Lydia Aswolf

It’s no secret I was a freak with a temper growing up.

The temper part I agree with.

The freak part I really don’t concur with.

My parents and twin brother saw me as a freak though, someone who could talk to the dead and see things before they happened.

Your guess is as good as mine on how they persisted in thinking this, when my mother and twin had strong psychic abilities. My twin brother, David was a medium too, but they took refuge in religion, and believed they were inherently evil for seeing such things.

I was Satan’s spawn for going with what I saw and felt, instead of rejecting it.

I was told numerous times I was headed for hell.

Had little to no effect, as I know hell doesn’t exist.

I didn’t see things the same way.

They were missing so much by not using their abilities.

But I had Kiki, so it was alright.

Kiki came into my life through a mutual friend, and she and I clicked from the very beginning.

When there was no one else to talk to, there was Kiki.

Kiki was actually happy to see me.

She didn’t grumble when I was around.

Kiki never called me a slut, or godless heathen, or any of the other regular insults I was privy to from my family members.

She gave me the love and affection I would not have otherwise received.

She understood me, and accepted me as I was.

As Kiki was the only one in my life who accepted me for who and what I was, you can imagine how much she meant to me.

There was a great deal of jealousy in my family over my friendship with Kiki, which I never fully came to understand until after she passed on.

My family feared and believed my abilities were evil, but there was a bit of jealousy that I was so calm and steady in my beliefs.

I didn’t fear dying, nor did I fear any person around me.

This grated on my parents nerves, because their beliefs as parents were that I should blindly do whatever they asked, without questioning it.

As you might have gleaned from previous blogs, that’s not exactly the way I’m made, and never has been.

I only had faith in Kiki.

Unfortunately, as Kiki and my bond became closer, inexplicably, my parents ire grew greater, particularly my father, who believed females were lesser, and existed to do male’s bidding.

So it was that my father began to treat Kiki with a hatred and anger that she didn’t deserve.

I fought on her behalf every battle I could, but I wasn’t always at home when she was.

My father and I got into more than one physical alteration on account of Kiki.

I don’t regret them, and I would beat his ass again.

I came home one day, and immediately looked for Kiki.

I found her in a closet.

My father had picked her up and thrown her against a door as hard as he could.

So hard, in fact, that one of her eyes had turned sideways in her head.

At the time, Kiki had a litter of kittens.

When I found her, she was nursing them in my closet, and would lean down to wash them every so often.

Through my tears, I reached out to pet her.

To my utter shock, she began to purr when I tentatively reached down to caress her.

Even now, the tears come unbidden at the scene I witnessed that day.

No one can convince me that animals have no souls.

Kiki’s was one of the finest I’ve been privy to.

She laid there in unbelievable pain, taking care of her family, and extending the warmth and affection I so badly wanted, and never got from those who should have given it to me without precondition nor thought.

Tears streaming down my cheeks, I ran to my father.

It was very like those scenes in movies or on tv, where someone is so blinded by grief and anger, they swat aimlessly at those who have wounded them beyond the ability to ever heal.

I can say without doubt it was the ONLY time I swatted blindly at my father.

It is also one of the few times he kicked my ass without much of a fight put up by myself.

I crept back in, after taking my beating without crying out or betraying myself.

I curled up next to my mortally wounded Kiki.

The only creature who had been there for me in times of doubt, of fear, of despair.

She purred on and on as I stroked her.

When she soiled herself because she wasn’t willing to waste what time she had left with her kittens.

Or simply didn’t have the strength to rise and do what must be done.

I cleaned her.

I brought her food and water, in a futile attempt to help her.

I avoided my father’s smirking while I did so.

There was so little time left, and I would do what I could for her, and take it up with him later.

I played with her kittens with one hand, while I endlessly stroked her, and cried.

I had not believed there were so many tears in a person until that day.

Tears were a mark of weakness in my eyes.

I scorned tears, until that day.

I did not eat.

I did not drink.

When my parents tried to drag me away, I fought viciously and well, and stayed with Kiki.

That battle I won.

But the battle was not going to be victorious for my best friend.

Overnight I stayed with her, stuffed into my small closet, comforting her in the only way a child knows how.

Just being there.

I fought with my father again in the morning, and won.

I did not go to school.

I stayed with my only friend.

The truest friend I’d ever known in my young life.

Knowing where she would go when she passed.

Knowing that she would be waiting for me to join her one day.

It did me no good.

I knew I could survive without her.

It frightened me to think of what sort of person would emerge from this.

Even with Kiki’s example of love and affection in the most unimaginable circumstances to guide me.

I didn’t know how I would survive.

She died that night.

I did survive.

Kiki left me a reason to go on.

I would care for her family as she had cared for me.

No lessen worth learning is easy.

But I learned.

I think of Kiki often, and what a simple animal can teach those of us who have nothing else to guide us.

Love.

Affection.

Acceptance.

Serving a greater good than our own.

I hope that I am doing well in Kiki’s eyes.

I hope she approves.

I miss her.

Some scars never heal.

In wearing them, we have the bravery and knowledge to remember what we learned.

May we never forget.

As the holiday approaches, and we can tell the holidays are approaching because of the endless ads and Chrismas music blaring from the speakers of every store we enter, we know most kids want video games, video game systems, or video game accessories.

I hated video games until this year.

I hated them, because I sucked ass at playing them.

I tried though, for the kids sake, and just to interact with my boys.

If I didn’t, I was afraid they would forget I existed.

Besides that, I was growing more concerned at the glazed eyes, drooling, and plates of food that piled up around the videogame system.

I was sure at one point, that their hands would freeze in the position of the controllers, they spent so much time at it.

In a effort to combat videogamitis, after close observation of the above mentioned behaviors, I made some changes, effective immediately.

Homework first, mealtime spent together talking, then mandatory outside time, if it was nice enough out.

Unfortunately, this did not stop them from entering the door, and making a futile run for the safe haven of their video games.

I prevailed in the end, but did try to join them in a attempt to understand what all the fuss was about.

It drove the kids crazy.

Why?

Because I seriously sucked at my attempts.

Mostly because I didn’t even try.

I remember Aaron sitting there in a fury because I could not get above level 2 on super mario for nintendo. He wanted to help at the tender age of 7, but there was no help for me.

I simply could not play.

One of the funniest comments came as they grew older, and game systems became even more sophisticated.

I was sitting there chortling as I killed myself over and over.

As I prepared to make another go, Nik dramatically stated, “Mom is the only person left who can save the world. We are all screwed.”

Maybe that’s funnier if you were there to hear it, but I laughed til I couldn’t breathe.

Fittingly enough, while consumed by laughter, I indeed did not save the world on the game I was playing.

With our youngest two, the mandatory rules are still in place.

The only difference is, I have become sucked in, hard as that might be to believe.

We bought Lego Indiana Jones for the kid’s ds systems.

I was asked to assist.

I assisted, oh yes, I did.

I assisted to the point that they were begging for their ds back.

I took to covertly taking control of one of their ds systems after they went to bed, and played for hours at a time.

I bought Lego Star Wars more for myself than for my youngest two.

I also asked for my own black ds and Lego Batman for my birthday.

Not only did I get it, but I enjoyed my Batman cake enormously.

I was only saddened Batman Party Hats couldn’t be located, but after a time, I survived the disappointment.

When my oldest sons were informed of my growing addiction to Lego games, they stopped breathing.

Literally.

I was not amused, but then again, neither were they.

They were stunned, having grown up with a mother who would state, when another video game conference was beginning “You know I like to read,  I don’t bore you with what I read, why bore me with who’s killing, maiming, or torturing who, and how to get around it?”

I had to live through torturously long phone conversations where one son would call a friend while he played the damn game, to either help his friend through it, or to receive assistance.

To my shame, I helped get cheat codes on my computer for the times when my kids were all but crying with frustration.

I observed friends coming and going clutching their video games like bars of gold, and heard the hoots and hollers of those same friends while they spent hours playing video games.

Video games were the enemy.

Now I have taken sides with the enemy.

My oldest boys have vowed to see this phenomenon in person, as they are out on their own now.

I’m sure one day they will pop up, and the smiles will freeze on their faces as they see me.

It was firmly believed there could be no help for me, and yet here I am.

Now my youngest come to me for help with their games.

I can’t always assist, but I do my best, but fail miserably at anything other than Lego games.

Though I am fond of the wii.

That was one game system my oldest boys were not at all surprised I took too.

Unfortunately, I injure myself every damn time I play.

In case you were wondering why I never tried at the damn complicated games my oldest kids played, it’s because I’m competitive and hate losing.

It stands to reason that I play hard on wii bowling, baseball, and tennis.

I have gotten tennis elbow, and I have also woken up with both arms screaming in pain after a night of wii sports games.

It’s kinda like labor for me, personally.

You can get pregnant again and be happy because you’ve forgotten the pain of labor.

I keep forgetting I wake up in agony a day after I’ve played the wii.

Which is why I go back to play again.

I am happy to report I finally beat my husband’s ass at something.

He’s one of those guys who is humble, but wins at FRIKKIN EVERYTHING.

You name it, he wins every single time, be it cribbage, rummy, chess, scrabble, checkers…and oh yes, of course videogames.

So to beat his ass in wii baseball was so huge a victory, I posted it on the family site, with the disclaimer that he regularly beats my ass at everything else.

Brian is thrilled with my discovery and enjoyment of video games.

Now I can understand better the frustrations of what he has went through.

Because, you see, I was the only hold out in the family.

Brian played video games often and well, but he could never identify with the hours long obsession, or the bizarre games our oldest three wanted to play.

So now we are united in our enjoyment of mindless play.

In fact, I think our retirement will consist of a healthy enjoyment of select video games.

I do wonder what it will look like though.

Both of us gray, wrinkled, frowning, and wearing Depends just so we can get through to the next level.

One thing will be really sweet about playing as we get old and grey.

We can request the latest, best games for our birthday’s and Christmas.

Let our kids see what it’s like to go out and search for the hottest video game, knowing if they don’t return with it, we’ll throw a fit, and refuse to talk to THEM for a change.

I can’t wait.

I really can’t.

It’s that time of year again.

I don’t know if you and your family go through things to be thankful for or not.

In our family, we go through sincere, genuine stuff.

Then it devolves into the ridiculous things we are thankful for.

As you know, I’m not a terribly mushy or emotion based person.

Therefore, I present my top ten list of things I am thankful for.

1. I’m thankful I have a raging cough and sore throat. It certainly served me well when I was out shopping for the rest of my Thanksgiving meal yesterday. The coughing, sneezing, and spray that accompanied these actions affected the shopping crowd like Moses parting the waters to lead his people home. You know, except I was parting crowds for a gallon of milk.

2. I’m thankful my two youngest helped me clean up the house today, while letting their father sleep in. It required half a bottle of windex and a couple rolls of paper towels, but by God, they wash windows. This was a wonderful discovery until I remembered once they hit puberty, I’m screwed. I’ve discovered to my chagrin that a gene is triggered upon puberty that wipes out the cleaning gene, but I’m thankful to exploit them while I have the chance.

3. I’m thankful my husband cooks for every holiday, leaving me time to laze about the house. Not only does he cook for every holiday, he also does laundry, grocery shops, washes dishes, gets kids off to school every morning, and cleans the house…even the bathroom. Many women I talk to online have expressed their hopes of killing me to get to him. I say, good luck finding me, bitches!

4. I’m thankful I don’t hear from my oldest sons much. This might seem unmotherly, until you realize that I taught my oldest boys the birds and bees, and was so open and honest about sex, that they tell me everything. I have acquired quite the poker face over the years, but I’m afraid my brain will be damaged for the rest of my life. You try having your kid tell you he banged a girl in front of forty people, or another son telling you he attended a rainbow party, or the third saying he’s dating a preachers daughter and all the rumors are true, and see how much more you want to hear.

5. I’m thankful for pre menopause. It offers so many benefits. I am cold natured, so the hot flashes I experience keep me warmer than I imagined I would be in my wildest dreams. Aunt Flo has no power over me, for the light at the end of the tunnel is in sight now. Also, I know I can’t pop out a number six, or worse yet, numbers six and seven. Twins run in my family.The memory loss is welcome, but I wish it were more complete. If you wonder why, read number four again.

6. I’m thankful for my best gal pal, Suzanne..yup, my co host on Psychically Correct. She sounds so sweet, so innocent on air, but whatever you might have thought of me stating on air I’d put my foot up some guys ass if he didn’t admit the truth, Suzanne can beat it. We regularly talk about things that would make strong men cry, and weaker women scream, run away, and pull their hair out. That’s nice. Also nice is knowing her kid is infected with the sore throat and cold that I am suffering through. Of course I want him to get well, but when Suzanne told me yesterday that she used him as a human shield to do her own Thanksgiving shopping, I could cry with joy. She gets me, and that’s priceless.

7. I’m thankful I have a husband that is as bad as I am. He gets when I say I want to hit the motorcyclist who just cut us off, decapitating him in the process so his head will hit our windshield. He might not approve, but he gets it. This is a man who walked into our bedroom, where our at the time 16 year old was lounging on our bed, and dropped his pants to change into comfy sweats. When our son protested at seeing Brian’s ass, Brian said “See that bed you are laying on? I fuck your mother on that bed every night” pulled his sweats on, and left the room. When he shared this info with me, I did not approve….but I got it.

8. I’m thankful all my kids fear me. This might sound not so maternal either, but I believe fear and respect is necessary, specifically as I have three sons over 6ft tall who outweigh me, and two more who are going to be well over 6ft tall, who will need to have the same fear and respect. My kids know not to press my buttons.  I’ve only had to intercede in one fight between the oldest boys, back when they were 14,15, and 16. When I entered the room where said fight had taken place, two ran away, and I have witnesses who will get a notarized copy if necessary, that the kid who was left curled into a fetal position as I moved in on him. I didn’t touch him. I just ripped him a new asshole verbally. It’s good to be the Queen.

9. I’m thankful I’m a psychic and medium. Not for the reasons you might think either. I’m a private person, and private people like their personal space. When people ask what I do, I tell them. Most often, they shut their traps and leave me alone. Sometimes, a brave few will ask some questions, which I like, and answer honestly. I just came out of the closet to my in laws, and they have given me a wide berth, which is nice, because while every single one of my in laws are truly good people, I have 18 brothers and sisters in law, plus their 30 kids, so it’s nice at a family reunion, which is rather overwhelming, to be given some space.

10. I’m thankful I can control my temper. I learned early on it could be homicidal in it’s strength. I was simply asking my twin brother how his day was, and apparently it hadn’t gone well, judging by him knocking me over a chair after I politely asked. That set me off, and well, I grabbed a pair of scissors. If you want a bit of trivia about me, I learned to throw knives and shoot guns early and well. I threw the scissors at my twin brother, who luckily ducked. Otherwise he would’ve died, as I aimed for the base of his neck. I threw the damn scissors so hard, they went through our storm windows, and nearly hit my father who was walking by the windows at the time. There was a moment of silence, then my father rushed in demanding to know what happened. It wasn’t pretty, but I learned after that to control my temper, and for that, every member of my family is thankful. My oldest has seen me truly angry twice. The middle two once, and the youngest two not at all. No kids were harmed in the raising of my temper, but it sure did help instill the fear and respect bit I mentioned before.

May what you have to be thankful for be as varied as what I have to be thankful for!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

(As tomorrow is Thanksgiving, I will be taking the day off from blogging, and hopefully you will be enjoying yourselves to much to be reading. Alas, you will have to suffer more when I return in all my glory, or lack thereof, on Friday)

It never ceases to amaze me.

Not just the bond between father and son.

But the beating the crap out of one another that forms the bond.

So long as I live, I don’t think I will wrap my mind around it.

But it is a lot of fun to watch, if you have the opportunity.

I have had the opportunity for nearly twenty years, and I still can’t figure it out.

I watched with concern at first, thinking that it surely couldn’t be a good thing to throw a six month old up in the air and catch him.

Seemed a bit barbaric to me, and what the hell happens if you miss?

My husband just laughed, and kept on tossing.

Good fathers just can’t seem to leave their kids alone.

I breastfed my last two, and even this became a game with my husband.

He would crawl up and bug the child at my breast, until they turned around and swatted him away.

I guess battering and assault is a two way street.

I can even say it was actually learned at the breast, thanks to my husband.

Of course there were two schools of thought with my youngest kids.

One got to the point he would EXPECT my husband to come over and mess with him, so he’d be nursing naturally then BAM, he’d turn his head and grin at his father, inviting him to come over and mess with him.

I was not amused.

Our youngest son wasn’t amused either.

He would swat Daddy away whenever he came close..and to this day, you do NOT mess with this kid while he’s eating..kinda like a feral dog.

Maybe I should work with my youngest on that.

As all our boys grew older, the punching games began.

Basically, the goal was to gang up on Dad and beat the shit out of him.

I would not have taken this sitting down.

So it was to my great shock and dismay my husband would lie on the floor or sofa and take it like a man, so to speak.

Payback was inevitable of course.

It looked painful too.

So what astounded me at that point was the the boys ENJOYED having the crap beat out of them.

Would dance out of arms reach for a bit, then purposely whirl themselves into a beating, screaming with laughter while being punched, kicked, and hit repeatedly.

I stared on with wonder.

Then there is the very well known farting games.

That plays a huge part in our life, even to this day, and sadly enough with all five boys, and my husband.

I don’t get the competitive nature of having gas, but apparently it is there,  and rears it’s ugly head a bit more often than I care for.

Not only has my husband laughed every single time my kids fart, in essence teaching them how hilarious that particular body function can be.

He’s also squatted in front of every single one of our five boys in a attempt to fart in their face.

He’s been successful only a couple of times, and I can tell you it HURTS him when he’s not successful.

Seems a mark of manhood to fart on command, and specifically to humiliate another.

The worse it smells, the more points you get in male society apparently.

So our son Kameron thus far holds the record, for clearing out our entire upstairs after one battle with his digestive system I can assure you he lost.

Sadly enough, this is a record he is still proud of.

Take the farting and the beating, and add them together.

What you get is a man who will be surrounded by kids throwing punches, lying down, who decides to lock his leg around some poor unfortunate son, and attempt to fart in his face.

Tell me, why is this hilarious?

The kids struggle, shrieking with laughter to escape the leglock.

They even recruit one another to help pry his leg off their head.

But if, perchance he does fart?

They relax under his hold, and laugh helplessly.

Doing this is a two way sword though.

Because my sons will literally sit on their father’s head, hoping to be inspired with a fart.

While my beloved husband laughs in a oddly muffled manner, again mystifying me.

Beyond these two core values, beating and farting, there is also the streaking.

I have no idea why it is so freeing to be naked all the time.

But I have had meetings with other mothers and apparently it’s widespread and nearly impossible to contain.

So it is, I have averted my eyes when my oldest three would streak through the house.

Then I kindly reminded them that our picture window was open, and all could view the wonder of their bare buttocks.

Screaming, they retreated to get dressed.

That method worked wonders with the oldest three, but has failed utterly thus far with youngest two.

They don’t mind if their dicks are flying in the breeze from a open window.

I assure you, I am working on it.

And failing miserably.

It doesn’t help that my husband has been witnessed to moon kids through that same window.

You heard that right.

One day, my husband decided to “surprise” my oldest son, not knowing his buddy was with him.

So he dropped his pants and pressed his butt to our picture window.

Aaron was laughing, his friend was laughing, and I was frightened.

Frightened, you see, because his friend’s parents were extremely prudish.

If word got back, God help us.

Luckily word did not get back, but it opened the door for our kids to follow suite.

Now, none of the five have pressed their bare butt against our picture window, so I’m thankful for that.

But it did take a ghastly turn when our youngest two have decided farting through pants isn’t good enough anymore.

Instead, they go for sitting on their fathers head naked.

Never works.

Even my husband has his limits, and having his kid sit on his head naked is one of them.

I know one thing is on my side in these endless bonding wars.

Time.

Because as my oldest three have turned into young men, the beatings have ceased to exist.

So I know one day, that my youngest two will not be rolling around beating the crap out of their father, or vice versa.

As with life, there is a catch 22 for every situation.

Age might matter in fighting.

It will never matter when it comes to farting.

Pray for me.

Let’s talk turkey.

You and me.

Tomorrow night, 9pmEST.

Oh hell, it’s not working is it?

I tried to be all mysterious and shit, and it didn’t work for me, what it did for you, I’d rather not know (unless it’s good, lol).

Anyhoo, tomorrow night on ask1radio.com, Suzanne and I are gonna be talking turkey, psychic style.

What does that mean?

Anything we wanna talk about we will.

God help you all.

Oh yeah, we’ll be giving away our $20 gift/grocery/gas card too, hope the winner doesn’t mind that I’m gonna send a Thanksgiving card that has my crappy handwriting in it….gift card inserted, of course.

Give us a call and talk some turkey with us..or you know, ask your psychic questions!

Liam on left, Reilly on Right…have a nasty sore throat today, so this is the best I could do.

This is the ideal environment for two boys age six and seven. They can fight, they can scream at one another, and they can’t harm furniture or miss the toilet and piss on the floor…or worse yet on the seat, for the unwary mother who unwittingly sits on it later, marinating her ass liberally in their “Oops, missed” moment.

Of course, this is also a gag shot taken at Ripley’s Aquarium in TN, so….sadly they crawled out, later pissed on the toilet, and yes, I sat in it, fuming.

I ran over a dogs ass once.

I still have the scar to prove it.

He deserved it.

I do love dogs…really.

But THIS dog, I didn’t love.

I didn’t even like him, or his ass.

Growing up in my neighborhell (in the days before I moved into other neighborhells, but those are other tales) wasn’t exactly the highlight of my life, and mostly because of my own doing.

I had a mouth on me nearly from birth, as my relatives enjoy reminding me.

I suppose it was cringe inducing at the time, yet I know they roll with laughter nowadays over my exploits, including this one.

Barkingmad was the dog.

His owners were BeerBreath, Slick, and Submissiveone.

For whatever reason, other neighbors dogs were allowed to run free in our neighborhell, just not ours.

We found this out by trial and error.

At first, no one voiced any opinion, as their dogs roamed free.

Then there was the day when OleCrazyEyes came over and claimed our dog pissed on his tree and killed it.

Not only did I opine to my parents extreme embarrassment that I felt he was a piece of shit, but I also went over the inspect the tree for myself.

Didn’t look dead to me.

Perhaps because of the embarrassment, or because of it, my parents replaced the tree, and put our dog on a chain in our backyard when we had to leave. He was allowed in the house at all other times.

Bitch that I am, I let him out on his own several times before the phone started ringing.

My mother would inevitably run to the phone before I could get there.

It wasn’t known what I might say (even I didn’t know) but it was well known it couldn’t improve our standing in neighborhell.

One other incident stands out in regards to Barkingmad.

It was after I’d given our dog his bath, and let him out after drying him.

As we were fussing over him and petting him, Barkingmad ran over, mounted my male dog, and liberally squirted all over his back.

I saw red, and I’m not talking the literary reference used to express extreme anger.

I mean my vision literally clouded red.

For a moment, I wondered if I’d burst a blood vessel in my eye.

Barkingmad pranced off, greatly relieved of his burden.

I’ve seen plenty of dogs who go after dogs of the same sex.

Never bothered me, mostly because each had the courtesy to keep whatever bodily fluids tidily inside the subject of their interest.

Thus it was I watched, and I waited.

For Slick and BeerBreath.

When they finally emerged later in the afternoon of the incidnt that besmirched my poor dog (ok, I’m dramatizing, he didn’t seem to care one way or another), I was ready to rumble.

I would like to think I set a record for most fucks used in a sentence..but I’m not sure.

I know I was screaming at the top of my lungs as Barkingmad pranced about with a gleam in his eye I certainly hadn’t seen of late.

Something to the tune of “You fuckers better fucking make fucking sure your fucking dog is motherfucking on his fucking motherfucking fucking chain!”

Both BeerBreath (adult) and Slick (teen) stared at me in utter shock.

I let my anger work for me, you see.

If they think you are batshit crazy, in my humble experience, they tend to take great lengths to avoid you.

We didn’t have anymore run ins with Barkingmad assaulting my dog.

But I’m the wicked witch of the Midwest.

I wanted to let Barkingmad know how I felt about him, and the opportunity came one day when I was riding my bike with my twin brother.

Barkingmad was off his chain again, and running along the gravel road with us.

When he ran in front of me, I did, in all fairness, yell at him to move.

When he continued to run in front of me, I said the hell with it..or probably fuck it, I don’t remember, I was really big on using the word fuck back then.

Then I ran over his ass.

I chortled with glee as I thumped over his ass, even though he didn’t seem bothered.

Then I went down, as I should have expected.

I did mention this was a gravel road, right?

I have also made it clear I can be um, incredibly stupid, yes?

Good.

When I went down, I skewered my knee on a large rock.

My twin brother, David, recovered from his doubled over laughter at seeing me run over a dogs ass, then bite it, when he saw the damage done.

I saw the damage, but my only worries were that my mother would catch me, and I’d have to admit to what I’d done, and then apologize.

So, with blood squeaking down my sandals, I rode home.

David was invaluable.

He helped cover me while I slipped behind him to mop myself up in the bathroom.

Of course my Dad discovered me sitting there.

But I did have time to mop up nearly all of it beforehand.

Both of my parents were nurses, have I mentioned that?

While I realize this is completely disgusting, I can’t really help myself either.

I was fascinated while I probed the wound, to see the layers of muscle and fat…and this would um, serve me well for the health care worker I eventually became.

Of course, I grew up eating lasagna while watching heart surgery as well, so give me a break, it’s kinda to be expected.

My father eyed the wound calmly and informed me I’d need stitches.

My mother was more well controlled than I would’ve believe possible as we packed up to go to the hospital.

That was because my Dad got to her first.

On our way to the hospital, the story came out.

So it was, as we entered the hospital, both my parents were nearly in hysterics.

Then I had to suffer while being evaluated, getting numbed up, and stitches being put in.

I wasn’t suffering from the procedure.

I was suffering from the fact that my parents knew all the nurses and doctors.

A visit to the ER is a little different when your parents know everyone.

They catch up, they gossip and little, and when it’s their kid being treated, they have to tell all their colleagues how it happened.

This was a story too good NOT to share apparently.

I judged this from the steady flow of doctors and nurses alike entering the area I was, coming over to look at my knee, and laughing directly in my face while my parents told them I’d ran over a dogs ass.

On a gravel road.

On purpose.

Besides utter humiliation, I did get a couple nifty things out of the experience.

First, I knew I wanted to work in health care.

Second, I got a cool L shaped scar (ahem, my name is Lydia) on my right knee.

Third, and probably most importantly?

I learned never, ever to run over a dogs ass for revenge again.

The twinkle in Barkingmad’s eye every single time I saw him taught me that more so than anything else.

I worked in health care for quite a few years.

As my mother did before me.

And her mother did before her.

I believe in part, this only helped to sharpen and focus my empathic abilities.

In a weird way.

As a health care worker, in the thick of direct patient care, I took after my Grandmother’s style, rather than my Mothers.

My Mother tended to get too emotionally involved, always mourning and shedding tears upon the death of one of her favorite patients…of which she had many.

While my Mother, and her Mother before her were both psychic.

My Mother was not a medium, as myself and my Grandmother were.

So it stands to reason that my Mother had doubts about the Other Side, and felt a deep loss with the death of a patient.

My Grandmother and myself were more pragmatic, knew instinctively not to get too involved.

This would seem to be a contradiction of empath abilities, but I assure you it is not.

It is commonly reputed that some empaths have difficulties in getting overwhelmed by other’s emotions, becoming too involved.

Therefore, when working with patients, it was imperative that you did NOT become overwhelmed in their pain and roiling emotions. To do so would render you ineffective, to say the least, and unable to assist them, bring their emotions to a more calmed state, and help them as best you could.

In a interesting way, it was good training for the career path I was to take in the future.

So it was, that I did not become overly involved with my patients, though I have many commendations on record for patient care.

I only really became attached to two patients, one of whom I took care of for a relatively short time, but who made a huge impact on my life, and for reasons that might seem inexplicable.

Her name was Ellen.

She was in her late 70’s.

Ellen had a beautiful face, which was at odds with her cruelly twisted and fused body.

Ellen had rheumatoid arthritis, a very, very painful condition.

She also always wore a beatific smile on her face.

I can’t convey what Ellen felt like to a empath, to someone who can see how pure one’s spirit is upon first introduction.

I was in awe of her, and talked to her as often as my heavy patient load permitted.

I learned a great deal about her from our limited interaction.

She had given birth to twelve children, two of whom she lost in later years.

I listened, fascinated, at lunchtime while I helped feed her, to her tales of the early days, when her husband ran the farm, and she raised her growing brood.

Ellen told me she kept the crybabies at home while the older children went with her husband to Mass.

She didn’t want to interfere, you see, in other’s enjoyment and religious fulfillment at Mass with the crybabies doing what crybabies do best.

Ellen told me of the mammoth meals she had to make, rising at dawn, resting at dusk, and the chores and hard work that went into making and maintaining a farm and a large household.

Then she told me of losing her husband far too early, when the youngest children weren’t yet in school.

Of her struggle to keep the farm, with the aid of her oldest children.

Her guilt that the oldest children had to help keep them afloat, in addition to attending school.

Her fears that they might in the end, lose the farm.

What struck me the most, was while she was relaying these fears, was that you could see in her eyes, that she was reliving these times, and focusing mostly on the good times, the joyful times.

She laughed, she teased, and she had a optimism mixed in with every word, that I found awe inspiring.

They did not lose the farm.

Her children grew, healthy and whole, got excellent educations, and made a good living.

All her children had ensured that their Mother was put into the finest nursing home possible, and visited often and with great love and affection.

They fussed and worried over her, and I observed this from a distance.

She never complained you see.

Though her body was racked with rheumatoid arthritis, she never complained.

It hurt more than you can possibly imagine to move.

Those of us who did turn her from side to side to ensure she did not get bedsores.

Those of us who bathed her.

Those of us who changed her soiled clothing.

We could see how much it hurt.

Yet Ellen never complained.

She smiled through the pain.

She would tell us she thought she was wading in the creek when she inadvertently wet herself.

Ellen would apologize if she made a mess that we had to clean up.

Ellen always tried to make us smile.

I felt pitiful and impossibly small next to her.

I still do.

I wished so badly I could be like her.

She was a bright light for me, the first patient I would without question have traded places with.

To remove the prison of pain she lived with day after day after day.

With a smile on her face, and good cheer in her heart.

Even now, I feel I have not done her justice.

She was the oldest, most beautiful soul I have ever known.

Ellen died six months after I had the privilege of getting to know her.

It was the norm to host the visitation at the Catholic Nursing Home I worked for.

Ellen’s was the first and last visitation I attended there.

She was also the only person I shed a tear over.

I wish I could do Ellen more justice, the smile, the endless optimism, making everyone around her feel special, loved.

I vowed to pay her tribute one day, to try with my limited ability with words.

Though I have failed to my own mind to accurately portray Ellen today.

I carry her and her example with me every day.

To be optimistic when the odds are stacked against you.

To be in pain, and yet not take out that pain on others.

To love all, and judge none.

Those are only a few lessons I learned from Ellen.

They are worth learning, and for that reason.

I hope everyone has or encounters a Ellen in their life.

I was stupid enough to start on a book

But as I looked at it, I was disgusted with myself for even trying.

To say it sucked, is putting it mildly.

That said, I certainly remembered a few good times…or bad, depending on how you look at things, from way back when I was just a wee kid of five years old….and as obnoxious and loudmouthed as ever.

You see, we were five, my twin brother David and I, when we moved into a new neighborhood.

The expectations were fairly high for drama and lots of entertainment, from our new neighbors point of view.

We lived in a small town where everyone had heard of everyone else.

So when we made our move to the country, certain…things were expected of us.

Why, you might reasonably ask?

Because well, my father has been classified as lightly retarded.

My mother is bipolar, manic depressive, and last but certainly not least, paranoid schizophrenic.

I know, I know.

What a pedigree.

My new neighbors did not count on both of my parents being very sweet, eager to please, and submissive.

It was logically viewed by all that myself and my twin brother David, would likewise be sweet, and very easy to control.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

David was a good boy, but well, you know already that I was not a good girl.

As our visits around the neighborhood began, my mother could often be found looking desperately, and rather futilely, for a hole to crawl into, as I opined on the new neighbors breath, bratty kids, and so on and so forth.

I always received lectures after my opinions were aired, usually on the way home, and very lengthy in nature.

I don’t know why my mother tried.

She was aware no method known to man she’d tried yet had shut me up.

But she tried to put manners on me, and some of them rubbed off.

Her only failure was a inability to teach me tact.

Of course, there is one thing I’m not quite certain if she is aware of to this day.

As she isn’t exactly a fan of computers, I’m crossing my fingers she doesn’t find out.

We met the T-rexes a few weeks after we’d moved in.

They seemed nice enough to me, at first.

Betterthanyou, the mother in the family, grated my nerves because the nickname I have given her is indicative of her thoughts and actions towards us.

T-rex Senior, was a quiet, powerful man, who didn’t say much at all, which suited my constantly running mouth very well.

T-rex Junior was a older kid, not disposed to spending time with us little kids, but pretty cool all the same.

Spacy was the kid we played with, blonde, pretty, funny, and all around awesome to play with.

So what problem could I possibly have had with a family like that?

Well, the ham salad sandwiches, that’s what.

Every single time we went over to their home, Betterthanyou pressed ham salad sandwiches on us.

We declined politely at first, but apparently she had a amazing recipe we just had to try.

So it was, the terror began.

You must understand I am one helluva picky eater.

I rarely if ever ate meat when I was a child.

But you know how that goes.

If your mother tells you in the presence of company with that look in her eye, you MUST accept something, then you must.

Even if you can see that some of the look in her eye is mixed parts I will kill you, and oh god, what will she do?

So I accepted as gracefully as I could.

Then I found places to hide the damn thing.

Easiest spot was to drop it down their heating registers.

But occasionally I’d tuck it into a cluttered corner, or push it deep into a toybox.

It was probably a month later while on a quest to hide yet another damned ham salad sandwich, I overheard Betterthanyou telling my Mom that there must have been a mouse who died in the walls, because they couldn’t find the source of the stench that kept coming up when the heater ran.

I smiled to myself.

My secret was still safe.

Problem being, I was running out of places to put the horrific foodstuff I kept being forced to accept.

I was pretty sure the gig was up the day in a panic, I had to shove the sandwich deep down their sofa.

It wasn’t long after that I noted we were going over less and less.

Which was a relief really.

I was out of options, and I knew my sorry ass would be beat for what I had done, and well deserved, at that.

To my amazement, my mother never said a thing, even as the visits stopped altogether.

She apparently believed the friendship had run it’s course.

I know better.

What astounds me is they HAD to have found possibly dozens of ham salad sandwiches secreted all over their home.

Hmmm….

On second thought, maybe not.

It’s possible that mice had been feasting on Betterthanyou’s super secret, amazing recipe for ham salad sandwiches.

Not only must they have been incredibly desperate to do so.

But after having partaken, become predictably suicidal.

While I mourn the loss of the mice.

I will never mourn the loss of the ham salad sandwiches.

I have a problem.

I piss people off.

Often, and thoroughly.

I did it again last night.

The only difference?

This is the FIRST time in all my radio shows I’ve pissed a caller off.

I’m sure it won’t be the last, but it got me to thinking late last night.

About all the people I have pissed off, because I have no filter between brain and mouth.

I pissed a co worker off who continued to bring tons of pictures of her ugly baby to work, when I said the kid looked “interesting.”

I pissed off my boss when I told her “Fire me right now if you think I’m not doing the job I should”

I pissed off my mother when I told her she needed to leave my father for good.

I pissed off my father by telling him he was a pimple on the ass of humanity, and always would be.

I pissed my brother off by telling him he was his father’s child.

I pissed off my neighbors by telling them their kids were pieces of shit.

I know I’ve pissed my husband off, but he’s a wise man, and not apt to tell me about what, when, where, or how.

I’ve pissed my kids off simply by saying “No!”

I piss myself off regularly, and let myself have it.

I piss myself off for my lack of patience, lack of tactfulness, lack of initiative at times.

Oh yes, and I piss potential clients off, on a consistent basis.

I’ve pissed men and women alike off when I tell them their ex is not coming back, time to move forward.

I’ve pissed heterosexuals and homosexuals off when they wanted someone from the opposite lifestyle, and didn’t stand a chance in hell.

I’ve pissed off men and women who aren’t out there looking, but expecting love to just magically appear in their laps.

You might note that I inserted how I pissed “potential” clients off.

I put that in there for a reason.

Because I’m quite aware that I can piss people off with my blunt perspective, I tend to accept only one in twenty potential clients.

It sounds snobby, but it’s to prevent exactly what happened last night.

I will say that 100% of my clients are practical, intelligent, and utterly amazing people, whom I am blessed to work with.

They have a low tolerance for bullshit.

Which works fine.

I have no interest in telling fairy tales, and my clients accept and appreciate me for that.

Unfortunately, in the radio business, you can’t screen callers.

I find this refreshing, because it stretches and challenges me more as a psychic.

It becomes a bit of a hassle when you get someone who wants the fairy tale, the bullshit, instead of truth.

It is incumbent upon myself and my colleagues to tell the truth.

I have said on the show that we do have rules and strictures that bind us, we who are legitimate.

One of those rules is being honest.

Most psychics seem to be able to manage being both honest, and tactful.

I am not one of them.

Therefore, I was mystified when the email complaining about my particular style came in last night.

It began with, I listen to your show because I appreciate your blunt perspective.

Then it devolved into you did me wrong.

I did not do you wrong.

I did what I’m bound to do.

I told you the truth.

In the blunt perspective you admired so very much before.

I realize there can be double standards.

Once upon a time I used to get irate when my husband told me my ass looked ginormous in that outfit.

I got irate with my sons when they asked if I was pregnant because of my belly (most of which I’ve lost, TAKE THAT, Offspring!)

I got pissed when I would try to write a short story and my friends would say it wasn’t quite up to snuff.

I realized I wanted a double standard.

I wanted them to tell me things were good, when they were not.

I did not deal out fairy tales to my clients, but expected them in personal life.

Obviously, I’ve changed my double standard.

Now I’m deeply appreciative when my ass looks horrific in those jeans, my stomach is bulging, and my stories suck total ass.

It’s the truth, you see.

They say it will set you free.

I believe that.

I state often and with great fervor that I am a human being comprised of many flaws.

I state often and with feeling that I am also a psychic and medium who can be wrong, off, or just not connecting properly.

I think it’s fair to say, on air, with clients, on this blog, and in personal life, I flaunt my flaws a great deal more than my good points.

I judge myself most harshly of all.

I know that without a objective, blunt perspective on my own flaws, I can never achieve growth.

I shall continue to judge myself, and strive to improve my many and varied flaws.

That said, I shall never compromise the ethics, morals, and rules I am bound by, both as a psychic, and a human being.

Therefore, as I said to this upset caller.

Perhaps it would be better if you consulted someone who will tell you what you want to hear…..not what you need to hear.

My clients and myself desire to know what we NEED to hear.

What you want, and what you need are very different things.

Don’t let your wants strip your needs.

In doing so, you deny your self the true happiness and fulfillment you deserve.