Introduction......

I have tried to do this a million times but have never quite mastered it - so here we go again.
I am the primary caregiver for my 90 year old father who I call "Pop."
My Mother died in December 15, 2008. The proper word for that is "suckage."
I sell Scentsy and would love for you to order from me or join my team (mayer.scentsy.us).
I also cross stitch and sell those as well - mainly baby announcements as those are fairly small and easy to do but I would be willing to do almost anything as long as we can agree on a price.

I spend all my time with Pop. Literally (no we don't have to sleep together). Once every two weeks I get an hour to go to my therapist - love her (her nickname will be Mother Earth). The other day I had to go for my yearly gynecologist appointment. Here is how that conversation went:

Me - "I have to go to the doctor on Tuesday. Write it on your map (no clue why he calls calendars maps) so you don't forget..

Pop - "But you just saw Mother Earth last week, checking his "map," on Wednesday. Is this a real doctor? Are you sick? You have to quit smoking. I heard you coughing the other day? Is it something bad?"

Me - "Pop I am fine. I just have to go to the doctor. I'll be home in two hours."

Pop - "Maybe I should go with you."

Me - "No Pop. I'll be fine. I just have to go to the doctor."

Pop - "You still haven't told me why."

Me - "The gynecologist Pop. You know for my girly parts."

Pop - "Well I don't know why you wanted me to go to that appointment. Those doctor's offices are like baby making factories. I wouldn't have wanted to go anyway."

Me - "Yes Pop. I know. Can you just write it on your map?"

A couple of days later he asked me what a baby factory was. A little perplexed I asked him what he was taking about. I looked at the map "DAM - baby factory 2 pm."

I have spent years, literally, reading blogs and feel like I know some of you like we are best friends. Yet I have never had my own blog for you to comment on - had an ex and was trying to maintain some anonymity. Now I just don't care anymore. I am who I am. Some people like it. Some people don't. It's cool. Some days I don't like myself either. Somehow once my Mama died I quit caring what people think. I don't have to impress anyone anymore. I just have to be me and every day I try to be a better person. I am not perfect. I don't think I am. Even the guy who "loved me more than he could ever love anyone" knew I wasn't perfect. Only my dog thinks I am perfect - and if I could convince him to quit shitting in the other room he would be perfect also.

You can email me at caringscents at live dot com.

Thanks y'all,
Dorothy