THE DESIGNATED QUESTION ASKER. . . 

My husband is the designated question asker. Yes. He is. 

My husband has three kids, two of which are still at home teenagers. We have been together for 4.5 years. My step-children have seen some peculiar things over the years. Yes. They have. I don't think my doings are peculiar, mind you. I make perfect sense. But, sometimes. . .  I hear whispering from the kids to their dad, my husband. It is at these times, he will look over at me, furrow his brow and then cautiously sidle up to me and question just what in the hell I'm doing. I'm always surprised when they don't know. . .

1. Umm....babe?

"yuh?"

"Why are you boiling rocks and garlic in a pot?"

"Because garlic is protective--I'm making talismans."

(long pause on his part)

"Ah. Okay. . .gotcha."

 " Just tell the kids I'm making 'lucky rocks.'"

"Got it."  

2. "Say. . . babe? "

"Yuh?"

"Why is there a spray bottle of water hanging in the shower? Is it bleach?"

"Don't be silly. It's Atlantic Ocean water."

"Ah. Right. Umm.... why is there ocean water hanging in the shower?"

"Because salt water is protective and I spray myself with it after every shower."

"Ohhh. Okay. Gotcha."

3. "Don't sweep under the rugs!" me

( my husband pauses in mid-sweep)

"But, there's dirt under there. . . "

"I know."

"So. . . why can't I sweep it up?"

"Because it's graveyard dirt from Minnesota and rock salt. It strips negative energy. It stays under the rugs at every entrance point to our house. Leave it."

"Oh. Okay. Got it--sorry."

4. "When you go to pick your son up from the basketball game, can you pick me some cattails? I saw the school is loaded with them."

"Okay." (he doesn't even ask why at this point.)

He and his son slosh through the water at his school and retrieve half a dozen cattails.

"Dad, why does Meesh want these?"

"No idea. Get a few more. . . she said she wants lots."

(long pause on my step-son's part but he finally shrugs and collects the cattails. He's getting used to me)

The cat tales have now been in a large floor vase for two years along with some colorful reeds. Pwetty. . . 

5. "Dad, what's that smell?"

"Sage. Meesh saged yesterday."

"What's that?"

"It helps dispel negativity. It's a part of her religion."

"Oh. Really? Cool."

(My husband can field some questions without consulting me. We've been together a while. . .)  

6. "I thought we were going to have a campfire. . ." oldest step son.

"We are. We gotta get the wood out of Meesh's trunk." my husband

"Of her CAR?"

"Yeah." my husband.

"Just bring allll the wood over by the firepit. Bring it all, don't stop until you hit the glass." me

(At this point, my oldest step-son stops.)

"Glass?" oldest step-son

"yeah. Just keep hauling until you hit the glass. There's about a hundred and fifty pounds of glass under the wood."

(step son stands there for a long minute looking at me. He then just turns and follows his younger brother whom has had much more exposure to me. They haul all of the wood until they hit the glass under the wood. My oldest (29 years old) step son stops directly in front of me. He is very serious.)

"What in the HELL are all of those glass panes doing in your trunk?"

I shrug, "A tile place was going out of business and was giving it away. I got a bunch of tiles but I already put them in the basement. I'm going to paint them. I used to use glass paints quite a bit." 

(He stands there, still rigid and unsure if I'm stable. Everyone else is going about their business. This fits perfectly with boiling rocks, the salt water in the shower, and the cattails. My youngest step son (16) does not even bat an eye. He stopped questioning long ago and far away. He knows there is a reason. He knows he'll find out what it is. He is unconcerned. Finally, the 29 year old takes his cue from the 16 year old and just sits down to enjoy the fire. Life is too short to figure out this woman.)

"How long have you been carrying the wood?" my 16 year old step son

"Three months. I wanted it dry and figured it doesn't rain in my trunk. So, yeah. I've been collecting it and storing it in my trunk for 3 months."

(the 16 year old just nods, saged and seasoned to my ways. The 29 year old squints his eyes and looks at me. He does not comment.)

7. "Why does Meesh carry that big glass bowl with her to the beach? I saw it in her beach bag."

husband--"She puts some ocean water in it and then wets the edges and runs her fingers over it. She's singing the bowl to the ocean. It's like a. . .like a GIFT that she always offers to the ocean. It's a part of her religion."

   "Really? Will she sing it in front of me?"

    "Probably not. It took her awhile to even sing it in front of ME."

    "Oh..." my youngest step son says, disappointed.

8. "Why is there a big rock on the fireplace mantel? What is it?"

     "Meesh got it when we went to Minnesota. It's a rock from her son's favorite fishing place. She took two rocks. One went on her son's grave and the other one is right there on the mantel. She pulled it out of the Mississippi where her son used to fish. It's a connection to him."

     "Wow. That's pretty cool. . ."

     "Yeah."   

9. "Why doesn't Meesh like flowers? I thought girls liked flowers. . ."

     "She does. She just feels sorry for them when they're cut. She'd rather see them living."

     (no comment from step-son. He simply furrows his brow and contemplates.)

10. My youngest step son came with my husband when I went to get a tattoo. He watched, enthralled, and asked if it hurt. I said no. And it didn't.

     Youngest step son to his dad, "Why doesn't the tattoo hurt Meesh? You said yours hurt a LOT."

     (long pause by my husband)

     "It's a matter of perspective, babe. She's getting this tattoo for her son as a kind of way of honoring him. Compared to losing him, the tattoo is nothing. She doesn't even feel it. . . she's thinking of her son. THAT hurts. The tattoo, she can't even feel. You get it?"

     (youngest step son is quiet. Perplexed. Contemplative. He has no other questions.)

So, you see? My husband is the quiet explainer. He is the knower and spokesperson of my ways and wiles. He rarely, if ever, has any questions any more. There are, I'm sure, many more questions from his kids that he does not tell me. He just fields the questions on his own now. The usual answer appears to be, "It's just Meesh." This answer seems to satisfy all questions that the kids have at this point.      

      

 

 

 

A Witch Trying to be a Catholic Mom.   

So, here's what. I was raised with no religion. None. My mother believed in everything and my father believed in nothing. My mother believed in reincarnation, energies, esp, clairvoyance, ghosts and hauntings, and the superior intellect and sensory perception of animals. Me, too.

So, my son was born. His dad didn't visit him much and my son had some behavioral issues. It was just my son and me. I'm not known for being an authoritarian type of person. I have rules and all but, not many. How to raise this child? How to find some authority that worked with this child? Hmmm. . . 

I went shopping for churches. I thought I had hit paydirt with the Catholic religion. It was known world wide. Good. It was the strictest of all Christian religions. Good. It instilled guilt and accountability. Good. It was designed to make you feel like a big booga-booga god was following your every move and was gonna stomp you if you were screwing around. Good. You had to show a tremendous amount of respect when entering a Catholic church. Good. OK. This is what I'm looking for in a religion for my son. 

So, I did what I do: I read the Christian Bible. Check. I bought and read Canon's Law. Check. (very dry. . . I don't recommend it for the bookclub). I went to classes for six months with a priest. I immediately noted that the number of inconsistencies were somewhat alarming. Shrugged it off--this was for my son's behavioral and emotional stability--and kept truckin'. I memorized every prayer, creed, mantra, chant, and whatever-the-fuck else they were slinging. Yup. I was a Hail Marying, Creed chanting, holy water carrying Catholic mama.

Except, I wasn't. 

I am a pagan. Period. Been practicing and believing in MY religion since I was 15. 

But, it's very difficult to raise a son in the pagan light without said son getting the shit kicked out of him in school. Thus, the church shopping. The church selection. And finally, the church immersion. 

Every night after I had read my son a book, we went through his prayers. All of them. By the time he was 5 years old, he could recite the Nicene Creed, the Apostle's Creed, the Queen Mary, the Hail Mary, and the Our Father. Done. By the time he was 6, I could hear him reciting the MASS in its entirety. Very impressive. 

Chanting/praying. . . what's the difference, right? I mean, I got this. 

Until he started asking questions. 

Therein was a minefield that was 100% contrary to MY belief system. Well, shit. 

"Mom, why does the church say not to masturbate. You said there's nothing wrong with it."son

"There isn't. It's healthy and normal as long as it's done privately and no one is hurt."me

"But. . . the church says--" son

"I know what the church says. They're wrong." me

"Mom, the church says everyone is going to hell if they don't follow the rules. . . I'm scared." son

"Don't be. There is no hell. Think about it, sweety. How can you burn if  you have no body? It's just something they say to scare kids and make them behave. Ignore it." me

"But the church says--"son

"They're wrong."me

"Mom, what's gay?"son

"It's when two boys or two girls love each other like your daddy and I did. That kind of love."me

"My friends in catechism told me that gay people are going to hell."son

(me gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles are white)

"Well, your friends in catechism are wrong."me

"But, I told them there was no hell. They said there is and told the priest."son

(long pause on my part. I'm not contemplating, I'm calming myself)

"Listen, hon. There is no hell. And god likes it when people fall in love. He doesn't give a shit if you love someone who's a boy or a girl--he just wants you happy and for no one to get hurt or sad." me

"But--" son

"Ignore it. Loving someone and wanting to be with them is not a sin."me

"Mom! Mom! Why did they bury people in front of the church?!" son

"%$&@$%!!!!" me responding as I look at the church lawn, covered with over a hundred small, foot high, white crosses.

"Son, no one is buried here. They're making a political statement against abortion." me

"What's abortion?" son

"A surgery women have if they don't want to have a baby. There are no bodies under these crosses, love." me

"Then why--" son

"Because the church doesn't give a FUCK about the constitutional boundary between church and state, that's why." me

"What?" son

(me giving a long-suffering sigh)

"Just ignore it. It's about grown-up, political stuff." me

And on and on it went. Oh, I did all the THINGS a catholic mom is supposed to do. Lent. Ash-Wednesday. Stations of the Cross. Holy Friday. Mass every Sunday. Prayers at night. Bible stories. It was the QUESTIONS that made for epic belly-flops of the charade. Still, my son seemed to believe in some of what the priests were telling him. However, I had the catholic church on a VERY tight leash. No one was going to feed hate to my son--not without going through me. There were a lot of discussions after mass, in particular if it was a mass condemning a certain activity or culture or belief system. Yeah. He knew his prayers. But, I wasn't going to let that institution hose my son down with hate. Fuuuuck THAT. So, I intervened when necessary.

To my credit, my son DID lean on the church and pray when he felt the need. And, when he died, he was buried with a full Catholic Mass in the very church that I had him baptized in. He requested it. 

For myself, when he died, I went straight back to my Celtic pagan goddess and pantheon whom I had never left. It had been a tough, tough decision to not raise my son pagan but, I had determined that it would not work out well for him in school and with friends. I will still occasionally go to mass. It makes me feel closer to my son. Do I think there's a nameless, omnipotent, hell-fire god in that building? No. No, I do not. I never have. But, it makes me feel closer to my son so, occasionally, every couple of years, I'll go and remember all of our times together in mass. But, when I want to commune with a bigger, all-knowing energy that I DO believe in, I make a campfire and scry into it. My goddess is always there to greet me. When real shit is going down, like when my brother was activated to go fight in Afghanistan, I cast my ass off. I've seen shit, felt shit, taken pictures and videos of shit, and been told shit. Yeah. I'm 100% pagan. I 100% believe in my goddess and the Celtic pantheon. There is no doubt. 

Now, fast forward 11 years. I met my husband. A Columbian, recovering Catholic. Yeah. He started telling me stories of how a REAL catholic family from Columbia raises their kids. Wow. Just. . . wow. I wasn't even close. My husband had never HEARD of Canon's law but had a belief that if you put your purse on the floor you were inviting poverty. What?

He was taught other peculiar things that are NO where in Canon's law. Where did this shit COME from??? 

"If you see a snake, the devil is watching you." husband

"You're fucking with me right?" me

"I fuck with you not." husband

Wow. . . 

"Whenever I scraped my knee as a kid, my mom told me it was because god saw what I had done even though SHE hadn't and had punished me accordingly." husband.

"Holy shit. . ." me

"Yup. I'd go around scared for my life that I had a punishment from god coming. I got stomach aches..." husband

"Wooow. . . that's some voodoo shit, that-there." me

"When I was really screwing around, my mom would tell me that she's going to pray with the priest for me. Then I knew god was really gonna hammer me. I used to start crying and grab her purse so she wouldn't leave to tell the priest who was going to tell god. I was scared he would make me get hit by a car or something. . ."

"What the HELL! That sounds terrifying. . . and ABUSIVE!!"

"No. It's called being Catholic."

"Daaaamn!" 

I then told my husband how I had raised my son. He laughed and laughed. He said I missed the whole "Fear of God" mark by a mile. He was glad I did miss that part. He became pagan about a decade ago, ignoring his entire family's plea for his soul. . . But, you know what? They came to our pagan wedding. They said not a word about my black wedding dress, the tying of the hands, or the jumping over the broom. . .

I have found the answer. Apply free booze and no one gives a shit what religion you are.

Catholic, Hindu, Muslim, pagan. . . whatever makes y'all happy. You do you. I'll do me. This is just a little peak over my fence to let you know how the hell a witch can raise a catholic kid. Had I to do it over, would I have raised my son Catholic? No. No, I would not. I would have just kept my damn mouth shut about all of it like my parents did with me. 

"Let her sort it out when she's older."

Why don't we EVER listen to our parents?     

        

                 

DON'T SHOULD ON ME . . . 

Once upon a time, there was a little eight year old boy. He was riding his bike down a steep hill--the same hill he rides down every day. This time, however, he gets hit by a semi-truck and is smeared across two lanes of traffic. He dies of extreme brain trauma in a hospital two hours later.

The mayor is quoted the next day in the newspaper as saying it was such a tragedy and it never should have happened. 

In this scenario, the mayor is wrong. Yeah, I said it. 

Wrong.

 It absolutely should have happened. Why? Because it DID happen. No laws of physics were broken. No Witchcraft was used. The boy did not levitate into the grill of the semi-truck. No. It was a steep hill. The stop sign at the bottom of the hill had an over-grown tree covering it. The boy had also never been to bicycle safety training. The semi-truck driver had been driving for 14 hours straight and the sun was in his eyes at that exact moment. Everything was set so that is was IMPOSSIBLE for this tragedy to NOT happen. 

Why this horrific story? Why my horrific take on it when I am known for being quippy and light? Sort of?

I'll tell you.

Because the word "should" needs to be eliminated. Forever. Banish that bitch. It's no good. . . no good, I tell you. 

When you say, "You should have been here an hour ago!" that is a false statement. "I WANTED you here an hour ago." True. "You SAID you would be here an hour ago." True. "I THOUGHT you were going to be here an hour ago." True. However, if the person whom is late did not even leave their house until ten minutes ago then no, he should NOT be on time. How can he be? He left late. 

This is getting confusing. I know. Hang tight, I'm coming for ya. 

My point is simple. The domino effect. That little boy that got hit by the truck? If even one of those factors had been changed, it would not have happened. If the tree was trimmed so the truck driver could see the stop sign, he would be alive. If the driver had only been driving two hours, the boy would still be alive. If the little boy had taken bicycle safety and stopped to WALK his bike through the crosswalk, he would still be alive. . . something had to CHANGE for it to NOT happen, do you understand? 

Mr non-existent mayor? Please rewrite your non-existent speech. "I am horrified that this tragedy has happened. I will do everything in my power to make sure that this does not happen to another child." Now THAT is getting somewhere. This pretend mayor now realizes that "should" is fiction. It's a write-off. It is describing something that has not happened. . . it is describing something that you wanted, not what happened. 

Think this is trivial and pedantic? Well, let's see. . .

Which is more helpful to you, the reader:

"Ohhh, SHIT. I'm late again--I should have left earlier."

or

"Damn, I'm late again. Tonight I will go to bed earlier so that I'm not late for work tomorrow."

One you can do something about. The other is a dead statement with no correction to stop the behavior or event from recurring. Get it?         

"I studied so hard, I should have gotten an A. Stupid teacher!"

"I studied so hard and I only got a C-. I think I may need to hook up with a tutor in the library."

"My parents never let me get a word in edge-wise. I should just run away. . ."

"My parents interrupt me frequently. I think I'll try writing them a letter and see if that works. . ."

The word "should" identifies a mythical, non-existent place, y'all. It is an action-stopper. It is a solution- clogger. It is a dead-end with no happy ending. It is a blame word. A hate word. A reprimanding word. . . banish it. 

How do you speak to yourself? Oh, stop it. We all talk to ourselves, either out loud (my favorite) or silently in our mind. Do you should on yourself? STOP IT!! Them's BULLYING words!

"I should have gotten that A. . ." 

"I never should have married him. . ."

"I should have known better. . ."

"I shouldn't have told her a damn thing. . ."

"Next time, I should just smack him. . ."

"I forgot her number--I should have written it down."

Are there any solutions there? No. Just lots of smacking yourself around. Stop it. I like you. I don't want to see you smacking yourself on a daily. Try these. . .

"I wanted an A so bad. I'm going to study harder next time. I want an A and I'm going to get one."

"I married him because I loved him but things have really gone to shit. I think we need counseling."

"I was hoping for that raise and didn't get it. Tomorrow I'll ask my boss why."

"I told her my secret and she told everyone. I am not going to trust her like this again."

"The next time I feel this angry, I'm going to go for a walk. I do not want to be by him when he's like that, so I'll leave until I feel better."

"Wow--she was so cute and I forgot her number--damn! Next time, I'm going to borrow the waitress's pen and write the number down right away."

"Should" is the antithesis of progress, folks. And it's a horrible feeling word. Also, a word frequented by procrastinators. Don't use it. If you're shoulding on yourself, stop. State what you wanted to happen and state what you will do, what you will CHANGE to get the desired result next time. If you're using "should" then you are speaking of a fictional thing that never happened or has yet to happen. Stop. Rephrase. Insert solution. Extract demeaning self-talk. Proceed with your life in a happier, more forgiving mental environment. 

Any questions, just drop a comment. If I don't have the answers, I'll find them, I assure you. 

Just wanted to puke a little psychology and self-help on anyone who could stomach it. Thanks for reading it. The next post will be blissfully free of any.     

Things You Need to Know if You're Moving From the Midwest to NJ 

I am a Minnesotan. The Iron Range area, proud and loud. I've been in NJ for four years and four months. I have wanted to get OUT of NJ for about four years and two months. Yuh. Then I went and met the man of my dreams and am now stuck here for a couple more years until his kids graduate. Eww. NJ-eww. Not the kids-eww. Needed to clarify that. Onward!

1. If you're looking for free parking then park in Pennsylvania and walk. It's the closest.
2. If you want your taxes to go to a program that runs a program in charge of programs, move to NJ.
3. "Foliage" is not viewed as all makes and models of plants and trees. It is when the colors of the trees change. THEN it's foliage. Not before.
4. You better take a crash-course in offensive driving.
5. There is something called "Abercrombe". Avoid it.
6. The state is out of pop. They only sell soda. And, no--it's not as good as pop. Get used to it.
7. The state in its entirety is touchy-feely. It is very liberal.
8. You will get flipped off every day. The liberals are aggressive and to be feared/avoided.
9. Fourteen year olds look like 25 year olds and 30 year olds look like fourteen year olds. Just card everyone. Assume nothing.
10. New Jersey is where they sell an alarming number of body parts. These body parts range from permanent eyelashes to butt implants. It's a thing. Yeah.
11. Women do not sweat.
12. Men do not sweat.
13. No one sweats. If you want to fit in, buy antiperspirant by the case. Apply it to your face, arms, feet, what have you. You'll be a'ight.
14. They have "mosh pits" at concerts. This is a place where people go to die. Avoid it.
15. Weed is everywhere and I mean everywhere. It is apparently preferable to beer. Just follow the stink. 
16. You need a permit to have a garage sale. Yeah.
17. They do not salt their roads when it snows. They use this liquid stuff that doesn't work. Accidents abound. You will not be getting home on the same day that you left for work. Plan accordingly.
18. Kids do not go to school if there is a 15% chance of snow. Uh-uh. It's not safe. (insert eye roll HERE)
19. There is a special kind of voodoo/catholic high-bred here. Be afraid.
20. Meet new people, enjoy the diversity, enjoy the beautiful greenery. . . and never forget your mace.


M.   
      

 I AM NOT DEAD . . .

Now that you know I'm fine and well, I can begin. I was MIA for a long-ass time because I couldn't remember any of my damn passwords. I recruited two millennials (my step sons) to hack my computer and make it so that I can WRITE on my BLOG again. SO HAPPY! Not sure if you all are, but I am . . .  so let's just make this about me.

1. I'm not dead.
2. Still driving my cobalt that is teenager proof, AKA a stick shift.
3. Swearing surprisingly little. (Gotta step that shit up)
4. Got married and am now Michelle DelaBarrera. Very happy!
5. I wore a black wedding dress. Because I can.
6. Took my new and wonderful husband to my home state of Minnesota. He saw a lot of gravel roads, Lake Superior, and the great and mighty Mississippi! It was soooo good to be back home for a minute.
7. Wrote another book though I haven't edited it yet. "Witchcraft of the Ancients". Eventually it'll be edited.
8. Still hate editing.
9. My brother has acquired a new girlfriend that I LIKE! There have been no injuries and we have met on multiple occasions. :)
10. Still want to learn to play an instrument. Still haven't.
11. Still want to learn Spanish. Still haven't. In fact, I am able to unhinge my husband who was born in Columbia and whose first language is Spanish. If I ask him enough questions, I can actually get him to screw up his native language. (shrug). Yup. He'll just walk away muttering. It's a gift.
12. Still disgustingly in love with psychology though it loves-me-not back.
13. About a year or so ago, I started meditating 2-3 times a week. It's awesome!
14. Still flea-marketing, rummage-saling, and thrift shopping for secret treasures.
15. Still combing the Atlantic ocean beaches for artifacts. I have about 6 so far. YAY!
16. My wedding anniversary is the Autumn equinox, so it changes a day or so from year to year.
17. Learned a bunch of Spanish cuss words. Now I'm bilingual in swearing, so that's awesome.
18. Still hate politics though I did, of COURSE, vote. C'mon, guys. Soldiers fought for the right.
19. Still hiking, walking, making campfires, and sitting next to any waterfalls I can find.
20. Still don't recommend smoking. Still smoking.

So, there it is! That's what all is up. So glad to have my little-nothing blog back. :)  Drop a comment or just read my little postings for a laugh. I'm not promoting my books on here anymore. Just writing to write. Because I can.         

WHAT DO I SEE . . .

What do I see. . . a lot. It brings me joy and it brings me pain.


I see a blond woman with gold bracelets and flawless makeup pushing her four year old child in a stroller that is plush and new. There are Gerber juice boxes in the mesh pouch and she is on the phone with her friend, laughing as she pushes her child down Madison Avenue. I turn away in disgust.


I see a dark haired woman with stained clothes holding her four year old child's hand on a dangerous street in Queens. The child is eating half of a peanut butter sandwich and does not flinch when a city bus roars by, brakes screeching. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth and I can feel my eyes turning glassy.


What do you see? Do you see that the child in Queens has on well-scuffed sneakers from many walks to the caged in park? I do. I see the mother is closest to the curb too, keeping herself between trouble and her child. The child is tan and in scruffy, worn out clothes that have seen many days at the park, many days of running and playing, many washes in the kitchen sink. They are stained but clean. The unstained clothes are being saved for special occasions. Today's clothes are meant to get dirty. The sneakers have climbed many ladders to go down many slides. The shoelaces are tied tightly and double-knotted. The peanut butter sandwich is eaten happily. A good, nutritious snack that does more than just fill a void. The child feels the warmth and security of his mother's hand and he looks up at her frequently, chattering and smiling and talking about what he will do at the park. The dark haired woman smiles softly at the boy and nods, agreeing to lift him up to the monkey bars and push him on the swing. The boy is looking forward to pushing the button on the water fountain in the park. It's one of his favorite things.


As the child in Queens squeals with delight and runs to the slide, the child being rolled down Madison Avenue remains silent. There is no one to talk to. No one to laugh with. He looks at the tips of his Lebron sneakers and taps them together. The sneakers are not scuffed. None of his sneakers have ever been scuffed. The brass buttons on his denim bibs are shiny in the sun. Craning his head forward, he carefully sips from his juice box so he doesn't spill any on his clothes. He is four years old but wearing a Pull Up diaper. His mother doesn't like him going to the bathroom in public places because who knows what type of people use those facilities? The blond woman with the gold bracelets continues to chatter with the invisible person on the phone. She told him they were going shopping for his new sneakers. They will be a different color.


I see all of this as I walk to the subway station on Madison Avenue. Wordlessly, I enter the station and scan my ticket. It is lunch time. And I prefer to spend my time in a happy place. I board the train to Queens.