Tuesday, March 29th, Life/Food Section, Page 3

This morning, just like every weekday morning, I had to get the kids up, dressed, fed, and ready for school.
Instead, I drove like a bat out of hell to my nearest gas station and bought three copies of The Orange County Register. 
What?  That’s all they had left.
I screeched into the driveway, jumped out of the car, hobbled into the house, limped down three flights of stairs, got out my magnifying glass,and opened up the paper to the Life/Food section (thank God that sentence is over; I was running out of verbs. Ha! no pun intended).  There, on page 3, for all the world a smaller portion of a small portion of a particular subset of individuals within a slightly larger demographic to see, was my very first article in print.
I know, right?!
My family, of course, was very enthusiastic:
“How come you used Jo Ashline for your byline?  Can’t you refer to yourself as Joanna Agnieszka Bartlomowicz, daughter of the illustrious Polish-immigrant Margaret Bartlomowicz?  That just rolls right off the tongue and sounds so much better, don’t you think?”
“Where is your picture?  There’s no picture of you?”
“I thought you were going to be on the front page.”
“How come you didn’t mention ME anywhere in the article?”
After all of the supportive gestures from my loved ones, I realized I had to use the bathroom and took my article in as reading material. The whole experience was pretty intense.  The article wasn’t half bad either.
I decided to head over to my local Starbucks, where I quickly noticed that NO ONE was reading my article, and so I may have purchased a half dozen copies, threw away everything except all the page 3’s, and placed them throughout the establishment in a nonchalant manner. I never realized being a writer would be so hands on.
So now here I sit at home, surrounded by huge stacks several copies of today’s paper, my dream of becoming a writer slowly becoming a reality, my house resembling the ones they depict in that show Hoarders, and my face, hands, and certain discreet areas covered in newsprint (don’t ask).
Anybody know where I can find a frame big enough to fit my article and my ego?
   

If you squint your left eye while blinking your right one rapidly, you should be able to make out my byline.  Let me know if you have trouble, and I’ll let you borrow my magnifying glass.

Ian enjoying mommy’s article
(I threatened him with no breakfast until he read it )
*I used the term “my article” no less than five times in this post. I can’t believe you read this far.  I’ve managed to annoy even myself.*

When "OMG,That Sucks" Doesn't Even Begin to Cover It

I've been keeping things pretty light-hearted around here lately.  Sure, once in a while I make you suffer through a bout of poetry that probably only makes sense to me, or I touch upon our struggles of raising a special needs child, or I vent about random crap that needs to be vented about so that I can clear my head and proceed with Life.  But for the most part, I hope you expect a good laugh when you drop by. So I feel it only fair to preempt my post tonight with a fair warning that what you are about to read is not for the faint of heart.  That doesn't mean you shouldn't stay; it just means I want you to be aware of the magnitude of it.

Suz Broughton, who is a columnist for OC Family Magazine and the lead blogger for OCFamily.com wrote a post today about a little girl who lives here in Orange County named Maddie James; a tow-headed beauty, aged five, who loves the sea and looks pretty darn fabulous in her tiny spectacles, and who, as of January 16th, 2011, has been given only months to live.

Like most of you, I simply cannot wrap my mind and my heart and my soul around this kind of information.  I hate suffering of any kind, but when it touches a child, something inside of me ignites and a raging fire burns until I am incapable of thinking or feeling anymore at all.

I know the struggles of parenting.  I have gone to bed sobbing from exhaustion and fear, cradled in the cold, hard, unforgiving grasp of reality, wondering if my prayers are being heard, and on the darkest nights of all, wondering who the hell I'm praying to anyway.  But none of that matters when I read a story like this, nothing makes sense when I read a story like this; I am humbled and terrified and inspired by it and as I stare into the face of this tiny, precious, beautiful little angel, I am stripped bare of all of my previous complaints and worries and priorities and I am just a floundering human being, raw and vulnerable and wanting, more than anything to understand.

But that is not my place, and instead, I choose to focus on what I, You, WE, can do.
So before you do anything else tonight, please read this little girl's story, and the amazing plight of her mom and dad.

I know that by the time you read this your children will probably be snuggled up in their beds, your mental reel playing back a day filled with spilled milk, pick ups, drop offs, missing shoes, burned dinner, too much homework, messy bedrooms and backseat brawls. 

And I hope, more than anything else in the whole wide world, you're also thinking how damn lucky you are do have to do it all over again tomorrow.

Lumberjacks are people too

In an effort to keep from rolling myself into the fetal position and giving in to the voices inside my head, I've convinced an innocent woman new therapist to take me on as a patient.  I found her through my network provider website, and picked her out of dozens of names because of her close proximity to my house and the fact that she specializes in crackheads life-challenged people like myself.  The good news is, when I called my insurance company and they looked up my modest list of diagnoses, I found out I qualify for something called "severe, lifelong, debilitating, she'll probably end up in a padded room someday mental illness status," which means I get unlimited, year-round access to a shrink! 

It's been years since I had this kind of therapy, my parents having spent the majority of my teens busing me between licensed professionals who promised them they were fully capable of excorsising the demons that had turned me into an unbearable heap of hormones.  I resented them for forcing me to talk to these strangers about my innermost thoughts, strangers who, quite honestly, came across as needing some kind of mental interventions themselves. So I've avoided therapy like the plague.  Plus, it's not like anybody ever freaked out over a little ocd, panic, alcoholism, depression, and agoraphobia, right?

But in light of the recent craptastic events which have occured around here, including Andrew's health problems, quitting a job I loved, and not winning the lottery for like the 100th time in a row, I decided it was time to give therapy another try. And so far, I have to say, it's going pretty well.  We seem to get along, my therapist and I, except when she tries to give me unsolicited advice. I get plenty of that from my mother; I don't need to go out and pay for it, know what I mean?

Oh, that and the other day she told me a story about a man who was chopping wood and gathering water when he suddenly became enlightened.  Despite this, however, he continued on with chopping wood and gathering water.  So far I've gathered that:

1.  This man was a moron.  He should have become enlightened while he was napping or getting a massage
2.  She wants me to go out and buy an axe
3.  I'm going to need to relocate near a river of some sort.

And even though I don't really know how becoming a lumberjack will solve my fear of malls and dangerous situations, such as going to a Denny's outside of my immediate neighborhood, I trust this woman to help me get over my phobias and learn to live again.

Unless she starts mouthing off and giving me her opinions.
Then all bets are off.

Because nobody likes a know-it-all.

Shrieks are Louder than Words

They make it work somehow.

They speak their own language.

Or in this case, they "shriek" it.

And it doesn't matter whether or not anyone else "gets" it.

It just matters that they do.

To say that I love these two more than any human should be capable of loving someone else is the greatest understatement in the known universe..


Shrieks are Louder than Words from Jo Ashline on Vimeo.



Oh.  and if you're wondering why they're just standing there, buck naked, freezing their keisters off, it's because we were waiting for the tub to drain. 

So that I could clean out the poop. 

Naturally.

My Best Friend's Bathtub is Dirtier than I Thought.

You can learn a lot about people by visiting them in their homes.   Color schemes, knick knacks, window treatments, florals vs. solids; these important details can often provide a tiny glimpse into the hearts and minds of the residents, illustrating their passions, hobbies, and personal habits.

A spotless kitchen, for instance, with nary a gadget in sight and a fridge covered in take out menus, may be indicative of a homeowner who prefers delivery to dishes.

A worn lazy-boy located front and center in a living room which boasts a television set larger than the square footage of most three car garages could be a sign that someone spends their days (and nights) glued to quality programming such as ESPN, ESPN 2, ESPN IX and ESPN For the Divorced Dumbass Who Chose ESPN over His Wife.

And some of the most intimate details of a person's life, of course, can often be found in their bathroom.  Electric toothbrushes, air fresheners, anti-wrinkle cream, one-ply toilet paper; the bathroom is a breeding ground for personal information (raise your hand if you're a liar and have never opened someone else's medicine cabinet) and can offer true insider information on the people in your life.

So imagine my horror when I went to use the bathroom at my best friend's house, someone I thought I knew well, and my sense of sight was assaulted by um, this in her bathtub:

Now, I don't know what's worse:  thinking that her five year old daughter had something to do with this (in which case, may I suggest a medically induced coma until she's 21), or that my best friend's soriority days at a prestigous university were back to rear their ugly head (in which case, may I suggest less wine with breakfast).

The truth folks, is that there are no winners here.

Except of course, Ken.

More, Please

What do you do when your son, whose been "failing to thrive" since spring and closer to a feeding tube than ever before sits down at your traditional, holy, Christmas Eve feast, grabs a ginormous spoon, and begins to shove pierogis down his throat faster than the speed of light?

Duh.

You spend an entire day in the kitchen with your husband making more.

This morning, he had twelve for breakfast.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call a Christmas Miracle.

A Picture Worth the Pain it Brings

There is a photo that hangs

in her bedroom

tucked in a frame she bought

when she still shopped at walmart

It sits there

against the calm of the forest green wall

the color chosen by her husband

a man willing to paint the walls hot pink

if she so desires

She walks by this photo often

as she brings in the laundry

or

on her way to the shower

or

while she ushers the children away

and

playfully leads her husband inside

But it is today

on her way past the photo

that she pauses

long enough to stare into the lightness of her youngest son's eyes

the black palm trees and sunset hues of his hawaiian shirt

a perfect reminder of

the mid-June luau that ended his first year of preschool

a perfect reminder

of other things

She closes her eyes as she stands before this photo

and remembers vividly
the events of this life changing day

A mother among mothers

her smile strained against her lying lips

graciously thanking teachers

making playdates she never intends to keep

though she takes the time to take this photo

her pride for her son in stark contrast

to the hatred she has for herself

She goes home on this day

and opens the wine a little earlier than normal

"in celebration" she tells herself

though she does not feel joy but pain

She is drunk by the time he is home

no dinner on the table

the children perched in front of the television

stale snacks littering the floor

she avoids his gaze

because she has broken her promise again

waiting for him to retreat so she can continue pretending

everything is

just as it should be

but he is tired this time

fed up this time

tells her to go to hell this time

and for some

unknown

inexplicable

baffling reason
she believes him this time

The memories fill her up

turn her inside out

confine her for a moment

and she forces her eyes open before

they consume her completely

She stands in front

of this photo

taken on the day

when the world fell apart

then made sense again

a photo she keeps

to give her the courage

to remember

a day

she cannot afford

to forget

As the World Turns

As many of you know, I suffer from a bunch of crap, but one of the crappiest things is my vertigo.  Lately I've had the opportunity to narrow down the triggers associated with these debilitating attacks.  Knowing what to avoid will surely help me in my struggle to overcome these dizzy spells and allow me to live a more normal and productive life.  I feel so empowered already! 

After careful observation, I've found that the following activities should be avoided at all costs if I'm to improve the quality of my life:

Turn my head too fast
Take long car rides
Drink too much coffee
Go to the movies
Swim
Take a boat ride
Ride an escalator
Ride an elevator
Pick something up off the floor
Play Wii Fit
Lay down
Sit up
Cook
Eat
Shake my head "yes" or "no"
Blink
Scratch my left elbow
Inhale
Exhale
Get a haircut
Take a shower
Flush the toilet
Feed the cats
Pass gas
Go outdoors
Stay indoors
Get a pedicure
Fold laundry
Listen to music
Wear a bra that's too tight
Not wear a bra
Chew sugarless gum
Watch t.v.
Shave
Sleep
Wake up
Sing "Livin La Vida Loca" in B flat
Burp
Brush my teeth
Eat carbs
and
Diet

So, it's pretty simple really.
As long as I avoid these vertigo-inducing activities, I'll be just fine!

And the good news is that blogging isn't on the list!

Whoa.

Okay.  Let me rephrase that.  As long as I don't use the following keys, I'm fine:

a,s,d,f,g,h,j,k,l,

Of course, those keys are merely a fraction of what I use when indulging in my writing craft, and avoiding them, for the sake of my health and well being, shouldn't affect the quality of my posts at all:

i c u.
u r poop.
c?
bye.