This is the longest I�ve gone without updating since I�ve started but not for the lack of things to talk about. Last week, I worked 59 hours and thanks to my breathe right strips, I didn�t feel like a train wreck. I actually worked six days that week. On Sunday, I could�ve rested, but I cleaned my house a little and then took off for a day of museums and sightseeing at a few spots.
Jefferson Barracks Park has not only huge grounds, but also various historic buildings and quite a few museums. I have also made it a point to visit Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery. It seems to be to be a peaceful place, where the veteran won�t be hounded any longer by memories of wartime. I know some do not rest after they pass on, but they are amongst brothers and sisters in the cemetery. Those who will understand. Sometimes, I know that when I die and go to heaven, I will be welcomed by veterans, and among them, my Grandpa. The thought makes me tear up a little.
Sunday, the first thing I did was visit the cemetery. Nothing will take one�s breath away quicker than seeing miles of these white stones, all alike, all uniform. While certain people are bigger heroes in life and war, in death you are just very much a very honored person who served their country. Finally, there�s no competition anymore. When I was in the Navy, there was so much competition to be the top sailor. I just wanted to do my job and feel good about it at the end of the day, so I didn�t spend a lot of time kissing booty. Somehow, without meaning to do so, I endeared myself to the Commanding Officer; who I occasionally email today.
I remember what Jackie and I did before she left to go to her Dad�s. I brought her to the Cemetery before she left for Oregon, knowing there, lots of granola-eating, tree-hugging, military haters live where her Dad is. You can�t really argue with a sea of white stones, no matter how selfish and bloodthirsty they say we are. We go because we are asked to, but we genuinely grieve for our fellow soldiers, their families, and the citizens of the countries we visit. We care.
When at the cemetery, I always look for the Veterans of Korea, knowing that most if not all of them who died in Korea are still buried in Korea in mass graves and that these men served their and came home. They did come home, but they were changed men. Back then, it was still widely admired if you served your country but only you and your buddies know the ugliness you see, the awful hours you keep, the lack of sleep, the terror.
This was before the age of dreamy idealism of the anti-war Vietnam protester. This was before people starting taking their freedom for granted, forgetting that Hitler wanted to take over the world and kill Jews and their sympathizers here also and would�ve if we wouldn�t have stopped him. This was before people hid under the very amendment they abused. Funny how that works.
I know my Grandpa probably served with some of these Korean War Vets, and maybe for a moment I can connect with him through them. So, I sit with them. Lots of people drive by and stare at the strange woman sitting among the stones, but I guess they figure I�m there for a family member. They quickly look away, assuming I�m in grief.
It is sunny out. Beautiful. I feel comfortable sitting on the carpet of soft grass among their headstones. Butterflies flit from stone to stone, sometimes landing on it, other times, just gliding an inch or two above it. Saying, �Hello�.
One has to just be quiet, and take in the sunshine and the song of the birds around. In your heart, you know the Vets are never really alone, for the birds make nests in the thousands of trees scattered across the cemetery. Squirrels scamper through the grass. Bunnies hide in the tall vegetation against the fences.
After taking some pictures of this view I had, finally I put the red rose I�d brought on the gravestone in front of me. I wandered back to my car and set about exploring the historic buildings.
I was satisfied I did something that day that I felt good about.
This week has been really crazy. I�ve been working my butt off.
Last Saturday I worked 11:00 a.m. until 10:00 p.m.
Monday I worked 7:20 a.m. until 10:00 p.m. Tuesday, a mere 8 hours. Yesterday, 7:30 a.m. until 11:30 p.m. Hell, no extra hours for me the rest of the week.
I�m tired. I�m crabby. Rene�, Mr. Sweatpants, is really getting on my nerves. He knew I was working last night and told me, �I�ll bring you dinner.� That would�ve been really nice since I left my ATM card at home. But guess what? He didn�t. I had eaten lunch at 11:00 a.m. and by 7 p.m. I was chewing my nails. He never showed. I might have to hurt him for making me suffer like that. I still haven�t got a decent excuse for the no-show.
Hey, my pal. Let�s do something fun this weekend. I need a reason to justify buying a red, white and blue feather boa. It�s like, $15.00. But I am patriotic; I must have that boa. I�m afraid they will sell out of them. I will be sad if they do.
I got cramps from hell. Damn being a woman. I�d like to pee standing up too you know. But if I did now, that would suck.
I�m sick of paying for Eve�s transgressions. First cramps, then childbirth, then cramps again. This bites.
My baby sis is coming to visit with her little monsters. I can�t wait. I�m talking to the gerbils and rats I�m so bored.
I�ve been sending out a lot of letters lately, which ahem, by the way, is an art form. Does anyone write me back? Forget it.
I�m mad at my adopted mom. I�m just now coming to the conclusion that I�m still angry with her and I�m discovering she still thinks she can manipulate me by guilt.
See she got me when I was damaged goods. Too late to mold me in her own image because I was 17. My friend, who became my sister, could be moody, surly, crabby and she could do no wrong. And to this day, she can do no wrong and we are still being compared to one another. Hello. We�re different people. She didn�t go through a lifetime of mistreatment at the hands of her so-called elders.
I dunno. And Cinder�s mom didn�t want her to adopt me anyway. I was a poor runaway. I was bound to be trouble. Like maybe I�d end up killing them all in their sleep or something. Whatever.
But when I was 19, a legal adult, I went through a really bad time. Doesn�t anybody research the long term affects of child physical abuse and sexual abuse, not to mention the trauma one suffers when someone kills a parent in front of a kid and then tries to kill that kid, but it survives? No. And no matter what I do for the rest of my life, I will always be 19 years old to them. I never went to jail, or got in trouble. I partied. I left college to move to New Orleans. But I was going into the Navy for god-sakes; it was my last hurrah! I did all the crazy stuff before the Navy and way before I ever thought of having Jackie.
I will always perceive that my adopted mom secretly disapproves of the person I am, the job I have, the friends I have and most importantly, the type of mother I am. I always sense it; and though most times I just ignore her, it occasionally hurts my feelings. No one is holding her past against her.
No matter what I do, I will never be close to Cinder�s mom either. I�m sick to death of trying to make that old hag happy. No thank you ever for mother�s day cards. No kind word about how well I�ve raised Jackie. They just think she got that way magically. It drives me nuts.
All those cards I sent out on mother�s day, I didn�t get any phone call or anything from Cinder�s or Grandma Crabby. Sick of it. Want to move away, far away. If I didn�t think they were both a little nuts I would�ve written them both off by now and said forget you! But I�m not a mean person.
I have no desire to talk to either of them right now.
10:53 a.m. - 2003-05-22
Recent entries:
What you missed - January 16, 2012
%%older_entries%%From hell - October 19, 2010
%%older_entries%%a rant from a few weeks ago - August 17, 2010
%%older_entries%%Tired - June 20, 2010
%%older_entries%%A beautiful lie - March 11, 2010
%%older_entries%%
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