For those of you who read this blog, I should tell you that for the most part, I write for the sake of my family. Should I ever get famous (highly unlikely since two people subscribe to this blog), I have an over-arching plan to write a book, which will effectively be a compilation of the posts you see here. Funny? Sometimes, but mostly if you know the deeply disturbing history behind the name that is Carsey. Carsey, you ask? Yes, the maiden name that preceded Beaulieu. Before I entered into the uber-fucked up world of Beaulieu (oh yes, there is a family with more fuck than mine), I was a Carsey. A family rooted in daddy issues, mommy-never-watched-me-play-little-league issues, and I’m-not-good-enough-issues. Between the Carseys and the Beaulieus, I’m glad I have a job. And that I don’t eat poo.

Until 2002, I dont think that anyone in my circle thought my life would ever get more interesting than it was. I, as a person, was colorful, medicated, and oddly brilliant. I did have Charlie, which helped. Would he ever stop squeaking? Barking? Yelling bitch at my mother or fag at the random realtor? Not so long as his tourettes continued to be somewhat immoderate. And then there is David. Oh, David. Oh, oh, oh David. But for the most part, there wasn’t anything in the air that indicated that in a very short period of time, strange things would start taking place. You know, corruption, destruction, and the cancellation of Gilmore Girls after what can only be referred to as a disappointing post-Sherman-Palladino run.

But there, lurking in the years to come was Pirate Captain John’s plunge off the deep end. We saw it coming with my mom. When she stopped drinking, we knew the Titanic was iceberg bound, but dad? No! Never. Even, cool, confident, and able to ignore even the most annoying of people and situations so long as there was food to distract. No one ever thought Dad would jump ship. Wasn’t he the glue? Rut roh.

Oh, 2002. Those were the days of milk and honey. 2005, now that was an iceberg. The fam fell apart, the shit hit the fan and here we are, huddled like rained-on monkeys, waiting for someone to tell us which way is up.

It was the year of the (divorce) that we were all gathered and drunk, standing around the last family Christmas tree, talking about years gone by, when father declared that when he imagined his children–his brood– that he never imagined they would be such a gaggle of fuck ups. Who, us? The tic, the smoke, and the sigh? Apparently.

Quitters, he called us. A group of children (now adults) who tried hard, but like the silver medalists at the Olympics, couldnt push ourselves to be better than the rest. The fruit of a great man’s loins, and all we ended up to be was quitters and whiners. Charlie, well, he isn’t so much a quitter, but more of a never-really-starter. It’s a loophole, a technicality, but something that Charlie lives by. Now, David. He is a quitter, but he has excellent reasoning skills. “It was really fucking hot.” “It was really fucking cold.” “It was really fucking rainy.” Right on, dude. I wouldnt have done it either.

As for me, I didn’t quit. I simply didn’t commit to seeing anything through. Always a trier, never a quitter.

When Dad called us quitters, we all laughed, but there was an eerie silence that fell over the group. Quitters? Us. Oh no. It occurred to me that we should immediately blame the parents.

Well, if we’re quitters, it’s because you let us quit.

When ballet led to blisters, my mother (lips rimmed in purple) declared that ballet was for anorexics and Ruskies. Who the fuck wants to be either of those? At least be a bulimic. You can have your cake and throw it up too. Soccer? For Latinos and poor people. Baseball? Fags, clearly. All of them.

But then we realized, standing around the last tree, in the last house, at the last family gathering of our lives, as the last family meal ended, and we would all go our separate ways that the Big Quit was upon us. The next morning we’d board planes; we’d pack up; Charlie would ask everyone for a few bucks (and get it); David would ask for a few bucks (and not get it); and mom would ask for us to stop swearing (and we’d tell her to fuck off). And we’d start to find out what life after divorce is about. Because the truth is that you can quit a sport, quit a pastime, quit eating meat, but one day you’ll throw a ball and lie to your kids about how you played D1 ball–first string, or do a pirouette in the kitchen like you used to dance for the Russian ballet, or accidentally eat an entire Happy Meal in the basement of your apartment building, wasted. But when you commit to the Big Quit, you’re not going to call each other for a cozy role play of The Way Things Were.

As a matter of fact, The Big Quit is actually the biggest commitment of all. Now how is that for a mind fuck?

So we said goodbye to the woman who helped us be crazy, and the man who taught us to be the best quitters around.

Here’s to the Big Quit. The one that makes ballet look like practice, and soccer seem like a big fairy-fucking waste of time.

From a group of gold medalist quitters.