Mommy Dearest: Sweet Revenge

Merriam-Webster defines “Mother” as “acting as or providing parental stock”,a “female parent “ and my favorite – “A woman in authority”.

Somewhere within that definition I lurk. I’d like to think I provide more than parental stock, I’m for sure a female (a full on middle aged woman -how did this happen so quickly?) and I yearn for the title of “Woman of Authority”.

I am coming upon my 18th year of marriage to a man who is perfect for the father role. Relaxed, thoughtful, inspiring and approachable. He provides a balance in our household that allows myself and our two sons to make it through each day. 

Relaxed? Me? Not a chance. Thoughtful? Working on it all the time. Inspiring? My pandemic collection of paint-by-numbers canvases splayed all over the house- can this  imply  that even someone with absolutely no art background can succeed in actually producing something inspirational and pleasing to the eye? Approachable. Let’s just say I’ve heard the term “RBF” (resting bitch face) more than once from family and friends. If that’s not showing an approachable mother, then I don’t know what is. As a mother, one must streamline and choose her battles. So let’s just say, the more approachable a parent seems, the chance of being run over by a child is higher.  They sense a weak link and they go in for the kill. So RBF it is.

I find myself interrupting my sons’ questions and requests, “Is this going to be a question that you already know the answer to?” before they can even get 3 words out. “Have you looked in every single room for your flip flops? TRY LOOKING ON THE FLOOR-WHY ARE YOU LOOKING IN THAT SNACK CABINET FOR YOUR SHOES.”

How about the “You didn’t turn on the parental controls and the V-BUCKS landed in my account for some reason.” What. Did. You. Just. Say.

Are you implying that the $78.46 that is on this American Express bill is MY FAULT? Um. Buh-bye Fortnite.

What about the old “Every time I put something down and go to look for it, it’s gone. Why do you move everyone’s stuff?” Um. Maybe because it’s been sitting on the bathroom floor and I’ve held out as long as possible from touching it and hoping someone will come claim whatever the item may be before I throw it in the trash?

I’ve compiled a list of harmless ways to show my family who’s really the boss in our abode. Just some sweet and satisfying revenge tactics that any woman in authority within the home can relate to. 

  1. Showers. About 1 minute into someone’s shower I like to run the dishwasher or laundry machine. Keeps the shower attendee guessing.
  2. Trash. An offender’s litter is found  and  can go directly onto the offender’s dresser .Hopefully they will get the hint that the dining room floor or the stairs leading up to a bedroom is not a trash can in any way shape or form. 
  3. “Cluelessly” enter and disrupt a teenager’s phone call, FaceTime or online game by walking by several times in a bathrobe with a wild head of unbrushed hair.
  4. Act bewildered and loudly announce you’ve found all of his dirty underwear stuffed under his bed and ask how long it’s been since he’s used his toothbrush. I also like to slip in “this room stinks”.
  5. Create your own hours of operation for Chik-fil-a, McDonald’s, Five Below and Dunkin Donuts. I like to pull the old, “they aren’t open today” or they are doing inventory, or the place was robbed last night so no DoorDash today, friends.
  1. Eat a late lunch and announce that everyone is responsible for their own dinner that night. Don’t feel guilty at all. 
  2. Hide the TV remotes deep into the couch and seats in the house. Act offended at the suggestion it’s your fault. Don’t feel guilty at all.
  3. See how long you can go without grocery shopping. Watch as the shelves empty of life and the desperation sets in.
  4. Hide the bags of M&M’s and boxes of Entenmanns chocolate chip cookies in random dining room drawers and help yourself!

10. This is super annoying and immature but what about adding a few teaspoons of salt to any drink your husband is drinking throughout the day and walking away.  Revenge.

Just know that everyone’s Mommy is important. Even the crazy Mommy’s like myself deserve a little harmless fun to show her family how important they are to her. Make sure you tell your Mommy that you love her. Tell your Mommy she’s awesome. Pick up your trash and dirty underwear. Lastly, for the Mommy’s – turn on that parental control option and learn how to pause any wifi activity in your home at any time- this very well may be the ultimate Mommy Dearest revenge. Try it out for yourself! Don’t feel guilty…We are in charge! Embrace your authority and feel no shame as you keep your family “on their toes” all the while knowing you’re the one behind that curtain. It’s empowering! 

The Hidden History of Resorts International (Our Very Own Spy)

I still fantasize that I was old enough to understand and ask questions about what my grandfather, Robert D.Peloquin, was up to for so many years….the man was an imposing figure, one who laughed raucously and jogged in white tennis shorts after a game of tennis at Sea Colony, more likely than not then headed to swim some laps. Pop Pop had a BOOMING voice. He could drive anything, fly anything and I considered him the leader for sure- Thanksgiving dinner at The Homestead on Tract Road just wasn’t the same without him at the head of our large table. No one could ever replace him, apparently this was also the case throughout his career.

I dreamt about my Pop Pop last night. We were “jogging” throughout Sea Colony together….I will always remember the following Q&A session I did have with him many years ago-
Shawn: Pop Pop, aren’t you scared of the jellyfish stinging you?
Pop Pop: Nope.
Shawn: Why not?
Pop Pop: They know I’ll sting ’em back.
Enough said. Miss him.


In point of fact, the enigmatic Robert Peloquin always seemed to have some war or other to fight. Peloquin first got into the intelligence racket in during the Korean conflict when he joined the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI). He was on active duty with the ONI from 1951 to 1955, and continued Office to serve in the reserves for over twenty-five years, finally retiring in 1981 with the rank of Commander. Interestingly, the ONI was one of the two US intelligence agencies (the other being the OSS) that initiated Operation Underworld, effectively a collaboration between the Syndicate and US intelligence during World War II. Meyer Lansky played a key role in establishing this arrangement, which many believe continues to this day. But back to Peloquin.

In 1956 he graduated from Georgetown University Law School (Georgetown has a rich history of grooming future spooks) and was appointed Deputy Chief at the National Security Agency (NSA) in the same year.

Already possessing quite an extensive intelligence background, Peloquin joined the Justice Department in 1957 and soon found himself knee deep in the battle against organized crime, or so the story goes. Peloquin was involved with Operation Tradewinds during the 1960s before retiring from Justice, with some believing that he was running interference on it for the Syndicate. Shortly after he had left the government he ended up working for the NFL and especially closely with the Washington Redskins. As was noted before here, DC capo Joe Nesline and future Watergate madam Heidi Rikan were deeply (har har) involved with the Redskins in the same time frame as was Dino Cellini, brother of future Resorts manager Eddie Cellini.

Unsurprisingly, it was Peloquin’s gig with the Redskins that led to the murky netherworld of Resorts International and Intertel.

And murky it was indeed. Probably the most notorious caper of Intertel was also one of their first: the abduction of billionaire Howard Hughes from Las Vegas. For years many have equated this to a kind of palace coup.

Intertel, known especially and remarkably for its composition of former organized crime strike force attorneys from Robert Kennedy’s Justice Department… The IRS considered Intertel… ‘an organized crime enterprise of some type aimed at the Bahamas,’ as one account summed up the agency’s view. Robert Peloquin and William Hundley, Kennedy’s top crime fighters, had joined the firm and recruited operatives from the CIA, FBI, IRS, Secret Service, and other intelligence agencies. Staffed exclusively by what one author called ‘Get Hoffa agents,’ it was likened into a corporate CIA. ‘With the murder of Robert Kennedy in 1968, the federal government’s war on organized crime… was over,’ wrote Hoffa biographer, Dan Moldea, ‘… and two its best warriors – Bill Hundley and Bob Peloquin – were dressed for war but had no one to fight.’ ”          

I have pulled some excerpts below :Click here for Entire Article.

What it amount to is that a big part of Resorts early funding came from LSD financier William Mellon Hitchcock, who brought the infamous CIA-sponsored Castle Bank into the fold. This should leave little doubt that Resorts was founded at least in part as some type of CIA front, at first geared towards Cuban operations, but later (during the Resorts era) as something more nefarious.

And that brings to possibly the most curious aspects of Resorts, namely its ownership of its own vast private intelligence network.
Rent-a-spook: Intertel


It was known as Intertel, short for International Intelligence, Inc. Intertel was incorporated in 1970 as an almost wholly-owned subsidiary of Resorts International and hit the ground running. During its heyday, Intertel had an impressive roster and an international reach. It would turn up in host of intrigues throughout the 1970s and 1980s. Curiously, it had its origins with Robert Kennedy’s “Get Hoffa” squad.

“... Intertel, known especially and remarkably for its composition of former organized crime strike force attorneys from Robert Kennedy’s Justice Department… The IRS considered Intertel… ‘an organized crime enterprise of some type aimed at the Bahamas,’ as one account summed up the agency’s view. Robert Peloquin and William Hundley, Kennedy’s top crime fighters, had joined the firm and recruited operatives from the CIA, FBI, IRS, Secret Service, and other intelligence agencies. Staffed exclusively by what one author called ‘Get Hoffa agents,’ it was likened into a corporate CIA. ‘With the murder of Robert Kennedy in 1968, the federal government’s war on organized crime… was over,’ wrote Hoffa biographer, Dan Moldea, ‘… and two its best warriors – Bill Hundley and Bob Peloquin – were dressed for war but had no one to fight.’

(The Money and the Power, Sally Denton & Roger Morris, pg. 284)


“Only a few months later, on Thanksgiving Eve 1970, Intertel agents descended on Las Vegas for the stated purpose of ridding the Hughes empire of the hoodlum elements that had infiltrated the organization under Maheu’s rain. With the same mysteriousness and secrecy cloaking Hughes arrival exactly four years earlier, he was now ‘placed on a stretcher, carried out of the Desert Inn to a waiting van and driven to Nellis Air Force Base,’ as Barlett and Steele described the event. A wasting wraith on a gurney, he was removed from Las Vegas by James Golden, a former Nixon Secret Service agent turned Intertel vice president, and whisked by private jet to Resorts International’s Britannica Beach Hotel in the Bahamas.

“As some Intertel agents carried Hughes down the back stairs of the Desert Inn, others ‘rushed cashier’s cages and began stuffing money’ and IOU markers into satchels. Kicking down doors of Mahue offices, they occupied all the Hughes casinos. In yet another ironic twist, Robert Kennedy’s legendary organized crime team had suddenly taken charge of six major Las Vegas casinos, while governor Laxalt and his gaming officials scrambled to figure out what was going on.”

(The Money and the Power, Sally Denton & Roger Morris, pg. 285)

Howard Hughes                                            The Xanadu

Howard Hughes’s sudden departure from Las Vegas has been shrouded in mystery for years. Many of his close subordinates would never see the man alive again –indeed, there’s much controversy as to whether anyone credible saw Hughes alive after November 1970. For the rest of his life Hughes only communicated to the rest of his empire via phone, if at all.

Hughes reportedly spent most of remaining years living at the Xanadu Beach Resort & Marina of the Bahamas. When he officially died on April 5, 1976, the body produced for Hughes barely weighed ninety pounds on a 6’4 frame. This, combined with the beard, long hair and nails, made the body unrecognizable. It had to be identified via fingerprints by the FBI.

There has been much dispute as to whether Hughes had in fact died when he was reported to, or if the body was even actually his. It is beyond the scope of this present article to address these issues, but suffice to say, Resorts and Intertel were major winners from the shakeup in the Hughes empire and there has been much speculation that Intertel (and by default, Resorts) was in the driver’s seat of good chunk’s of Hughes empire. And this put a considerable amount of money at their disposal.

Intertel’s other ventures include spying of muckraker Jack Anderson for ITT, investigating the Chicago Tylenol murders and the Bhopal disaster. Even more ominous, however, were its dealings with a shady Belgium-based private detective agency known as Agence de Recherche et d’Information (ARI). As was noted before here, ARI was linked to members of the neo-fascist terror organization known as the Westland New Post, a few of whom had also been implicated in drug trafficking and pedophile rings. Intertel reportedly hired ARI to do some work for them during the 1980s.

It probably goes without saying, but Intertel, along with the closely related Wackenhut, was a trailblazer in the private intelligence racket. Its legacy lives in the modern deep private that in many ways has surpassed the deep state itself. In its heyday, Intertel was a the absolute black heart of this network.

Meet Me Tonight in Atlantic City

At the end of the 1970s Resorts International set its sites on opening up another region to gambling, this one in the United States itself: Atlantic City. It was a rather ironic choice of locations to be sure, as in some accounts the Syndicate is alleged to have been founded in Atlantic City in 1929. And now it was poised to openly rule the city. Unsurprisingly,  Resorts was reportedly at the forefront of efforts to legalize gambling there.

“… Crosby’s firm was the architect of the politically slick, million-dollar campaign which led New Jersey voters to change their minds on the subject. In 1974 a referendum to legalize state-operated gambling casinos had been roundly rebuffed by the local citizenry. Two years later, however, a new referendum, providing for privately owned casinos ‘in Atlantic City only,’ was in the works. And the man who brought it to the attention of Resorts, strangely enough, was David Probinsky (formally of the Bahamas and one of Pindling’s disappointed supporters). Probinsky convinced Crosby that the new referendum would pass if Resorts got behind it. When Resorts did, acquiring huge (and moldering) Chalfonte-Haddon Hall Hotel on the Boardwalk, as well as the fifty-six acre tract that had been cleared for ‘urban renewal.’ Resorts told its stockholders that ‘the tract would be developed under an urban renewal plan with hotel, housing and other facilities.’ It didn’t say what those other facilities would be, but it wasn’t hard to guess.”

(Spooks, Jim Hougan, pgs. 410-411)

Resorts Casino Hotel, Atlantic City’s first gambling establishment

The opening of Atlantic City for legalized gambling proved to be a boon for both Resorts International and one of the future owners. He was a rising New York real estate baron who went by the name of Donald J. Trump.

Once Trump dipped his toes into the troubled waters of the gambling industry he would rapidly emerge as one of the premier tycoons of the 1980s. It is not a stretch to say that Atlantic City made Trump a household name –quite literally via his first casino, the Trump Plaza Hotel and Casino, which he built on behalf of Holiday Inn. Trump bough them out in 1984 and there was no looking back from there.

What is of great interest to us here is Trump’s third Atlantic City casino: the Taj Mahal. While now widely associated with Trump, thanks in no small part to it leading to his first bankruptcy, it was not in fact Trump who started the casino. That dubious distinction lies with Resorts International.

The company had begun construction on the Taj Mahal in 1983, but had run into persistent difficulties in finishing construction in the following years. Then, in April 1986, James Crosby died suddenly. This left Resorts in turmoil (allegedly) and Trump stepped in. Trump bought a controlling stake in the company in 1987 and was promptly named its chairman of the board.

Let that sink in for a moment: Donald J. Trump, the current President of the United States, was briefly the chairman of a corporation long suspected of being a CIA front, that had decades-spanning involvement with the Syndicate, numerous “rogue” financiers, various drug and arms traffickers and which owned a vast private intelligence network that had managed to abduct one of the wealthiest men in the world and effectively take over his gambling concessions.

And less anyone think Resorts had cleaned up by the time Trump took over, consider that uber deep state player Robert Peloquin resigned from Intertel and joined Resorts’ board in 1985, shortly before Trump became involved. He stayed on with Resorts until 1990, by which time he had become the chairman after Merv Griffin had beaten Trump in a bidding war for Resorts.
It would certainly appear that Trump learned a thing or two from Resorts during his brief affiliation with them. This should also shatter any notion that Trump is some type of outsider –Resorts was as deep state, or more accurately, deep private, as it gets. Trump would not have ended up as the chairman with Peloquin on the board were he not in the club.As part of the arrangement made with Griffin, Trump ended up with the Taj Mahal, which his first wife Ivana ran for a time. At this point in time a curious pattern began to develop with Trump’s business empire: projects were financed with massive amounts of debt, they went bankrupt and yet the owner did not seem to incur serious financial loses from these failures. This is a pattern not unfamiliar to Syndicate-backed businesses. And naturally there appears to have been an extensive, Mob-linked money laundering operation being run out of the Taj Mahal after Trump owned it outright.

And finally, this should leave little doubt as to how pathetic the mainstream media’s crusade against Trump really is. Only the gods know how much money has been pissed away on phantom Russian-connections when a few hours of Internet sleuthing will turn up connections between Trump and one of the most notorious criminal organizations of the 1970s and 1980s, which Trump served as the chairman of.

PELOQUIN ROBERT D. PELOQUIN Robert D. Peloquin, 82, of Plantation FL and Fairfield PA, died in his sleep of heart failure this Thursday, March 24, 2011. He was born January 9, 1929 in Fall River, MA, the son of Charles G. and Loretta Harpin Peloquin. Bob is survived by his wife of 59 years Margaret “Peggy” Sheridan Peloquin of Washington DC. Upon graduation from Georgetown University, Bob enrolled as an officer with the US Navy in the midst of the Korean conflict and actively served until 1955. He continued to serve in the US Naval Reserves through 20 years when he retired as a Commander. The year following his discharge from active service, he graduated from the Georgetown University Law Center and began work as a Deputy Chief at the National Security Agency. In 1957 Bob joined the US Department of Justice where he served as an attorney for the next decade. He served as a special trial attorney with the Organized Crime and Racketeering Division, Special Assistant to the Asst Attorney General for Organized Crime Matters, and finally as Chief of Organized Crime Special Strike Forces. Bob received the Attorney General’s Outstanding Performance Award for 1966. In 1967 Bob joined the NFL Commissioner’s office as Associate House Counsel, and subsequently formed the Washington law firm of Hundley & Peloquin. In 1970 he founded International Intelligence (INTERTEL), a private firm of former government investigators with a global clientele list. He served as Intertel’s president and chairman until 1985 when he joined Resorts International. He retired from the company in 1990 as Chairman, Resorts International, Bahamas. He continued to practice law with an emphasis in casino regulation until this past winter. The son of a grocer and a schoolteacher, Bob was an avid skier, horseback rider, and airplane and helicopter pilot. He is survived by five children: Suzanne Bready and her husband Michael of Gaithersburg MD, Robert Peloquin Jr and his wife Mary of Fort Lauderdale FL, Charles Peloquin and his partner Angie Yohe of Waynesboro PA, Christine Lightfoot and her husband Richard of Potomac MD, and John Peloquin of Sebring FL. He was pre-deceased by son Mark Peloquin of Washington DC in 2010. A Memorial Mass of Christian Burial will be celebrated Friday, April 1 at 11 a.m. at St. Mary’s Immaculate Conception Church, 256 Tract Road, Fairfield PA 17320. A greeting at the church will begin at 10 a.m, and interment at the cemetery will follow the Mass. Memorials can be made in Bob’s memory to St. Mary’s Immaculate Conception Church. A Memorial Mass of Christian Burial will be celebrated Friday, April 1 at 11 a.m. at St. Mary’s Immaculate Conception Church, 256 Tract Road, Fairfield PA 17320. A greeting at the church will begin at 10 a.m, and interment at the cemetery will follow the Mass. Memorials can be made in Bob’s memory to St. Mary’s Immaculate Conception Church.


De Nile

August 2 Makes Declaration

Dear Facebook Family,

I, Shawn Wise, being of sound and sane mind, do today, declare that I’m taking a break from the Facebook world.

Please, if you do need to reach me my email is

Have a safe and fabulous summer holiday!

August 3 Shares Photo

The big swing tree is still standing at Grammie Bea’s on Great Diamond Island!

Snowed In



January 14 Maryland

Dear Tiny Friends,

 I sit in my car waiting for the cracked windshield to defrost, hoping that an angel from above will actually remove the 6 inches of snow from around and on my icy, rattling Volkswagon. I find my thoughts turning to all 26 of you as a group and as the amaz individual little beings you are becoming. Are you enjoying your snow days off? Are you remembering to fill in your nightly reading logs? How many hours have you each logged in video game/screen time? Are you being mindful and polite and patient with your siblings and parents? Most importantly, are you warm and full? Are you safe. All of these questions certainly prove to me how slyly each and every stinkin’ one of you have secured a permanent place in my heart… matter how many times you sulkily glare at me each day and refuse to take control of your own education…you have such a fab team of support at your beck and call. We will work to take advantage of this wonderful opportunity we call free education once again on Monday. Now, go hug your Mamas and Papas and thank them for keeping you healthy and occupied this week (trust me, this will work to your advantage).

Your Defrosting Teacher,

Ms. Wise

And She Was..

Right to write. The classroom that filled her days with absolute joy and a whole lotta pain was empty. The windows shut and the computers unplugged. She contemplated taking the rolled-up rug from the corner beneath the spent vintage pencil sharpener that seemed to demand punishment from her middle school boy students. Decision made, she lightly and slowly backed out and with a skip in her step, practically slid down one flight of gray-Lego-like stairs out to the blinding sun towards Teacher Lot 2. She was spent. She was driving out to the stop sign in a paid off 2008 Passat Station Wagon with a sunroof.

Her chocolate Frosty from Wendy’s next to the school tasted so sweet. Sweeter and colder than she could remember in a long time. She wiped up the ketchup stain from her stack of personal journals that practically wept with joy at the sudden physical attention. She grinned on the way home as the back-left window unintentionally allowed a small piece of trash escape out onto 97 South. She knew that piece of decade-old slip of paper would be where she picked up when she was alone and safe with her writing- her way of developing who she was in this world and her way of carving out what she wanted her sons to know and remember. Her seat reclined ever so slightly, she eyed it in the rear-view mirror as the dust settled behind her and the blinking highway sign above alerted her of the 19 mile back up on Route 50 East towards the Bay Bridge.


Is it Worth It? A Story of Half-As* Housekeeping


I find myself staring blankly at the smudge on our floor beneath the dish washing machine. That smudge is from an unidentifiable foreign object that may be associated with Aunt Jemima, Box Merlot or an Ice Cream Sammy. Regardless, the color has noticeably changed over the last 2 weeks or so. Like the sudden realization last week that I have sun-spots- A LOT of sun-spots that have so callously appeared on my skin without warning- I curiously wonder if that spot has always been there or has it just recently emerged as a new Wise-Guys visual stimulation-exhibit?

Does it cross my mind to wipe it up? Well, yea, in my absent-minded-Amelia-Bedelia-like way…I’ll get to that spot…perhaps.

Sitting on the boy’s bathroom toilet (trying not to touch too much) waiting for the younger one to finish his bath (in a tub you couldn’t PAY me to take a soak in at this point), my eyes adjust and focus on 3 of the thin slips of plastic that one peels from a bandaid.  One slip of plastic is intimately connected with the small, round “cover”- (bolt cap, see featured image). That area, surrounded by RED circle and dotted/splashed with yellow represents THE MOST DISGUSTING GAG-INDUCING PART OF THE TOILET. What the hel* happens in this bathroom? Seriously, are my boys urinating all over the toilet on purpose? To spite me? No one in my home ever thinks to ask who is cleaning the toilets, even as I’m screeching at them to back it up, I’m cleaning the toilets. I’m getting a bit nervous about the lack of urgency (pun intended) regarding the bathroom hygiene in my home. Knowing that sooner or later I would have to take care of the bandaid invaders, I add it to running mental list of things to avoid/do/avoid.


The Yellow Part of the Toilet Diagram, well, that’s where I’m convinced P-Targets are located. Notice on featured image that the pee goes everywhere except where it’s supposed to…bingowater-ridge-toilet-replacement-parts-as-toilet-repair-parts-colony--together-with-easy-plan (1) (2)_LI

The Purple represents an iffy-area. Taking off this amazingly heavy ceramic piece off and placing it somewhere is Issue #1.  Insecure in my Toilet “Fixing” skills, I uncertainly place on the floor. Be aware that this cover, also, will have urine samples clinging to it (sorry, super grody).

The Orange is perhaps the most risky, fraught with danger. The diagram does not include the actual seat cover. The exposed area is one that no one is clearly interested in sanitizing. One has to basically thread bacterial wipes through and around the area which is also filled with small unmentionable DISGUSTING things…small pieces of toilet paper? Hair samples? Lego Pieces? No one wants anything to do with actually cleaning that area-except I am FORCED to deal with it.

I mean, it’s pretty bad when I keep my bathroom light off during showers or brushing my teeth so I can avoid identifying and analyzing the grime that has been steadily sneaking up on myself and family.

Per the diagram above, the area circled in RED -the bolt caps- who needs those? I’m ANNOYED by those. I know they are intended to cover the bolts, but more often than not, I am crouching, breathing through my mouth and squinting my eyes as I reach for those god-forsaken bolts when they slyly roll themselves behind the toilet. Notice the Yellow. YELLOW REPRESENTS URINE. Note the AMOUNT of Yellow OUTSIDE OF THE ACTUAL TOILET BOWL???  Why bother even having a toilet?

I have, found, due to the Half-As* Housekeeping in my home, when I do clean the bathrooms, I lord it over the others in my home-

I find myself constantly shouting to the menfolk that yes, it was ME- again- who cleaned the thrones, and that it was SOMEONE ELSE’S TURN TO TAKE CARE OF THAT CRAP!!!!!

As soon as I hear a panicked child rushing in from down the street saying he needs the bathroom and he needs to go Number 2 and then, ha ha, just as a joke, threatens Number 3 on his way towards “my” bathroom off my bedroom, I violently fling my body in front of the entrance, claiming I’m in the middle of cleaning it and they can use their OWN UPSTAIRS BATHROOM- as if I can ban them forever from my now sanitized WC.

I really love it when I wander above randomly poking my head into one or all rooms upstairs later that day and find a thoughtful surprise or two or three waiting for me to take care of in the bathroom. It’s literally never ending. The struggle is real.




I still am processing the tragic loss of lives that occured Thursday -in my hometown-I can not stop thinking of the families. I can’t stop thinking of our five friends’ last thoughts. I feel heartbreak and literal sickness for those who witnessed their work space become that “war zone”. We have been surrounded by gun fire and death in our area with major cities such as Baltimore leading the way for violence in the country. IN THE COUNTRY. When do we deploy the troops here in our backyard. Who will command the units to STOP THE VIOLENCE AND THE WAR IN OUR NEIGHBORHOODS, SCHOOLS, WORKPLACES AND AREAS OF SUPPOSED SAFETY AND FREEDOM? I’m sick of it all. I’m DONE with the GOFundMe sites. I’m DONE with the obits. I’m DONE with TV and Social Media recording our children- OUR CHILDREN!!!- PLEADING PLEADING PLEADING for their lives to our President and those who make the laws. How dare our CHILDREN have to grow up watching their peers and parents die in these tragic type of attacks. How dare our CHILDREN have to march across the country to gain attention.




“Had To Pass On…”

I received the text in aisle 3,192 of the Super Walmart -my husband informing me that Anthony Bourdain committed suicide. We appreciated his shows, Trevor and I. They were part  of a handful that both he and I could sit and watch together-satisfying both of us to be physically close to each other and watch something that appeased both of our appetites. Bordain was easy listening- a voice that was often just randomly playing in the background of this screen-addicted home.

I suppose because his voice was always so immediately recognizable that I kind of just felt it would always be here for us. I thought of that term, here for usI can’t imagine the total amount of perfect strangers that also felt the same way, that Bourdain was simply unstoppable, not in a flashy way- more in a “he’s a fighter way” making his rounds of our globe with such unaffected glibness that it  further endeared him to all. Imagine the burden of feeling that so many people assume you have to be there for them; you are everyone else’s fighter…!

As a plucky gal who suffered Peripartum (Postpartum) Depression with each pregnancy and currently work (ha) with Persistent Depressive Disorder (basically an aberration if you will-of my brain chemistry) , I struggle with “what could have been” if only I had  been treated with depression and anxiety  as a teen rather than  taking so much of my adult life to soothe and mellow my brain waves. My friend “Darla Downer” was an absolutely life-altering and all consuming companion for so so long. Without my amazing therapist and her ability to match me with proper medication, along with my fab fam, I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish anything close to what I have over the last several years (which includes anything from becoming re-certified to teach to making it through the day without bursting into ferocious tears listening to the Edie Breckell CD that is permanently stuck in my car player on my way to the Dunkin Donuts).  Sidekick Darla nearly killed me over the decades in a myriad of wonderfully depressive and potentially devastating ways and my empathy nearly doubled me over right there in the Dorito Dome. I wasn’t ashamed to feel my face burn and my tears begin for his family left behind. Each tear and stomach cramp and deep yoga breath-dedicated to his legacy.

Val Kilmer’s letter to the public regarding Mr. Bourdain isn’t an easy one to read. But read,we must. We have to acknowledge all sides affected from this horrifying rippling effect called suicide. For the Robin Williams’, the Kate Spades, the Kurt Cobains, the Alexander McQueens, L’Wren Scotts, the Scott Hutchisons, the  Annabelle Neilsons-they selflessly  shared their raw and honed talent with the world, sacrificing much for others, yet did not have the POWER  to sustain their own lives. Let their fall into personal canyons from which they couldn’t climb out of be a call of action for better services that can spread awareness and outline the signs of depression for all people, ages, colors, religions, and economic and health care status.