A good place to start is with my first post to get a sense of what this is all about. It bothers me when you can find nothing at all about the author of a blog, but I find it equally obnoxious when people ramble incessantly about themselves. This is perhaps one of my most pertinent characteristics, an irrepressible desire for balance.
I am a twenty-nine year old woman living in a micro-urban Midwestern town. I work in a somewhat technical job which I will not discuss here. I will use nicknames for most everyone in my life, and for myself, though I rarely talk about myself in third person because it’s weird.
The youngest of three girls, I was sort of raised by wolves and had to fend for myself in a lot of ways. But I had a mother who was truly incredible in the perseverance, emotional intelligence, and unadulterated strength she strove to instill in her daughters. And I had a father who did everything he knew how to make us tough, and who is a rock for me in my adult life. My sisters are beautiful and unique and nurturing, and have become one of the main reasons I get out of bed and put one foot in front of the other every day. I also have a half-brother who is one of the great lights of my life. My step mom, step-brother, and step-sister are also an integral part of my existence, and being Aunt Beeda to a brood of nephews fills my heart to overflowing.
On July 12, 2013, my mom died. She had just turned fifty-seven years old a few weeks before. We knew she would die, and we were prepared for it, insofar as a person can be prepared for death. My sisters and I sat around her, holding her hands, and she left this world on the tearful words of songs she taught us to sing. Each day I am still learning to process what it means to live in a world without my mom.
My immediate family consists of my silly mutt Josie, as well as two little ratties – Oliver and Fenton. They are all total dillholes, and we are one happy family. I am a host of health issues, mental instability, and emotional problems, but these critters think the sun rises and sets on me no matter what. Everyone should know the unconditional love of a pet. Except cats. Cats are bastards.
Frequently I refer to myself as a gypsy or a wolf because I find that much of what is considered proper and normal makes me uncomfortable, and there are conspicuous gaps in my knowledge of how things are “supposed” to be. We grew up poor but loved, and we learned to do a lot of things for ourselves. So maybe I couldn’t tell you the difference between the salad fork and the dinner fork if you put a gun to my head, but when the apocalypse descends upon us? I got this. Unless that part about cardio from “Zombieland” is true, in which case I’m screwed.
At almost thirty years old I finally feel a little bit like I get it, and like I’m doing it right, making it through this whole adulthood thing. Now I just need to have kids to totally disabuse me of that.