What's "The Island Funk"

Here's what you don't think about when “living the dream”;  there is still all the same bullshit. You almost can't believe it at first. You still stub your toe here, you still have bills to pay, and you still get the blues.

I've been in a full on funk.

I've narrowed it down to a few things. Simultaneously I went vegan, got the flu, and did an activated charcoal cleanse. Then Trump happened. Additionally, a weird full moon decided to really fuck things up.  But frankly, there seems to be a “special full moon” every goddamned month, so I'm not “pleading the moon” anymore.

A little advice? Don't watch Forks Over Knives, and if you watch Forks Over Knives, don't go completely vegan in one day. Definitely don't add in activated charcoal. Then, don't get the flu.

And really don't fucking ever vote for Trump again.

I'm not gonna go all “constitutional” on anyone's ass here, but since he's been in office, I've lost virtually all respect for almost every Republican I know. But the positive? The religious Right turned out to be the sellouts I always knew they were. Being Right never felt so dirty.

Bad news: that dude in the sky you guys attach to everything? He's not gonna let you play with him and his band of immigrants when you die.

Still the funk continues. Current plan?

Hang out with people who are actively making the world better with everything they do.

Meditate before I workout, which means I should probably work out.

Surround myself with funny people, god damn it, life is not that serious….wait, is it?

Go to the beach. A lot.

Eat things that I love and that love me back.

Call my sister more.

I think too often we can get stuck, stuck in our fucked up brains. We wallow inward and become imprisoned in the useless thoughts that have nowhere to go, and nothing to do. There is where our hell is.

Resist my darkness, resist all darkness, let the light draw me in like a spinning wheel.

Raising Babies on an Island

I get tagged every time a mother asks for advice about potentially moving their family to an island. This one I know, well, I know my experience at least.

I was in suburbia, 4 bedrooms, a den, a walk out basement. She'd be going to a pretty good school paid for by our property taxes, and I'd take her there in a pristine black SUV, wearing my knee high boots, leather jacket, not a hair out of place, and my makeup would be “on fleek.” (whatever the fuck that means.) 

But that wasn't going to be her childhood.

Her childhood was going to look much different.

She won’t go to school until almost six, and when she does, her dad will be dropping her off and I'll be picking her up, always in flip flops and very likely in my bathing suit. Hair never done. Make up “off fleek”, if not on at all.

Her hair is as wild as the wind and she doesn't know what jeans feel like on, in fact we recently tried to put them on her, and she looked like a cat that you put tape on it’s paws. She prefers the pool over the beach right now, unless we are at a Birthday party, which we are always at a birthday party.

She love cupcakes, as I assume she would anywhere.

She loves west Indian food, she loves feral cats, and she loves dragonflies. She loves lizards, passion fruit off the vine, and mango season.  

She loves beachside taco Mondays, surrounded by her friends, music, bubbles, and sand.

She doesn’t mind flying cockroaches, power outages, or having to wait a few weeks for a toy, not that she really ever sees “real tv”, or is a victim of successful pointed marketing. She never sees the mainstream news, and she never hears about politics. She feels sorry for mosquitos, and understands that they are just trying to make it like the rest of us.

She looks forward to rainy days, because in our house it an unwritten rule that we crawl into bed and watch movies, eat snacks all day, because those days are few and far between, and I want her to learn to drop everything for the “few and far between moments”.

She sees mom’s that aren’t perfect here, she sees women with “beach hair”, and that no one is “on fleek” all the time. She sees bodies in bathing suits of all shapes and sizes. She sees people taking “family time” over any other time. She see women that love themselves, laugh at themselves, laugh at each other, and that enjoy their life, free of judgement, especially from other women, hell no, we are a team.  

These women are her tribe. The examples of what women are, what she will inevitably become, because they are what she knows.

She sees me. Imperfect and happy. Never “on fleek”, and never “not me”.

She’s been on 110 airplanes in her life, she is a traveller. She knows the world is big and knows she can go see it all. But for now, her little island is her home, it is loving, safe, and real.

And that is what she calls “a childhood”.

Why giving a damn matters

A few days ago I pulled up to a car that was stopped in the middle of the road. I pulled up to his window and yelled out in true hillbilly form, “YOU ALRIGHT?"  (I’m sure humiliating my niece in the passenger seat.) He smiles and holds up his mini bic, then says “Oh, I FOUND IT!” We laughed, he drove ahead and we forged on.

A little ways up he once again stopped in the middle of the road, and I pulled up beside him and rolled down my window again. He said, “It’s so cool that you stopped and asked me if I was okay. No really, you have no idea what that meant to me.”

I was so shocked by him being shocked that all I could muster was, “That’s what I’d want you to do for me, Happy Holidays”, and we drove on.

I’m not telling this story to stroke my own ego, although it is the size of Texas and loves to be molested on an hourly basis.

But what kind of fucking world are we living in that it is shocking for someone to ask if they are okay? Seriously people. This guy was a wake up call for me. Are we not as a collective group caring enough for one another? Is it so hard to help someone out? And why the fuck are we here for anyway?

Are we that busy? That scared of evil? That detached from the common good?

Maybe because it is Christmas time, or maybe the look on this man’s face made me write this, but who the fuck are we?  

So for my Christmas wish this year, I wish this world would stop and ask each other, hillbilly style or not, if we’re okay. Because isn’t that all we really need, is one person who gives a fuck about how we are.

Merry Giving a Fuck.

Go ahead, blame your parents

We’ve all got one, that parent that we believe that we “picked” to teach us patience and understanding. That fucking parent that gets under our skin. Sure, we love them, sure, they gave us life, sure, we know they love us, sure, they want the best for us, sure, murder is not an option.

For some reason, they are ours and we are theirs. That doesn’t make it easier. With these tips you can get through the holidays.

One, know that they will be dead soon. This is to be kept in the back of your mind at all times. I recommend visualizing their funeral, what you will be wearing, who you will see, and what nice things you will come up with to say.

Two, keep pot on hand, offer it to everyone. Even if you do not partake, even if they don’t, it’s a nice ice breaker, and it shows who’s cool and who’s not. It also makes life a bit easier if you do smoke it.

Three, booze also helps. Be careful with this one, it can backfire quickly, as you might be inclined to tell said parent just how they have fucked you up, and that never helps anyone. Remember to avoid the ones that make you cry, white wine is a strict no-no for me, as is whiskey which makes me want to try all those kick boxing moves I know.

Four, humor is your friend, if you don’t have siblings, fine, or even worse, if your sibling doesn’t agree with your findings that this parent is annoying as fuck, then find someone with a parent that is just as annoying, it shouldn’t be hard to do. Rip on them constantly, social media is a great outlet, as most of these particular parents couldn’t work their way around the world wide web if you paid them a trillion dollars.

Five, don’t bring up money.

Six, under no circumstances do you bring up anything that opens up a forum for opinions. This will only fuel the killing urge. “What do you think” should never come out of your mouth. Also, do not take the bait if said parent asks for yours, they are baiting you.

Seven, don’t agree to go anywhere with this parent. Malls, restaurants, parties, or anything with other people will only bring to life just how horrendous this situation is. It is like putting a microscope on your differences, and nobody has the endurance for that shit.

Eight, try to remember that everything they hate about you is something they hate about themselves playing out in the form of you. It’s the highest form of self loathing.

Nine, focus on the parent that you like if you have one, if you don’t, then bring someone along that you can connect with, a cousin, anything will do, but do not be alone with said parent, they will corner you and you will start kicking and fighting.

Ten, Remember, no matter what, it is their fault. They made you, it’s on them that you’re totally fucked up. In a pinch, a subtle reminder may be necessary,

Good Luck and GODSPEED.   

Rising up from being shattered

The second most asked question of me is “Where did you come from?”

The first being “What’s wrong with you?”, a product of an extremely sick and boundaryless sense of humor.

I can still feel the cold of the linoleum floor of the hospital emergency room on my face. Just a few months into my adulthood, this is where I lay. It was completely silent, the way it is in the movies when something really bad happens and you’re surrounded by a swirl of events that you know involve you, but you are just an observer, a silent partner in reality.  

As the nurses piled out of the room where my baby lay cold, none of them able to make eye contact with me, just rushing out, crying, hands over mouths, I lay dying.

This is one of the main reasons I believe wholeheartedly in drugs. They shot me in the ass and I woke up sometime four months later.

The course of the next decade was a series of thrashing and crashing, they always depict the phoenix rising from the ashes gracefully and triumphantly, I looked more like Chris Farley making a passionate point, but just the same, I rose mutherfuckers.

Not to say that I ever got my shit together, I didn’t, and I don’t plan too, but I am happy, and it took a very long time to be. Having your shit together is completely overrated and I am pretty sure it’s what is making the world suck.

That’s how this journey started, yes, of course, I came from my momma and she made me the way I am too, but really, that person died that day, and I was left to pick up every piece of a shattered heart, assemble it into something that resembled a heart, and move on.

I had no idea that it would take so long, or that my heart would end up more beautiful and strong, but somehow it did, and it has so much room for so many in it.

I do remember the cold. I will always remember the cold of that floor. Just when I start to feel like I am not happy, I remember what unhappiness is. When life seems like it is too fucked up, I remember what being fucked feels like.

When my heart breaks, I remember that day, I remember that floor, and I pick up the pieces and I put me back together, and that is where I come from.

Life changes: Matter of Minutes

When I was around twenty-six I was in a terribly “passionate” aka “abusive” relationship. Oh, it was both of us, I don’t blame him or myself completely, we both had it out for ourselves and therefore each other. I remember one particularly shitty day. Us, yelling and screaming, trying to “win”, basically playing a losing game with our lives.

I was so fucking frustrated.

I was frustrated with myself, my choices, and frankly, I wanted to kill him.

This had been a year and a half of this fighting and making up routine, the making up didn’t suck, but man, it was getting exhausting.

I couldn’t breathe. I WAS DYING.

I went into the bathroom and turned out the light, I couldn’t stand the way I looked in the mirror anymore anyway, and I didn’t need the distraction of the failure on my face. I needed silence. I needed to breathe, and I needed to think.

I got down on my knees, for some reason, it felt better on the cold floor in the darkness, tears falling down my face, and I whispered with desperation “Give me a door, give me a window, I promise I will take it”.

The phone rang.

At first, I wasn’t going to get it, but I hopped up, swung the door open, and rushed to the phone.

“Hello, is Elizabeth there?”

“Yes, this is her” I struggled through my tears to say

“Yes, I am a recruiter from Verizon Wireless, and we have a position we’d like to talk to you about”

She went on to say that there was a management position open in New Orleans or Chicago and that it was mine if I was willing to move.

I was willing to do anything. Fuck, timbucktoo? I'll take it.

The reason I am telling you this story is because in a matter of minutes my life changed completely for the good. We always talk about how quickly life can change for the bad.

We can get sick, lose someone we love, or experience some sort of trauma, but in a flash, it can change dramatically for the good, as long as we are willing to go through that door or window that is opened for us.     

Why being "real" is your "Dream life"

When I moved here I thought I needed to get away from the horrible weather of the midwest, too hot in the summer, bone-chilling in the winter, but that wasn’t it, I know that now. I needed to decide to live where I wanted to be.

Sure, the weather is not my cup of tea, but who doesn’t love those two, maybe three weeks of “apple barning”? (yes, I have turned that into a verb, and I fancy myself a caramel apple connoisseur)

I love the ocean, I love to hear it crash upon the shore, maybe just to know that I am not the only thing in this world that is constantly crashing. Or maybe I just need to be surrounded by water, reminded constantly of how small I am. Maybe I just needed to know that I have the power to be where I want. But moving here was just that, empowering.

For me it is an island in the middle of the Caribbean. For some, it is off to Dublin or Rome, for some it is a little flower shop twenty minutes from town. I think the most important part is to be in the driver’s seat of what you want. I know for some it is our children, our job, or our family that holds us where we don’t want to be.

I also know that when we move where we want we find that the things that plagued us before are still there, and I think that brings the reality of making the best of what we have today, rather than blame it on where or what we have. Our circumstances are really just temporary in the end. This is all temporary.

I think what makes this life “a life”, is friendships and laughter, loving and vulnerability, sadness and acceptance, and most of all, the ability to see beauty in it all. Connecting with each other. Being real.

If you can’t be real, what the fuck can you be?

What I am saying is being ourselves is really the “dream life”, isn’t it? Being seen without the veil of bullshit that we so often shroud ourselves in. For me, that meant moving 2,200 miles from my home, but it shouldn’t have to be that dramatic, it should be a choice that we make when we put our feet on the ground each morning. I’m going to be free today.

There, be free, get naked, whatever, just be real.

Here is why you come here in the summer

This summer has been hot and full of mosquitos! The air has been on for weeks.

Nothing compared to the Illinois summers that I lived with for 36 years, for instance, June 1st air on, September 1st, air off. Oh, and people stop leaving their houses in Illinois in the heat, people here flock to the beach. Mosquitos are the same, although I do feel that the mosquitos here are a little more intelligent and fast.

It’s the “off-season all my friends in the service industry have a little more jovial demeanor, and the tourist money is not flowing, so it’s just rum, no juice, they’ve gotta save money somewhere.

The ocean water is like bathwater. I get to the beach and am in the water for hours, this never happens in the winter, as I am a complete vagina when it comes to being cold in any way, shape, or form.

I love this time of year, I could swim every single day, there is no peace like floating alone in the ocean. Unless you’re lucky enough to swim in the warm caribbean while a warm summer rain washes down on you, that is when the world stops completely.

My friends with school-aged kids are running around getting their schedules down with the new year starting, and their little ones are tired by six thirty, so weekdays have been pretty uneventful.

The birthday parties on the weekends are well attended, no one has tourist duty, and everyone is back “on island” for their children to start school again, so it’s nice to see everyone, especially since I have been travelling so much.

I have no travel plans for the next few months. This is the first time in so long that I have not had at least four trips on the books. It feels good like I can start my routine again.

Summer is a great time to be a complete degenerate on an island. There is not much going on so, why not drink? You drink, so who feels like working out? It’s hot as hell, so I am not cooking, sure, tacos sound great, and sure, I’ll take cheese and anything else that tastes fucking fabulous. Basically, I am saying I’ve had the lifestyle of Tony Soprano, short of the killing people.

So instead of taking on the body of Tony, I am doing a month long detox, which feels like a year on an island when everyday it is completely acceptable and normal to live like you’re on vacation. So, the piper needs to be paid.

People always ask me when the best time to visit our island is, and most people agree that October to May is the prime time, and I’ll admit, it is perfect here then, but I must say, if you really want the island experience, the laid back, lounge on the beach, warm water, booze and food, relaxing, island lifestyle, I think the best time is the summer.      

Cutting ties to the mainland

This has been a hell of a few weeks.

I went back to move my niece into college, sift through everything we had stored from our own home, sell the crap we didn’t want, and ship the rest down.

Watching my niece walk into her dorm room left me with a lump in my throat and I could barely breathe when i wished to the universe that she live fierce in spite of fear. I secretly hoped that she developed a milder version of the love of fear that I have.

Luckily my grandmother died while I was home.

Wait, that didn’t come out right.

I was lucky to be able to celebrate my Grandmother’s life with the rest of my family while I was home. That’s one con of living down here, every time someone passes that you need to be at the service for, it is a major cost and a long travel time. Of course, it gets you out of some of the funerals you’d otherwise go to if you were local.

Leave it to my Grandma Priscilla to make it as convenient as possible for me, even in death. She was a pretty cool cat, she ordered her drink “Give me a scotch and water, easy on the water”, I may have gotten a little something from her, she knew what she liked, and wasn’t afraid to have fun.  

She had also been planning her death from before the time I was born, and there is something to that, living like you’re gonna die, well, you’re more or less of an asshole, depending on how much or little you care for someone, and you have a real grip on the fact that you are only here for a small amount of time, and then you are a memory, be a fucking hilarious one, and she was. I hope to be too.

So I never sold any of the shit that I didn’t want, I just gave it all away, fuck it, who wants to have a garage sale and witness strangers judging your shit that you don’t want? “No, I don’t want it, but you should, what is wrong with you?”  

I take that kind of rejection hard.

There is something about living on an island that really makes you not give a fuck about stuff, but I will tell you this, I CANNOT WAIT to cook a meal with my kitchen stuff. Kmart is awesome and all, but she doesn’t have shit on Sur La Table and pampered chef.

I also can’t wait to have my Christmas ornaments, every one with a different story, like the time I broke my rib and had to be “bobcatted” off the sledding hill and ambulanced away, well, only appropriate for my sister to get me a sledding ornament. Nothing’s funnier than an ER visit, right?

I do miss that about having my family all together, ripping and laughing at all of our failures. I love failure. Failure is so much funnier than success.

So, our shit is in the middle of the ocean somewhere, and I am here, waiting for my rubber spatulas and my dutch oven. I may love the feeling of fear, and may not fear my death, but I’ll be god damned if someone is going to reject the crap I don’t want, and just you wait til my island Christmas tree goes up, displaying all my failures, just watch it sparkle.