I stared down the exceptionally long Christmas aisle in the market wondering where the hell the Jewish section was amongst the yard art, plastic santas, candy canes and reindeer.

“Excuse me”, I asked one of the clerks. “Where is your Jewish section?” “Huh?” she asked blankly staring into thin air. “Your Jewish section”, I signed, raising my voice while performing a little Yiddish dance.

A friend of mine who was in the next aisle heard my voice and peaked over to see what was going on, why I always have witnesses at times like these I do not know. “I hate to give Jews a bad rap by making a scene in a place that seems in denial that Jews actually exist ”, I said “but this is ridiculous.”

The Jew section turned out to be a sorry two foot square area in an obscure section of the store offering strange items like salted soft fishlike crackers but no Gelt,  candles or anything else that had to do with Chanukah. I couldn’t imagine that they weren’t getting hell from all the other Jews in the Valley because one thing was for certain, none of my fellow Jewish friends would put up with this.

As I put the groceries on the belt the check out girl admired and commented on my grocery selection. I met her  years back when her mother volunteered for an organization that I was the Volunteer Coordinator for.  I have never learned which disease she has but she moves slower than most and her face is physically marred. I have seen her at different stages of her life, as a child and then pregnant with her own child. Who the father is, I do not know.

She told me that her daughter would not be with her over Christmas for the first time in eleven years because she was in an all girl’s boarding school in Oregon and I asked her if she was okay with that. She said she was okay.

As she checked out my items she studied each one, “Ohhh”, she exclaimed, “I’ve never seen this natural kind of ice cream before” and “ooohhh, I just love Swiss chocolate but ohhhh look at the price.” The fact is I buy Swiss chocolate for Wade and the children because it is the only chocolate bar in the Market that doesn’t have high fructose corn syrup in it, but I didn’t have the energy to explain the psychology behind my grocery selections.

I was growing more irritated by the second but I smiled because that is my new thing, to smile when I feel like shredding something or someone to pieces, and not just present a fake smile, as there is nothing worse than a fake smile, but to really smile so that I actually can feel the warmth of the smile radiate within me and change my attitude.

I ran my debit card through and as usual the magnetic strip was not working. “It never works. You have to punch it in yourself”, I said apologetically.  Not accepting this she came around to try it herself with her own special touch. She slid it slowly a few times, going slower with each try and then wrapped it in plastic to slide it a few times more.

She shook her head and said, “Your card doesn’t work.” “No! Get out, really?”, I thought and she got on the phone all in a huff to call for help. So now we both were irritated and I realized that  I had started it by giving her back half of the groceries from my cart when I  saw that I had overdone the shopping again with grandiose ideas for holiday meals.

“I can give you a check”, I pleaded. “No, no, its ok”, she sighed. By the time she decided that she could punch in the numbers without the help of her superiors my smile was bringing tears to my eyes. When  I read “NOT APPROVED” I forced back the real tears from flowing. At times like these I can’t help but step outside myself  and feel as though I am watching my own Woody Allen film.

“Your card isn’t working” she said again holding the card out for me to take it back but when I tried to grab it she wouldn’t let it go. Finally, after a staring match and a small tug of war I asked her in a sugar coated bitter tone, “Are you going to give me the card back or what?” She broke out laughing at her inability to let go and so did I. It was a real hysterical, nervous breakdown sort of laughter but nevertheless it felt good and when I glanced back at the people who were patiently waiting in line behind me I saw that they too were laughing.

When I left, still winding down with my uncontrollable giggles, I should have felt sad for her but I  didn’t. I felt  happy, and thankful, that I wasn’t too absorbed in myself to appreciate this woman and her struggles, happy that I had been given the gift of laughter and happy that I didn’t make a scene for once in my life.

I found this great challenge online called the Half Drunk Challenge. I was excited to partake in this challenge, not only because after a year of writing I have needed to rid myself of the thin embryonic veil that I have enveloped myself in but also because I have something to get off of my chest. In fact, I was so excited about this opportunity to let go that I obsessively wrote three posts in the past few days which will be released in the next few posts but in the end, even though they were subjects that I would not normally write about, I felt they were still way too contrived.

So, here it is, the big, bad, ugly truth:

I am a witch. Not a wicked witch, at least not the story book quintessential wicked witch. I’m a dysfunctional witch who has yet to discover all of her powers and it is my mother who knows my witchiness more than all others, accepting me for what I am, a moody, intolerant and irrational child.

“Don’t be ridiculous”, she cries trying to understand my insanity. “Your working too hard, your too hard on yourself, having three boys is difficult, get some sleep, stop waking up at 5:00am” but having somebody who totally understands me and makes excuses for my poor behavior doesn’t make it any easier.

Basically, I am a witch without the benefits! No magical broom to fly off on when I need it the most, no ability to cast spells or make potions to right all of the wrongs, just your ordinary  witch who can’t rise above the noise to call forth her inner good.

The good news is that when I am not being wickedly intolerant I am a very, very good and beautiful witch. Not like Glinda from the Wizard of OZ, although I do hail from the North. On that note promise to do me a favor, if you ever catch me in a frilly, tulled pink dress like Glinda’s please take me out back and shoot me. Anyway, I couldn’t be Glinda because I don’t have her sweet voice and sexy mole on my chin, or am I remembering her incorrectly?

Sooo, I’ve established that Glinda I am not, but when I am good, oh boy do I thrive on it to a point where people think I am nuts as I throw my love around to those who are capable of handling it.

If only I could hold onto the greater good all of the time and not let the bad reveal my scary self to my three little boys…hang on a second, they are the ones who call forth my badness with their inability to listen when we say it is bedtime because their fantastic innate clock tells them that 7:30pm is ding a ling, wake up and get crazy time.

They may cringe at the black pointy hat and wart on my chin that reveal that my deep and dark annoyances are getting the best of me but it is me and Wade who cringe at their loss of hearing. They shouldn’t have to accept and forgive me for all of my wickedness but I am all that they have for a mother and so they have no choice.

Call me witchy poo if you dare but even witches become witchy for a reason and if you wake up with your tongue tied in a knot, don’t go asking why because nobody will understand you.

Tucker stayed home with me yesterday. What is it about children that they fall on the days that their mother is planning to take off? I mean really, where’s the sense of humor in that?

When I realized that my most needed day of recovery from my treacherous week was not going to happen I looked up to the Universe and had a little conversation to anybody who would listen, “I really want to know, I’m being serious now, did I do something terribly wrong in my previous life or even in this life that I am unaware of?

Oh I know, I shouldn’t have left Tucker in the car that one time he was sleeping.  The time I raced in to get a Chai Tea from Starbucks which I knew I shouldn’t have been spending my money on in the first place but was feeling rebellious and when I came out of the store with my frothy, delicious cup of decadence I was met by a fleet of policemen with lots of questions. Upon reflection, I admit that I let my selfish desire to pamper myself get the best of me but didn’t I learn my lesson?”

“Oh..wait, I remember now, it must have been the time that I backed into the parked car forgetting as always about my huge bike rack, that wasn’t good that I  crashed and dashed, was it? Anyway, I was certain that the dent had been there for years and I couldn’t have possibly been the one who was responsible for it.”

I never did get any answers and so I changed my mindset and spent the day jumping on top of Tucker, staring into his incredibly luminous eyes and dark lashes  and making him giggle. When we weren’t rolling around together I resumed  to  the multitude of phone calls I had to make to desperately try to avoid plunging further into debt.

When I received the email that I was invited to go away for a weekend of indulgence with my good friends I bent over and slammed my head against my desk a few times arising with tears of frustration.

I wrote an email that made me feel slightly better and pressed send:

I have reached the dark and diaphanous pit of my bank account, and have no money to join you this weekend. ZILCH, NADA, flat out broke like a kinda gimme, buy me , do me kinda broke. I got no bling. I got nothin’ to offer.

Although, spending a weekend with you and yours; spaaing it up, reading,  hiking/running and consuming major amounts of alcohol sounds over the top appealing, I shall have to pass it by and drown at home…alone… in my sorrows.

Every month bankruptsy hovers over us and  I contemplate selling a child to pay our mortgage. It gets more and more difficult to remain positive and I have nothing left to fall back on.

Just as I swore that I would never be one of those moms who talked about bowel movements, I also swore that I would never let money come in between Wade and my relationship. But life is not black and white and Wade and I are struggling to hang on to each other and everything that we are responsible for. It was far easier to control conversations about babies than it is to control our spiraling finances.

On the bad days I think about how the best way to save money would be to take Tucker out of pre-school. If that happens I cannot possibly write with Tucker at my heels. If I lose my freedom to write than I will most likely lose my sanity and if I lose my sanity than I will lose Wade and if I lose Wade than I will lose Brevitt and Axel who will blame me for everything and if I lose my children than you may as well shove me into a box with a huge weight on it and throw it overboard.

Sometimes I cannot believe how numb I have become to all the negativity that I am confronted with month to month and sometimes I spend my time driving with blurred vision as the tears role down my face. I know that we are not alone in our struggle, everywhere I turn I witness other families struggling and I cry for them as well.

Other times I look at the way the light hits the Autumnal wild grass turning it a beautiful and earthy shade of gold and I marvel at the low lying clouds hugging the mountains in their soft embrace and I get filled with an intense happiness. I still have my husband, my children, my mother, my sister’s, my friends and all of our health. I live in a beautiful place, I can rely upon nature to be my Prozac and I have a good sense of humor that I can call upon at any moment to help me through the tough times.

So pfffft, just ignore me, I’m fine actually. It’s just that my friends have told me that I should write a little more about the adversity in my life and not sound so goddamn happy all the time. So there it is. Do with it what you may!