The one where you probably want to avoid the whiny baby bullshit I post and go look at cute photos of puppies instead

I am becoming a person I don’t like and don’t recognize. I think I need help.

I don’t know if it is depression or anxiety or just plain old crazy, but I can’t even stand myself anymore. I have been through depression before and in some ways it‘s the same, but in some ways different. I’m not sad or blue at all. This time, it’s stress. Overwhelming, paralyzing stress. I am being pulled in a million directions at all times (or at least it feels like I am) and I always feel like I am on the verge of a complete breakdown.

As for the similarities to previous bouts of depression, I do feel exhausted and have no energy. While I don’t feel blue, I feel…I don’t know – sort of…nothing…numb. I am gaining weight to the point that I hate myself – I avoid the mirror at all cost because I literally cringe when I see myself. I have no sex drive and I would rather just be left alone than interact most of them time.

But the thing that is different is the frustration, lack of patience, irritation and stress. I find myself losing patience so quickly. With the kids, with everyone (of course, with mr b, but that’s nothing new). I hear myself yelling at the kids and I hate myself for it. I hate that sometimes I just want to tell them to Shut Up, already. Sometimes I feel like there is something wrong with me as a mother. And even though I know it’s not true – I sometimes feel as if I don’t even like them. Mr b has always been the short tempered, short fuse, fly off the handle, hateful one. And suddenly I find myself acting just like him. And I hate myself for it. I feel like my kids are growing up thinking their mother doesn’t love them. I sometimes get so hyper-critical, so disapproving, so quick to bark at them over something. Even as I am reacting, I hate it, but can’t seem to stop.

I feel like a bad mother.

I used to be an awesome mom. I used to be the loving, patient one. I used to be the one I knew they would look back on fondly. And now, I feel like I am polluting their childhood. They are growing up right before my eyes and I am creating one regret after another. I am overwhelmed.

I know I need to do something.

I think it’s a combination of truly having a crazy, overwhelming schedule, and something internal. I think even a perfectly sane person would feel stressed out. I drive a long distance to work every day. I am constantly dependent on other people to pick up and drop off my kids (which I hate), I have to keep track of practices and meetings and homework and baths and the house and work deadlines and dinner, and so on and so on. My husband is laid off and it’s bringing up a critical difference of opinion about careers. And I don’t want this to be a husband-bashing, but I really feel like things are unbalanced around here. There are always unfinished projects, and little day-to-day help – and nothing without having to ask for it, which even if it gets done, it’s not without a martyred sigh. I have talked about it before, and even more than the actual division of work, it’s more about the heavy burden of responsibility. Add all that to whatever this emotional state I am in is, and it’s making me crazy. I don’t like myself much these days.

My reaction to stuff is off the charts sometimes. The other day, I got home after work and picked up the kids. I had stopped on the way home to pick up a few things for our trip and discovered that my ATM card was missing. Not only did that suck, but I had to dive back to the store (not a short jaunt) to get the stuff we needed, because I don’t have much time this week, between other obligations and work deadlines. So I planned to go back that night when mr b and the boy were at scouts. We were in the house and I was trying to get everyone fed (while listening to the whining) and waiting for mr b who was (of course) late, and the boy starts dropping bombs left and right – tonight’s a ceremony – I need my shirt – tomorrow I have to stay late for practice (meaning I have to arrange a ride) – I need a tuxedo shirt for next week – there’s a band booster meeting tonight. Then, the girl announces that baton signups were that night. And I still had to go back to the store. And mr b was still not home. And I lost it. I yelled (at no one in particular), and wanted to throw things, or cry, or both. Because I can’t do it all. I feel like I am slipping behind every minute. I can’t do it all.

And this happens again and again and again. That night wasn’t unique. Tonight it was a late-running band practice, and a hungry whiny girl, and wal-fucking-mart, and big morons at Wendy’s, and laundry and once again not getting packing done. Tomorrow it will be another late practice, rushing from picking him up straight to the girl’s open house, trying to get packed, last minute nonsense, getting the kids packed up for a weekend with my parents, writing down schedules and gathering band uniforms and gear, dropping off the kids, and getting to bed early enough to be able to function for a pre-dawn flight. It’s always something.

I constantly feel like I am two steps behind. Like I am always running late. Like I am not cutting it.

The stress of it makes me miserable, is probably hurting my kids, and is giving me physical symptoms. I don’t feel sad or depressed or weepy, but the stress and frustration and anxiety and irritability are getting the best of me, leaving me and my kids with the worst. And it’s making me hate myself even more.

Still Alive...Barely

How In the hell did it get to be mid-September already? This month has been flying by, and I can’t seem to catch my breath. My birthday was the 1st, and starting that day, I have been working crazy long hours to get a project done. There’s nothing quite like spending the evening of your birthday working until 2:00 am. The only worse birthday is when you have to work late AND your husband forgets. Oh yeah.

The project finally finished up on Friday and I was all set to have a weekend filled with naps, but we all know that didn’t happen – the kids keep me running.

Friday, we went to our high school’s first home game to see the boy march with the band. Our school in small so they let 7th grade and up participate in marching band. Of course, being a lowly seventh grader, he has to bide his time before getting a chance on the coveted snare and is currently paying his dues on the cymbals. I have no doubt he will get what he wants next year, though, seeing as how he is constantly drumming. On one hand? Yay for practicing. On the other? Loud! Drums!

Regardless, I was very proud of him:




Also – for anyone thinking that the marching band is dorky or nerdy: He loves it. He is having a shitload of fun, going a ton of fun places, hanging with his friends, learning a lot, and probably the biggest thing he loves about the band: Girls. There are lots of cute girls in the band. Older, cute girls. And they’re texting him and hugging him and giving him cutesy nicknames. He’s in heaven.

(Oh – and the first one of you that makes the “band camp” joke gets a pox on your house. That’s my baby we’re talking about)

Oh, and speaking of being proud (and also a little late) – a couple weeks ago, the girl sang Over the Rainbow on stage in front of about 600 people. Dressed as Dorothy. I seriously need to get her involved in some sort of theater program because this kid loves performing. She’s not shy, she isn’t afraid of an audience, and lord knows she’s dramatic. I am clueless about these things, though, so if you know of a local program, let me know.

Anyway, behold the cuteness:


So back to this weekend. After the game Friday night, we had to get to bed early because the boy had to be back in town with the band at 7:30 am to play at our local “great race” 5k. Rapunzel picked him up and dropped him off for me so I didn’t have to drag my lazy fat ass off the couch the girl out in the cold, drizzly morning. I gave him money so he could treat Rapunzel’s son to McDonald’s afterward, which would kill two birds with one stone – fueling up two growing boys and prolonging my fat ass couch time the girl’s sleep.

But then he called me to tell me that instead of playing with the band, he used the money I gave him to register for the race and would be running. So now, I had to drag my lazy ass out wake up the girl and get down there to a) see it in person, and b) take photos. Because I gotta tell you, my kid is not exactly a runner. Before we hung up, he asked me if I would be running, too.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! HOHOOOOHEEEheeeheh. Hm.

Let me just interrupt myself for a public service announcement. I don’t run. Even when I was in great shape and an athlete, I didn’t run. So now? Running? Noooooooooo.

So here’s the public service part:

If you ever see me running? RUN.

Don’t stop and look, don’t ask questions, don’t think about it - just run. If I am running, there is a reason, and it’s one you don’t want to face –I assure you.

You’re welcome.

Anyway – he didn’t break any land speed records, but he finished, which is something given his genetic predisposition added to the fact that not only was he not wearing running clothes, but he was wearing marching band shoes. Clunky, boxy band shoes. Look how thrilled he looks:

The girl and I then went to the finish line, where she spent exactly 16 minutes being excited and waiting for her brother to “win the race.” Then she lost interest and went to the playground instead:




That night the boy had yet another band function, which we missed because we had a 40th birthday party to go to. Once again, Rapunzel was awesome and picked him up.

Sunday morning, the kids and I met up with Rapunzel, her son and another friend and headed to Kennywood. It was a great day for it – low crowds and short lines and great weather. Except for lunch time when we baked in the glaring sun while waiting for Potato Patch fries. That part sucked.

Oh, and also Noah’s Ark. Seriously, What the Fuck, Kennywood? They ruined Noah’s Ark. It was the longest line we waited in all day. I could have gone on my favorite ride – the Pitfall – 6 times in the time it took to get on Noah’s Ark. You locals surely will remember the Noah’s Ark of yore – it was a walk on – never a line. Now – BIG, LONG LINE. Instead of walking in, you have to go on in small groups because there is an “elevator” room (which, come ON Kennywood – this is no Haunted Mansion). So you stand there and wait and wait and fidget and listen to the kids whine for an hour before you get on. And it sucks. And the ride is stupid now. Not that it was ever NOT stupid, but at least it used to make sense – it was Noah’s Ark – you saw animal on an ark. Duh. (and walked in through the whale’s mouth, but at least the Jonah – Noah connection made a little sense). Now, you go into a mine elevator or something. Then you walk through an area with glass floors and skeletons beneath you. Then you get to a section with Noah and the animals, then you head into a room with funhouse mirrors and lights (oh, how I wanted a photo of myself in the “skinny” mirror), and then finally, you’re on some kind of leaky submarine. What in the name of Jacques Cousteau does any of this have to do with Noah’s Ark? Fuck if I know.

Although, admittedly, Noah’s Ark did give us the best laugh of the day. When you get to the glass floor section, there are “beams” and circles made of concrete, so it looks like there is no floor beneath you. The huge guy in front of us thought you had to walk on those and was balancing and half falling and contorting himself to stay on so he didn’t fall in. Then, the even better part – this section is in a square, with a door in one wall to continue to the next section. It looks like this:


So, the first time, we are following the guy in front and we are so busy watching him balance on the beams, that we miss the door. So we go around and realize we went in a circle. The last people in our group are just getting through, so we let them go, and we are laughing and talking (out loud) about how we went in a circle. We let the line go by and then we start around the circle again, this time going through the door to move on. But balancing guy and all the people behind us continue to go around the circle! When you get to the funhouse room they stop you until the whole group catches up before they let you in the submarine room. We waited five minutes until they caught up. Apparently, the entire group spent five whole minutes going around that same tiny circle before the figured it out. It was awesome.

I have no photos of the boy from Kennywood, which is sad, but he was either a) not with us, or b) being a shit:










Finally, last night, amidst the chaos of scout ceremonies and baton practices and dinner and baths and ban meetings, I discovered that my ATM card has gone missing. Awesome. Oh – and I discovered it as I was buying stuff for our trip this weekend, so I had to have the woman hold the stuff so I could come back. So way too late, I was driving back to the mall to get it. And I wrote a check and handed over my license and the girl says, “Did you know your license is expired?” Yay me. I’m getting on a plane in 3 days. I told mr b about it this morning, saying that I I hope I can get my new one quickly enough and I can’t believe I missed the expiration and don’t they usually send something and he replies, “They did send something. I put it up in the cabinet.” Blink. Blink. Are you kidding me? He never told me it was there and then basically hid it! He’s awesome.

The Good Uncle - Reprise

I wrote this entry back in November, and have thought about Uncle Paul almost every day since. I got the call last night - the one I knew was coming - the one I was dreading. Apparently in his last days, he mended some fences with estranged family, had a reunion, and got ready for his next journey. I'm glad to hear this. I was sad, though, to find out that it happened several months ago. Apparently, he didn't want fanfare - just his wife and kids and a quick cremation. I understand and respect his wishes, but it still hurts. It's not like I had seen him in ages, or even would have the chance to see him again. But I hate that it happened and I didn't know. And now that I DO know, I find myself in the weird position of grieving for someone who wasn't even in my life anymore. But in the time we spent together, he forever imprinted himself on my heart, because he was, indeed, a Good Uncle.


The Good Uncle

My mom called me a little while ago to tell me that my uncle is dying. He’s not really my uncle – not anymore. He married my Aunt Twin when I was just a baby, but they haven’t been married for many, many years. But he was there throughout my childhood, so regardless of blood relations and divorces, he has always been Uncle Paul, and I have always loved him.

He was an awesome uncle. The kind that is silly and fun. Always joking, rarely serious. Quick to stick up for you when you’re fighting mom for a later bedtime, or one more cookie. Generous with his money and his love. And he had lots of famous friends, which was pretty cool. Although, looking back, some of the closest of these friends - in retrospect – said something about him, I guess. I won’t mention their names, but I can say that they might possibly rhyme with Feet Blows and Weevil Believel. Back then, though, this stuff was all the makings of a Good Uncle. Good Uncles don’t always make good husbands, though. Mr. Good Time isn’t generally Mr. Responsible.

But Mr. Good Time he was. They had a beautiful house in Florida – it was big and exquisitely decorated - for the 70’s that is. I was in love with that house. Every room had a different color scheme or theme. Each had its own bathroom, which was unheard of (to me at least) in those days. The bathrooms were two rooms and Aunt Twin always had these soap sculptures on display in the outer room. I adored those things – they were beautiful and they smelled so good. We spent much of the summer there every year and I probably spent 10% of that time just taking in all the beautiful things she had there. The formal living room with the fur couch. The Florida room with the black patent leather couches and red hanging lamps. The bullfight statue that I used to imitate with my best friend Tracy and almost broke my nose. I still have the scar and the chipped bone.

I remember the kitchen with its mushroom theme and the state of the art appliances. My room was my favorite, because it was mine of course. It was crazy psychedelic blue and green, with twin beds (a novelty to me, since I had a big bed at home). There was white modern furniture including corner table that one bed slid halfway under when not in use. And there was a stereo built into it. God, I loved that room. My second favorite room was my Aunt Cee’s. She was a teen during those times and she got the super psychedelic room, with the black and silver wallpaper and the black furry bedspread and the groovy wire-sculpture hanging lamp and the white tree with hidden colored lights. I know it all sounds crazy and tacky now, but this was the 70’s – trust me – it was AWESOME.

He had a great mind – he was a businessman. He invented and marketed an exercise device that was very successful. His brother was a very famous NFL player and he himself was in the NFL for a while, so he had lots of connections to athletes that he used in his ads. He was clever, too, and had some funny, smart, and sometimes risqué advertising campaigns, which contributed to his success. But he liked to spend and party and gamble and live the high life. He made tons, but spent more. He had a wandering eye,. Hard for a wife to take when she is already 15 years his junior, I imagine. When I was about 11 or 12, Aunt Twin and Uncle Paul moved back to PA. I didn’t know why at the time, but I guess they were struggling both financially and emotionally. I didn’t know any of this until years later, so when they split up, I was devastated.

I cried and cried at the thought of losing my favorite uncle. The one that took me to get ice cream even though I didn’t finish my dinner. The one who would pose for photos wearing big, silly hats and glasses. The one that bought me presents just from him. the one that could always make me laugh, no matter what. I knew that no matter what happened between them, he would always be my uncle.

I was wrong.

I didn’t see him for years after they split. By the time I was an older teen, there were a few brief sightings and (I think) a graduation card. I sent him Christmas cards over the years, but never heard anything in return. I invited him to my wedding and never even got a response. If it were anyone else, I would have said, fuck him; he’s an asshole. But not with Uncle Paul. Even after years of no contact and rejection, I still loved him and missed him. After the boy was born, I sent him a card and letter, telling him about his new “great-nephew” and telling him how I felt – that I still loved him, that he was still my favorite uncle. He didn’t respond.

I never tried again, but I caught news of him occasionally through Aunt Twin, who got her news through the grapevine. Occasionally – as and recently as this summer – I would google him to see if there was something – anything – out there. Sometimes there was, and recently I even saw a photo. I was struck by how old he looked, since in my mind he is still big strong Uncle Paul.

Apparently, Aunt Twin talked to his brother recently – what prompted it, I don’t know – and found out that he is dying of cancer. I guess the brother passed on her love and this morning he called her. He was very kind, telling her how sorry he was. He said that his good time friends always told him what a mistake he made with her, and that he knows it. Even though he’s happy now, he still has regrets.

And then he asked how his favorite niece was.

He said how he missed me and how he wished he had stayed in touch. He said he was so moved when he got my letter, and that he regrets never replying. That he loves me. I shouldn’t care, but I do. I shouldn’t grieve him, but I will. I shouldn’t be crying, but I am. I’ve missed him for years, and now I am going to miss him more.

I love you, Uncle Paul.

Kids are Assholes

Recently, someone I like very much took a hell of a beating for calling her daughter an asshole on her blog. It was an amazing yet typical example of holier-than-thou bandwagon jumping that resulted in her being accused of being a bad mother, a bad person, not appreciating her kids, not loving her kids, and escalated into predictions that her kids were growing up damaged. Damaged! Not only is this absolute fucking nonsense, it’s grade-school name-calling, character assassination, and completely distasteful bullshit.

And it pisses me off.

Because if any of these shit-throwers would bother to a) take the sticks out of their asses, and b) pay attention to more than one word in one post, it would become absolutely clear that she is a smart, caring, funny, devoted mother who obviously loves her children. And even though I’m a little late with this and it’s probably been practically ages since she said, “eh – fuck it,” I still feel the need to defend her. Because seriously.

First off, she is funny. She writes funny stuff. Tongue-in-cheek stuff. She rants about kids and a husband she clearly adores. If that’s a crime, then I’m guilty – a lot of us are. And we’re also adult enough and intelligent enough and laid back enough to overlook the potentially offensive because we know it is said in jest. Dude, if I got uptight over that shit, I would not know the total awesomeness that is Eddie Murphy Delirious. I’d be too busy bitching about the poor welfare kids and alcoholic dads and abusive moms and hairy-ass bigfoot aunts, all “That’s not funny!”

Loosen up and give me a break. She didn’t day it to her daughter, she said it about her, and there’s a difference. Although, really, there’s a certain age at which it wouldn’t bother me if she did because sometimes they need to called on it. I tell my son not to act like a jackass all the damned time – don’t like it? I couldn’t give a fuck. And let’s be honest here – kids are assholes. That’s why God (or Buddha or The Flying Spaghetti Monster – child assholery crosses many boundaries) makes them so cute – to balance the assholery.

Case in point:

I was at the Salvation Army store the other day (shut up- I once found a $400 Lladro for $12). Anyway, I was trolling for bargains when I heard a blood-curdling, “DAD…DAD!!!” Again and again and again this kid screamed “DAD” at the top of his lungs. I walked over to where he was and asked if he was lost, and he scoffed (actually scoffed) at me and said, in the snottiest voice ever, “NO! I just want him to come look at something!” and stomped off, still screaming (and I mean SCREAMING). A minute or two later, I heard a man scream from the other side of the store, “WHAT?” They proceeded to carry on a screaming conversation for the next five minutes.

Then, the kid moved on to running around the store like a maniac, making loud sound effects, grabbing things off shelves, ripping open sealed packages, crashing into things, sliding across the floor, and pretty soon, just screaming at the top of his lungs for fun. I couldn’t wait tot get the hell away from this kid, and as I was checking out, a woman came up and got behind me in line. Just then, there was an announcement over the PA system asking that parents please keep their children with them, and not leave them unattended in the store because packages were torn open and items were damaged. And then, as the announcement was still going on, this kid walked up to the woman next to me and called her Mom. And she never said a word, made a face, gave any indication that she gave a shit that HER KID IS AN ASSHOLE. Because he is. Not only that, he’s a FUCKING ASSHOLE!

So I say we lay the hell off my friend who jokingly calls her kid and asshole, motivated not only by humor, but by GIVING A SHIT about her kid’s behavior, and let’s put our snooty disapproval where it belongs – on the actual ASSHOLE parents of actual ASSHOLE kids, who perhaps need to call their kid an asshole once in a while.

Assholes.

To my friend – My asshole kids and I love you and your asshole kids.

PS. I’m not linking to her because I don’t want to send any more shit her way.

Lunch with my mother

I think I’ll have the barbeque chicken quesadilla.

That sounds good.

Yeah – that’s what I’m having – the barbeque chicken quesadilla.

I’ll take the barbeque chicken quesadilla.

What’s that honey? What did I get? I got the barbeque chicken quesadilla.

Barbeque chicken quesadilla Barbeque chicken quesadilla Barbeque chicken quesadilla.

Eww. I don’t like this. It has this barbeque sauce on it.

And yet again, the school district gets a big WTF???

So, I went to a meeting at the school on Friday, to meet with the girl’s kindergarten teacher, see the classroom, etc. And they were giving us The Rules. There have been quite a few changes in The Rules since the boy was in kindergarten. Most of these rules revolve around snacks.

Now, I will admit, I am all for healthy eating (I know, not that you’d know it to look at me). I used to complain when the girl was in preschool and parents took turn bringing a snack. Some of us brought healthy stuff, like yogurt and fruit and veggies. But most brought cookies and donuts and crap. I don’t really have a problem with cookies and donuts and crap, but for the kids’ daily snack, empty calories are a pretty shitty choice. The whole point of the snack is to hold them over through lunch or dinner. Yogurt will do that. A donut will not.
So anyway, The Rules say that grades K through 2 are allowed to have a snack in the afternoon in class. But the snack must be:

1: The first ingredient must not be sugar.
OK, I get this one. I just talked about this in the preschool snack issue. But I still get a little, “Duh - I don’t need to be told” about it.

2: They can’t have peanuts or peanut butter.
Again, I get it. Peanut allergies are evil. My kid can live without the peanut products for afternoon snack.

3: They can’t be more than 200 calories.
OK, I get it. But I’m getting a little squirmy about the telling me what I can do for my own kid. I know there are some parents that don’t care and there are plenty of obese kids. I know. And I wouldn’t likely send a snack more than 200 calories. But it’s bugging me a bit to have The Rules.

4: They must be individually pre-packaged.

DANGER DANGER DANGER!! What the FUCK???

So, let me get this straight: it’s OK for me to send my kid an individually pre-packaged fucking Twinkie (1st ingredient: who-the-hell-knows, calories: 150, fat: 4.5, cholesterol: 20mg, sodium: 220mg, carbs: 27, calcium: 20mg, god knows what other kind of processed, preservative laden shit is in there), but NOT OK for me to send her some celery and carrot sticks that I put in my own goddamned baggie (1st ingredients: fucking fresh vegetables, calories: 39, fat: 0, cholesterol: 0, sodium: 0, carbs: 9, calcium: 52mg, not to mention all the good vitamins and stuff)? Are you fucking kidding me?? I don’t get it. I really, truly don’t get it. I mean, I can understand that if I were sending a snack for the whole class it needs to be pre-packaged because of cross-contamination or dirty ass kitchens or whatever. But for my own child? Bullshit is all this is. And anyway, I wouldn’t be sending a snack for the class ever, since for parties, there are no edible items allowed, period. Last year, it was no candy – this year, nothing edible at all. Not for birthdays, not for anything.

I can live with the sugar thing and the calorie thing and the no-edible treats thing. But this pre-packaged thing is nonsense. And you want to know the biggest fattest nonsensical part of it? The fucking school cafeteria sells cookies, ice cream and fruit snacks (which - despite their name - resemble fruit only in the most basic of ways) every day to anyone with money in their account. And it gets better – in high school, they have all that, plus vending machines selling Coke and Mountain Fucking Dew and the like.

Hypocrisy, much?

Five Years

I’ve been trying really hard to fight off the depression that seems to be looming over me, but it’s hard. Things are tough right now. We were struggling before mr b lost his job, and I can’t really fathom how we’ll make it through this. He spoke with a person at Unemployment yesterday only to find out that there have been no benefits paid since he started with Suck Company. This means one of two things: a mistake somewhere or giant assholery on the part of Suck Company. Either way, he is due his benefits, but I am terrified about how long it will take to resolve the problem. The bills won’t wait.

And in the midst of all the self-pity, I realized that as of today, it has been five years since I wrote this:

5 Seconds. That's about how long it took from the shift of the plywood and the man on the ground. He was squatting on a steep roof, putting down the plywood and he simply started sliding. There was no fault, no trip, no loss of balance, just a sudden sense of movement and he was going over. He fell straight down and landed square on his feet. He's lucky not to be paralyzed. He's lucky to be alive. I'm lucky. But it still sucks. Gravity worked and he fell and things changed.

What followed was a long parade of hospitals and surgeries and nursing homes and rehab and learning to give shots and cleaning potty chairs and wheelchairs and walkers and crutches and canes and assholes in the handicapped spots and limited access and financial worries and depression and anger and stress and pain and fear and so much more.

And I was reminded that things could always be worse. Things have been worse. But that doesn’t make it any easier.


I went back and read what I wrote at the one year anniversary, and strangely things are so different and yet so much the same:

Today is an anniversary. It has been one year since the five seconds that changed our life forever. The day that Fate decided that we were just having too damned good a time (what with all the stress and the bills and the small house) and the fucking bitch grabbed us by the balls and squeezed. Hard. In some ways, it seems like it was just yesterday that I was asking for your prayers (thanks for those, btw) and in others, it’s a million years ago. But it’s only been one. One year. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes. 31,536,000 seconds since gravity took away my husband’s ability to walk properly, his ability to do the work that has been his life for almost 30 years, his pride, his plans, his relatively pain-free life. Fuck you, Isaac Newton. Fuck you, Gravity. FUCK YOU, whoever decided this was going to be our path.

I know, things could always be worse, but hell, that pretty much can always be said. And to be honest, your problems aren’t relative - they’re you’re problems. It’s not like you get hit by a bus and think, “Man, am I lucky. That could have been a train!” No, you think, “Motherfucking bus!” So there you go. Motherfucking roof.

In the beginning, I was thrown completely off kilter. I had a seven year old son and an infant daughter, I worked full time with a long commute, my house was too small, I had two pets to take care of, I was broke and I was tired all the time, and suddenly I had a husband who had been devastatingly hurt and needed care. It was like a sick damned joke was being played on me. When I first got the call, I was too scared to think about anything else but “please let him be OK.” I rushed to the hospital to find my usually energetic, workaholic husband laying on a stretcher shot full of narcotics just to keep the pain down to simply “excruciating”. The next few days were filled with doctors and nurses and surgeries and tears. In a week or so, it was nursing home hunting and wheelchair vans and tests and pain and trying to reign in a baby at a care facility and old, old people and my urine-scented birthday. Then there was shot-learning and hospital bed rentals and wheelchair ramps and potty chairs. And now there’s uncertainty about the future and bills and lawyers and grouchiness and more uncertainty.

Sometimes it feels normal. I forget we ever went through any of it. But then, he gets up and hobbles across the room and I think Oh My God, he’s going to be like that forever. And the concept of forever can be just too much to even think about at times. And it’s an odd injury to have, because when you hear “broken feet” or “broken heels”, you think about all the times you sprained your ankle or wrenched your knees or maybe broke a bone and you healed and it was over. But his injuries are so much worse than you would think. Both his heels were crushed to oblivion. There was nothing left of them to even try to set or fix. They were left to heal in whatever shape they took on. His feet aren’t the same. Immediately after the accident, his feet were the size of melons. Now, they are down to about 1.5 times their old size. While an uninjured person can point and flex their feet, he’s lost most of his movement. One foot has about half the movement and the other barely budges at all. So his balance is completely off. Uneven or sloped ground is extremely dangerous. While he can walk with a crutch, he can’t go very far. The pain comes on fast, so in high-walking places, he needs to depend on a wheelchair sometimes. When the bones grew into what they are now, severe arthritis filled in the cracks. This will only get worse with time. He doesn’t take physical therapy, since it serves only to cause him pain. He won’t improve any more.

But comp doesn’t care about anything but the wages. They don’t care that our lives are completely turned upside-down. They don’t care if this accident could be the nail in our We Will Never Ever Move Forward Again In Life coffin. The opportunity to use his skills to build an addition or fix up a new house? Gone. The opportunity to earn extra money with side jobs? Gone. The ability to run or jump or ride bikes with the kids? Gone. So much that they don’t care about is gone. It’s frustrating to play the waiting game with the insurance. And then there’s the psychological game you play with yourself: I’m not greedy, I’m not a bad person, but we need this to move on with our lives. He’s spent almost 30 years in this business, but he can’t do it anymore.. He has a useless BA and needs to be re-schooled in something that will allow him to work. That takes money.

This year was the year we were going to buy or add on to the house. Not so much anymore. We need to expand a little. I know, everyone thinks they need more room, but we do. We can’t share our bedroom with the baby much longer. And we can’t live with no closets and no storage much longer. But that takes money. We need to pay off the loan that we took out when the comp checks and the extra expenses couldn’t quite cover things. That means money. If we plan on going anywhere where a lot of walking is required and we need a chair or scooter plus the stroller, we’ll need a bigger car. Money. Said scooter? That’s right - Money. And suddenly your whole world revolves around money and it’s an uncomfortable feeling, when it’s not the norm. It feels icky.

It’s been a pretty icky year, to tell you the truth.

Back to Reality SUCKS

So. I’m back from vacation. Being back from vacation would suck regardless, but making it even better, I came home to:

1) A house I didn’t have time to clean before we left

2) Oppressive heat and humidity without the benefits of the pool and beach (with no A/C, of course)

3) My laptop completely infected with some malicious shit that I can’t seem to get rid of without professional help

4) Mr b showing up at work this morning to find his shit all packed up in boxes – his job eliminated.


So happy fucking day to me.


I did actually clean the house – it was the one thing I could actually do something about. Of course hours later, mr b dragged in all the bags from the car and dumped them all over the living room.

The heat, obviously, I can’t do a damned thing about except bitch and moan and that doesn’t seem to be helping a bit, dammit.

The computer? Fucked. I have some ideas about what to do, but the computer is too fucked to do them – I can’t run anything or download anything. Fucked but good. I left it here for my aunt to use while I was on vacation, and she gets a little…um…click-happy.

The job loss? Sucks balls. Even though he worked for a sleazy, asshole-laden, stuffy, dickhead, fuckball of a company. It was still better than being a 50 year old, physically limited due to injury, family man competing with 20-something who can work late and long and for little.

But aside from all that, vacation was pretty good. Despite the family skirmishes, the dumbasses, the political nonsense, the LOUD TV, the door Nazi, the food Nazi, the sunburn, the cold sore, the peeling scalp which looks like major dandruff, the defective rocking chair that almost killed me, and the 2 days of rain.

Because there was also lots of drinks, games, 10,000 renditions of the Winky Winky song, a beautiful beach, a nice pool, lots of photos, and an all-you-can-eat meat restaurant. Who could ask for more?

Except maybe the Powerball.

I think I may officially be "Team Kate"

There is an interview in the latest InTouch magazine with mid-life crisis victim and douchebag extraordinaire Jon Gosselin. Now, I have already gone on about the whole Jon/Kate thing and why I think it’s bullshit that everyone blames Kate, but now that the King Douche himself is blaming her I just have to respond to a couple of things in the interview:

Did you want to work it out?

Yes, I asked, What do I have to do to mend the relationship? What did I do wrong? I was beating myself up about it. So I read a lot of books about personalities, like The Five Love Languages. Throughout the marriage, I felt like my personality had changed a lot. In December, I went to therapy. I asked Kate to come, but she did not want to. She said, If you have a problem, go fix it.

OK – I am clearly not a relationship expert, but “What did I do wrong?” Are you fucking kidding me?? The man (allegedly) was having an affair. An affair with a near-child. While his wife was home with their eight (EIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER) kids. Even giving him the benefit of the doubt and saying he was not having an actual physical relationship with her, he was still seen out with her, all chummy, at inappropriate times and places (including on a vacation), all while his wife was home with the kids. I don’t care if she is the shrewiest shrew or the harpiest harpy, his behavior is wrong. And asking, “what did I do wrong?” is fucking ridiculous.

As for him “wanting to work it out” – fuck that noise. He made his bed, he can damned well lie in it. It’s insulting to act like a complete douchebag, cheat on your wife, basically flaunt cheating on your wife (with who you have eight (EIGHT!) innocent children, and then when you split up, claim it’s all her fault because she didn’t want to “work thing out.” Boo Hoo, Motherfucker!

What was your first relationship?

Hailey it started around May. She is the polar opposite of Kate. It’s really different. I feel good about myself and people see my good qualities. I am not being put down. If I want to go out with my friends, Hailey says, “Oh, go out.” I am not used to that. I was used to, “No, no, it’s your fault.” Sometimes I ask Hailey permission, like I used to do with Kate, and she says, “You don’t have to ask permission.” I was used to living like that, and now it’s like a breath of fresh air. You can have a balanced relationship but also spend time with your friends.

OK, first of all, I am calling deep, deep, steaming, runny BULLSHIT on the “it started in May” business. He was photographed skanking around well before that. And don’t give me that bullshit about them just being friends either. I do believe that men and women can be friends, but when a middle aged married man with eight (EIGHT!) kids and a much younger woman are spotted alone together in the wee hours while his wife is out of town, or a middle aged married man with eight (EIGHT!) kids is spotted at a college sorority party, playing drinking games with the co-eds, or a middle aged married man with eight (EIGHT!) kids is seen sunbathing with a much younger bikini-clad girl in her backyard while his wife is not in attendance – it is WELL out of the normal boundaries of platonic (or at least respectful a spouse) male/female friendship. So bullshit.

And finally – let me review my favorite part of that last answer:

If I want to go out with my friends, Hailey says, “Oh, go out.” I am not used to that. I was used to, “No, no, it’s your fault.” Sometimes I ask Hailey permission, like I used to do with Kate, and she says, “You don’t have to ask permission.” I was used to living like that, and now it’s like a breath of fresh air. You can have a balanced relationship but also spend time with your friends.

OK, parents out there – parents with only one or two or three children, much less eight (EIGHT!) – join me:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHee Hee heh ho!!!

Seriously? I’ll ask you parents out there – how often do you get to “go out with your friends?” I’m guessing not very. I don’t either, because I have these two things called CHILDREN, and they are demanding little buggers, what with all the “we want food” and “tuck me in” nonsense. So let’s imagine together what having eight (EIGHT!) kids would do to your social life. Are you seeing it? Yeah – I thought so. Poor Jon - his mean, old, harpy, shrew of a wife won’t let him go drinking with the college girls because he has to help with his eight (EIGHT!) children. What a terrible cross to bear.

So Jon - take your “breath of fresh air” and go blow it out your ass.

Random Shit

I keep trying to post something, but I am leaving for vacation on Friday and all the NOT PACKING is taking up all my free time. Sheesh.

Yesterday was a shitty day. Busy and yet unproductive at work. Discovering that my recent broke-osity can in fact, get worse. Hearing about an old (yet young) family friend tragically and unexpectedly died – the most recent in a lot of tragedies within this poor family. The shooting in Bridgeville. I need some upbeat.

Sadly, I have nothing of any consequence to write about. So I’ll regale you (haha) with random topics I have come across in conversation or blogs recently.


Tackiest invitation I ever received: I got an invitation to a baby shower (2nd child) that included a paper listing gift suggestions for the mom (not a registry, mind you – a handwritten list of the top things the mom wants as a gift). First on the list? CASH. Klass-ay!

Ugliest Bridesmaid Dress: I wish I had a photo – really. I mean – I do somewhere, but I have no idea where. Hedge was also in the wedding. I was six months pregnant and Hedge was just a couple of months post-partum, so needless to say, we were not the easiest to fit in bridesmaids gowns. Also – we were hormonal bitches. And we ended up in high neck (horrible for the big-boobed), floor length (awesome for pregnant/new mom clumsiness), home-made (yikes), pink chiffon (hold me) nightmares. And they had a matching pick chiffon scarf that we had to wrap around our necks and let dangle to the floor behind us. Recipe for disaster. We tried to talk her into letting us wear them like a wrap, to cover our “Hi Helens,” but she wouldn’t go for it. Adding insult to injury – she was a notoriously cheap person, shopping only in discount stores, etc, and she treated her registry like a shopping spree - $200 dishes, $100 wine glasses, $50 towels.

“High Helens,” you ask? Flabby arms. My SIL coined the term because when they were kids, they had a neighbor named Helen with really flabby, swing-y arms. And when they saw her, they’d yell “Hi Helen” and she’d wave back, flabby arms swinging.
Bitchiest bride: An in-law cousin. Her wedding was lovely (very classy and very clearly expensive) – we had a great time. But I ran into her about a month afterward, and I told her how wonderful it was and she snapped, “No – it was ruined!” I asked what she was talking about and she replied, “The DJ! He ruined the wedding!” I was surprised, because everyone thought he was wonderful and actually made the wedding. And then she said it: “He ate his dinner at the DJ stand! I mean – are you kidding me? He was supposed to eat in the hall WITH THE HELP!!!”

Best concert I’ve been to: This is a hard one. The Buddy Guy show a few months ago was pretty damned good. And I’ve had a blast at a lot of Dead shows. And drinking moonshine with some hillbillies at U2 was something. Civic Arena roof open at CSN and Boston – awesome. My first concert was Shaun Cassidy at the height of my girlhood crush. Ditto for Andy Gibb – second row. Watching Hedge superfly from the stage at a concert is one of my favorite memories. Pink Floyd. Roger Waters. But if I had to go on the overall concert experience, I’d narrow it to two. One would be Farm Aid ‘02 at Star Lake (post-gazette, whatever). This was the most crowded concert I have ever been to at that venue. People shoulder to shoulder, which I hate. But damn! it was an amazing show – great, diverse music and a ton of fun. The other is a weird one. Not a concert that I would have bought tickets for – I got them free from a relative, or I never would have even considered going. Ringo Starr and his All-Star band. Also at Star Lake – it was fantastic. The “All-Star Band” was made up of an assortment of musicians (Dr. John, Joe Walsh, Billy Preston, Levon Helm, Garth Hudson, Rick Danko, Nils Lofgren, Clarence Clemons and Jim Keltner.), and they just went around the circle playing songs that each of them had helped make famous. And it was weirdly awesome.

Worst concert: There are three. One was a Neil Young concert when he was in his metal/feedback stage and he had both Sonic Youth and Social Distortion open for him. By the time he came on, I had a raging, and couldn’t enjoy it. Even without the headache, I wouldn’t have loved it – it was just too loud and ear-piercing and awful. The next was CSN/Fleetwood Mac. We had great seats, but CSN seemed only mildly interested and Fleetwood Mac was fake Fleetwood Mac. The last was a Bob Dylan show in ‘88 or so at the Civic Arena. We waited and waited and waited (and waited) for him to take the stage, and when he finally did, he played for less than an hour. It sucked.

TV show I am most looking forward to: It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Funniest show ever. Seriously. I mean, Dexter is running a close second, but IASIP the best. To wit:


You’re welcome.

Biggest Asshole This Week: The douchebag at Giant Eagle, sitting in his truck, talking on his cell with his door wide open, partially blocking the next parking space. The space that I was pulling into. At first, I stopped to let him close it, because surely, he just wasn’t thinking and would be glad to get out of the way, right? No. This asshole just looks at me and keeps talking, dangling his legs out his open door. So I say fuck it and slowly pull in, avoiding his door. All the while, he refuses to close it, and is looking at me and pointing at something in the distance. I got parked (too close to the other line) and got out and he says to me, “You know – there are other spaces you could have taken.” I (being me) replied, “You know – there are other names I could call you but I’m just going to go with douchebag.”

PS. If you didn't laugh at Kitten Mittens, then I don't even know who you are anymore.

Have I got a "job" for you...

I know! I totally suck. I haven’t been able to come up with a damned thing to write about lately. Things have been pretty stressful in the b house lately – financial worries are taking over, and it’s hard to think about anything else.

And work has been making me crazy. As always, I will say how much I love my job and love Awesome Company, but I have recently been given a new task and I hate it. No really, I HATE IT. As in, makes me sick to my stomach with dread hate. As in finding 100 other things to do instead of this task hate. As in, if they gave me the choice of scrubbing the building’s bathrooms or doing this task, I’d be all, WHERE’S THE BUCKET, BITCHES??


So anyway.


Oh, get this. Mr b has his resume out on monster, etc. The other day, he got an email from some bullshit company (I am not saying the name), about a job. The job title was an acronym that had something to do with construction (I can’t remember), so he thought it was legit and checked it out. It was clear from the first look that it was bullshit – mainly because it went on about how much you can earn and no real job does that shit. But we read it anyway, because we’re easily entertained. He ignored it and then they contacted him again, with more information about “the job.” I use quotes because…well…you’ll see. It said that they were an “organization” (no type of organization, nothing about what they are, what they do, etc, just an organization), and they deal with “donations.”

They said that the position they were looking to fill was made up of “tasks.” These “tasks” would be emailed to him. The “tasks” would involve processing “donations” to their organization. And by processing, they mean picking up the “donation” and if it is in check or money order – are you ready? – CASHING IT AND DISTRIBUTING THE CASH TO THEIR “SPONSORS!!”

Do you now understand the need for all the quotes?

Once we got done laughing, we searched for the “organization” online – nothing. Not one search engine was able to locate anything about this “organization” - and we tried them all and tried every variation of keywords you can think of. And yet, in their email, they included a link to their site – it’s a generic website claiming that they are a nonprofit, nondenominational housing organization which provides low cost housing around the world to low-income people and people who have been affected by disasters. Now why would nothing come up in a Google search? Perhaps because they don’t want to be found? What donation-accepting, non-profit, charitable organization doesn’t want to be found??

Mr b just deleted it, but I wanted to send a reply thanking them for their interest, but declining their generous offer of employment in their MONEY LAUNDERING ORGANIZATION.

Oh, also? They misspelled “travel.” That would have been enough even without the illegal activity.

Thursday Thirteen

Thirteen Unanswerable Questions

1. Why is it that the one pocket that you neglect to check before doing laundry is the one that contains the bright red lipstick?

2. Why can’t I get motivated?

3. Where do all the socks go?

4. Why can’t my mother learn to not talk to me with an accusing tone? “Hey, what’s up?” works so much better than “Where were you?!?! I’VE BEEN CALLING ALL DAY!?!?!?!?!”

5. How many hours can a 12 year old spend on Runescape before his brain completely melts?

6. Is it really that hard to pick up your underwear from the bathroom floor?

7. How can a child love to clean, and beg to wash dishes and scrub bathrooms, and yet have full-body convulsions at the thought of cleaning up her own room?

8. WTF??

9. Why, when I am on Facebook, do I find myself thinking “Jesus, he/she is always on!” even though the hypocrisy is crystal clear?

10. What are the winning powerball numbers?

11. What happened to that Old Granddad that Hedge and I left in the bushes in 1985?

12. Why can’t chocolate chocolate chip cheesecake ice cream be made of protein and fiber and magic, instead of fat and sugar and evil?

13. How in the hell did I manage to delete #13?

Weirdest Google Ever

Normally, I just get the regular google searches, clearly from folks loking for somehting they have previously read. Sometimes they make it clear that my style of writing is not particularly...um...high class (see: "gina shitting," "debauchery," and "dirty sanchez"). I get a few odd ones, too, like "uphill no pants," "lie to me shit terrible bad," "sexy fat tinis," "my son cant lick his top lip," and "big fat pussty." But recently I had the weirdest and most detailed search ever:

"i tried to send this to you last night but my computer was not working properly. i just got home and as always, you're on my mind. my room smells like you. i lay here thinking about how incredible it is to feel you in"

WTF??

Top Ten Tuesday

Ten things that helped lift the funk a little this weekend:

1. Seeing Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. I have been waiting for what seems like forever for this to come out. My friend C and I had a no kids, movie, appetizers and beer day on Saturday and it was awesome. I made the mistake of re-re-reading the book right before seeing it though, and that made the changes a little more glaring. I mean – there are always book to movie changes, especially when the book and so much crammed into it. And I am fine with most of the changes/omissions (although a few leave me wondering about how they will handle certain storylines in the next one). But there are a couple of things that bugged me. I won’t spoil it in case you haven’t seen it yet (or even give a shit), but there was something added that wasn’t in the book, something taken out of the book and a couple things changed from the book that I felt didn’t really make sense. If you’ve seen it, you’ll probably know what I am talking about. I can’t wait to discuss it with someone else (C hadn’t read the book).

2. Mr b taking the boy and a friend to see Nickelback. I’m not sure why this cheered me up, but I think it had to do with the fact that a) the boy loved it, b) mr b was the one carting kids around for once, c) mr b (and not me) was the one waiting in the lines of death when they didn’t open the gates until over an hour later than promised, d) mr b (and not me) had to be the one to react to the boob-flashing, e) mr b (and not me) was the one that had to sit though 3 bands that he hated, and f) the boy loved it.

3. Beer

4. My teeny little grape tomatoes are finally starting to ripen. I don’t even eat tomatoes, but I am usually a green thumb fail, so yay me. Plus, the girl loves them and is thrilled.

5. Chocolate chocolate chip cheesecake ice cream.

6. Joining the Disney Photo Challenge group on flickr. I am having so much fun with this. I don’t even care that I only got one vote so far. It’s my Happy Place and it’s cheering me up.

7. Watching old episodes of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. This show is fucking funny. Those who prefer highbrow, intelligent comedy, are uber PC, or are easily offended should definitely not watch. But the rest of us assholes? Must See TV.

8. My kids greeting each other with big hugs after a night apart. I will pretend that the “Stop it, No you stop it, You’re a butthead, No you are” follies didn’t start up shortly after said hugs.

9. Kay and Ray’s obnoxiously expensive, yet exceedingly delicious, Dark Potato Chips

10. Did I mention beer?

In a Funk

First off, I have a post up over at my Constance. It’s been such a long time, you’ve probably forgotten all about Constance, haven’t you? If you need a reminder – feel free to comment or email. As this blog becomes more public, I sometimes need the option of having a more personal place to talk.
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Anyway - I’m in a bit of a funk. Not sure why exactly, but I think there are a lot of things contributing to it. I’m so much in a funk that I haven’t even been getting mad at the douchebags and assholes. I know - what is up with that??
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I love Awesome Company, but I recently was given on endless, ongoing task that I hate and that is making it very hard for me to stay chipper during working hours. It’s weird - I am usually pretty hard to discourage when it comes to work stuff, but this is like some kind of allergy or something. I cringe at the thought. But I work for the best company in the world ever for the best bosses in the world ever and I just need to suck it up and get over it. But it definitely weighs on me and I am sure it’s contributing to the funk.
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You know how there are old boyfriends/girlfriends in your past that you still think about? I mean, not that you still want them or anything, but we all play the remember when/what if game - it’s human nature. Well, anyway, I have discovered a couple recently on facebook. One just joined a Sarah Palin love group. Cue needle across record sound. Dreamy, lovesick memories replaced by “EWWWWWWWWW!”.
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Oh, and speaking of old boyfriend, I have noticed a disturbing trend of many of my old boyfriends starting to look like K-Fed. I’m not sure what this means, but it can’t be good.
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Help get me out of the funk – tell me something funny, make me laugh, ask me a question so I have something to write about. Anything to ward off the funk!!

It's 2 AM - I can't think up a title

I had an impromptu Take Your Daughter to Work Day on Friday. For some reason, Thursday night, she decided she wanted to go to work with me the next day, and started asking to go. I am usually very good at No. I can be the terrible, horrible, no good very bad mom. The mean mom. No. No. No. I can deny my child all the really awesome things in life that the other kids are doing, like knife-throwing and dog-painting and Molotov cocktails, and not blink an eye. But somehow, when she started begging to go, looking all cute and shit, my resolve went all to hell and I gave in. I managed to hold on to mean mom status until the morning at least, but when she jumped out of bed at the crack of dawn and started looking for “something nice to wear to the office,” I was done. Since it was a short summer Friday and the office was practically empty, it was a good day to do it.

She wanted to hit Lulu’s afterward, and as lovely as that would have been, I wanted to get the hell out of the city while the getting was good, so I traded her a Lulu’s for some cheese fries and a movie. We went to see Ice Age 3, and I almost fell asleep I the beautiful stadium seating, reclining chair, air-conditioned heaven.

Then on the way home, we stopped at an ice cream place that I have been driving past every single day for eleven years on my way to and from work and discovered that they have Dole Whip! You have no idea what this means to me. Dole Whip is the treat of my Happy Place and I have never seen it outside of there. I simultaneously celebrated the discovery and lamented the thousands of delicious pineapple-y treats I have missed out on over the years. I’m in trouble. My ass is in trouble.

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The boy is home from scout camp and was very proud to show off his trophy from the biggest fish competition. Out of 400+ people, he had the biggest catch of the week – a big fat, 18 ¾ inch large mouth bass. He broke the (troop for sure – maybe camp) record and also had the 2^nd and 3^rd largest. He was magic this week, apparently. I was so happy for him. He also earned 3 more merit badges, had a great time, and despite being certified to use both fire and a knife, came home with all the appendages he left with. Even better, all my towels came home this year. WIN!

I’ll just let you go ahead and imagine how many times he showered in the six days he was there, though.

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I spent about a week trying to get the Dayman song from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia out of my head. Do you watch this show? It’s seriously one of the funniest things I have ever seen. Of course, I like trashy, stupid, raunchy un-PC comedy, so it’s right up my alley. So at first I was singing Nightman, but it’s not that catchy, and Dayman is. Plus the Dayman is the master of karate and friendship for everyone, so what’s better than that, right? But after 6 days of singing it, I was driving myself crazy because no matter what else I listened to or sang, I could not get it out of my head. Until this morning, when something else made it’s way in and sent the Dayman packing. Good, right? Yeah – not so much:

You’re welcome.

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Finally, right before she went to bed tonight, the girl was listening to her dad practice guitar with his new Neil Young song book. And she came out with her guitar to sing me “her new song”

I will get back to actual blogging right after I bore you with photos

We crammed a lot into an 8-day stretch.

We had the 4th of July celebration:


The girl in the July 4th (OK, 3rd) bike parade and contest. She took 3rd:


The boy in his first parade:


There was a baptism:


And a birthday party:




And we got a family photo taken for my Grandma's 90th birthday (and then went to lunch dressed like the idiot family. Burgh Baby was "lucky" enough to witness us in our full dorky glory).

The whole gang:


Generations:


Gram and her great-grandkids:


My kids are getting so big!


And then there was grandma's party (I can't believe she's 90):


The grandkids pitched in on 90 yellow roses (her favorite) and a bunch of scratch offs (which she loves):

The kids had fun dancing and playing games:






The girl serenaded us with a couple songs (Taylor Swift, of course). She's a born performer.

Walmart is a Dick

We are having a big party this weekend for my grandma’s 90th birthday. It’s going to be huge, since we have a large family and she has lots of friends, plus we have invited lots of people from “the old days.” She used to own a bar, and people came from all over to hang out and have a good time. Her customers ranged from just local folks, to politicians, to professional athletes. Not many of them are around any more, but those who are, are coming and bringing their families. Even after she no longer had the bar, she tended bar elsewhere for year, so she’s got a large social circle.

Anyway, in addition to food and alcohol and bingo and cards and fun games and prizes for the kids, one of the things we wanted to have was a slide show of photos through the years. We changed our minds, though since it will be sunny (the party is at a local park) and we won’t be able to see it so I decided I would do a photo board and an album. I gathered up old photos from everyone in the family and intended to scan them and make multiple prints, so anyone who wanted a copy could have one.

My scanner at home was broken (I used the wrong power cord and it smoked and popped), so I figured it would be faster t take them to #Wal-Mart anyway and do them on the machine there. Oh how wrong I was. First off, it was actually slower than using a home scanner. Each photo took about 2 minutes to scan. And I had a ton of photos. I sat there for 2 ½ hours scanning. Two and a half hours! All the while silently cursing Wal-Mart, Kodak, Wal-Mart employees, other customers, the PA system, the PA system announcer, stupid cell phone ringtones, Phil Collins, and myself (for being so stupid as to think that Wal-Mart would be anything but hell on earth).

But finally, I was done scanning. Then, of course I had to go through each photo and select my number of prints, plus do any editing, cropping, etc. Which was another million hours. But I got that done and was ready to print. When I started, I saw the sign on the machine that said, “After you print your photos, get them on a disk.” I figured I would do just that, since there were some I wanted to restore, plus I’d have them for future prints if anyone wanted them. But when I tried to order a dick, it wouldn’t let me. I asked the woman working there about it and she snottily told me that I had to do the disk first and that I would have to scan them again is I wanted one. I pointed out the sign that said “After you print your photos, get them on a disk,” and she sighed like I was such a terrible inconvenience to her and said (even more snottily), “You should, have asked me before you started. You’ll have to scan them again!” Ummm…No thanks.

I figured I’d just print them and worry about scanning them again later, once I had a scanner that doesn’t smell like electrical fire. So after another 17 hours of waiting for my prints, I was finally done. I took the photos up to the counter with my charge slip (the machine prints one telling the number of prints), and the woman working there (the first bitch was on her break by this time), takes my photos and proceeds to go through all 110 prints, one by one. I was wondering what she was doing, since normally, they throw them in an envelope and ring you up. Turns out, she was pulling out all the “illegal” photos.

You are probably already aware that you can’t take your photos from a studio and reproduce them on a machine. I knew that too. I wouldn’t dream of taking my kids’ photos from Picture People and getting cheap copies made (well, I’d dream of it, since they are so freaking expensive, but I wouldn’t do it because I know I am not allowed). The one time I had a photo I needed a copy of, it was one that was actually taken at Wal-Mart. It was my favorite photo of my son and mine had gotten damaged. Since it was 9 years old, the studio didn’t have it any longer, so they gave me a release form and I was able to copy my mother’s. No problem.

But these photos? These illegal, professional, studio photos that she refused to let me print without a release form signed by the photographer? Were from 1935 to 1945. Nineteen motherfucking thirty-five!!! How in God’s name do they suppose I am going to get a release form? I mean, if my 90 year old grandmother was a teen in these photos, I think it’s a pretty good bet that the photographer is dead by now (not that I would have any idea who he was anyway). I should go back with a fucking Ouija board.

Of course she gave me the spiel about how it’s not her rule, but Wal-Mart’s rule, blahblahblah, but give me a break. Also? Wal-Mart is a dick.


Anyway, I got a couple of the professional ones scanned on my cousin’s scanner and have started working on restoring them (which OMG takes forever).

This is the one going on the cake (I didn’t get it restored yet):




Here is gram with my mom and Aunt Twin:




And here it is before I started restoring it:

"An American Tragedy"

I wasn’t going to say it. I was going to keep my mouth shut and move on. But after 3 straight days of constant coverage, I can’t keep it in anymore. I’m sure legions of Michael Jackson fans are going to start hunting me down for this, but I simply can’t seem to muster up much give-a-shit over his death.

Sure, I loved his music back in the 80’s. Off the Wall was one of my favorite albums ever, but after that, my interest in him started waning. Between my taste in music changing, and his freaking face changing, I started not quite feeling him like before. Don’t get me wrong, I liked him, and I certainly – still to this day – appreciate and respect his music. There is no denying that he is a music icon. That he was incredibly talented. But after 1979, he started drinking the freak kool-aid and was never the same. He was a freak. Perhaps the freakiest freak ever.

He fucked up his face. He bleached his skin. He became a recluse. He was best friends with a monkey. And little boys. And Liz Taylor. Freaking Neverland Ranch. He dangled his baby over a balcony. He made his kids wear masks and scarves over their faces. He named one “Blanket,” for Christ’s sake! He was accused (more than once) of molesting children, and giving them alcohol. An although he was found not guilty, the fact that he seemed to think that having unsupervised “sleepovers” and sharing a bed with children that were not his own was beautiful and loving screams “freak,” innocent or not (and I’ll be honest and say I’m skeptical – one of those accusers was paid 22 million, and also – court acquittal doesn’t hold a lot of weight these days – see: OJ).

But I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and say he’s innocent. Fine –he’s innocent. When the media keeps calling his death An American Tragedy, it makes me a little sick to my stomach. Because to me, the death of one celebrity – no matter how tragic it may be – isn’t An American Tragedy. I feel bad for his family. I feel bad for his kids. I feel bad that there are people out there who adore him and (to me – inexplicably) are grieving over his death. I’m not saying that people who feel the need to grieve for him are wrong in doing so, but I am just not one of them. And every time I turn on the TV, there it is. Tributes, celebrities weighing in, fans lined up outside his home, his families’ homes, his star, venues that he once performed in 20 freaking years ago. A local funeral home is having a service for him, and now another, since the fist is full. I just don’t get it. The same media that eviscerated him again and again and again over his looks, his debt, the allegations against him, are now singing his praises as loudly as they can. Yes – it’s a shocking death that came too soon. But An American Tragedy?

46 million people without health insurance? That is An American Tragedy. 13 million kids who go to bed hungry every night? That is An American Tragedy. 5000 dead soldiers? That is An American Tragedy. Hundreds of thousands of people homeless? That is An American Tragedy. 1.5 million afflicted with cancer and half a million deaths, millions of HIV/AIDS cases, 24 million people with diabetes, and no cure for any of it? That is An American Tragedy. I can’t help but to feel that calling the death of Michael Jackson An American Tragedy is a slap in the face to the real tragedies out there.

I’m sorry. I hope he is resting in peace – I really do. But I don’t need to hear any more about it. Because the fact that our country is still at war, that we are threatened by countries with nuclear missiles, that the economy is in the shitter, that our politicians are all going fucking crazy, that people still don’t have equal rights, and all we can talk about is Michael Jackson is An American Tragedy.

10 Horrible Secret Confessions

OK, because Swistle pointed out that I didn’t post any horrible secret confessions in my 10 honest things post, I’m going to do just that right now.

1. I say that I like kids, and kids are great, and all kids are cute, but I have to admit that I find some kids unattractive. I know people whose kids’ photos I don’t even want to look at because yikes I know - I am an asshole. note: not YOUR kids. Your kids are gorgeous!

2. Speaking of kids and assholes, I think a lot of kids are assholes. And I dream about punching them in the face. Don’t get me wrong – I would never do it – I save my face-punching for crackwhores (remind me to post the crackwhore-punching story here for my newest readers).

3. More than once, I was a self-satisfied bitch of a boyfriend-stealer. Although, in the interest of full-disclosure, the first time I did it, I didn’t actually get around to the stealing. I simply reveled in the...um…doing stuff…and not even hiding it. I once gave him hickeys just to put my mark on him. In my defense, she pulled some shady shit to get him off me in the first place. The second time, I really loved him and it turned into something. In fact, he’s my “what if” guy.

4. I am terrible with finances. Terrible. Embarrassingly, horrifyingly terrible.

5. I like to rant and rave about discrimination, but I have to be honest in that I have a bit of a judgy chip on my shoulder when it comes to certain religions. I would never treat someone differently because of it (because I do hate discrimination), but I scoff regularly.

6. I once stole. That’s all I can say because it still fills me with shame.

7. And speaking of shame, many, many years ago, I drove drunk. More than once. But then I grew a fucking clue. I hate drunk drivers, and it pains me to know that people do it. I know people who do it. And even though they are people I love, it makes me sick and makes me think much less of them. If I were around to witness it, I would probably call the police on them. Maybe it makes me a hypocrite, since I was in those shoes years ago. But I was an asshole and would have deserved the same. It’s no excuse, but I was young and stupid. But knowing grown ass people – with kids no less – who don’t see the danger in it pisses me off. I used to have a friend who once told me they drove their giant asshole-kill-the-planet-mobile when they went out drinking so if they wrecked, they would be safer. She’s not my friend anymore.

8. I know someone who illegally uses a handicapped placard and I plan on stealing it.

9. I am often irrational. Every single day, I have to fight the urge to throw something. Or run down some asshole in Hazelwood crossing the street slooooooowly in the middle of traffic and giving me a “just go ahead” look. And I use my horn. A lot.

10. I am having a hard time giving a shit about Michael Jackson (which will be my next post). I’m sick of hearing about it. I think the local memorials and services are stupid. And I told my cousin she was an ass for saying she felt the “global sadness.” I feel bad about Billy Mays, though.