Pray for Rain

Texas has been on fire since Sunday. Wildfires have been spreading all around Austin, thousands of people evacuated, you can’t throw a stick without hitting someone who has been affected.

Having grown up in west Texas, dry summers aren’t anything new to me. Disasters happening all around were not uncommon growing up and they generally had something to do with bad weather. Violent tornadoes ripped through Texas regularly during my childhood. Drought was just something to be expected.

All summer long, this year, I’ve had this image floating through my brain of a tattered, yellowed, hand-written sign that I saw all my life, all around Texas, posted in store windows, “Pray for rain.” Those signs have always haunted me.

Because of this, I have always loved rain. Yes, I love the heat, probably a little too much. Frankly, it’s got to the point where I was complaining along with everyone else after hitting over 70 days straight of over-100-degree weather.

I love rain too. I love it when it sprinkles. I love it when it gushes. There’s nothing quite so beautiful to me as a darkened sky, rolling clouds, and a loud thunderous clap just before wetness falls from the sky.

Right now, we could really use the rain. I mean. Really. So pray for us, everywhere else in the country.

Perhaps God is pissed off at Texas because we have a governor who’s a complete prick and is going around using God’s name to get votes. But some of us don’t like Rick Asshole Perry. So, make sure you toss that in when you’re mentioning us. God might not being paying attention to the tiny liberal pocket since we aren’t all that vocal with him. Or maybe he’s pissed at us because we ignore him. Either way, for those of you are in good with him, perhaps he just needs a reminder. Or she. I should say she, because I like to imagine a female God. Maybe she’s tired of getting called a boy. Or maybe this all has something to do with scientificky stuff like airflow and wind patterns. But either way, a little collective energy toward the heavens couldn’t hurt us right now.

Luckily, my life has not been directly affected by the fires except that I can smell the smoke. I’m just keeping my fingers crossed, and praying,which feels like the most we can do, other than donating to the victims. Doing a rain dance wouldn’t hurt either, if you are so inclined.

At this point, many/most of you have probably gotten a good lead on places to donate and help out the fire victims, but if you need any more leads, here’s a comprehensive list from one amazing Austin mama blogger.

If you want to read more stories from Austin mom bloggers, here’s a post that links up to lots of other blogs. We’ve all got our stories.

And finally, a special shout out to my friend Heather, a crafty mama who is supporting an effort to make handmade quilts for fire victims. They’re going to need something special to cuddle.

Dr-logging: The second installation

The first time I ever got drunk I was 15. I snuck out of my house with a friend to meet a boy she liked and he brought along his uncle.

I’m not sure how old he was, but he was definitely an adult. It seemed like he was in his 30s. He treated me nicely though and I had fun. Now that I’m older, I realize that I was lucky to have a met a respectful man who didn’t take advantage of my stupid 15-year-old naivete mixed with vodka and orange juice.

The second time I got drunk was about two years later. My brother bought me and my best friend some wine coolers and laughed at us as we fools of ourselves. That’s not a judgment on him. Hell, I would have done the same. He was only 20 or 21 at the time. The point is, I was lucky to be in situations where drinking didn’t lead me to getting raped or killed in a drunk driving accident.

Oh wait. I’m sorta drunk.

Yeah, this is my second installation of drunk blogging. I’m thinking of making this a weekly installation. Let me know what you think.

See, the thing is, I’ve realized that my blog has sort of morphed into an extension of me. There’s the harsh, drinking, ex-drugging, sexually promiscuous side, which is me during my early 20s and early 30s.

Then there’s this mommy side of me that’s been more spiritually aware, softer, more genuine side who loves babies and is constantly intrigued by my child, who is in all honesty, cute-as-a-button, but also, just a normal kid. She is amazing to me simply because she’s my daughter.

So, this leads me to say what I have to say about my blog.

Fuck you my man.

Okay, not really. I just threw that in because I’m drunk.

And something else, all the shit that has been going on in my life, not cool.

No, it is not cool for you to take advantage of me.

No, it is not cool for you to act like you know something that you don’t know.

No, it is not cool to harass me, even if you are the person who gave birth to me. It is definitely not cool to take credit for my life or my awareness. I did a lot of fucking hard work to get where I am today. So fuck you.

You know who you are.

Let me tell you a little something about me.

I’m a drunk. I don’t get drunk all the time anymore like I used to. But if I go by the common definition of a drunk, I’m still a drunk.

I’m also a good mom. I’m a damn good mom. I’m not perfect. I make mistakes. But I’m a good mom. I research shit. I work on my patience. I try damn hard to treat my child like she is a human being. I work damn hard to understand her developmental stages and respond accordingly.

Most people would say that being a drunk and being a good mom doesn’t go hand in hand.

But let me tell you something about the mom world.

It is filled with disease and hatred and misunderstanding.

I was talking to an AP mama friend this morning. She said something so profound that I feel the need to share it with you, my readers. She said (and I’m paraphrasing here), “People don’t seem to make logical jumps when it comes to parenting.”

She expounded on that thought and we both laughed about how mainstream parenting says that you should let babies cry it out, then start spanking and giving harsh punishments to children. And then, right, and THEN, they wonder why their children are fucked up.

It’s actually a lot like the world of being drunk.

There’s denial and misunderstanding and a bunch of bullshit.

Being a mom doesn’t give you automatic rights to being a nice person. It just gives you a world where women flock around you and pat you on the back, telling you that you’re doing a good job. But the truth is, you’re still the same fucked up person you were before you gave birth. You’re still a drunk, a slut, a goody-two-shoes, a judgmental bitch, an animal lover, a hopeless romantic, a reader, a TV watcher, a gardener, a cook, a lazy-ass, a smart-ass, a dumb-ass, a poor housekeeper, a slob, a fat-ass, a skinny bitch… a human being.

Becoming a mother doesn’t give you any special rights. If anything, I gives you less rights because it is a fucking gift to be able to give birth to a child and watch a person grow. You don’t own me. I don’t own Annika. She is her own person. I am my own fucking person.

I apologize for the fact that this wasn’t as funny as the last Drlogging. I meant it to be, but I have been really fucking angry this week.

Here’s a picture of Annika and me with Leslie, an Austin institution. It’s blurry as shit because my phone sucks. But there you go.