Feeling More Optimistic

I am going to make it through these last three weeks with my children. I just know it, and I'm not even going to collapse from exhaustion prior to them going to their father's house for the summer. The light at the end of the school year tunnel (for me) is shining a little more brightly with each passing day. I got up this morning and realized that I have exactly two more Wednesdays until the only person I have to be in charge of on a full time basis for almost three months will be me.

My older daughter has her last appointment this upcoming week with her child psychologist, and what I've gotten out of that whole thing has been my sweet little girl back. My baby (okay, not really a baby) has returned to me. She's the sweet little girl that she was years ago, before things between The Ex and I got really dysfunctional, and with lots of love, affection, attention, consistency and me doing my level best to not badmouth douchebag her father in front of her, along with removing TV and it's Disney teen attitudes, she's come back to me. She's more affectionate, she laughs so much more, she's open to conversation, hell, she has conversations with me, and she's just come such a long way for such a little girl. I am really proud of her. My greatest fear is that spending the summer with her father will set us back to where we started in September of last year, which was hostility, a nasty attitude, anger, blame, confusion, and generalized upset. But I can't worry about what might or might not happen in August tonight. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow night, but not tonight.

The younger daughter has recovered from her latest bout of strep throat. I've gotten strep throat exactly once in my life, when I was 23, and I thought I was going to die. So far this year, my children have had it five times, between the two of them. I need the older daughter to go ahead and get it one more time before November because then they will finally take out her tonsils. And strangely, even though they live together, are are therefore in each other's faces ALL OF THE TIME, they never catch it from each other. So when the younger daughter got sick last week, all I could think was, "Wrong kid, dammit, wrong kid. I need the other one to get this shit." How the hell do they keep catching strep throat and I never had it as a child? I don't get that at all, other than these are some super-germs floating around the schools now. The older daughter also got lice again, but I'll say that the second time around wasn't that traumatic for me. I was still quite grossed out, of course, but I'm determined that a tangential mission in life has been to make sure that everyone knows that clean kids get lice. The younger daughter has never caught it from her, so I don't understand that, either. Nor did the cat or I catch them, thank god, because I don't know what I would have done if the cat got them. That would have been a real fucking mess.

Knock on wood.

I got a ticket last week, on the way to the pediatrician's office, no less, for my expired inspection sticker. Yes, I knew the damn thing was expired the day after it expired, and I've let it float. I had a couple of different lies worked up in my head for The Man should the time come, but opted not to use them. Lies, you ask? What kind of lies? Oh, and these were pretty good. Lie #1 - "But, sir, I just got divorced (truth) and my ex-husband always took car of my car (lie) and he told me the inspection was good until October of 2011 (and not November of 2010)." That one might have worked since the two boxes say 10 and 11 respectively, at least from my perspective inside the car. Lie #2 - "My inspection is expired? My ex-husband told me that inspections were good for two years! That SOB!" But I didn't do it. How can I expect my children to be honest if I can't even do it? So I just fessed up and told him that yeah, I knew it was expired and I didn't have the money to fix what was wrong with it, being that I'm spending $75.00 a week in gas just to run around Richmond and Chesterfield (okay, I didn't bitch about the gas part even though I wanted to). And so I got to press hard when I signed my name on the triplicate form. I can't fault The Man for doing his job. The docket's in August so that means I've got a little wiggle room. I've formulated my argument for the judge when I go to court to have it dismissed, even though the judge won't ask for my argument and won't care.

"Your Honor, I'd like to plead guilty to the infraction. Yes sir, I've gotten the car inspected and here's the proof. But I'd like to respectfully note for the record that the Commonwealth's state inspection statute does not serve any purpose in keeping the citizens of the Commonwealth safe on the roadways. This is because the inspection is conducted once per year, and immediately after having a vehicle inspected, any number of mechanical failures could occur which would normally result in the vehicle not being passing an inspection. However, the inspection isn't due again for another eleven months, effectively leaving a vehicle on the roadways of the Commonwealth that would be found to be unsafe for travel. For the state inspection process to work effectively in maintaining safe vehicles within the Commonwealth, the Commonwealth must begin to impound vehicles immediately upon failing an inspection or having found to have an expired inspection. At this point in time, a vehicle can be inspected and fail that inspection, and then immediately driven out of the mechanic's shop back onto the roadways that it has been deemed to be unsafe to be on. Without the immediate impoundment of such vehicles, the Commonwealth will never be able to reasonably ascertain that the roadways are safe from vehicles that are mechanically fit to be driven. Additionally, inspections should be conducted once every six months."

Ha! How you like me now? Logical but yet so very farfetched. I think the state inspection process is bullshit. BULLSHIT. It's bullshit. Did I mention it's complete bullshit? I figured this out when I bought a car brand new in 1994 and then the damn thing failed the inspection the following year. I've had a car fail almost every fucking year since I've been driving. And no, they haven't all been hoopties. I'm no slouch in the mechanics department, but I pretty much have to take them at their word unless I'm going into the garage and getting under the hood myself. The state inspection serves to keep mechanics in business. That's all it does. Shystie-ass mechanics who are legit only because they're working in a building with a state inspection plaque somewhere on the property and not under a shade tree. So this weekend, I'm going to Wal-Mart to get new tires. And some tampons and a couple of frozen pizzas.

Yes, indeedy, I am feeling more optimistic. Who doesn't love a place where I can get tires, tampons, pizzas and my favorite $4.00 wine?

Updates

I swear, I really have some updates coming soon. Summer school, The Ex, Guy #1, house stuff and spotting a snake under a landscaping timber, which then resulted in me frantically ripping them all out, stupid signs for the stupid athletic association, and maybe a meta-analysis of The Real Housewives of All The Places I Watch (except the meta part will be me, myself and I researching bullshit on the internet and then the analysis will be the three of myselves making up some bullshit formula about how intelligence is directly proportional to breast size and how both are impacted by hair color), and maybe something about how I realized tonight that there really is a do-over in life. It's called System Restore. If it weren't for my children, I'd want to do a System Restore on my life, right back to February 28, 1996, which was the exact day before I met The Ex. I also intend to write a good little piece about the nasty habit I have of either disappearing out of people's lives or making them disappear out of mine, though not a la the Jimmy Hoffa way. Yes, I am absolutely positive that was not grammatically correct, but you get the drift. I might also discuss my most recent traffic ticket for an expired inspection sticker, which is really just more bullshit and I'll give you my libertarian slant on the whole thing and how it doesn't serve any purpose other than the guv keeping a whole lot of halfway shystie (my improved word for shyster) mechanic shops in business. And yes, I know the damn inspection ran out in November of 2010. If I had money to buy new tires then I would probably also have money to pay my bills on time, and I can't seem to do that either, except for daycare, mortgage and utilties.

Be patient, young grasshoppers.

The good shit is coming.

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.

Friday Night In My Head

A long week is done. The TV is on. Loudly. I am up late, sucking down Diet Pepsi and enjoying the weekend. As usual, lots of stupid thoughts in my head. And so, I shall share.

I had a great dinner tonight with Guy #1 at his workplace, except I didn't eat. I sat around with Guy #1 and his co-workers and marveled at the amount of food seven grown men can put away. I've promised to make them dinner sometime in the near future (read that as the next month or so) and I'm thinking I'll need to start saving up now. I didn't eat because I was still full from my late lunch, which was from my favoritist new upscale Mexican fast food joint, where you have many more choices than old run down Mexican fast food joint has ever provided. In fact, I don't ever go to the old place anymore unless I am dirt fucking broke and have no food at home. But anyway, I always get the three taco meal, and I SWEAR, no one (other than Guy #1) has ever really appreciated the humor of me telling the person fixing the tacos that I want two soft and one hard. Hard one in the middle, please. I really do this, every time I go to this place, and no one ever cracks a smile. Either I'm not the only almost middle aged woman rolling up in the place asking for two soft with one hard in the middle, or they just don't get it. I'm going to assume they just don't get it, but I'm going to keep at it, because that's my favorite meal and I am bound and fucking determined to get someone to crack a smile when I do that.

I have decided that life is so much more fun being sterilized. To all of you out there who have all the kids you need, or want, and haven't gotten sterilized yet, for god's sake, get it done. To hell with ongoing birth control. Just make it permanent and don't look back. Yet another post-separation decision that was THE BEST EVER.

I realized tonight that I haven't gotten shitfaced in quite a while. I got a nasty little buzz on New Year's Eve that had me feeling like I was in sugar shock for about fifteen minutes (and I had to go lay down for a few minutes), but I think that might have been the three or so jello shots I did right behind a half a bottle of wine. Maybe I should make sure the jello shots are sugar free next time, or maybe I should spend the day hydrating with lots of water and not diet soda before I drink. I haven't gotten throw-up drunk in years, 2008 or 2009-ish, and that was in my own car. Watch out if I've got your cell number, because I'm a drunk dialer. My eyes are so bad that I can barely see when I'm sober that I won't be texting you. I will be calling you and it will be just like my blog has come to life and is babbling about nothing at all. If I can't manage to tie one on before summer time, I am there the week (or day) after the children move back to The Ex's house in early June.

It looks like there might not be a government shut down after all. Has anyone else ever noticed this only happens when there is a Democratic President in office? Just like state guv lay offs only happen when there is a Democratic governor in office? Whatever. Either way, furloughs and layoffs suck. A lot of us work for the government because we can't do our professions in the private sector and we're pretty damn good at what we do, and we like what we do. We also sacrifice making good money because we want a stable retirement plan and affordable health insurance, especially those of us who want to get sterilized for a $100 copay. I haven't gotten a raise in five years and I won't get one anytime in the future. I will get a five percent raise this year that will immediately be taken from me to off-set the increase in retirement that the General Assembly decided I need to start chipping in on. I was furloughed for one day last last year, and my grand plan of laying in the bed all day long reading and sleeping was cockblocked by my older daughter getting sick at school. Since I pretty much live paycheck to paycheck (being that I work for the guv), I was grateful it was just one day. Now if we could just tap into our national reserves of oil and get the damn gas prices down, things might start to return to normal. Personally, I am not that concerned about the permafrost or the caribou, because I am too far removed, and I'm pretty sure the next time I pull up to the gas station there's not going to be a caribou there to insert his credit card in the slot for me. Nor will Father Permafrost be there to lend a hand.

I'm watching Three Kings right now, which I think is a great movie. I absolutely love military and war movies, mostly because I've decided that they just reek of testosterone. In fact, the testosterone just kind of wafts right out of the TV into my brain, and that makes me love men even more. I was trying to explain to Guy #1 a couple of days ago what an incredible bitch I used to be, and he asked me what had changed. I couldn't really answer then because I didn't know. I've thought about it and I've realized that it's because I'm not living with a complete dick, and I'm getting a regular dosage of testosterone in my life that's apparently just the right combination for my personality. Which might just be the first time in my adult life, and that's certainly a new experience for me. A good experience. Big shout out to Guy #1 for having that perfect hormonal-chemical combination. Note to Guy #1, ff you will just pop a war movie into the DVD instead of a romantic comedy (which I hate), you will see what can happen to me when testosterone wafts out of the TV and enters my hormonal receptors. It's like what porn does to guys.

A totally relaxing weekend, or it better fucking be. I need the courage to make it through to the first weekend of June, when I will send my children off to live with their father for the summer. It was giving me mad anxiety last month, and now I'm ready for my summer of not so much responsibility. I know the anxiety will come back, but at this moment tonight, I'm ready for my summer.

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.

Dog Sitting

I've been dog sitting for the past half of a week, for my former neighbor's dog, because her husband is in the hospital and she just doesn't have time to deal with the dog. I'm not a dog person. I don't generally like dogs, and you may have garnered from a few posts prior that I care even less for dog shit.

I'd like to note that there is just one tiny little letter separating the words dog sitting from dog shitting.

I've been dog sitting and the dog has been dog shitting. Namely, in my house. Which I am less than okay with. The dog arrived last Wednesday night, and first thing Thursday morning, while I was in the shower, she left a little brown treat in the younger daughter's room while the younger daughter was sleeping. The dog then scampered down the hall to my bedroom and left the second half of the brown treat on my floor, and then merrily (I must assume) scampered back down the hallway and left a big puddle in middle of the hallway. Holy dog shit. Are you kidding me? I blame this on myself, because I thought I had time to jump in the shower quickety-quick before I took her out. Apparently not. I also realized upon stomping into the kitchen that I didn't put the cat's food bowl on top of the washing machine the night before and all the cat food was gone. I'll have to assume the dog ate the Indoor Delights Friskies and thus, left me some Indoor Delights.

So the dog and I had a little come-to-Jesus meeting, and then before everyone left the house on Thursday morning, the dog got put in her little pen that I jury-rigged in the living room.

And yes, this is the actual dog. By the time I get done with this whole post her name might be The Dog.

She's not crate trained and didn't come with a crate (hmmm....), but came with a baby-gate-playard kind of concoction. Got home Thursday evening with Guy #1 in tow since it was The Ex's night with the kids, and found that the dog can hold all of her bodily fluids if she's in her little pen. Awesome! Maybe this will work out okay. But then I was at work most of Friday (or pretending to be after my training class finished early and there was.no.fucking.way I was going back to work) and then out with Guy #1 for most of Friday night. I felt moderately guilty, because dogs actually need some attention. I spent a portion of Saturday in the house, and the dog was more than happy to terrorize Guy #1 because he's apparently scared of animals that look like overgrown mutant gerbils. Out and about again Saturday night and still no accidents in the jury-rigged pen.

Sunday morning. It was cold and sleeting outside, and I guess I rushed her through her business outside because maybe an hour after coming back in I found a little brown cookie in the younger daughter's room. Again, I blamed myself for not shutting the bedroom doors. I don't know why she only shits in the younger daughter's room. She hasn't done anything other than sleep in the older daughter's room. Sunday afternoon and she poops outside. Awesome! That second come-to-Jesus meeting must have really done the trick.

But uh-oh. What's that stuck on the hair around her butt? The dog has long hair. Long, thick hair. She's well groomed, and often smells like whatever kind of Avon shampoo my neighbor has been washing her with. Oh, god, is that a turd stuck on her butt? Holy fuck. It is. Oh my god. Fuck. She can't come back in the house with that thing back there, and she can't reach her own butt to clean it off. I guess that's the one good thing to dog sitting a slightly pudgy Pomeranian - when she sneak attacks me and licks me on my face I know that her tongue wasn't previously on her ass.

Anyway, back to the turd stuck in the hindquarter hair. I run in the house and can only come up with... Lysol wipes. Oh well, that'll have to do. I run back outside and put the dog in a mini-headlock and proceed to do nothing more than smear the dog shit all over her rear end. Oh fuck. Oh no. This is not working. Jesus Christ. Are you kidding me again? Pick the dog up and carry her at arms length into the house and then just stand there trying to figure out what to do. Well, into the kitchen sink because I don't know how to wash an entire dog. That's just too much for me to handle. And, Guy #1 was feeling neurotic about my bathrooms on Saturday morning and cleaned them for me, so there was no way I was going to put her into one of the tubs he just scrubbed. So the dog goes right into the sink and I get her into another headlock and try to adjust the water and squirt Dial hand soap onto her ass. Oh my god this is such a mess. Oh Jesus. Well, I certainly can't bring myself to actually touch this soapy, shitty mess I've created and I forgot that I have latex gloves in my bedroom (for doing my toenails, perverts, not the other stuff) so I just get a scrub brush and scrubbed the Dial hand soap around. I am now minus one scrub brush, by the way. Get the soapy, shitty mess off the dog with water that was probably too hot and then realize I have no towel handy to dry the dog. Oh well, I guess while I've got her here in this headlock I'll just take some scissors and trim up the hair back there so I won't have to go through this again. Who knew that Pomeranians have such thick non-trimmable ass hair? This dog might just be related to The Ex. Abandon all plans to trim the dog's ass hair and try to towel dry her with paper napkins. That too was unsuccessful.

Man, I needed a shot of tequila after all of that. Holy god. Actually, what the dog and I both needed a nap after that whole ordeal. But, not for me. Off to see the VCU game. Back in the pen, little fluff ball doggie. No problems Sunday night or Monday morning. At this point we've all kind of adjusted that the dog might be here for a while because my neighbor's husband is still in the hospital. The dog seems like she's enjoying us, the children are enjoying her and the cat lives in the basket on top of the dryer, right next to her food on top of the washer. No more Indoor Delights for the dog, that's for damn sure.

So, we continue on with the dog. I told my older daughter tonight, though, to quit asking me if the dog can come live here for good. The answer is a resounding NO. I'm a cat person. I want to feed the cat, put water in her bowl, scoop the litter box and have a lap available for her to climb in and get petted. I don't want to have to let the animal in and out and in and out and in and out one more time. I don't want to have to crawl around on my hands and knees with carpet cleaner, I don't want some jury-rigged pen in the middle of my living room and I don't want to have to chase a dog around around with Lysol wipes. The dog can visit, for short periods of time... but I'm a cat person. Big ups to the dog for reinforcing that.

Are You Kidding Me?

I'll start this whole thing out with a completely random sidebar about Lent. I don't get the whole Lent thing. I mean, I get it in a textbook kind of way, but not a religious kind of way. I suppose that means I understand it theoretically, but I'm still foggy on the concept figuratively or maybe it's the other way around. This could be for two reasons: I was raised as a sometimes-Methodist, which meant that sometimes we went to church and sometimes we didn't. But when we did go, it was always to a Methodist church. I don't ever remember the Methodists giving anything up for Lent. I don't know why we never did that, other than maybe it required more than a sometimes-kind of dedication. I think it's to prove that we love Jesus or something about the resurrection. Again, we attended only very randomly so my knowledge is sketchy. I guess I started hearing people at work talk about what they were giving up for Lent. I think you're supposed to give up something that means a lot to you, or something that will be a real sacrifice. Guy #1, who is Catholic, told me he was giving up sex. Note to Guy #1: that was one quick epic failure. I've been a little disappointed no one has asked me what I'm giving up for Lent. Either these people really know me well or... they know me really well. I've got my answers all prepared. For Lent, I have decided that I will give up organized religion and proselytizing. I also plan to give up smoking crack, The Ex, and Suduko. Because that's how a sometimes-Methodist would roll with the Lent thing. We would only sacrifice the shit we don't do in the first place.

Today is Wednesday, which means that "the" envelope comes home in the older daughter's book bag with all of the stupid notices from the PTA on how they like to kill trees and send multiple notices home about the same thing, and all of the tests and quizzes from the last week, along with anything else that's graded. If my daughter gets a good grade, I am allowed to keep the test/quiz/whatever it is and file it in a three-ring binder so the younger daughter will get the benefit of studying for the tests and quizzes with the actual tests and quizzes. I felt like a fucking genius when I figured out last month I need to be saving all of that shit. Or, if the test/quiz/whatever it is has a bad grade, I get to sign the paper and send it back in, so the teacher will know that the parent has acknowledged that their child was an educational failure for the week. I know that's not really it, but that's sure what it feels like to me, since the parent is supposed to direct all of the homework and studying for the week. This sending shit back in with a parent signature is actually the school's documentation for when they refuse to pass the child up to the next grade and they can say that the parent knew about the bad grades. Children are not just passed up the food chain, because if they were, my younger would not be in a kindergarten class with the same little boy that my older daughter was in kindergarten with. Yes, it's that child's third year in kindergarten. And there also wouldn't be an EIGHT year old in my younger daughter's kindergarten class.

Last week wasn't a great week for my older daughter - she missed two days of school, one day because I was too sick to help her do homework the night before, and the other day she was legitimately sick. The math unit she was working on was subtraction, and honestly, subtraction sucks like division. I hate subtraction, and I know that it's possible to make it through college with minimal math skills because I've done it. In fact, I did it and still graduated one-tenth of a point off from graduating with honors. So me having this knowledge doesn't really help her, because part of me is thinking, let's just skate through this shit. But the other part of me is thinking, well, if I could actually do basic math maybe I'd have a fucking awesome career right now instead of just doing what I do for the guv. But anyway, educationally, last week was not our best week and I knew that when I opened the envelope full of a week's worth of tests and quizzes. And here's what I found:

Math chapter review - 62. Fail.
Math quiz on subtraction - 42. Fail.
Math test on subtraction - 41. Fail.
Word sort quiz (the new fancy way to say spelling) - 67. Pretty damn close to failing.
Dictation - 84. Holy shit the child got a passing grade.

Keep in mind this a 100 point scale, so anything in the 70 range and below is not good.

Ummm, are you fucking kidding me? By far, this is the worst envelope we've gotten all year. What the fuck happened here? Upon a closer review, it appears that my older daughter didn't even really try and she pretty much admitted this to me. Again, are you kidding me? I don't even know what to do with this, other than explaining to her in my not-so-nice-Mom tone of voice that she better start trying, because NOT trying is NOT an option. Regarding the spelling, she just totally blew four of the words off and didn't even write them down, and then admitted she wasn't paying attention during the test. Are you kidding me? I know they don't have Jersey Shore playing on TV during the spelling test, so where the fuck was her brain?

We have an appointment with her psychologist tomorrow and I'm letting him look at this stuff, because something is just not quite right here. We have struggled our way through second grade, and I'm scared of what third grade will have to offer. I take some solace in knowing that everyone else who's child has gone through second grade has discussed their child struggling too, and Mrs. Second Grade Teacher even admitted during our last parent teacher conference that test taking skills are not taught until third grade. That doesn't even make good sense to me, especially since the second graders take graded tests and quizzes throughout the year. My other issue has been that my older daughter was placed into a remedial reading group in November due to low reading scores, and if her reading is so bad that she has to be placed into a remedial reading group, then how realistic is it to expect her to read the tests accurately?

Something is not right here. When I went to the parent-teacher conference in January and asked about an assessment for a possible learning disability, I think I got a little blown off, but just a little bit. I got the distinct impression that the reading specialist and Mrs. Second Grade Teacher don't think there's a problem, and let's just wait and see. I also got the impression that if the problem were considered to be severe, it would have already been recommended. I'm sorry, but my child is not going to be the one to get blown off. I asked about having an independent assessment done, and that suggestion was immediately pooh-poohed with an "That's really expensive." I think that the issue is that if I get an outside assessment done, and if the outside assessment says something the school doesn't like, I've effectively fucked them because then they will have to acknowledge there's a problem and then they will have to do something. And this isn't one of those Munchhausen situations, which I think most teachers probably assume anyway. I wanted to explain to Mrs. Second Grade Teacher that I don't really want any attention from my child doing poorly. I want them to determine if there is a problem and then work to do something about it. Not wait and see. I just don't know how much longer I can deal with my daughter looking at a word in a book and calling it a whole other word that isn't even in the damn book. I don't know how much longer I can deal with my daughter reading words that aren't there, and how much longer I can deal with her sometime-inability to pay attention in class. I don't know how much longer I can deal with the inconsistent grades, and not knowing if the school is really and truly doing everything they can to make my daughter's education a worthwhile endeavor.

So I'll be talking with the child psychologist tomorrow to see if I can figure out how to get an outside assessment done for reading disabilities, possible ADD and whatever else might be going on in her little brain.

Trying To Get Unstuck

I have gone back and re-read some of my old posts, looking to perfect them, as usual, and I am struck by some of the negativity and bitterness that I seem to be emanating. I need to find my humor again, and not get so wound up in I-hate-my-ex-husband bullshit and all of that. I need to get unstuck from this blackness I seem to be toting around, which is hard, considering I'm laying out of work for the third day straight on sick leave and the guv people I work with don't seem to understand how my sick leave works (old school, baby, which is I call in sick, and then I use my sick leave in eight hour increments without needing to report to other guv people because I have 800-plus hours of sick leave, but whatever) and also considering I'm watching something on TV about the black plague (should that be capitalized?) because I just don't want to watch Beverly Hills, 90210 again. Holy god, I must be sick if I can't bring myself to watch that. I was sick enough on Tuesday that I let my older daughter watch two full hours of The Real Housewives of Orange County, but I justified that to myself by watching it with her and then explaining that's not a very nice way to act. I also justified that by saying to myself that at least it wasn't the Bad Girls Club, or whatever that show about Hustler-Beaver wannabes is.

I need to enjoy that spring is upon us, spring is sprung and my ornamental cherry tree is blooming, and my dogwoods will be blooming and I'll finally know what color the blossoms are, since they had already bloomed and dropped their blossoms when I moved in last year. I need to be grateful that I don't have to pay taxes after all, and that I have sick leave to begin with. I need to be grateful that I have food in cabinet and food in the refrigerator, and that I have health insurance. I should be grateful that after a pseudo-start to my diet, this stuff I have seems to have knocked some weight off of me. Of course, driving my children around with an empty plastic grocery bag on my lap in case I puke is not quite the way I pictured my diet going, but I decided I would just pretend I'm bulimic and that kind of made it all better. Except I didn't binge beforehand because the thought of food makes me want to puke in and of itself. Maybe I should pretend I'm anorexic, then. I know if I drink any more Gatorade I'm going to die. I didn't like Gatorade to begin with - I like it even less now.

I need to quit whining and bitching and just get my ass unstuck and find my funny again.

10 Years, 10 Months, 24 Days

I am divorced. Officially, last week, the day after The Ex did depositions. Who the hell expected the Court to be so efficient that the paperwork would be signed off the following day? Must be a slow time of the year for divorces, what with the real estate market picking up for the spring. Actually, I am sure that has absolutely nothing to do with it. But really, I know how the court system work and this seems like it's Reno-expedient.

Counting the separation, the total length of time of my betrothal was 10 years, 10 months and 24 days. Sounds more like a prison sentence. I guess the separation can be considered my good time counted towards an early release. I guess I served about 85% of my time, in accordance with the Code of Virginia, give or take a little. The Ex called today to discuss the check he dropped off at daycare for the psychologists co-pay, and when the connection got a little fuzzy and I said I couldn't understand him, he made sure to mention he was up in my "old stomping grounds" and the cell reception was bad. Okay, dickface, it's not my old stomping grounds, it's where I grew up. The fact that I had texted him earlier about our older daughter being sick today apparently didn't register because he didn't ask about her and has not yet bothered to call back to see how she's doing. I thought that as time went on, and as the separation lengthened, I would come to despise him less and less. It's not happening. I am finding that I really despise him even more, especially for not being the father that I really thought he would be. I despise him for being selfish, I despise him for doing the things that he is doing to our children, and I despise him for just generally being a piece of shit.

I talked with my former neighbor today, my Other Mother, the neighbor who still lives right across the cul-de-sac from The Ex, and she explained why my older daughter is sick. He was washing his new sports car this weekend and let the children run around and play and splash barefoot in the ice-cold water from the outside spigot. So I suspect that my older daughter caught some kind of chill, because she generally feels bad, is flushed but is not running a fever, leading me to believe this isn't some kind of infection. That's cool, because like the potato project, Mommy will take care of this, too.

What struck me about the actual knowledge that I am divorced was how anticlimactic the entire thing was. The Ex told me over the phone it was finalized, which made me hate him even more because I wanted to get that information from anyone but him. I texted a girlfriend at work and had her look it up on the secret-squirrel-guv computers and she texted back, yes, I am a divorced woman. And that's when how anticlimactic the whole thing struck me as. From an ugly separation, the ugliest of which were accusations of kidnapping and the police getting involved, to sitting at home with a sick child and having that bastard nonchalantly mention he was in my old stomping grounds and that I should expect something from his lawyer in the mail because it was signed off on. I think I can safely say that his race to the alter has really begun in earnest now. I've thought about seeing if I can get some kind of private online pool going and email all of the Team Steph and coordinate a little something on his next date of matrimony. But really, he's not worth the effort, so I'll just fantasize about that.

Divorced. I'm still not sure what to make of it other than I'm sadly relieved it's over.

Taxes, Cheerleading (Again) and Some Bullshit With A Potato

Round #3 of taxes with my poor mother. Despite what I would classify as a lack of parenting skills while raising me, my mom can do some taxes. I was all ready to mail my taxes off last week, along with a check that I was trying to figure out how not to bounce, because really, how efficient can the guv be with checks coming in the mail? Will it be deposited the next day or next week? Of  course, that's the mystery in paying for anything with a check. I've discovered that with my debit card, there's a function similar to a check payment (which means it won't come out instantaneously), and that is called credit. If I want the money to come out right away, I will use it as a debit card. If I want the money to come out in a few days, maybe four or five days, depending on the store, I will use my card as a credit card. This is all new to me because I never had a debit card when I was married - I used the checkbook of that ill-fated joint checking account. So anyway, taxes. After accidentally stumbling upon a finance article whilst Yahooing this week (hell, yes, I Yahoo), I worked up the numbers in my head of the Making It Work deduction and realized that I just might not have to pay the feds after all. Back to mom's house to actually work it up on paper again this weekend, since I don't have a printer anymore. I am pleased to report that I will now receive a refund from the feds in the exact amount of $15.18. You have probably never seen someone get so ecstatic over fifteen freaking dollars. But whatever, because I don't have to pay with money I don't have. Thank you, Yahoo, for having that article on your finance page flash before my eyes on Tuesday morning. I don't think I can thank you enough.

The end-of-season basketball and cheerleading banquet was this weekend. The Ex sent the kids with his girlfriend since he apparently had to do a karate test or something. There was a movie that I can't remember the name of and one of the main characters always pronounced karate funny, and that's what I always think of when he mentions he's going to test for a belt or something. What I want to tell him is that I could care less about the karate or taekwondo thing, and it doesn't impress me. What would impress me would be if he were to actually show up at a parent-teacher conference or do the potato project (that I will discuss later). So The Girlfriend shows up 25 minutes late with the daughters and being that she doesn't have children, she looks totally mortified at the craziness of this banquet. I was polite, invited her to get something to eat and drink and found her a place to sit. She explained that she was late bringing the girls because she didn't know it would take so much time to round them up from playing and get them ready, although it was obvious to me a hairbrush had not touched their hair in the "getting ready" process. I felt badly for her because it took me about three years to figure out if I want to be somewhere on time with the children I need to start about two hours in advance. I think she's been thrusted into the weekend stepmother role and she doesn't quite know the ropes yet, kind of like taking a kid in middle school and dropping them into a PhD program. I try to remember that it's not her fault she's been lulled by The Ex's bullshit. I was there, too, once. I can empathize. At some point The Ex showed up and I noticed that he's gained some weight, and I felt an immense gratitude that I will never feel his hairy belly rubbing on me again. I didn't have a chance to pull my older daughter aside to talk to her about Friday night, but I asked her tonight what the deal was. She was upset that my younger daughter clocked her in the forehead.

A potato project was sent home in my older daughter's book bag on Wednesday night, and it basically says that the students have to decorate a potato "friend" and then come up with ten descriptive words that they will use later in the week for a writing assignment. Well, this was her weekend with The Ex, so I gave him the project assignment when he dropped the children off on Thursday night. This was for several reasons: I wouldn't have the children this weekend to do the potato project and we won't have time on Monday or Tuesday nights before it's due on Wednesday; The Ex is always saying he wants to be involved in projects and school work (which I know is complete bullshit because he doesn't even open the book bags on the weekends he has the children); and I wanted to see if he could actually rise to the challenge and get the project done. So he knew about the project in advance, had the assignment sheet and would have the children this weekend.

He texted about five minutes before the children were due to be home this evening and said that they didn't have a chance to do the potato project. Can anyone define pissed? That was me upon receiving that text. The older daughter comes bounding up the front porch steps with the potato in a plastic sandwich bag. He explains they didn't have time to get it done because the older daughter needed to learn the words to our national anthem, which was the other assignment I sent home with him on Thursday night. I waited until both the girls were in the house, and basically implied that he's worthless and don't worry, this is yet another thing I will take care of. He didn't even bring the assignment sheet back, so I insisted he go home and get it and bring it back, because I will take care of making sure the project is done. Did I mention that I told him that I would take care of this?

What remained unspoken were all of the other areas he has failed in, too. No need to beat the man to death. With one little brown spud, he's proven yet again that he really doesn't give a flying fuck. So the potato decoration has started, and we'll get it finished in time to be turned in on Wednesday, and I will also get the children's hair cut for picture day on Thursday, since I had asked him to do that, too.

To review, here's what I asked him to do for HIS children this weekend:
* Get their hair cut for picture day on Thursday. NOT accomplished.
* Take them to the cheerleading banquet. BARELY accomplished and wouldn't have been if it weren't for The Girlfriend. He gave me the option of picking them up and taking them to the banquet, but goddamn, it was his weekend and I already had to be there early to help set up for the pie sale. How about you step up, motherfucker?
* Give me a co-pay check for the older daughter's psychologist appointment on Tuesday morning. NOT accomplished.
* Learn the words to the national anthem. We'll review this in the morning on the way to before and after school care to see if she learned the words or not.
* Potato project. NOT accomplished.
* I had also hoped he would feed the girls dinner before bringing them home tonight. Not a requirement, but just kind of, feed your children, dickface, because that's responsible thing to do. NOT accomplished for the younger daughter because she was too busy playing Wii. That's okay, Mommy handled that, too.

And so we will start another week tomorrow. A week where NOT accomplished is NOT an option, at least for me.

More Stupid Stuff In My Head

Procrastinating about going to sleep, because, well, if I don't go to sleep then I won't have to get up in the morning and then I won't have to do all that shit that I need to do tomorrow. Like pack a bag to go to a conference and send my children off to my mother's for the night. But I'm only staying one night because the thought of being away from my children on school nights is giving me anxiety. I feel like this routine I've worked so hard to perfect since late August will be totally blown out of the water with if they spend more than one night with my mother. Or anyone for that matter. I'm totally fine with them going anywhere on the weekends, but week nights? School nights? I think not. I also think the separation anxiety I am having from being away for one school night is exacerbated by thinking they will have separation anxiety from me, although, I know realistically that's not it. What's really going on in my head is that I feel like their father has already fallen down on so many promises that if I am not there, they might worry I'm crapping out on them, too.

Taxes. How the FUCK did I go from being married and getting THOUSANDS of dollars back each year at tax time to owing the feds? How did that happen? I have six months of mortgage interest to claim, one child, daycare expenses, medical expenses, sales tax, anything my mother could find to itemize and I STILL OWE????? I am so incredibly pissed at myself for agreeing to let The Ex claim our younger daughter that it's not even funny. Greedy bastard. I guess that's the big fuck you I get for agreeing to him not paying child support, though in his defense (why do I even bother to defend him?) he does pay the younger daughter's child care and some other lightweight kind of stuff. But I'm still mad at myself. I suppose that's what ten years of being mistreated, harassed, stalked and condescended to will do to a person's willpower. I hope he catches gonorrhea.

My mother finished up the taxes yesterday and I signed the paperwork and was getting ready to slide the form in the envelope, seal it up and mail that puppy off. My mother says, "Um, you need to put a check in with that." I was like, "What?" She said I need to mail a check in with what I owe in with the actual tax filings. Huh? That is not how that was working in my head. In my head, I was going to mail the filing in, the guv people were going to review it for accuracy and mail me a bill for what I owed. I was then going to call the 1-800 number on the bill and work out a payment plan with the guv. Kind of like my student loans. I mean, they certainly didn't expect me to pay in full upon my college graduation. Why would taxes be any different? But apparently it is. So fuck again. I just won't mail that one in right now. We're not to the deadline anyway. But I did change my withholdings today. I changed from six exemptions to five, because I've figured in order to have money to feed my children, I'll have to crawl it back each year by one. I don't even know how I ended up with six exemptions to begin with, because I got a copy of my withholding form last week at work that I filled out back in 2005 after the younger daughter was born, and all of the numbers were right. That's the guv for you. Funny math and all where none of it adds up right on one form and all of it adds up right on another form and the two forms don't match when it's time to make the forms match.

I put a profile pic on my blog. It always pisses me off to read a book and I flip to the back cover to see what the author looks like and there's no picture. Hello, I want to know what you look like. Don't be recluse. I guess I need to do that, too. So until I change my mind, freak out and take the picture off, which might be tomorrow, here's what I look like, for that one person who reads my blog who might not actually know me personally.

The suspected East Coast Rapist has been caught. I got a little panicky last week after I saw one of the giant electronic billboards on I-95 with the profile up and I came home and looked it up on the web. I'm still on my news boycott, so I don't know much of what's going on if someone doesn't tell me or I don't see it on facebook. But panicky... I came home and immediately checked all of my windows, because my bedroom windows are low enough that when my children locked me out of my bedroom this past weekend, I ran around the back of the house with a screwdriver, popped the screen off and hoisted my younger daughter through the window to run and open Mommy's bedroom door. Thank god the window itself was already open because that would have required some additional effort on my part. But dropping my child in through the window... I didn't even have to hoist her up on my shoulders, I just lifted her up and dropped her in because the window is that low to the ground. I could have climbed in myself, but the neighbors were in their yard and I didn't want anyone to see how that worked. Of course, if the morons who lived in this house before me hadn't put an actual exterior door knob and locking mechanism on the master bedroom door, this would not have been an issue. My children already know simple lock picking, but we haven't gotten to the exterior locks yet. I was waiting until middle school to teach them about the tumblers.

But after I read about this East Coast Rapist, and I knew that however many victims they know about can probably be multiplied by two or three for the real count, I got a little panicky and rushed around and checked all of my doors and locks. Even though the chances were slim he would select my house, I know that there's another one right around the corner. Maybe literally, but I hope not. Kind of like when people get all riled up about school safety and scanning ID's of people going into the schools and oh my god, it could be a sex offender. Yeah, it could be. Probably won't be, but it could be. I always tell people that they don't really need to worry about a registered sex offender trying to get into a school because there's probably already one with full access to the school WHO HASN'T BEEN CAUGHT YET. But the stay-at-home moms and administrators never really like to hear that and their faces get all tight and squinchy when I say that. That's okay. I know it's true. Jut like all of the parents like to say there are no gangs in Midlothian. Sure. Maybe not like what you see on Gangland, but if there are no gangs in Midlothian, then who put the Gangster Disciple graffiti on the big Electric Company substation box across the street from the fancy new hospital with the bell tower and the marble lobby? Oh, wait, I forgot. GD stands for Growth and Development. My mistake.

And now, I've managed to waste an hour. Time to go pack up for this shindig tomorrow and try to make it through til Friday, when Guy #1 will come over and help me paint the kitchen, which was my big weekend project, except I'm so tired of running around doing shit for cheerleading that I really just kind of want a weekend of nothingness, interrupted only by the cheerleading and basketball banquet on Saturday afternoon that I need to finish making the Pie Sale signs for and bake some desserts. But if I go the painting route, which I won't because I just made up my mind I won't, I'm thinking I can paint and he can sit and watch because I'm kind of anal retentive about painting. Or maybe we'll just hop in the sack at three in the afternoon and see what shakes out. Holla!

Lunchtime Musings

I decided to change the title to my new column to Lunchtime Musings, because Lunchtime Trolling sounds too much like I'm trolling around on craigslist at lunch. Which I'm not, because the guv has blocked the good stuff on craigslist. And I haven't been trolling around on craigslist at all recently because I guess I just feel like it's more of the same. People looking to get laid. And I am no longer one of them, although let me just say I never looked for that on craigslist. No, no, no. I would not have touched craigslist with a former nameless president's dick, and god only knows where that thing has been.

Lara Logan. The East Coast Rapist. Mint.com. Five castles in France that cost less than an apartment in New York City. Farmville Herald obituaries. Former coworker's Livejournal (Ah-ha!). Christian bookstore website. LLBean. Wait, go back. Christian bookstores? Uh, what? No, I was not trying to find the secret link to the Christian Porn Network, or CPN as I like to call it, namely because it doesn't exist other than me trying to convince the telemarketer from the cable company that I needed that channel because HBO was too vulgar.

I was talking to a girlfriend a couple of years ago who has daughters roughly the same age as mine about when is the right time to talk about the birds and the bees. This girlfriend goes to church on the regular, and she was telling me that she got a set of books for different age groups for girls on the whole thing. The set starts off with a book about our bodies, modesty, etc, and then another book moves into puberty, and then at least one book for older girls about how a boy saying that he will die if he can't just stick it in for a minute is a damn LIE. Which boys never really grow out of, I've discovered.

I have no idea when to broach this subject with my kids. I've bought bad-touch-run-away-quickly-and-tell-a-grown-up-you-trust-right-away kind of books, but nothing that comes near to covering the birds and the bees. I know that this is something that I must tell them, because if I don't tell them then some other kid, at some point in time, will be available for a demonstration. I absolutely must beat that other kid to the punch. But when? The schools have started phasing this stuff in beginning in third grade, I think. It was fourth grade when I was growing up. They seperated all the boys and girls and herded us into separate classrooms to watch a film strip about our private parts. I distinctly remember this in fourth grade because it was my first year at Prince Edward and I was like, what is this about? I had absolutely no clue what was going on and my mother's inability to explain this shit to me didn't help. Looking back now, I think I could have gone another year without that information. Ultimately, I don't think that information was my downfall into promiscuity, beer drinking, experimental science fair drug usage and generalized hell-raising in high school, but I think I could have gone another year of my tender life without having been exposed to that information at that age. I will say that fourth grade seems old, unless you started school when you were four like me.

I look at my daughters, full of innocence and naivete, and I know they aren't ready for this information, even though my older daughter is starting to develop breasts and when she hits nine later this year I guess I can medically call her pre-pubescent. I have enough problems keeping them from being exposed to generalized sluttiness, all versions of Degrassi, and cheer organizations that not only buy uniforms that a stripper could wear, but hire an obscene amount of male coaches (why is that not weird to so many other moms?) Hello, get a fucking clue. There is a very specific reason that some men position themselves to work professionally in gyms with girls of this age range wearing leotards.

I don't know what I'll do when that special piece of paper comes home from school next year with my older daughter for "The Session About Our Bodies" or whatever they're calling sex education nowadays. Do I refuse and say maybe next year? Even if all of her friends are going, and me saying no will make her a pariah? Do I say yes even though I feel like it's too early because it's better to be armed with correct information than ignorance? Add drugs, alcohol, gangs, guns, internet safety and all the other shit kids have to deal with these days and my god, what a messy world we are sending our kids out into every day. And that was just generalized for kids. For my daughters, I will have the additional issues of birth control, date/acquaintance rape/sexual assault, sexual harassment, the glass ceiling, why it's okay to be smarter than boys, body image, eating disorders, girl bullying (which is FAR WORSE than what boys do to each other unless it's locker room tea-bagging), makeup, hormones.... Yeah, a lot of those are boy issues, too, but it's a whole other world out there for girls. I don't know if I'm ready for all of this, but I can't seem to get the calendar of life to slow down on me.

Stay Tuned

Since I am getting laid on the regular now (and correctly, too! Bonus!) I really have no desire to go trolling through craigslist looking for freakshows. I think I will be bringing in a new column to fill the gaps, and that column shall be called Lunchtime Trolling. I eat my lunch at my desk at work and just troll around on the internet. Well, to be honest, sometimes I'm not eating lunch because I've decided at 9:41am that the internet might be more interesting than my work, but that's another story. So I just spend 30 minutes or so farting around on the internet looking for random stuff to read. Except for adult content unless it's like that one time I clicked on random article on the Wikipedia website and ended up on anal bleaching. Oh my god, people do that? I guess instead of it being the chocolate starfish it's the bleachy starfish. Either way... N.A.S.T.Y.

So stay tuned... Lunchtime Trolling is coming your way.

The Other Collagen

Somehow tonight whilst trolling around on the internet, I stumbled across what has to be the most unbelievable thing I've seen all day on the internet. I spend a fair amount of my time trolling around out there, so I've seen some dumb shit. Like the Neo Nazi who posted a personal ad on craigslist tonight. He didn't specify that he was a Neo Nazi, but the four pics of men with the Heil pose kind of gave it away. Which makes me wonder if there's some kind of Neo Nazi compound up there in the Northern Neck somewhere. And really, I don't have the time to be writing this tonight, because I've got other shit I could be doing (not a man, unfortunately though, because I would.blow.this.off.for.some.dick) but I've discovered that if it's in my head, I need to go ahead and roll with it or I'll lose it. This has happened to me at work, especially, because I can't blog at work--good call, agency--when I'll be thinking about a great blog topic, I've got several paragraphs written in my head; it's profound, it's humorous, it's good, and then I actually have to do work and by the time I get home, do dinner, run to cheerleading practice, run back home, do hateful ass second grade homework, get the kids in bed, look at craigslist, blah blah blah, it's gone. Poof! Just gone. So I have to go with it right then.

Okay, so the thing tonight. The G-Shot. Yeah, a shot of collagen right in the g-spot. I am amazed, and even more amazed that I've looked at the g-spot article on wikipedia multiple times and haven't gotten the link to the G-Shot website. Step the game up, Wikipedia! Damn. I count on you for all of my incredibly accurate information, especially since I've decided to forego the news and stuff. I think this is supposed to be the female version of Viagra. Maybe. Basically, you get a shot of collagen in your g-spot, swells the g-spot up, which means that a man with junk the size of his pinkie finger could hit it, and bam! You are good to go. And, like the collagen that goes right in your other lips (up top), this lasts for about four months.

Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? I don't even want to know how much this costs, because this must be a complete waste of money. The only benefit to this is that when your g-spot gets all filled up with collagen, no one will notice that it can't smile right any more. Jesus Christ, women will pay for anything. Anything. Is nothing sacred anymore? Okay, from head to toe, here's all the stuff we'll do. A maintenance list, if you will.

1. Hair coloring - I can talk shit about this because I'm not there yet. Give me another few years, and hello, Clairol.
2. Wax/sugar/tweeze/thread/color the eyebrows - hurts like hell when you first start. Worst mistake a woman can do is shave them. Coloring the eyebrows is good if you are able to afford it and need to make sure it looks like the drapes match the carpet (which it usually doesn't). Don't get that stuff in your eyes or you might go blind.
3. Colored contact lenses - for when you want your eyes to match your purse.
4. Eyelash coloring - no shit, you can dye your eyelashes. A continuation of the drapes and carpet perpetration. Don't get that stuff in your eyes or you might go blind.
5. Cheek implants - so you can look like Joan Rivers.
6. Dental work - this is really too much to cover.
7. Chin implants - these go a long way to getting rid of that recessive chin a la the wife in American Gothic. You know, the famous painting of the guy holding the pitchfork? No, not the picture of Anton LaVey, the other one that you learned about in school. Maybe. Depending on where you went to school.
8. Other assorted facial plastic surgery - including botox and other stuff you can get shot into your face that prevents you from being able to have expressions.
8. Neck plastic surgery - I know there is some kind of technical word for this, but I'll just call it de-jowling. Removing the hanging skin that collects on women's necks as we get older.
9. Acrylic/Gel/Satin nails - okay, I do this. French manicure. And it looks hot.
10. Regular manicure stuff - I don't do this because I can rub lotion on my hands myself just fine, thanks.
11. Bingo wing removal - another technical term I don't know. This is the removal of the fat that hangs under a woman's arms and gets longer and hangier with age. Hence, bingo wings.
12. Breast implants and lifts - because life is better with a C or D cup, right? Because life is better with a C or D cup that doesn't hang, right? Actually not, because I have a nice set of C cups, down from D cups due to my weight loss, and my girls got big enough at one point in time that I was pretty self-conscious of them. Helloooo, my face is up here.
13. Rib removal - yes, take out an extra rib so that you will be even more anorexic looking. Everyone wants to be a size -4. Uh, not me and those women look nasty. God, eat a taco or ten.
14. Liposuction/tummy tuck - okay, I've actually thought about this one. Stretch marks are a bitch, and I know it's not just in my mind. 
15. Pube removal - shave, wax, electrolysis. This means you will need to maintain it once a week or more, once a month, or never. Respectively.
16. Vajazzling - I think I've already discussed this to death. You get it.
17. The G-Shot - for women who are so uptight they can't get over that speed bump in their minds. Or they have husbands who don't know what the fuck they're doing. Or a little bit of both. Just to be a complete cunt (oh my god, did I use that word?) I try to seek these women out and engineer a conversation with them about how fabulously multi-orgasmic I am. Seriously. I do this. The conversation and the other thing.
18. Liposuction on the thighs - I think this is pretty self-explanatory.
19. Spider vein and varicose vein eradication - sounds kind of like termite control, doesn't it? I'm not there yet for this, either.
20. Other assorted hair removal on the legs, pits, back, whatever - same methods as previously mentioned. And Nair, because every woman should chemically melt hair off of their bodies at least once in their lives. Don't get that stuff in your eyes or you might go blind.
21. Pedicures - because I'm convinced that manicured toes look better than non-manicured toes propped up on someone's shoulders.
22. Other stuff that I don't know the real name of - getting your shit tightened up and claiming it's "bladder repair". Yeah, right. Nice way to cover it up for the insurance company. I had a girlfriend do this. Rest easy, men, they really can throw an extra stitch or four up in there. Oh yeah, and colon cleansing and stuff that makes you crap out most of the molecules of your body, including your brain.
23. Massages - a legitimate way to get fondled by a complete stranger and pay for it. I've done this, too. I was quite annoyed that he didn't look like Brad Pitt.
24. Spray tans - okay, I did this once. It was cheesy. You stand there bare-assed naked while some woman spray paints you orange with an airbrush gun, or whatever it's called.
25. Hair and eyelash extensions - oops, I forgot about them. What a waste of money.
26. Ass implants - so you can have a big old bubble butt. To save money, my suggestions would be to either eat a lot of fried chicken or hit the StairMaster. The first option seems like so much more fun.

I'm sure this isn't the whole list, but these are our options. Good grief. Plus makeup, hair care products, jewelry, clothing, shoes, purses, belts, key chains, birth control, monogram stickers for our cars, pole dancing lessons, personal trainers, yoga mats, diet pills, this list just goes on and on. It's no wonder men think we're so high maintenance. Because we are, and they love it.

Sick Day

I called in sick this morning, but not because I'm just trying to lay out of work for the day, but because I'm actually sick. Like, running a fever kind of sick. I think that part has passed, but I still don't feel really well. This was actually the perfect day to call in, too, because The Ex is dropping the children at home tonight, so I don't have to leave the house at all. Having to leave the house when you're sick is horrible, especially if it involves anything to do with children. Hell, having to take care of children when you're sick is horrible, but thank god mine are getting old enough that I don't have to supervise their every move. This doesn't mean that they won't destroy the house, but they are at the age that they know you can't drink the hand sanitizer. And yeah, that really happened one time. Hello, Poison Control.

I think this might be the first time I've called in sick all year. I'm trying to remember, and I've called in getting a divorce, called in the cops showed up at my house yesterday and I can't deal with coming in, I've called in Verizon sucks and I'm waiting on the tech to show up, I've called in my older daughter broke her arm and wrist and has surgery today, and I've called in that the anesthesiologist actually gave me gorilla tranquilizer and I just can't stand up yet. Luckily for me (but maybe not for her), my boss's husband left her a few years ago and she's a single mom and understands all of this. While I wasn't necessarily sick, I necessarily needed to be at home on all of those days, though on two of those days it was because I was a complete train wreck.

This is all vastly different from the kind of sick calling in that I've done in the past. That kind of calling in was usually related to 1) I just stumbled in the door at 3:39am from a hard night of drinking and I can't come in because I'm still drunk, 2)  I stayed up all night in some variety of compromising position and I can't come in today because I'll be doing the same thing all day long in between napping, 3) I need a mental health day and plan to spend the entire day camped out in front of the TV doing internet shopping (which is very similar to I plan on spending the whole day at Potomac Mills because I'm pretty sure no one from work will spot me there), and 4) I am legitimately ill and you will have a doctor's note on your desk first thing tomorrow morning.

The reason I don't call in sick is because my sick time accrues from year to year. I took two complete maternity leaves on full paid sick leave, and I've been working to build my time back up. I'm up to about 800 hours of sick leave now, which I figure is money in the bank, because the guv provides no severance package, and they have to pay me for my accrued time. I also have no short term or long term disability, so it's stupid not to keep track of your time and keep some in the "time bank" as I call it. When I call in sick, I usually use my vacation leave, because I earn a lot of that, too, and the people I work for are wise to the old trick of not using any time all year long and then being told that the employee needs to take the whole month of December off. That actually worked with one boss, but it only worked that one year. And it wasn't the whole month, but more like two weeks. I didn't like that boss, so screwing her right at December was really more like an extra Christmas gift to me. I'm running out of my excess vacation leave, so today might actually be a real sick day for me. I used three days of sick leave in June when I had my operation, and didn't even bother to get a note. Policy says that if we're out more than three days, we have to provide a doctor's note. I forgot, what with having my belly button glued shut and all, and when I got back to work I asked my boss if she would need a note. She thought about it, and while she was thinking about, I ran down to my office and pulled my awards from the last three years off the wall that congratulate me for not using ANY sick time, and I ran back down to her office. I quick laid them out on her desk, and I said, I don't think I've really demonstrated any pattern of leave abuse. Do you? And she said she wouldn't need a doctor's note. Yeah, I thought so.

My plan for today is to watch a little TV, sleep a little more, and try to coax my new cat out of the basket under my coffee table so I can work on socializing her a little. She's spent the last several years living in my neighbor's garage with limited house rights, so I'm pretty sure that she'll actually like living in the house if she ever comes out from her hiding spot. Not only that, but that's my sofa blanket basket and if the cat keeps living in that basket, I'm going to have to wash the blankets every week so they don't turn into cat-hair cashmere. I need to get better today, because I have to go back to work tomorrow, since I'll miss Wednesday for a training session. Not only that, I haven't finished all of my September work yet and I don't want September to overlap into October the way August overlapped into September. And, one of my co-workers is going out on maternity leave in November, and I'm extremely confident I'm going to get stuck with her shit. No one has told me this yet, but I'm not stupid. It's all good, though, because I can knock it out. I'll get over this nasty head cold/sinus infection and I'll be back in fighting form tomorrow. And some of the people I work with? They'll wish I was still sick.

That Day

Today is *that* day. If you don't know what I'm talking about, check the date out. I feel some really strange sense of personal obligation to write something about that day, but I don't quite know why. Of course, facebook being facebook, it's full of statuses about that day, people posting up flags and remembrances and other stuff about never forgetting. Maybe this is my way to acknowledge that I remember without reducing it to a one or two line commentary. I've actually worked pretty hard not to read or ingest those statuses today, because I didn't want it to cloud what I've had brewing in my head about what I planned on writing.

I'm not going to get into where I was or what I was doing, other than to say I was at work and it was a gorgeous September day in Central Virginia, where the prospect of football games on crisp fall nights, the taste of cotton candy and funnel cakes from the local fair, and the impending leaf turning was hanging in the air. Quite frankly, everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing, if they had access to any type of media source. Internet, telephone, TV, radio, didn't matter. You knew what was going on. I remember thinking about a Twilight Zone episode I had seen when I was in middle or high school, where this woman finds some magical amulet where she can stop time, and in the course of the episode, she stops time as a nuclear bomb is arching towards America, thus stopping the bomb. And that was the end of the episode, one of those great TV episodes that leaves the viewer with more questions and what-ifs than they started with. We don't have enough TV like that anymore, but that's a whole other topic.

I also remember feeling this huge impending panic attack within myself, thinking, is this it? Is this the end of us? Is this what I read about in history for all of these years, what the sheer panic of a nuclear attack feels like? Holy fuck, I'm really close to Washington, D.C. (in a grand sense, like I'm closer than someone in Montana is closer). But then I calmed myself down and tried to recall that we have some awesome nuclear defenses, and besides, we weren't currently bickering with the Motherland and I don't think Iran had enough juice at the time to get one all the way over here. It was one of those incredibly rare moments in time for me as an American, because I suddenly felt like I knew what it felt like to live in Beirut, or some other faraway locale that had been terrorized forever and a day. I understood the shock, the fear, the questions.

I think that for my parent's generation, for my generation, maybe the generation behind me, this was our Pearl Harbor. This was our shot heard 'round the world. And unlike Pearl Harbor, and World War I, we watched this one on TV, live. We heard about missing airlines. We heard the call of the military to scramble and shoot down our planes. We wondered if we knew anyone flying that day, and wondered if someone we knew would be shot down by someone else we knew, or someone that we knew through someone else. We heard about people jumping from the towers, and some of us tried not to watch in horror. But we couldn't not watch. We wondered if we knew any of those people, those people who would be missing forever from our lives because several of our biggest engineering creations just ameliorated into themselves, two of them completely. We heard about the grounding of all commercial aircraft and that the borders were closed. We heard that Al Gore and so many others that we might have known were trying frantically trying not to get stuck in Canada or wherever else might have been. We took a little solace in knowing where that last plane ended up, and a little more solace in knowing that the American spirit brought it down in the end, doing it our way, goddammit. We wondered who did this? Where did this come from? We sat about, slumped in front of TVs, and radios, and computers and we knew instinctively, intuitively, that everything that we knew as Americans had just changed. Our world had tilted on it's axis, and it would never quite settle itself back into the exact same spot. As a country, as a culture and a people, we lost our naivete that day.

Nine years later, and where the hell are we? We've sent a lot of our men and women off to some far away sandy place, and I'm not talking about the beach, and we've watched as some of them have come back in coffins and some have come back not like they went. And for real, we can't undo that, and we can't make up for that. In my opinion, we ultimately should have had just one goal - find the motherfucker who orchestrated this and kill him, and maybe knock off a couple of his lieutenants as well. But it morphed into different goals. We invaded an old enemy and killed him, maybe just to make up for our inability of not being able to find the real and current enemy and kill him. We managed to completely destabilize a region that was actually somewhat stable before we arrived. We managed to shove democracy off on a part of the world that doesn't want democracy, that doesn't respect democracy. Democracy is not for everyone. If it were, the entire world would already be there. They've had hundreds of years or more to embrace this concept and haven't done it yet. We are not going to make it happen in x amount of time.

For the first five or so years afterwards, I actually got pretty depressed around this time of year, probably because I remembered without the media having to remind me, but well, that's the media. It's all about ratings. In retrospect, now that I've gotten a few more years under my belt, I just feel sad in some almost hopeless kind of way. I feel sad that we've resorted to strip-searching our grandmothers in airports. I feel sad that there is still a hole in the ground in New York and we've maybe lost the essence of it because we're so busy bickering over what to do with it. I feel sad for the children who will grow up without parents because they were either lost in the attacks or because they were lost overseas, some physically and some emotionally. Alternately, I feel angry that we can send an unmanned rover to Mars or some other planet but we can't find some motherfucker hiding in the mountains of Afghanistan. I feel angry that this might have started out as our Pearl Harbor, but it might just be ending up as yet another Vietnam, where we just rush the hell out of there from the rooftop of an embassy because something somewhere has gone terribly wrong.

So, yeah, to sum things up: I remember. We all do, because we can't not remember it and we can't not remember how things were before.