Saturday, May 31, 2014

Restless (trigger for self injury talk)

I'm a bit dissociated today.

Just a bit?

okay, okay, I'm so freaking far out that I'm technically not even on the planet at this time. I am buried under 1,000 of layers of dissociative buffering shields.

I want to write, but don't want to tap into that part of my head. SHOULD NOT TAP INTO THAT SPACE while I am in flux with everything right now.

Which is leaving me with the unpleasant sensation in my head, like a restless beast pacing back and forth...occasionally stopping to press its head against the bars.

I want to turn this song on and write to it.

To open that cage in my head and let my writing mind out.

.....cause well, I can write some pretty darn impressive stuff when I'm in emotional turmoil.

But some part of really taking care of me as I am going through this shift in my life.

Yesterday I saw the nurse practioner who manages my meds and she agreed with my idea of alternating my thyroid medication to see if we can't find a balance between the side effects of them.

She asked me if I needed refills of my pain med and muscle relaxers. The suicidal part of me opened my mouth to say "Oh yes please!"

But what came out was this calm voice who said. "Please do not fill them right now. I do not want any temptations available to me."

Great there is a saboteur in my head...One apparently hell bent on keeping me safe.

I believe I am so dissociated right now because I am a HUGE FREAKING SELF INJURY RISK.

I have to go to work tomorrow and face them for the first time since turning in my notice. The anxiety and everything else is sooooooooooooooo overwhelming that my mind has checked out. To keep me safe and prevent me from becoming  a bawling mess while at work.

I am serious about making this transition without self injuring.

11 days and then watch out blog readers....I plan to poke that beast in the cage with a stick and enrage it and then open the cage door and see what it writes.

Thursday, May 29, 2014


Originally I was going to call this blog Falling.  I purposely didn't blog yesterday because I was truly "falling." I spend the day in tears, alternating between serene calmness to being so nauseated and wanting to barf my guts up that I couldn't get up off the floor to wanting to chug a bottle of Ativan. In hindsight I should have anticipated the emotional turmoil leaving my job was going to stir up. I should have had someone there with me, I was a huge suicide risk.

Today, I was able to sleep and awoke, without the panic of what the bleeping heck have I done! shouting in my ears. I find that I am not falling. I'm flying.

I have made the right decision. Now I must learn to live for the first time in 31 years without a job. To rely on someone else to be totally financially responsible for me.

I grew up with "If you don't work, you don't eat" ground into my head.

uggh...this I will have to keep an eye on so I don't end starving my self like I used to as a teenage.

I will have to learn how to decompress and just live my life without the added worry/stress of work being juggled in the mix.

I must watch that I don't become too comfortable in summer vacation land that I forget I must return to work.

My daughter had an interesting reaction to the news I was quitting. She bawled her eyes out and said "I'm going to miss all the money."

She has never had to go through lean times. She doesn't have the same back ground I do, she doesn't yet realize there is richness to be had in a little suffering and having to live within your means. This summer she will learn to budget and choose wisely.

She also grieved for the loss of her friends at my work. (a stuffed pig and a AFLAC duck)

We will not be financially devastated. I would not allow that to happen to my family. We will have to tighten our belts and forgo eating out as much as we like, but we will be fine on just one pay check. My husband provides a comfortable living for us. Right off the bat a 300+ gas bill every month for the truck comes off the table.

no more commuting....


I find today I am looking forward, rather then backwards. What does the future hold? What new job out there is awaiting a "P" to come join there team. I am a kick ass employee and any company would be blessed to get me. I spent 15 years trapped at my first job because I allowed them to beat me down and brainwash me into thinking I was trapped there.

I know my skill set. I know my work ethic. I know how to work, and I like to work.

Now I must focus on learning how to have a vacation and relax.

Tuesday, May 27, 2014


Turned in my two week notice tonight. I have worked for the last 31 years in long term care, the longest "break" I had was when the resident attacked me and I was off on the OJI. I worked up to the day I delivered both kids and then went back to work with them in tow as soon as we were released from the hospital.

It was a long standing joke that I was going to work 15 years at each nursing home and then retire. I made 15 years at one, and 16 years at the other. But at a heavy price to my heart. It is really hard to have so many people die and suffer around you.

It erodes you.

Or you build up a thick shell with FUCK YOU stamped all over it.

I am leaping without seeing the where I am going to land...or maybe I am just letting go of the ledge I have been dangling from for the last seven months?

I was seventeen when I took the CNA class and started working. Nursing homes are all I know. I take with me more secrets and stories and deathbed confessions then I could ever write down.

I am leaping with a clear head and heart.

I know I have wings that will unfurl and gently hold me aloft until I choose to land.

Monday, May 26, 2014

Memorial day

In 7th grade social studies, Mr T. invited two guests to speak to us. We were a class of rowdy kids suffering from severe spring fever. Tired of reading and hearing about the dusty old past that happened EONS ago to people we had never met. It was a man and woman with strange accents. They babbled on about the war we were learning about.

I was twelve and well...I couldn't relate to the stories of the wars and destruction. I had never experienced it. The whole concept of war was foreign, it wasn't something that was shown on the TV. Parents discussed such things in hushed tones and in the other room.

I dutifully sat in in chair and gave the impression that I was listening and hanging on each word they said. At one point the woman was overcome with emotion and her husband helped her sit in the desk next to mine. My attention got drawn to how she kept fidgeting with her sleeve and bracelets on her left arm.

Truthfully I didn't understand a word they said. Nor did I care to. What a complete waste that 40 min period was. That day quickly forgotten with zillions of other moments in my life.

In 1986 I was 21 years old enrolled in Professor D's history class in college. We were covering WW II and as he passionately spoke about the Holocaust he suddenly stopped lecturing and waited until he had our full attention. He picked up a picture of the concentration camp and held it up for us to all see.

"This happened 41 years ago. It didn't happen to people you don't know, it happened to your grandparents generation. There are people alive today who were there. This war happened THIS century."

Suddenly what he said made everything click in my head. For some reason I had always thought the world wars had happened at least a 100 of years ago, perhaps even 500 years before I was born. Mr D was a very skilled teacher who PUT you into history vs just telling you about it. WW II ended in 1945 ..... just 20 years before I was born. My mind reeled at this staggering info. How did this knowledge not make it to my brain even after studying it in high school? heck even as far back as Jr high?

My brain burped up that memory from 7th grade. Those people, who came to talk to us. The thick Polish - Jewish accent. The tattoo on her arm she kept trying to hide with her sleeve/bracelets. They were telling us about there experiences in the concentration camps. Tears came to my eyes. What a complete waste. WHAT A COMPLETE WASTE. Living history, SITTING right next to me. All wasted on my young mind who couldn't fathom what a thing like war was, or could be. If they would have spoken to me now, I would have hung on every word.

I left class that day changed.

I went home and got into my knife/sword collection and got out the long broad sword with the Japanese etched on the blade. Professor D's words echoed in my ears. "It happened to your grandparents generation."

My mind again burped up a forgotten memory. The day I found the sword at the flea mart. I had stopped by my grandparents store on the way home to show off my treasure. I showed Grandma first and told her I though tit was so pretty. She didn't seem impressed. Grandpa Gill came upon us and watched frozen and I turned the blade so the etching would catch the light. "I love it its so beautiful! and only 5 dollars! so much fun!" I half squealed.

Grandpa did something out of character for him. His face reddened and he started shouting. All I could make out as Grandma pushed him away to the back room was:


I clearly remember thinking. "well no one will tell us."

What a complete waste. My grandfather served in WW II. He was in the second wave that cleaned up the beach at Normandy. What he would have told me that day if Grandma hadn't shushed him would have been more powerful then anything I every could have read in a text book.

The sword I held suddenly no longer was beautiful. I put it away with a new understanding.

The next time I went to work I looked though my residents charts and found that many of the people on my wing had served in WW I and in WW II.  I started asking those men and women about their experiences. This time I LISTENED. I wasted nothing this time.

I had the opportunity to talk with a German soldier too, to hear another side. What I found was a lot of strong emotions and believes. None so powerfully brought to life as the afternoon many years ago when they announced the new pope had been chosen and he was German.

I was at work and the lobby was filled with little old reserved ladies. As it was announced they all started shouting and saying vile things. A time portal opened up and I was witness to the strong emotions from a time in the past when there was a deep hatred. I watched and listened.

I listened to my father as he told me about his memories of riding to the Japanese interment camps.  My heart breaking for all sides in these wars. So many wars.

I have taken care of so many wounded men and women, who lived a life that I can't even imagine living the life I have had.

"I ran away and lied about my age, joined the Navy when I was 16.  Ship hit a mine, only three of us were strong enough swimmers to make it to shore." He tells me proudly showing me his handsome picture in his navy uniform.

I touch his hand. "You are a special breed of man."

"How so?"

"Having the guts to stand up and go do what you did."

He leans back in his chair. "guts had nothing to do with it."

I wait for his answer. But it never comes. Just tears as he looks down at the picture and gently touches it. At last he takes up my hand and gently kisses it.

Thursday, May 22, 2014


The rain pelts you in a steady rhythm, first joining your tears, then washing them away, then replacing them as your tire of crying. The path is hard to find these days, your soul sobs.The rain drops are oddly warm and at last you look up.

There are thousands of others in the trees around you, all weeping. You look further and see a clear endless sky free of clouds.

When your eyes return to the earth you find my lantern in front of your face. There is no light in it.

Your brow wrinkles in confusion. "I thought it was always lit, that you are always strong, that you know the way out of here."

My feet shuffle in the damp earth as I slowly adjust and crouch down. "No one's lantern burns here."

I strike a match *scritch*

I light the lantern, and instantly the flame is drowned out by the falling tears.

The weight of your heart pulls your shoulders down. "anyone ever drown here?"

My voice cracks. "Yes"

"how do I move from here? What if I never move from here, what if I am stuck here?" you feel your body slowly embracing and settling into the muck.

My shove is so unexpected it takes you second to realize I shoved you.

"what was that for?" you whisper.

I shove you again. You willing let the momentum topple you to the dirt.

"hey." you meekly squawk.

"abuse makes you grow accustom to being shoved around, makes you learn to accept it without complaint. Makes your voice grow silent and your soul wither." I shove you again and before you can regain your balance I nudge you off balance again.

You stay on the ground and don't get up.

"See what happens when you don't fight back now?" I squat and put my lantern handle in your hand. "It wasn't safe to fight back as a kid. You learned to be silent and still." I offer you my hand. "Get up."

You take it and I gently yank you onto your feet.

"look up." I command pointing upwards. "let all the air out of you lungs and hold it. You're under the surface. Open your mouth wide and breath in deeply and feel your chest rise up. You're swimming up to the surface, with each breath."

"My mouth is wide open, won't I drown?" you enquirer with half a grin.

"You have been holding your breath for a life time."

"Ye...." you don't get to finish your though as I have shoved you again and the ground knocks the wind out of you.

I gently put my foot on your chest and make breathing difficult for you. "you said 'That path is hard to find these days...' that is because you are in the path and its all around you. IN it and ON it are two different things."

"how do I get on it vs being in it?" you gasp, from under my foot.

"well for starters you have to find your voice and start telling life to stuff it. That will lead to you reconnecting with dignity. Once you embrace the basic human right to dignity it will lead to finding anger and outrage at the abuse you were forced to endure."

"How do I do that?"

"Shove back."

'Huh?" you blink.

"you let me stand here and shove you around and restrict your breathing and you say nothing. Not a 'stop it!' or 'quit it!' or a 'get your paws off of me you damn dirty ape!' nothing, again that is how the abuse has conditioned you. I will tell you a secret....its okay now to stand up and speak up, and come up swinging and start that healing anger and outrage with your self."

You struggle to draw in a breath as you ponder my words.

"it's safe now." I say. These words are the secret key to unlock so much. When the mental tapes start looping in your head, when the memories get ganging up on you. repeat them. Write them on your body, so when you poise to be self destructive they will be there. It's safe now."

it's safe now

"get your foot off of me." you at last say meekly.

it's safe now

"GET your foot off of me." you say as you feel the unfamiliar surge of power within yourself.

it's safe now

"GET YOU FOOT OFF OF ME!!" you firmly command.

I do so and you come up swinging, but as you go to punch me the lantern in your hand draws your attention.

and you see that it is now lit.

and burning brightly.

it's safe now.

The adventures of BJ Birddrop

In my vault of early writing is a cartoon series featuring a young boy named BJ Birddrop and his dogs.  Its nothing that will ever be famous, but to my early fans, its a cult classic. I want to share him with the internet. Not because its an awesome cartoon...but because the thought of him living on in cyberspace is too amusing to pass up.

The one running gag in the series is that all his dogs die in the end. Don't raise your eyebrows at me...we have already cover this.

BJ, the internet.

Internet, BJ Birddrop.

You're welcome.

(there are three versions of my comic stip. The first ones, pencil and paper, the second ones very large drawing paper done in pen/ink and water colors and this version you see here. The one very disappointing part of the colored pencils ones is I could not find a pencil that accurately depicted the proper skin tones of the African American characters. It made me cringe to have to use black. To see Bonnie and Todd there in black, makes me cringe even today. Years and years later I did find a colored pencil maker that had the right shade and I used it in my children books.)

(Kathy there is the daughter of a NON-family member from the 3rd adventure, no kissing cousins here...)

Damn....BJ is 31+ year old??!!! BWAHAHAHAHAA!  Oh, my old friend...thank you for helping me hone my illustrating skills on your adventures. And no, you can't walk my dog.

Friday, May 16, 2014

The princess in suspension

When she at last opens her rose grey eyes, a magnificent stallion stands before her. His sleek powdery blue coat is generously dappled with white snow flakes. His ebony mane ripples in silken waves from the crest of his neck. He dances beneath a muscular boy on the verge of manhood. The boys hair, black like the stallions, hangs down his back.

"HOOVAS!" the boy sharply commands. The horse ceases his fidgeting. The rests his hand on his leg and leans over and asks, "Ashanna navos?"

Slowly she sits up holding her injured head. Her long hair is matted with rich red blood and tuffs of dried ma ma grass. Nervously she glances around for her horse. Seeing she is alone she clutches her torn cape to her chest and turns her eyes back to him. She remains silent and unsure of him.

His skin tanned in such an uneven way makes him appear grubby and unkempt. A grey muslin tunic identifies him as a nobleman's stable boy. He flips his uncombed bangs to the left exposing one emerald green eye and he again inquires "Ashanna Navos?"

She shrugs her shoulders and motions with her slender hands that she does not understand. He taps his whip against his faded brown boot and points to the triptych chelah crest embroidered on the saddle blanket.

She draws her shoulders back and proudly exclaims,. "Lord Hadossion and my father are allies."

His broad grin reveals a row of white teeth twisted in such a way they appear sharp. He flairs his wide nostrils in a satisfied sigh, "Ra jeetomi eesybar." he chuckles in his musical voice. Kicking loose from his stirrups he brings his right leg over the stallion's withers and drops to the ground.  He flashes his carnivorous smile as he squats at the hem of her satin robe. His hands, smooth like well worn leather, grasp her wrists and easily pull her to her slippered feet.

Dizzily she falls against his broad chest. His rough tunic smells of horses, hay and wide open spaces. He smells of old sweat and sorcery. His warm hands don't hold her, but merely steady her while she regains her balance.

"Audi Aunna" he whispers.

Surprised at the sound of her name she jerks back and stares into his green eyes flecked with gold. He steps away and gestures for her to take his horse. She gathers her flowing violet skirt and edges toward the stallion. With one last cautious glance over she shoulder, she mounts. The stallion impatiently flicks his black tail up and down while she gathers the three reins.

Blushing with the embarrassment of having misjudged him, she shyly turns toward and whispers, Thank you." A smile lights her scuffed face.

He raises his left hand in a farewell salute. That is when she notices on his wrist a trekinin design burned deeply into his flesh, marking him forever as a spirit thief. Her cries for help would not again be heard in this world.

(c) 1991 P. R.

the picture (c) 4-10-1990 - an early picture of Audi Aunna and the dapple blue stallion when they first leaped from my mind to the page.
 - you know....I have created and lived in many fantasy worlds in my life. A gift that my sister gave me as a child. I can walk trough any door and be anywhere I want to be. Anyone I choose to be.
I, as I gently suggest in this a spirit thief. Capturing spirits from the realm of imagination and trapping them on paper.

I wonder when I look at this short/short I did in college...should I go back and write the rest of Audi Aunna's story? Or is this one small version of it enough? The story would be a pre-teen fanstasy adventure. I've only some of the ideas jotted down here and there, and a lot of the story has faded with time. I could find her though...I still have my triptych chelah braclet...and I know how to follow the tracks of the dapple blue stallion, they lead straight to the Attagumbey mountains...

Monday, May 12, 2014

Gates ajar

Someone left the gate to my writers mind open, and the stories within me noticed this and have spooked and stampeded out and are running amok though my head tonight.

As they gallop my emotions rise and fall with the thunder of there hooves. They swell slowly up in my heart...I reach out to touch them and all I get is the sensation of empty air.

Lets see if I can lasso one...

The rope circle's my head as I for a moment get lost in the beauty of them running free. How effortlessly they leap and soar.

I drop the rope as I realize, to catch them I must let they thunder past me again I reach out unafraid and leap...


The murky stillness of the dawning forest embraces her in its damp arms. The coolness of the air tousles her hair and sends goose bumps skittering down her naked spine. With stiff fingers she snaps off a piece of candy cane and slowly places it on her tongue. The peppermint is loud in her warm mouth and as she breathes in, the chilly air amplifies the taste.

She wipes the gritty creek sand from the boulder with her painfully red feet and squats in the indentation pressed in the rock by centuries of flowing water. The rabid winter creek lunges up from its bank, freckling her with its frothy foam, as it attempts to inflict her with its icy bite.

A distant horn hangs like a question mark for a second and then ricochets off the rusty redwood bark until it is silenced in the catacombs of the densely tangled forest.

As she waits for the hush to return, she licks the sticky sweat of the candy cane from her wrist, where it has oozed.  With a wave of her hand she disturbs the droopy green ferns that frame her perch. They arch like cats awoken from a nap and paw at her slender frame.

She turns her hazel eyes up to where the canopy of emerald parts, revealing the troubled sky. She can see hundreds of tiny salt water snow parachuting down. She reaches for them, only to discover they aren't really there.

Again he honks his Morse code message into the into the womb of decay.

"Time to go." She whispers to the candy cane. Like a calving ice berg she cracks from the rock and plunges into the churning milk chocolate water. The candy cane spins dizzying pirouettes on an eddy for a moment and disappears.

Near the edge of the old highway he leans into his car and raps urgently four times on the horn. Please don't let this be the day his body begs. He knows that one day he will loose her to this magical place she calls the Nede of Edicius.

He glances up and is relieved to see her pale translucent form darting through the rich hues of the redwood grove. She is naked as usual. He catches her in his burly arms and gazes into her wide eyes. Her breath, coming in ragged pants, creates miniature crystal flurries. He rubs her Nereid skin trying to restore the warmth, but catches a primal look in her eyes, like a wild animal before it bolts. He wrestles her into the car and speeds away from the silence that calls to her.


....arching back it bucks hard and I loose my grip. I try to hang on but it twists crazily and disappears to join the others. Some stories just want to be free. I will have to be satisfied with watching them as they cavort around my head, unbroken, untamed.

how weird is that?

Mother's day really makes me uncomfortable.

Its not that I dislike being a mother, its I truly dislike being the target of attention.

I find when I must work on mother's day its painful to have everyone telling me "happy mothers day." I literally find my self cringing. I usually nod my head and scurry away. I don't even now what I am suppose to say.

Those I know who are mothers I will say it back to them. Its even hard to just say "thank you" to those who I don't know.

I am still very shy even at my ripe old age of 48. I have lived by a code I instilled in childhood to keep the awkward part of me from saying stupid things. DO NOT SPEAK UNTIL SPOKEN TOO. But even then I trip over my tongue and say stupid things in reply.

It almost like I should have been born mute.

Mute and invisible...yeah that would have been the perfect combination.

I wish there was a cure for social awkwardness.

Maybe its not me...maybe the discomfort lies in the forced nature of the holiday. I just don't want to participate in the $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ commercialized nature of the day.

Nothing you can give me or say to me once a year will change the fact that I am a mother. No present or card or flowers will ever top the presents that my husband gave to me, our children.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Six, Eight and Nine

I have eleven siblings.

Three sisters.

Eight brothers.

Three of them died before breathing air.

Ramsey, Roman and Ryan.

I have a relationship with them even though they have parted. Their presence in my life is a part of who I am. In a way I have the best relationship with them, out of all my brothers. They are the only brothers I "visit" regularly.

I was 4 years old when Ramsey died. I grew up hearing about him. To me he was a little gold charm in the shape of a boy on a plaque that hung on the wall. My brother who died and was cremated and sprinkled in the ocean.  We would visit him in the summer. Drawing messages in the sand with sticks, and waiting for the waves to rush in and carry our words back out to him.

Ever try to hug the ocean? I have. I can remember wanting to give Ramsey a hug so he would know his big sister missed  getting to meet him.

In 1973 shortly after my eight birthday Roman died. My mama was five months pregnant with him. I remember the day he died like it was yesterday. Mama was in bed in her night gown in the after noon, kneading her stomach like it hurt.. My younger siblings were all watching TV and were starting to complain about being hungry. Our daddy wasn't home yet. It was getting late. It was past time for her to be making dinner.

I got up and made one of the biggest mistakes of my childhood.

Not knowing what was going on, I walked to her bedroom door and asked. "Are you going to make dinner?"

She reared up and began screaming at me. Already being so terrified of her at just eight, I immediately dissociated and tried to hide in my head as she screamed at me. Still her words penetrated the numbness in my soul and seared them selves there.


and then in the next breath she committed the most heinous act of child abuse she ever aimed at me.


I felt my feet back up and carry my body away, while my soul split open and died with a sorrowful exhale.

"I'm hundree" brother seven said to me as I stepped over him.

Mortally wounded I barked something at him and fled into the kitchen.

I was eight. Where the hell do you run to when your eight?

I walked a few laps around the kitchen table trying to stop hyperventilating. Her verbal barb lodged deep in my heart causing hemorrhaging with each heavy inhale/exhale.

I punched my ears trying to clear the echo there.


Good. I hope you do mama.

I felt my self fragment out. My brain re-compartmentalizing everything. Like a huge eraser sweeping over the chalkboard in my mind.

mama? MAMA!!

how is it possible to hate you so much, but need you just as much? I know you hate me. BUT YOU ARE ALLS  I GOT...YO THE ONWLY MAMA I GOT.

Behind me I hear again brother seven. "I'm hundree."

I turn to him. His little face so sweetly smiling.

Tears race down my face and I get him some graham crackers out of the cupboard.

Then I head back to mama's room.

I stand in the door way observing her until she notices me.

"What do you want?!" she growls

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I hear my self say.

She launched into another screaming volley. I stepped in and pulled her door closed.

went to my room and sat on my bed.

Daddy came home shortly after that and about an hour after that delivered Roman.

When he came calling for me. I was expecting him to punish me. If what mama said was true, I had killed his unborn son. I was scared he was calling for me to whip me with the belt.

He called several times before I came down stairs to face my fate.

He was sitting on the couch with a wash cloth folded in half on his left hand. "Did you want to see your brother?" he asked.

There was no anger or hatred in his words. Maybe mama hadn't told him?

I inched closer and he gently pulled back the wash cloth. Roman was reddish brown and looked so tiny laying the length of Daddy's hand. He has the imprint of the wash cloth on his still body.

such incredibly tiny fingers...and toes...

sorry brother. so very very sorry.

Roman joined Ramsey in the ocean.

The next year Ryan joined them.

The three golden boys on the plaque. The untarnished trio who came and went and didn't have to endure this life.

I was jealous of them for many years.  You could probably dust their memorial plaque for finger prints and still find mine there on the edges, left there as I checked to see if there was room for me to join them.

Each summer we went to the ocean and we heard the stories of how Ramsey, Roman and Ryan were there polishing the agates for us. I now wrote messages in the sand to all three of them. Mama never let us forget about them.

As I grew up I wrote them songs, poems and stories. You can find my brothers presence in my children's books.

In my twenties when my therapist listened to me retell of that painful night Roman was born, He sat quietly watching me with pain filled eyes. "You were not responsible for Roman's death." he finally said.

"I know." I whispered.  It took me many years before I let my self off the hook, before I was strong enough to repel that vicious accusation. But the damage was already done and the wounds carved deep with me.

Friday, May 2, 2014

Another visit from my friend Ken Turkey

Back in March we had a visit from Ken Turkey.

We yesterday he visited again.

Me and the Kids had gone to KFC to eat after school.  Hansolo questioned me as to the meaning of the initials KFC.

I told her. "Kentucky Fried Chicken"

We talked about how in my childhood it was known by its whole name and over time it got shorted down to just KFC. Which prompted me to notice that its not spelled out any where in the restaurant any more.

As we are leaving Hansolo points to the big KFC on the door and from memory "reads" its.

"Ken Fuckiefied Chicken."

As my son howled with laughter. I helped her with her pronunciation.

She reacted to the howls of brother by looking sad.

So as we climbed in the truck I  shared with them my own trouble with pronouncing states names.

"Its okay Hansolo, when I was in first grade we took turns reading aloud in class, and I had to read a paragraph about Virginia. And I pronounced it as Vagina."