Beginning of the end

Another hateful phone call ends abruptly with a click instead of a slam. If we threw our phones like we used to when they plugged into a wall, we would need more insurance than is currently offered. Anger insurance- for when THOSE people call. Those people would most likely include the likes of:  the IRS, the credit card companies who will not take no for an answer, people wanting to give you a cash offer for your home, ex-husbands and absent fathers, and of course the car warranty people. 

Of course, there is the standard Oops, I got it wet insurance, and there is the Oh Crap- I left it on top of the car, then drove off insurance. There should be the Damn I dropped my phone on the bathroom tile floor while sitting on the toilet scrolling aimlessly. Then there would also be the Fuck I dropped it into the Porta john at the club insurance, and Ew gross- No I don't care that much for that phone. I will suck it up and buy a new one for $800. 

Back to the call. We hung up both probably red-faced and ill. He had excuses. I could not give two shits what they were. Again, we were at an impasse. Fine. Nothing new in my world. He was backing out again. I was saying fine. At this point, I don't really care if he gets hit by a Mack truck. That's horrible. Yes I do. Wait no, no I don't.

As a mother to a child who has special needs that require more attention than most children, I just don't have it in me to wait around on him to get it together. We have been waiting for years. He is not changing. He is not going to rehab, or getting a job where he gets an actual paycheck, meaning documented by government standards,  taxed also, which would ultimately result in subsequent docking to pay for child support that has amassed over the years. He just refuses to do what is right. 

Nope. He insists that it's my fault. It's my fault that he doesn't see our children. It's my fault he can't get a job because I had to pull a restraining order on him. It's my fault that his breath stinks probably. No matter what the issue, I can honestly promise you that it's my fault. 

This is nothing new. We have been going like this for years. Shane is 4, and Viola is 10. Shane is deaf, and Viola is hearing. We sign in our house, and Viola is fluent in American sign-language. She started learning as soon as we basically did. 

John doesn't sign. He tried learning, but his raging alcoholism prevented him from retaining the signs. The only sign he knows is the one he holds when he stands on a highway in our small rural town in Idaho. It says, "God bless you." 

Of course, how original. 

That's just one of the signs. He has another that reads, "This is God's house."

 O....K. I don't know who buys that, but people do, and he somehow makes money from his shameless self-marketing as I have heard him call it to an old neighbor once who saw him "flying the sign". That's homeless lingo. I know it well.

That was slightly embarrassing at the time, but not much embarrasses me now. Partially because I just don't care, and partially because humans suck, and no one has any room to talk about anyone else, and I know it more than anyone. I don't talk smack about people for that very reason. I will however, smack a bitch, but that's not the point.

Another blah Christmas, snowing heavily, and cold as a witches titty. The lights aren't up on the tree yet. Shocker. I am the only one who puts them on, and when you are a procrastinator to the third power, like I happen to be, sometimes the tree just gets the light up angel instead. Viola has just started to enjoy decorating which makes me happy. I don't like decorating, but I love looking at those fancy house magazines, wishing one day it would be my house. 

We have a wish jar. Things have been known to happen that have been dropped in that wish jar. It's covered with pictures of pretty kitchens with chandeliers and blue and white Spanish tile backsplash. The closest thing I have to backsplash now, is backlash- from John, my absent husband. That happens bi-monthly. Or Ragu spaghetti sauce that splashed out of the pot when Viola poured it in last Monday when she helped me cook dinner. 

Viola loves spaghetti. It's her favorite meal- probably because we have slurping contests. Whoever gets the most on their face wins. Since Viola can't hear, winning due to the slurping sounds would not exactly work, but Shane and I do make a lot of noise slurping still. There is quite a bit of laughter. Spaghetti nights happen quite frequently in our home. 

The snow was caking up on the front door like it normally does in the winter. There are not a lot of days that scream warmth in Idaho in the winter. When it comes, it does not falter, and when it snows in Idaho, the elk make it clear to us by dancing in the streets. At least that's what they call it. They come into the town as if they are warning us that shit is about to go down. 

The Snake River shimmers in the snow, and it has stories of it's own.

It's not that far from us, and if you are from these parts, you either grew up on the river, lived off the wildlife in the river, or played in the river with your family- albeit immediate or acquired. There is no limit of who can partake in the dazzling fun of the river. It's a staple and we all know it keeps us.

Viola splashes in the bathtub and my mascara runs down my face as a direct result. Of all people, I know, I love her the most, not my mother, not my gramma, not my g-gram, not Shane. I know it's not right. I can't help the way I feel. I have thought about it a lot, but no one comes close except Shane.

I love the others too, but it's not the same. We are all only 15 years apart almost to the date- me, Viola, Mama, Gramma, and G-Gram. All of us. It's weird. I know. Like psychedelic or something. Like planned. I don't know this God people talk about, but I guess someone does, and he has made a lot of impression on those someones. 

And I guess he might have had something to do with us being born like that. I have read about karmic incarnations, and that seems more logical than some of these talks about this guy with a golden walkway, and a big robe who sits up high on a chair or what ever they call it. 

Our closeness in ages could also be because we all like having sex and don't like rubbers. That is most logical, which is what I am going off here. I refuse to be a gramma at 30, so Viola better keep those legs shut, or she will go down to the clinic in town.

Last time I was there, a man in a suit walked up to a girl walking in, and threw a bucket of blood on her. She still walked in the door. Those types of things don't bother me, I suppose. I guess I figure that if I need to get something done, I better do it. Shane was 2 at that time, and I knew that John wouldn't be around to help, considering he hadn't been around for the rest of his kids. Mine are just the tail end, hopefully of his sperm shooting spree. I have heard that he has over 12 unaccounted for children. I don't know the exact number, but I feel sorry for those kids. he's left quite a wake of destruction in his past, and continues to do so, probably until he dies of an overdose or drunk driving accident, or bar fight that got out of hand. John is always looking for a fight. Has 2 of his front teeth knocked out, but he says it was from boxing. One was from a fight with a homeless man in a camp over a beer, the other tooth was knocked out when he fell down the steps one night here at our house. He wouldn't go to the dentist. No insurance. I think I knew right then, that I had made a grave mistake by going with him on that picnic. 

He wasn't always a piece of crap. He started out sweet. Rose petals to the bathtub, chocolate covered cherries he had made himself, and cheap champagne. If it had alcohol in it, it did the trick, and I was fine with it. I am sober now. That's not to say that some days I don't want to bum rush the Circle K and grab a 12 pack of whatever is on sale, but I don't. At least not today.

He can also fix almost anything, which is majorly attractive to me because I don't like fixing things, and I abhor paying a handy man, or throwing things out. I have hoarding tendencies probably.

 

When he needed to borrow my car all the time, and then money, and then my car would get "stolen" year after year by his crack dealer, I realized I was in trouble. Late bloomer. If there is a way to avoid the truth, I can find it, and hold on to it for dear life, as if it gave me breath.

One time, he traded the car for drugs, and I saw the dealers driving it, while I was riding with my mother, and we had a high speed chase with the thieves. I called it in to the Jerome County police and they called in the chopper, but as I continued to tell them how the car got missing, they quickly told them to turn around and go back home. It was completely fucked up. Apparently, never tell the cops that you let someone borrow the car. Eventually, the car turned up on the side of the road at a gas station in town. There's not a ton of places to hide a 1999 Suburban with a blinged out rhinestone tag that says Mama Bear. I was drunk the day I got it. I didn't have enough money to pay the extra for the plate at the time, but I managed to squeeze out the $25 it costs just to have that. 

All my friends call me Mama Bear since junior high. I have a nurturing approach I guess. At least that's what everyone tells me. Held back a lot of hair in bathrooms, and driven a lot of drunkies home when I should have been home myself in high school. I guess you could say, I earned the title. 

As an adult, I've taken a lot of kids in who needed love along the way. The town we live in is small and there are a lot of poor families. Lots of teenage pregnancy, drugs, and drinking is something people start young around here. I don't think young mothers really understand the parenting thing, and it's hard to raise kids when you are still a kid yourself. I know, my mother knows, both my grandmothers know- from experience. My house is the stray house. All around town people know they can come here and get a hot meal and sleep on the couch if they need to. It's been up and down being that "safe place". I've put my family in dangerous situations, but thankfully, nothing brandishing my pistol couldn't fix. 

One time I let my neighbor's teenage son stay with us, and he robbed us. I had $400 in my kitchen drawer that I was saving to get the truck fixed with, and forgot to move it, and when he went to look for a fork, I guess he saw it in there. That little punk, I still can't stand to see his face. He never gave it back, and his parents weren't going to. They couldn't even keep food on the table themselves. They didn't have running water. Hard to believe isn't it? How can a town even let people live like that? I guess it's called freedom. Seems like hell. 

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