This is my second attempt at blogging. I don't know why they don't call it what it really is - ranting - but they don't, so here I am blogging my heart out.
I spent one whole year making a daily entry in a blog about living with animals entitled, "Apple Tree Pets." I even threw in some pictures.
To be honest, I challenged myself. You see, I never thought I could stick with anything that long. Well, I have been married to the same guy for over forty years so maybe I'm not a total slacker. Anyway, I never missed a day.
When the year was up and I closed my laptop on that project, I immediately went through withdrawal. I found myself writing long Facebook posts to get my fix. I started noticing family members looking at me askance, like they were deciding whether or not it was time to commit the old broad.
Facebook friends would dutifully read my rants then give me the "thumbs up." But I knew in their hearts they were just being kind. Some actually commented they missed my daily entries about the escapades of living with a wide variety of animals.
This blog is going to be about getting to the age of sixty plus. How I made it this far; what I have learned; what I would do differently if I could; what mistakes do I continue to make; who really cares anyway?
You see, the people I would have listened to when I was young didn't make it this far and the ones who did were so screwed up, I wouldn't have taken their advice on a bet. But it's important to learn from people who've been there. Even if it's to learn what not to do.
Let me give a little background info. I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania in the 1950's. That's as specific as I'm getting to the actual date. My parents were Depression Era, WWII, middle class folks who knew one thing - the war was over and they were going to live the American Dream if it killed them. Oh, and there is a strong German line in my ancestry. (That plays a significant role throughout my life.)
I was the oldest child - or so I thought (more later) - of two. Mother wanted a boy, so I was a disappointment from the moment those forceps yanked my poor head out and the doctor declared, "It's a girl. Sorry."
My mother spent most of her time trying to pretend I was a bad dream from which she could not wake up. My father, on the other hand, tried to make the most of the gender thing by telling me it was not a problem - I would grow up and take care of him in his old age. That prediction ended up coming true - with a vengeance.
My younger (by nine years) sister was not a boy either, but my mother was okay with that. She doted on her and actually said the following to a young, impressionable me, "You are your father's daughter and (bleep) is mine." Like we were his and hers bath towels.
Let me pause here and speak to young parents - your children will remember crap you say for the rest of their lives, so be careful. Well, that is unless you're okay with raising potential serial killers or have tons of money for therapy down the road.
I spent the first seventeen years of my life fantasizing about escaping. I was only present in my home in body not spirit. I hated the town we moved to when I was twelve. I hated the fact my mother was always either depressed, sick or pissed off - usually all three. And I hated myself for not ever making her happy. I will go into details later.
My entries will hopefully provide inspiration, cautionary tales and insights into life lived over six decades. Oh, and I hope to make you laugh. You see, I was raised in that German philosophy of laughter being the devil's trick. It is not. Laughter makes even the scariest, saddest, sickest trials more bearable. If you take away nothing else from my ranting, let it be that.
To be continued...
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