Here it is:
1. I saw a few little blurbs on facebook tonight about an impending global disaster, which will then bring forth a food shortage, the likes of which have never been seen before. People blabbing about how they've been stockpiling food for the past year, how much a 50 pound bag of rice costs, how much rice can sustain a person for x amount of time, so on and so forth. Huh? Okay, I'm still on my news moratorium, except it's starting to creep back in because I have found myself checking the local newspaper website a few times a day. I don't like that I'm creeping back over to obsessing about the news, because it only brings me anxiety, but I'm finding it hard to stop. So a food shortage? Holy shit, should I be stockpiling food too? What should I buy? Just a few cans here and there? Peaches or pears? I mean, it probably doesn't matter because you'll eat anything when you're starving. Where should I put the food I start to stockpile? Attic or crawl space? Although, it's not really a crawl space for me, because I'm short. So it's a stand space for me. I have shelving in my crawl space, but maybe I should move the shelving to the attic. Nah, the temperature extremes in the attic probably wouldn't do good. So maybe I'll start to buy three or four cans of shit on sale per week and stocking up. I'm not sure if this is just fearmongering to the extreme, so I've sent a message off to Uncle Finance (not Uncle Hippy!) through Uber Aunt and we'll see what he says. Should I stockpile water, too? I'm never sure about the water thing. I've only stockpiled water once, during a hurricane when the county water source was compromised. And that stockpiling consisted of me filling up the bathtub.
2. Made it through a year with Guy #1. We recently celebrated one year since we started dating, and guess what? Got engagement? Don't worry, I don't. Lots of discussion and chatter amongst our various friends about when that time will come, I suppose because for a lot of people, that one year mark is "it". Nope, not for me right now. We've settled into something right, something that is so right that I can't even find the words to describe it, other than it's righter than anything I've ever had before. We talk about when "the" time will come and he knows that I'm not ready. I *just* got divorced, and really, I'm enjoying having my own house where I'm in charge all of the time and no arguments about what I want to do in my house. Ten years of a shitty marriage, constant bickering and power struggles will really make you appreciate not arguing all of the time. The few times that Guy #1 and I have argued, it's been really nice that we can just go to our separate houses and not have to be together (in that moment in time, at least). And for real, this man is a k.e.e.p.e.r. of the first order. Any man who can stand twelve feet up in the air on a ladder and pull start a gas powered blower to clean my gutters out is the man for me. Or maybe that's just the firefighter in him, I don't know. But as I wake up every morning and go to sleep every night, I know that I am loved, and appreciated and cherished. That's some powerful shit. I've had a few men that I've encountered over the years tell me later that I was the one who slipped away. And guess what? Guy #1 will not be one of those men. If you've got something good, then don't let it slip away.
3. My older daughter got glasses this past week, and also had her tonsils taken out. So she gave a little and got a little. Two days after surgery, just when I knew that we had bid a fond farewell to strep throat, guess who go strep throat? My younger daughter. Are you kidding me? However, I've gotten so good at diagnosing that shit that we marched right off to the doctor's office, who promptly examined the child and pronounced that she did not have strep throat. Until the nurse poked her head in the examination room and whispered the strep test was positive. DO NOT QUESTION THE MOTHER!!!!! Dammit, we know what we're talking about! I wanted to tell the doctor if I was drug-seeking, and if I were to use my children to seek out drugs, it sure as hell wouldn't be an antibiotic. Just give me the damn prescription and let me be on my way. The older daughter likes her glasses, though. I secretly tried them out after she went to bed the other night and they seem more like magnifying glasses to me. It's just for reading, so maybe that's all they are is magnifying glasses wrapped up in a pretty Candie's frame with hearts on them. Being that she's still reading below grade level, I am slightly hopeful they will help, but I'm not holding my breath. I've diagnosed this as the most minor of all reading disabilities, because her fluency is below grade level, but her comprehension is on par. Plus, she's actually absorbing the reading because she reads a chapter out loud and then I ask her to tell me about what she read and ask her questions, and she's on the money every time, which means she's not just saying the words. She's actually reading and absorbing. I have pretty much stopped expecting the school to address it, because she's one of a thousand students in her school (holy fuck, that's a big elementary school!!!) and I'll just have to figure this out as we go along. And her grades are good (other than reading fluency). So go figure.
4. Not-so-nice things with The Ex. If you read my last shortest of all posts, you'll know that things are getting ugly on the visitation side of the custody thing. Instead of just heading right to the courthouse today to file for a hearing (as I threatened him with last night), I called my attorney today. I'm waiting on a call back, and maybe a strongly worded letter from her will set things right. In the meanwhile, though, I've printed up every email and begun transcribing all of our text messages and every other kind of communication. I think I've known for a while it was going to come to this, and that alone saddens me because I don't want to be in a place where I have to sit down every day and write everything down. I just don't. It's stupid and I hate it, and it makes me feel like I am still stuck in this strange, demilitarized zone of our divorce. I felt like for most of the marriage I was raising another child (and not doing it very well because it's hard to go back and correct 30-some years of fucked up parenting) and now I just feel like I'm his supervisor and I've ramped up the documentation in a last ditch effort of getting rid of him. But this is what I have to do right now. I look at my gorgeous, funny and most sweetest daughters, and I wonder how in the world the two best things that ever happened to me resulted from what is undoubtedly my biggest mistake. This paradox is not lost on me, believe me.
5. I called my stepsister tonight to let her know that my daughter's birthday gift arrived and she answered the phone sobbing. This would be the stepsister that I still speak to, if you hadn't figured that out. And for that one milli-second in time, I thought to myself, "Oh, shit, why did I call her tonight?" You know it's bad when that's the first thing you think upon hearing the other person. She went on to tell me, between sobs, that she's been diagnosed with a chronic, progressive pain disease thing that not a whole lot of people know about (that whole lot of people would actually be me). Ultimately (per my favorite medical source, Wikipedia) and in the extreme worse case scenario, it can lead to amputation of the affected limb. Except this shit is in her back. Yep, no such thing as a back amputation. Horrible, right? But here's the rub - this stepsister has been getting progressively fruitier over the years, much like her mother, Mothbrain, and I'm not sure how much of this is just maybe her need for drama. I feel badly for her, certainly, because she's states away and no family nearby to help her out, but at the same time, I'm like, "What?" It was after that phone conversation when I realized that my drama is really garden variety, and for real, I have no reason to complain about anything. And so, I won't. I've still got a leak in my roof (contract signed, repairs not for another two months due to hurricane backlog), I've still got bills I'm going to pay late, I still owe my younger daughter a bike for her birthday, I'm still going to get fucked on taxes this year because I can't go from six withholdings to zero in one year, I'm still not going to know if I should stockpile spaghetti sauce or just plain tomato sauce, I'm still not going to be able to figure out how to tell the world that saying "Holy Shart!" is way funnier than saying "Holy Shit!", but in the grand scheme of things.... Life is good. My children are healthy, my family is healthy, I am healthy, (knock on wood because I'm terribly superstitious about jinxing myself) and that's all that really matters.
Showing posts with label Mothbrain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mothbrain. Show all posts
Friday, November 18, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
Annoyance Management
This started out titled as "Anger Management" but I don't consider my anger management problem to really be my problem. It would be the problem of those around me, except I refuse to not be accountable at this stage in my life. And old age does things to anger, like whittle it down to just sheer annoyance that is oh so slightly flavored with a little anger. I actually think this is worse, because I can read books and get counseling and shit for anger management. But annoyance? I'm thinking there's not a fucking thing I can do for that.
This week's annoyances:
1. I am annoyed that The Ex got married on Saturday morning (his weekend) and promptly pushed the children off on the older daughter's cheer director on Saturday afternoon for the rest of the weekend because I told him I was not available to have the children. Blame that on Mommy, I suppose, is how that whole conversation went down right before he tossed them out of the moving vehicle in front of the cheer director's house so he could rush home to have his normal two-minute sex marathon with a woman who reminds me of my stepmother. Although, his new wife is probably way smarter and saner than my stepmother.
2. I am annoyed that the cheer director then dragged the children off to football games and made the older daughter cheer. I think being involved in a rehearsal dinner the night before, morning wedding and afternoon reception were enough for the child, especially when the younger daughter was given the option of not playing football for her team. Again, my fault for having plans.
3. I am annoyed that the cheer director then let the children stay up until ten o'clock on a Saturday night knowing full fucking well that they had to get up at six-ish to get ready for the cheer competition. Hellooooo, my children are NOT trainwrecks because I make them go to bed at 8:30 every night.
4. I am annoyed that the following morning, at the cheer competition, the cheer director was not able to run up and down the bleachers because her knees are bad and so I had to be the one to go to the coach's meeting and do the music check. If you can't run up and down bleachers, maybe you should reconsider coaching and directing anything athletic. I felt catty and pissy and thus sprinted up and down the bleachers with great aplomb, taking two steps at a time on my way up each time. Two steps at a time on the way down is a big no-no for me.
5. I am annoyed that my older daughter's dance routine was a complete bomb, and because one girl's parents announced two days before the competition they were going out of town, there was no time to do substitutes in the stunt portion. We only had eight girls to begin with, and trust me, teaching second and third graders how to do cheer stunts is actually much more complicated than one would think. I don't care what anyone says - cheerleading is much more dangerous than most people give it credit for being. If anyone should have helmets and padding on, it should be the cheerleaders. So anyway, the stunt portion went right out the window, and the girls didn't have enough time to learn the adjustments in the dance. And it showed.
6. I am annoyed that the cheer director then felt it necessary to tell my older daughter that her team got the lowest scores in the competition, amongst all the other same-age teams for that division. Um, are you kidding me? Why the fuck would you tell a child that? Just because you feel bad about yourself doesn't make it okay to make other people feel bad about themselves, too. That was the precise moment in time that I knew: we won't be returning to this athletic association next year, if this same cheer director is involved. We've got a whole county to pick from, and dammit, I can bully someone into signing the free agent waiver. I also knew at that precise moment this is when I begin to back away from this woman and limit my children's activities with her, and by limit I actually mean exclude. I already know which athletic association we're going to but my older daughter and I talked, and I told her we're obligated to finish out this season with our current association, and she's fine with that. One game left, bitches!
7. I am supremely annoyed (the highest level of all annoyances) that The Ex started talking to the children last spring about taking them to Disney World this summer. I was not surprised when he didn't do it, and instead took them to the beach. That's cool, because I know that Disney World is not cheap, and I know they enjoyed the beach. I also hope that his girlfriend slept in the same bed with him, because when he and I went to the beach the year before I said I wanted out, I refused to sleep in the same bed with him. It was a double bed and I didn't want to accidentally touch him while I was sleeping. Gee, and he wondered later why I thought the marriage was a failure. I am positive it was just him, because Guy #1 and I had to sleep in a double bed while we were on vacation and I didn't even notice it was a double bed for the first four days. I'd cram my big ass up in a twin sized bed with Guy #1, for real-for real. But anyway, if you talk to your kids about taking them to Disney World, and then don't do it, then don't FUCKING tell them that you're going there on your honeymoon! I mean, for God's sake, that is just a shithead narcissistic move. Period. That's about him trying to get attention from his kids and have them oooohhhh and ahhhhh over how great it is that Daddy went to Disney World. What a complete douchebag.
8. And lastly, I am minorly annoyed about the whole roof repair thing. Finally got someone to give me a quote - yay! But they can't guarantee any repairs will be actually done before the end of the year - boo! Fuck.
9. Oh, yeah, I forgot one. This will be the pettiest of all of my annoyances, but I can own that. The Ex changed his facebook status as he was walking back down the aisle (I'm sure of that, because it's.all.about.the.attention.here), and who leaves a congratulatory message on his wall but my damn uncle! No! Uncle Hippy, you do not leave congratulatory messages on your only niece's ex-husband's facebook wall when he gets remarried six motherfucking months after getting divorced! That is just one great big HELL NO! Are you freaking kidding me? I've overlooked his fruitcake politics for all of these years, but damn! I'm sorry, but I have to draw the line somewhere and decide what I'm willing to put up with and what I'm not. And this is not something I'm willing to take lying down. Effective tomorrow, I will be signing him up for every conservative and ultra-conservative website I can find. Payback's a bitch, you know?
This week's annoyances:
1. I am annoyed that The Ex got married on Saturday morning (his weekend) and promptly pushed the children off on the older daughter's cheer director on Saturday afternoon for the rest of the weekend because I told him I was not available to have the children. Blame that on Mommy, I suppose, is how that whole conversation went down right before he tossed them out of the moving vehicle in front of the cheer director's house so he could rush home to have his normal two-minute sex marathon with a woman who reminds me of my stepmother. Although, his new wife is probably way smarter and saner than my stepmother.
2. I am annoyed that the cheer director then dragged the children off to football games and made the older daughter cheer. I think being involved in a rehearsal dinner the night before, morning wedding and afternoon reception were enough for the child, especially when the younger daughter was given the option of not playing football for her team. Again, my fault for having plans.
3. I am annoyed that the cheer director then let the children stay up until ten o'clock on a Saturday night knowing full fucking well that they had to get up at six-ish to get ready for the cheer competition. Hellooooo, my children are NOT trainwrecks because I make them go to bed at 8:30 every night.
4. I am annoyed that the following morning, at the cheer competition, the cheer director was not able to run up and down the bleachers because her knees are bad and so I had to be the one to go to the coach's meeting and do the music check. If you can't run up and down bleachers, maybe you should reconsider coaching and directing anything athletic. I felt catty and pissy and thus sprinted up and down the bleachers with great aplomb, taking two steps at a time on my way up each time. Two steps at a time on the way down is a big no-no for me.
5. I am annoyed that my older daughter's dance routine was a complete bomb, and because one girl's parents announced two days before the competition they were going out of town, there was no time to do substitutes in the stunt portion. We only had eight girls to begin with, and trust me, teaching second and third graders how to do cheer stunts is actually much more complicated than one would think. I don't care what anyone says - cheerleading is much more dangerous than most people give it credit for being. If anyone should have helmets and padding on, it should be the cheerleaders. So anyway, the stunt portion went right out the window, and the girls didn't have enough time to learn the adjustments in the dance. And it showed.
6. I am annoyed that the cheer director then felt it necessary to tell my older daughter that her team got the lowest scores in the competition, amongst all the other same-age teams for that division. Um, are you kidding me? Why the fuck would you tell a child that? Just because you feel bad about yourself doesn't make it okay to make other people feel bad about themselves, too. That was the precise moment in time that I knew: we won't be returning to this athletic association next year, if this same cheer director is involved. We've got a whole county to pick from, and dammit, I can bully someone into signing the free agent waiver. I also knew at that precise moment this is when I begin to back away from this woman and limit my children's activities with her, and by limit I actually mean exclude. I already know which athletic association we're going to but my older daughter and I talked, and I told her we're obligated to finish out this season with our current association, and she's fine with that. One game left, bitches!
7. I am supremely annoyed (the highest level of all annoyances) that The Ex started talking to the children last spring about taking them to Disney World this summer. I was not surprised when he didn't do it, and instead took them to the beach. That's cool, because I know that Disney World is not cheap, and I know they enjoyed the beach. I also hope that his girlfriend slept in the same bed with him, because when he and I went to the beach the year before I said I wanted out, I refused to sleep in the same bed with him. It was a double bed and I didn't want to accidentally touch him while I was sleeping. Gee, and he wondered later why I thought the marriage was a failure. I am positive it was just him, because Guy #1 and I had to sleep in a double bed while we were on vacation and I didn't even notice it was a double bed for the first four days. I'd cram my big ass up in a twin sized bed with Guy #1, for real-for real. But anyway, if you talk to your kids about taking them to Disney World, and then don't do it, then don't FUCKING tell them that you're going there on your honeymoon! I mean, for God's sake, that is just a shithead narcissistic move. Period. That's about him trying to get attention from his kids and have them oooohhhh and ahhhhh over how great it is that Daddy went to Disney World. What a complete douchebag.
8. And lastly, I am minorly annoyed about the whole roof repair thing. Finally got someone to give me a quote - yay! But they can't guarantee any repairs will be actually done before the end of the year - boo! Fuck.
9. Oh, yeah, I forgot one. This will be the pettiest of all of my annoyances, but I can own that. The Ex changed his facebook status as he was walking back down the aisle (I'm sure of that, because it's.all.about.the.attention.here), and who leaves a congratulatory message on his wall but my damn uncle! No! Uncle Hippy, you do not leave congratulatory messages on your only niece's ex-husband's facebook wall when he gets remarried six motherfucking months after getting divorced! That is just one great big HELL NO! Are you freaking kidding me? I've overlooked his fruitcake politics for all of these years, but damn! I'm sorry, but I have to draw the line somewhere and decide what I'm willing to put up with and what I'm not. And this is not something I'm willing to take lying down. Effective tomorrow, I will be signing him up for every conservative and ultra-conservative website I can find. Payback's a bitch, you know?
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Love Thy Ex
Okay, that's a total lie. I think we all know I DO NOT love that bastard. I would love for him to stop being a douchebag, is what I would love. I would love for him to just voluntarily pay child support a couple of times a year, as a show of good faith, since I voluntarily did not ask for child support. I would love for him to go to therapy. I mean, it wouldn't do any good, but again - good faith. I would love for him to pay the children's medical copays in advance, especially since the health insurance is paid in advance, and without making me have to ask for reimbursement. I would love, love, love for him to see his children when he is supposed to, and I would love for him to come to their football games, cheerleading events, doctor's visits, school activities and various practices. But I will stop now, because this could just go on and on. And on. And on some more.
He is getting married this weekend coming up. Because this is apparently the best way to celebrate getting a divorce. I had to chuckle tonight, because the older daughter called him on the way home after the football games, and he's out of town - bachelor's weekend, I suppose - and he made a point to tell my older daughter that The Fiancee is lonely at home. First of all, why would you tell your child that? Secondly, I thought to myself, this is just the beginning for this poor woman. She has no idea what she's in store for. I wonder if she knows that he's made an effort on more than one occasion to tell me where the spare key to his house is so I can just stop by when I need to and let myself into their house to get stuff that the children have left over there. Not that I would do that, because that would be the beginning of me being charged with Breaking and Entering, but I have given some thought to just cracking the door ever so slightly and setting a squirrel lose in there. I can only imagine the havoc that would be wreaked by the dog if that happened. I like to fantasize that their house would look kind of like the house in Home Alone, but at the end of the movie.
It's good to dream, I suppose.
The children are dealing with all of this pretty well, and seem to be very excited about the wedding. I, too, am excited. Because if I decide to ever ask for child support, the fact that he makes more money than me and will have a double income will certainly make it easier for me. But for real, I know I probably won't do that. Even though I can, being that his attorney forgot to put the "forever and ever" clause in that part of the divorce agreement and my attorney said we wouldn't mention that it was left out. My greatest concern is that this marriage of his will fall apart in about five years and this woman who my children have gotten so attached to will disappear from their lives. Really, I like her. I like her a hell of a lot more than I like him, and if I had my druthers, I would just deal with her exclusively. This is actually a much better situation than if I didn't like whomever was going to be my children's First Stepmother. Better that I like her than hate her. And that shall be her new blog name, come next week. First Stepmother. Kind of reminds me of my first stepmother, except my children's First Stepmother really is more like my second stepmother, also affectionately known as Mothbrain. I just went back and read that and it sounds a little West Virginny. We'll just wrap it up, then.
He is getting married this weekend coming up. Because this is apparently the best way to celebrate getting a divorce. I had to chuckle tonight, because the older daughter called him on the way home after the football games, and he's out of town - bachelor's weekend, I suppose - and he made a point to tell my older daughter that The Fiancee is lonely at home. First of all, why would you tell your child that? Secondly, I thought to myself, this is just the beginning for this poor woman. She has no idea what she's in store for. I wonder if she knows that he's made an effort on more than one occasion to tell me where the spare key to his house is so I can just stop by when I need to and let myself into their house to get stuff that the children have left over there. Not that I would do that, because that would be the beginning of me being charged with Breaking and Entering, but I have given some thought to just cracking the door ever so slightly and setting a squirrel lose in there. I can only imagine the havoc that would be wreaked by the dog if that happened. I like to fantasize that their house would look kind of like the house in Home Alone, but at the end of the movie.
It's good to dream, I suppose.
The children are dealing with all of this pretty well, and seem to be very excited about the wedding. I, too, am excited. Because if I decide to ever ask for child support, the fact that he makes more money than me and will have a double income will certainly make it easier for me. But for real, I know I probably won't do that. Even though I can, being that his attorney forgot to put the "forever and ever" clause in that part of the divorce agreement and my attorney said we wouldn't mention that it was left out. My greatest concern is that this marriage of his will fall apart in about five years and this woman who my children have gotten so attached to will disappear from their lives. Really, I like her. I like her a hell of a lot more than I like him, and if I had my druthers, I would just deal with her exclusively. This is actually a much better situation than if I didn't like whomever was going to be my children's First Stepmother. Better that I like her than hate her. And that shall be her new blog name, come next week. First Stepmother. Kind of reminds me of my first stepmother, except my children's First Stepmother really is more like my second stepmother, also affectionately known as Mothbrain. I just went back and read that and it sounds a little West Virginny. We'll just wrap it up, then.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Just Because
Flowers were delivered to me yesterday at work, along with an awesome lunch. And a Coke. And a smile. And yes, they were from Guy #1, delivered personally. I need to come up with another name for him, to go along with all of my other capitalized names, but I am struggling on this a bit. I mean, I have The Ex, Mothbrain, Mrs. Second Grade Teacher, Mr. So-and-So from daycare, The Daycare Nazi (Mr. So-and-So's mom) and a few others here and there. There was Emotional Cancer, but he only got that capitalization once, because he didn't deserve capitalization more than that, and then there might be The Girlfriend, because I think The Ex's girlfriend will probably be mentioned more and more, unless she becomes The Wife. But I don't think The Wife will be the right title for her. I will probably go with The Third Wife, because that just seems so much more descriptive and telling of his First Two Epic Failures. So technically this would make me The Second Wife, which I may at some point decide to refer to myself as periodically in third person. Personally, I could also call myself The Dumbest Wife, since I am the one who stuck it out the longest. So far.
The flowers were gorgeous--15 long-stemmed pink roses. The flowers were delivered in person, accompanied by a note that was hand-written on a really pretty shade of purple legal paper that I provided right there in my office. I have found that having a really pretty shade of purple legal paper kind of negates some of the shit I have to write on said paper. Kind of negates it, but not all the way. The reason for the flower and lunch delivery? Just because. This man has given me more flowers in four months than I've gotten in the last fifteen years. No, he wasn't in the doghouse, and no, he wasn't looking to get laid because I was at work and he got plenty of that over the past weekend. Just because.
The Ex never gave me flowers because I insisted he not spend the money on something so trite, something that was going to die in a few days, especially when we needed to save our money for stuff like diapers and daycare. I have learned a couple of lessons from this. The first one is that I will never, ever have a joint checking account exclusively again. If, if, if I ever change my marital or shacking up status, there will be my money in my account, his money in his account and house money in a joint account. Of course, if I had known that the money I wanted to save for diapers and daycare would end up getting funneled over to a World of Warcraft account and gaming apparati (is that the plural for apparatuses?), I would have said, yeah, go ahead and get me flowers. Except I wouldn't have, because every gift from The Ex came with strings attached and every card that he signed with some flowery bullshit felt contrived. Contrived to the point that I secretly started throwing the cards away a few years ago. I have saved almost every piece of paper and every card that's ever been given to me, except for some of the ones that he gave me because they just didn't mean shit. Maybe instinctively my gut was telling me that it felt contrived because it was. Maybe it was my gut telling me I had married a psychopath. Who knows?
My other lesson learned on the whole refusing the flowers thing in my marriage is really the larger lesson, because I realized sometime early on in the separation, and I think deep down I knew it during the marriage, I didn't let The Ex do anything for me. Because of the attachment of strings and all of the other dysfunctional shit. I didn't let him do anything nice for me, and I was such a complete bitch that it probably turned into him not wanting to do anything for me. So I knew before I was even ready to start dating that this was something I needed to change within myself, because I didn't want to be that kind of bitch to anyone else. There is really only one person that I want to reserve that level of bitchiness for, and I am pleased that I can still dose it out as needed to The Ex. Seriously though, I knew that if I ever wanted a relationship or whatever to succeed, I would have to learn how to let a man do something nice for me and just be gracious and appreciative.
I've worked really hard to say goodbye to the Steph who didn't want flowers because I deemed it a waste of money while I was secretly jealous of all the other women at work who got flowers. I've worked really hard to learn how to let someone do something for me, just because, and just go with it. I've worked really hard to be appreciative and grateful that someone wants to do something for me. Just because.
The flowers were gorgeous--15 long-stemmed pink roses. The flowers were delivered in person, accompanied by a note that was hand-written on a really pretty shade of purple legal paper that I provided right there in my office. I have found that having a really pretty shade of purple legal paper kind of negates some of the shit I have to write on said paper. Kind of negates it, but not all the way. The reason for the flower and lunch delivery? Just because. This man has given me more flowers in four months than I've gotten in the last fifteen years. No, he wasn't in the doghouse, and no, he wasn't looking to get laid because I was at work and he got plenty of that over the past weekend. Just because.
The Ex never gave me flowers because I insisted he not spend the money on something so trite, something that was going to die in a few days, especially when we needed to save our money for stuff like diapers and daycare. I have learned a couple of lessons from this. The first one is that I will never, ever have a joint checking account exclusively again. If, if, if I ever change my marital or shacking up status, there will be my money in my account, his money in his account and house money in a joint account. Of course, if I had known that the money I wanted to save for diapers and daycare would end up getting funneled over to a World of Warcraft account and gaming apparati (is that the plural for apparatuses?), I would have said, yeah, go ahead and get me flowers. Except I wouldn't have, because every gift from The Ex came with strings attached and every card that he signed with some flowery bullshit felt contrived. Contrived to the point that I secretly started throwing the cards away a few years ago. I have saved almost every piece of paper and every card that's ever been given to me, except for some of the ones that he gave me because they just didn't mean shit. Maybe instinctively my gut was telling me that it felt contrived because it was. Maybe it was my gut telling me I had married a psychopath. Who knows?
My other lesson learned on the whole refusing the flowers thing in my marriage is really the larger lesson, because I realized sometime early on in the separation, and I think deep down I knew it during the marriage, I didn't let The Ex do anything for me. Because of the attachment of strings and all of the other dysfunctional shit. I didn't let him do anything nice for me, and I was such a complete bitch that it probably turned into him not wanting to do anything for me. So I knew before I was even ready to start dating that this was something I needed to change within myself, because I didn't want to be that kind of bitch to anyone else. There is really only one person that I want to reserve that level of bitchiness for, and I am pleased that I can still dose it out as needed to The Ex. Seriously though, I knew that if I ever wanted a relationship or whatever to succeed, I would have to learn how to let a man do something nice for me and just be gracious and appreciative.
I've worked really hard to say goodbye to the Steph who didn't want flowers because I deemed it a waste of money while I was secretly jealous of all the other women at work who got flowers. I've worked really hard to learn how to let someone do something for me, just because, and just go with it. I've worked really hard to be appreciative and grateful that someone wants to do something for me. Just because.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Slow Burns
I decided when I started this blog, I wasn't going to spend a lot of time blathering on about politics and religion and news-item types of shit. Quite frankly, I can blather on about my own stupid shit without needing to resort to that kind of material. Other than my craigslist material, I've been fairly true to my word about not getting all involved in that. But today, I just have to say this: mad, mad, mad props to Karen Owens, the brilliant author of the Duke Fuck List. A girl after my own heart. And mad props to my buddy at work for showing it to me, because I don't watch the news, read any news shit online anymore, no nothing. I find it's actually easier to be totally ignorant because there's not much of anything good out there. I mean, I'm not totally ignorant altogether, but I just need a break from all that stuff every once in a while. So I have come to rely upon my friends to get the news out to me or for it to come out on facebook.
I read the DFL, written by a girl who is DTF (yes!) this afternoon. The damn thing is so big I could only get Subjects 8 through 12 to load, but damn. Can I go to Duke? Is it too late for me? I think she slept with 12 guys between her sophomore and senior years of college, which would be about four guys per year on average. Except from the little bit I read it seemed like it happened much closer together, like all 12 in one year or something. Whatever. I don't care, because here's a girl who is out to have some fun and tell a few friends about it, because some of us girls like to brag about our conquests. I would be one of them, if I had any conquests to brag about. But again, I've put no effort into making this happen, so I can only blame my own lazy ass.
So my girl Karen does her thesis and then sent it to a few friends to show them, because she's a writer at heart and wants to show them her shit and because she obviously put a lot of time and effort into her thesis. This is what she labored over, what she spent years researching. My god, can I be her research assistant? Karen, are you hiring? I might be able to corner the market on 30 and 40-something divorced guys for you. But uh-oh, her friends thought it was so awesome they forwarded it. From there, exponential forwarding. And now, the national media. It has, if you will, gone viral. In the most viral of viral senses. Boom! The morality of the media and the country at large is bearing down on Karen. Karen, sweetheart, stand strong. Everyone wants those kinds of hookups, at least with some of your subjects, like the guy who was rated at 12/10. Hell yeah!
But now there's discussion of legal problems, being sued because I assume that some of those guys who didn't score so well on those handy-dandy graphs are kind of upset, because no man wants it known that he sucks at THAT. Most of them can't even admit it to themselves, although we women know. We know, and we tell each other. Hence, the thesis. And here's where Karen went wrong. It's totally cool to screw all those guys; I'm fine with that. But you have to keep your subjects anonymous. No pics, no names, no identifying features. Just go with Subject 4, Subject 9, so on and so forth.
I think I've done a pretty good job at keeping my blog fairly anonymous. I haven't told any of my co-workers, not because I discuss work in great detail, but because I don't want this to become the water cooler discussion of the day, or have people at work try to engage me in conversations in hopes that I'll write about it later on. I hope that I can't be swayed that easily. I haven't told anyone in my family, other than my cool aunt, because no one else would get it. My mother would be mortified, and god only knows what the rest of them would say. My friends whom I trust know about it, and then whomever else has stumbled across it on the web or the few sites I'm linked at. I got linked on this Russian site last week and had a pretty good amount of hits off of that one. I checked out the site and I think it might have been soft porn. I don't know; I can't read Russian. I think it goes unsaid that I obviously haven't told The Ex or any of his friends.
I also haven't provided any names. I haven't named The Ex, the children, my family, my job, my bosses or any of that. I've mentioned where I grew up and where I live now, and the first half of my first name. That's it. No more than that. This is for two reasons: to make some kind of an attempt at remaining anonymous, and because I don't want any names polluting my blog. I want the people in my blog to read about who is in my life and be able to form their own opinions. Sometimes that's hard to do if we name names, because everyone's got memories or baggage attached to names. Read about my unnamed children, and maybe they will become your children too, or at least just like your children. Maybe my mom is your mom, and my Mothbrain - well, you have a Mothbrain just like her. As for The Ex, hey, ya'll can have his ass. Just take him, take that motherfucker right out of my life. Send me your address and I'll arrange to have him show up. I'm not kidding.
My future conquests? Yeah, they won't be named either. In fact, they might not even be discussed, especially if they know about my blog, and they will probably not be discussed while I am deciding if I like them enough to keep them around. If I don't like them enough to keep them around (in my bed), then I'll have at it. But no names, because that's not cool. They will be named after whatever exploit I will use to describe them. Hence rugburn guy, lazy fucker, smacked my ass guy, electric fence guy, Army barracks guy, etc. I'll respect them enough to keep them anonymous, because I can respect the hookup. Even if it was just a hookup, it was two people liking each other enough to arrange to have their genitals touch. Maybe it was two people liking each other enough to have their genitals touch a lot. Maybe it went beyond genital touching and turned into heart touching. Who knows?
On the surface, I'd love for my blog to go viral. Who the hell doesn't want everyone in the English speaking world fawning all over their shit? And yeah, I know that criticism will come with that, but you have to take the bad with the good. For real, though, going viral is the equivalent of a flash fire. It's an internet flash fire that usually ends up with the writer self-combusting. And then it's on to the next flash fire, the next viral sensation. So going viral really isn't a good thing. I want to be a slow burn. The kind of slow burn that you see in peat fires, the fires that burn for years and decades and that you just can't get rid of, and the fires that everyone knows about and accept because that's just how life is. That's what I want to be, because that kind of writing is how you make it out there. You hang in there, through the good times and the craigslist, you go with what you've got and sometimes you make up shit when you don't have much. But you stay.
Actually, I think that's the kind of hookup I want, too. The kind that's not a hit-it-and-quit-it, but a long slow burn that just keeps on burning. The hookup that turns into something more because of the smolder, the passion, the ignition.
Slow burns = good stuff. Karen, thanks for teaching me a lesson in all of this. I owe you one, and will raise a glass to you tomorrow night at the bachelorette party I'm going to, right before I get off of my lazy ass and work on a conquest.
I read the DFL, written by a girl who is DTF (yes!) this afternoon. The damn thing is so big I could only get Subjects 8 through 12 to load, but damn. Can I go to Duke? Is it too late for me? I think she slept with 12 guys between her sophomore and senior years of college, which would be about four guys per year on average. Except from the little bit I read it seemed like it happened much closer together, like all 12 in one year or something. Whatever. I don't care, because here's a girl who is out to have some fun and tell a few friends about it, because some of us girls like to brag about our conquests. I would be one of them, if I had any conquests to brag about. But again, I've put no effort into making this happen, so I can only blame my own lazy ass.
So my girl Karen does her thesis and then sent it to a few friends to show them, because she's a writer at heart and wants to show them her shit and because she obviously put a lot of time and effort into her thesis. This is what she labored over, what she spent years researching. My god, can I be her research assistant? Karen, are you hiring? I might be able to corner the market on 30 and 40-something divorced guys for you. But uh-oh, her friends thought it was so awesome they forwarded it. From there, exponential forwarding. And now, the national media. It has, if you will, gone viral. In the most viral of viral senses. Boom! The morality of the media and the country at large is bearing down on Karen. Karen, sweetheart, stand strong. Everyone wants those kinds of hookups, at least with some of your subjects, like the guy who was rated at 12/10. Hell yeah!
But now there's discussion of legal problems, being sued because I assume that some of those guys who didn't score so well on those handy-dandy graphs are kind of upset, because no man wants it known that he sucks at THAT. Most of them can't even admit it to themselves, although we women know. We know, and we tell each other. Hence, the thesis. And here's where Karen went wrong. It's totally cool to screw all those guys; I'm fine with that. But you have to keep your subjects anonymous. No pics, no names, no identifying features. Just go with Subject 4, Subject 9, so on and so forth.
I think I've done a pretty good job at keeping my blog fairly anonymous. I haven't told any of my co-workers, not because I discuss work in great detail, but because I don't want this to become the water cooler discussion of the day, or have people at work try to engage me in conversations in hopes that I'll write about it later on. I hope that I can't be swayed that easily. I haven't told anyone in my family, other than my cool aunt, because no one else would get it. My mother would be mortified, and god only knows what the rest of them would say. My friends whom I trust know about it, and then whomever else has stumbled across it on the web or the few sites I'm linked at. I got linked on this Russian site last week and had a pretty good amount of hits off of that one. I checked out the site and I think it might have been soft porn. I don't know; I can't read Russian. I think it goes unsaid that I obviously haven't told The Ex or any of his friends.
I also haven't provided any names. I haven't named The Ex, the children, my family, my job, my bosses or any of that. I've mentioned where I grew up and where I live now, and the first half of my first name. That's it. No more than that. This is for two reasons: to make some kind of an attempt at remaining anonymous, and because I don't want any names polluting my blog. I want the people in my blog to read about who is in my life and be able to form their own opinions. Sometimes that's hard to do if we name names, because everyone's got memories or baggage attached to names. Read about my unnamed children, and maybe they will become your children too, or at least just like your children. Maybe my mom is your mom, and my Mothbrain - well, you have a Mothbrain just like her. As for The Ex, hey, ya'll can have his ass. Just take him, take that motherfucker right out of my life. Send me your address and I'll arrange to have him show up. I'm not kidding.
My future conquests? Yeah, they won't be named either. In fact, they might not even be discussed, especially if they know about my blog, and they will probably not be discussed while I am deciding if I like them enough to keep them around. If I don't like them enough to keep them around (in my bed), then I'll have at it. But no names, because that's not cool. They will be named after whatever exploit I will use to describe them. Hence rugburn guy, lazy fucker, smacked my ass guy, electric fence guy, Army barracks guy, etc. I'll respect them enough to keep them anonymous, because I can respect the hookup. Even if it was just a hookup, it was two people liking each other enough to arrange to have their genitals touch. Maybe it was two people liking each other enough to have their genitals touch a lot. Maybe it went beyond genital touching and turned into heart touching. Who knows?
On the surface, I'd love for my blog to go viral. Who the hell doesn't want everyone in the English speaking world fawning all over their shit? And yeah, I know that criticism will come with that, but you have to take the bad with the good. For real, though, going viral is the equivalent of a flash fire. It's an internet flash fire that usually ends up with the writer self-combusting. And then it's on to the next flash fire, the next viral sensation. So going viral really isn't a good thing. I want to be a slow burn. The kind of slow burn that you see in peat fires, the fires that burn for years and decades and that you just can't get rid of, and the fires that everyone knows about and accept because that's just how life is. That's what I want to be, because that kind of writing is how you make it out there. You hang in there, through the good times and the craigslist, you go with what you've got and sometimes you make up shit when you don't have much. But you stay.
Actually, I think that's the kind of hookup I want, too. The kind that's not a hit-it-and-quit-it, but a long slow burn that just keeps on burning. The hookup that turns into something more because of the smolder, the passion, the ignition.
Slow burns = good stuff. Karen, thanks for teaching me a lesson in all of this. I owe you one, and will raise a glass to you tomorrow night at the bachelorette party I'm going to, right before I get off of my lazy ass and work on a conquest.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Not Feeling So Hot
I think I'm coming down with something. I had a couple of bouts of dizziness the other day, my neck is starting to get stiff and sore (which always makes me think I'm dying from meningitis), I'm cold at night, tired, my throat is feeling like maybe it will hurt tomorrow and maybe it won't. I think the stress of the past two weeks has gotten to me, that and I'm not getting enough sleep.
I'm annoyed that we might have to do cheerleading in the rain tomorrow. I asked the cheer director yesterday about how the inclement weather policy works in regards to notifications, and she said that basically there is no inclement weather policy, that football games are played in the rain. Okay, I know the pros do that and shit, but that's what they get paid for. Me, coaching in the rain? I don't think so. My daughters, cheering in the rain? I don't think so. But since I'm a coach, I can't just blow the whole thing off because it's raining, and I can't show up without my children. This just boils down to this sucks ass. I would hate to end up dying from consumption or something because I was standing out in the rain yelling cheers. Even more than that, my hair would look like shit and my feet would be wet. My feet can only get wet in the shower or pool, and my hair can never look like shit. My body and soul begin a long, slow, painful shutdown process if either happens. And let's not even get into what happens if my makeup runs. My saving grace will be thunder and/or lightening.
I need to get my oil changed, which means that either tomorrow morning or Sunday morning, I'll need to have my ass in Merchant's at seven o'clock to make that happen, unless I want to hang around for about three hours waiting. Not thrilled about that, unless the manager who usually flirts with me is there and is extra quick with my car. I also need to get my windshield replaced, because all of this running up and down 288 and 95 has finally caught up with me. The fourth chip in the windshield is what did it. I now have a nice long crack in that bad boy. I'm just not even pressed, even though I know I should be.
Cheerleading pictures on Sunday afternoon, unless there is rain, and then they'll cancel that. Pray for rain. Pray for rain. Pray for rain. Mommy needs a long day in the bed. Next week is going to be long and hard, mainly because I've got to drive to Northern Virginia on Wednesday and be there by 8:30, then stay til 4:30, and come rushing home for a football game at 6:30. I'm pretty sure I'll be late for everything that day. I hate driving in Northern Virginia. Actually, I don't think hate is a strong enough word. Really, if I wanted to deal with that kind of traffic and asshole drivers, I would just go to Henrico, which I have affectionately (or not) begun to call NoVa on the James. I think it has a catchy ring to it. My friends who live in Henrico aren't amused, but fuck it, they also don't have their porch railing duct taped together. Oh, and did I mention that Wednesday is my birthday? Between driving to Northern Virginia, sitting through a training session, driving back to the RVA, rushing to a football game, rushing home for homework and to make lunches, I'm pretty sure I won't be getting laid. In fact, I'm positive I won't be getting laid. Happy birthday to me. But, since I'm a glass-half-full kind of gal, I'll enjoy that this birthday is not full of The Ex, and it's not going to be full of me having to explain to him that not having sex with him is the only gift I really want.
And... I might be getting a new cat this weekend. Yes, I just put my other cat down, and yes, I had him cremated and just picked up his remains the other day. He's sitting on top of the refrigerator right now, because before he got old and could still jump, he liked to lay on top of the refrigerator. So that's where I put him for the time being, although I'm thinking about moving him to an empty shoebox in the back of the closet, because he liked that more than the top of the refrigerator. The children don't know he's home yet, but they know I got him cremated. My father was cremated, and I had to explain the whole concept to them when he died, which is hard to explain to a five year old. But I explain shit like that to my children, because children can handle more than we think they can. That, and I just think that children shouldn't wonder about stuff. Either I'll tell them and clear all the questions up, or they'll grow up having issues like the issues I have with my mother not letting me say goodbye to my grandmother when she was dying when I was in sixth grade. But about explaining difficult concepts to children, you just have to break it down in simplistic terms. Every now and then, the children discuss the big fire that burned Grandpa's body up, and that his ashes are at the house with Mothbrain. I don't know where in the house Mothbrain put them, because I never asked. I suggested she stick him in the garage or in front of the TV, because those were his two favorite places, but I don't know if she actually did it or not. I think if we cremate people, we should have enough respect to put them where they would most like to be if they don't specify where they want to be. Hence, my cat is on top of the refrigerator until I move him to the closet.
The new cat is my former neighbor's cat, and this woman is like my other mother. In fact, that's what I call her. She's selling her house and moving back to West Virginia, but wants the cat to stay here. So sometime this weekend, I'll be bringing home a lovable Siamese cat who has been fixed and declawed. This cat is also one of the loudest cats I've ever encountered, but Siamese cats are like that. I think she'll fit in fine with us, because my children and I are three of the loudest people I know. It's a little strange, because I had gotten used to the idea of not having any pets, and I was actually enjoying not having any pets. I already have two little cockblockers running around the house, and that's really enough for me. But my other mother, she knows I can't say no to her. I can't and even if I could, I wouldn't. Welcome to the family, Gel. We'll all be loud together.
I'm annoyed that we might have to do cheerleading in the rain tomorrow. I asked the cheer director yesterday about how the inclement weather policy works in regards to notifications, and she said that basically there is no inclement weather policy, that football games are played in the rain. Okay, I know the pros do that and shit, but that's what they get paid for. Me, coaching in the rain? I don't think so. My daughters, cheering in the rain? I don't think so. But since I'm a coach, I can't just blow the whole thing off because it's raining, and I can't show up without my children. This just boils down to this sucks ass. I would hate to end up dying from consumption or something because I was standing out in the rain yelling cheers. Even more than that, my hair would look like shit and my feet would be wet. My feet can only get wet in the shower or pool, and my hair can never look like shit. My body and soul begin a long, slow, painful shutdown process if either happens. And let's not even get into what happens if my makeup runs. My saving grace will be thunder and/or lightening.
I need to get my oil changed, which means that either tomorrow morning or Sunday morning, I'll need to have my ass in Merchant's at seven o'clock to make that happen, unless I want to hang around for about three hours waiting. Not thrilled about that, unless the manager who usually flirts with me is there and is extra quick with my car. I also need to get my windshield replaced, because all of this running up and down 288 and 95 has finally caught up with me. The fourth chip in the windshield is what did it. I now have a nice long crack in that bad boy. I'm just not even pressed, even though I know I should be.
Cheerleading pictures on Sunday afternoon, unless there is rain, and then they'll cancel that. Pray for rain. Pray for rain. Pray for rain. Mommy needs a long day in the bed. Next week is going to be long and hard, mainly because I've got to drive to Northern Virginia on Wednesday and be there by 8:30, then stay til 4:30, and come rushing home for a football game at 6:30. I'm pretty sure I'll be late for everything that day. I hate driving in Northern Virginia. Actually, I don't think hate is a strong enough word. Really, if I wanted to deal with that kind of traffic and asshole drivers, I would just go to Henrico, which I have affectionately (or not) begun to call NoVa on the James. I think it has a catchy ring to it. My friends who live in Henrico aren't amused, but fuck it, they also don't have their porch railing duct taped together. Oh, and did I mention that Wednesday is my birthday? Between driving to Northern Virginia, sitting through a training session, driving back to the RVA, rushing to a football game, rushing home for homework and to make lunches, I'm pretty sure I won't be getting laid. In fact, I'm positive I won't be getting laid. Happy birthday to me. But, since I'm a glass-half-full kind of gal, I'll enjoy that this birthday is not full of The Ex, and it's not going to be full of me having to explain to him that not having sex with him is the only gift I really want.
And... I might be getting a new cat this weekend. Yes, I just put my other cat down, and yes, I had him cremated and just picked up his remains the other day. He's sitting on top of the refrigerator right now, because before he got old and could still jump, he liked to lay on top of the refrigerator. So that's where I put him for the time being, although I'm thinking about moving him to an empty shoebox in the back of the closet, because he liked that more than the top of the refrigerator. The children don't know he's home yet, but they know I got him cremated. My father was cremated, and I had to explain the whole concept to them when he died, which is hard to explain to a five year old. But I explain shit like that to my children, because children can handle more than we think they can. That, and I just think that children shouldn't wonder about stuff. Either I'll tell them and clear all the questions up, or they'll grow up having issues like the issues I have with my mother not letting me say goodbye to my grandmother when she was dying when I was in sixth grade. But about explaining difficult concepts to children, you just have to break it down in simplistic terms. Every now and then, the children discuss the big fire that burned Grandpa's body up, and that his ashes are at the house with Mothbrain. I don't know where in the house Mothbrain put them, because I never asked. I suggested she stick him in the garage or in front of the TV, because those were his two favorite places, but I don't know if she actually did it or not. I think if we cremate people, we should have enough respect to put them where they would most like to be if they don't specify where they want to be. Hence, my cat is on top of the refrigerator until I move him to the closet.
The new cat is my former neighbor's cat, and this woman is like my other mother. In fact, that's what I call her. She's selling her house and moving back to West Virginia, but wants the cat to stay here. So sometime this weekend, I'll be bringing home a lovable Siamese cat who has been fixed and declawed. This cat is also one of the loudest cats I've ever encountered, but Siamese cats are like that. I think she'll fit in fine with us, because my children and I are three of the loudest people I know. It's a little strange, because I had gotten used to the idea of not having any pets, and I was actually enjoying not having any pets. I already have two little cockblockers running around the house, and that's really enough for me. But my other mother, she knows I can't say no to her. I can't and even if I could, I wouldn't. Welcome to the family, Gel. We'll all be loud together.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Random Wikiness #2
Immortal DNA strand hypothesis. I've scanned the article twice, because it was too boring and scientific for me to actually read, and I still have no clue. And I don't care. Articles related to science and math are on my shit list. I cheated my way through all of my high school math and chemistry classes. This was fairly easy because my math teachers were pretty burnt out and my chemistry teacher, well, she had been around long enough that she taught my mom science 20 some years prior in the local segregationist academy. I feel okay discussing this because I've never heard of a high school revoking your high school diploma for publicly saying you cheated (because that's a lot of diplomas to revoke and ultimately a reflection on the school system) and some colleges will. Even if my high school revoked my high school diploma, well, fuck them, it was a shitty education anyways and I've got a bachelor's degree that I really did not work hard for. I minored in library avoidance techniques. I guess my collegiate Alma mater will at this point remain unidentified since I just kind of bad mouthed them and they've got the Cap City locked down tight on bad mouthing.
What I do know about a topic not really related to immortal DNA strand hypothesis is that modern science and technology are really messing up the laws of natural selection. I could be totally wrong here, since I didn't pay much attention in science, but I think one of those tenants is that the strong survive and the weak do not. Over a period of time, like hundreds and thousands of years of evolution (because I don't believe in creationism) those weak genes are supposedly bred out of the human race. Like I said, feel free to correct me because if this isn't correct, it certainly feels like it is in my brain.
A prime example of this would be all of the media drama every summer over how hot it gets and please check on your elderly neighbors and those people without air conditioning, cooling stations are being opened, blah blah blah. Okay, what happened one hundred or more years ago is that it got hot. And people died from it. In the winter, it got cold and people froze to death from it. There were no cooling stations, no warming shelters, none of this. My high school didn't even have air conditioning, except for one wing with about six classrooms in it. We sat our asses in class and sweated. We went to gym class and sweated. We ate lunch in a stinky ass cafeteria and sweated. My friends and I always wondered what the equation of students in attendance to students in attendance who puked from the heat had to be before they closed the school.
Better living through chemistry, through science, through whatever. What is really happening here is that people are living longer and it's going to fuck up my Social Security. I didn't realize how the Social Security system worked until my father died. I mean, I had this notion that I worked for most of my adult life, the guv took my money without my consent, saved it for me because I'm too irresponsible to do that for myself, and then when I retire, they dole my shit back out to me until I die. I'm kind of okay with that, except I think I should be able to receive dividends yearly on what you're saving for me, or is that called my tax refund? I don't know. But this is how The System works. Let's just call it what it is, which is The System of Social Welfare. My father worked his entire adult life, minus a couple of years he took off and lived off of his savings, died three weeks after his cancer diagnosis, and his wife, Mothbrain (of the drawable System age), who had also worked intermittently throughout her life, had to decide if she wanted to receive my father's System payments or her own. She couldn't have both because that's not how The System works. If she chose my father's, then his other survivors couldn't claim them (which I wouldn't have because he didn't want to give me shit when he was alive, so I wouldn't take shit when he was dead, other than a few trinkets she thought would be special to me, but that's another story). So she picked his, because his System payments would be higher than hers. I can't fault her for that, especially because she had become accustomed to a certain standard of living. But she will never receive her System payments because they are now being doled out to someone who either isn't working because of a legitimate disability, or someone has never worked a day in their life because they suffer from learned helplessness or just sheer laziness, and there is a difference between learned helplessness and laziness. Trust me on this.
I don't even know where I'm going with this. I know that there are lots of assholes out there robbing us of our fucking money because they don't want to work. I know they are robbing people who are legitimately disabled of receiving more than $500 per month, which you can't fucking live on. I know at the same time that many of these people would not be alive if it were not for modern medicine/science/technology, bullshit, etc. It's this really strange and socially acceptable, yet government mandated, System that we have come to rely upon, but it's not working. Too many people are being failed, because either they do not have what they need, or their gene pool is not thinning down, which is screwing up future generations. It's some strange spiraling cyclical conundrum that we can't get out of, and nothing is improving. I'm not trying to turn this into some political blog because I don't really care enough about politics to make a fuss, because those jackasses are going to do what they want to do regardless.
Did I mention my high school didn't have air conditioning?
What I do know about a topic not really related to immortal DNA strand hypothesis is that modern science and technology are really messing up the laws of natural selection. I could be totally wrong here, since I didn't pay much attention in science, but I think one of those tenants is that the strong survive and the weak do not. Over a period of time, like hundreds and thousands of years of evolution (because I don't believe in creationism) those weak genes are supposedly bred out of the human race. Like I said, feel free to correct me because if this isn't correct, it certainly feels like it is in my brain.
A prime example of this would be all of the media drama every summer over how hot it gets and please check on your elderly neighbors and those people without air conditioning, cooling stations are being opened, blah blah blah. Okay, what happened one hundred or more years ago is that it got hot. And people died from it. In the winter, it got cold and people froze to death from it. There were no cooling stations, no warming shelters, none of this. My high school didn't even have air conditioning, except for one wing with about six classrooms in it. We sat our asses in class and sweated. We went to gym class and sweated. We ate lunch in a stinky ass cafeteria and sweated. My friends and I always wondered what the equation of students in attendance to students in attendance who puked from the heat had to be before they closed the school.
Better living through chemistry, through science, through whatever. What is really happening here is that people are living longer and it's going to fuck up my Social Security. I didn't realize how the Social Security system worked until my father died. I mean, I had this notion that I worked for most of my adult life, the guv took my money without my consent, saved it for me because I'm too irresponsible to do that for myself, and then when I retire, they dole my shit back out to me until I die. I'm kind of okay with that, except I think I should be able to receive dividends yearly on what you're saving for me, or is that called my tax refund? I don't know. But this is how The System works. Let's just call it what it is, which is The System of Social Welfare. My father worked his entire adult life, minus a couple of years he took off and lived off of his savings, died three weeks after his cancer diagnosis, and his wife, Mothbrain (of the drawable System age), who had also worked intermittently throughout her life, had to decide if she wanted to receive my father's System payments or her own. She couldn't have both because that's not how The System works. If she chose my father's, then his other survivors couldn't claim them (which I wouldn't have because he didn't want to give me shit when he was alive, so I wouldn't take shit when he was dead, other than a few trinkets she thought would be special to me, but that's another story). So she picked his, because his System payments would be higher than hers. I can't fault her for that, especially because she had become accustomed to a certain standard of living. But she will never receive her System payments because they are now being doled out to someone who either isn't working because of a legitimate disability, or someone has never worked a day in their life because they suffer from learned helplessness or just sheer laziness, and there is a difference between learned helplessness and laziness. Trust me on this.
I don't even know where I'm going with this. I know that there are lots of assholes out there robbing us of our fucking money because they don't want to work. I know they are robbing people who are legitimately disabled of receiving more than $500 per month, which you can't fucking live on. I know at the same time that many of these people would not be alive if it were not for modern medicine/science/technology, bullshit, etc. It's this really strange and socially acceptable, yet government mandated, System that we have come to rely upon, but it's not working. Too many people are being failed, because either they do not have what they need, or their gene pool is not thinning down, which is screwing up future generations. It's some strange spiraling cyclical conundrum that we can't get out of, and nothing is improving. I'm not trying to turn this into some political blog because I don't really care enough about politics to make a fuss, because those jackasses are going to do what they want to do regardless.
Did I mention my high school didn't have air conditioning?
Friday, August 27, 2010
Emotional Cancer
Sometimes the best things that we can do for ourselves are the hardest things to do. Or, to turn it around, the hardest things we have to do for ourselves are really the best things we can do. I'm not sure which sounds better, because it's really pretty much the same thing. A literary obverse, which I'm pretty sure is not some kind of fancy grammatical construct, but rather some fantastical shit that I just made up.
I had to cut someone out of my life last night, because that was the best thing for me to do for me. Cutting people out of my life generally means they cease to exist to me. An act of excision. I've found that cutting people out of my life is usually the hardest thing for me to do, though, because these are people who have brought me, usually inadvertently, intense anxiety and pain, and while I am left with a relief from the anxiety, it also seems to bring me this great and deep sorrow that doesn't go away, but just lingers there, like my stretch marks that just linger on. They fade, but they don't go away. Constant reminders of what was. Stretch marks of the soul.
I had to cut my stepmother out of my life a year or so ago. At that point, she wasn't even really my stepmother, but more like my father's widow, because she had never really been a stepmother to me. I always felt like she just kind of treated me like that little puppy that someone brings over to show off periodically. I was the puppy that never grew up, and then my children turned into those puppies. My connection to her was solely through my father. She and I never spent any time together, never talked unless my father was involved in the conversation, never had any true bond. It's quite sad to me, because she and my father were married for 24 years. 24 years of treating someone like a puppy is a hard pill for the puppy to swallow.
My father died, which is a whole other blog someday, maybe or maybe not, and I tried to maintain the relationship, or tried to establish one. It's important for me to insert at this point that I never really had any use for this woman, my stepmother. I didn't like her, I didn't like her essence, I didn't like that she was so dependant on my father, I didn't like a lot, a lot, a lot of stuff about her. At some point in time, I started calling her Mothbrain. Sounds harsh, but trust me, common sense had never met this woman, and God help, never will. So when my father died, and she didn't know how to pay bills, didn't know how to arrange to get the grass cut, considered a trip to the grocery store to be a major outing, got lost driving to my aunt's house (in the next county where she'd been at least 57.9 times before), I tried to be kind. I called once a week, sent The Ex over to cut her grass, offered to help her with the financial matters, offered to do anything she needed. But I came to realize after several months that this seemed to, possibly, could it be a one-sided relationship? I really pondered this, because she never initiated any contact. Or if she did initiate contact, she wasn't able to follow through on it. She sent me this long letter about wanting to make sure she was still involved with my children but didn't know how to make it happen. I suggested taking the children to the movies, and I'd even pay for their tickets. That happened exactly once. She bought a book for the older daughter for Christmas gift, but wanted to read it to her herself, and so asked that we not read the book to the older daughter. But she never called to arrange that. The fucking book is still unread. She showed up for a lunch date late because she got to the restaurant, realized she forgot her cell phone at home and had to go back home to get it. Her mother in Alabama was sick and she might have to leave right away. Helloooo, we're 14 hours away. Another hour isn't going to do you any good. No phone calls, no nothing on her part. Like I said, Mothbrain.
Here's where it got sticky and why. This will undoubtedly sound really trite, and probably petty, but we all have our quirks. When my grandmother (my father's mother) moved from her house into a "retirement community", and had to get rid of most of her furniture, my father was adamant that he get first pick. He was the oldest, you know. Read that as he was the greediest, you know. And then when my grandmother passed away, he again demanded first pick of all of her furniture. He was the oldest, you know. He ended up with a house full of furniture that belonged to my grandmother and great-grandmother, and some of their jewelry, too. Pictures, china, all kinds of stuff. He was the oldest, you know. I'm only repeating that because it sort of became his mantra of justification. Basically, my father was a self-centered, greedy bastard. Let's just call it what it is. The furniture and jewelry might not be worth much monetarily, but it meant a lot to me in terms of sentimental value. So here's Mothbrain in a house full of furniture that belonged to my grandmother and great-grandmother, and do I continue to try to build/maintain a relationship with this woman in an effort to try to get a few hand-me-downs when she's feeling the need to downsize? This really seemed grovel-ish to me. And I don't grovel. Ever.
To say that this caused me an extremely high level of anxiety would be an understatement. In retrospect, I see that what was happening to me was that I was perfecting a full blown anxiety disorder, along with panic attacks, about having to continue to have this woman in my life. It came down to this: deal with this woman, this Mothbrain, and take the anxiety disorder and panic attacks in stride, or let her go and all of my grandmother's shit go, and chalk it up to making the better decision for me. It only takes a minute to write this, but this was a decision about six months in the making. So I let her go. Goodbye china, goodbye family pictures, goodbye everything that reminds me of that comfort of my grandmother's house. I also got to say goodbye to some really ugly panic attacks. That's what I had to do. This woman had become emotional cancer to me.
Someone walked into my life a while back and I thought because I had known this person from the days of so long ago, it would be okay. I could trust, I could be secure in being me, I could relax. I thought at the time that the door to my life had been kicked in, boom, here I am! But it wasn't like that. It was much more emotionally covert, more ninja-like. This was some CIA quality shit, the kind of shit where you wonder, was someone here doing something? Or is this just my imagination? Snuck right the fuck in, stirred a whole lot of shit up in my soul, and then disappeared. Came back, stirred a little more, disappeared. Repeat this several times and there you have it. There was no finish, no end. Only another beginning, but no middle or end. So many beginnings. I started having what I think might have been minor scale panic attacks again. My anxiety level went back up. I began to feel like that this wasn't good for me, but I couldn't bring myself to do what I knew I needed to do.
I don't deserve emotional cancer in my life. I don't need it and I don't want it. This person, well, it was like that cancer that kind of goes away, but it comes back again. And then you treat it, and it goes away, but then it comes back worse than before. I couldn't deal with it. No more radiation, no more chemotherapy, no more holistic bullshit for me because it didn't work. Just cut it out of my life, get rid of it, please. And when I clicked that "Remove from Friends" button and had that one last panic attack, the final excision was done, although it was much more symbolic for me. It will go unnoticed until I'm suddenly not there. I'm left with what will be a deep and lingering sorrow for what wasn't, what couldn't be, what won't be. Another stretch mark.
I had to cut someone out of my life last night, because that was the best thing for me to do for me. Cutting people out of my life generally means they cease to exist to me. An act of excision. I've found that cutting people out of my life is usually the hardest thing for me to do, though, because these are people who have brought me, usually inadvertently, intense anxiety and pain, and while I am left with a relief from the anxiety, it also seems to bring me this great and deep sorrow that doesn't go away, but just lingers there, like my stretch marks that just linger on. They fade, but they don't go away. Constant reminders of what was. Stretch marks of the soul.
I had to cut my stepmother out of my life a year or so ago. At that point, she wasn't even really my stepmother, but more like my father's widow, because she had never really been a stepmother to me. I always felt like she just kind of treated me like that little puppy that someone brings over to show off periodically. I was the puppy that never grew up, and then my children turned into those puppies. My connection to her was solely through my father. She and I never spent any time together, never talked unless my father was involved in the conversation, never had any true bond. It's quite sad to me, because she and my father were married for 24 years. 24 years of treating someone like a puppy is a hard pill for the puppy to swallow.
My father died, which is a whole other blog someday, maybe or maybe not, and I tried to maintain the relationship, or tried to establish one. It's important for me to insert at this point that I never really had any use for this woman, my stepmother. I didn't like her, I didn't like her essence, I didn't like that she was so dependant on my father, I didn't like a lot, a lot, a lot of stuff about her. At some point in time, I started calling her Mothbrain. Sounds harsh, but trust me, common sense had never met this woman, and God help, never will. So when my father died, and she didn't know how to pay bills, didn't know how to arrange to get the grass cut, considered a trip to the grocery store to be a major outing, got lost driving to my aunt's house (in the next county where she'd been at least 57.9 times before), I tried to be kind. I called once a week, sent The Ex over to cut her grass, offered to help her with the financial matters, offered to do anything she needed. But I came to realize after several months that this seemed to, possibly, could it be a one-sided relationship? I really pondered this, because she never initiated any contact. Or if she did initiate contact, she wasn't able to follow through on it. She sent me this long letter about wanting to make sure she was still involved with my children but didn't know how to make it happen. I suggested taking the children to the movies, and I'd even pay for their tickets. That happened exactly once. She bought a book for the older daughter for Christmas gift, but wanted to read it to her herself, and so asked that we not read the book to the older daughter. But she never called to arrange that. The fucking book is still unread. She showed up for a lunch date late because she got to the restaurant, realized she forgot her cell phone at home and had to go back home to get it. Her mother in Alabama was sick and she might have to leave right away. Helloooo, we're 14 hours away. Another hour isn't going to do you any good. No phone calls, no nothing on her part. Like I said, Mothbrain.
Here's where it got sticky and why. This will undoubtedly sound really trite, and probably petty, but we all have our quirks. When my grandmother (my father's mother) moved from her house into a "retirement community", and had to get rid of most of her furniture, my father was adamant that he get first pick. He was the oldest, you know. Read that as he was the greediest, you know. And then when my grandmother passed away, he again demanded first pick of all of her furniture. He was the oldest, you know. He ended up with a house full of furniture that belonged to my grandmother and great-grandmother, and some of their jewelry, too. Pictures, china, all kinds of stuff. He was the oldest, you know. I'm only repeating that because it sort of became his mantra of justification. Basically, my father was a self-centered, greedy bastard. Let's just call it what it is. The furniture and jewelry might not be worth much monetarily, but it meant a lot to me in terms of sentimental value. So here's Mothbrain in a house full of furniture that belonged to my grandmother and great-grandmother, and do I continue to try to build/maintain a relationship with this woman in an effort to try to get a few hand-me-downs when she's feeling the need to downsize? This really seemed grovel-ish to me. And I don't grovel. Ever.
To say that this caused me an extremely high level of anxiety would be an understatement. In retrospect, I see that what was happening to me was that I was perfecting a full blown anxiety disorder, along with panic attacks, about having to continue to have this woman in my life. It came down to this: deal with this woman, this Mothbrain, and take the anxiety disorder and panic attacks in stride, or let her go and all of my grandmother's shit go, and chalk it up to making the better decision for me. It only takes a minute to write this, but this was a decision about six months in the making. So I let her go. Goodbye china, goodbye family pictures, goodbye everything that reminds me of that comfort of my grandmother's house. I also got to say goodbye to some really ugly panic attacks. That's what I had to do. This woman had become emotional cancer to me.
Someone walked into my life a while back and I thought because I had known this person from the days of so long ago, it would be okay. I could trust, I could be secure in being me, I could relax. I thought at the time that the door to my life had been kicked in, boom, here I am! But it wasn't like that. It was much more emotionally covert, more ninja-like. This was some CIA quality shit, the kind of shit where you wonder, was someone here doing something? Or is this just my imagination? Snuck right the fuck in, stirred a whole lot of shit up in my soul, and then disappeared. Came back, stirred a little more, disappeared. Repeat this several times and there you have it. There was no finish, no end. Only another beginning, but no middle or end. So many beginnings. I started having what I think might have been minor scale panic attacks again. My anxiety level went back up. I began to feel like that this wasn't good for me, but I couldn't bring myself to do what I knew I needed to do.
I don't deserve emotional cancer in my life. I don't need it and I don't want it. This person, well, it was like that cancer that kind of goes away, but it comes back again. And then you treat it, and it goes away, but then it comes back worse than before. I couldn't deal with it. No more radiation, no more chemotherapy, no more holistic bullshit for me because it didn't work. Just cut it out of my life, get rid of it, please. And when I clicked that "Remove from Friends" button and had that one last panic attack, the final excision was done, although it was much more symbolic for me. It will go unnoticed until I'm suddenly not there. I'm left with what will be a deep and lingering sorrow for what wasn't, what couldn't be, what won't be. Another stretch mark.
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