Women vs Men: The Stress Edition

This morning I was stressed because:

Despite me having woken him up TWICE already, the boy was still sleeping 15 minutes later. I started worrying about him being late and missing the bus and not eating and I yelled.

This morning mr b was stressed because:

I yelled & disturbed him


This morning I was stressed because:

I discovered a stealth pile of dog poo in a most inopportune place. I was already dealing with the sleeping boy and now this. I swore loudly.

This morning mr b was stressed because:

I was being loud


This morning I was stressed because:

I hadn’t finished filling out the girl’s fundraiser papers, and I was running out of time because I was dealing with the aforementioned sleeping boy and dog poo. I had to ask for help.

This morning mr b was stressed because:

I asked him for help.


This morning I was stressed because:

Despite the fact that it has been burned out for a week, the light in my closet room was not yet fixed (because I can't do it myself) and I couldn’t find the clothes I was looking for. On top of the sleeping boy, the dog poo and the forms.

This morning mr b was stressed because:

I asked him to fix it for the 8th day in a row


This morning I was stressed because:

After dealing with the forms and the poo and the boy and the burned out light, I still needed to found my clothes, but the flashlight wasn’t in the house, but in mr b’s van. And I needed it.

This morning mr b was stressed because:

He had to go out to his van to get me the flashlight.


This morning I was stressed because:

I left the house late after finally resolving the boy, the poo, the forms, the light, and finding the clothes, knowing I would be even later because I needed gas since mr b used my car a couple of times this week and I didn’t have time to stop on the way home last night because the girl had practice & I was rushing home to pick her up and get her fed & changed & dropped off, and then picked up & wait the fundraiser is due when and the dog needs a bath and oh great drop-bys from not one but TWO relatives and how is it 11:00 already, dammit? And now I was going to be even later which sucks because I have to leave early today to rush home and deal with dinner & picking up kids and getting the girl to practice and making it to the boy’s open house on time. And as I left the house, I heard mr b say, “What a morning!”

It all comes back to the Responsibility [[]]

This time I really mean it!

You know – every time I post a new entry, I think to myself, “See – that was easy! I am going to blog every single day from now on!” And I totally mean it at that moment. And that night, something will happen that makes me think, :I should blog about that! Or that! Or that! (or any of the million things that go on in my life every day). But then the next day rolls around and I am tired, or cranky, or crazy-busy and I think, “OK – I couldn’t do it today, but I will blog tomorrow for sure. And the tomorrow rolls around and either a) I am as tired/cranky/busy as I was the day before, b) I can’t remember the million things I wanted to talk about, or c) I remember them, but suddenly they seem uninteresting and stupid.

So anyway…Hi! Here’s what’s been going on lately:

1. We brought the puppy home! Yay! We went through several (hundred) names before we finally settled on Charley. It suits him. He’s really cute and sweet and lovable and a big pain in the ass. I totally forgot about the getting up at all hours to take them out and the incessant whining. The whining/crying/screaming as if being murdered was the worst part, but luckily, he has grown out of that (thanks to my twitter friends for reassuring me on that). He still gets up to pee in the night, but it’s down to once. Still – interrupted sleep = me being even more forgetful and spacey than normal. Good times. Behold the cuteness:









































2. Halloween! We went to the annual party that my niece Scabs throws. It’s my favorite party of the year. Mainly because we are an evil bunch who use Halloween as an opportunity to torment and ridicule each other. If you have ever done something embarrassing – it will be used against you on Halloween. One year, we all dressed as Scabs. One year (the year of the punching the crackwhore story), someone came as Drunken Poolrat Gina and someone else came as Beaten Down Crackwhore. This year, I went as Scabs. Now, it may seem repetitive, since we went as Scabs before, but this time around, I went as Scabs looking how she did when she earned her nickname. See – many moons ago, Scabs worked at a bar and she invited mr b and I to the bar’s Halloween party. Well, she had been drinking all day and by the time we got there, she was sitting at the bar, dressed as a clown, makeup smeared, cigarette dangling from her mouth and she croaked at us, “Where in the HELL have you been?” So from then on, She became Scabs, the Chain-Smoking, Hard-Drinking, Pissed-Off Clown. Thus:

Scabs (with a scary Nanny McPhee in the background):


















Blind Ref:


























Flapper (when she told her firends she was going to be a flapper, they all asked, "Who's Flapper?")



























You're fired!





















Snooki was there, too:






















3. Football season is over! I repeat – football season is over! Finally a break from the constant cheer and band practices, games on both Friday and Saturday/Sunday, and driving all over creation to get to them! All season, I couldn’t wait for this moment. And yet – don’t tell anyone I said this, but I think I’m a little sad about it.



4. And speaking of football, our high school is getting a new stadium, and the last game in the current (70+ year old) one was a big event, with players from the very first game, alumni parties and former cheerleaders and band members on the field to participate. I joined up with the alumni majorettes and expected that we would be doing a simple salute to SSB & alma mater. Imagine my surprise when I got to practice before the game to discover we had an entire routine to learn. It was insane, but fun. And the boys won, meaning we won the very first and very last games in the stadium. Unfortunately, I put mr b in charge of taking photos, so I ended up with 65 shots of the fireworks and the backs of the heads of the people in front of him, but no really good shots of my super twirling skills. Sigh.

The closest thing to an action shot that mr b got - note the lack of zooming and the partial head in the foreground:


















The boy and me on the field together. I love that he wasn't embarrassed that his mom was twirling.
























5. Unrelated to anything else I have been talking about, I left my checkbook on the table yesterday morning, after writing one for the kids’ school photos, only to come home last night to discover that the girl had written herself a check for $1000.


6. Finally – go here and help the kids.

Private Public

Mr b called me something last night that got under my skin a little. No, not a bitch, or a nag, or crazy, or OhMyGodWomanDoYouEverShutUp, or any of the other many things I could be called. Instead, he called me “private.”

My first thought was Me? Private? HAHAHAHA! I mean, I am a blogger! If there is one thing that – by definition – bloggers are not, it’s private. We write about our lives and out kids and our families and friends and then put it out there on the internet for seventy hundred million people to see. I have a facebook page and a twitter account and about a million photos on flickr that pretty much anyone and every can see. I’m not private!

But then I started thinking about it and well, maybe he’s right.

The conversation started because I mentioned that the boy wanted to friend me on facebook and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. Not because I don’t’ want to be friends with him, but because – and I know this will come as a HUGE shock to you – I have a potty mouth. I know!! You all thought I was a delicate flower, right? I have gotten friend requests from a few of the younger family member and have largely ignored them (other than some of the older teens, since they already know how I am) because of this – I don’t want to have to censor myself on facebook. I already censor myself at work, and in many social situations, and at scout and band booster meetings, and cheer practice – I don’t want to do it on facebook, too, dammit! Fuck! (see what I mean?)

Anyway, I made the decision that I would hold on to these years before he would die of embarrassment if I tried to “friend him” on facebook and let him in, but when he searched for me, my name didn’t come up. I mentioned that I might have my privacy settings set so people couldn’t find me, and mr b jokingly (mostly) (I think) said, “You and your privacy – you don’t want anyone reading your facebook, you have a blog I’m not allowed to read…Jeez!”

And he is right – one day last week when he was using my computer and I left facebook open, he teased that he was reading it and I jokingly (mostly) (I think) said, “I don’t want you reading it!” And when he recently started expressing interest in my blog, I jokingly (mostly) (I think) said “I don’t want you reading it!”

I felt a little bad each time, but brushed it off. But it – along with the latest proclamation of me being private – got me wondering: Why am I so secretive?

It’s not like I’m doing anything wrong – I’m not meeting guys or posting naked photos of myself (God help us all), or saying terrible things about him, so why wouldn’t I want him to read it? And I have come to the conclusion that the answer to that is the ever-logical “Because.” And that? Is no reason at all.

I think there are a few things that contribute to my being the way I am. For one – mr b has never had any interest in this stuff. So for the years that I have been blogging (and more recently “facebooking”), it has been mine. My own little escape – my thing that I didn’t have to share with anyone else. Anyone who is married and/or has children knows that it is hard to do or have anything that belongs only to you. I ask you – parents of young children – when was the last time you got to take a long, relaxing bath, or have a phone conversation, or read a book, or watch TV, or even go to the bathroom without someone interrupting you? Can’t recall? Exactly!

And then there is the way it has been approached. I would have been far less likely to bristle if mr b had said he wanted to sign up on facebook and add me as a friend. But sitting down and reading my page felt a little more intrusive.

But mainly, I think my “private” nature was something that I learned from years of dealing with my mom. I never had any privacy or control growing up. And before you go all parent on me and say that parents need to know what their kids are doing, blahlblahblah, I am not talking about normal parenting. I’m talking about a mother with a terrible suspicious streak and an assume-the-worst nature. She read my diary – not only did she read it, she blatantly broke the lock open and didn’t even try to hide it. And then pretended like nothing happened. She would open my mail. Not college acceptance letters and the like, but personal letters sent to me by my best friend in Florida. When we were 10 or 11! What could a ten year old girl in 1978 possibly have to say that she had any interest in? She went through my purse, read my notes, searched my room, listened in on my calls, and told me where to go and what to wear and what to eat and so on and so on and AAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!

I grew up longing for privacy, and the ability to make even the simplest decision for myself, and time alone, without someone looking over my shoulder. It trained me to hide things that needn’t be hidden, just for the sake of hiding them, rather than for any real (or scandalous, or interesting, or juicy) reason. It’s not that I have been trying to keep mr b out of that part of my life, it’s that I have spent a lifetime just trying to keep a part of my life to myself.

Every five minutes I go back and forth, thinking, “I’ll let him read it.” Then, “No – it’s fine like it is.” Then, “But there’s no reason not to!” Then, “It’s FINE!”

Right now – at this moment – I don’t know what I will do. I want to open up a little more. And I decide I will. And then the thought of it actually takes my breath away a little.

But I’ll try. I’ll think about it and I’ll try. It took a lot of years to break me, I can’t be fixed overnight.

Fro Party

I met mr b at work. I was 21, finishing school, and needed something part-time to make ends meet. I saw an ad that a local restaurant was hiring and the next day I was officially a waitress. My first day of work, I learned that the staff generally hung out in the bar after work and had a few drinks (Or more. It turned out to be the shittiest and yet most fun place to work). I wasn’t planning on staying, since I didn’t really know anyone yet, but one of the waitresses, Kay, called me over. She was about 20 years older than me, and very sweet. I figured what the hell and decided to stay for a drink (or more). We did the same thing the next night. And the next. And we became friends really quickly.

We talked about a lot of stuff – her kids, my school, her day job, my love life. Or lack thereof, I should say. I was feeling pretty jaded about guys at the time. Between the longish-term asshole who broke up with me when he was turning 21 so he could go out and fuck around, the too sweet, bad sex rebound guy, the jackass who just disappeared, and the ten-thousand idiots I was meeting in bars every week, I was ready to swear off men forever. I said as much to Kay and she said five words that changed the course of my life. She said, “You would love my brother.”

It turned out that he worked there part time, too, but he was on vacation. She spent the next week telling me all about him – how great he was – smart, good-looking, about how we had similar interests and tastes. I fell for him a little without even meeting him. In the meantime, she was calling him every night and telling him all about me.

I was anxious about his impending first day back on the job – excited, but nervous. And then, the night before he was due to come back, she said, “Oh, I finally remembered to bring you a picture!”

And then…

Oh GOD, and then she handed me a photo of him from 1978!

And even though I could clearly tell that it was an outdated photo, it wasn’t enough for me not to feel the horror at what I was seeing. Weird, tight pants. Giant lapels on the shirt. Huge afro. Tinted aviator glasses. PORN-STACHE!!!

I gave her something very similar to “Present Face” and said, “Uh…um…so...uh…WOW! He’s um…really cute!”

And then I thought about quitting immediately.

But I needed the job, so that was out. And eventually I decided that since I was pretty much striking out in the love department, that even with his stache/fro ensemble, he couldn’t be any worse than the flaming dickheads I’d been meeting and I figured I’d give him a chance. Obviously, he turned out not to be the freak that I was expecting and the rest is history.

The story is pretty famous among our family and friends and the photo is notorious. So for his 50th birthday party, I got a photo album that holds one photo per page and has a space for an inscription. And I found a giant, light brown afro. And I made porn-staches out of felt (buying them would have cost a fortune). And I took a photo of every single guest wearing them, and had them sign the book.

It was a blast.

Me:


The kids:




My 90 year old grandma:


My 8 month old cousin:


My insane friend in what is my favorite (though censored) photo:


Some of the many, many more:

Monday...blech

I need a weekend to recover from my weekend. Not that it was particularly wild and crazy, unless you count shopping, cleaning and organizing as wild and crazy, that is.

Mr b was away this weekend – our awesome nephew Pap took him to Charlotte to see Widespread Panic and The Allman Brothers as a 50th birthday gift. He had a great time and quite enjoyed rubbing it in and sending me photos of Widespread Panic. It’s just not right. I drowned my sorrows in pomegranate mojitos. In his defense, he did come home with shirts for me and the kids, so I think I’ll keep him.

Friday, I dragged Hedge along on a shopping trip, since I had a giant list of things I needed to buy for the upcoming party. Not that hedge was super-excited about going to Hell-Mart or anything. I tricked her into going with the promise of a birthday dinner and gift. So we failed miserably at the shopping and ended up stuffing ourselves with food, mojitos and balls (!?!?) at Tusca. Because she is turning FORTY. FORTY FORTY FORTY! HEDGE IS FORTY! Ahem. Anyway, I wanted to get her something special for her big day, and I thought long and hard before I came up with the perfect, tear-jerking, sentimental gift. About 30 years ago, we started calling each other Hedgehog and Rooster. So I designed a t-shirt for her with this on it:

It brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it? of course I got one for myself, too, because who wouldn't want that?

Saturday, I went back out to finish the shopping, then came home for another mojito party. Rapunzel and Scabs came over to help me get some stuff done, which really meant “to help drink a half gallon of rum.” We did a fine job, if I do say so myself. Luckily, Scabs and I weren’t too hungover on Sunday to get as shitload of organizing and decorating done. The walls in the addition have been bare for over a year now, since I suck at decorating, so I put Scabs to work and she hung stuff and made it look way better than anything I would have done. The room looks a lot less empty and crappy now. She also kicked my ass into getting rid of a ton of stuff, which I needed.

I still have a ton of things to do and get, but I am a hell of a lot closer than I was last week. So, yay!

Oh, also – on Friday night, Hedge and I were getting off the expressway and I accidentally went through the e-z pass lane (even though I knew mr b had taken the ez-pass and I had cash in hand), and as I was sitting there like a jackass, trying to put money in while it kept spotting it back out, I noticed that a) it was the ez-pass lane, and b) the light was green. So I went through and hoped that I wouldn’t end up getting ticket. Anyway, this morning, I went through the pay lane, (since mr b didn’t give back the ez-pass) and before I even got to the pay basket, the light turned green and the bar went up. So clearly? I HAVE THE MAGIC! I called mr b to tell him:

RingRing

Him: I know, I know, I still have the ez-pass

Me: No - it happened again! It turned green and I didn’t even pay! I HAVE THE MAGIC!

Him: OK…so…is that all you called me for?

Me: Duh. You’d call me if you discovered you had the magic, wouldn’t you?

Him: Yeah, I guess so. So…congratulations? I gotta go.

Me: Fine. You’re just mad because you don’t have the magic.

Old Men and Red Pants and Pink What?

Boy, I suck at the blogging lately. And as usual, I will make my “busy, oh so busy” defense. But I really am.

I am in the process of trying to get the house and yard ready for a birthday party for mr b, which is easier said than done, given that a) we’re busy – duh, b) we live like big fat pigs and there is a TON of cleaning or organizing to do, and c) mr b is the king of 80% done projects, so there are a lot of unfinished projects around the house. So it’s been a delightful time for one and all in our household.

Notice how I didn’t mention mr b’s age. See, I was all ready to tell you but lately, I have been reading the blogs of some of my friends and they are also having birthday celebrations for people at or around mr b’s age. And those people are THEIR FATHERS!!!! OK, fine! He’s 50! And even though he robbed the cradle with me, I am close enough behind to feel it breathing on me. So if your mom or dad or grandma is 50, don’t tell me. Let me remain blissfully deluded that I am the same age as all of you and not enough older that I was in college when you were all watching Sesame Street. Kthx!!

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

I think I mentioned that the girl joined baton. She loves it, and I am glad. I joined when I was about her age, too (and actually – Lord – stayed with it through two years of college - Titan Twirler - woo!). Anyhoo, when the girls march in parades, there are “marching moms” that walk along the parade route with them. Not so much my bag – I’m content to sit on the curb and cheer and take photos, but I am willing if they need me. Or at least I was until this Friday’s homecoming parade (the new girls didn’t march), when I discovered that the “marching moms” have uniforms. Oh yes. They have nice little white golf-style shorts with the team logo on it. Not so bad, right? Until you look down and see that they also wear red pants. No – they aren’t even pants. They’re slacks. RED SLACKS. Which appeared to have an elastic waist. DANGER DANGER DANGER!!!!!

I’m sorry, but there is no way that this ass is going onto those pants. No, never, NOOOOOO. The woman who runs it is the same that was running it back in 1974 when I first joined and her style hasn’t changed since. I take that back – she updated her style when she was the high school majorette sponsor and she discovered headbands. Sequined headbands. Worn not like a cute hairband, but like a dorky sweatband. Sometimes with poufy things on them. She still loves those – they are part of the uniforms, from the little ones up to the high school. Of course, now that I think about it, I’d rather wear a sequined headband than red slacks, but the likelihood of me wearing either is somewhere between “Um…no” and “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA…no.”

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

Finally, I need to share with you what I saw today. Prepare yourself because it’s a horrible crime against humanity. Are you ready?

Are you sure? Because it’s bad!

OK, then…

I KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!

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.

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.

Quackopractor

Mr b’s back has been bothering him lately, so he decided to stay home on Monday and go to the doctor. Of course in mr b’s fantasy world, you can decide to stay home in the morning, call the doctor’s office and they will say, “Of course come right in, we’re waiting for you. Should we send a car?” In real life, of course, when you call your doctor expecting to get in immediately (and you aren’t, say, bleeding from your eyeballs), you generally get, HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Since we’re living in the real world and not his super awesome fantasy one, he got the latter. So he decided he would see a chiropractor. He looked at different listings and settled on one nearby. And as luck would have it, they had an opening that morning and he could come in.

He told me somewhat sheepishly that he was going. It seems that I am “the family skeptic.” And, well…I am. Don’t get me wrong, I am not anti-chiropractors. I really do believe that they can do a lot of good. But I also have a strong belief in medicine. And by that, I don’t mean drugs, but medicine and medical science as a whole. Whether it’s doctors or tests or x-rays or therapy or drugs, I would turn to each of them before turning to a chiropractor. I have a fear of seeing a chiropractor without seeing a doctor first and him or her making things worse. I find myself thinking things like – what if there is a tiny fracture (or something) and they turn it into a big fracture (or something)? Huh, HUH? But mr b and his big plan of rightnowrightnowrightnow doesn’t have tome to get it checked out before skipping happily to get an adjustment. And whatever – it’s not my back.

A little while later, I get a call. It’s mr b and he is at the chiropractor;s office. They want my social security number. MY. Social Security Number. Ummm…Fuck no? Are tyou kidding? Forst off, he is the patient, not me, so they don’t need a damned thing of mine. Second, there is no reason for them to even have his SSN. He’s paying cash up front for his portion, and they have the insurance card. And, actually, the insurance company recently changed ID numbers in order to remove SSNs. So, again, FUCK NO! I told him to tell them to kiss my fat ass, and that they were obviously quacks and up to no good.

So anyway, he has the appointment and comes home and says he feels a little better. But he was a little put off by Dr. Quack because he was absolutely not interested in mr b’s history (and falling 2 stories might be important, you think?), but instead started in on how he could cure mr b of all that ails him. He could fix his cholesterol and his blood pressure and his hangnails and his toothache and his hysterectomy scar (OK, he actually just said the first two, but I imagine that if he had a chance, he would have gone for the others too). But, since he felt a little better, he was going to give the guy a try. He did some kind of test on him and wanted him to come back that evening for the results. He did, got the results and they made his next appointment.

When he came home, he said they wanted me to come to it. What? Why in the blue fuck would I need to come to his chiropractor? He really didn’t have an answer to that – just some vague shit about information and understanding and blah blah I smell a rat blah blah.

I forgot all about it until Wednesday evening when he asked me if I was going. After I got done laughing, I told him that no, I would not be going to what I was now convinced was some sort of scam quackery. I had a million other things I didn’t want to do that were about 47 times more appealing than that, thanks.

He came through the door that evening with a look on his face that said I was right.

Apparently, that that evening’s “appointment,” they made him (and a couple of other suckers patients) sit through a “presentation.” And by “presentation, I mean “blaringly loud youtube video on how doctors and pharmacists and medicine are KILLING US ALL!!”

Well, alrighty, then.

Now, clearly, mr be is much more stupid naive patient than I am because I would have been out of there about 10 seconds into that AV nightmare. They pulled that shit on me at an optical place once and I told them to either give me what I came (and paid) for or kiss my ass and call my attorney. And don’t even get me started on the timeshare wankers (although at least you get a free gift at the end of that shit). But anyway, he is “more patient” so he stayed and suffered through it.

At then end of it, they passed around a bowl and told everyone to put their prescription drugs in it, because they wouldn’t need them anymore. I think they left out the part about how they especially wanted the narcotics because they are CLEARLY crushing and snorting them in the back room. The sad part? One elderly woman actually complied! She was probably dead by sundown.

After telling me all of this, he pulled out his “treatment plan.” It didn’t say a whole lot about what was wrong with him, or what they would be doing, but it was super clear that he would have to go back 75 times. And the cost would be approximately seven hundred thousand billion dollars. It also had a nice description of their financing plan complete with breakdowns of payments and interest. Oh, I get it now.

I don’t think mr b will be going back.

The best part was that I talked to my aunt later that evening and told her that mr b had seen a chiropractor, but we think he is a quack. And she said, “Is it Dr. Quack over in the plaza? Because my friend E went to him last year and all he did was tell her he could cure everything that ailed her in 75 visits for seven hundred thousand billion dollars.”

OK, I know mr b won’t be going back.

Things You Don't Say To Your Dad

There are certain phrases you really never think you’ll use in conversation with your father. Dirty Sanchez would be one.

About a month ago, I took the boy to meet my dad at the Archery Club, so he could practice. The girl insisted that we go in too, because she wanted to see Pap. By which she meant “see Pap and have him give me chips and pop”. Anyway, we were sitting at the bar while my dad was working on the boy’s bow, and I noticed the menu. It was typical bar food: fries, burgers, nachos, Dirty Sanchez, cheese sticks.

Wait, WHAT????

After I got done choking on a chip, I regained my composure (mostly) and asked, “Um…Dad…ah…so..er…what’s a Dirty Sanchez?”

“A hot dog”, he answered.

“Oh. Does it have…um…chili on it or something?”

“No, it’s just a hot dog.”

“Just a plain hot dog? It doesn’t have, say, brown mustard?”

“No! I am trying to get this done – why do you keep asking me this stuff? It’s just a big hot dog!”


At that point, I just shut the hell up and finished my chips.


Then about a week ago, we were in the car and mr b, being a giant asshat who doesn’t pay attention to what he says in front of the kids (see: the Great What’s a Rim Job Debacle of Ought Seven) , and he throws out Dirty Sanchez. And as I am giving him the Are You Fucking Kidding Me Evil Eye, the kids pipe up from the back seat, “Dirty Sanchez! We had those!”

I let mr b choke for a while before I explained that it was just a big hot dog. He deserves it for saying Dirty Sanchez in front of the kids.

Responsible

Don't forget - the iTunes contest is still going on

I was reading this article yesterday and I was struck by a part of it. Many women complain about their husbands not doing enough when it comes to the house and kids (and most are justified), and I do it as much as anyone. But this one paragraph got me:

“Here’s my take,” says Barry Schwartz, author of Paradox of Choice. “There’s been a lot of attention paid to the amount of work women do in the household. But it’s not really equal. I think what hasn’t been focused on is the emotional and mental work — namely, who makes the decisions. This is incredibly important: Even if the husband’s around, and shares the kid workload, who’s making the decisions about playdates, schools? The overwhelming, crushing responsibility of it all still lies with the mother. It’s a false sense of being equals.”

Exactly!! Someone finally put into words what I haven’t been able to.

I do bitch about mr b not doing enough, and often times I am right. But I also know that my housekeeping skill, etc could use some improving too, and then I feel guilty about complaining about his. Or sometimes, I’ll think about the things he does do and I’ll realize that maybe he’s not as bad as I implied with my complaints. And yet, I still feel undeniably right about them.

And this guy hit the nail on the head. It’s not the actual work. OK, it is the actual work sometimes, but more than that, it’s the implication and the responsibility that wears me out the most. It may not be physical exertion, but it is exhausting nonetheless.

Because of our schedules, mr b leaves earlier and gets home later. We work the same hours, but his drive is slightly longer. And to be honest, he likes to stop for coffee in the mornings (which I understand, but even those few minutes of his time would make the mornings easier). So because of this, I am the one that is responsible for getting the kids up and ready in the morning. I am the one responsible for dropping them at my parents or school or the bus stop or daycare. And because I am the one who gets home before day care close, it’s my responsibility to pick them up. If I have to work late and can‘t make it, it’s my responsibility to find an alternative.

When we get home, they are hungry, so it’s my responsibility to make dinner. Often times this involves cleaning up first – I’m responsible for that too, then.

And while I know he can’t get home as early as I do every day – but sometimes he can, and does he ever call me and say, I’ll get the kids? I’ll let you guess. And while I can’t say for sure, I would be willing to bet that when the end of his workday is near, he never feels the stress of “I have to get home” or “I can’t be late.” I sometimes wonders if he takes his time, or decides he has one more thing to do, or one more call to make simply to avoid the responsibility. His drive is “Yay, day’s over” and mine is “Goddammit, this traffic is going to make me late! Move, motherfuckers!”

And I realize that because of out work schedules, there isn’t much that can be done about this, but it sure would be nice if when he got home, he would pick up some slack – clean up after dinner, give the girl a bath. Something, anything that he clearly feels is my job. I would appreciate it if when he walked in the door and saw me knee deep in cleaning or cooking or whatever, that he would ask what he could do, instead of heading straight for the couch or the computer, while telling me how exhausted he is. I would appreciate it if he would call me and let me know he’s going to be late. I would appreciate it if he would make a point of listening for his phone on the way home, since my rushed schedule doesn’t allow for me to add a trip to the store when I realize we are out of paper towels (and seriously – I know it’s not very green, but for me – trying to cook or clean or live without paper towels is like trying to be a crackhead WITHOUT CRACK). When I ask him to get the girl bathed or wake up the boy in the morning to get in the shower, he does it, but not without a big SIGH, leaving me feeling like I have to say thanks for something that is his responsibility as much as mine.

And even when it’s not about actual physical work, responsibility can be a daunting thing.

I know when pre-school tuition is due. I know how much it is. I know when the boy need lunch money. I know when the book fair is. I know when it’s gym day. I know when it’s “wear purple” day. I know when report cards are coming. I know what library books are due and when. I buy birthday and Christmas presents, for the kids and for everyone else. I send cards. I know when the sheets were washed last. I know when holiday parties are. I make treat bags. I make sure we have lunch fixins. I go to birthday parties. I plan birthday parties. I know when the dentist and doctor’s appointment are. I know what size clothes the kids wear. And what size shoes. I know what vaccinations they have had and still need. I plan the vacations.

I am responsible. And it is exhausting.

The Bad Word

Given the way I swear like a sailor, it might surprise you to find that there is one “bad word” that I really hate. A word that I feel should be expunged from the English language completely. A word that when directed at me, makes me want to punch the speaker in the face seventy-thousand times. That word?

Nag.

I can damnshitassholedickheadmotherfucker with the best of them, but that one word makes steam come out my ears and sends me into fits of rage.

It’s a word that may have started off somewhat innocuously, but over the years, has turned into a word absolutely dripping in misogyny. Men have been trained for generations to use this word to immediately invalidate any concern or request that a woman has, and I for one am damned sick of it.

Because if it has been weeks, or months, or years since the storm door has been broken, the trim has gone unfinished or - God Help Me – the smoke alarms have not been working properly, it is very much not nagging. It is negligence. And yet, as soon as you hear a woman’s voice talking (Or asking. Or begging) about a project or job that needs to be done, that very special man thing kicks in and the VERY BAD WORD comes out and then the women, though completely correct and justified in her request or observation is now nothing more than irrational, nagging harpy, and mr. poor pitiful me can go back to his hockey game or guitar playing or magazine reading.

It’s time to stop accepting this word. The next person who uses it in my presence is in BIG TROUBLE.

Anniversary

Tomorrow is our community day at Kennywood, and of course there is rain in the forecast. It has rained on our community day every year since the beginning of time. I’m hoping it stays away completely or at least is quick. It’s too hard to reschedule when I have 5 kids to worry about (not all mine, of course), and I’ve called off work and the tickets are purchased. I’ll take ponchos and as long as we can get a chance to ride everything (my SIL is coming, so I will get a chance to ride the Pitfall once or twice (or 600 times), and we get our fries with cheese or gravy and I get my corn dog and a square ice cream (suck it Florine), and I play the one game that I am good at (that roll the bowling ball one) and win everyone a prize, I’ll be happy.

Community day is held around the same time every year and in the past few years, I find myself getting a little anxious around this time. I usually just brush it off as anticipation and nostalgia, but I realized today that while Kennywood holds so many happy memories for me, it also represents one not so happy one.

Four years ago, I was at Kennywood he I got the call that mr b had had his accident. I will never forget the feeling of being so happy, riding and playing and eating (in the rain, of course) and then going immediately into a nightmare. When I got the call, I wasn’t even sure if he was going to survive – they don’t give you too much over the phone. What I would find out later was that he had fallen 25 feet and shattered his feet - every single bone. His heel bones were in so many - and so small - pieces that there was nothing to repair. His feet were swollen to the size of watermelons. I called my mom to meet me and get the kids and I rushed off to the hospital. It was a day that started off great and then turned in to months of worry and fear and grief.

Mr b recovered, of course, but not completely and not without a lot of pain. He spent time in a nursing home, while I tried to hold things down at home with a 7 year old and an infant, all the while trying to hold it together. I rushed from home to daycare to work to the nursing home (often stopping for decent food so mr b wound’s have to eat the home food), then to pick up the kids, then home, then had to deal with homework and diapers and dinner and baths. I took the kids to see me b as often as I could. I barely stayed afloat emotionally. I remember breaking down one day while I took the garbage out in the pouring rain. It had to be done right then and I had no choice. I was already on the verge and then I looked up to see my fuckhead neighbors watching me, and it was too much. I sat down in the rain in my good work clothes and cried, while the kids were inside, clueless.

I thought it would be easier when mr b finally came home, but I was wrong. Because now, in addition to doing everything, I had to learn how to give him shots. And how to fight with doctors offices and insurance companies. And how to work a borrowed wheelchair van and lift and restraints. And once his feet didn’t need to be constantly elevated, how to maneuver a wheelchair in and out of the trunk of our car without hurting myself. And how to clean wounds and hospital beds and portable toilets.

I learned how very few places are truly wheelchair accessible. I learned how humiliating it is for a grown man to be turned away, or to be carried or to patronized. I learned that there are a lot of assholes who borrow grandma’s wheelchair tag to get a close spot at Macy’s.

I tried to hide my worries about money, since mr b was already feeling so bad, but man, did I worry. He got workers comp, but it was only a fraction of his salary. And the biggest problem was that he had taken a job at a lower wage than he wanted because he really needed it and because there was a ton of overtime. So we were getting not only a fraction of his salary, but a fraction of about 65% of his salary. And we were just in the process of getting out of the hole that having a business created when he took the job. It was rough. And we didn’t know what was to become of his career. It was clear that he would never be a carpenter again. He had a degree and a good bit of experience to fall back on, but he had always defined himself by his job (something I was always telling him he shouldn’t do), so it was a hard thing for him to deal with.

We struggled financially. We struggled physically – him because of his injuries (which were massive – the worst that the surgeons had ever seen and largely inoperable) and the eventual learning to walk again and me just simply from doing all the heavy lifting (both literally and figuratively). We struggled emotionally. He was already depressed and now he was depressed and angry. I was suffering from PPD and now I was depressed and angry. But somehow, we made it – we didn’t really have a choice. We had two kids to take care of and during that time, we learned to lean on each other more than ever.

In some sick way, I miss that time a little – not the pain and misery, but the way we appreciated each other and grew together. So I don’t mind the little reminder once a year – it would serve me well to remember that I could have lost him and would serve him well to remember how I supported him. He will always walk with a pronounced limp, and sometimes I drop behind him a little so I can take it in and realize what we have overcome and remind myself that we can get through anything that comes our way.

So if you’re in an amusement park tomorrow and see a limping man with his wife walking a few feet behind you’ll know who they are.

Annoyed

Is anyone interested in the things that are pissing me off today? No? OK, then, well I’m telling you anyway.

My asshole neighbor. I have several asshole neighbors. But today it is the one that never speaks to us unless he has something rude and/or ignorant to say. We’ll call him Asshole. We have had ongoing “issues” with him regarding property lines. It started approximately 15 minutes after we moved in and he approached my husband and said, “so, mr b? When are me and you and Asshole Jr going to cut down these walnut trees?” To which mr b responded, “? ! ? ! ? ! ? ! ?” Apparently, Asshole didn’t like the occasional leaf or walnut landing on his property. Of course all his shit landing ion our yard? No problem. Next up was the ravine out back. Our property is pie-shaped and the “point” is a small ravine. From the time we moved in, we have seen Asshole and company dragging Christmas trees, cuttings, yard debris, etc back there and dumping it. We never said a word, because we don’t care. It’s all biodegradable and it’s unusable land. But once, when he saw mr b doing te same, he raised holy hell. Mr b told him it was out property and he tried to claim that our pie-shaped property had a wedge cut into it from the side, despite the existing property “pins”, and very conveniently including the exact area where he was dumping shit, but we were not “allowed”. Mr b pretty much blew him off because we know he’s wrong and we don’t’ give a shit. Over the years, he has yelled at my dad for 2.6 grass cuttings going over into his grass, told us we can’t be friends with his dog, badmouthed us to the neighbors and been a general dickhead. Then, early this spring, he pulled the property thing again. So we shelled out the money to have the land surveyed. And lo and behold. Not only were we right about our property, it was actually about a foot wider into his side. Heh. He was all out in the surveyor’s business (turns out it was someone he knows) and we heard him yell “bullshit” at least once. Our reaction? A silent “suck it”. Because the new measurement puts his stupid shed too close to our property line than is allowed and if we wanted to be dickheads like he is, we could make him move it. But we’re not dickheads. Finally today, he approaches mr b and starts out with friendly small talk and then suddenly says, “you know, mr b, I don’t mind that you’re putting that there (mr b was spreading some grass cuttings in the ravine area). I mean, I don’t mind it.” Um, I’m thinking you do, or you wouldn’t be having that conversation. And then he goes to talk about how he understands and doesn’t mind that we had the land surveyed. But that you know, his pin used to be right there and now it’s been moved. Yeah. BY THE SURVEYOR!! I’m not sure exactly what his deal was or what he was trying to get at, but again, he can SUCK IT. When mr b just turned around and walked away, he tired to be all friendly again, offering mr b some blueberries and cherries that he is growing. Uh – no thanks, freakshow.

The embezzler. AKA The asshole that nastily called out mr b in front of a group of people and accused him of deliberately not paying him for something. Which is bullshit, since we tried to pay, but were put of and then he never showed up at the places he was supposed to show up at. And then we forgot. And it was very little money and an innocent mistake. And if he had simply reminded mr b, it would be a done deal right now. But he acted like mr b was a criminal, which is not only untrue, is amazingly ironic given that this very guy was in charge of money on behalf of some very innocent people and it strangely kept disappearing. Hmmm.

Mr. b. For not getting that I love his family, but I sometimes just can’t make our schedule work. I don’t want to drive over an hour all the way to the other side of the city to attend a 4th of July party, just to drive home at the exact time that all the drunks are also on their way. I have a serious phobia about being on the roads during the drunken holidays. It scares me shitless and I feel that one party is not as important as staying alive. It’s not just July 4th – this is an ongoing issue. It doesn’t help that they are often very last minute with stuff,. And while I am spontaneous as often as possible, I have a schedule that often is not conducive to spontaneity. And it’s not like he always wants to go and I don’t. I see them as often as I can –and I repeat – I LOVE THEM. There are plenty of times he doesn’t want to or can’t go somewhere. But sometimes he gets a bug in his ass and likes to have someone to blame. That someone would be me.

Oh – also? He’s car shopping. And it’s killing me. Because he is a “foot in the door guy”, meaning that he starts of affordable – look at this – this is only xxx dollars – we can afford that. And then it starts inching up, because “if we’re going to go xxx, we may as well go xxxx and if we’re doing xxxx, we may as well do xxxxx and so on. Oy.

The dog. Because he just farted. In front of the fan. That is blowing on me.

Mr. b again. Because he just informed me that the boy needs medical forms filled out from the doctor. For camp on SUNDAY. And I am expected to be the one to lok like a groveling asshole and make a special trip all the way out of the way to the doctor’s office to try and get them to drop all the unimportant stuff like sick children, so they can fill out our forms. Awesome.

The girl. For WHINING. SO. GODDAMNED. MUCH.

The boy. Or maybe it’s me. But wither way, the boy has very convenient stomachaches. Like every night that he doesn’t feel like going to sleep. I have no doubt that he is really feeling it, but he is a serious hypochondriac. And I get frustrated with him. And with myself, because sometimes I should really be more sympathetic and comforting, but dear god, it’s like clockwork sometimes. And sometimes he might really be sick, but he’s “boy who cried wolf”-ing me to death.

Prudence (of “Dear Prudence”) For this letter:

Dear Prudence,My daughter is in her late 30s and lives a day's drive away from me. She recently brought her two young children for a visit. Since her husband had to work, she brought along a single girlfriend. When they arrived, my daughter announced that she and her friend planned to go out partying on the nights they were here and to leave the children with me. (OK – it was rude of her to just assume that her mother would take the kids. She should have worked it out in advance) I was disappointed not to see more of her but gladly took care of my grandchildren. My daughter and her friend stayed out very late barhopping and came home drunk both nights. Then they left the next day without saying goodbye. (and this is definitely wrong) My daughter called to say she'd had so much fun that she and her friend were planning to come back with the children during the summer to do it again. I told my daughter that while I'm always happy to see her and the children, she should plan to stay in a hotel if she wants to party all night. (totally within her rights) My daughter hung up on me, then wrote me an e-mail saying she would not visit again and accusing me of being judgmental. (she’s either overreacting or there’s more to it that we are being told here) If I'd behaved like my daughter, my mother would have set me straight quick; she called women who act the way my daughter did "sluts." OK, grandma, this is where you lost me. Times have changed and sometimes women – especially ones with busy lives and busy husbands and kids who live far from their mothers and have no built in babysitters need a break. And sometimes that break means having drinks and staying out late and being silly) In trying not to be judgmental like my mother (oh no, not at all), have I created a monster? (we’re working the woe is me really hard now) What, if anything, should I do now to repair our relationship? I love my daughter and want to see my grandchildren. (perhaps not writing to a major media outlet and implying that your daughter is a slut might help.)
—Sad and Perplexed

Dear Sad, (I’m ready Prudie, rip her a new one!!)I'm trying to figure out whether this trampy persona (what??) is new and out of character or whether this is just the latest excrescence of her usual conduct. (What??) Any married woman who dumps her children with their grandmother so she can barhop all night is someone with behavior(?????), marriage(WTF?!?!?!?!?), and alcohol problems. (WHAT THE HOLY FUCKING FUCK?!?!?!?) If you always let your daughter get away with murder when you were raising her just so you wouldn't be like your mother, then you made a terrible mistake. But she's all grown up (at least chronologically), and although she apparently lacks judgment and self-control, she's also a mother now. It sounds as if those kids are going to need comfort and stability, so you don't want your daughter using them as pawns in your relationship with her. (LALALALALALALA, I’m not listening) Call her and say you are sorry your last conversation ended the way it did. (for being such a fucking bitch and most likely telling her she is a slut because she probably had two fucking nights out with a friend in the past five years, you miserable harpy) Don't back down about her behavior—what she did is simply not all right. (suck it, Prudence!) Explain you are not calling to pass judgment (spare me), but because you are concerned about her health and safety (oh PLEASE) and you wish she would talk to you about what's going on in her life. (so you can tell her how messed up and slutty it is)
—Prudie (who can go suck a big fat one)

Mornings Suck

This is my second day of summer hours and – as I fully expected – it’s killing me. My company does this wonderful/horrible thing in the summer. They give us the option of keeping “summer hours” where we work longer hours Monday –Thursday and half days on Friday. The wonderful part? Friday. The horrible part? Monday-Thursday. Normally I work 8:00 – 4:30, but in the summer, I’m 7:30 – 5:00 M-TH and 7:30 – 11:30. This means I have to get out of the house earlier, as if getting out in time to be here by 8:00 isn’t difficult enough.


My morning obstacles:

The boy. Because, you see, eleven year old boys are slow. Horribly, achingly, watch paint dry kind of slow. For those of you who have never had an eleven year old boy, let me present you with this mathematical equation to help you understand:

Eleven year old boy minutes ≠ real minutes

You see, eleven year old boy minutes are more like football minutes – they last much longer than actual minutes. How long does it take you to put on your socks and shoes? 3 minutes, tops? Well, in eleven year old boy minutes, that’s seventeen and a half minutes. There’s two minutes of sitting and doing nothing, two minutes of “looking for his shoes” (aka more doing nothing), there’s 30 seconds of “Put your socks and shoes on” “I am”. Then the next two minutes involve you leaving the room to get his sister’s stuff together and coming back in to discover that he has one sock on. Halfway.

Then there’s some more “Shoes and socks” “I am!. Then another two minutes of getting the other sock on. Next up comes “where are your shoes?” “I’m looking for them” “I thought you just looked for them” “that was my socks” “what do you mean – your socks were right next to you” “I’m sorry, mom” The tone on that last one implies that he is sorry not that he is so slow, but that he has an evil mother who makes him do terrible things like put his socks and shoes on. This takes another three and a half minutes.

The next five minutes involve leaving and entering the room several times, being dismayed about the lack of shoes being on feet, threats, acting put-upon, and finally, blessedly some shoes.

Add this to the fact that we have to go through this same routine with clothes, backpack, instruments, homework and karate gear, and you have Getting Ready With An Eleven Year Old Boy.

Next up – the girl. Now she’s a little easier, since she is usually sleeping when it’s time to go and I can pick her up and carry her out to the car. However, if she wakes up and notices that I have deigned to pack clothes for her (or shoes – oh God – especially the shoes) that do not live up to her standards for that day (which change daily, of course – what good is a predictable diva?), all hell will be breaking loose forthwith. A little fashion obsessed, stubborn, screamy princess bomb will be going off and you will be hit with the shrapnel. Watch out. This is where mind reading would come in handy.

Today, there was extra added fun, since my earlier days mean that mr b and I are getting ready at the same time. This would be fun on it’s own, but it’s super bonus fun because he watches me stress out over the morning routine (and I haven’t; even mentioned the disaster of a mess I found the boy’s room to be, after I washed and folded all of his clothes) and then tell me that I shouldn’t get stressed and upset, which is totally awesome of him, considering that he is not the one wrangling kids at the buttcrack of dawn, getting everyone ready and dropping them off at my parents’ house. And I especially love when I complain about running late and then he leaves, rather than perhaps take an extra five minutes and help me out. That’s my favorite. But I wouldn’t want him to miss his morning stop for coffee or cigarettes now would I?

The loser in all of this is me, because I always end up with either my hair or makeup in disarray or my clothes looking like an eleven year old boy dressed me. Today, for instance, I am wearing a dress that – when standing – looks OK. But since I have lost weight, it turns out that when I sit, the cleavage drops a good two inches. So I am spending the day looking like Boobula Von SagginHooters, Crown Princess of Titswana. Hot!

And since I already get up at StillLastNight O’Clock, the first person that tells me to just get up earlier gets punched in the face.

Bleh

Bleh – that about sums up how I’m feeling. Bleh blah blech.

I was home sick for the past few days which always gets me down – more for the use of precious vacation days than the actual sickness. Then, this morning, I watched as my paycheck was direct-deposited, then immediately shuttled out to every bill imaginable, leaving me with nary a cent. I have a reimbursement check coming which was supposed to be deposited on Monday, but a mistake was made (they say mine, I say theirs) and the damned thing got mailed instead of deposited. So now I’m fucked until the check comes, gets deposited, and clears. So bleh.

Also pissing me off today:

The asshole with the following assortment of delightful stickers on his asshole-mobile: “Give war a chance”, “You want my guns? Come get em”, “Peace brought to you through superior firepower”, “F the UN”, and my own personal favorite: “Kill 'em all - Let God sort it out”

My neighbors. I am surrounded by assholes. We have the stuck-up assholes on one side you literally don’t speak to us. They walk around doing yard work and manage to always have their backs turned to us, so they don’t have to acknowledge our existence. And they have been known to completely ignore a sweet toddler saying hi. Also – they once told us we were not allowed to be friends with their dog.

Then we have the dickheads on the other side who let their dickhead dog run free and shit all over our yard and tear up our garbage like a dickhead. And she steals things off our porch and then they act all put out when our stuff ends up in their yard and they have to bring it back. once, they found a doll that they assumed was oours (it wasn't) and she brought it up and stuck it head first in a bucket of water that was on our proch. If that had been my baby's doll, I would have cut a bitch. They suck. He’s a dick and she’s a closet drunk. And one day when they cut through my yard to talk to the assholes, I’m going to shoot them. OK, not really. But I might throw rocks. Or poo. Their dog leaves enough of it. The first thing I will do when I win the powerball is get a big-ass fence around my entire property all the way down into the woods so drunky can’t walk through my yard.

Then there are the people across the street. They are actually nice people – the only ones out of all my neighbors that were kind me when mr b was in the hospital/nursing home/wheelchair. However, they currently have a dog that would love to kill and eat you. And it gets loose all the time. It’s obviously tied up, because it will be running around with a collar and rope still attached. But clearly, whoever is doing the tying is either a) a double hand-amputee, b) Johnny Tremain, c) retarded, or d) subconsciously trying to rid themselves of the beast (understandable). My last encounter with Lord Voldemort involved him chasing me around my tree while I distracted him from my terrified children, protecting myself with the only thing nearby – a garbage can lid – and screaming like a banshee. In the past, I have also warded him off with Mr. Clean, bleach, and a 10-foot tree trimmer. Normally, I’d be stirring up all kinds of shit. But folks? These are the good neighbors.

The Standoff – see, mr b and I are having a standoff in our house right now. Four weeks and four days ago, he made chili to take into the office for the weekly staff meeting (they take turns). Why do I know exactly how long it has been., you ask? That would be because the chili that overflowed onto my nice stove is still on my nice stove. I asked him to clean it up and he said he would. And I didn’t push it because I know it’s a pain (I did the same thing the week before). But then a few days went by. And then a week. I mentioned it to him again. He’ll do it. Another week. Pleaded. He’ll do it. After three weeks, I told him that under no circumstances was I ever going to be cleaning that chili off the stove. Ever!

At this point, his defense was along the lines of “I’m doing the best I can” (no – he’s not – at least when it comes to that chili) and “You know, I have so much work to do in this house” (yes – he does. There’s trim and painting and beams and staining and a million other things. But none of them have even the slightest thing to do with the fact that hot chili all over the stove and didn’t clean it. For three weeks). So now, here we are at almost five weeks and still my stove looks like a frat house stove. I have cleaned the kitchen many times in the interim, scouring everything but the stovetop. I refuse.

Does anyone remember the Everybody Loves Raymond episode with the suitcase*? Please tell me you do. Because this is my life right now. Except not funny. Part of me would love to just clean it and be done, already. But I can not. I am not the maid and I refuse to behave like I am. If he doesn’t care about it, then I will pretend like I don’t either. Like my kids, he has become accustomed to me giving in and doing it myself and I have news, kids – those days are over. And he sure as hell needs to realize that saying you will do something does not count as actually doing it.

*Oh – and speaking of suitcases, we have three in our bedroom that are taking up space, but haven’t been unpacked (his stuff). They’ve been there for months. And he keeps saying “We need to put those suitcases away.” Riiiiight. . .we. I’m getting the cheese.



I could go on and on about the pissed-off-ed-ness, but I realized that I haven’t shared my one tiny bit of good news: I am down 18 pounds! Woo-hoo. Only 53.4 more to go! Woo. . . . bleh.

Letters

Dear jogger,
Contrary to what you clearly believe, briefly interrupting your run in order to comply with basic safety laws will not, in fact, result in your immediate death. Not doing so, however, just might
Love Gina

Dear pedestrians,
While I realize that auto traffic must yield to pedestrians, I feel the need t point out that this law refers to pedestrians already in the crosswalk. This does not mean that it’s a particularly wise idea to fail to look both ways and step into the street, assuming that this law will protect you from speeding traffic like some sort of super shield. Because if you step directly out in front of me and I kill you – sure – I’ll feel bad. Really bad. But you’ll be dead nonetheless. If you see that jogger – let her know.
Love Gina

Dear flag-shirt-wearing jackass driver,
If you put as much though into things like traffic laws and stop signs as you clearly did to the application of those 16 “W” stickers, perhaps you’ll increase your life expectancy. Because if you continue to drive like that, you’ll either die in a fiery crash or some bitch with PMS and a liberal streak will beat you to death.
Love, Gina

Dear parker,
It’s a pull-in space! And you’re driving a Chevette. Are you seriously having that much of a problem?
Love Gina

Dear Boy,
You are waaaaay too young to be turning into your father. Please pick your underwear up off the bathroom floor. If you take up snoring, you’re outta here.
Love Mom

Dear Girl,
If you are going to get out of bed and wander the house in the wee hours of the morning, you really need to let someone know. Because I had a heart attack, died, came back to life and spontaneously combusted this morning when I found you missing from your bed. I’m too old for that.
Love, Mom

Dear mr b,
Just because you don’t hear it, smell it or see it, does not mean that it does not exist. Recall, if you will, that you are deaf, blind and have a seriously fucked up sense of smell. And the next time you resort to the age-old, good old boy, misogynistic, bullshit explanation that “[I;m] crazy”, I will be forced to kill you.
Love, Gina
PS. Smoking is ugly.

Dear Bass Thumper,
The volume and tone of the bass is clearly inversely proportional to intelligence. Since my skeletal system is vibrating, you must be a serious mental midget. If you weren’t so obviously disturbed, I might beat your woofers with a club. You know, if I had money for lawyers and damages. And a club.
Love, Gina

Dear Spider,
Get out!
I hate you,
Gina

Dear Dog,
You have very few jobs in this house. And while, admittedly, you are doing a fine job of “Barking Your Fool Head Off”, you are failing miserably at “Spiders.” Shape up.
Love, Gina

Dear Cat,
See Dog. Also – spring weather is not a license to jackassery. The “Let Me In…Psych!” game is getting old. I’ll let it slide if you get cracking on those spiders!
Love, Mom

Dear Polling place worker,
Seriously? You are seriously that stupid?? Ok, then.
Love, Gina

Dear Litterer,
You are an asshole. But on Earth Day? Super Mega Giant Asshole of Assholery.
Love, Gina

"Stand Up Like a Man!"

Mother’s Day is coming up and in case you’re fretting about what to get mom, I found the answer. Are you ready? OK, then. This year for Mother’s Day, forget the boring flowers and stupid photo frames. Instead, get mom and grandma the ability to pee standing up. That’s right, folks – the P-Mate is in the house!

Now we women – once a fair, clean and considerate gender – can now defile public buildings, parks and alleys with our urine. Just like men!!! Because if there’s anything I had ever hoped for in this life, it was to be more like a man. Next, I’ll be spitting on sidewalks and leaving my underwear on the bathroom floor. I CAN'T WAIT!!!



And speaking of men, here’s what getting ready is like in my house:

Say we have an event to go to – a scout banquet for instance. About four hours before we have to leave (and after getting home from hours of preparation at the hall), I have clothes picked out for myself and the kids.

Next - make sure everyone is fed and ready to start getting themselves prepared.

Clean the tub and get the girl’s bath ready.

Ten minutes later - drain the tub and refill it, since mr b was asked to check the water and somehow he failed to notice that the hose came loose and water was spraying into the un-caulked edge (the one from 9 years ago that is still waiting for attention) and knocking wall-insides debris into the water.

Get the girl bathed and get her set up on the couch, all cozy, and then go rinse out the tub.

Next up – get the boy’s shower going. Coerce the boy into getting his shower. Now. Now. NowNowNOW!

Back to the girl – get her hair combed and dried.

Oh look - a patch I forgot to sew on the boy’s short.

Find needle and matching thread. There’s got to be some matching thread. Does this match? Close enough.

Look at clock. AAAGH – we only have two hours left.

Hear mr b say we have plenty of time.

Laugh knowingly (and bitterly).

Get sewing, hoping that four stitches will holds the patch through the banquet.

The boy’s out of the shower – comb your hair. Comb your hair. COMB! YOUR! HAIR!

Next up – ironing!

Did you both brush your teeth? With toothpaste?

Who left this mess in the bathroom?

Ironing…ironing…ironing…

Alright – time for my shower. Whoever left these clothes in the bathroom better come get them right now and put them where they belong!

Jump in and out of shower.

Look at clock.

Commence panicking.

Slap on makeup.

Barely fix hair.

Get the kids dressed.

Fight with the girl about which shoes to wear.

Fight with the boy about tucking in his shirt.

Oh My God, DID YOU NOT comb your hair when I asked you to????

You clearly DID NOT!

Try to fix the boy’s hair.

Gather purses, bags, cameras, banners, cards and gifts.

Sigh in relief – everyone’s ready.

Except…

30 minutes before it’s time to go, mr b waltzes into the bathroom and finally starts getting ready.

10 minutes before it’s time to go, he’s looking for something to wear.

5 minutes before it’s time to go, he’s changing his clothes. Again.

Time to go. Mr b is now fretting about his hair.

2 minutes late. He’s asking about his clothes again.

4 minutes late – checking the hair one more time.

Finally 10 minutes after we were supposed to leave, he’s ready.

On the way, he turns to look at me, sitting stone-faced in my seat, running late, exhausted form getting three people ready to go, with 2 feet of stuff piled on my lap and says, “What’s wrong with you?”