Frustrated

I am behind at work. Behind in my work load to the nth power. Okay, not that much, but definitely cubed. And that little bit of algebraic expression has taxed my mathematically retarded brain, so no more math stuff. I'm incredibly frustrated with work because I'm so behind, and when I'm out, no one really helps out. The work just piles up. After missing most of March due to other work stuff off-site, me having the flu, my older daughter being sick and both of my children having appointments scheduled at their various places at least once per week, I didn't have the courage to listen to my voice mails. The little red light on my phone keeps blinking ugly, mean blinks at me, but I just couldn't bear to listen. Because I write every message down and then log it elsewhere, and I work with people who will call me three and four times a day if they don't get an answer. No, I don't work with salesmen, though I could certainly see that correlation occurring. And no, I'm still not telling where I work and what I do. I will continue to be vague about that, because this is the www.place and who knows who is out there?

So yesterday I finally got up the courage to listen to my voice mails. I hadn't checked my voicemail since March 4th, and I really only checked it yesterday because someone told me they tried to call and leave me a message and instead got an automated message that said my voicemail was full.

127 voice mails.

Are you fucking kidding me?

And that's what was there. Who knows how many other people got the voicemail full message. So in about 37 days, because I get calls every day of the fucking week, even though I'm only there Monday through Friday, I figure that that's exactly 3.4 voice mails per day. Except it's not working out like that, because I'm down to about 79 at this point, and I'm only to the 17th of March. So, 127 - 79 equals 48 voice mails in 13 days. That's 3.6 voice mails per day.  Actually, this math isn't working out like I thought it would in my head, which really happens a lot. There's real math, and then there's Stephanie math. Stephanie math is fraught with illogical and nonsensical fantastical mathematical formulas that make complete sense when I am explaining them but then don't hold up when it goes on paper. I was thinking that my math above would work out to be about 11.87 voice mails per day in that 13 day period because that's sure as hell what it feels like when I'm listening to that shit.

I've stopped apologizing to people for not calling back for a month. I've learned if I don't offer an apology, then that puts the burden on them to comment on why I took so long to call back. Being that this is the South, I know that that's kind of tacky, and so most people won't ask why in the hell it took me a month to call them back. And if they do, I will sometimes give them a half-ass apology and tell them I've been out and I'm still catching up. Other times I will ignore the question and just move on with my side of the conversation. Customer service is not my forte, as you can probably tell.

So anyway, I've been behind for quite a while at work. I was last caught up at work in January of 2010. Seriously. I'm not kidding. Here's what happened.

January 2010 - Caught up with monthly workload. But uh-oh, I dropped the divorce bomb in the very end of the month.
February 2010 - My-marriage-is-ending-and-it's-all-my-fault guilt and excessive anxiety.
March 2010 - I need to find a house to move into and this motherfucker needs to give me my money from this house that I've spent nine years of paying half the mortgage. Did I mention there was a domestic disturbance call in the latter part of that month? Yeah, that will certainly mess with your productivity.
April 2010 -  House closing stuff, house moving stuff, house settling stuff, need to get the carpets replaced, need to call a contractor, need to get a plumber over here, need to wait for the cable guy. All of those were days off. Plus I took spring break to pack up the rest of my stuff and see exactly how high my level of hate for someone could actually spike.
May 2010 - Yes! Done with all of that moving stuff and now I can catch up! Yay me! Until May 4th, when another co-worker was reassigned to another unit and I had to pick up half of her workload. And her workload was in even worse shape than my workload. A mandatory holiday and furlough day don't help my situation.
June 2010 - They are going to hire someone to take the reassigned co-workers workload. But this is the guv, that will take at least four months.
July 2010 - I spent this month trying to figure out how to squeeze 60 hours worth of work into 40 hours. Worked late and gave the guv some of my time.
August 2010 - Oops, cheerleading starts and I'm coaching. How did that happen? Sorry, can't work late every fucking day anymore.
September 2010 - Oh, thank god, they've finally hired someone to take on this extra fucking workload that.is.killing.me. Oh, shit, the new co-worker doesn't start until October and then won't be done with training until late December. Absolutely no more working late because the children are with me full time again.
October 2010 - This new and untrained co-worker has most of the work dumped on him, although thanks to me most of it is straight. I don't even care if he gets some messed up stuff. Just get it off of me. Oh, and other co-worker goes out on early maternity leave due to life threatening pregnancy situation. Are you kidding me? Get some of her work. I feel sorry for ME. Plus, I did spend a fair amount of time checking my email and in-box from the dating site I joined.
November 2010 - Still laboring under excessive workload. Older daughter gets sick and I miss time for that, plus missing time for mandatory holidays of Veteran's Day and Thanksgiving.
December 2010 - Both children get sick, although not at the same time. Fuck! Mandatory holidays of Christmas and New Years. The holiday season always gives me something to blame. "How can I get all this done I'm off for all of these freaking holidays?" Have to leave early at least once a week for cheerleading practice and a couple of weeknight games.
January 2011 - Pregnant co-worker returns and I'm glad that baby is healthy because I need to get some of this extra work off of me. But I'm so behind I'm not sure where to start. More holidays. I am named employee of the quarter for the last quarter in 2010, except I know how behind I am with my work and feel guilty that I've just managed to bamboozle everyone and not actually earn it.
February 2010 - Gearing up for work-related non-profit stuff that I do. That's non-work at work, sanctioned by work.
March 2010 - Biggest month of the year for the non-profit. Miss a week of work for that, and then immediately get the flu. God, can you blame me? Miss another week of work for that. Thanks for helping me out while I was out for two weeks, co-workers. Not. Additionally, it seems like one of my children has a doctor's-dentists-orthodontist-psychologist appointment per week.
April 2011 - Older daughter gets sick, and I'm trying to wind up the non-profit stuff which is just really holding me up from doing real work for the people who actually pay me. My desk has a two and a half foot tall stack of shit on it, there are papers scattered on the floor and my office smells like ass and I don't know why. Maybe that's the scent of stale anxiety. I'm overrun by work and another co-worker tells me that my boss wants to take some of my easy work away from me (yay!) but I get more complex work in it's place (huh?) so they can give the easy work to someone who could probably do the complex work but she played the cutesy card. I hate myself for being overly competent and having standards for myself far above those outlined on my yearly evaluation.

Plus the work I've brought home on countless nights and weekends only to have it sit on the kitchen table untouched because I can't bear to actually do the work at home, and the fact that I'm on 24-hour call in one week increments every six weeks. Oh, and I've snuck in and worked on some weekends that I don't have the children and work late twice per month, maybe more if I can get my mom to babysit.

Did I mention I'm taking three and half days off next week for spring break next week?

And a quick list of words I am fucking sick and tired of hearing at work:

Training - I will sit for four to six hours in a classroom setting and learn absolutely nothing from someone who is not qualified to do my job. But they know everything.
Meeting - I will sit for one to three hours and discuss shit that will never change.
Task force - A higher level of a meeting, except you get a fancy report at the end of it.
Strategic planning -  I will sit around for two to three days and discuss shit that we'd like to change, but we know it won't.
Reception -  I will stand around for a period of time and eat niblets of food and discuss how we can really work hard to change things.
Evidence based - Some overly educated asshole has found research and statistics on the internet to prove their point. I bet the end result is that I won't do a goddamn thing differently, but I'll pretend to.
Organizational goals - Ummm, how about not sticking it to your really dedicated people so much?
Stakeholders - People who have a vested interest in whatever the project is, but couldn't do my job.
Human capital - Okay, this one is on the way out but it always pissed me off. I am not human money, so don't treat me like I am.
Merit raise - This hasn't happened since 1994, which I missed out on due to a 'little incident' at the place where I was working at the time.
Cost of living raise - Haven't had one of these since 2005-ish, and won't get one any time soon.
Reimbursement - What's that?
Management - Talking heads.

Oh my god, it's only Wednesday. I need to get laid and get some alcohol in me. And soon.

Blah Blah Blah

That's me tonight. Blah blah blah, because writing in my blog will help me to procrastinate better when it comes to paying my bills. This is more fun, anyway. Day two of the TV ban, and I'm not jonesing quite as bad as I was yesterday. Not quite, but almost. Fuck. I am glad my children will be at their father's house this weekend, because I need some mindless Cake Boss in my head. Since I haven't been able to either make it work at all for part of the month (thanks conference, flu, and strep throat) or make it to work on time or work an entire day (thanks orthodontist, dentist, child psychologist, and after school arts program), I had planned on working late tomorrow night to try to make up for some of that time, and besides, Guy #1 has to work tomorrow night, so I might as well be productive at work, too. But now... I'm thinking I am going to come home and lay my ass right on the sofa with remote in hand. Even if I haven't read that much this week, I've written some, and that counts, right?

Mrs. Second Grade Teacher sent extra homework home with the older daughter today, and gave us the whole weekend to get it done. Yay! So now I can send that homework over to her father's house where it won't get done. And we will get to do tons of homework on Sunday night. Really, I need to figure out where this woman lives and go shit on her front porch. Seriously. With copious amounts of liquor this can happen. Actually, I'm such a lightweight these days it would only take a couple of shots. And I would do it naked, too, because liquor makes me take off my clothes. This would go back to why I'm a lightweight, which is because I've learned that I can't just be randomly getting drunk and undressing. And the whole stretch mark thing.

I am also now annoyed with Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher, because I paid money to get a class photo of the younger daughter's class. Pictures came home this week and the older daughter got her class photo, but nothing for the younger daughter. I very nicely wrote a note to Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher and asked her to send the class photo home this evening in the bookbag. I get home, open the bookbag and nothing. No class photo and no return note. Unorganized bitch. As I was writing the note this morning, I wondered if Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher and Mrs. Second Grade Teacher are friends, but decided they can't be lunch buddies because they go to lunch at different times, unless Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher goes down to the Teacher's Lounge to eat lunch during kindergarten resource time, which is probably pretty close to second grade lunch period. The intricacies of being a bitch to one teacher without it rubbing off on her teacher friends is working out to be somewhat complicated. At any rate, if I don't get a class photo after tomorrow, then I will be moving Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher up on my shit list.

My shit list, you might ask? Ahhhh, the ever-evolving shit list. Currently, here are the standings. If I were a math geek and could keep track of all of my shittiest interactions, I would attach some statistics to this, but I took remedial math all the way through college, so there won't be any statistics. Here goes:

1. Mrs. Second Grade Teacher - have you read my blog?
2. The Ex - just general principle on this one.
3. My former neighbors, but not my Other Mother - imagine me singing the word assholes, because that's how I like to describe them. The Ex and the next door husband had hooked up routers and connected to each other's Limewires a few years ago, and so we could see what each other was downloading. The Ex and I were downloading music and concert videos (U2 at Red Rock is THE BEST!) but the husband next door? Porn, porn and more porn. What a freak show. I came to the conclusion that he.does.not.get.any.ass. which I thought was awesome, because if I were that guy's wife, I wouldn't give him any either. I am NONE TOO HAPPY that The Ex has arranged for the children to have a slumber party as their house tomorrow night because he's got some stupid band thing. Way to arrange your life around your children, dickface. I am confident the band thing will end up being gay and at the end of the night, after a successful set list and a bunch of half-drunk forty-something women panting all over The Ex, he and I will both know his dick is still small and he won't take his cholesterol medication. Okay, that even made me laugh.
4. A couple of people at work I don't like who won't quit sending me emails about shit I haven't taken care of. Really, the more you bug me the longer it's going to take me.
5. The elementary school room mothers for both of my daughters - Would you please stop being so fucking chipper. It's grating.
6. YMCA summer camp people - I am still pissed off from last summer. It's a slow burn.
7. Estranged family members - I suppose they wouldn't be on my shit list if they weren't estranged, now would they?
8. Mrs. Kindergarten Teacher - Either I need a class photo pronto or my eleven dollars back. That eleven dollars can buy me 2.3 gallons of gas, dammit. She might still be mad that I pretty much ran her off the road a couple of months ago, but jesus, lady, learn how to merge. It didn't help that my younger daughter was in the backseat frantically waving at her as I saw her out of the corner of my eye white knuckling her steering wheel as she was forced onto the side of the road.

And there we have it. Today's shit list. I wish I could figure out how to do the little up and down arrows beside each one, like they do on the music charts in magazines and such. Maybe I'll make this a weekly thing. Or maybe not. I'll probably forget in a week, or maybe next week I'll do the Not Shit List.

More Updates

The overgrown mutant gerbil I've been dog sitting has gone home. Can I get a hallelujah? It's been a trying week of dog sitting, what with the dog coming over here for the week right after I had the flu and was still trying to put myself back together. No more accidents in the house, and she didn't even use the little potty pads in her pen when she was cooped up during the day, thus proving to the dog's owner that the dog is house broken, but apparently only at my house. What I think I have discovered about that, though, is that yay! The dog didn't shit in the house. Boo! Now I have dog shit in my yard. The disgusting thought that came out of this realization is that if the dog shits in the house, which I obviously did not encourage, is that the shit would get cleaned up and go right into the toilet, thus saving my yard from having dog shit in it. I figured I'm screwed either way, because somewhere on my property there would be dog shit. I swear cats are so much easier. The other benefit to the dog being gone is that when I'm trying to get my swerve on with Guy #1, the dog won't be trying to jump up onto the bed to see what's going on. Animals are horrible about that stuff. Anyone who has ever been goosed on the ass by a cold dog nose whilst doing s.t.u.f.f. can feel me on this.

My older daughter got another year long pass from the orthodontist the other day. I'm relieved, because I sure as hell don't have the money to pay for orthodontics right now. The x-rays were clearer than last years, and we can see that she has all of her top permanent teeth in place, though still in her jaw, as they haven't erupted yet. The bad news is that she is most definitely missing four bottom adult molars, two on each side. This means that she will need to keep her baby molars for her entire life. I don't know of anyone who has kept any of their baby teeth their whole life. The orthodontist says that since there are no teeth under them pushing them out of the way, it shouldn't be a problem. But what if those teeth loosen up somehow and she loses them? Not a prob, says the orthodontist. We can do implants! Holy $$$$$$! I'm thinking when this whole orthodontic thing is over with, however many years down the road that might be, I might see if they can just put caps on those baby molars in some kind of an attempt to save her from implants. That and she'll really have to steer clear of bulimia. The diet that will FUCK YOUR TEETH UP. I've heard that anorexics hold themselves to be above bulimics because they have more self control about dysfunctional eating and diets, and thus have better teeth. That they don't use. Because they don't eat. Whew. Enough of that sidebar. Other than I could probably use a week or two of anorexia myself.

We've got somewhat of a busy weekend coming up. The younger daughter is starting gymnastics class tomorrow. The Famed Richmond Gymnastics Place we were going to couldn't honor their own schedule and I demanded that The Ex get his money back so we could go to the New Upstart Gymnastics Place that is slowing taking away talent and business from the Famed Richmond Gymnastics Place.

When The Ex and I had our older daughter, like all first children, she was magical. Truly the most magnificent baby that ever walked the face of the earth. She was just the best baby ever, other than those long crying jags because I didn't know what in the fuck I was doing with her, but other than that, just the best baby ever. And yeah, I know everyone thinks that, but it was true for me. The best baby ever. When I got pregnant with the younger daughter, I have conflicting visions of the younger daughter being just like the older daughter, but just a smaller version with a different name, and then I worried that my younger daughter would never measure up to this most perfect child I already had. Good grief, was I wrong. I continue to be amazed at my younger daughter, even though I don't mention her as much as the older daughter. She has the magical ability to watch something once or twice and then make it happen. She is one of those strange children who seems to excel at most of what she does with minimal effort. She can out argue me, and her logical skills are that of an adult. I'm no slacker in the logic department, but there have been times when we've had a discussion about something and I'm left, mouth agape, trying to figure out how a five year old just out-thought me. This is going to be the child that gives me HELL when she reaches the teenage years.

So gymnastics for the younger daughter tomorrow. She's never taken gymnastics, but considering that she taught herself how to do cartwheels when she was three gives me comfort that she'll adapt just fine. The older daughter has her Tumbling for Cheer class tomorrow immediately after the younger daughter's class. This is my child who isn't so coordinated, and I am beginning to wonder if I shouldn't just scrap the whole sports thing and just put her in art, because while she doesn't seem to be athletically inclined, she is most certainly artistically inclined. Part of our weekend activities include going over to one of the county high schools to see one of her pieces of artwork that was selected for an art show. Of course, of course, of course that meant that I emailed everyone in the family to come out and see it. I thought I was doing an absolute awesome job of making a big stink out of it, and come to find out, my older daughter is not so impressed with me doing that. She's almost kind of embarrassed, and I'm not sure if it's because she's got some semblance of humility or because she's just getting to that age of girlhood where I am not cool anymore. Whatever. I told her to just suck it up and be the center of attention. I'm pretty sure it won't kill her.

Mrs. Second Grade Teacher did not make me happy yesterday when we spoke on the phone. I am sick of this woman blaming everything that my daughter does wrong on my daughter, and when she told me that my older daughter can't write in complete sentences, I said (and this is no joke) in a rather nasty tone of voice, "Well, then, I guess the real question is if she can't write in complete sentences, what have you been doing all year? Here it is the end of March, and if you're telling me she can't write in complete sentences, then what have you been doing?" So, yeah, that conversation did not go well for either of us. After a highly unproductive phone call, I then placed a call to the Assistant Principal to schedule a meeting with her. It's not like anyone is going to do anything, but at least I can levy my complaints to someone. Haven't heard back yet from the message I left. I came to the conclusion today that my real issue with Mrs. Second Grade Teacher is that with every issue surrounding my daughter, and with every problem I've had with this teacher, what I can't stomach is the fact that I hardly ever hear this woman say anything positive about my child. I hear a whole lot of "She can't... She won't... She doesn't... She is not...." Okay, I am sick and fucking tired of this uninspirational woman. I am sick of her blaming my daughter for what my daughter can't do or doesn't do or won't do and for what I am clearly marking as Mrs. Second Grade Teacher's failures. Quite frankly, I don't know anyone who is going to give their absolute best effort to an asshole. My marriage would be an excellent example of this. And, no, I wasn't the asshole in the marriage. I've come to the conclusion that the problem is not my daughter, and it's not that I've had to push her through second grade, because she knows the material. And she can write in complete sentences, you fat, old bitch. The problem is Mrs. Second Grade Teacher, and I feel sorry for all of the other students she will most likely blame. Nine more weeks and the hell of second grade will be over. I guess I can chalk this year up as a learning experience of how to deal with a really shitty uninspirational teacher. Who won't get a present at the end of the year.

Saturday night the children and I will go to my mother's for them to spend the night. I had planned on watching the VCU game at my mother's with the children, because we've talked about all week and I, for one, am excited. But then my older daughter said she'd rather watch the Kid's Choice Awards, which come on an hour after the VCU game. So... I might just be coming home. Sunday morning - Guy #1. Nuff said. Late Sunday morning into Sunday afternoon, work. At work. I'm still trying to catch up after one wasted week at a conference and the next week out sick with the flu. I haven't gotten permission to actually go to work on Sunday, but fuck it. It'll only make my boss look good that she has such dedicated employees who work on Sundays. I won the office popularity contest, I mean employee of the quarter, in January and now I've got this overwhelming obsession to work my ass off to prove that it wasn't a popularity contest after all.

And after that, Monday. Back to the routine. I'm tired and getting burnt out on school shit. Even though I feel just the teensy bit panicky at the thought of my kids going back to The Ex in early June, I'm also ready for a break. I love my kids with all I've got, but I'm ready to just listen to silence for a few months.

Yay! Cat Puke

My new cat seems to be settling in pretty well. I did not want a new cat. I did not want an old cat. I did not want any animals, even though I promised my older daughter that we would get guinea pigs in a few more months. I promised her that only because I knew the guinea pigs would need to go with her to her father's next summer, and he hates rodent animals. But she didn't know that when I promised it, so it was more like me being the cool mom.

The cat who I just had put down, I got him back in the fall of 1992, when he was about six months old. He was a gorgeous Russian Blue, and if you don't know what that is, look it up because I'm feeling a little anxiety ridden and assholish tonight and don't feel like explaining. I'm pretty sure a good dose of hot sex could fix this, but that's another topic. I got this cat before I realized what a pain in the ass animals are, but by the time I had realized that, I had already committed to him. Until I had my children, he was my child. He slept in the bed with me, listened to all my problems, laid his big fat ass right up on my chest when I was trying to nap on the sofa, hid under a chair and clawed my ankles when I walked by, all the things that cats do. He ignored me periodically, and demanded that I never ignore him.

The day I put him down, I didn't think the vet would do it, because he had refused to put him down four months prior, and I was scared that I was going to have to take this cat back home and watch his quality of life decline even more. He had stopped eating at this point, but I managed to get him to eat cheese popcorn and shrimp once a day or so. Because that's what he loved. Cheese popcorn and shrimp. So I took him to the vet and the vet, bless his heart, didn't even examine him. He just asked, is it time? And I started crying. Yeah, it's time. I had never seen an animal put down before, because when you grow up in the country, you generally say goodbye to your animals when you find them dead in their pen, they get hit by a car or they just go missing, and you know that they went off somewhere to die alone. Putting an animal down was a new experience for me, and it was hard. I kept thinking, this can't be it. This can't be the end of this 18 year relationship. They took him in the back and put in a catheter in his front leg, and then brought him back to me. He was laying all wrapped up in a blanket, and we snuggled for a little while, and I talked to him about all of the things that we had done. Sounds stupid, but he knew. He licked my hand, and I put my finger up next to his paw and he curled his claws around it, like we had always done. I always thought that was his way of holding my hand. The vet comes in and it's time. I kissed my oldest baby one last time and told him that I loved him, and the vet gave him the injection. For that one moment in time, I wanted to say, no, wait! Not yet! Not now! I'm not ready! I need more time! Please! But it was too late. As soon as those thoughts entered my brain, I felt him go limp and I knew he was gone, and I just sobbed. I sat there on that hard ass bench in that vet-smelling examination room with the blinds pulled on the door, and leaned my head up against the wall and sobbed. And I knew I wasn't crying for him, I was crying for me. Because that's what we do when we lose someone. We cry about what we've lost, what we've had, what we won't have again, nothing else. And then they took him, and that was that. I had him cremated, because I just didn't have it in me to bring him home and bury him. I just couldn't do it. I picked up his remains the other day, and started crying all over again. Goddammit, I hate crying.

I came home that day and threw all of his stuff away, and I cried about that, because that was the finality of it, and I didn't plan to get any more animals any time soon. Definitely not a dog, because I am diametrically opposed to dog shit in my yard. Definitely not a cat, well, because I need a break. Definitely not fish because I don't want to have to clean some scuzzy tank, and birds are too loud. I'll take a couple of months off and we'll get these fucking guinea pigs, because that's what Mommy promised. But the guinea pigs are no big deal, because they can stay in their cage, and well, when some hot guy asks me to run off to somewhere fabulous for the weekend when my children aren't here for some fast and furious horizontal action, I can just run the guinea pigs in their cage over to The Ex and then take off for fun times. So we can definitely do guinea pigs.

But then my other mother called. I've mentioned her before, and this would be my former neighbor who is now exclusively the neighbor of The Ex. But she's my other mother. Actually, she reminds me of my grandmother, and that's why I will move heaven and earth for this woman. I have issues with my grandmother dying before I was ready to let her go and without me being able to say goodbye, and really, we never appreciate our grandparents when we're kids. My other mother, she's a lot like my grandmother, so much so that my mother has even commented on it. I can't say no to my other mother, because it's like going back in time and getting that extra bit of love from my grandmother, but I only had to run across the cul-de-sac for it. Like I said before, people come into our lives for a reason. I like to think my grandmother sent her to me, because my grandmother wasn't ready to say goodbye to me, either. Actually, my grandmother is with me every day, because I named my younger daughter after her. But in spirit, my grandmother and my other mother are pretty much the same person. So this is my chance, maybe my only chance, to do for my grandmother what her cancer robbed me of.

She wanted me to take her cat, because she's selling her house and moving back to West Virginia. Which I'll also have issues with, but it's cool, because we can skype. I'm a little sketchy on the whole heaven thing, largely because I'm very sketchy on the whole religion thing, but if there's a heaven, I wish we could skype up there. Anyway, she's got this cat, and she wants me to take it. I can't say no to this woman. I can't, I won't, end of story. The cat came to live with us on Sunday, and the older daughter is okay with it, even though I made sure she understands that we won't be getting guinea pigs after all. Because this is her other grandmother, and she can't say no to this woman, either. We wake up this morning, the cat is yowling a good morning to us, the day gets started and then we see it. Cat puke. Right next to the front door.

Great. Here we go again.

Not Feeling So Hot

I think I'm coming down with something. I had a couple of bouts of dizziness the other day, my neck is starting to get stiff and sore (which always makes me think I'm dying from meningitis), I'm cold at night, tired, my throat is feeling like maybe it will hurt tomorrow and maybe it won't. I think the stress of the past two weeks has gotten to me, that and I'm not getting enough sleep.

I'm annoyed that we might have to do cheerleading in the rain tomorrow. I asked the cheer director yesterday about how the inclement weather policy works in regards to notifications, and she said that basically there is no inclement weather policy, that football games are played in the rain. Okay, I know the pros do that and shit, but that's what they get paid for. Me, coaching in the rain? I don't think so. My daughters, cheering in the rain? I don't think so. But since I'm a coach, I can't just blow the whole thing off because it's raining, and I can't show up without my children. This just boils down to this sucks ass. I would hate to end up dying from consumption or something because I was standing out in the rain yelling cheers. Even more than that, my hair would look like shit and my feet would be wet. My feet can only get wet in the shower or pool, and my hair can never look like shit. My body and soul begin a long, slow, painful shutdown process if either happens. And let's not even get into what happens if my makeup runs. My saving grace will be thunder and/or lightening.

I need to get my oil changed, which means that either tomorrow morning or Sunday morning, I'll need to have my ass in Merchant's at seven o'clock to make that happen, unless I want to hang around for about three hours waiting. Not thrilled about that, unless the manager who usually flirts with me is there and is extra quick with my car. I also need to get my windshield replaced, because all of this running up and down 288 and 95 has finally caught up with me. The fourth chip in the windshield is what did it. I now have a nice long crack in that bad boy. I'm just not even pressed, even though I know I should be.

Cheerleading pictures on Sunday afternoon, unless there is rain, and then they'll cancel that. Pray for rain. Pray for rain. Pray for rain. Mommy needs a long day in the bed. Next week is going to be long and hard, mainly because I've got to drive to Northern Virginia on Wednesday and be there by 8:30, then stay til 4:30, and come rushing home for a football game at 6:30. I'm pretty sure I'll be late for everything that day. I hate driving in Northern Virginia. Actually, I don't think hate is a strong enough word. Really, if I wanted to deal with that kind of traffic and asshole drivers, I would just go to Henrico, which I have affectionately (or not) begun to call NoVa on the James. I think it has a catchy ring to it. My friends who live in Henrico aren't amused, but fuck it, they also don't have their porch railing duct taped together. Oh, and did I mention that Wednesday is my birthday? Between driving to Northern Virginia, sitting through a training session, driving back to the RVA, rushing to a football game, rushing home for homework and to make lunches, I'm pretty sure I won't be getting laid. In fact, I'm positive I won't be getting laid. Happy birthday to me. But, since I'm a glass-half-full kind of gal, I'll enjoy that this birthday is not full of The Ex, and it's not going to be full of me having to explain to him that not having sex with him is the only gift I really want.

And... I might be getting a new cat this weekend. Yes, I just put my other cat down, and yes, I had him cremated and just picked up his remains the other day. He's sitting on top of the refrigerator right now, because before he got old and could still jump, he liked to lay on top of the refrigerator. So that's where I put him for the time being, although I'm thinking about moving him to an empty shoebox in the back of the closet, because he liked that more than the top of the refrigerator. The children don't know he's home yet, but they know I got him cremated. My father was cremated, and I had to explain the whole concept to them when he died, which is hard to explain to a five year old. But I explain shit like that to my children, because children can handle more than we think they can. That, and I just think that children shouldn't wonder about stuff. Either I'll tell them and clear all the questions up, or they'll grow up having issues like the issues I have with my mother not letting me say goodbye to my grandmother when she was dying when I was in sixth grade. But about explaining difficult concepts to children, you just have to break it down in simplistic terms. Every now and then, the children discuss the big fire that burned Grandpa's body up, and that his ashes are at the house with Mothbrain. I don't know where in the house Mothbrain put them, because I never asked. I suggested she stick him in the garage or in front of the TV, because those were his two favorite places, but I don't know if she actually did it or not. I think if we cremate people, we should have enough respect to put them where they would most like to be if they don't specify where they want to be. Hence, my cat is on top of the refrigerator until I move him to the closet.

The new cat is my former neighbor's cat, and this woman is like my other mother. In fact, that's what I call her. She's selling her house and moving back to West Virginia, but wants the cat to stay here. So sometime this weekend, I'll be bringing home a lovable Siamese cat who has been fixed and declawed. This cat is also one of the loudest cats I've ever encountered, but Siamese cats are like that. I think she'll fit in fine with us, because my children and I are three of the loudest people I know. It's a little strange, because I had gotten used to the idea of not having any pets, and I was actually enjoying not having any pets. I already have two little cockblockers running around the house, and that's really enough for me. But my other mother, she knows I can't say no to her. I can't and even if I could, I wouldn't. Welcome to the family, Gel. We'll all be loud together.

Suburbia

I am so goddamn tired of these drunk ass rednecks on the other side of my backyard privacy fence with their mosquito torches I don't know what to do. If I can hear your entire conversation through my yard and your yard, and if it's bothering my loud ass, then you are definitely being too fucking loud. I hope the people who live next door to them are as equally, if not more, annoyed than I am. I figure if I stand on the railing of my deck, and launch a couple of beer bottles over there, I could nail one of them. It might take me a couple of warm up throws, but I've got a pretty good arm. I know this because in another life, I would ride around in the back of pickup trucks and launch beer bottles at road signs and stuff. And then, in yet another life, when the RMA used tokens and kept the gates up on the toll booths late at night, I used to play a dangerous little game of seeing how fast I could speed through a toll and still hit the basket with the token. My personal best was about 37 miles per hour. Yeah, bitches. I guess all that combined makes me a redneck, too, though I'm not quite to the level of redneck that these neighbors are.

My neighborhood is a little more blue collar than white collar, and I like that. My last neighborhood was a little more white collar than blue collar, and I didn't like that. Those neighbors were upwardly mobile, always talking about this was their 2500 square foot "starter" house, and they would only be there for x amount of time before they moved over to such-and-such neighborhood. It was all about keeping up. I hated that about that neighborhood, and I hated that if you didn't play that game, then something wasn't right with you. I got to a point when I actually thought about becoming downwardly mobile, because I don't want to chase money and things. Yeah, I want to have clean clothes and a roof over my head and food to eat, but I don't want to be that person who sits around and talks about spending $200 on a pair of jeans, or how much this cost or how much that cost. I'll discuss my daycare costs, because I feel a solemn duty to warn other people thinking about having children, but that's about all I'll discuss financially. I figure if all someone has to discuss is money and what they have, then that's not someone I really want to associate myself with, because to me, you've sold out and you've become a boastful asshole. I guess my downward mobility occurred when I bought my house in this neighborhood. But it's cool, because the houses are smaller and little bit less kept up, and no one here has an irrigation system, but no one here sits around and talks about how much money they just spent at the fancy outdoor mall last weekend. I haven't even met any of my neighbors, other than those jackasses through the backyard privacy fence.

I worry about raising my kids in suburbia. I worry about materialism, and shallowness, and just a general and overall lack of character that most people I seem to meet in suburbia seem to have, those people who I really think get their weekly injection of character at church every week, which really isn't character, it's someone else telling you how to behave, or you shall burn in hell! Not the same thing. But at the same time, I couldn't live in the country, and that's because I hated it growing up. What I specifically hated about it was that we had to drive for at least 20 minutes to get to anywhere, we had to go to the dump, there was no cable service on my road, spotty TV reception (when that shit still floated through the air), and I was far enough out that I couldn't catch a ride with anyone except one girl whose dad looked like he might have been in ZZTop, but I actually think he might have been a retired biker. I plotted my escape for ten years, and came up with my standards for living. I need, and not in any particular order, cable TV, trash service, because going to the dump is fucking nasty and disgusting, and to be able to get to a grocery store in less than ten minutes. I also refused to live in any house with a wood stove, because I will never lift another stick of wood to burn in the my entire life. I might cut some trees down, but I'll be damned if I will ever haul wood to burn in my own house again.

I don't think those are outrageous standards, and now that I have children, I really wouldn't want them attending some rural-ass single A school anyway. I am a product of a rural-ass single A school, and if the education had been worth a damn, I might be a different person now. I'm good with who I am, but I always wonder, what if I actually had an education like the ones my children will get? Hell, what if I had parents like my children have? Anyway, I am stuck in suburbia, because moving out further is not an educational option, it's not a commuting option, and moving in closer is not an option because then I'd have the public schools of the city. No freaking way. Ever. And there's no off the street parking, and we all know I can't parallel park. My parallel parking is me pulling up to a spot that you could probably fit a tour bus into, and making about 47 rotations of back and forth cranking the wheel as hard to the right and left as I can. It's horrible. And embarrassing. Thank god for that show Parking Wars, because at least now I know what end of my car is supposed to be next to my meter.

But I worry about my children, and who they will grow up to be. I don't want to raise shallow, self-absorbed, materialistic shitheads. I mean, I know all teenagers go through that, but I don't want them to be like that when they're actually grown up. I want them to be happy with who they are, be happy with what they've got, be satisfied to not make so much money per year, because money can't make you happy. If it makes you happy, I feel sorry for you. I don't want to raise children who will never be able to look at anyone else with empathy and concern, who will only be able to take, take, take. That's hard to do in suburbia, because there's this constant battle of so-and-so has this, and why can't I have it? Well, because a seven year old doesn't need a fucking laptop is why you can't have it. Because a seven year old who has a laptop and a TV and a DVD player and an x-box in their room, well, that's a seven year who has parents that probably can't be bothered with actual parenting and spending time with their children. But that's a hard concept to explain to my children, because they only see what they don't have, and Mommy doesn't know how to tell them that they don't have that shit because it's more interesting to me to see my children grow and learn and try to see the world through their eyes, than to pack them off to their rooms because it's more fun for me to sit in front of the TV and drink.

I don't even know how I got on this topic, because my intention was to write about the card game of divorce that The Ex and I have been playing. I feel like it's more of a chess match, but I don't know how to play chess, and therefore, can't make the right analogies. Maybe I'll do that next.

I Can Do This

I've survived almost two full weeks of the children being back in school, and I think I've got this thing down to a science. Thank god I'm one organized bitch, because otherwise all three of us would be total train wrecks. I realized last week that I needed to start doing dinner menus, because I can't cook, so that really narrows down what we'll be having for dinner. Add cheerleading practice and other school functions into it, and good grief, that narrows it down even more. But the children are not overly picky eaters, so that expands it back out a little bit. Maybe.

I ran out this past Sunday and bought a paper, and came home and clipped coupons, because I need to make sure that we're not eating out every night. Not because I wouldn't like to do that, but that adds up very quickly, in dollars and pounds. So I came up with two weeks worth of menus (and figured out all the nights we have activities and when they'll be with The Ex), picked out my coupons that I needed, checked to see what I already had and went grocery shopping for one week's worth of food, because I know I'll run out of other stuff in that week and will still need to go out next week. Kroger, baby, because if you time the coupons right with the Kroger card, you can knock a fair amount off of your total amount of money spent. The older daughter generally likes to buy her lunch at school, so that saves a little bit of time and money, and I'm hoping that once the kindergartners can start buying lunch, I'll be able to save even more time and money with that.

I think almost every cabinet in my kitchen has something taped to it. That's how I keep shit straight, put it right where it's literally in my face every day and then hopefully, I won't forget and won't accidentally teach myself how to visually tune it out. One cabinet has the children's resource schedule, so I'll know who needs to wear sneakers for gym on what day, who needs to take a library book back, and when to expect clothes to get trashed from art. Also on that cabinet is the school lunch menu, and I've surpassed my organization on that whole thing this year. I send money for school lunches in to the school in twenty dollar increments, and I've begun to keep track of who buys lunches on what days by circling the date for the older daughter, and x'ing the date for the younger daughter (who hasn't bought any lunches yet). This way I'll know exactly when to send more money in for what child, and I won't wonder if either the child is buying $5.00 worth of food every day or if the school is screwing me. On another cabinet is the statement from the gymnastics place telling me what my credit is with them and how long it's good for. I got a credit when the older daughter broke her arm at the beginning of  the summer and couldn't finish her gymnastics program. I'll be using that credit towards a holiday camp, so I can save some money on childcare when school is out. On another cabinet is the football and cheerleading schedule, and another cabinet is the most recent birthday invitation. Hanging on the side of a cabinet is the school calendar with all the age-applicable school events highlighted, and stuck to yet another cabinet is a list of the shit I volunteered to do for the PTA, so I know that if they call and tell me I volunteered for something, I can check to make sure I really did volunteer for it. Oh, and an update? The special education committee at school wants ME. So take that, you hateful regular education teachers who have no desire to have someone come in periodically and quietly work their ass for you.

Tonight I sat down and filled out a scholastic book order and got about $30.00 worth of books for $4.00, so kiss my ass, big-box book seller who is looking for a buyer. That had to go in it's own envelope with all of the information on the outside of said envelope. I filled out a spirit wear form, because they don't sell spirit wear all year. Older daughter gets a new sweatshirt and younger daughter gets a new t-shirt. Mommy gets a car magnet for the refrigerator because I hate car magnets on cars. That has to go in it's own envelope, too. Completed the order form for the younger daughter's weekly reader and sent the check with that. Yep, another envelope. Filled out the optional school counseling/small group permission slips for both children to do small groups with the school counselor on divorced families. Yet another envelope. 

I sorted through my bills that I paid at work the other day, because bill paying at home might cut into my craigslist time, packed lunches, drank copious amounts of sweet tea, thought about watering the lawn - but didn't because we're on mandatory water restriction and I don't know if these neighbors will snitch me out or not, managed to troll around on craigslist, cleaned the kitchen, sorted through my cheerleading stuff and other stuff that was so trivial I don't even remember doing it.

I can totally do this single parent thing, because I've realized in the last two weeks that what I don't have is someone running behind me messing up my fabulous organization. Some people in life, they're kind of like Pig Pen from the Snoopy comic. These people just go through life with this big cloud of stuff around them. Pig Pen had this big cloud of dirt around him, and I've met people who walk around in clouds of drama, clouds of ignorance, clouds of disorganization. It's not something you can see right off, but over time it becomes more and more apparent. I always think of Pig Pen when I realize someone has a cloud of something they carry around with them. My cloud would be organization, and The Ex's cloud? Well, that would be running behind me, having to put his hands in every little thing I did, and usually changing something without telling me, doing something because his way was better, generally just fucking up my program altogether. The absolute worst part was the arguing about everything. Every last fucking thing was an argument, or some lengthy lecture that was always delivered in a very condescending tone while he paced back and forth in front of me, like I was some errant child. I usually ended up walking away feeling so angry and frustrated, because even before I knew it-knew it, I knew something wasn't right, and that if misery had a name, it was Stephanie. The Ex is one of those people who has to be in charge of everything. It didn't matter if he didn't know what he was doing, it didn't matter that there might be another way. As long as he was in charge, and making me feel like shit, all was well in his world.  During the ugly few months of the separation before I moved out, he told me one night that he treated me as badly as he did because I treated him badly first. Huh? Are you kidding me? Way to try to shift the blame off on someone else.

Not arguing is wonderful. It's peaceful. I really like it. And it makes me a better person, a better mom, and I feel like I am finally able to start making things right with the children. Being a single parent is nowhere near as hard as being married to an asshole, and that feels really good.

Cheerleading Again

I have come to the realization that this whole cheerleading thing is going to totally screw up my free weekends until the football season is over. I first came to that realization on Thursday night, when the The Ex called. He had volunteered to run the concession stand for this horribly managed and organized youth association. I can't fault him for that, because he's done food service for most of his career and I know that what he will bring to the concession stand will probably be much better than what they've had before. He will probably also bring his asshole personality, but that's cool, because I won't be at the concession stand. So he calls on Thursday night, right as I'm trying to run back and forth between watering my topsoil in the pitch black during Big Brother commercials and then run back inside to watch Big Brother. He tells me that he has to be at the concession stand at 7:30 on Saturday morning (this morning) and he'll need to drop the kids off at my house around 7:00 am, or otherwise the children will have to be at the football field with him fully outfitted with nothing to do for an hour and a half.

I was silent for a moment when I heard this, and I thought to myself, I'm getting fucked here. I wanted to tell him, "Nope, you're going to have to make other arrangements, because at precisely 7:14:58 am, I plan on being in an exceptionally compromising position and the children can't come over. Sorry."  I really, really, really wanted to say this. But then, the children would get screwed. And for real, I didn't have any plans of that type, but it would be fun to say that to him, especially since that's all he thinks I'm doing anyway. I decided not to be a complete asshole and insist he make other arrangements, because for once, this isn't about me enforcing boundaries. This is about my children not being stuck at some football field for the entire morning in full cheerleading gear, which would mean they would have had to have gotten up at about 5:30 in the morning and their hair would still look fucked up because he can't do hair.

I told him to bring the children over at 7:00, I'll have their uniforms and I'll just get them ready and bring them to the field at the appointed time that I have to show up for my coaching bit. And then we had a pleasant conversation that consisted of cursing the organization of this freaking youth association. I actually think this might be the first conversation we've had since that night I told him I wanted a divorce that we've been unified in flinging blame and curses at someone other than each other. It was a strangely mature turn of events for me, almost like he and I might have rounded a corner on this whole separation and divorce thing. I kind of like being an immature bitch a little bit better, but being mature is what is making me a better person. Maybe. I'm still a little sketchy on that.

The children arrived this morning bright and early at 7:00am, and Mommy got everything squared away. Uniforms on, lollies on, hair bows in, teeth brushed, tennis shoes that have the weird interchangeable colored things all set. We were still ten minutes late getting there, because Mommy also had to get herself ready. I shall arrive at the football field in full MILF mode, and that's what this morning is really all about, because you just never know. The men's size small coaching staff shirt that was flung at me last week as an after thought looks okay tucked in, and totally detracts from the design standpoint of "this was designed for a man with broad shoulders and a beer gut, not a mom with a narrowing waist and nice rack".  I also took some satisfaction in knowing that I was the smallest coach out there, at least on the cheerleading end of things. Yay for the I-love-getting-divorced diet! It usually only works for one person in the divorce, and that would be me.

The first game was set to begin at 9:00, go for an hour, and then each game after that starts immediately. At least, that's how it's supposed to happen in theory. In actuality, it didn't happen like that, because this is football. I don't watch football, and I don't know a whole lot about football. I'll start to watch football and other professional sports when they start playing naked, as a sidebar. The younger daughter does her cheering bit at 9:00, and then the older daughter does her bit at the next game. So, again, theoretically, I should be rolling out of there around 11:00. Did I mention this is football and it doesn't work like that? The older daughter didn't finish her bit until 11:30, and by then The Ex and I had worked out that he would probably be at the concession stand for at least two more hours (since there were two more games left), and then he would have to clean out the concession stand, load the trailer, take all that shit to the storage shed at our elementary school and could then pick up the children at my house. He gave me the option of leaving the girls at the football game with him, and they could just run around with absolutely nothing to do. At this point, it was getting kind of hot and I was like, no, I'll take them home with me. The truth to the matter is that I am pretty sure if I had left the children there with him, they would have ended the day with dirty tennis shoes, at least one ripped uniform and probably two or more hair bows missing. So for safekeeping of the uniforms only, I brought the children home with me.

My plan was that I would be napping right now. Alone in my house. Instead, I'm watching the younger daughter drop goldfish into her fuzzy boots and then smash them with her foot, and watching the older daughter lay on the sofa watching TV. I had flights of fancy that I would do some serious blogging today, take at least one serious nap, do the laundry and clean the house, give my topsoil some extra love to make up for the last three nights of watering in the dark, and then blog a little more. Tomorrow morning I was going to go to work for a few hours and do a little catch up work, because I'm super behind, come home and take a nap and basically lay around and do nothing while I focus on re-energizing for the next week. If you've seen what my schedule is like (a few posts previous), you'll know why that re-energizing is necessary. But it's not working like that. I'm so behind on my fantasy schedule I think I'll have to cut out going to work tomorrow, which is annoying to me because I had categorized the shit I had planned to do tomorrow on my desk before I left work on Friday. I suppose this is all right, because all uniforms are accounted for, none with rips or tears in them, hair bows are in good working order and I think I have both sets of tennis shoes. I don't know where the fucking lollies are, but I've got a week to find those.

Oh, and our football team got completely routed for both games that we were there for. It was so bad that when I was walking back from the concession stand during a what-to-do-with-the-children conference that two older men, who both appeared to be about 70-ish and thus probably grandfathers, called me over to ask if we could just send the cheerleaders out there to play the game and maybe they could score a touchdown or something. I was like, HELL YEAH! We got some Grandpas in the house talking mad shit! Because really, that's what football is all about, right?

Random Wikiness #2

Immortal DNA strand hypothesis. I've scanned the article twice, because it was too boring and scientific for me to actually read, and I still have no clue. And I don't care. Articles related to science and math are on my shit list. I cheated my way through all of my high school math and chemistry classes. This was fairly easy because my math teachers were pretty burnt out and my chemistry teacher, well, she had been around long enough that she taught my mom science 20 some years prior in the local segregationist academy. I feel okay discussing this because I've never heard of a high school revoking your high school diploma for publicly saying you cheated (because that's a lot of diplomas to revoke and ultimately a reflection on the school system) and some colleges will. Even if my high school revoked my high school diploma, well, fuck them, it was a shitty education anyways and I've got a bachelor's degree that I really did not work hard for. I minored in library avoidance techniques. I guess my collegiate Alma mater will at this point remain unidentified since I just kind of bad mouthed them and they've got the Cap City locked down tight on bad mouthing.

What I do know about a topic not really related to immortal DNA strand hypothesis is that modern science and technology are really messing up the laws of natural selection. I could be totally wrong here, since I didn't pay much attention in science, but I think one of those tenants is that the strong survive and the weak do not. Over a period of time, like hundreds and thousands of years of evolution (because I don't believe in creationism) those weak genes are supposedly bred out of the human race. Like I said, feel free to correct me because if this isn't correct, it certainly feels like it is in my brain.

A prime example of this would be all of the media drama every summer over how hot it gets and please check on your elderly neighbors and those people without air conditioning, cooling stations are being opened, blah blah blah. Okay, what happened one hundred or more years ago is that it got hot.  And people died from it. In the winter, it got cold and people froze to death from it. There were no cooling stations, no warming shelters, none of this. My high school didn't even have air conditioning, except for one wing with about six classrooms in it. We sat our asses in class and sweated. We went to gym class and sweated. We ate lunch in a stinky ass cafeteria and sweated. My friends and I always wondered what the equation of students in attendance to students in attendance who puked from the heat had to be before they closed the school.

Better living through chemistry, through science, through whatever. What is really happening here is that people are living longer and it's going to fuck up my Social Security. I didn't realize how the Social Security system worked until my father died. I mean, I had this notion that I worked for most of my adult life, the guv took my money without my consent, saved it for me because I'm too irresponsible to do that for myself, and then when I retire, they dole my shit back out to me until I die. I'm kind of okay with that, except I think I should be able to receive dividends yearly on what you're saving for me, or is that called my tax refund? I don't know. But this is how The System works. Let's just call it what it is, which is The System of Social Welfare. My father worked his entire adult life, minus a couple of years he took off and lived off of his savings, died three weeks after his cancer diagnosis, and his wife, Mothbrain (of the drawable System age), who had also worked intermittently throughout her life, had to decide if she wanted to receive my father's System payments or her own. She couldn't have both because that's not how The System works. If she chose my father's, then his other survivors couldn't claim them (which I wouldn't have because he didn't want to give me shit when he was alive, so I wouldn't take shit when he was dead, other than a few trinkets she thought would be special to me, but that's another story). So she picked his, because his System payments would be higher than hers. I can't fault her for that, especially because she had become accustomed to a certain standard of living. But she will never receive her System payments because they are now being doled out to someone who either isn't working because of a legitimate disability, or someone has never worked a day in their life because they suffer from learned helplessness or just sheer laziness, and there is a difference between learned helplessness and laziness. Trust me on this.

I don't even know where I'm going with this. I know that there are lots of assholes out there robbing us of our fucking money because they don't want to work. I know they are robbing people who are legitimately disabled of receiving more than $500 per month, which you can't fucking live on. I know at the same time that many of these people would not be alive if it were not for modern medicine/science/technology, bullshit, etc. It's this really strange and socially acceptable, yet government mandated, System that we have come to rely upon, but it's not working. Too many people are being failed, because either they do not have what they need, or their gene pool is not thinning down, which is screwing up future generations. It's some strange spiraling cyclical conundrum that we can't get out of, and nothing is improving. I'm not trying to turn this into some political blog because I don't really care enough about politics to make a fuss, because those jackasses are going to do what they want to do regardless.

Did I mention my high school didn't have air conditioning?

Cheerleading

I'm really exhausted right now and I'd love to go to bed, but cheerleading practice went late and then when we got home at 8:30, my younger daughter told me her bathing suit was dirty. So Mommy needs to wash it. The children's summer camps were combined for this week - indoor and outdoor mixed all together, and my younger, being that she's been in the indoor camp, doesn't understand how to change into her bathing suit in an outdoor changing hut with a dirt floor without rubbing the bathing suit in said dirt. And the other bathing suit? Giant skid mark in it. Because I teach my children how to wipe their asses really well, apparently.

Cheerleading practice. Not for me. This was the girls' choice for their fall activity, which will also be their winter and spring activity. For $180 each, it needs to last through the whole fucking school year is what I think. We've done fall soccer, winter indoor soccer, spring soccer, ice skating lessons, swim lessons every summer, gymnastics and karate. These children should be the most well rounded athletes who are still in their single digit years ever. I bitch about it, but for real, I'm incredibly grateful that we live somewhere where my daughters have so many choices, and I'm even more grateful that The Ex and I have been able to provide this to them, in terms of the financial and emotional commitment. The emotional commitment would be because either he or I have volunteered to coach almost every freaking thing they've done. Plus the volunteer work I've done for the school and the PTA. And the non-profit board I'm on. Plus my career. Holy crap.

This year I have volunteered to coach the flag cheerleading team. Named so not because they are using flags, but because it's five and six year olds, and the football team for that age group (I assume, I haven't seen the practice because I'm so busy trying to get five and six year old girls to stop wiggling at the wrong times) is a flag football team. On the first night of practice, I had absolutely no intention of volunteering for squat, except to watch the practices from my brand new folding-packable chair. On the first night of practice that I had no intention of volunteering for, I heard the call for coaches and still resisted. That was, until my older daughter said, "Mommy, will you volunteer?" I thought, fuck. Why does she always want me to volunteer? And so, I volunteered.

If you know me, you know I'm not some do-good liberal freakshow. I'm working on not being the martyr and learning how to just tell people to kiss my pretty ass with the crazy tattoo on top of it. I really just want to sit around and watch my kids do shit while I think of weird stuff and laugh to myself. But my kids think it's great that Mommy volunteers, and so I volunteer. A lot of this has to do with the fact that my own parents were so uninvolved and unconcerned with my childhood and teenage years, other than to punish me. I couldn't drag my mom to anything involving my school and I don't recall if she ever met any of my teachers in middle school or high school. Her payback for that was me giving her the honor of meeting the entire school board in person right before they suspended me for six weeks. I was always one of those kids whose parents were conspicuously absent, or maybe not, but that's how it felt with the group of kids that I ran with. My mother's current husband (#3) has gotten a pretty good glimpse into her parenting skills and announces periodically that it's amazing to him that I'm even alive. I kind of have to agree with him. It is a fucking miracle that I am not only alive, but a productive, tax-paying, law-abiding and sober member of society. I'm pretty damn proud of myself. My father... could not have cared less about me, or at least, that's how it feels now. As long as he didn't have to give up more than two weekends a month and didn't have to pay extra child support, he didn't give a rat's ass. So I'm pretty proud of myself that I was as awesome of a daughter to him that I was. Eulogy, obituary and all.

I was moderately involved in activities and such in high school, because it was the best way to get out of being at home without getting into trouble. But I never did cheerleading. I'm not going to get into the psycho-social-racial makeup of where I grew up, but cheerleading was never an interest to me. I didn't even watch the cheerleaders at any of the sporting events I went to because I thought the whole thing was pretty dumb. This has not been lost on me now that I'm coaching this shit. Me coaching cheerleading is like asking Helen Keller to teach a paint-by-numbers class. Yeah, it's that bad. Thank God, I've got a 15 year old who is the assistant coach and she knows all of these routines and cheers, because it's a learn-as-you-go kind of thing with me.

The worst thing is that the cheerleading side of the athletic association is that it's really poorly organized. And when I say poorly organized, I mean like, it's as poorly organized as a small African or Asian country that suffers from a military coup every few years and allows the media in to take photos of all the eight year olds running around with AK's. Take race and corruption of the athletic association equation, and it's like New Orleans post-Katrina. Seriously. This wouldn't bother me if I was unorganized. But I'm a Type A personality, if there is any such thing. I would more or less categorize myself as an alpha female. And the woman running the show - not an alpha female. Which makes me want to kick her ass for being alive. Tonight uniforms were distributed. Can you say circle jerk? In fact, because I'm such a fabulous wordsmith, I'll up the ante. It was a uniform bukkake. Yep, I went there. Literally, the woman running the show was in the middle of all of these parents, throwing uniform parts and pieces about. I wanted to die. I wanted to grab the clipboard from her hands, bash her in the head with it, punch a couple of parents to serve as the examples of what can really happen when my anger management techniques go awry, and then line the rest of them up like convicts going to the chow hall for fried chicken night. Except there is no more fried chicken in the state prisons in Virginia because it caused too many problems. But I'm old school, so I could pretend. And then the uniforms would be issued out with military-like precision and if something doesn't work for your child, well then, it will be addressed in an orderly fashion.

But that's not the way the world works, because I don't run the world. And that's not the way the cheerleading team works, because I don't run the cheerleading team. I am a coach. I am learning how to lower my expectations with some people because they aren't me. I'm beginning to realize that it's not fair to them for me to go through life thinking that they are just like me. Maybe this incredibly disorganized mess is the absolute best that this woman can do. Maybe this is her A game. I'm trying to learn this and learn how not to feel superior, because I don't want to be that asshole anymore. I hope I left her at the house with The Ex. As for volunteering, I'll keep doing it for my kids. They enjoy it, they know that Mommy is super-involved in everything they do and takes an interest in everything they do. Maybe I'm just overcompensating for my childhood, but don't we all do that to some degree? I hope they grow up and laugh about all the crazy shit their mom did when they were little. And that will make it all worth my while.

Pickup Trucks

When I was little, we lived in Chesterfield. After my parents got divorced and my mom remarried, we moved to Prince Edward County. I was going into the 4th grade, and I felt like I had just left the planet Earth and traveled to some far away planet where there was nothing. Everything was different in Prince Edward. The people, the personalities, the county, the schools. My mom remarried a guy she had gone to high school with, and he was a state trooper. He never really got over the fact that it was a package deal. Buy one, get her daughter, too. If I don't ever get remarried, it will probably be because of my baggage and scars from my mom's first remarriage.

We lived out in the country, as most people in Prince Edward do. My mom got divorced from him over 15 years ago and moved away, and now I have no reason to go back. No family, and I hated the stepfather and his inbred ass family so much that I never really made any lasting connections with them, other than to visit the local cemetary at the family Methodist church to try to figure out exactly where all of their inbred asses would eventually be planted. So no reason to go back. I roll back through periodically, every few years, just to see where I grew up and to see what's changed, what hasn't, and what probably never will change. I suspect that there are a few pockets of developed little country-suburbia neighbhoods out there now, but there was nothing but country back then. It was so country, yeah, like how country was it? It was so country that when we first moved, you only had to dial the last four numbers on the rotary phone to talk to someone if they were in the same first three digit exchange as you.

We had a pickup truck, and on Saturdays and Sundays when the weather was nice, we'd go riding around the county visiting and doing nothing. We'd pick up step-cousins and nieces and nephews and other kids along the way, to deliver here or there, and eventually there would be about six or seven kids piled in the back of an open pickup truck with a cooler full of Coors and maybe a few Milwaukee's Best that had been discovered in the old 1960's refrigerator down in our basement. This was back in the day before Coors Light hit Virginia, so it was just Coors in the yella cans. It's not yellow in the country, it's yella. As for the MB, those would be the beers that would get hot and cold and hot and cold because that fridge only worked sometimes, and that would be the beer that would get thrown in the cooler that you'd pawn off on one of the dumbass alcoholic neighbors when you pulled up in the yard to drop a kid off, pick another kid up and discuss who had just taken the pole position in the Martinsville race and who got arrested the night before at the local bar.

So we'd be rolling down 460 through the county, wind whipping everyone's hair into their faces and every now and then an arm would snake through the back sliding glass window of the truck cab, dropping an empty beer can in the bed of the truck, and motioning the kid closest to the cooler to reach in the cooler and pass a fresh one through. Sometimes it was my mom and stepdad in the truck, and sometimes I was with some other distantly related person, because everyone at that point was very distantly related in some kind of inbred Ozarks way. If the race wasn't blasting through the push button radio, then it would inevitably be some old ass country music, Kenny Rogers before his face got melted into his skull, Hank Williams, George Strait, Conway Twitty, Loretta Lynn, the like.

The six or seven kids in the back of the truck would ride along in harmony and middle school trash talking, impressing the younger kids, and then the scheming would begin. Because there would undoubtedly be one or two bad kids within that group. I am of the opinion that any time you have four or more kids together, one of them will be the bad kid. I don't care how wonderful little Skippy's manners are, he's the same kid who just two weeks ago pulled open the underwear drawer of his best friend's mother and jerked off into it. So there would always be one or two bad kids in the back of that pickup truck, irregardless of whose truck it was and irregardless of which kids were in the back of it. Quiet discussion would take place about how a beer or two could be consumed by those kids without the adults knowing, and which other kids were the diversionary crew, and which kid would be the lookout. The lookout was always picked because they were the next baddest, the bad kid in training. This is the kid least likely to tell, and the kid had personality enough that could either bully or manipulate the rest into not telling. It helped if the lookout kid had some dirt on another non-bad kid in the back of the truck, too, because then the rest of us would feel cowed into going along so that one non-bad kid who had done something moderately stupid wouldn't get in trouble. Since the wind was whipping us at about 45 to 50 miles an hour, and some old ass country music was blasting and the grown-ups were half ripped at this point, having consumed about a 12 pack or so, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure this was going to be pretty easy.

Here's how it always happened. Wait until a fresh one is passed through the window to the driver, and check to see what the passenger is doing. Just for good measure, pass a fresh one into them, too. Be prepared for the passer of fresh beers to be complimented on being such a well-mannered young man or young woman, and at least yo' mama taught you right. At this point, the cooler is slid around ever so slightly so that the one or two bad kids can slouch all the way down under the window so that their heads can't be seen in the rearview mirror, if there was one. If there was no rearview mirror, you actually had to slide a little lower so that just the very tip-top of your head could be seen in the event that the driver or passenger turned around to make sure all of the kids were still in the back of the truck. After the slouching positions had been taken, the lookout kid would very surreptiously pop open the top to the cooler and take inventory. You never drank the Coors. You only took the shit beer because that's what wouldn't be missed and someone could always claim the can bounced out of the back of the truck should a can accounting ever occur. It didn't dawn on any of us that a can accounting would never occur because the adults in the front were generally half-shitfaced and they didn't really care, as long as a fresh one got passed over when the arm reached out the window and made a grabbing motion. The lookout would dig out a Beast, and pass it to a good kid to open, because the lookout could be seen from the rearview mirror because they were sitting on the tire well. And, if you got a good kid to pop the top, now you've sucked them in and they really can't tell. They have been drawn into the conspiracy. So the top is popped and it's passed to the one or two slouchers, who guzzle this horse piss tasting beer whilst trying not to squench their faces up, because, really, it did taste like horse piss. But you lose face if you squench your face up. You've got take it like a 12 year old because that will give you bragging rights on the bus the next school day. So the beer will be passed back and forth if it's two kids, or alternately guzzled and nursed if it's one kid. The lookout kid is watching, the rest of us are watching and trying not be noticeably impressed, but still kind of thinking about how cool it would be to be the bad kid. How cool it would be to have those bragging rights the the bus.

I only write this because I think a lot about the experiences that my children will never have in life, experiences such as this. First, allowing kids under the age of 16 to ride in the back of an open pickup truck has been (rightfully so) outlawed in the state. Second, I don't generally drink around my kids, and besides, nowadays if you get caught drunk driving with your children you don't just get hemmed up in a DUI, but you also face felony child neglect charges. My children will never know what it's like to roll down a highway at 50 or so miles an hour in the back of an open pickup driven by some half drunk asshole, while the wind swirls your hair around your face and you watch single wide trailers and shitty little hardscrabble farms fly by. They will never know what it's like to learn how to drive for the first time on a tractor sitting on a feed bag with wood blocks tied to the pedals because you're only in 6th grade. They will never know what it's like to drag your tired ass out of bed at 11:30 at night the day before exams to get the cows in because they broke through that section of fence that never got repaired. They will probably never know that the best night crawlers come from the pig pen. They will never know the unending hell of feeding a woodstove and keeping the woodbox full. They will probably be some part of a larger kid-conspiracy that involves drinking beer, but it will most likely never be in the back of a pickup truck. I am doing the best I can by my children, and providing them the best life I possibly can here in suburbia, but sometimes... sometimes... I wish they could have bits and pieces of my childhood.

Kindness

I was standing outside at work yesterday, getting my puff on, and this homeless guy wanders up. We get a lot of homeless people wandering around my j.o.b., but I think it's mainly because we have public restrooms and you don't have to buy anything to use the shitter. I'm standing outside, and this guy wanders up and starts digging through the butt can. He comes up with two half-smoked smokes, while I'm kind of checking him out because some of those guys are sketchy. When I say guys, most of the homeless folks making use of our facilities are men. And they are indeed a sketchy crew. This has been best demonstrated by the one guy who was wandering around with nunchucks in his back pocket a few years ago. Now, I've never been hit with nunchucks, but I bet it hurts like hell.

Some of my co-workers buy these guys food, give them lunch, give them cigarettes, money, what-have-you. I am constantly telling them to stop, because damn, that's why they keep coming back. We keep giving them shit. It's plain and simple classical conditioning. Here is the most elementary explanation I can provide: if there is a reward for some type of behavior, we as humans, will usually continue to exhibit that behavior because we want the reward, i.e., Pavlov and his dogs. We give food, cigarettes, money, and so forth away to these homeless people, and they keep coming back because they have a reward. In fact, like Pavlov's dogs that salivated at the site of his assistant even without the food, I can't even figure out who is salivating first here - the homeless dudes or my co-workers. It's a strange cyclical relationship. And then I step in with my operant conditioning, which is I refuse to reward that behavior because it's not behavior that I see as productive or whatever. I don't reward the homeless guys with anything but a pretty smile, which you can't smoke, and they don't reward me with feeling good about giving them something. But no one else is feeling my operant conditioning, despite my repeated attempts to enlighten them.

So I'm checking this guy out, and it's odd, because I haven't seen him before. He looks familiar, but I know I haven't seen him digging through our butt can before. But then in my profession, everyone looks familiar after a while. Actually, I just realized he looked a little like Sean Connery. I would guess this guy's age to be in his late 50's or 60's, and he's got grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, but it's a neat ponytail and his hair isn't really that long. The ponytail holder was a regular rubber band, but it had broken and so he'd tied a little knot in it so he could still use it. Stickman is wearing a button down shirt, but it was completely unbuttoned, and he had on some navy blue work pants and some tennis shoes. He looked to be about that age when a man's chest hair kind of turns from hair to fuzz, which made me believe he was actually in his 60's. His clothes were grubby, but he wasn't dirty, which was kind of odd. There's a big difference between wearing some grubby clothes for three or four days, and just picking yourself up out of the gutter (literally) after a three or four day bender - and I know the difference. He's asking where he can get some bus tickets at while he smokes one of his half-smoked butts, and kind of rambling on about living down at the river and getting his general relief if he can make it uptown somewhere. I know where general relief comes from, and it's not where he's talking about, but hey, maybe he knows something I don't know. And I know about the homeless encampment down at the river, which is an island in the middle of the James that I'm pretty sure is only accessible by walking across the train trestle near the Manchester Bridge and then climbing down a ladder to the island. This guy does not look like he's been living on the island, because I know what that looks like, too. I wondered while I smoked and listen to him talk, what his story was. Who is this guy? What's he doing here? A vet, maybe? Something was just off, but not off in a bad, or even sketchy, way.

I finished my cigarette, and got ready to dart back in the building, and turned around and told him, "Hang on, man, I'll go get you a smoke". So I run back to my office and grab the whole box of cigarettes, and looked inside. About 8 left, and I have two new packs in my purse. I run back out there and give it to him, and tell him to have a nice day. Uhhh, what the fuck just happened to me? How did this happen? I've spent the last day thinking about it, because in all the time I've worked at this place, I have not given away ANYTHING EVER. Except a hard time. I give that away all the time, baby, all the time.

I saw this group on facebook not too long ago, but I didn't join it because I want to be somewhat selective with my groups. I mean, I can't be giving away the farm, you know. But the name was something to the effect of 'Be kind to everyone you know because everyone's fighting some kind of battle' and that's really stuck with me. Oh, wait, I just checked and I did join that group. It's true, though. We are all fighting some kind of battle, and you never know what someone's got going on. I went to some training not too long ago, kind of a touchy-feely training thing, and the people doing the training were talking about how great we all are, and what a good job we do, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, and blah blah blah. Someone said something about taking time out for our clients, because maybe no one else has taken that time out to make them important that day. And no, I don't call the clients clients, but I'm trying to keep my job pretty anonymous on here. But anyway, maybe we will be the only person they've come into contact with that will take that extra five minutes to really listen and be supportive, because, really, don't we all need that sometimes? And so that's been hanging in my head, and the facebook group because I really want to be a different person.

I think I've spent most of my life being an asshole. School, work, marriage, in general. Maybe because that's what I've been exposed to most of my life from my parents and various step-parents, supervisors, clients, relationships, The Ex, so on and so on. My favoritist person on TV when I was little? J.R. Ewing. I think that's indicative enough of me being a bully and an asshole. I blame my parents, some, because kids will act in the same manner that they are treated. But since being an adult, I blame myself. I want to correct this, fix this, because I don't want my children to think this is okay. I don't want to be a party to raising two children who will grow up to be assholes. That's not okay with me.

Some people will stumble into our lives in a very happenstance manner, and then some people will just kick in the door to our lives. We lose people, we disconnect with some, we gain people, we reconnect with others. Karma, kismet, predetermination, sheer coincidence, maybe everything happens the way it's supposed to. Sometimes, everything is going right for them and you cheer them on. Sometimes, everything is going wrong for them and you want to help. You want to be kind. You want to do something for someone for no other fucking reason than concern, and care, and just a basic human kindness. But for whatever reason, you can't. Your kindness is very nicely, or not so nicely, returned unopened. This credit card is no longer accepted at this location. I'll stop being enigmatic. I tried to do something genuinely kind and sincere for someone who broke into my life, got pushed away because they had issues, and I am left holding the bag of kindness. But I have to be okay with that. I have to just take it like a woman, and not be an asshole. I'm working hard to be a different person, a better person who can just roll with it.

So I gave a little kindness away, in the form of 8 cigarettes. It wasn't the kindness I set out to give away, but I guess it's okay, since I have some extra.

Production

Geez, what a production just to get a blog started. I've had a blog before, but then when my marriage fell apart I deleted it because it wasn't really me, which I think knew then subconciously, but didn't really know-know... And because I had bad-mouthed some work situations and I didn't want to give The Ex any more ammunition to use against me, or what he would have inevitably perceived to be ammunition. I will say that I didn't blog much, so I had no followers (other than The Ex), so I don't think it will be missed out in bloggerdom. Plus I kept changing the name. So I took a break... worked on getting my head back together... and decided to start again.

But then, I couldn't decide on a name. I mean, I can't keep changing the name like I did before because the url always changes with it, and if you have followers the link then turns dead for the old url, or something like that. I've been debating a name for a few weeks. I wanted something that would accurately describe me, and who I am now, who I might be, who I won't be anymore, and coming up with a name is some hard shit to do. I wanted something that sounded classy and educated (but not too much), but didn't sound stuffy. So obviously FTW was out. Something that sounded intelligent but not jackass-y. Well, jackass-y is okay, but not asshole-y. There is a difference, I've learned. I didn't want anything to sound bitter or mad, because I really don't feel bitter or mad, at least, not right now. I'm working on that being a temporary set of emotions.

I absolutely love to use big and fancy jackass-y words in my everyday life. My kids knew what the meaning of appropriate was and could use it properly by the time they were four. Although, they both said, "That's not propriate." Words like discourse, profundity, treatise, esoteric, whilst, epiphany, loquacious. Whilst is my favorite because it really is a great jackass-y kind of word. I'm trying to work that into all of my written reports at work because it's proper English, Queen's English actually, but it's such a good jackass kind of word. I can't get in trouble for using it since it's proper English, but I know the people reading my reports, all lawyers and therefore infinitely stupid motherfuckers, will have no idea what that word means, but it will sound familiar enough to make them wonder where they heard it before.

I thought and thought and thought and couldn't come up with anything. Thought about using all of the words above in some sort of combination or a mixture of the words above but couldn't come up with anything. Stretch marks was working it's way into the title somewhere, because I have so many on my stomach from my kids and I obsess about my stretch marks constantly. I mean, it's really bad. My longest stretch mark during my first pregnancy was 18 inches long. I'm not kidding - 18 inches. That was one enormous stretch mark. I used to get a tape measure out every few weeks towards the end of both pregnancies and measure them. So the 18 inch stretch mark, yeah, it grew to about 20 inches during the second pregnancy. The bigger I got, the more beached-whalish I looked, the redder those things got, too. The Ex called them tiger stripes, which I fucking hated. When he said that (and it was a frequent remark), I would silently wish I could grow big tiger claws and scratch his eyes out. Hellooooo, I didn't get these things alone.  So the redness has faded, almost back to my normal skin color, but there is absolutely nothing you can do about some stretched out skin. Nothing, nothing, nothing other than getting it cut off in the form of a tummy tuck. I'm really torn about that - but not really, because I don't have expendable cash for stupid plastic surgery, and because I'm working really hard in my head to just be good with who I am right now. That's hard on some days, because I remember when I was in high school and I would lay on my bed and my stomach was so flat and tight I could flip quarters over three seperate times with my stomach muscles. Not like flip them up in the air, but turn them over and kind of walk them down my stomach. Maybe doing that for hours on end, for years on end, when my mother kept grounding me because... Well, that's another story. But I think about those hours and days spent flip-walking quarters up and down my stomach and I think, fuck, man, I might have done this to myself. Maybe if I hadn't done that, maybe if I hadn't obsessed about being a size 5 or 7, if I hadn't done this or done that, maybe my skin would have some fucking collagen or elasticity, or whatever, in it and I wouldn't have these goddamn stretch marks. Or whatever some women have in their bodies that can cause them to have eight kids in quick succession with no physical, scarring reminders of it.

But I couldn't go with that name. Yeah, I obsess and think about my stretch marks pretty much every day. I just can't help it. They're always there. But even though they are right there, in my head, in my mirror, under my clothes, I don't want to stare it down on a blog however often. Just don't want to do it, just can't do it. So I went with what I've got up there now. It's all good, though. I recently decided to stop straightening my hair after 14 years maybe, gosh, I don't even know long. Not a life changing moment, but more like, I decided to just become one with the humidity and what do you know? Who the hell knew my hair was this curly? Maybe something else from all those pregnancy hormones. I mean, who the hell knew my feet would grow when I got pregnant? Yeah, they grew. I went from a sometimes 7 and a half and usually solid size 8 to a good steady 8 and a half to sometimes 9. And it's not that my feet got fat, they GREW. Who has feet that grow when they're 28 years old? So maybe the curls are consolation prize for the stretch marks. I haven't decided yet. Maybe these are happy curls. Curls of figuring out that I can be happy and I don't need to feel mysteriously angry and miserable for the rest of my life, which I really believe will be a long one. I don't worry anymore about living a long time, because I'm feeling good about lots o' stuff. So Curls & Stuff it is. Name for the blog is done.

And then, I sign in to the website and use an anonymous email address I created a few weeks ago to respond to ads on craigslist to criticize the content and grammar of said ads, but I use the wrong fucking email address and don't realize it when I sign in for the blog site. Instead of using @gmail, I use @yahoo, because I don't use the anonymous gmail address that much. That's my anonymous asshole email, and I don't really feel like being an anonymous asshole that much. So I set the blog up, to include my fabulous title, which I hope no one thinks is a blog for a hair salon, and then sign back out because I'm going to come back to it later when I get the kids to bed. I get the kids to bed, and sign back in. But uh-oh, yeah, dumbass, you signed up for a blog AND USED YOUR FABULOUS BLOG NAME with an email address that either doesn't even exist or belongs to someone else! Holy fuck! Oh my god, what have I fucking done now? And I can't recreate the blog with my anonymous email address because I ALREADY GAVE THE NAME AWAY! There is no way I can start over on a name search in my head for the next month, because in the 30 minutes or so since I came up with this one, I've really gotten attached to it. Albeit in my own head, but I'm attached. It's mine. No one else can have it, and maybe I can't either if I can't unfuck this. So back to yahoo to create an email in the name that I think I used to create this site. Thank god it wasn't in use, because otherwise some stupid person who created this anonymous email at yahoo before me would get an email thanking them for signing up for a blog. So I create yet another anonymous email, this time on yahoo and go back to the blog site and sign in. Except I still can't sign in because they haven't been able to send me the verification email because I just created the email address, like, 30 seconds ago. So send me the damn verification and back to yahoo to verify. Okay, verification done. Now I can log in. And thus... I now have a Comcast email with my name that is my primary account, but only until Comcast figures out I don't have an account with them or The Ex snitches me out to them (which is much more likely than the former to happen) and they just delete me, I have a Yahoo account with my name that I set up years ago to get junk mail sent to, because no one signs up for anything online that's not bill related with their primary (aka real) email address, I have the anonymous asshole Gmail account, I have a Verizon address that I got when I got their service but never bothered to set up after the tech left so I don't even know how to access that, and now I have another anonymous email address on Yahoo that's for this blog. Too much. What a fucking production. All over a name to a blog.