“If you’re going through Hell, keep on going. Don’t slow down. If you’re scared don’t show it. You might get out before the devil even knows you’re there.” ~Rodney Atkins

I love this song. When my e- husband left me, suddenly this song was on every time I listened to the radio. I played it an awful lot…in order to keep reminding myself that I was going through Hell, but so far, the Devil hadn’t realized my presence.
If I could just keep going…

Over three years later, divorced, re-partnered, and finally feeling like my life is moving forward, I am in my daughter’s room. And that song is playing. I start singing along to it with her, and we’re singing it together.

She stops singing and says, “This song reminds me of you.”

“Really?” I ask. “Why’s that?”

“Because when Daddy left you, you played this song all the time. You were going through Hell, but you just kept going. You didn’t stop. No matter what happened, you just kept going. And now you’re happy again. And you’re not in Hell anymore.”

This, just, wow. Blew me away.

She was 5 when her dad left me. I didn’t think she was paying attention to me. Watching me. Listening – and learning.

But apparently she was.

And the lesson she learned is one that I had hoped to impart to her. I said to her after she shared what that song means to her, “I am happy that is what you learned from that time in my life. It was incredibly difficult for me. But the one thing I had hoped you learned is what you just told me: No matter what happens in your life, no matter how many times you are knocked down, or kicked around, you know that you have to get up and keep going. I’m so happy that I was able to show you how to do that.”

I wish I could protect her from the inevitable failures life is going to bring. I wish I could be there for her every time she falls. I wish I could throat punch life when it kicks her in the teeth. I wish life would always be easy for her. But since I know it won’t, and since I know that  I won’t be able to pick her up every time, I’m so very grateful that she learned that she will be able to do it herself.

Even though the lesson I taught her was painful for me. Even though I wish I never had to experience that kind of pain, fear, doubt, and betrayal. And even though it’s something I would never wish to happen to my children…I’m glad for all of it. Because maybe now, maybe because of the past three years – of my children watching me slowly pick myself up, dust myself off, and dry my own tears, they have learned to do this themselves.

And maybe, because I showed them the spirit of perseverance, maybe they will be able to persevere in the face of adversity. Maybe they will pick themselves up, dust themselves off, dry their tears, and carry on…even though the only thing they may feel like doing is curling up in a fetal position, rocking, and hiding under the covers.

I’m not a perfect mother. Hell, sometimes I think maybe I’m just an adequate mother. I don’t do all those “mommy” things that other mothers do. But maybe, just maybe none of that other “fluff” will matter.

Maybe I will have actually taught my girls some life lessons…as I lived my own.

I used to say, through the entire process, and everything I went through, that if my daughters learned anything positive from this whole thing, then it will have been worth it.

So when Freeloader #1 said, “I will always think of you when I hear this song,” I think that maybe now, over three years later, it was all totally worth it.

“Yeah, if you’re going through hell, keep on moving. Face that fire. Walk right through it. You might get out before the devil even knows you’re there.”

“Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” ~Ben Franklin

I love beer. Yes I do. Love it. It makes me happy. When I’m having a stressful day, I think of that cold 12 pack just waiting in my fridge for me at home. And my stress lessens…if only for a bit.

My love for beer is actually legendary. My friends expect me to post frequently about beer. My brother often times, when I’m whining about some stupid problem, tells me to either:

A. Drink a beer.
B. Go look at a beer.
C. Pour beer on it.

Like I said. Legendary.

Now, before you start to judge me and call me an alcoholic, let me say this. Shut up. No. Really. Shut up. You don’t get to judge me. And I’m not an alcoholic. I took a test. I’m golden. As a matter of fact, after I took the little online screening, I was so not an alcoholic that the site told me to go have another beer.

True story.

All joking aside, I view my alcohol like fine wines or good coffee. I am, in fact, a beer snob. I don’t consider things like Budweiser a beer. No. This is what real beer drinkers like me pee.

Real beer consists of microbrews, dark brews, lagers, foreign beers, and nothing with the word Bud or “lite” in the name. I will however, when I’m watching my girlish figure, or the weather is very toasty, drink Corona Light. But that is because they spell the word light correctly. And I can put a lime in it and get some much needed vitamin C.

I’m all about being healthy.

My favorite brew is Black Butte Porter. I would swim in this concoction if I could. I love the smell, the flavor, the color of this beer.

But I have an extremely sad story to tell about Black Butte Porter which I have been drinking for a good 15 years. I believe I have recently developed an allergy to it. I know. I know. This is so heart-wrenching to me. When I drink my beloved Black Butte, my nose gets stuffy, and I get a headache. I can have one. Just one bottle of this nectar from the gods before my allergies take hold, and I start to get a reaction.

Back to my love of beer in general. I love beer so much, that I have renamed Friday. I no longer call it Friday. It is, forever in my mind, Beerday. And beer thirty on Beerday is my favorite time of the week.

Now, beer thirty differs for everyone. For some, beer thirty on Beerday starts the second they wake up. For others, it’s after noon. For others, after five. To this I say, let it be. Whatever your beer thirty on Beerday, crack one open and enjoy.

Sometimes, when I look in my fridge, and there is not a beer to be seen, I get sad. My fridge looks empty, lonely. I think my fridge is telling me something. And that something is to go get more beer.

Other times, when we only have three beers left in the fridge, I kind of start to panic. I mean, three beers is not enough. Well, not enough for two people. Four beers might be enough for two people – if it’s NOT Beerday. But on Beerday? No. Three simply won’t do for two people. There must be at least six for two people.

And my beer consumption alters year round. It goes without saying that I consume more of this delightfully pleasing beverage during the summer months. Water is boring. Beer is fun. Save the water for pools. And the yard. I’m all about water conservation.

I’m simply doing my part.

So if you are with me on this one, whether your alcoholic beverage of choice be wine, beer, or vodka, please, let us raise our glasses and/or bottles and toast each other and the finer things in life.

And do not let the nay-sayers bring you down. To them, I say this: I do not argue your desire or right to not partake in liquid libations. So you may not interfere with my deep love of beer.

To the rest of you: Happy Beerday.

“Advertising is the art of convincing people to spend money they don’t have for something they don’t need.” ~ Will Rogers

I just got back from a trip to Las Vegas. Yes. I know. Vanessa Jane in Las Vegas. Did you not feel a disturbance in the force, young Jedi? Well, true story. I was there. I’ve been to Vegas before, about 15 years ago or so. Maybe I’m older. Or maybe I’m just getting old.

Because at 38, Las Vegas just seemed…sad. And empty. And soulless. I don’t know how a city can seem soulless, but it did.

Las Vegas is a beautiful city. The casinos and resorts are really cool. At night, it’s one big, glittering, globe. The economy in Las Vegas has not, according to our shuttle driver, been affected like the rest of the United States. It’s as if Vegas is its own little world.

Except that it’s a soulless world. Let me see if I can put into words what I saw – what I thought when I saw these things, and the ultimate feeling it left me with.

I saw hordes of people walking, rushing, looking, shoving, pushing, and hurrying. It was fast, busy, dirty, and there was a sense of urgency I just couldn’t put my finger on. WHY was everyone in such a hurry? Where were all these tourists going that they needed to get there so quickly?

It appeared as if everyone in Vegas was searching for something…something they could not find. I’m not calling the people who live in Vegas soulless. I don’t think that’s it. I think it’s the tourists that have made the city this way. Everyone there just seemed so empty- so lost.

And this got me to thinking: It’s not just Las Vegas. I see this everywhere. I see this in the people around me, my neighbors, my friends, and my family. It’s like we’re lost as a civilization – we’re lost as a race. We consume, consume, consume. And then we consume some more.

America is one of the richest nations in the world…we are also one of the fattest. I’m not just talking about weight. I’m talking about the acquisition of material possessions. We spend money we don’t have, to buy things we don’t need, which forces us into jobs we don’t love to pay for those things we purchased that we only thought we wanted. There is an impulsiveness about commercialism that scares me.

If you’ve ever been at a place where you wondered how you were going to pay your rent, or buy food for your kids, or have been flat broke, then you probably understand where I’m coming from. To me, paying money to go to a spa, or join a gym, or buy brand name clothes is absolutely ridiculous. I’m not talking about occasional indulgences – we should do this. I’m talking about making this a way of life…of becoming entrenched in the masses by participating in the gross consumerism that has robbed our civilization of its very soul.

Because when one buys that new, fancy car, or spend $300 on a pair of jeans, or one’s make up cost more than one’s monthly food bill, one will only have to up the ante next time. That rush is going to get harder and harder, and more and more expensive, to beat. And soon, our very essence will corrode. We are becoming hard.

I’m not talking about capitalism. I’m not talking about taking money from the rich and giving it to the poor – I believe in capitalism. I do not believe in giving hand outs to people who are perfectly capable of earning a living. I’m talking about letting material possessions determine a personal level of happiness.

We have become a nation of consumers. We are tearing down forests to put in strip malls. We are putting up billboards that block the natural beauty of the world. We allow our politicians frivolous spending. We have stopped believing in anything. And if you are a person who DOES believe in something, the masses soon shoot you down – as if believing in something, a cause, a position, is wrong. Live and let live, right?

But I wonder…how many of us are actually living? How many of us are happy? How many of us are at peace? How many of us are fulfilled?

And how many of us are just sheep?

I can tell the people who have been through their own personal hell. They are the ones who don’t criticize, offer unsolicited advice, or judge those who suddenly find their own world ripped apart. You see, you can’t know how you will behave when your life is suddenly turned upside down. Your actions may be completely out of character, you may do things you once swore you would never do.

So remember when someone who calls you friend loses a spouse, a parent, a child, a sibling, a job, a home, their faith has been shaken, and their values suddenly take on a whole new meaning. They question why. But they don’t need you to answer for them. They are only asking. It’s a rhetorical question, you see.

I can tell the people who have truly experienced and lived through a devastating experience because that is the person who will not tell you that God is testing you. God does not test your faith. He knows your faith because He knows your heart. God does not cause your children to die, your spouse to abandon you, your boss to down size, or your house to be lost in a fire. These are random results of the universe. This is what happens when people make decisions that affect you. God has no desire to see you suffer. So spare those who are suffering the religious clichés. Because believe me, they sound like judgments, whether that is your intent or not.

I can tell the people who have been to the blackest of holes and have made their way back. These people are wise. They are wise enough to realize that you will do what you need to do to survive, and that for some time, surviving is all you will be capable of doing. They have the wisdom to see their past hurt in your eyes, hear the echo of their almost forgotten agony as you voice the pain each new day brings, and the compassion to stay silent. The wise are silent.

I can tell the people who have woken up day after day and wondered how they can still be alive when it seems they should have drowned in sorrow. These are the people who will never try to compare their experience with your own. Nor will these people tell you about a person they know who also is “going through” the same thing. You see, they don’t tell you this because they know that no one else has ever faced the challenges that life has now brought you. You are unique in your pain, your experience, and how you deal with it.

I can tell the people who have taken the events of their own personal hell and have grown from them. These are the people who will allow you to grow, in your own way, from yours. They will stand on the other side of your dark, long tunnel, where the light is, and wait for you. They won’t rush you. They won’t tell you to walk faster, or slower, sideways or back. They won’t encourage you to run when you can barely crawl. They won’t tell you to slow down when you suddenly want to race. They will laugh with joy when you finally see the light and start to skip towards them.

And they will continue to stand there, knowing this is a journey you need to make on your own, but with their arms open. For when you finally reach the end of that tunnel, you will look back at your footsteps, your decisions, and your choices. You will acknowledge them, honor them, and not regret a single one because each one needed to be experienced in exactly the way it was for you to be able to stand in the light. Alive and whole. Finally.

“It’s the Swagger Wagon, I got the pride in my ride. In my Swagger Wagon, Yeah, the Swagger Wagon, It’s the Swagger Wagon.”

I drive a mini-van. Yes. Yes I do. I drive a golden color, 2001 Ford Windstar Limited Edition mini-van. And you wanna know what? I love it. Yes. Yes I do. I LOVE my mini-van. I know. It’s not “cool.” Mini-vans aren’t “cool.” Right?

Wrong. My mini-van, or The Swagger Wagon as I’ve been frequently known to call it, is flippin’ awesome. Yeah. You heard me. The pure awesomeness of my Swagger Wagon, puts, as far as I’m concerned, all other vehicles to shame.

Let me tell you why.

First, it’s a sweet ride. The side doors open with a remote; it’s kind of like driving a space ship. I like to sit in it, open the doors with a button, and say in my best astronaut voice to the kids, “Board the flight vehicle. We are preparing for take off.” My kids don’t think this is very funny. But that’s because they don’t have a sense of humor. It’s actually HILARIOUS. Not to mention how truly fabulous this is when I have a ton of groceries, and the sliding open of the doors is but a button click away. Yeah. It’s like that. Cool huh?

Second, my Swagger Wagon goes fast. Shut up and don’t hate. It does. I’ve had many a people pull up next to me, give me the side way glance, smirk – SMIRK – and try to blow me off at the light…and FAIL. Even my significant other, when he first drove it pushed on the gas, and was surprised at the power. He’s described “her” as having “a lot of get up and go.” SHE WILL WASTE YOU IN A RACE is what I really heard him tell all the other cars around us.

Third, cops don’t see her. Yes. Because she is a “mini-van” and she is a tame color, cops don’t see her until it’s too late; too late for THEM is what I meant to say. I’ve had my swagger wagon for over six years, and I have received one speeding ticket. And I speed all the mother-loving time. Just yesterday, I was going 40 in a 30. I sped right by a cop. Saw the cop, slowed waaaay down after I passed him. And…nothing. It’s as if she has a cloak of invisibility. *Poof* and I’m gone because I was never there.

Fourth, she’s paid off. Nuff said.

Fifth, she has a pretty good stereo system. I had a new one put in after I bought her. It’s nothing like those hipsters have (I have no idea what a hipster is, by the way). But it’s enough so that when I pull up next to some punk kid (yeah, I just said that), and he’s playing his hippity hoppity rappity rap crap music REALLY loud, I simply find a little AC/DC on my Ipod, and crank it up.

Let me tell you what happens when I do this. I’m at a light. Some wanna be pulls up next to me, cranking their craptastic “music.” So I turn up my AC/DC “Shook Me All Night Long”– we exchange glances. He turns his up more. I turn mine up more. And so it goes. This has happened a few times – and every time it happens, they give proper respect to the classic rock band that is AC/DC, and they turn their crap-fest down. Or maybe they don’t. I wouldn’t know because I can no longer hear their pretend music over the awesomeness that I am playing.

I like to think it’s the music that earns their respect. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s the geeky mom in the golden mini-van cranking AC/DC that kind of confuses them, and scares them a bit. Whatever. I win.

My Swagger Wagon, well, she doesn’t get that great of gas mileage. She has some dings and dents, and a couple of scrapes (hey, sometimes you DO slide on ice and run into retaining walls). She probably needs to be washed, and she definitely only gets cleaned out twice a year – once in May and once in October. I once found enough Fruit Loops to feed a third world country. True story.

The point is this; I love my car. She runs great, she’s paid for, and yes, she’s a mini-van. A geeky, fantastic, full-of-character and spunk, mini-van. She was the first thing that I put in MY name after my divorce. She was in my ex husband’s name; she once legally belonged to him. I still remember looking at the title, in my name, for the first time. I remember the feeling I had as I held that piece of paper. She was my first realization that I WAS an independent woman, and I could do this whole divorced, single mom thing.

I could probably buy a “cooler” vehicle, and certainly not a mini-van. I could spend an outrageous amount of money on a brand new vehicle, be financially irresponsible, and feel awesome…for about a month. But then I’d have a car payment. I’d have higher insurance rates. I’d more than likely have a couple of tickets. I doubt I’d have a better stereo system. I’d lose my swag. And worst of all? I wouldn’t be able to do that really cool astronaut voice. I have to admit, I’d miss seeing my kids roll their eyes at what is my very obvious hilariousness.

Yeah. I’m a mini-van mom. And I’m diggin’ it.