING ALCOHOLIC. YES I WILL CHECK THE BOX AGAIN. Yep. That’s ME. You got me there, BIG INSURANCE COMPANY.”

And I would take a breath and say the serenity prayer and slap a stamp on the letter to the Big Insurance Company.

By the way, you will note I am above directly naming this Big Insurance Company. No. I have more class than that. I shall not divulge it.

But it rhymes with SCREWDENTIAL

Ahem.

Ok, so today, I got a letter that is “unable to approve you for coverage at this time.”

Guys. I am not an “unable to approve” kinda girl. Like, my first college choice was a go. (Sure, it was the state university but they said YES to me, ok?)  And I was first in my class to get a job. In general,  I have been YESSED for YEARS because I am a GOOD PERSON AND PEOPLE DO NOT SAY NO TO MOMSIE.

(True, I did not get married until 36 but that was because I said “NO” FIRST to a lot of other offers and also Jesus was protecting me, big time. Thank you, Jesus.)

It had me all flustered. Big Insurance does not like me. Me, who is inherently likeable on very many levels. I want to write Big Insurance Company a letter in which I explain how utterly wonderful I am. And, did you know? I wrote a book, nay TWO (second one out in August!) about this whole alcoholic thing and truly? Utterly? I will NEVER EVER DRINK AGAIN, OK? YOU CAN TRUST ME.

But then, I remembered something.

Um, I am alcoholic. And, I will not drink today, yes. I will not. But tomorrow? Well, tomorrow I will tackle then, but who knows?

I could end up in a drinking mess any moment, within a breath, with any sort of sad feeling or rejection or moment of celebration or any of it. Yes, I have some years of sobriety now, and I do have the Super Sobriety Girl cape and I wear it on the daily. But really?

I could drink again.

It’s a daily decision that people in recovery make. So thank you, Big Insurance Company, for the reminder. Really. No snark. No attitude. No fuss. I get it and I thank you for my daily dose of humility and reality. It hurt, but I get it.

I’ll shall go forth and buy the Earthway 2030Pplus Deluxe Lawn and Garden, 65 Lbs Fertilizer Drop Spreader myself, thank you very much

Now I’m off to figure out how to set up a Go Fund Me for the best freaking fertilizer drop spreader on the planet.

And also? To conclude, I googled “lawn fertilizer images” and am posting this, because it’s awesome:horses-lay-down-dont-call-911.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

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You had me at special snowflake.

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In today’s post I would like to channel my Inner Jim. That’s my dad.

And I would also like to talk about alcoholism.

So, YAY, this post is going to be INTENSE!

Why, you ask?

1. My dad is kinda intense. He likes to grip you by the elbow, in that way that makes the entire side of your body go kinda limp and numb, and he looks you in the eye and says things like, “How are you, REALLY?” and if you lie at all you feel like God might smite you, because God and Jim are *crosses fingers* like THIS.

2. Alcoholism. Nobody attempts that subject without a bit of intensity. I mean, we don’t just say things like, “Hmmmm, I think I might be coming down with a bit of alcoholism today. But, it’s just a tickle at the back of my throat. I’ll just get some rest and I’ll be fine!”

3. I’m in a really weird mood so there’s that.

I am also linking up with my favorite end of the week people: Five Minute Friday! and today’s theme??

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Ok, here’s what I know:

  1. My dad would tell me (as would all the other addicts in recovery) that I am not a special snowflake. I’m no different than anyone else. I have no special backstory that makes my sad issues any more special or sad.
  2. This kinda is a bummer because ever since I was knee-high to a very special grasshopper I KNEW I WAS SO VERY DIFFERENT FROM EVERYONE. This explains so much.
  3. And, I am. But also, I’m not. So you know, not confusing at all.
  4. This does not have to be figured out. Really, the only answer to all this is understanding who Jesus is and trucking with him.
  5. Different is good. It means I can wear socks that don’t match and I tend to always (nearly always) break into dance whenever I visit my kids’ school and they stop me at the door with the camera thing. Because the office administrators really need to see me doing the Running Man.
  6. Different, in terms of alcoholism? Not good. I am not different. My addiction and recovery trucks along fine with the men and women, young, old, black, white, green, pink, tall, short, big, small, cat lover, cat hater, educated, street smart, rich, poor, faith-filled, faith-poor, lost, found, tattooed, pierced, pristine, married, single, somewhere in between, person who walks in the doors with the coffee pot on the door.
  7. Everyone should be so lucky as to have an Inner Jim. Just FYI.

I am reminded of this every time I attend a meeting, and I remember the words of one of my favorite old-timers there, “Mo.” He would say, “I’m no better than anyone else. And I’m no worse.”

He was right. And here is the thing – doesn’t this also apply to our faith? Doesn’t it also sound a little bit like how Jesus wants us to live?

I mean, we are all in recovery from something. Or we should be. Right?

Right. galatians-3-28.jpg

 

Thanksgiving Throwback Because… As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly.

Hi friends!

Happy Thanksgiving Eve! It’s my favorite holiday. FAVORITE. Why?

Sooooo many reasons. But a lot of them are centered around time with family and great food and just… oh, you know. All that mushy stuff.

I post every year my Top Ten Thankfuls, and thought it might be fun to post last year’s… today. I can do that because it’s my blog.

So without further ado:

Screenshot 2017-11-22 13.14.05.pngMOMSIE’S TOP TEN THANKFULS

Here’s what you have been waiting for, all year!!!!! I know you have. Me too.

Gratitude is the best reset button EVER. I belong to a facebook group where we post, every day, five gratitudes, and did you know? Every time I do it, I feel better. Even on the no good, very bad, worstest days ever. Gratitude is a multi-vitamin for the soul, I tell you.

So, here goes. My annual Thanksgiving Day Top Ten Thankfuls:

(In no particular order, because I’m doing this right after I had some coffee and a Clariton and I am totally squirreled out right now):

  1. Squirrel One and Squirrel Two. Might as well keep it in the rodent family right now. img_57831
  2. Also, of course, head squirrel, the hubster:

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4. Lemon Bars. I know. Kinda random. But really? Everything has been all pumpkin spice all over the place and I’m so over it. Let’s start a new thing – Lemon Bar Season! It could happen.

5.  That The Force Awakens did not rely on bad CGI and there was no Jar Jar in it.

6. My mom’s oyster dressing. I know that I mentioned this before, but it bears repeating.

7. That Black Friday will be over soon.

8. This guy:IMG_5652He has hopes that one day he will be able to FIT in that box. But, as he keeps getting fatter, and the box stays the same, I admire his optimism.

9: This:

 

10: Also, God is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  And he is good.

Amen?

And all God’s people said: Amen.

 

Bonus #11:

Sober Momsie. I just am who I am supposed to be when I don’t have alcohol in me. I operate better.

I know, some would say, “Really?” But, if you knew me before you would not argue, believe me.

 

Happy Thanksgiving.

 

Acceptance is Key.

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Linking up with my buddies over at Five Minute Friday today.

The theme?

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I know this post is really late. I like to get the words out to the masses by 1 ish. Or maybe, if I’m really frazzled, 2. But, you know.

Acceptance.

I accept that today has been like I released a bunch of monkeys into my house and into my brain and both places are now totally destroyed. I also accept that all the while I just sort of walk from room to room (literally and figuratively, mind you) picking up monkey garments and such and saying, “Now, whose is this? Monkey #45? Is this yours? Would you like me to wash it for you?”

Or something like that.

I would also like to add that no feces was flung in this analogy. Not that kinda blog.

On Fridays, I usually do well until around four pm. Then, I collapse into a nap that also morphs into a coma and I wake up wondering who I am and if Reagan is still president. It’s ok. The hubs brings home pizza and we all watch American Ninja Master Olympics or some such.

But today… TODAY I DIDN’T GET THE NAP. And you know, I accept that.

I accept also that my weekend looks like a sports calendar walked up to it and barfed every type of outdoor activity it could all over it. I would rather stay at home and read, but you know, my spawn like to play sports.

I accept it.

I also accept that said spawn are currently bickering over who has the most hair on his legs.

Y’all. Acceptance is key.

In fact, I have it on good authority that acceptance is the key to ALL things. It is magical.

No, no that’s not right. Acceptance isn’t some sort of sparkly fairy dust you sprinkle over the monkeys that are hell bent on messing with you. Acceptance takes some work and a little bit of grit and also, a whole lot of prayer. Monkeys could care less about fairy dust, but they do listen to prayer.

And, yes I totally accept that. Because the payoff is a miracle. That’s where the magic happens. That I am a walking, talking, monkeys-in-my-house but I’m gonna be ok, straight up, no chaser, MIRACLE.

IT’S A LOT TO ACCEPT, THIS DAILY, ONE DAY AT A TIME, MIRACLE THING.

And it’s awesome.

“And acceptance is the answer to all my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing or situation — some fact of my life — unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing happens in God’s world by mistake. Until I could accept my alcoholism, I could not stay sober; unless I accept life completely on life’s terms, I cannot be happy. I need to concentrate not so much on what needs to be changed in the world as on what needs to be changed in me and in my attitudes.”

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Learn Your Place.

 

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I don’t remember when I learned this phrase. “Learn your place.” It isn’t the most pleasant. It doesn’t sound all that kind. It smushes down, instead of raises up.

It says, “Figure out where you fit and then sit there. And don’t raise a fuss.”

My dad is a fuss-maker. He never learned his place. He is a farmer’s kid, raised in Missouri, worked hard his whole life. Attended night school. Ended up in a job that was way beyond what he ever expected simply because… well I think he was replacing a guy that left and he was the only one around and so, boom, he’s doing a job he doesn’t really know how to do.

And he never once blinked an eye. I think that’s because he never learned his place.

Also, now he makes more money than some small countries. And he lives in the same house and still wears clothes that were made in the 1970’s. I am not kidding. Look for him mowing the lawn and there’s some shorts there that might have celebrated the bicentennial.

He doesn’t like a fuss about him. But he is a fuss-maker.

I wish I could be more like him in this regard. If there is an injustice or a problem or someone who needs some truth directed his way? My dad is the man for the occasion.

Yet, also, he is so soft hearted. But you would never know it under all the John Wayne.

I have been thinking how Dad never really gives in. This world says so many different things – “Adjust. Do enough to get by. Just give in. Don’t shake it up. Don’t ripple those waters. Give up on your idealogy – it’s useless. While you’re at it, give up in general – all is lost.”

And so on.

I think Dad hears this a lot and each and every time he says, “No.” Sometimes that is paired with other specific and very zingy words, but we’ll spare those here.

You see, he never learned his place. God said instead, “You’re with me, son. That’s your place.”

My dad has courage.

And so does my mom, for being married to him all these years. But, don’t even get me started there.

Wow, this post was going to be about something else, but look where it ended?

With my dad. Whom I love. He is my hero.

Linking up with Five Minute Friday today. And yes, the theme?

 

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Honesty. It’s such a lovely word.

Everyone is so untrue.

Honesty is hardly ever heard.

And mostly what I need from you.

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I think I’m just going to have to hand this to Billy Joel today. He said it better than I ever could.

But, not “everyone,” Mr. Joel. Not at all.

Linking up tonight with Five Minute Friday. And the theme? truth-600x600.jpg

Here is what I have learned about honesty in the Life of Dana (which is sooooo super interesting, I know):

Life of Not Sober Dana:

I’m totally honest because I would hate to ever make anyone mad at me, and people get mad when they are lied to. I know this because I have watched a lot of gritty cop dramas and those bad people on there LIE, I tell you. And everyone is always so MAD about it. And gritty.

Also? The ‘truth’ is a completely relative term because to make sure that people like me all the time I might lie to you at some point after completely manipulating and controlling every eensy, meensy, single tiny dusty corner of this situation.

Did you know? Controlling every single eensy meensy tiny dusty corner of the situations? It just makes you dusty. And mad.

So…

Life of Sober Dana:

*taps mic* Ahem? I’m all about Rigorous Honesty in All My Affairs.

*silence*

This sounds SO impossible but honestly? It’s not so bad. Did you know? If you are just honest in the beginning there is NO DUSTING. I SO LOVE THIS.

DUSTING IS FOR MAIDS AND BUNNIES, NOT ME.

Ok, I don’t even know what that means.

But, I do know THIS:

To be honest, this honesty thing is SO MUCH EASIER. Why doesn’t everyone do this? Why? Don’t they know? We need to alert the media. And Congress. And small children. All of them.  

Perhaps I have such a handle on honesty because I am just so much more spiritual than most, and have my stuff together more. That’s totally it. *

What? I’m just being honest.

*Disclaimer: Sarcasm often takes honesty and dresses it up in costume. Usually something rather silly. I am not spiritual. I am a recovering alcoholic. This just means I used up all my lies in my 20’s through my 40’s, and so if I say any more dishonest things I will be smited and sent straight to H-E-double hockey sticks.

Disclaimer to the disclaimer: I don’t think God smites in that fashion, with actual bolts of lightening and immediate passage to that hockey sticks place. That kind of thing only happens in the movies. Or Congress.

But there would be smiting in my head and heart and that, as we all know, is much, much worse.

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Momsie is a G rated blog. And she’s recommending an (almost) X rated Netflix show.

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WAIT. Just stay with me, here, Ok?

This was me about five minutes prior to posting this:

Me: NO DON’T DO IT. CRAZY SAUCE. WRITE ABOUT PUPPIES.

Y’all. I’m not gonna write about puppies.

With the help of Netflix, I’m going to get serious with you.

I meant to post about some great Netflix shows for kids and teens and other heartening options, because yes, there are many there. I have gobs and gobs of things on Netflix that I watch that warm my soul and make me smile and make my children chortle with laughter…

Today is not such a day.

Today, I am recommending this:maxresdefault.jpg

Guys. This show broke. My. Heart.

Two years ago I spoke at the Whole Women’s Conference – a gathering for women who felt broken, lost, addicted, and all of the above. There, I met Annie Lobert, an ex porn star who had found Jesus, and whose mission is to offer assistance and ministry to women stuck in this industry.

And, yes, “stuck” is the right term.

I think… I think this post is going to upset some of y’all. I am so sorry. I’m going to post it anyway.

In this era of social media, amateur porn is blowing up. Did you know, Twitter still has NO sorts of filters, so basically anyone who has a Twitter account can access porn, free and easy, whenever they like?

The minimum age for a Twitter account is 13. The average age for a person to be exposed to porn? 11.

That’s in three years, for my oldest.

Amateur porn is here, and here’s one of its spokespersons:

“Amateurs come across better on screen. Our customers feel that. Especially by women you can see it. They still feel strong pain.”

So, here’s the deal. This show does not take an easy look at this. It’s not clearly anti-porn or pro. It is fairly unbiased. And for that, I am kind of grateful. Because… the girls’ faces. They don’t need to ask the leaning questions or mess with the dialogue or twist the events or MESS WITH IT AT ALL. THE GIRLS’ FACES.

Nobody really wants this life. And yet, it’s happening.

 

The website Fight the New Drug tells us: The main job for these girls? To look young. “Teen” is one of the top keywords in porn searches.      (http://fightthenewdrug.org/10-porn-stats-that-will-blow-your-mind/)

Guys. The IWF tells us: “Child porn is one of the fastest growing online businesses.”

It. Is. Everywhere.

I’m not a fan.

Maybe… you disagree. Maybe you see it as a choice, as a part of healthy human sexuality, as a part of expression and just being plain honest with ourselves. Maybe it’s empowering.

Maybe. But. Just look at their faces, ok? And, there’s so many of them. These girls. They don’t look like victims. They’re smiling. There’s hundreds of them. Or more. So… how can they be victims if SO many of them are signing up to be a click away for someone?

Just watch Hot Girls Wanted. And, there? Just look at their faces.

I do warn you – there is nudity and all the rest of it here. The film does not show the porn in action, but yes, nudity happens.  It’s not an easy film to watch. But, I did. And I cried. And, then I asked God three things:
I have two boys, and I cannot help but wonder – what will this industry be like when they are 11?
And also,  is there any way I can help those girls? Is there any way I could just hug on them, and tell them, somehow, what they’re worth? What they are really, really worth?
And, God, there are so many. Why? Why did we let this go for so long? Why weren’t we paying attention?
Ok, finally.
I read up on the definition of “exposed.” You know, to reveal, to uncover. To leave cold.
The antonym for exposed is “protect.”
And the final definition? Waaaaaay down the page, at the bottom, where you would miss it unless you’re an English teacher like me and kept reading?
Exposed: to leave a child to die.