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Perusing my old favorite haunt the other day, I found The Ink Tank, a daily roundup of editorial cartoons. Now, I appreciate in-depth analysis as much as the next girl (reading through the very lengthy New Yorker articles online during my lunch is a guilty pleasure) but there is something to be said for trying to tell a story with a picture and very few words. This one does it without any words.



Well done, Mr. Luckovich. I could not have said it better myself.


Might I add that I find it incredibly endearing that the President Elect and the First Lady-in-Waiting fist bump, just like T & I do. It's a sign of the true friendship that underlies their marriage, an indication that they have each others' backs. Keep it up, you too. It has been a long time since we have had a real "First Couple" that this country can fall in love with.

 

There are certain people in life that shape the structure that you cling to in tumultuous times, people who are constant and stable, people that are there to catch you up when you most need it.  Through my childhood, my Aunt Sue and Uncle Ritchie were those people for me.

Uncle Ritchie, my father's brother and a big gentle bear of a man, married Margaret Sue, a tall Texas belle with a hearty laugh and a quick wit over 50 years ago. They had a long, happy life together, raising three kids of their own and occasionally pulling me and my siblings into their fold. When my own parents' marriage began falling apart, they were quick to scoop us up and take us away from their drama.

Uncle Ritchie was the antithesis of my father, filled with gentleness and humanity, a quiet man who enjoyed just making kids laugh. My dad, while charming to most people that met him, was a narcissist with a mean streak a mile wide. He was quiet, too, but his quietness was sinister, a weapon that he would use to manipulate anyone he could. And kids? Umm, yeah, my dad didn't like them very much once they got old enough to question him.

Aunt Sue was the perfect mate for Uncle Ritchie. She was bold, funny, loud, solid as a rock and honest as the day is long. You always knew where you stood with Aunt Sue and she would defend us kids whenever we screwed up as just being kids. She was accepting and loving and understanding and never seemed to be put out by any request. My mom was loud, too, but in a different way. A more desperate, strident way. My mom was the prettier of the two (and Aunt Sue always told my mom this) and my mom loved it. Mom wasn't the most loving or accepting parent, still isn't.

I learned how to cook and paint ceramics and sew and knit and crochet while at their house, but these hobbies were never jobs I needed to learn so I would be a good wife someday. These were things that everyone in their house did together, things that they learned and did because they LOVED to do them. Creativity was encouraged, hugs and laughs were liberal, and you always knew you were loved with them. They even said it. Out loud. A LOT.

At my house, on the other hand, I had 2 self-absorbed parents who did not laugh with us (unless they were teasing or they were drinking), who did not encourage our creativity, who didn't hug or ever say they loved us.

At my house, we were sent to our rooms, doomed to listen to arguments late into the night most evenings. At their house, everyone sat in the den together and watched TV together or played board games until we all went to bed.

At my house, it was clear what a burden we were. At their house, even extra kids were no burden and most summer afternoons would find most of the neighborhood kids hanging out in their yard or in the pool.

At my house, you never knew who would be there in the morning (or what kind of mood they would be in) when you woke up. At their house, you were greeted by breakfast and hugs as soon as you got up. 

When we kids screwed up (and we did), my parents didn't like to talk about it. What would the neighbors think? This left us all dealing with shame issues, even today.

When their kids screwed up (and they did), their parents rolled up their sleeves and helped them out, accepting advice from whomever would give it. They understood the concept of "It takes a village" long before it was in vogue. They even offered to take in my troubled older brother after one particularly nasty fistfight he had with my father but my mom was mortified. She still is to this very day

I would have lived with them if I could have. In a heartbeat.



Last night, I was driving to pick up my daughter when my phone rang. My mom called to tell me that Aunt Sue had passed away. Pneumonia. I had to pull off the road. Sue, the strong, larger than life, smiling rock of my childhood, one of two adults that I knew loved me unconditionally, is gone. Even though I haven't seen her for a couple of years, if I close my eyes, I can still hear her laugh, still feel her hug.

It breaks my heart to think of Uncle Ritchie alone but I can't do much for him from here. He does have his 3 kids up there to watch over him but he may not last long without her. We O'Neills have a history of dying of a broken heart.


Aunt Sue, thank you for being the Mom I wished I had, the Mom I try so hard to be like with my own kids. Thank you for helping my understand my flawed parents ... your insight always helped me gain perspective and let me know that it wasn't MY fault that they were broken.  I am a healthier, wholer, happier adult for the memories that you and Uncle Ritchie gave me and the world is a sadder place today.




 

then felt nauseous.

"[L]earning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. Because if you cannot exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed. Think of the old cliché about quote the mind being an excellent servant but a terrible master.

This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually expresses a great and terrible truth. It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger."

David Foster Wallace, novelist and essayist,

from a 2005 speech at Kenyon College

RIP

Via Gawker , Reluctant Habits, Originally from LA Times

EDIT: 

(she says in her 2nd political post in 3 days) ... but this was just to good to pass up.

For more rhetoric busting, read this.

OK, I promise I'll stop posting about politics as soon as people stop being lying hypocrites and pissing me off.

*sigh*

The lovely Grace D.has some strong words for Gov. Palin.  She is a wise lady. 

Professor Randy Pausch died at home Friday. He was 47.

I, like many others, was inspired by his words.  My prayers are with his family.

and the posting is ... sparse.

I've been working as a teacher for the past 6 years and have just started to figure out this summer thing.  This is the first year I've done nothing during my break and its starting to show. My brain is relaxing to the point that if I come up with a 'great' idea and don't write it down or act on it right away, it's gone. I have had these little brain spurts in a store and before I got down to the aisle where the stuff is that I have just decided that I WILL DIE UNLESS I HAVE IT, I have forgotten what my idea was.

While this can be disconcerting, I'm just grateful that I'm actually having ideas again. This is a good sign. My brain has been stagnant since, well, since my surgery last year. I don't know what happened to me but I really feel like I have not been able to get caught up since then. Speaking of which...

I was talking to T today and it hit me ... this time last year I had just moved in here and was waiting to find out whether or not I had cancer again. I was sure this was it, that it was the supreme ironic twist that I knew was coming in my life, that once I found a fabulous guy that actually loved me and I finally bought my own house and got my life moving in the right direction that I was going to die and lose it all. I couldn't lift anything, I couldn't really DO anything but think ... and wait for a spot to open for surgery ... and think some more.

Yeah, last thing I needed was lots of time to think with no way to distract myself. It reminded me of when I was waiting for my (now) X to show up after he got served ... I don't think I slept for 2 months. 

After the surgery, I spent all my recovery energy getting back to work and I've been running flat out since. This is the first real break I've had and I think I'm finally loosening up. Hopefully, I can get creative and start writing again. Or drawing, how awesome would that be?

Baby steps. Today I tweet. Tomorrow, who knows. 

George Carlin, the man who taught me to swear with abandon and question authority, has died. There is less laughter in the world.

MARS!


Shit like this makes me giddy.