Top 10 Ways to Know if You’re a Douche Bag

Today I feel so inspired (by others) to write a blog on douche bags. Thanks (not really) for providing me with this information and material. Let it be known that douchebaggery is not limited to men; lots of women are capable of being douchettes too. For those of you that are riding the fence not knowing if you fully qualify for such a title, let me provide a checklist of sorts for you to keep score. Please note, that if you even possess one of these qualities, you SUCK and chances are, those around you think you suck too. (Wow that sounds bitter. Down girl.) Brace yourself because here it comes….

1. If you are the type of person that does favors and then throws it up in others faces, you are a gigantic douche bag. If you do a favor for someone, do it because you want to and hold no expectations. Chances are the person asking doesn’t even want to but has exhausted all other possibilities leaving them in a precarious situation. Doing a favor means you are helping someone. It certainly doesn’t make that person your eternal slave nor does it mean they have to live in purgatory taking your shit for a lifetime. You don’t own someone just because you did them a favor.

2. If someone who cares about you tries to contact you via text, email, phone calls etc., and you consciously choose to ignore them; you’ve hit the douche-o-meter. What a douche bag you are to make the other person squirm, guess what’s going on, worry or blindlessly create a scenario in their head of what may or may not be happening. Try not to be a douche and answer them.

3. Here’s a good one. If someone trusts you so much that they confide their secrets to you, either big, small or both, don’t use that information to then throw it up in their face in a fit of anger or as a way to get back at them. Worse than that, don’t share those same secrets with others. Only douches would do such a thing. Take into consideration that they thought so highly of you to share something so intimate and important to them. Don’t make them regret bringing you into their world.

4. If you have a specific goal you want to achieve, either tangible or not, don’t lie to another person to get there. It’s a cheap way of achieving things. Don’t fib to make someone believe you are likeminded and aligned in your beliefs. If that person, isn’t in the same place as you or wanting the same things, move yourself right along. See ya douchebag.

5. I can’t think of anything more unappealing than a person who is pretentious or an elitist. There’s not a single person who would want to keep company with someone who thumbs their nose at others, all while under the delusion that they are out of anyone else’s league. Douchebags, here’s a newsflash; your insecurities scream out when you act in such a manner. You’re probably trying to reject those around you for fear of being rejected yourself. Wow, I’m a freaking therapist all of the sudden. Please take note.

6. Here’s an adjective that fits every douche bag out there, self-centered. Listen jerks, the world revolves around the sun, not you asshole. Friendship is a two-way street and you are on a one way road going nowhere fast. It’s nice to hear what’s going on with you, but how long does one have to listen to a person talk about themselves? Since we are on this topic, here’s another thing, if you are more interested in what solely makes you happy and never consider those around you that makes you a douche. If you are self-centered and the only subject that you like is “me”, pack your bags and take a hike out of my world. Contributing to others happiness is part of friendship, family and life.

7. Mistakes are part of life. If someone you care about makes one, don’t spend your entire life rubbing their nose in it. Either forgive or try to understand. If you’re incapable of one or both, release that person from your life. Don’t be a douche and keep them around just to feel empowered, or use it as a way to control them and have them pay penance every day. You have a choice, either you want them in your life or you don’t. Don’t have them in your life just to wield some weird non-existent power you now think you hold over them.

8. Hey we all think we are good looking to an extent. Some of us are right on the money and others have completely missed the mark. Good for the uglies that think they are cute. No harm, no foul. However, do your best not to flaunt your fake-hotness. Furthermore, if you are hot, definitely don’t be an asshole about it. You’re good looking, we all know it. Doesn’t mean I want to bask in your presence and worship you. If you’re good looking and parade around in it, your hotness instantly diminishes. I’ll still look at you, but there is no way on God’s green earth that I’ll give you the satisfaction of acknowledging you’re cute. Hotness without brain activity = douche.

9. Loyalty is an amazing quality to have and those you love should feel it toward you. Seems reasonable but it’s not. Not everyone carries this trait. Family and friends should have your back, no exceptions. If someone talks smack about you in your presence or not, your people should leap to your defense even if the other person has a point. Who cares if what they are saying is true, you are their person therefore loyalty should be immediately implemented. If your best friend hates someone, you hate them too and there is no room for negotiation on this. Reason and rational do not go with loyalty. If you are incapable of protecting, helping, or practicing unconditional love to those in your immediate circle than you’re nothing more than a total scumbag. You aren’t worthy to be in that circle and need to go back to loyalty training.

10. Last but certainly not least is the person that only has friends on their terms. You’re the person who only comes around when it’s convenient for you, or you need something. Hells no! Don’t contact that one reliable friend as a last option because all your other homies aren’t around. Saying hey, I miss you after months and months of not talking to just find that shoulder to cry on because all others have failed you is really kind of douchey. That person was always there for you, you abandoned them in the height of your popularity and suddenly you find yourself alone. Nope don’t contact that person that was a great friend to you and come walking back in their life as if you were there the whole time. No no no no that friend had time to figure out the exact type of person you are, a user. Find another sucker.

There you have it my friends. That’s my top ten list. I’m sure there are a hundred more ways someone can be considered a douche, but I found these qualities to be the most notable. Ask yourself if you do these things. My suggestion is if you are guilty of any of the above that you cease and abandon them immediately. I can absolutely guarantee that you’ve been called a douche either to your face or behind your back, either way; you have the ability to change that. If you had a good friend like me, I’d be happy to tell you to your face, but I’m just the writer and you’re the reader.

I’m Your Mother, That’s Why

For all the times when you were small and you didn’t want to hold my hand crossing the street. At my instance I’d grabbed your hand and say, “I’m your mother, that’s why”. The truth is I would rather you be embarrassed by this gesture, then take any chance of you being hurt or killed by a car. I never want to lose you.

For all the times, I walked you to the front doors of school, leaving you with my departing words, “I love you” as you cringed with humiliation. As you protested, and asked me why I must do that, I replied “I’m your mother, that’s why”. The truth is I wanted you to feel security knowing I loved you and I would be there the minute you were dismissed.

For all the times I asked you to clean your room and you told me it was your room, your space and complained. As I continued with the request, my explanation was “I’m your mother, that’s why”. The truth is this teaching moment was about respecting your belongings and taking on responsibility.

For all the times when I didn’t approve of what you were wearing to school or a special event and made you change your clothes. You fought me, and I’d send you to your room, letting you know it wasn’t a request but a demand. I’d say do it “I’m the mother, that’s why“. The truth is I wanted you to take pride in your looks and not be unfairly judged based on what you were wearing.

For all the times you would come home frustrated that your friends came to school with the latest trends; the most expensive sneakers, handbags or even new cars. You would want the same things and I wouldn’t indulge you even as you objected. When challenged I’d say “I’m your mother, that’s why”. The truth is as hard as the lesson and you might not even fully understand until you are an adult yourself; there will always be someone who has more or less than you. It’s not about comparing yourself to others or what they have. Be grateful for things you do have rather than focus on things you don’t.

For all the times you asked for money day after day and I wouldn’t always give it. You lashed out telling me that your friends received money from their parents, why couldn’t I just distribute it just as they had? I’d say, they aren’t my kids and “I’m your mother, that’s why”. The truth is you will never appreciate a dollar until you earn it. You then have a sense of entitlement and that’s not what I wanted for you. I wanted you to appreciate that with hard work comes reward. I wanted you to be conscious of how much things cost and to make smart choices when spending your money.

For all the times I lent you my ear as you felt injustice at school and you weren’t treated fairly. I would tell you I’d talk to the school and clear it up. You would besiege me not to get involved and storm off and not speak to me. When confronted, I would look you in the eyes and tell you I’m doing it, despite your disapproval. When questioned, I’d say “I’m your mother, that’s why”. The truth is I wanted you to know what loyalty and love felt like. Just because you are a child doesn’t mean you are always wrong in the eyes of an adult. I wanted you to learn that if you stand by the truth, if you are articulate and calm, change is possible even in what seems like the most impossible situations.

For all the times I asked you to set the table or fetch drinks to put on the dinner table and you would tell me it wasn’t fair. You lazily asked me why I couldn’t do it. I’d tell you “I’m your mother, that’s why”. The truth is I wanted you to be aware other people exist besides you. I wanted you to learn to be a functioning part of our family and be considerate of others.

For all the times I went to your sports events or school events and cheered you on as you shrunk with embarrassment. You’d say, no one else’s mom does that, why must you? I’d say “I’m YOUR mother, that’s why”. The truth is I couldn’t be more proud of you. Whether the accomplishment is big or small, I want you to know that I’m your biggest fan and I’ll always be in your corner.

For all the times I’ve asked you to check in so I know where you are much to your annoyance. You see it as a sign of distrust or that I think you don’t make good choices. When you ask why day after day, I require this of you, I reply, “I’m your mother, that’s why“. The truth is I think you are incredible and have little doubt that you are making good decisions. I want to know you are safe.

For all the times, I say I love you and you don’t say it back. For all the times, I hug you and you brush me off complaining why. I will tell you, “I’m your mother, that’s why”. The truth is I never in your life want to reflect back and say, I can’t remember ever being told I love you or feeling affection from my mom. Even as you push me away at these moments because it’s not cool, I will continue to do these things. I don’t ever want to give you an opportunity to recall a time when you didn’t feel your mother’s love.

To my children, I do all these things for a reason though you might not be able to see that now. Everything I do is to give you a solid foundation for being the most positive, productive, and contributing member of our society. The truth is I love you unconditionally and it’s simply because I’m your mother, that’s why.

My Cats are Jerks

There are two types of people in this world, dog lovers and cat lovers. Despite the blog title, I’ve always been a diehard cat lover. It’s not as if I don’t like dogs. I do, I just don’t want to own one. I’ll pretty much only pet medium to large size dogs or puppies. Little dogs just don’t appeal to this cat girl. Poodles make me crazy. I hate them. I know hate is a strong word and there are few things I hate, but poodles fall into this category. A simple poodle sighting will make me sneer. To me, having a dog is like having another child. It’s too needy. The most significant difference between kids and dogs, and a clear deciding factor in owning a dog, is unlike kids dogs never grow up. They rely on their human to walk them, feed them, and give so much attention. Should the attention you provide fall short of their liking they will repay you by pissing in the house, or tearing apart anything in their site that doesn’t qualify as food.

Ok, I might have a prejudice against dogs but rightfully so. While dating my now husband, we would make frequent visits to our friends house where a Rottweiler was also an occupant. That same Rottweiler grabbed a hundred dollar bill off the dining room table and I remember our friend’s father waited until the dog crapped it out. The dad then dug through the dog’s crappola to retrieve his hundred dollar bill (gross). He said a hundred dollars is a hundred dollars. That mere memory still makes me gag. I really did love this dog and he knew it. One day I was sitting at my friend’s dining room table when the Rottweiler jumped up on me. In a freak accident, the chair disintegrated under me and the one hundred-fifty pound dog landed on my nose. I never had a bloody nose in my life, yet I was swallowing what felt like gallons of blood. That dog broke my nose in three places. I had to have my nose fixed and packed. I sported a cast on my nose for a week, looking like Jason from the Halloween movies. It was one of the most miserable experiences of my life.

Let’s move on to my animal of choice, the cat. I now have four cats. (I hear you saying OMG, she’s the cat lady…SHUT UP, am not!) Anyway, I thought cats were the perfect pet. I don’t have to feed them on demand. They aren’t up in my grill 24/7. They can go outside with no supervision from their human and come back whenever they want. How awesome of a pet!?

I pretty much thought my cats were awesome but I’m recently forced to acknowledge that they are all jerks. After visiting the local pet store six days ago, I fell in love with a bunny and purchased it. She’s a damn cute bunny (not really sure of the bunny’s sex, but I’m going with a she). Low and behold cat #2 brought home a headless wild bunny tonight. Would have been helpful if cat #2 brought home the headless rabbit say…a week ago, BEFORE I bought the bunny. Until that moment, I had no idea this cat enjoyed eating bunnies. Dammit, my new bunny’s life is now in jeopardy by his step-brother.

Cat #4 is a slut. This jerk cat enjoys hanging out in the sewer. Obviously this cat relishes the company of raccoons and possums all while prowling the underground world of sewers. How lucky am I that this idiot then comes to sleep on my bed? Filthy whore!

No really, let’s not stop the story now. I have a big heart, some would say to a fault. A few years ago, while on a Boy Scout trip to the pound I saw a bunch of cats in cages, each with their unique ailments and caged for years at a time. I knew I had to rescue one of them much to my husband’s dismay. Well the choice was difficult. Choices, choices…was I to pick the cat that had to have injections every day? Or should it be the cat that had gag reflux and puked its food like any good bulimic? No, I went with the cat that had OCD and licked its fur off while in caged captivity of four years. The cat looked like road kill. It still has that nickname to date, Roadkill. It took me seven, yes you heard me correctly, seven hours to adopt this bitch. Can you imagine? You would think the pound would have been a little more grateful and would have basically thrown her at me but that wouldn’t be the case. After much paper work, references and fees, they handed the little bundle of skin and patched fur to me. As I had one foot out the door, the technician said, “by the way, she pees outside the litter box”. WHAT??? Thanks for mentioning that seven hours ago. I swore I heard someone yell “sucker” as I walked to my car.

So I bring home this beauty that just happens to have a personality to match her looks. To date, she has the biggest, “everyone hates me” complex. You look at her wrong, she growls. You pass her, she growls. You go near her, she growls. You pet her too long; she scratches the shit out of you. It’s true what they say, animals are grateful when you rescue them, except of course this jerk.

So here’s what I have concluded. I do love cats. They are pretty and cute. I want to pet them and cuddle with them. I want them to sit on my lap so I can stroke their fur and hear them purr. The reality is that cat’s are jerks and only want to be loved on their terms. They only want to be pet when they are in the mood. I give unconditional love and expect it back from my cat but most times my cat is just annoyed by us humans. My eyes have been opened as to why people prefer needy dogs over smug felines.

Youngest Child Syndrome

This blog is dedicated to all those people who fall last in the pecking order of their siblings. We are strong in numbers, and united in this experience. Read on and please feel free to lift my spirits and let me know I’m not alone.

This Easter my family did something it has never done before. I’m not even sure who started it, but at some point old photos landed in front of me. My mom’s cabinet was opened and captured memories were cascading all over the floor. What started out as some sibling ribbing turned into a mission. My brother picked up every picture in hopes of finding some of him. Well, to his delight every third picture was of him. He dismissed all others as he was there to find his memories (if you knew him, you would expect this). His partner enjoyed looking at his old photos too as he was convinced in my brother’s younger years, he was James Franco (it upped his sexiness since he is now 50, a far distance from Mr. Franco).

Ok, back to me. I flipped through the photos and noticed I came into the picture at about age 18 (barely an exaggeration). Of course with every picture I picked up, I said the same thing every single time as anyone in the house can attest too, “OMG I was so skinny”! To think, back then I thought I was fat (I wish I was as fat as I was back then). There were a handful of photos of me at about age three and only one infant one. Simultaneously, my daughter perused the photo albums finding an unlimited number of photos of her and my oldest son. Just as I was complaining that there were no photos of me, my youngest child echoed the same sentiment. I was guilty for the exact thing I was blaming my mom of. I felt an injustice was done to me by not having any photographs documenting my life.

Aside from the traditional professional school pictures, I found only one photo of me at approximately age seven. It was me in a striped bikini with my dad’s sunglasses on holding onto the umbrella pole at the beach. After passing a pile of my favorite finds including that photo, they became displaced. I was frantic that I couldn’t find these photos or more specifically, that beach shot. I besieged everyone around me to help in the search for it. Much to my brother-in-law’s dismay, I blamed him for losing that picture (not really lost, it’s safely in the company of hundreds of other photos in the abyss of my mom’s cabinet). It was more than just a photo to me. It represented that I existed in this family and more specifically, that individual memory at the beach.

Like a lot of people, I stopped printing photographs just as soon as I was able to take pictures with my phone. They are stored on my computer and I thought that was good enough. Here’s the lesson I took away from today. I felt horrible that there were no pictures of me (pity party, table for one please) and I could tell my youngest child felt exactly the same as I did. My first task for tomorrow is trying to print out a bunch of the pictures loaded on my computer so he never has to feel that way again especially when my own children go through pictures in my own home. Technology is amazing and has advanced us in so many ways but in the end, nothing can really replace a tangible photograph bringing back a specific memory.

To all my fellow people suffering from youngest child syndrome, let’s try and step up the game and not fuck up things for the next generation. Note to self: Take more pictures of my youngest child and PRINT them!

We are Family

It is at holiday get-togethers that I learn the most from my family. We don’t see each other often and I get to hone in on the details that make us similar and different. Two of those things really stood out to me this past Thanksgiving holiday. A non relative can pick up on the obvious but for the second half of this blog, I’m not so sure…come closer and listen in.

Let’s begin with the blaring, fire alarm obvious. My brother-in-law noticed me drinking a Mike’s, Black Cherry, Hard Lemonade. He had heard of them. Noticed them, but never tasted one. It was an opportune time, to take a sip of mine, so I let him. After all, they are so yummy and delicious. Here’s where things went awry. After he handed me back my drink, I couldn’t just let things stop there. I had to insist he keep the drink, and finish it. I promised he would love it. He was gracious enough to say, “No thanks, I really just wanted to try it.” That’s when it hit me. I’m a forcer by genetics.

It was only earlier at the dinner table when my very own mother was trying to shovel her homemade cranberry sauce onto my plate and down my throat (the throat part is an exaggeration needed for purposes of this story). How did I know it was homemade? It’s because she told everyone at the table at least twenty times. “Have some. I made it” “No thanks mom. I don’t eat cranberry sauce.” “but I made it. Have some. You’ll like it. Let me just give you a little”. It cringed me to realize in some sense I’ve become my mother. (Sorry mom. It’s said in the best way possible.) That’s when it hit me like a brick hitting a windshield. My family is forcers. I’m not sure if it is in our genetic make-up or if it is just something handed down from generation to generation. Either way, I’m going to talk to myself about this and file it in my brain somewhere for future reference, but for now I have to continue my holiday story.

Ok let me shake the forcing thing off of me long enough to bring up the other thingamagiggy we had going on at Thanksgiving. I was telling a story to my sister and mom and had their full attention. As I was telling the story, I noticed their lips moving. Here’s the bizarre-o-ness of their lips moving. No sounds were coming out of their mouth. I took notice. It was the most authentic lip-syncing I’d ever witnessed. Their lips were moving with the words coming out of my mouth. What was the deal with this? Were they trying to tell the story as I was telling the story? Were they anticipating the words coming out of my mouth? Were they trying to repeat my words as I was telling them? When I pointed out what they were in fact doing, they quickly denied it. I could tell they made a conscious effort to freeze all facial parts as I continued to speak (well, except my mom, her lips kept moving)? Really it’s a peculiar habit.

Anyway, the day progressed and they forgot their quirky habit. I took my daughter aside and let her in on the secret. She soon took notice of my siblings and moms lips moving as others were talking. I now had a witness to attest to this crazy habit that formed within my family. I’ve always noticed it and simply dismissed it. I found harmless humor in sharing this fun fact with another non-infected lip-synching blood relative in something I noticed so long ago. Well, I guess it’s not much of a secret now that you are all clued in as well lol.

The holidays with family will continue as will each of our quirky habits. I’m not immune. I’m sure they can tally a list of things I do. They will complain how I sing on top of my lungs at random moments. They will tell you they are not just any songs but show tunes. Zip it! Don’t judge. Ask yourselves, what are your family’s quirks and how do you stand out in that crowd? I look forward to the next holiday when the forcing, lip reading/moving and singing takes place because that’s what makes us family.

#selfdiagnoser

Hi. My name is Wendy and I’m a self diagnoser. I can hear your voices all at once saying, “Welcome Wendy”. Today is one of those days that sent my fingers furiously typing. My morning went something like this. I woke up with tingling and numbing finger tips and a left numbing heel. A reasonable person might attribute this to a cold morning and poor circulation. A paranoid, hypochondriac (on her mother’s side) would not. What would I do? Well naturally, I would Google this. I’m only a medical degree away from being a real doctor. So today’s diagnosis has me plagued with MS (multiple sclerosis). I always find relief in coming up with a diagnosis. What could be worse than not being able to find something wrong with myself? I would hate to be symptomatic, search for a cure and then find no real disease.

I seem to have passed this gene onto my kids because my daughter does this very same thing. I’ll get texts from her with links to proposed things she might have. Being the self absorbed, self centered teenager she can sometimes be, I might have once (maybe twice) told her she is narcissist. I recently lent her the book, Defending Jacob to read (great book). I got a frantic text from her (teenagers tend to be dramatic) one night while she was in the middle of reading it. The book found the main character to have Narcissist Personality Disorder. She was convinced she had it (she doesn’t). It happens to also diagnosis the same character with being a psychopathic murderer so she was concerned it was correlated. (Great job Wendy. It was such a shining moment as a mom). I had to defuse that self diagnosing thing she was doing. (I was successful. Whew!)

On a lighter note, she recently and successfully self diagnosed herself with ADHD. She, like me, just wanted to prove that her self-diagnosing was purposeful and had real results. I can appreciate that. All I can say is apple tree people, apple tree.

The makers of Apple have made life easier for people like me with an application called iTriage. One can type in the symptoms experienced or what ails you and then can generate its best guess diagnosis and the medication needed. It’s a dream come true.

Dirty Jobs

When I got married, I vividly remember signing the marriage contract in church. I don’t remember the details of the contract but it was signed in God’s house with two witnesses, one coherent groom (so I thought), the pastor and me. I don’t remember all the details but I’m pretty sure there weren’t any specific rules listed in there. Maybe I should have read it a little closer. I swear I’m going to crouch down on my hands and knees and slither under my bed (should my post wedding weight fit under there) and find that firebox which contains that document from almost twenty years ago. I’m going to blow the dust off of the envelope and reread that thing – or truth be told, read it for the very first time.

What exactly am I searching for you might ask? I want to find the section that states “the wife is responsible for cleaning up all the kid and animal puke”. Yes you heard me correctly. Why has that been designated as my job? As if having ovaries or fallopian tubes better qualifies me as a puke cleaner. I’ve been waiting for a knock on the door for years from Mike Rowe, host of Dirty Jobs, with his camera crew, surely MY jobs rank up there with shoveling cow manure or cleaning out industrial size onion processors.

Nothing is worse than stepping in or sliding on cat puke. After sliding in regurgitated cat food one would think the natural next step (pun intended) would be to clean it up, but I would be mistaken. The sound of a cat gagging will send screams of “Mom, Mom hurry..do something!” (As if I took a training course on this or I should run and get my first aid kit, sheesh!).

Not long ago, I was in the middle of an important meeting when I was interrupted by my cell phone ringing. My youngest child was calling to inform me that he had just thrown up all over the rug at home. In my best whisper, I asked where his father was. Obviously his father was at home and my boy knew his dad was less than pleased to clean up the mess. (A house could be on fire but a child’s instinct is to locate the mom and tell her, even if not home, before notifying the father. It’s what kids do). I did what any smart woman would do. I didn’t go home right away ensuring the mess was cleaned up well before I arrived. (Brilliant I know!)

I came home that night to no remnants of vomit in the house. I actually came home to no rug in the house at all (I kid you not). Prince Charming found it easier to toss the rug than clean up the puke. Maybe women are predisposed to cleaning up our kids vomit. I know when my kids hurl, my hands fly up in reaction and I can dive like any of the best New York Yankees catchers in an effort to capture the vomit so a splash never makes it to the floor (gagging as I type this).

This beckons the question? Does a husband have an equal reaction to the sound of their child dry heaving? Is their reaction to run toward the vomit, like running toward a building on fire? (not quite but that’s how we women see it). Can a man cup their own hands as their child’s puke runneth over in them without puking on themselves in turn? It’s doubtful (sorry fellas). I’m wondering if it’s too late to amend my marriage contract.

Is Compassion for Everyone?

How much suffering must one endure for complaining to be acceptable?

I thought I had the answer to this question. My answer was any suffering gives you a pass to bitch and moan to your friends. Venting is a natural therapy.

My theory was rocked in the wake of Hurricane Sandy. Devastation was seen everywhere. The media captured pictures of houses washed away or burnt down. Images of mammoth trees lying on streets, houses and cars were captured. The truth is I didn’t need to tune into the news to see these pictures. I need not look further than my own neighborhood. The destruction was not only felt by strangers but by people I know, my own sister and countless friends. It was as if I was living in a perpetual out-of-body state.

Hurricane Katrina was still fresh in my mind. I remember videos streamed in from New Orleans showing people’s houses flooded and destroyed and where streets became streams. I remember listening to NOLA folks beg for deployment of the National Guard to keep a sense of order and how these same people said FEMA helped them. Those faraway places were now my places. The National Guard were at my gas stations. My sister’s car was submerged in ocean water and I listened to her speak on the phone to FEMA. The same FEMA I heard discussed in New Orleans. My sister is one of the thousands displaced from this storm. The only thing missing in my town was a Superdome (thank God).

The testimonials from friends were endlesss. They spoke of losing their cars, basements, belongings and entire houses. Their lives were reduced to the garbage they put out on the curb. Each house I drove past having piles of debris, told a story. It told their story. The toys, furniture, clothing drenched with flood waters and mud were left for all to see. It was depressing to see and more depressing for those living through it. Recovery will be slow moving but imminent. Their suffering is colossal.

Where do I fit into this picture? In this storm I lost electricity for seven days. That’s nothing to sneeze at. Standing on its own, one would consider this a great loss. The nights were getting colder and there was no heat. I was lucky enough to have a generator but don’t be deceived; power was still limited. My house became a safe haven for some of the families I previously wrote about. We ate meals together, complained together and even laughed together. My suffering wasn’t nearly as great as those earlier mentioned but I thought living without power on frigid nights for seven days was suffering nonetheless. Factor in the gas shortage and well, I thought it was more than acceptable to announce my grievances. On Facebook, people were posting statuses daily of their individual circumstances and suffering. I joined in.

My complaining did come with a disclaimer and I found I was not alone in this sense. I, like many others would say, “this is what happened to me (fill in the blank), but I’m lucky compared to others”. That my friends was guilt speaking. We didn’t want to be deemed self-absorbed or thoughtless.

Not long after, a Facebook “friend” (since defriended) spewed a long winded status how she is sick of hearing people complain of having no power when people have lost their homes. How dare we complain of such inconveniences? I digested this information and self-reflected. Was I insensitive to those who were in a critical state of loss? It was only two days prior, when this same self-righteous (oops did I say that out loud) “friend” bitched out on her status that her transformer blew and she didn’t have power. What gave her the right to now be the Facebook status police, tongue lashing those who complained just as she had earlier?

I paused considering all before me. Did my own complaining of my circumstances automatically disqualify me as a caring, compassionate, empathetic person? Did this same whining devoid me of any and all good deeds I had previously done for this is how I was made to feel? I became irate in my thoughts. A friend had the perfect analogy (which I am sure to repeat until the end of time, when needed) and I want to share it with you. If someone’s leg is cut off, it is painful and hurts. If someone’s finger is cut off, it is painful and hurts. The finger is less of a loss than the leg but nonetheless it still hurts and still entails suffering. Suffering comes in many forms. There will always be someone that hurts more or less than you, but compassion is for everyone. In retrospect, all I really wanted to say is “this sucks” and for a friend to agree without judgment.

The Birth of My Blog

Ahhhhh so I’ve finally done it. I’ve taken the plunge and started the blog I have wanted to write but have found every reason not to. Welcome people! My mind doesn’t shut off and I have compiled so much clutter in there that I’ve convinced myself (however unrealistic) that other’s might want a peek into it.

How does one come up with a creative blog name? The answer is, I have not a clue. Being the resourceful person I am (deliberate pat on the back), I tapped into one of my most brilliant friends, (I know you’re reading, so you’re welcome) who just happens to be a wordsmith. He said,”what’s your nickname? Go with that.” And so it was and all was right in the world.

Naturally, I now feel obliged to tell the tale of my nickname which now doubles as my blog name, Cindawenda. Grab your cup of coffee and pull up a chair. I’m sure as I continue to post on this blog, the drink of choice will need to change. Alcohol is only a post or two away. For now, we’ll play sober as it’s merely an introduction of myself.

Let’s go back, unfortunately way back (God damn you 40!) to my late twenties. It was my 28th birthday to be exact. I was married with two young children, three and one years old respectively. I’m sure you’re envisioning me out to dinner, dressed up (as my cute self should have been) and celebrating another year of my fabulous life. Please give me a moment while I close my eyes and enjoy this changed memory, if only for a moment. That’s exactly what should have been but was not even close to how I celebrated my birthday. The reality was, I was a young mother who was frazzled with toddlers with runny noses, dirty diapers and got to enjoy little “me” time. There was no room for my birthday to interfere with my everyday life.

My 28th birthday was celebrated with me washing floors on my hands and knees (yes, I’m that good) as I mumbled every curse word under my breath. I talked endlessly, even if just to myself, of all the misfortunes in my young adult life. My husband was close by watching our offspring and reminded me ( as he refused to make eye contact with the devil for fear I would burn a hole into his soul), that life was good. After all, we had a delicious meal (that I cooked) and my favorite cake (which I baked) and got to open my birthday present (which I bought and wrapped). I’m sure the guys reading this are thinking, “what’s the problem?”, while the ladies are silently going to church in their heads, giving me an “amen” or a “I hear ya sister”.

It was at this moment that Prince Charming uttered, “poor Cindawenda”. It was a play on words and his version of Cinderella for me. The problem is Cinderella had a seventeen inch waist, small animals helping her clean up the shit others made and in the end she got a gorgeous dress with rocking shoes to match. Cindawenda is the story before the pumpkin turns into a carriage. I’ve been hobbling around in one glass slipper for a long time.

When the complaining isn’t confined to my brain and seeps out of my mouth intentionally or not, those words so long ago ring in my ears, “poor, poor Cindawenda”……and so my blog begins.