Ahhh All That is Beauty

Thought I'd suck your ass in with this on. I guess in a manner of speaking, this IS a beauty, but I want it to be someone else's beauty.

Dr. Quack who said I was bruised and needed to exercise my shoulder should be shot at a firing line. I should be the one with the pistola.

I went to see the competent doctor yesterday and was shown how my cuff is not only torn but has a fucking hole in it. A bone PUNCTURED it. Yeah.

1. I felt pissed and scared all at the same time because now I know there will be more hoops through which I will have to jump in order to get this covered by workman's comp.
2. And relieved because I was beginning to think I was Miss Hypochondriac in a Sling. It's been almost a freaking month that I've been walking around in this thing, and I've started to feel like a freak show.

I will find out when the surgery is tomorrow. The surgical office through which my surgeon works was closed on Saturday. I'm looking at about three weeks out of work, three months in a sling, and physical therapy to get back to a semi-normal condition.

I didn't tell the good doctor that I'd seen the bad one until yesterday. After he went through he MRI results with me and explained that there was no other way to attempt to fix my shoulder, I enlightened him. I explained how the idiot had told me that I merely had a bruise and needed to exercise the shoulder to gain my mobility back. The good doctor's face got all red and puffy. I almost cracked up.

I think what he was feeling was what good teachers feel when people tell them about BAD teachers. We're sorta lumped into the same category no matter how good or bad, ya know?

He told me it was ridiculous, that I still need to be in the sling, that surgery is the only option, and that it doesn't really matter what the idiot said, I will get the care that I need.

You said it, mister.

And off to make my appointment with the superintendent to ask her how she's going to fix THIS.

The Pig

Butter's got the pig flu. Bastard pig.

Brought him the dr yesterday even though I didn't want to. I had to ask for a mask. I don't care if there ARE a ton of people with this. Let's cover it up, peeps! He hated the mask but wore it until we were back in the room.

He cried and cried because he thought they were going to give him another shot. The last time we were there he had three shots and a finger prick. The kids's got a mind like a steel trap. The doc? I LOVE him. He walked into the room, took one look at my kid, and said, "Hey, buddy! NO shots today! Not one!"

Prior to the doctor coming in, Butter had tears rolling down his cheeks. He looked at me and said, "Let's just get out of here! I'm not sick anymore!" Yeah. He was fine and dandy with being sicker than hell as long as he didn't have to face a shot. Once the doc made it clear he wasn't going to stick him, he jumped off the chair and let the man poke and prod. Again. I. Love. This. Doctor.

I am no longer going to the chick who is there. She pissed me off to high heaven. The guy is greatness and digs Robert. He talks to me like I'm not an idiot and is old skool - he didn't give me Tamiflu, and I wasn't piss faced about it.

Normally, that would have set me off. Nope. Vick's, Motrin, and HONEY. For real. He said dark honey cures a lot of what's ill with people - including some of the BAD BAD BAD symptoms from this pig shit.

Lucky for me, I have a HUGE jar of the shit in my kitchen from one of my local bee keepers - AND it's dark. Love love love!

And get this - he REMEMBERED Butter from an appointment we had with him 2 1/2 months ago. Before that appointment, he'd never seen Butter. Hell, I'd never seen the doc. He was new to the practice. We'd been shuttled into an appointment with him for a physical and well-child visit. Because he was new to the practice, he had more open appointments than the other docs. Without me mentioning a word to him, he brought up some blood work he'd ordered on Butter from last time, asked me if I was giving my kid the supplements to help with the low numbers we saw on the blood work, blah, blah, blah.

Yeah. He remembered. That means a whole hell of a lot to me than someone who rifles through a file before opening the door. I don't expect doctors, or anyone else for that matter, to remember everything. No one can do that. But he recalled my kid's face and some sketchy blood work. That's good enough for me. We discussed the timeline - we weren't supposed to go back for a recheck on his blood shit for another month - and parted with smiles all around.

I hope everyone has a doctor who's half as compassionate, smart, and supportive as this one.

N.B.
I am heading to my ortho guy this morning. I had an MRI last week. I'll know more on my fucking shoulder shit later today. I'm hoping for some PT and that's IT.

Quote Time

From one of the kids in my double block class. All but one child is a minority student. All of the kids failed the state standard test last year and have a double block of English with me to help get them up to speed.

I mentioned that I knew about a show on BET. I even gave proof by quoting something from the show.

Several children looked at me in disbelief. I could see the whole thought process working - how in the hell could she possibly know about anything on BET because she is WHITE.

One spoke up to defend my honor:
"Ya'll!!!!!!!! SHE BLACK! You didn't know that?" Yes. He meant this. I am not kidding.

Which was met by a chorus of "Ooooooooooooooohhhhhhssss..." as if all it took was one kid explaining that I am not in fact white; I am black.

Ok.

Race change. Check.

I love my kids. Love them. They are tore up from the floor up. And damn greatness.

Let the Pen Speaketh

I have been known to put pen to paper in order to have my voice heard. This year, school's been bad in many ways. The kids? Hell, I can deal with them. You make nice-nice, you get to know them, you engage their attention, you make them see how much you care.

Whammo. They love you back and will do whatever you ask.

It's the adults with whom I have reached my limit.

Take a look-see at the letter I sent, on Friday,to the school board chair in my city.


Dear Mr. School Board Chair Guy,

I am alarmed about several issues teachers within Name of My City Schools are currently facing. Among my greatest concerns is my current situation involving a report I made for workman’s compensation after I was injured while working earlier this month.

I arrived for an appointment to see a Name of My City Schools workman’s compensation-approved doctor, Dr. Quack, yesterday afternoon in order to be assessed for an injury which occurred while I was breaking up a fight at Name of my Middle School.

I took a half day of sick time in order to attend the appointment. I had been told that I was the first appointment of the day, would be seen promptly, and would be able to make my next appointment within plenty of time. I was not seen until almost 30 minutes after my arrival. My consult with the doctor lasted all of 10 minutes and consisted of him looking at x-rays I brought with me from my primary care physician by holding them up to the light in the ceiling and of me being asked to take my arm out of a sling, raise and lower my arm, and push my hand against the doctor’s hand. Dr. Quack told me I shouldn’t be in a sling, had a contusion to my shoulder, and should be moving my shoulder in order to “gain mobility.” These comments were made while he took note that I am only able to raise my arm in one direction 20% of what a healthy arm and shoulder is capable. He told me to complete pendulum and wall-walking exercises and to come see him again on Monday, October 26. In order to do so, I will have to take another half day of sick time as well as prepare plans for a substitute.

I had an appointment, previously scheduled through a referral by my primary care physician, with Dr. Who Knows What He's Doing at Name of my City Orthopedic directly following my appointment with Dr. Quack. Again, I brought along my x-rays which were looked at by Dr. Who Knows What He's Doing prior to his arrival to my examination room. I was chastised for not wearing the sling provided to me by my primary care physician and was told I had to wear it because I couldn’t move my arm and was using my neck and shoulder blades to support my arm. Dr. Who Knows What He's Doing said I should neither bear weight nor complete any exercises on my right side at this time. He also ordered an MRI in order to get a better picture of the possibility of a deep bone bruise, possible break not showing on the x-rays, and other injuries associated with my ligaments.

I am dismayed that two doctors would have such conflicting diagnoses and treatment plans. When this injury first occurred I didn’t report it because I’ve dealt with many situations like this during my tenure at Name of my Middle School and always bounced back after a short time. I did the best I could in a volatile situation by diffusing the fight between two students and redirecting them to their classes. I reported my injury after realizing that my shoulder was continuing to worsen and was met with what I took as doubt from Nurse Ratchet, the employee nurse who handled my report.

Through my contacts with Nurse Ratchet and Dr. Quack I can only conclude that there is doubt and mistrust in the teachers and their reporting of injuries with the city schools. Additionally, the care provided to those of us who have incurred injuries as a result of our employment in the city schools is substandard and arbitrary. I will continue to use my own insurance and sick days as a result of this experience so that I don’t lose use of my right shoulder. According to Name of my City Schools, teachers are Priority Three. My recent experience leads me to believe it is even lower than that.


Sincerely,
My Damn Name
Teacher of the Year 2009
Name of my Middle School
Name of my City Schools

Fuck Surprises

My Mother in Law decided to blow into town.

How did I find out about this? Thursday afternoon as I was rushing out of work to make it to Butter's Back to School Night, the Pack Mule called to let me know. How did he find out? She fucking sent him a text. Who sends a text to let someone know they're coming into town FROM STATES AWAY?

This woman lives in fucking Florida (thank you, God) for cripe's sake. FLORIDA. I'm in VIRGINIA. This isn't some couple of hour drive to "stay overnight."

He told me she'd be here Tuesday. Fine. A few day's to prepare myself to see the Drunk Grandmother (AS IF she really fits that moniker) of the Year.

NOPE.

Got the call from the Pack Mule on FRIDAY evening when he was leaving work. "She's here. She's in town."

Are you fucking kidding me? No prep time? Nothing?

I had to have lunch with her at the Pack Mule's place of work yesterday. Why? I wouldn't have it at MY HOUSE. Nope. If I can reduce the amount of time this fucktard spends at my home, I WILL DO IT.

Misery. She is misery.
She complained the ENTIRE TIME.
About everything.
Her daughter.
Her "friend."
Her life in general.

The "friend?" Yeah. Another drunk. The Pack Mule's mother sanctimoniously attempted to talk shit about her friend being a bad mom, she drinks too much, blah blah blah. Dude? Hello?Pot. Kettle. Black. And we're not talking about the fucking hue of your skin either, sister.

I finally said, "You know what? I have found that confronting someone about alcohol and drug abuse when that someone isn't willing to even look at her behavior is just a lost cause." I stared at her coldly with a gleam in my eye. She shut her drunk-ass mouth about THAT.

Today will be yet another day of me attempting to be civil when I really want to punch her in the head.

I may have to take some of my anti-nausea meds. The Rx kind. Why?

I'm not pregnant. I'm just literally SICKENED when I have to watch how she stares at my son as if she had some magical connection, some universal link with how he's turned out.

Lady? You have seen him all of seven times since he's been born. All of those times you've either been buzzed or dead-ass drunk. Do you honestly believe you've had a hand in anything positive? For real?

Go back to Florida. Drink yourself to death. And be done with it.

The best news? (This is cold-hearted. But I'm not about to lie here. C'mon. You know me better than that.)

She told me that her kidney functions are fucked up. I asked her about the numbers and meds she's on to get an idea of HOW fucked up. They're fucked up. She kept going round and round about how the doctors "just can figure out why I'm having these issues."

Do you think it has anything to do with the fact that you drink a GALLON of wine each day and chase that wine with BEER? Do you THINK????????????

Renal failure without treatment of any kind is quick. I told her that to her face. I reminded her that my Dad lasted all of 10 days once his kidneys failed. That's it. I said it with a straight face and followed up with, "So if you're telling me that even though they've mentioned dialysis and you're refusing that option - you should know that it won't take long to die from this. At least you won't be suffering from a long death as a result of lung cancer from all those cigarettes you smoke. There's a positive, right?"

You could have heard crickets. Love that.

Target Snack Bar - Meeting of the Minds

An evening at Target has become one of those predictable moments for Butter and me since school started. My Pack Mule's schedule's been changed during the past six weeks to reflect an even LATER end time.

By Friday, I'm usually sapped of any energy but know that I must pick up necessities before heading home. What's a mom to do?

Drag her ass to Target.

This past Friday Butter and I went there with two things on our list: milk and a Halloween movie.

After snagging both of them, we headed to the almighty snack bar. We shared popcorn and a pretzel. (That fucking popcorn machine? Money in the bank. For real. For Target.) I have seen more popcorn fly out of that place than at a movie theater.

There was one guy on duty who was having a tough time keeping up with everything because the smoothie machine was on the fritz. When things finally calmed down he was cleaning and straightening things up in an effort to catch up. Butter kept asking me what he was doing, why, etc.

Finally, I said, "Do you want to go help him?"

He looked at me as though I was a loon who'd recently retched up my anti psychotic meds and replied, "Mommmmmmmmmm. I don't have a JOBBBBBB."

Thanks for clearing that up, kid. Setting me on the straight and narrow. Yeah.

And I Quote

One of the best quotes from this week in school, aka The City of Beasts, is from a kid in the 8th grade. I'd never met him before and took him off someone's hands after he was so disruptive in her class that he had to be referred to the office.

I was up there when the referral came in and told the Assistant Boss Lady that I'd take whoever it was since ISS was full of kids and the possibility of getting a hold of the kid's parents was unlikely. (As an aside, get this - with all the shit that's been going down, when we call parents, they REFUSE to pick up their kids. Yeah. What the fuck?)

So the kid's brought to my room which is already filled with 8th graders as I now teach both 6th AND 8th grades. I seated him and told him there was NO WAY he would even consider holding a desk over his head in MY room as he had been doing in his other classroom. I made no bones about it and pointed out several large boys in the room who would beat him down if he acted like a nitwit.

During one of the group activities, I walked past where he was sitting. He asked to see the tattoo on my ankle. I threw my foot on his seat and let him take a gander. He pulled my capris UP looking "for the rest of it." Ha ha ha. He thought I had some sort of leg piece going on.

He then shared one of HIS tattoos. Yes. He has more than one. The one he pointed out was his mom's name on his forearm.

Not five minutes later he said, "Ya know what? I think a neck piece would look good on you! You need to get one."

And he was serious.
And a discussion ensued among the other tattooed children in my room.
And pictures and words were thrown about in an effort to "help" me choose my neck piece.

And then I threw a bucket of cold-ass water on their plans when I explained that neck pieces were frowned upon by higher-ups in education.

That pissed 'em off. They wanted to know who they could speak with to "plead my case."

It was then that I had to tell them that I would NEVER be putting something on my neck. I did temper the news by telling them I'd probably get a tramp stamp though.

But I didn't say tramp.
Promise.

I Got...

Nothing.

The year has been SOMETHING. So far, September's had chairs thrown in class, desks on top of kids' heads, colors being worn in class, gang signs being thrown anywhere, fights galore.

Add to that - numerous paperwork minutia, meetings, meetings, meetings, phone calls, conferences, more paperwork.

And knowing that I will never see the $9,000 raise I was SUPPOSED to get this year before the district went into an "economic crisis." I worked this long for nothing. No cost-of-living increase. NOTHING. And I will never see that 9 grand either. Ever. Mark my words. I'm glad I've been able to help those in central office balance the budget.

Things Could Be Worse

I could look like that.

Nah. That would never happen.

But imagine if my enemies had super powers and could turn me into that monstrosity.

*shuddering*

Oh Fer Fuck's Sake

No surgery yet.

I had an appointment on Tuesday with a surgeon in Dr. Young Cute Boy's group because Dr. YCB is on vacation until the end of the month. I'd originally had an appointment with YCB, but my physician wanted me seen earlier because of the CT results, my current pain, and my past history. SHE changed the appointment and communicated the reasons with the OTHER doctor.

Yeah. An hour before my appointment, the idiot's secretary called to tell me that Dr. Fucktard didn't want to see me and thought I should see Dr. YCB. What? Are you fucking serious here? An hour before my fucking appointment? When you fucking office called me not 12 hours prior to CONFIRM the appointment that you are now CANCELLING? And hello? I had to take an entire fucking day off from work for NOTHING?

Fuck you.

I was as pleasant as humanly possible to the twit who gave me this news.
She knew I was pissed and said she would go speak with Dr. Fucktard who was "with a patient at the moment," and would call me back.

My reply, "Does this mean I SHOULD or SHOULD NOT come in? 'Cause now it's 45 MINUTES before I'm supposed to be there."

Mind you, I was in incredi-pain because the drugs I got in the ER are so fucking strong that they make me feel like hammered shit. Hence, I am taking NOTHING stronger than fucking Bufferin. Yeah. Bufferin. It's fucking old peoples' drug. I'm almost embarrassed to admit it here.

Dumb bitch calls me back and says, "Dr. Fucktard says you'll be just fine until the end of the month when Dr. Young Cute Boy returns."

My reply? "Really? I think it's great that he can come to that conclusion without having seen me or discussed this case with me. Fine. Get me an appointment with Dr. YCB. And because of this MESS, you WILL be giving me preferential treatment with regards to the latest appointment possible in the day because I CANNOT TAKE ANOTHER ENTIRE DAY OFF FROM WORK TO FIT YOUR SCHEDULE."

She made the appointment and a fatal error. "Ok. You're the latest appointment. Hopefully, all of the earlier times will fill up so that you can keep it."

REALLY? Did you just say that to me? For fucking real? Bitch? Have you ever heard of LYING? Today would have been a great day for you to LIE. You should have called and LIED about Dr. Fucktard being out of the office on an emergency. Barring that, you should have LIED and said NOTHING about the appointment status.

Cause ya see, if I get a cancellation on the September 30 appointment, heads are gonna fucking ROLL in the form of an open letter to the editor with all of the direct quotes I recorded on the morning in question.

*deep cleansing breath*

I also put in a call to my personal physician who returned my call pretty quickly and also threw up a little in her mouth when I explained my dilemma with Dr. Fucktard. I love that she was pissed. I also love that I was able to scream and yell profanities without her thinking that I am a total crackpot. (She loves it when I let loose with some profane statements as much as I love it when she treats me with compassion when I'm sick. It's a win-win, right?)

She made a note in my file that HE cancelled appointment. Her words, "In case anything happens, I am making a note of this so that you have recourse." Of course I have recourse, darling. I know medicine as much as any fucking lay person could. I never entered the hallowed halls of medical school like Dr. Fucktard, but I know my shit. I also know PATIENT RIGHTS. Fucker. The ER people last week asked if I worked in the medical field. Boss Lady and I both laughed hearty and long when the question was posed.

I was fired up on Tuesday and made no bones about it: I was returning to work the next day, come hell or high water.

And I did.

And it hurt.
And I'm tired.
And I'm still not dead so it's worth it.

My kids hated the sub. My coworkers who thought she'd be good thought she was an idiot. She's a nice person but cannot deal with the kids we currently have at my school. (We had a gang fight on Friday. For real. But that's fodder for another post.)

So. I'm back and staying at work until at least September 30. I'm hoping Dr. Young Cute Boy will find a way to let me hold off until Christmas Break so I don't have to take a lot of time off. The kids I have this year will cause many a mental breakdown in various adults if I'm not there on a regular basis. If I spike a fever or have the vomits, I have to (and will) go to the ER. I told my workmates that I would smuggle in beer and margaritas as long as they'd come and stay for the show. I'm pretty entertaining in the hospital. I can do almost anything under the guise of being zooted up on drugs. Greatness, I tell ya.

So. Thanks for the well wishes, concerned emails, phone calls, etc. I'm hanging tough. Nothing like some fucking adrenalin and anger to make the pain fade. I told my doctor that if I could invent some synthetic drug to mimic the adrenalin/anger train I was on Tuesday morning, I could quit teaching and live high on the fucking hog with nary a concern in the world.

Spigelian Hernia, Anyone?

Come join me again on my fucking hell voyage to Surgery Land again. One would think that I would have already been cut enough times to last a FUCKING LIFETIME. Alas, according to my surgeon, my torso "is swiss cheese" and every time he cuts or attempts to repair something I "bleed." Great. So platelets are in my future as well.

I went to my doc on Thursday because I've been in incredi-pain. For a while now I've felt what can only be described as "stingers" in my right side. I figured I was straining against the mesh that was nailed into my abdominal wall during my last surgery. The machine they use to attach the mesh that was used for my surgery is a Pro-tacker. I read my surgical notes and can clearly remember shuddering because I envisioned something akin to a fucking nail gun inside my belly. My surgeon told me I should feel as though someone had stabbed me repeatedly. I told him he was right on the mark and that I would be happy to be his spokesperson who would be honest with future patients and would explain that the surgery would "hurt like a fucker" rather than the whole "you'll experience some discomfort and pain" line that clearly doesn't do the pain factor justice.

So. My doc spoke with me on Thursday. Before palpating on my abdomen, she said, "I'm going to schedule a CT scan for you in the morning." My response, "You have GOT to be fucking kidding me here. The last time you sent me for one, they cut me. And now it's the THIRD DAY OF FUCKING SCHOOL."

She changed her tune after pushing and prodding. She became very calm- almost serene. I looked at her and said, "Fuck me. You're sending me to the ER, aren't you?" Yup. Of course.

She didn't think I would go and kept badgering my ass.
I told her she would have to give me an hour or so to find my husband and get my kid.
She told me I had to pack a bag because she couldn't guarantee that I'd be sent home.
Whatever.

I had my scan.
Bloodwork
Questions, questions, questions.
All the while, the pain increased.

I will be honest with YOU people.
The pain I've been in has been excrucitating.
Wednesday night I took 500mg of Hydrocodone. That shit touched NONE of the pain. THAT is why I made an appointment on Thursday morning.

I was the hit of the surgical team - two peeps came to see me. One of them was handsome yet smug. The other? Overeager and ready to dig her hands into my stomach.

Handsome boy asked me what I thought it was and followed up with, "I KNOW what it is." Then just fucking tell me, asshole. I'm not on some game show here. And I want to go HOME.

Overeager girl was so excited because she'd never seen this type of hernia. It's evidently quite rare. Whatever. I want to be the middle of the road hernia girl. This is one I'd prefer to not have. It's rare and much more painful than the run-of-the-mill ones.

Handsome boy wanted to "reduce it" back into the hole after explaining what it was. Yeah. Hello? That took 100 micrograms of fentanyl on top of I have no idea how much morphine they'd already shot into my arm. Overeager one was so excited to feel the belly and push, push. push. I wanted to push my knee into her face. Handsome boy, while smug, was informative and a nice piece of Latin eye candy. He could have stayed all night. Boss Lady was there with me so that my Pack Mule could be home with Butter. She had a great view of his ass. Had she been wise enough to take a picture, I would have posted it here.

Here's some linkage in case you want to know what this shit is. I can't take the time to fully explain this particular type of hernia that sounds like spaghetti but is so NOT the case.

So. More stories will be forthcoming regarding my evening in the ER. It topped almost any Jerry Springer fest I've ever seen. At least I got some good bloggy material out of this.

The good news is that it's not appendicitis or an ectopic pregnancy, which are two of the possibilities the docs were looking at. The bad news is that I'm heading BACK INTO THE FUCKING OR sooner rather than later. I have an appointment with a guy in my surgical group on Tuesday morning and will know more then.

I was planning on going to work on Monday but was told by Boss Lady that I wasn't allowed back. Huh? Did I miss being banned at work? Evidently so. She said Handsome and another ER doctor said I shouldn't return until I was seen by my surgeon. Hello? I must have missed that on all of the drugs pumped into my system.

This is also probably due to the fact that I had a severe panic attack after the "reduction" completed by Handsome.

I didn't say a word but got really antsy, wanting to get out of bed, change positions, etc. I didn't want to admit that I felt like I was having a heart attack. It wrapped around my shoulder and upper back. I honest to God could NOT breathe. I calmly asked Boss Lady to get my nurse and was quickly hooked up to O2, a heart monitor, and then, an EKG. The entire experience was fucking humiliating. I do not EVER lose my shit.

I'm hear to tell the tale: I lost my shit in the ER.

They shot Ativan into my IV. I felt NO effect whatsoever. What the hell?

Yeah. So the morphine and fentanyl also restricted my ability to breathe well, but I'm readily admitting that the complete loss of control over a situation involving my health caused me to spiral into panic mode. Christ. I hate this shit.

More later.
Think good thoughts.
Please.

Sisterhood

October holds a great deal for me. I'm focusing on that month with fervor right now.

The one thing in particular that's holding my attention is the first weekend in October. I'm heading to Raleigh to see U2. They were my first concert ever. I was in 7th grade. I went with a girl from my middle school and my Dad. He drove us there and back to the Meadowlands in Jersey. He paid for the tickets. He sucked up the pot-laden air. And never made a complaint.

I've seen them since then, but this time I'm going with a dear friend from high school - someone who found me 20 years after the fact. I had no idea she'd been searching for me. I'm just freaking grateful for Facebook because that's how my Siouxie found me! Love you, woman!

And Lara is now coming along as well! She just paid for her ticket and will be flying down. We're having a girlie weekend of amazing escapades.

I seriously don't think there are many people in the world who are blessed with the kind of friends I have.

Even if you aren't Siouxie or Lara, know that I appreciate your words, smiles, support, and laughter. Most importantly, I value what you offer to the sisterhood we share!

Green

While I love the color green, for the time being it will only evoke a very fresh memory from my family.

The other night, I was getting Butter into the shower. He was chewing gum, and without being prompted, bent over the bathroom trashcan as if to spit it out. I was proud; beaming even. What kid willingly spits out gum?

Then I was kicked in my proverbial balls when I realized the green was not in fact gum; he's been chewing the cud that was formerly known as the PEAS I served for dinner for at least 15 minutes.

Just waiting.
Patiently.
For an opportunity to SPIT THEM OUT rather than swallow them.

And couldn't understand my disbelief and sputtering words.

I believe this is what we call "premeditation."

I am so fucked when he gets older.

Shut Your Mouth

I made a decision today that I regret.

I allowed my Pack Mule to convince me that taking Butter to fucking McDonald's and letting him play in that breeding ground for all that is nasty filth was an acceptable idea. Note, I did not use any of the following adjectives: good, happy, wonderful, intelligent.

I went because although Butter and I rode bikes together earlier today, the rains commenced for the fucking third day in a row, and I foolishly thought, "This will give him a chance to get some more energy out."

Whatever. I'd rather raise a slovenly, lazy potato of a son than go back to fucking McDonald's. It's that or medicate me. Got it?

What did I eat? A cup of unsweetened iced tea. I do not drink sweetened iced tea. I find it to be a vile soup of sorts. Be mean to me if you will, but I will not change my ways even if you feel it your lot in life to "reeducate" me on the supposed finer art of drinking Southern tea. I am not a Southerner and will never pretend to be one no matter how long I live in Virginia. Don't waste your breath.

I ate the tea because the thought of ingesting anything else actually made me dry heave a little.

I also bought a newspaper thinking I'd be able to distract myself.

No such luck.

I attempted to imagine I was the step-mother in today's Ann Lander's column who sobbed about how her step-daughter betrayed her after years of living in peace. Blah fucking blah, lady.

MY LIFE IS WORSE THAN YOURS!!!! I AM IN A MCDONALD'S ON A SATURDAY TWO WEEKS BEFORE SCHOOL STARTS LISTENING TO FUCKING GRIMY KIDS SCREAM AND YELL.

*sigh*

I also found myself muttering to the woman in the next booth, "Will you PLEASE shut the FUCK up? PLEASE????? You have nothing of value to say. Just. Shut. Up."

I know it was audible because my Pack Mule was staring at me in horror.

I will not go back there. Will. Not.

25 Years

Seems like yesterday, but 25 years ago today my older sister, Donna, was killed in a car accident. I was 15. She was 18.

She was on the cusp of amazing things - scheduled to head to college in mere weeks.

That's us on the couch - circa 1974. I'm on the left. She's on the right. Wine Girl is in the middle. Lil Sis was likely napping in her crib. This is one of my all-time favorite shots ever.

I have had a migraine for two days now, and I attributed it to weather and stress. Now I think it's related to the anniversary. What a fucking joke. Who "celebrates" the untimely death of someone? Cheated. I definitely feel cheated but also feel selfish admitting that here. If someone was cheated, it was my sister.

I miss her like it was yesterday.

Profanity, Part I

Part I. Who the fuck am I kidding.

I should just say Profanity Infinity.

I have a mouth. I know it. I get it. I know it's not 'acceptable.' Blah blah blah.

I also know that I changed the title of THIS bloggy to NOT include FUCK.

I like fuck. A lot. I do. Really.

But too many people were having to read this in a surreptitious manner both at home and at work - either the kids were around or the boss was looking. And people privately complained that they couldn't link me through THEIR OWN blogs because of the F bomb.

*sigh* I DO love the F bomb.

I digress. As usual.

So. "Damn" is the best I can do here.

The other day I was chatting in YoVille on Facebook. (Do YOU YoVille? Ya gotta. It's a simpleton's game filled with tons of kick-ass stuff to buy.)

So I was chatting in my "house" with a friend, cursed, and looked with horror at the bubble above my head. Instead of it reading, "Oh FUCK that!" It read, "Oh YADDA that!"

Yadda? Are you kidding me here? You censor my cursing in an online fake-ass be a bubble-looking person game? For real?

The good thing about this is that I now have a veritable cache of "acceptable" curses to last me at last the first two months of school. Ya know. Until my ADHD, OCD self gets distracted and needs something new and fresh.

Until further notice, when I am in social situations where I cannot drop that silky F bomb, I will utter the following:

yadda = fuck
yaddaer = fucker
yaddaing = fucking

Great, no? Bordering on genius is what I say!

A tad bit off topic but bearing a mention is the fact that Butter was playing soccer with the Pack Mule recently while I was devouring yet another Greg Iles book. They were kicking the ball back and forth a la soccer drills of some sort when Butter missed the ball. Totally whiffed it.

The Pack Mule was fucking DYING laughing. I merely raised an eyebrow. I couldn't pry my eyes from the delicious book. Pack Mule ambled over and said he overheard Butter grumble the following after he whiffed and then had to retrieve the soccer ball.

"KICK the ball! Jesus Christ! KICK the ball!"

Yeah. Self-talk. Almost coach-like. To himself. At the tender age of four.

*tear* I'm so proud. As long as he doesn't do that on the REAL field and then attribute it to me.

On Staying Focused

As I ready myself to head back to the trenches of public school in a week, I am both worried and excited about what might be in store this year. Last week, I spent some time in a meeting where there were discussions concerning our focus on getting our kids to pass the almighty standards of NCLB. You know, the ones that say all children are the same and we better well damn get every kid to pass the tests OR ELSE.

Allow me a moment to roll my eyes.

One of the things I have disliked the most about my years in teaching is when leaders think they all know what's best and decide to get a large group of people (They call them stakeholders. For real. Stakeholders. Every time I hear that word I turn it into Steak Holders and imagine people holding bloody pieces of beef. But I digress.) together to "brainstorm" in an effort to "make decisions."

I don't support this idea at all. I believe in representatives dealing with the matter at hand. Said representatives can and SHOULD communicate with others not present at the meeting to harvest thoughts and opinions on whatever's the focus. However, generally speaking, I cannot stomach being in a meeting where there are 50 people who aren't on track, focused, and ready to work.

In my experience, out of those 50, maybe 5 are down and dirty working people. 20 are pissed that they're in a meeting and offer nothing. 15 are socializing and distracting people but will be ready to complain their asses off once the decisions come down the pike. The other 10? They don't want to work together. They just want to push their own close-minded ideas through like a proverbial freight train and get openly hostile when someone questions their offerings.

Leave your ego at the door.
Be ready to work.
Represent the cause. Not YOUR cause. THE cause.
In this case, whatever's best for kids.

Unless you're on of those 5, I honestly don't want to deal with you in a meeting.

Wilma Mankiller was the first woman chief of the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma. She said it best:

Too many people in leadership try to do too many things, and nothing gets done.

Confidence

For years and years I was doubtful of myself. Truth be told, I continue to run across that old me from time and time and have to fight her so that I don't become a willing victim of my own history. I'd like to be able to say that I can pinpoint my weaknesses easily. I definitely have a pat answer, easily provided, for interview time when they ask the age-old question, "What is your biggest strength and biggest weakness?"

But in reality, I think mine change from day to day and are greatly dependent on the challenges I face.

A running list: anger, pride, my novice status at forgiveness (I've gotten better with this one.), my penchant for revenge (again, this one has also improved).

Rosalynn Carter is quoted as saying:
Once you accept the fact that you're not perfect, then you develop some confidence.

Too true, Rosalynn. Thank you, dear woman. I doubt she was aware of this insight when she was a fresh-faced 17-year old who'd just met Jimmy, but she's surely stood the test of time and life, learning the toughest lessons while steeling herself in the White House beside her husband and daughter.


For years, I was deluded (mostly by myself) into thinking that I had to be perfect. This started back when I was 15; the day my older sister was killed in a car accident. I blindly told myself that I'd better start being the perfect daughter because I was going to have to make up for the void left behind by my sister's death. I've only told two people about this fact.

As time went on, I realized I couldn't replace the emptiness left by Donna's death. Rather, I realized that I was ok just being me. Am I an overachiever who takes on too much most of the time? Absolutely. But I no longer think that I have to be perfect. I'm not running on the damn hamster wheel killing myself.

I used to walk with false bravado in an effort to "fool" people into thinking I was someone else.

I now walk with courage, conviction, and belief in who I am.

And I'm proud to admit that. It's been a long road.

Rise Up!

I'd love to have some insightful verbiage concerning standing up for oneself or speaking out against injustice here, but I'm talking about YEAST. Let it rise!

I think I'm over my fear of baking with yeast.

There's something about not having had a paycheck for three months that makes a chick go into Frugal Mode. This includes baking my own bread.

I have a bread machine that puts out some pretty good loaves of bread, but all summer long, I've been mulling over getting down and dirty in the kitchen again and creating bread with my two plump hands. I'm a good cook and a passable baker. However, last year is sort of a blur with the exception of the knowledge that my family ate out WAY TOO MUCH because I was always so exhausted and spent after working. A great deal of that is related to the health issues I had. Now that I'm finally feeling more like myself again, my ass is cooking.

I found what appeared to be a simple recipe for dough - for use in making foccacia. I'm a bread whore through and through. If I had to go with two foods for the rest of my life they would be good bread and better cheese. You know I don't hold back so I'll soothe your first thought after reading "cheese" and let you know that for whatever reason, I never have a problem with constipation after eating copious amounts of cheese. It's all good in my intestines. (You always get a little more than you bargained for when ya come here!)

I made the foccacia the other night to rave reviews from both Butter and my Pack Mule.

It's around 95 degrees here today and humid. And nasty. And gross. Even Butter doesn't want to venture outside. Heat like this incites riot with his asthma. So. We baked. Take a gander. If anyone wants to come visit, we're here for the duration and will cook until your eyes turn blue and you begin wondering if stretchy pants aren't such a bad fashion invention after all.

Butter was ready to go!

See how proud he is in his red apron? I had to jimmy-rig it so that he wasn't dragging it on the ground. This baby came from an Italian cooking school my Mom attended a few years ago.

We proofed the yeast. See? Is that bowl of puffy, bubbly goodness beautiful or what?

Butter was so excited to be able to mix the flour and yeast mixture once I made certain that I wouldn't have flour all over the place. See that backgound? Yeah. My Pack Mule installed the tumbled marble backsplash as well as the stamped copper stuff behind the stove. I shall keep him around for a while.
Butter helped me knead the dough. He is a PRO.


Ready to rise. Glistening with oil. In one of my very favorite stainless steel bowls.

Ahhh. Yes. Come to mama. This is the first foccacia we made the other night. Sea salt, dried herbs, freshly-grated Parmesan, and lovely olive oil.


Today's foccacia was spartan - sea salt, dried oregano and basil, and a teensy bit of butter on top of the bread after I pulled it from the oven.

This was covered with provolone and dried herbs.

Happiness

Can be translated into different languages and experiences.

Butter obviously makes me happier than words can express. I wasn't "supposed" to be a mother. I'd been told I wouldn't be able to bear children and had given up on the thought. After the initial happiness and shock of finding I was pregnant with him, I had an ultrasound that showed all of his intestines, stomach, and liver on the OUTSIDE of his body. The picture looked like spaghetti. I was told the follow-up ultrasound would likely show the same picture and that I'd seriously have to consider terminating because if he made it full-term, he would likely die during or soon after childbirth or would live maybe a few years in an almost vegetative state, requiring feeding through a tube and almost certain brain abnormalities.

I lived for weeks between that film and the follow-up praying harder than I ever had in my life. None of the doctors who dealt with my case thought that anything would change. Not one of them. These were widely-known doctors who dealt with high-risk pregnancies. I'd prepared myself the best I could for the next appointment.

And the picture showed a closed belly. Nothing hanging out. Nothing stringing along inside the little sac. A closed, round belly. Nothing wrong with the spinal cord. Nothing. Everything was tightly shut.

And the little (whatever. he is SO NOT) four year old I have today - in all of his happy glory - with giraffe rain boots that he doesn't like to wear in the rain because "they might get WET!"

On Settling

I'm all about settling my debts. I don't like owing anything or anyone. It bears on my soul more than words can say.

But settling, in other terms? Nope. No more.

Maureen Dowd is my hero because she coined the phrase -

The minute you settle for less than you deserve, you get even less than you settled for.

Amen to that, woman.

I'm no longer settling.
People can like it or lump it.
Just like when you have to bear down on shitty preschooler behavior with your kids (read: MY kid), things can get worse before they improve. I'm in this for the long haul.

No more settling for anything less than I deserve.

Keeping the Faith

Betty Reese said it best when she uttered the following words:

If you think you are too small to be effective, you have never been in bed with a mosquito.

Amen to that, Betty!

**************************
I've been feeling quite like that fucker of a mosquito lately. I'm taking better care of myself. For all my words of saying that I'm "going to put myself first, take better care of myself, blah blah blah" I don't do a very damn good job of it.

I last for a couple of days and then get easily distracted by schedules, work, my kid, husband, and god, taking care of a house, drowning in bills. You get the picture.

Rather than take a breather, focus, make sure I'm eating and sleeping well, and THEN go back to the grind, I just...GRIND.

Like any pedicure-loving woman knows, you grind away at those callouses, and they miraculously disappear. I'm tougher than any callous who's made an appearance on my Barney Rubble feet, yet I tend to find that I've disappeared when I've allowed my well-being to take a back seat to everything else in my life.

So. How am I like a mosquito?

I'm working on being as tenacious with my health as I am with my work.

• two 45-minute walks a day with the dog. (I try to reserve the evening one for just me and Ranger. I need some ALONE time.)
• reading like maniac
• firming up Butter's bedtime routine
• scheduling meal times and actually having everyone eat them at the table
• limiting eating out to one meal a week - you people have NO CLUE how many times a week I was eating out during the last month of school. I had no time to breathe. Rather, I didn't take the time to breathe. If people are "disappointed" with the changes they see in me this year, so be it. If people can't see that I'm taking care of myself and understand how THAT will only have a positive effect on my work performance, fuck 'em. Boss Lady and her Partner will not have a problem with this. The people who I've allowed to taketaketake from me in the past? Yeah. They'll be piss-eyed, and I don't particularly care.
• cooking moremoremore at home. My recipes will be documented at Eating In 356-ish. I linked that sucker in my sidebar the other day and have several recipes fermenting in my files as we speak. I'll throw them up as soon as they're tweaked.
• teaching myself how to bake bread. I'll use my breadmaker at times, but I'm really interested in the whole dough-between-my-fingers baking thing. Frankly, I'm afraid of yeast. I think it's much more fickle than any bad relationship and will betray my ass quickly when I most need it to RISERISERISE. However, I'm gonna throw my hat in the ring and bake some damn bread/rolls/etc.

So. Keep the faith, people.

As Jac says, "Chin up. Tits out."

(This might be a good time to say that Jac's the only person I know who can say "tits" and not have me frown and grind my teeth. "Tits" coming from any other person's mouth ticks me off. From Jac? Not so much.)

Be the mosquito. Be the fucking mosquito!

Summer

As the beginning of school looms in the oh-so-near future, I wanted to let you in on a gem from Ada Louise Huxtable.

Summer is the time when one sheds one's tensions with one's clothes, and the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit.

If nothing else, this summer has definitely lived up to Huxtable's definition. If only it could be a bit longer.

Purify

See that stuff? If you are lucky enough to have a fucking Trader Joe's nearby, unlike my sorry ass, GET YOUR ASS THERE, pronto! Purchase some of this stuff and experience the amazing aroma of citrus love as you scrub-a-dub your skin, buffing away dead skin cells that would allow people to confuse you with someone who smokes. I don't. You probably don't. But dead, sallow skin cells lead people to mean judgements, my brothers and sisters.

Avoid the judging fucktards and use this heavenly love.

But watch out when you're done. A few effects post-use?
1. If you don't want it, you'll slip and fall on your newly-buffed tushie. The oils in this stuff have probably been the demise of many a shower-taker out there despite bold warnings on the container.

2. The scent that rolls off your skin will make Edward Cullen lust after you. I had to fight his hotness off of me the last three nights.

3. Your skin will GLOW. Fucking, fucking glow! Mine does. Mine. Yes. Now, I've got pretty good skin, but it was stretched its limit several years ago before I dropped some poundage so it's pretty saggy and drawn in some places. I'm ok with this. You should be too. But I am NOT ok with ashy skin. Ever. And this stuff makes me believe I can obtain baby-smooth skinage again.

I cannot claim bounty on this love bucket scrub. No.

An amazing woman from my past (hello, high school?) was kind enough to bestow this stuff on me. Siouxie knows just what this Not Wishy Washy woman loves. I love you BIG BIG BIG, Siouxie! Just like the Dark Chocolate-Covered Joe-Joe's, I am hoarding this shit. If I find my Pack Mule or my Butter sticking their grimy mitts into the jar, there's gonna be some hell to pay.

Crossroads

Robert Johnson is considered by some to be a godfather of the blues. The tale goes - he sold his soul to the devil in order to be the best blues musician. According to zerotime.com:

Deep in the Mississippi delta, in the heart of voodoo and occult practices, on a lonely dirt road, as darkness fell, Mr. Johnson found Hell and changed the sound of music forever.

Why Robert Johnson from THESE lips today?

I recently heard a musician speak on the blues. He's an accomplished musician in his own right and was down in Virginia on a last stop before returning to his home in New York. He mentioned that many people connote the blues with pain and sorrow. He said he believes the blues are the Crossroads of Suffering and Transcendence.

Amen to that.

I may have to slide some Muddy Waters into my CD player later today. Beautiful stuff.

Touch A Truck

These are some of the pics I took of Butter at the first Touch A Truck even here in our fair city. From the back of a military transport vehicle.



The inside of the Humvee. I'd figured out how to open the window. Butter was mesmerized by my mad skillz!

Go-cart heaven.

A second go-cart. Both were designed by students at the local community college. They placed within the top ten in a nationwide competition against such schools as the University of Virginia, Virginia Tech, and USC.

Ahhh the cement truck. He was digging this one. I tried to get him to climb up the ladder in the back, but he demurred. Ha ha! I have to say that the men and women who brought their vehicles to this event and donated their time were AMAZING. I didn't hear a "no" from any of them when a kid would ask to touch, sit, push a button, beep a horn, etc.

From the top of the HUGE dump truck that looked just like his Tonka. I don't think he could have been happier in that moment.

See? I TOLD you how happy he was! Me? My ass was damn happy to be on the GROUND.

Lookie! In an 18-wheeler's cab. He almost fell over from delight when he discovered a BED in the back.



Driving a city bus.


In a combo loader/digger thing. Holy crap. He looked at the guy and said, "I have TWO of dees at home. Dey are only toys, but I got 'em!" The guy spun him around in the seat so he could see the other side and how you can operate both parts of this enormous machine.

If any of your local parks and rec departments or civic groups sponsor something similar, you simply MUST GO whether or not you have kids. I can't wait until next year's event.

One Organized Bitch

That's me.

I may be feeling blah about things lately, but my damn fridge and two freezers are fucking organized. I also cleaned upstairs yesterday - scrub-a-dub, scrub-a-dub, scrub-a-dub-dub! That's Butter's song. He loves to help me clean. And with that new Swiffer Dust Mop thing, sheesh, it's a breeze. I know it doesn't work for all people, but ya know what I say about that?

Too fucking bad, my brothers and sisters. I live by this sucker. I dust-mop and sweep every day now. I wet mop every other day. I don't care about buying those single-use wet and dry moppity thingies either. To hell with that. I found $2 coupons for 'em.

And now. On to my freezer.


I bought about sixth month's worth of beef, chicken, and seafood the other day; all single-serving packages - ya know air-tight and shit. Pack Mule, who has worked in the restaurant industry since they invented dirt told me I made a good deal and that the meats and seafood are high-quality.

Here's the beef and chicken. I even organized the veggies in this freezer with 'em. The stand-alone freezer holds all of the soy products as well as seafood. To say I am proud is an understatement.

I started a food blog the other day and have been adding to it little by little.

I need some feedback - if you were looking at a food blog would you prefer one with recipes using some prepared products, everything homemade, or a mixed bag of both. Do tell. As I get more recipes up there, I'll share the linkage.

Mother of the Year

Again.

I am under a deluge of awards as of late.

The latest is Mother of the Year.

G'head. Clap for me. A salvo or two, if you will.

The reason for this illustrious award? Read the following transcript from my latest telephone call to Butter's pediatrician.

Me: Hello, I'd like to make an appointment for a physical for my son. He will be attending a 4-year old preschool in the fall, and the enrollment paperwork includes a full physical with documentation of his vaccination record.

Lady: Did you get his 2 and 3 year old check-ups elsewhere?

Me: No. I wasn't told I needed to come in for those because he wasn't up for more shots. (I feel like I'm talking about my dog here, but I digress.)

Lady: So he never had a check-up?

Me: He had PLENTY of check-ups with his immunologist. You know, surgery, post-op, quarterly or more appointments. But nothing with you guys. Guess that makes me Mother of the Yeah huh?

Lady: *silence*

Me: *silence* (I wasn't about to let her off the hook with this one.)

Lady: I didn't mean to make you feel bad.

Me: (Wanted to correct her poor use of grammar but let it slide.) Oh you didn't make me feel badly. Not at all. It take a LOT more than that to make me feel like a shmuck. So when can I get an appointment?

************************************************
See? I may appear to have my shit together but had NO IDEA I was supposed to take my kid for checkups every year. Let's add this to my pseudo-chagrin: I stopped going there on a regular basis as soon as I was referred to Butter's immunologist. For more than a year I was regularly told that he either had a virus or allergies. When I finally asked to have allergy testing done, I was looked at as though I was an idiot. I told the doctor that I wanted to find out what was causing all of these "allergies" so that I could help ease the suffering my kid was enduring day in and day out. Her first answer? "It's because he's in daycare. I told you to expect him to be sick 3 out of every 4 weeks each month if you were going to have him in daycare."

Hello? Fucktard? Don't attempt to guilt-trip or punish me for having to work full-time and employ some people to provide care for my kid. It's that or live on the streets. I'm certain that he'd be a hell of a lot sicker if we were homeless and destitute. And WITHOUT insurance.

Hello, again? When we went to the immunologist, the guy diagnosed my kid with THREE different infections, all of which were resistant to various antibiotics. He had masses blocking many of his sinus cavities. He also had to endure a CT scan so we could see how far the infection had traveled. He then had surgery to remove bones from those cavities and to power wash the caves of the cavities with a mixture of various antibiotic washes.

He's currently on two nose sprays, one nose ointment, and one pill EVERY day. Additionally, he had a nebulizer with two different medications to help treat his asthma. The same asthma you said didn't exist.

So.

If me taking him to someone who was going to be an advocate for his health, proactive in his treatment, and able to put his ego aside and ask for consults with fellow doctors in an effort to heal my kid makes me mother of the year, I will accept the award with gratitude.

Touch It. Now

Taking Butter to a Touch A Truck event being held locally today.


Touch a Truck…wheels, wings and water! Where kids of all ages can climb, discover & explore.

There will be fire trucks, rescue vehicles, airplanes, motorcycles, cement and garbage trucks. A plethora of things all Butter. My kid will be in heaven. We're looking at getting more sun today which is always a good thing. I think this is the first summer in years where I've relaxed, even with the shitstorm of crap I've had to deal with.

Yesterday we went to a local park where there's a playground and creek running through it. We looked for crayfish and shells for a while in the water and spent a lot of time playing on the swings, slides, and climbing stuff. I was crispy from all the sun by the time we left. My redheaded kid? Tan. What the hell?

He's got his Daddy's skin. He might look like a clone of me, but he's definitely gonna be brown as a berry as he grows up and spends 24/7 out in the sun.

And this morning, gazing out the window of my home office at the sun, my green carpet of grass, the bright phlox and Black Eyed Susans in one of the beds, I'm just content. Today will be beautiful.

My Phone. My Fucking, Fucking Phone

What is one of the most unfriendly places for a cell phone?

*ding fucking ding*

Guess where mine is at this very moment?

Guess how I used some mad detective skills to solve this fucking crime?

My cell was ringing earlier this evening. I will admit to accusing my offspring, Butter, of "hiding it in a secret place." I used a cajoling tone of voice when I asked him about this. He said he had no idea where the phone might be HIDING.

Whatever.

The Pack Mule? He hrumphed about the ringing. And hrumphed as though I'm the only person alive who's misplaced something. Whatever to him as well.

It's almost fucking 2am here, people.

I couldn't go to sleep without finding my cell. Which brings me to this admission.

I started a load of laundry.
Figured out that the HOUSE FUCKING PHONE hasn't been ringing for over a month because SOMEONE unplugged it.
Plugged in the fucking house phone, called my fucking cell phone, heard NO FUCKING RINGING when I HAD heard MUFFLED ringing earlier this evening.

AND realized it was in the fucking washing machine that was happily chugging away like the fuckhead workhorse it is.

Fuck you very much.
Fuck you phone.
Fuck you too big shorts that allowed my beloved phone to fall out of the pocket and into the towels I gathered and threw into the fucking ass machine after giving Butter his second shower of the day.

Fuck you.

Now I'm going to have to start my day at FUCKINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG Verizon tomorrow. NO! Today. TODAY.

Gah.

And forget telling me to be nice. I know I'm already up for a "new phone" -whatever that is. I hate it when cell phone places act as though they're doing you a favor; a favor for which YOU PAY THEM.

I'm sure there will blogger fodder after my time in the Oasis of Hell. I'll have to pack snacks, drinks, and a catheter for Butter. There is no way I'll leave my place in line to take him to go potty.

PS
Start emailing those damn numbers to me again. I'll have to REPROGRAM EVERYTHING once I get another overpriced piece of plastic. Bastards.

UPDATE:

I am such a fucking drama queen. Holy shit. I could put Shirley McClain's performance in Terms of Endearment to SHAME if I'd had a video of me at 2am this morning.

Ahem.

I slept almost none.
I didn't find the phone in the washer last night because once I realized that was the only place it could be, it was FILLED with nasty sludge soap water with all the dirty paraphernalia in there.
I got this morning, resigned to give that phone a proper burial. Imagine my surprise when I stumbled upon NOTHING when I put the load of towels in the dryer? No phone? Are you kidding me here?
I got onto the newly-working house phone (fuck you, again), called it, and THIS TIME HEARD A RING. How could that be?

I say again, HOW COULD THAT BE?

Don't you know it was on the front porch. On the GODDAMN FRONT PORCH.

Once again, Drama Queen here, signing off. Thanks for coming to the latest performance that is my life.

Hunker Down

No news about the stalker hell.
Which means good news.

I spoke at length with Lara last night - she's my blogging whore architect. I've changed the title of this place. The first one I chose was just so...whatever. It was the first one blogger would accept, I wasn't thinking clearly, I just wanted a PLACE to BE again.

So much for me including "military strategist" in my portfolio.

There are some templates I'm mulling over. I'll let you know when I've got things JUST SO.

**********************************************************************************

Last night we watched Batman - The Dark Knight. I never saw it in the theaters. Never watched the DVD. My husband (who shall be known as the Pack Mule from here on out) tried to watch it once. I'd gone to bed. Butter got up. Pack Mule got scared that I'd beat him and turned it off.

Last night Butter asked FOR TWO HOURS to see "Dat Batman movie! MY movie!" He doesn't understand the vast difference between Batman cartoons on Boomerang and Batman who has an evil side and also battles that fucknut Joker played by poor Heath.

Against my better judgement, we watched it. Butter lasted all of 17 minutes. That's long-term for a four year old. I knew I had luck on my side when I realized his potential for paying attention to something that wasn't a cartoon. He didn't watch it. Good times.

But that Joker. Back to that fucker. What the hell? Pure evil shit. Genius on the part of poor, dead Heath. I got the willies more than once. I'm getting rid of that DVD. Gone, baby, gone!

Who wants it? Lemme know.

Back in the Saddle Again

After a very short time of reflection spent thinking of all the heinous shit I could heap on those people who feel the need to out my blog and other personal shit among a supposed circle of friends, strike that shit - ACQUAINTANCES, I am now making this place home. Any more shitty, middle school-esque, jealousy-driven bullshit, and I'll be forced (Let's be honest here, it'll be a fucking CHOICE on my part. A damn choice. And I'll live by the consequences, dammit.) to revert to the bitch who's sitting in that brass box deep inside my head; no longer will I take the High Road.

The High Road got me here.
I have forgiven but not forgotten. Oh hell no.
The memory of the cunts who have felt it was their right to publicly try my personal choices without knowing the entire story?

Yeah. THAT memory has been locked in the brass box as well so the bitch has something to play with just in case she's let out again.

Genius on my part. No?

Here's the deal.

A supposed friend completely betrayed me.
This person was entrusted with the care of my son and one of my nieces.
This person lied to my son, locked my niece in a bedroom, and spread vicious shit about me to other "friends" as well as within my professional community.
This person told others that I was "using" my son to "manipulate" her "into spending time" with me. Direct quotes. She said that.

I also found out that she'd been passing my son off as HERS when she was in public with others and I wasn't there. She almost did that one time when I was standing nearby, but I immediately corrected the passerby. Once the guy looked at my face, he knew no other person could have given birth to Butter. (THAT'S what he'll be called here. Hell, that's the nickname I use the most with him. He's my Butter.)

She took great joy in manipulating many people into thinking I considered them "enemies, outcasts, and otherwise amputated from my life." (I only recently heard from ONE person who finally decided to talk with me and say "goodbye" even though she wanted to remain friends after repeatedly hearing what that bitch planted in her head. Until then, I had no clue that the bitch had spoken to anyone other than TWO people. She's been a busy fucking cunt.)

Those of you who read my OTHER PLACE might be thinking *ding fucking ding* WW-Woman! Yeah. I have used the work "amputated" to describe how I deal with people who betray me. I can forgive. I've learned how to do this. I didn't particularly like it the first few times I did it, but I stuck with the process because the anger I had for people in my life was literally eating me alive.

I have not heard from a great many people who depended on me each and every day during the past several years at my job. I have done sub plans, called subs, copied worksheets, met with parents, taken kids, run interference, you name it. These very same people have taken it upon themselves to be judge a jury of me because I chose to not go to the bitch's farce of a wedding. I made it clear to my husband that if he chose to go in order to support his friend (husband and I introduced them), fine. However, I and my son would not be attending.

Let the gossip and sniping begin because people just can't fathom that I didn't show up at the shit-ass wedding. What? You don't like that I didn't make you privy to the shitstorm that was going on since December? You don't like that I know how to keep my mouth shut? Too fucking bad. I don't have to explain myself and won't. Period.

One of the oh-so-disappointed people took it upon herself to tell someone that my "amputation" post was about her. Hello? You are so insignificant in my life that I wouldn't bother to waste the flurry of fingers across the keys in order to draft something about you. EVERYTHING is about you; at least from your twisted perception.

Ready for the one that will ultimately slay you, fellow bloggers? The same one who bitched about me not going to the wedding and about the amputation post "offending" her? She has come to me asking for the addy for this place.

Fuck me without a reach-around once, shame on you.
Fuck me again, same style? Shame on me.

There's NO shame in this game, mama. Oh hell no.

So. That's the gist of this.

The one who started it all? She's been transferred to another location in my fair city and won't have one fucking reason to come back into my location.

To those of you who are saying, "Why not fuck her up? Why not confront the bitch? Why not give her a taste of her own medicine?" - my list of reasoning is concise:

1. I believe in karma. If I dish out something remotely resembling what's been throw in my court, I'll receive something ELSE from the Fates. I'm sure I won't like it.
2. I am taking the High Road - STILL - even though it's tough, painful, and frustrating.
3. I have vowed not to waste any more time with these people.
4. People like her move on when they realize that cannot engage the object of their attention. Doesn't matter what I do: "play nice" or "confront and maim" - she would be getting my attention. That's what she wants. I'm not giving her an ounce of energy beyond today. Sadly, she will move on to someone else. She will wheedle her way into that person's life just as she did mine. She will earn their trust, be encouraged to be part of that person's family, be entrusted with those people and events most of us hold in the highest regard. And she will break, just as she has here. She will be faced with not being #1 and will go after that person. Me? I will be elsewhere in life.

She took the most joy when my husband and I were on the edge. He'd been delivered the ultimatum to start marriage counseling with me or move the hell out. I was in my first trimester at the time. She knew me at the time. Years later, she told me she "knew" I "couldn't afford to make that mortgage payment" on my own so her plan "was to move in. We'd live together, and I would help you with your bills.

One, you are a stalker.
Two, you have obviously had a psychological break with reality.
Three, I simply cannot believe you just admitted that to me.
Four, I can always cover my bills. Don't attempt to use monetary figures to get me to do anything. When I gave my husband the ultimatum, my final statement was this:

"I don't NEED you. I don't need you to do this - be a woman, own a house, work full-time, and BE A MOTHER. I don't need you, but I WANT you. Wanting is the stronger statement - it means I CHOOSE you. Think about that."

Rambling. I'm now rambling like a fucking idiot who's had her own psychotic break. *cackling here* But you peeps know me too well to think I'd be the one losing her mind. Mine's safe and strong.

I am surrounded by friends here and in the blogosphere who love me and readily accept me for who I am rather than when I can do and be for them.

I have two sisters who dote on me and love me even when I'm a screaming menace on the phone, giving them the blow-by-blow of the recent events. One of them even said, "Oh. My. God. Balls to the wall! That's what this is! Balls to the wall!" I won't say which one. I wouldn't want her to be outted for saying the word "balls" more than once in one sitting. I'm the one with the penchant for profanity in the family.

My last statement, I cannot believe the outpouring of support and friendship I've received from many of you through comments at the old place, through email, and on Facebook. Thank you. I may be taking the High Road on this latest adventure, but I'm not going down Wishy Washy Road. Oh hell no.