Home Alone
About twenty years ago, I had a blog. I like to draw stick figures (yes, I am a professional stick figure drawer, no autographs please) and I like to write so I combined the two, calling it a “comic blog.” It was a lot of work, more than I could manage at the time so I took my talents to Twitter where I also failed there. I’m taking a break from Twitter to write books, so I thought I’d breathe life into some of my old blog posts by copy/pasting them here, maye one or two a week. Sign up for my newsletter if you read historical fiction you will be the first to know when they are published! Until then, I’ll be sharing a few blogs posts. Here is one I called, “Home Alone.”
I can't say that my childhood wasn't full of encouragement and support.
At one point, a very specific thought in my head was, "I just want to be left alone!"
Which brings me to something I rarely, if ever, talk about. I was in fostercare. It was okay if you liked moving from place to place with no stability or cablevision. It's not something that I talk about because I don't answer questions about it mostly because of liability, kinda like the Janitor Olympics, always slippery.
I have tiny scars that dot the landscape of my soul. Events that have pummeled me with bull's-eye precision have tried to send me over the edge into a deep dark hole of despair I tend to call a bottomless pit.
One of my favorite movies of all time is Home Alone. I love how "Kevin" declared war on the "Wet Bandits." Their robbery attempt was thwarted by an eight-year old and it had a big comedy reveal, much like my dating life.
My last boyfriend hauled some stuff off to the dump and came back with more than what he left with.
He compartmentalized his food like a boss.
It couldn't touch on his plate or in his mouth or he pushed the plate aside and refused to eat. No, I'm not sure what grade he was in.
One day he cried because his car had a flat tire, so I told him it would be okay and I changed it for him. At that point, I realized something was wrong. (To be fair, it should have been when he wouldn’t let his food touch on his plate).
I had been living under the assumption that the "Wet Bandits" in my life would just go away on their own. They didn't. Then, one day, I declared WAR. I was 40 years old and had had ENOUGH of all of this nonsense. I picked up my Hefty bag full of tolerance and tossed it into the BP spill. I began to feel fairly confident that I could take out the Wet Bandits by doing a complete 180. I emerged from my cocoon of despair even as I got eighty-sixed by Mr. Flat Tire Bandit.
I have a hidden capacity to be highly intelligent and for the most part, I keep it hidden, but after tossing the Hefty bag, I rearranged my brain and tossed him, too.
Just like Kevin left the light on in his house for the "Wet Bandits" so they would think his parents were home, I leave my light on, too. No one is breaking in again without me at least putting up a fight. Also, I need the light to find my slippers quickly, like a gangster does.
No, I don't have parents. I don't have a boyfriend. I don't even have a cat. But, I do have a plan.
I'm building a fortress of friends and preparing for the remainder of my life like some people prepare for a zombie attack or a bacon shortage. Actually, I could eat my own foot if it was wrapped in bacon and sauteed in butter, so, don't really want to even joke about a bacon shortage.
Each day, I start my day off right and end it better than it started. Daily, I treat those around me golden and I’ve been getting rid of all "Wet Bandits" who bring me down.
Also, not to brag or anything, but I think I may have won the "Golden Duster" award in the Janitorial Olympics for my precision mopping skills.
D E C L A R E W A R on the Wet Bandits in your life.