Life is Fumbling

Life is fucking humbling. It’s “fumbling”.

Who’s with me?

I’m not being negative, just real. I can honestly say I’ve been knocked down a notch or twenty, mostly after becoming an “adult” and spawning.

When I was young, everything had to be perfect. In hindsight, I clearly had anxiety and OCD. I had to have the perfect hair, the perfect clothes, the perfect friends, the perfect grades, and even the perfect handwriting. I’m still bitter about coming in 2nd place in that elementary school cursive contest. Mother effer.

And, of course I was in no way “perfect” with any of that but it’s the expectation I bestowed upon myself, and I busted my ass to achieve it.

My parents didn’t push me towards perfection. On the contrary, they wanted me to chill the fuck out. They thought I was weird and of course had a great time making fun of me for it…’cuz that’s just what we did…we laughed about how weird we were. (Now we take our kids to doctors to see what the hell’s wrong with them, huh).

It didn’t help that I was painfully shy and socially awkward, so people I hadn’t allowed into my “circle” just thought I was a bitch. Regardless, I could not control my drive toward perfection and it was really, really, hard for me to settle for anything less.

Later, I had to be the perfect athlete, student, employee, girlfriend, and I dreamt of marrying the perfect guy and having the perfect family. Being “perfect” was like my full-time job and it was fucking exhausting.

Then it all changed. I mean, not all, but a lot of it, and by that, I mean my mentality about achieving perfection. As I “matured” and experienced what comes with real life and things I just can’t control, I succumbed to the realization that life is not perfect. So, I told myself to calm down and get over it. Continue reading “Life is Fumbling”

Watch out for Gen X Moms and Boogers

I was invited to a “breakfast club”, held monthly at a swanky country club, complete with a full-on buffet and a guest speaker. It was on a Friday morning at 7:30am. I was like, damn, that’s early (considering the hour drive)…and I wear jeans on Friday…can I wear jeans to this thing? I figured I shouldn’t though, so I didn’t. Good call. I also had my smoothie on the drive over so I didn’t plan to eat (much) but the spread was crazy so I loaded up my plate with lots of eggs cooked multiple ways, including eggs Benedict, and multiple strips of bacon. Mmm, mmm good.

The speaker, Cam Marston, was AWESOME. He is a “Multi-Generational Relations and Workplace Communication Expert”. Dang.

I am fascinated by generational research and all the terms like “Baby Boomer”, “Gen X”, “Millennial”, “Helicopter Parent”, etc. I’m a Gen Xer and I’m thinking a lot of you are too, with some of you falling into the Baby Boomer or Millennial categories. And with each, there is some overlap, depending on your age.

Here are a few (very generalized) nuggets from the session that I can definitely relate to. Maybe you can, too. Continue reading “Watch out for Gen X Moms and Boogers”

Life, Loss, Tattoos

A few things I never dreamt would happen (dreamed? dreamt? eff it) –

I’d have twins.

I’d have a child with depression.

I’d get a tattoo.

The first two happened. The third didn’t.

Shit though, after the first two crazy things, a tattoo really doesn’t sound like that big of a deal.

I know I’m not alone. I’d guess we all have a list of things we thought would never happen. Everyone has “their shit”. I’ve seen many friends and loved ones go through their shit and I’m sure I don’t even know the half of what some of them have gone through.

We’re still here though and thankfully we have the strength and the will to live our lives, despite knowing that our fair share of shit will be chucked at us, often when we least expect it.

That’s life, right? As the song goes, “Life’s a bitch and I deal with it”. (Thanks Kid Rock).

So, yeah, I had twins 18 years ago and I’m still in shock. Boy Scout and I were headed to a Susan Tedeschi concert with our friends the day we found out. I don’t remember the actual concert, besides sitting in the rain, staring blankly at the stage, in utter disbelief. I was elated, but also scared shitless. Boy Scout was already planning his vasectomy. No lie.

I love my kids more than anything in the world, just like all parents love (or should love) their kids (well maybe more, ha ha). They are my world.

Didn’t expect mental illness to hit one. Pretty much from birth, in hindsight and with diagnoses. Huh.

Alrighty then. Things got real starting around age 11. Waaaaaay too much to go into and I don’t wish to, but I’d describe the last 8 years as one wild, scary ass roller coaster ride, complete with waves of morbid thoughts and actions (and on my part, lots of hiding and crying in the bathroom). Losing my dad didn’t help as he was a very involved grandfather and arguably my child’s best friend for a long time. That was hard. Fuck cancer.

Things today (as in literally today because we have learned to take things one day at a time) are good. And I pray every night for tomorrow to be good. We’re good with “good”.

And wine helps. For real. It does. Boy Scout lovingly has a glass poured for me every night when I get home from work and we sip and catch up on our day. It’s pretty great. He’s been through his own hell and we figuratively or literally toast each other every damn day. Like, “Shit, we made it. Cheers!”

Raising our kids together has taught us both a lot. About things we expected as parents and about things we never expected. “Every day is different” is our motto. We’ve learned great lessons in patience, flexibility, tongue biting, and love. We’ve learned to use a lot of humor, too. Sarcasm can be a great coping mechanism, in addition to a lot of f-bombs (for me anyway). At least they are 18 now so I can let the f-bombs flow freely (sounds so eloquent doesn’t it?) although their age really hasn’t stopped me before now.

On that note, I can’t say we’re earning any parent of the year awards here (who the hell is) but I can say with 100% certainty, that we’ve given our kids all the love and support that they could have.

They know it, too. That matters. And I have no problem reminding them. It’s important for them to know what awesome parents they have, am I right?

Is it bad to say I’m glad they aren’t little anymore? I loved every single day of it (the good, the bad, the ugly…I guess…actually no, I hated the really super shitty times) but I’m happy they are now “adults”. That’s a loose term but thank you God that we’ve kept them alive this long and now they can start taking care of themselves, at least somewhat! Jesus. It’s like “We’ve gotten you this far, now go fucking figure it out!” Kidding. Sort of.

So about the tattoo statement.

My artsy child (with depression) has wanted tattoos and piercings since like 5. No surprise there. So, on birthday number 18, it was on.

Not only did one of my kids get a tat, they both did (I’m hoping one of them is done). Both got the same tattoo. A semi colon. The symbol.

The semi colon represents suicide prevention in this case. More specifically, Project Semicolon is dedicated to presenting hope and love for those who are struggling with mental illness, suicide, addiction and self-injury, and exists to encourage, love and inspire. It was founded by a young woman in 2013 who lost her father to suicide. It helps bring awareness to mental illness and achieving lower suicide rates in the U.S. and around the world. (Thank you Wikipedia.) Some also describe it as a symbol for continuing your own story…meaning your story (a.k.a. life) is not over.

Did I care about the tattoos? Well, I went with them. I mean, I didn’t encourage it but I didn’t discourage it either. We went through the whole “you know it’s forever” talk and all. I don’t have a strong opinion either way about tattoos…and some are quite sexy, oh my. I do think about being 80 and rethinking the placement of a given tat, but hey, if you’re 80 and alive, who the hell cares? Rock on.

I thought it was cool that they wanted to go together and get the same tattoo with the same meaning, although perhaps it has a different and more personal meaning for each of them. After all, they’ve both been on this wicked roller coaster ride together and they’ve both been permanently affected (permanently like a tattoo, huh). One by having the illness. One by watching helplessly, confused, and often pissed off. They both suffer. The liberal artsy one AND the conservative logical one. So different but bonded by so many things, including this. Like it or not.

I did insist that they be prepared to share what their tattoo means when people ask, because they will. I mean, if you ink your body, you are asking for people to notice. For recognition? Validation? Artistic expression? In memoriam? Various reasons I guess. To each their own.

Since then, tattoo #2 arrived above artsy’s heart: my Dad’s birthdate. (It’s pretty awesome).

And more are coming.

So be it. Stuff like tattoos are not on my give a shit list. Over these last eight years, I’ve dropped a lot of things from that list. Things that just don’t matter in my book. I’ve also learned to give a lot less of a shit about what other people think. Passing judgment is something I try hard not to do because you just don’t know what people are dealing with. At some point, everyone is going to go through their own form of hell, so “throwing shade” (as the young bucks say) is just unnecessary.

I almost lost a kid. Now I pray every day that they will both outlive me. I know friends who have lost a child (for different reasons – cancer, SIDS, suicide, accidents) and my heart and soul ache for them. I have deep and special love and respect for them and I know that they have a deep and special fire within them. I also know the pain is always there.

As it pertains to mental illness, pay attention and get educated. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. No one asks for it and people don’t just get over it. It’s a long-term disease but there are treatments and resources. Unfortunately, diagnoses are growing. I can’t even imagine the number of undiagnosed cases. If it’s even a thought, get help for your loved ones in need, especially kids. If a child even hints about it, or holy shit, if they come right out and tell you they need help, listen to them and see a doctor immediately. Do not dismiss it.

(Deep breaths…in and out…)

So, will I get tattoo?

Who knows…and who cares?

I thought about it when they got theirs but decided it was “their thing”. Part of their own stories.

I’ll see how my own story continues, which includes them being in it.




Wall Art, Walmart, Walk of Shame

Have you ever felt like the world’s biggest dumbass?

Well, sit back and allow me to make you feel better about yourself. And, let me warn you – this is sure to be peppered with expletives, as 1) this overwhelmingly embarrassing true story warrants every fucking one and 2) that’s how I talk.

I share this with you for a few additional reasons:

First, as a form of self-punishment, as I, who am normally somewhat intuitive and fairly skeptical with trust issues (I am a Scorpio for fuck’s sake), fell hook, line, and sinker for something without noticing the 5,000 obvious fucking clues that screamed “DON’T BE A DUMBASS!”

Secondly, I haven’t had content inspiration for my blog since the dreaded bunny debacle.

Until now.

Lastly, I’m hopeful that by torturing myself by reliving my dumbassery while putting in writing, that it will help purge my mind of the horrific memory and alleviate some of my self-loathing. Oh, and that I will stop with the random pauses I keep taking where I literally freeze for a second, raise my chin, stare blankly at nothing, and think to myself, “What the serious fuck Dickerson? How is it possible to be such a dumbass?” (I refer to myself as Dickerson when I’m pissed at me.)

I think I’m going to have a lot to say as the dumbassery occurred over a couple of hours. I recommend grabbing a drink, putting your feet up, and settling in to digest each detail of my utter humiliation…for the ultimate benefit of feeling so much better about yourself. Continue reading “Wall Art, Walmart, Walk of Shame”

Shit Storms & Sunshine

Boy Scout texted me saying that that Ellie, our perfect princess of a Corgi, “got a baby bunny” in the yard. Oh shit.

I really did not want any more details at that point even though I could tell Boy Scout wanted to share, so let’s just say he took care of the problem.

He then located the bunny nest in the backyard, in a shallow spot in fairly plain sight, where my two dogs freely roam, play, and poop. Both dogs were very curious, therefore, we were very nervous.

Boy Scout conveniently left for a trip. Effer.

I spent time Googling the hell out of “taking care of baby bunnies” and became quite an expert in like 4 minutes so I decided to place our plastic laundry basket over the 2 remaining bunnies. You see, according to Google, this would give them some protection (from curious/attack dogs) while still allowing mother bitch bunny to scoot under to feed them. You see, according to Google, mother bitch bunny only hops by to feed her babies for like 5 minutes at night. I guess she is busy slutting it up the rest of the day. Seriously, what the eff? HOW IN THE WORLD do bunnies survive when bitch bunny mom only spends 5 effing minutes a night with them?! Now I’m pissed. Continue reading “Shit Storms & Sunshine”

Wine Lightning

So, Boy Scout and I were following our normal old couple evening routine. We took our wine and our dogs outside and begged them to take their final poop so we could go up and watch our “stories”. Our current story is Hand of God. It’s the one with that bastard Clay (which I can only say with an Irish accent), from Sons of Anarchy. He has more hair in this show and it’s super white. He really does have great hair, but I’m so distracted by his Neanderthal face and body.

Anyway, the pups pooped and we went inside. Boy Scout headed upstairs and I grabbed that laaaasssst ‘lil splash of wine to take up with me. I mean, I couldn’t just leave it there. I also grabbed the shoes I wore to work (I don’t trust my pups after losing 4 pairs of flip flops already) and carefully carried them and my wine up the stairs. Continue reading “Wine Lightning”

The Dawn of Dawn Decanted

Hi!  I’m Dawn, and this is my first blog post. Woohoo! Let’s pop a cork!

After LOTS of help with the name from fabulous friends (so many great and funny ideas!), I decided on Dawn Decanted as I love wine and I sometimes enjoy pouring/airing my thoughts through writing. Plus I like alliteration and “Decanted” sounds damn classy, like me. Kidding.

So, what’s my blog about?

Continue reading “The Dawn of Dawn Decanted”