World Turned Upside Down

If you're going through Hell.....

2009-08-30T21:33:00.007-05:00

(Ok, I tried to make the title a link, so you'd understand it, but it didn't work. So here's the link. That song's been my mantra for a couple years, now.)

Really, I should know better. I really, honestly should. I have trouble going to the STORE with Sparky and Hot Rod. What made me think that going Miniature Golfing would be any different???

Today was one of those textbook Fall days. The breeze was crisp, the air was warm, could have been hot from the sun, but the breeze was enough to keep it cool. Little puffy clouds in the sky… a happy day. The minigolf course opened at 2, we got there at almost 4. We started our 18 holes, and Hot Rod was excited, playing his ball all the way through right away. This means he sets the ball down at the beginning of the green, WHACKS it, chases it down, and keeps whacking it until, 32 whacks later, he pops the ball out of the hole, shoots a grin back at me and announces, “Hole in One!!!”

Meanwhile, Sparky never liked minigolf. He’s always been a ‘golf purist’, and his putting game was never that great. So the combination is lethal. Now, add a hyperactive kid, blindness, AND families playing behind us – who move faster – to the mix, and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.

We did ok on the first nine. Then, in the second nine, Hot Rod was getting impatient with Sparky’s slowness, and Sparky was getting mad at Hot Rod for wanting to rush ahead, frustrated with his own game, and feeling rushed by those behind us, although we kept letting groups play through, and everybody was really cool about us, especially when they realized that Sparky was blind. Some even complimented him on how well he managed.

By the end of the 18 holes, Hot Rod was in full meltdown, and Sparky was trying to control the meltdown, and by the time we got to the truck, Hot Rod had been told that we would NOT be taking him back to minigolf for the rest of the year. Which we probably wouldn’t have done, anyway, it being nearly the end of the golfing season, but that doesn’t have the same impact, now, does it?

Now Hot Rod thinks that he’s lost minigolf for the rest of the year which is forever to a six-year-old. Sparky is mad at Hot Rod because Hot Rod continues to have a fit – he was now to the point of opening the back door of the truck so he could slam it in his anger. I put the child-lock on it, and he KICKED the inside of the door and was screaming. Sparky was yelling at Hot Rod, Hot Rod was screaming back, and it had spiraled WAY out of control. I finally was able to get into the truck and I insinuated myself into this little love-fest, and said, “both of you… knock it off. Take a breath, and calm down. Hot Rod, drink some juice and buckle up. Let’s just listen to some music for a while.”

Miraculously, they both shut the hell up, and I could drive out of the parking lot before anyone said anything. And then it was me. I got us out of the parking lot, but before we hit the first stop light a block later, I was crying like a baby.

I had simply wanted a nice outing. Apparently, I’m just setting the bar too high. Something like this is just too damn much. Sparky needs all my attention for a game like this – he needs each hole described to him in detail – are there hills? How wide is the “fairway”? where is the hole in relation to where we are? What kind of obstacles are in the way? How far is the hole? Which way does this particular “fairway” turn? And once he hits the ball, it starts again… how far does he have to go now? Is he lined up with the hole? How far is the hole? Any obstacles or hills? And on and on. And before you suggest it, having Hot Rod help with this worked for half of the first hole. Then his attention was turned elsewhere, and that was that.

Meanwhile, Hot Rod needs and deserves some attention of his own. But I missed nearly every one of his turns, because I was so busy attending to Sparky. And if I left Sparky alone to tend to Hot Rod, Sparky would, inevitably, walk into a tree branch or something. It was never-ending. I felt like that baby in the bible that Solomon threatened to split in half.

By the time we got home, it was agreed that we’d go off the meal schedule for the evening (I’ve got all the dinners for the next month planned out – tonight was supposed to be lasagna) because it was so late, and I’d throw together something light and quick. While I was doing that, Hot Rod was supposed to take a quick shower with Sparky’s help. Bad move.

We walked through the door, and Hot Rod decided that no way, no how was he going to take a shower. Sparky took a “firm” stance and said, “oh, yes, you are.” Let the meltdowns begin. Again.

This is how it was all.day.long. Hot Rod was in a mood to argue, and Sparky forgets the theme of parenting… “pick your battles”… so EVERYTHING is a battle. There is no ‘give’ with him. He must always be right. And he must always be obeyed.

On the other hand, Hot Rod needs to be right, and needs to have his way, and if he doesn’t, a tantrum is sure to follow.

While Sparky was at Blind School, I’d begun to find a way to manage Hot Rod. I found a book called Raising Your Spirited Child, by Mary Sheedy Kurcinka, several years ago, and read through part of it. I have a seriously hard time finishing any book that, in any way, reminds me of a textbook, and although this book is phenomenally well-written and easy to read and understand… well, it’s still non-fiction and a textbook. So I never finished it. But I refer to it often. And the stories and scenarios she presents are often Hot Rod, right down to his toes. So I try to use her methods, and whaddya know? They work.

But try to get Sparky to even consider doing something like that? Read that book? Are you crazy? Never. There are two rules of parenting: 1. Dad is always right. 2. When in doubt, refer to Rule 1. Sound familiar?

So now we’re back to the beginning. What the hell do I do now? HOW am I ever going to handle outings with these two, together? Especially outings where they each require my attention equally. How do parents of multiples DO it? More to the point, how do SINGLE parents of multiples do it? Because that’s how I feel…. Like I have two children, and one of them is disabled.

The Green Eyed Monster

2009-08-19T21:00:00.003-05:00

There’s a saying, belief, adage, whatever, that states that the things we like least in others are the things we like least about ourselves. Or something like that. I know it’s in my al-anon literature, I’m just too lazy to go look it up . It’s all the way upstairs, and if I leave the keyboard, this thought is going to disappear. So we’ll just assume that I’m right and go from there. K? K.

Ok, so. That what we don’t like in others, we dislike about ourselves. So, what part of this latest “thing” involves a trait in me that I don’t like? Is it the obsessing? The constant talk of one topic, analyzing it to DEATH, talking it to death? Is it the need to exercise three hours a day? The insistence upon eating only certain foods, analyzing each and every meal (after they’ve been eaten) for fat, protein and carb content? (Because, of course, calories don’t matter). I don’t know what it is. But it’s pissing me off.

Maybe it’s that suddenly he’s hyper-focused on something that’s been on my radar for the better part of twenty-five years. And the knowledge that if he wants to drop 20 lbs? He’s going to do it. In a week. And I? Can’t drop that kind of weight unless I release a gallon of milk over my foot. Two and a half times. (yes, I happen to know that a gallon of milk weighs 8 lbs. And I didn’t even have to Google it)

Maybe it’s that he’s suddenly expecting me to be hyper-interested in this. Whenever I’ve tried to lose weight (most of my adult life, except the times when I tried the Stuart Smiley approach… “I love myself just the way I am.” Uh, huh. Right) he’s been right there to support me – with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in one hand and a steak cooked in bacon grease in the other.

Being analytical, I’d say it’s a combination of things. With him, it’s just, “oh, I wanna drop a couple pounds,” and boom! It’s done. With me, it’s a battle with my f’d up metabolism, combined with emotional eating issues that border (or fall smack in the middle of) Binge Eating Disorder, and an inherent laziness. So it just cheeses me off, and the green-eyed monster accompanies me wherever I go.

I think that’s mostly it – the jealousy that it’s going to be so easy. That he has the time to do this extensive workout program that he’s created for himself (he did this once before, too… the three hour thing. We lived in Dallas, and he’d go straight from work. Everything else got put on hold, so he could work out three hours a night), the knowledge that I will be there to drive him to and from… because if I say no, I’m just being a shrew, now, aren’t I?

And I think some of it is that I’m just plain tired and burned out.

But mostly it’s jealousy, that losing weight comes so easy for him. Just like quitting drinking and smoking came easy to him. Just like everything in his life has come easy to him.

And I HATE being jealous. So now I’ve got something else to work on. Joy.

Stream of Consciousness

2009-08-17T21:52:00.003-05:00

There, are you happy? New picture!!

Well, it’s been an interesting summer, to say the least. I discovered that I really like Alaska, and can’t wait to go back. I discovered that I really DON’T like living out in the country – awesome neighbors notwithstanding – and wish I lived in town where neighbors were closer and lawns (and houses) were smaller. I like living in a small town, and wish my family would break their ties with the Chicago area and consider moving somewhere smaller. (hint hint hint)

But the big thing I discovered hasn’t been so much of a discovery as a naming. Putting a name on something that’s bothered me for so long. You see, I keep giving Sparky the benefit of the doubt on things… allowing him the luxury of a learning curve. Messy counter? He can’t see it, let it pass. Messy house? He can’t see it, let it pass. Myriad things, I just let pass because he can’t see them, or he’s still learning, or whatever. And I suppose that’s ok, because he *is* still learning, but…

I don’t get that same courtesy. How often do I forget that he can’t see things? Not as often as I used to, but I still do things like nodding instead of saying “yes” out loud, leaving open cups of drink in the fridge that he then knocks on the floor. I don’t care much – it’s just so much spilled milk, and we all know that adage – but HE gets mad at me, because I’ve forgotten, again, that he can’t see this stuff, and WHY can’t I just not do those things?

He expects me to pick up the slack for him – and I do, constantly – but he doesn’t do it for me.

Ok, in all honesty, I don’t allow him to pick up much slack, because I’ve fallen into the trap that most wives fall into: “oh, don’t bother, I’ll just do it myself”, because it’s true that if you want something done right, well, do it yourself.

Except that things are piling up around here. The house is a mess. The yard is a mess. I’m behind on the laundry, the bills, and the cleaning. The garden is about the only thing that’s working right – and that’s because I did my due diligence (is that the right phrase?) in late spring and early summer, by weeding and putting in weed killer. So now the garden is pretty self-sufficient. All I have to do is pick stuff when it’s ready. But everything else? Disaster.

I still haven’t unpacked my suitcase from our trip to Chicago/Alaska. I’ve finished the laundry, but it’s due again. The rest of the house looks like a tornado blew through.

I’m so overwhelmed, simply because I keep saying, “OK” when they ask to do stuff – Hot Rod always wants to play (and I can't say no to Legos!), and Sparky always wants to go to the pool. And I cannot leave them together at the pool so I get some home time. He (Sparky) is afraid to be at the pool alone with Hot Rod.

I miss my alone time. I miss being able to sit up in my own bed at night, all by myself, watching silly videos from Netflix. I miss that quiet time I had. Now I have someone in my back pocket ALL THE TIME. And if I try to be alone, well, it just doesn’t happen. If I want to go somewhere, there’d better be a purpose – going to the store, for example, and a set time for return… and keep the phone on, because if I’m two minutes late, you can be sure it’ll be ringing. I tried to “hide” this afternoon, I went upstairs and lay down on the bed to read (yeah, I know, I should have been cleaning). Ten minutes into it, they were walking around the house, looking outside, calling my name. “Where are you?” I finally told them I was taking a nap and shut the door. But even then, it was only an hour and a half before they were knocking on the door because it was time for me to make dinner.

I know. I’m totally rambling, switching from topic to topic, and, well, whining.

But I’m told that whining, here anyway, is acceptable.

(and can someone PLEASE explain to me why suddenly there are extra spaces thrown in randomly between words? Honestly, if I WANTED two spaces, I’d PUT THEM THERE, Mr. Gates. Thank you. Stop “fixing” my programs!!!)

So it comes to this. I had hoped that Alaska would give me some rest. And in a way it did – it gave me a change of pace, new scenery, old friends, a chance to get away. But, sadly, it showed me, in stark reality, what I do not have. I look at my two best friends in the world, and I am so happy for them – they are both so happy. D has a beautiful new little girl. (and yes, I have an amazing little boy. But there were supposed to be two, and that will never be.) And J… well, J has a beautiful new relationship. One that is only four months old, but already she “knows”… it’s that kind of relationship that we all search for.

Alaska showed me, much to my shame, that I can still experience jealousy. And I am not proud of it. In fact, it pisses me off. I think of them, so happy, and it brings me to tears. Tears of joy for them – that they have found what they need, want, desire. Not that they have it easy – life is never easy – but they have someone with whom to face it, someone to comfort them during the roughest of it, someone to lean on. I don’t have that. He *tells* me, sure, that I can do that with him… but I’ve found that I don’t want to do that. I just don’t trust him enough. Every time I’ve leaned, I’ve fallen, because he hasn’t been there. And now I’m supposed to believe that’s changed? I’m supposed to just return to Life As It Was – emotionally, anyway – and be content? I don’t think so.

I’ve picked up some work with the local paper again – one or two articles a month, to start – and it’s a start. But he hasn’t done anything. Well, nothing on the job front. He has, however, started working out. THREE HOURS a day, and talks about it incessantly. And is taking crazy supplements. He’s obsessing, and I don’t want to hear about it. I’m sick of being supportive. I’m sick of being encouraging. I’m sick of being the one that everybody leans on. I’m sick and tired of being everybody’s mom. I’m only supposed to be “mom” for one person… and suddenly, I’m “mom” to two. He even CALLS me “mom”. I’ve told him to quit. I’ve told him that I’m NOT his mom, and to knock it off. But he persists. And I’m just too damn tired to do anything about it.

I hate being angry. I hate this person I’m becoming – have become. I hate what the drinking before The Wreck did to me, and I hate what the circumstances since The Wreck have done to me. I feel trapped, like a hamster on a wheel. Except the hamster can step off and go hide in his little can. I can’t.

A Hah?

2009-06-15T22:27:00.003-05:00

Oprah calls it an “Ah-hah Moment”. Others call it “hitting bottom”. Glenn Beck says that he can remember the exact moment when he experienced it. That moment is so clear to him, he can tell you what he was wearing, the color of the walls in the room, the color of the carpet.

It is that moment when you come face to face with the core of yourself. With who you have become. And it is the moment - that single defining moment – when you decide either to go on as that person, or become someone else. It is life changing, often life saving.

And sometimes it isn’t so dramatic as that.

I have problems. I’ve meticulously documented them here and in multiple personal journals, both digital and handwritten. There is a thread weaving through all of these personal documentaries… I am waiting. Literally, waiting… I am waiting and watching for that “Ah-hah” rock-bottom moment. Because it can’t be far off.

Problem is, I’ve been lead to believe, especially by the O herself, that along with that Ah-hah moment comes great enlightenment – the roadmap out of the problem, The Answer.

And I know there is no answer written out. I know that I have to find it myself.

And I’m so damned tired and discouraged that it’s entirely possible that I’ll be asleep or zoning on the computer and miss it.

New Adventure

2009-05-26T07:37:00.004-05:00

Crazy busy these days, but I had time to start a new adventure...

I've pulled up a chair at Joy's table, and will be contributing to the conversation over there. It's a nice blog - always a great conversation happening with some really neat people.

Come check it out.

2009-05-20T10:47:00.000-05:00

Good bye, Indy.

We loved you, and you will be missed.

Flat Spin

2009-05-19T15:33:00.002-05:00

Watching “Top Gun” has made me an expert on fighter jets. And being the expert that I am, I know specialized terms like “flipping the bird”, and “flat spin”.

The “flat spin” is when the jet goes into, well, a flat spin – going around in circles, ever faster, as it spirals toward Earth, and ends in a fiery crash. According to Top Gun (and we all know what experts Hollywood filmmakers are), you can’t pull out of a flat spin, unless you’re Tom Cruise, or very, very lucky.

There are days when I feel like I’m in a Flat Spin. Days when Hot Rod is being stubborn, things are breaking right and left in the house, chores are piling up, and on top of everything else, I start thinking about being in a gilded cage.

So apparently, I’m in a Gilded Cage with wings, and it has somehow worked itself into a flat spin.

No wonder people think I’m nuts.

I keep trying to pull out of the spin. I rack my brains for ways to fix the problem. I recently came upon a good idea, and started putting it into action. The wheels have been moving very slowly, and what I first thought was GREAT NEWS, well, it turns out I may have been speaking prematurely, even though I wouldn’t say what it was, to avoid jinxing myself. I may have jinxed myself anyway. Spiral one, flat spin.

Two weeks ago, I thought of another “out” of one of my problems. So I took steps to make it so. Today, it fell through. Spiral two, and moving faster.

The garage door opener is still broken, I bought a new one, but haven’t replaced it yet. The door itself is broken, too, and I could only use duct tape to fix it. The furnace broke the other day, too. I can band-aid that, as well, but I don’t know how long that fix will last. I feel like this place is falling apart around me, a metaphor for my life.

I try to keep a positive attitude. I believe, with everything that I am, that attitude may not be everything, but it darn sure can’t hurt one bit. And it’s better to be positive about things. But it’s getting harder and harder to keep the proverbial “stiff upper lip”.

Of Cravings and Confusion

2009-05-12T21:06:00.003-05:00

I’m thinking about cravings today. I have terrible cravings… for sweets, for crunchy/salty, for food of any kind. Yeah, I’m an emotional eater, and I’ve been under a lot of stress this week. Stress that’s making a black hole in my gut that just sucks in vile and disgusting foods that end up on my hips and on the scale and fail to nourish my body or my soul. I just keep dumping crap into the hole, and it never fills.

Sparky and I started discussing things. I don’t feel at liberty to say what was said between us, but let’s tag it with that line from, what, “Apocalypse Now”? (please correct me if I’m wrong)

“What we have here is a failure to communicate.”

Or a failure to communicate properly, because anyone who knows me, knows that I cannot keep my mouth shut for more than two minutes, unless I’m sleeping, and even then I’ve been known to mutter a few things.

Turns out that, for the better part of 15+ years, we thought we were thinking the same things, that we had the same goals, that we had the same vision of what marriage should be, and what we both needed to do to accomplish those goals and that marriage… Well … Apparently, not so much.

He thought this, I thought that. And there’s an ocean between the two viewpoints. And even though we talked about things, apparently, he was saying one thing to me, but had entirely different expectations. Turns out that the old myth about the woman expecting the man to read her mind was reversed in this case – he expected me to intuit things that he didn’t articulate.

And, to be fair, perhaps I was talking so much that I didn’t take a few minutes to say the right things, or to listen completely. Nobody is completely at fault here, and nobody is completely innocent.

But it makes me so very tired. I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired because my brain is working overtime, trying to fix my own problems, trying to fix our problems, trying to keep up with the House that Murphy Built (or the Three Stooges, depending upon the day), trying to stay ahead of Hot Rod, who is wicked smart. I’m tired because I can’t exercise like I’d like to. I’m tired because I DON’T exercise like I should. I’m tired because I eat the wrong crap, and I eat the wrong crap because I crave it, and I crave it because it fills that emotional void. And that emotional void is there because my brain is tired.

There are days when I just want to pack up Hot Rod and the pets, and just run. Just go. Find a cabin somewhere and live the simple life. But then my overworked brain jumps in and says, “that wouldn’t be fair to Hot Rod”. And it wouldn’t.

So I stay put, and I keep plugging along, because that’s what I do. I stick. Whether out of loyalty, or fear, or even stupidity, I stick.

No wonder I’m such a fan of Golden Retrievers. We’re both loyal to a fault, and when all else fails, be silly. Too bad, I haven’t hit “silly” yet.

SEE LEO IN ACTION!

2009-05-12T15:04:00.004-05:00

Leo has learned to fly!!!

(and yeah, that picture totally has nothing to do with it, but it cracks me up, so it stays)

The Guest

2009-05-07T21:05:00.011-05:00

Hot Rod got off the bus today, with a big smile on his face and a giant yellow tote bag over his shoulder.

"Teddy's visiting today, Mom!" he said, and ran to show me.

"Teddy" is the Class Bear, and he travels home to spend one night with each student in the class. And today was Hot Rod's day.

He was to take care of Teddy, show him around, play with him, then read him a book and add a page to Teddy's Journal.

And so the adventure began...

He started by showing Teddy the seedlings that we planted over the weekend:

Then he showed him the bird feeders:

Then it was inside to read a book:

It was such a beautiful day today, that Hot Rod wanted to go outside and play baseball. So while we played, Teddy took a nap:

We came back in, and Teddy helped Hot Rod make a Lego Truck, while I made dinner:

After dinner, we had a little more playtime, so Hot Rod and Teddy played a little Hallway Golf (Hot Rod is helping Teddy "putt"):

Finally, it was time for Journal:

And Hot Rod's entry:

it says, "I throo Teddy up and down," and that's a drawing of Hot Rod, tossing the bear over his head.

Then the reading of The Book:

(I couldn't take a picture of this, as they were both crowded on my lap, along with Moose and Polar, Hot Rod's other bear)

And finally.... bedtime:

Hot Rod, Moose, Teddy, and Polar

Sweet Dreams!

Anniversary

2009-05-04T21:37:00.000-05:00

One year ago today, I woke in the darkest hours of the morning to find my husband gone.

One year ago today, I got the phone call that every wife dreads.

One year ago today, I watched doctors and nurses pounding and injecting life back into my husband’s lifeless body.

One year ago today, I held my child and tried to be strong for him.

One year ago today, I sat in a waiting room, praying that whatever happened would be for the best.

One year ago today, I shut down who I was, erected walls, opened doors, and became someone different.

Since that day, I have been on a journey. I’ve made some discoveries about myself… some unexpected, but mostly good.

I erected one great, big wall. Sitting in that waiting room, outside of the intensive care unit, in the days that followed The Wreck, I reflected on things, and vowed that I would never be hurt like that again. I still harbor a deep sense of betrayal, not only from that day, but from events that have gone before. Perhaps it’s cold of me to do this, but perhaps, too, a little bit of chill preserves things, and keeps them from decaying. I would rather be a bit chilly than moldy and decayed.

I have started to put myself first. Others will say I’m being selfish, but I’m saying that this is self-preservation. It doesn’t always work, in fact, more often than not, I intend to put myself first, and end up flubbing it completely. But the intent is there, which is more than there was at this time last year. I’m practicing one of many new mantras: “baby steps”. That goes along with, “panic wastes time,” “the future is fiction”, and “don’t look for trouble, it finds you easy enough on it’s own”.

That aircraft carrier I spoke about a couple weeks ago? She’s starting to turn. Slowly, without much progress yet, but she’s not going in a totally straight line, anymore, either.

Baby steps.

The Good, The Bad, and The Yummy

2009-04-30T20:05:00.006-05:00

Three things happened to me today, hence the title.

First, I got what might tentatively be classified as “good” news. It’s something that will lighten my heart and considerably add to my load in my near future, but it’s a good thing anyway. And, so I don’t jinx it – because it hasn’t happened yet – I’m not going to say anything more. I only said this much because I needed something “good” so that the title worked...

Second, I broke my garage door. Yes, I broke it. I’m sure this is Murphy, “playing” with me again, imp that he is… But since I still haven’t replaced the broken garage door opener, I’ve just been lifting the door manually. So I did that today when I got home from the store. Opened the door, got back into the truck and started backing up. Well, that door apparently rolled back down a little, because the top of the truck hit the bottom of the door, ripping off the bottom metal strip and rubber seal. Lovely…

So now, not only am I going to have to replace the stupid garage door opener, which I knew in the first place, but I’m gonna have to figure out how to fix the stupid door, as well.

…And third. When Hot Rod and I were at The Dub this evening, buying seeds for the garden, I discovered this:

THIS is the Mountain Dew of my childhood! THIS is the Mountain Dew I fell in love with! I also bought a bottle of Pepsi Throwback…

I’m off to write a letter to PepsiCo now, to tell them to ditch the new stuff and bring the “Throwbacks” back for good. Not only are they better, they’re the teeniest bit better for me. Since I’d rather put sugar into my system that HFCS. Even though I know I shouldn’t put either in, in the amounts I do. But that’s a post for another day.

I have Dew to drink. Yummy.

The Weight of Motherhood

2009-04-22T11:53:00.001-05:00

After being home sick for four days, Hot Rod went back to school today. I brought him in late, though he was still dragging a little.

He started with The Barf, as he calls it, on Saturday, and couldn’t hold anything down for three days. I kept feeding him little, tiny bits of Gatorade – a teaspoon every half hour or so. Anything more than that, and it would come right back up. Forget water, which he was begging for. Crying, pleading, for water, and I couldn’t give it to him, because I knew it would just come right back up. It started to diminish on Monday, and he was able to drink larger amounts at a time. But when a reasonable serving came back up yesterday, I brought him to the doctor.

By this time, he was gaunt. Dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t want to walk. The nurse put him on the scale, and he was at 34 lbs. Six pounds in four days. Doc gave him some anti-vomit medicine, and advised that, if he got any worse, that he should be brought to the E.R. for IV fluids.

That image rocks a mother’s world. I know how much I hated sitting in the hospital a couple weeks ago, watching the medicine drip into a tube running through my veins. But I’m an adult. I get it. Needles don’t bother me, so much as annoy me. But he’s so little. So fragile under all that bashing around that he does.

I brought him home, gave him the medication, and let him sleep – something he’s been doing a LOT of in the last few days. But every hour or so, I’d wake him, and he’d wake pretty alert. A good sign. An even better sign is that he’d take good, long drinks of Gatorade, and it stayed down. 12+ ounces in four hours. And his eyes brightened up. No longer did he have that hollow-eyed stare that was scaring the crap out of me.

He came upstairs at 6 this morning, and I was delighted to see him. He drank water and kept it down. Argued with me when I insisted that he take a shower. And then agreed to go to school as long as he could bring a Lunchable for lunch, instead of a pbj. I drove him in, gave his teacher the rundown, and left him in her capable hands.

And broke down the minute I walked through the door.

It’s been a crappy year. A REALLY crappy year, and I know it’s not over yet. There are still hurdles to jump. I know I can face them, overcome them. But when your child is sick, everything else pales. I can’t imagine how folks handle it when their kids are seriously ill. It physically hurt to not be able to take away the “yuk” that he was feeling. I know I did, by getting him medical attention when he needed it, but still. I’m Mom – the Fixer of All Things. And this time, I couldn’t fix it by myself.

So I had a little pity party for myself, with a lot of tears and a lot of “how much more can I handle?” going on.

And then I stripped his bed, Cloroxed the mattress, and washed his sheets. Tidied up his room. Washed his PJ’s. It’ll be ready for him when he comes home, exhausted, later this afternoon.

And life goes on.

Bang iPod Here

2009-04-20T20:58:00.000-05:00

THIS is why people go Postal.

Last year, Sparky received an iPod Mini, onto which we quickly loaded all the Harry Potter books, so he could re-read them for about the 86th time. Well, over the months, he’s come to discover that iPod products are less than accessible to people with vision impairments. He can’t see to read the screen, and those mysterious little clicks are no help at all. So he left the iPod here with me.

So I figured I’d back up the HP books to the computer, and fill it with MY music. Why not? Better for me to use it, than to just leave it here to rot, right?

So I hook it up to iTunes and try to transfer the stuff over. And, of course it makes sense to be able to back up that which is on your iPod to your computer, so it’s IMPOSSIBLE TO DO.

So I call Apple Support. Because that’s what they’re there for, right?

Wrong.

After navigating the voice mail system and waiting for 5 minutes, I finally get to talk to a “Genius”. Uh huh.

I explain to her that I received a second-hand iPod Mini, and it was pre-loaded (it wasn’t, I loaded it, but why get into that?) with the Harry Potter books. And now I wanted to back those books up onto my computer in case something happened to the iPod, I’d still have the audio files. And the help page gives instructions for backing up to a CD, but I don’t have a burner on my laptop. So how can I just back it up to my iTunes, or to my desktop?

She says that she’ll be happy to tell me for $29.95.

WHAT???

“Your support agreement has expired, so that information will be $29.95. Or I can e-mail it to you.”

“You can e-mail me the information, but if I want to hear it from your mouth, you’ll have to charge me thirty bucks?”

“Yes”

“WHAT???”

“Well, your support agreement has expired”

“SO? You’re still giving me the information. I’m already on the phone. How is telling me different from e-mailing me.”

“it’s policy”

So I say, fine, e-mail me the information.

A few minutes ago, I read the e-mail.

It’s instructions on how to back up my information from my iPod onto a CD.

A Question for the Ages

2009-04-11T08:01:00.007-05:00

I would like to consult with a person who has experience with Gene Mapping. You know, those guys who are always telling us that there is a gene that causes us to be bald, a gene that causes us to have blue eyes, a gene that causes that weird sideways toe that Grandpa has? Yeah, those guys. And I want to ask them this…

What gene is it that causes children to wake up at 5:00 AM on WEEKENDS, when they can’t be rousted out of bed with DYNAMITE during the week????

And can it be deactivated?

Now, I don’t want to sleep until noon on Saturdays. But 7 would be nice. Alas, no… 5:00 arrives and there’s a little human, airborne over my bed, yelling “SURPRISE!!”. So I send him back to his bed to STAY THERE until 6:30. But the damage is done now, because the animals are awake. And once they’re awake? Food must be served or there will be Hell to pay.

Cat stands at the bathroom door, whining and howling, because apparently, water running out of the tap is the Starbucks of the feline world.

Dog has his nose in my face, snorting in time with the wagging tail, due to yet another scientific mystery: when a dog’s tail wags quickly, the nose snorts repeatedly. And wetly.

PsychoCockatiel hears the ruckus and starts his morning salute to the sun, WHICH GETS MORE SLEEP THAN I DO, and keeps it up until I throw a wadded up sock at his cage. And miss, because it’s not even DAWN yet.

But now I’m awake. So I go wandering around the house, satisfying various needs. I finally sigh, because at last, the house is quiet. It’s still mostly dark, the sun hasn’t broken horizon yet, although I can see the sky getting lighter. I lay back down in bed, back in that spot that, thankfully, still matches my body and is little warm, snuggle back into the pillow, pull the covers up, conjure the favorite dream… aaahhhh…..

... THUNK…shuss-shuss-shuss-TIK-TIK-TIK. Cat. On my belly. Digging to make a bed, and getting his claws caught in the threads of the quilt. Pick up cat, deposit on giant pillow which has been placed at the foot-end of the bed for just this purpose. He turns once, settles down, wraps tail over nose and is asleep.

Settle back down, repeat snuggle process, grab dream thread… AaahhhhhhOUCH!!!

Enormous dog lands on pelvis, ensuring no further children. Pads around. Settles next to me with butt disturbingly close to my face. I poke him with a long fingernail and he gets up, turns again, DISTURBING THE CAT who takes a swipe. Dog pins cat with enormous paw. Both finally settle back down, but in the ruckus, I have been pushed to the edge of the bed. I battle back. Get everyone in their places. Settled. Everyone snuggled.

Now I have to pee. Sonofa…

Get BACK up…… return to bed to find cat sleeping on my pillow and dog in my warm spot.

Bird starts again, because now? Sun’s up. Throw sock. Threaten repeated whisker-pluckings if animals do not remove carcasses from my spot NOW.

Glares ensue. Ever been glared at by a sleepy Golden Retriever? It’s disturbing.

They finally move. I settle in. Everyone is finally quiet. Settled. The house is quiet. Even the Dawn Chorus has lullaby overtones to it. I start to drift off to sleep… Aaaaahhhhhhh……

MORNING MOM!!!! IT’S 6:30!!!! CAN WE WATCH PBS KIDS NOW?????

I don't think this is what Alexander Graham Bell intended

2009-04-07T14:13:00.001-05:00

I’m trying to find a cell carrier and a phone that will work for Sparky. We currently have AT&T which, according to their commercials, works in Ouagadougou, but not in Iowa. This means that I pay full price for long distance and local on my home phone, as well as full price for a two-phone wireless package, that I can use maybe twice a week, when I’m in town. We originally chose AT&T because they said that they covered “everywhere” and because they offered free calls to AT&T customers – both of our families have AT&T – AND the very attractive rollover minutes.

Well, we now have more than 5000 rollover minutes, because I CAN’T USE MY PHONE. I have no coverage at my house. Zero. Nada. Zippo. Unless, of course, I suspend myself upside down by the ankle from my great-room ceiling, wearing a bikini, holding a metal bar out toward the windows with one hand and dialing with the other hand. Then I might be able to grab a passing wave, if the wind is right, the planets are aligned correctly, and Obama is physically occupying a room in the White House. Which means never.

So I start The Quest. I go online first, to US Cellular, which is the carrier of choice out here. THEY can manage to get calls into my basement. Probably into the SAFE in my basement. But they don’t have a phone that Sparky can use. Sparky checks with his teachers at the Blind School, and they tell him to check out the Motorola Q9c, which is carried by Verizon, and works with a program (near as I can figure) called “TALKS” – which makes the phone actually talk to the user. It goes through and narrates everything, from names in a phone book to received text messages. But, although Verizon says that they cover “everywhere”, people we know who have had Verizon have found that our area is included in that “no coverage zone”. Even though their little map says we’re covered. Oh, yeah, and according to their website, they “don’t service” our area. What that means, when they have an ONLINE STORE, I don’t know.

Where to now?

I get a wild hair (yeah, I know. Check the mirror. It’s been there for a while now), and look up the ADA. Yes, the Americans with Disabilities Act. After all, blindness is considered a disability, and for pete’s sake, if the ADA can require that companies make accommodations for ALCOHOLICS, they should stand up for blind people who want a cell phone that’s adaptable for them, right? Well, calling the ADA “hotline number” takes me to the Dept. of Justice…. And this “isn’t one of the things they do.” They tell me to call the FCC. Which I do. And end up listening to a ten-minute spiel about Digital TV. Like I needed to hear THAT. FINALLY I get to a real person…

Who cannot have graduated from high school yet. She sounded MAYBE 16. And talked like it, too. I started to explain the situation, complete with phrases like, “Motorola”, “Verizon”, and “proprietary technology” (that’s what causes you to have to use your phone with your carrier and ONLY your carrier, even if it’s the exact same brand and model as your sister’s, but she has a different carrier).

She tried writing down everything I said, word for word, so she could “send a ticket” up to a supervisor. INSTEAD OF JUST GETTING THE SUPERVISOR ON THE PHONE.

They’re going to call me back.

Right. Holding my breath…….. now.

He Said, She Said

2009-04-06T21:16:00.002-05:00

Can someone please explain to me if this is a “man thing”, or what?

What’s the deal with being SO sure that your memory is absolutely perfect? That no matter what the issue or topic, what YOU remember is, absolutely 100%, the way something happened, or what was said.

This is an issue that I often have with Sparky. We will both be in a situation, and a conversation will happen. Months later, that conversation shows up again, and we remember it differently. Automatically, my recall of the event is declared incorrect. What he remembers is factual. What I remember is flawed. If I say something, then I am arguing, being difficult, whatever.

I have NEVER won an argument, even when I can produce evidence that my memory was correct, because somehow that gets dismissed as being, “a different issue”, “irrelevant to this discussion” or whatever.

It is so very frustrating, and it makes me want to throw things.

And when you add to it that I am a phenomenally pathetic debater? I don’t think I’ve “won” an argument in 15+ years of marriage.

*sigh*

Lonely and Sad

2009-04-03T15:42:00.003-05:00

Yeah, you’re right. This is a place for me to “dump it all”. Well, here it is.

I’m lonely.

Profoundly lonely and sad.

By this time in my life, I wanted the Fairy Tale. The soul-mate husband, TWO kids, tidy little house in Mayberry.

What I got was a bizarre relationship, a lovely but possessed house in the country, and one amazing beautiful child. And a neurotic dog, a psychotic cat and a mentally imbalanced cockatiel.

It comes to this: I know that life doesn’t follow a mapped-out route. It would be boring if it did that. But looking back, I’m seeing now where I went wrong… or did I? If I’d made different choices, I wouldn’t have Hot Rod. And how can I have regrets when I have him? But that doesn’t ease the pain, or fill this deep emptiness within.

But here I am, staring down the barrel of God-Help-Me-Forty, and what do I have to show for it? My two BFF’s are hundreds or thousands of miles away. My “little sister” has started her new life in a new town with her old and new friends, even my husband is ‘moving on’, living in another town… but tethered here, and hanging on as tight as he can. And I’m here, isolated in the country, the friends that I’ve tried to make have turned out to be mere acquaintences (with one glowing exception, but she’s crazy-busy and we never see each other). The people I talk with the most are my brothers, and two ladies I’ve never even met, who live in another state! I’m here, with more extra weight than I ever imagined in my wildest dreams. I’m here, feeling blindsided, even now – almost a year after The Wreck.

I sit and, in my “downest” moments, wonder what the hell do I do now? I have skills, but no work experience from the past five years (because it takes no skill whatsoever to raise a child and run a house). I have a ridiculous set of parameters within which I’m forced to live, so I getting a job is a very intimidating task, one that so far, has not panned out. I’m in a marriage that doesn’t feed my soul. It has yielded what I think might be a wonderful friendship, but marriage should be more than that, and so far, it hasn’t been. I long for friends with whom I can share a kitchen table and a cup of tea and giggle and chat and argue and cry and be silly and just be.

I sit, and in my “dreamy” moments, I’m catapulted beyond this current situation into a frothy future, where there is a happy go lucky child, financial security, love of friends, a sweet little house, and a partner with whom I can be me, and, believe it or not, a career. It’s a lovely dream, one that feeds me and motivates me to ‘just keep swimming’.

I move, in my motivated moments, and still feel the weight of loneliness and sadness, but know instinctively that to sit and do nothing is to give in to the darkness. So I move. I get to the gym. I shove things around the house and call it cleaning. And I plan. Plans move painfully slow, and I want them to move quickly. But they’re slow, and I have to accept that.

I hope this movement will yield results. My life isn’t a speedboat anymore – fast, light, maneuverable. It’s a massive aircraft carrier. One that takes hours and miles to turn. I’m making the adjustments. I hope I can see it through the turn.

Wendy Whiner

2009-04-02T10:00:00.003-05:00

My neice pestered me the other day because I haven’t been posting here. I told her that I hadn’t because everything I thought about writing came out as whining.

Truth be told, I feel like I’m on a runaway train. Heading into an abyss. Not necessarily over a cliff, or crashing into a wall, or anything catastrophic like that, just into…. What? I don’t know.

Here’s a sample of why I thought I’d be sounding whiny:
• I’ve had three different illnesses in the last month, one of which landed me in the hospital for two days
• my house is falling apart around me
• in addition to the ubiquitous Murphy, I seem to have picked up a poltergeist
• my cat is acting sick, but to bring him to the vet is to risk life and limb, and stress him out beyond any definition of the word “acceptable”
• every time I listen to anything besides music on the radio, I grow more angry and frustrated by the second
• I want to get a job, but given the parameters under which I have to operate, it is nearly impossible
• I am dependent upon others for the necessities of life
• I have no idea what I want to be “when I grow up”
• I am living the life of a single mother (except the dating part, of course), but have all the obligations and responsibilities of a married mother
• I frequently get the joy and uplifting experience of dealing with government-run healthcare
• I look at a picture of butter in a newspaper ad, and my thighs break the seams on my jeans. Seriously, losing weight is a herculean endeavor for me, and usually fruitless (I know… maybe if I’d eat fruit, it wouldn’t be “fruitless” hahaha. Not funny)

So you see why I haven’t wanted to post lately? That’s just a sampling. I’m in a major dip… things just aren’t going well around here. I just keep pluggin' along, but sometimes it’s very hard to keep a smile on my face. Even my usual sarcastic and biting wit seems to have abandoned me at the moment.

So.

How are you?

(picture found at Saturday Night Live website)

Modern Day Cheese Shop

2009-03-10T11:11:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, in an effort to keep on top of things, be responsible, and cut down on my own personal paperwork, I called Medicaid.

*pause here for you to finish laughing, wipe your tears, and right your chair. All better? Good…*

A little background. Ever since The Wreck, Sparky has been doing Physical Therapy three times a week, on average. This was, of course, ordered by every doctor that he has seen regarding his various injuries stemming from The Wreck.

And every month, sometimes every two weeks, I have received a questionnaire to fill out and send back to Medicaid. This questionnaire asks things like, “were your injuries the result of a car accident?”, “Do you have any other insurance?”, “Did you have car insurance?”, and it also asks for policy numbers and insurance company contact information. The form is exactly the same each time. Exactly, except for the date on it.

So I’ve been completing this form and sending it back, every two weeks or every month, since about October. Around the end of November, I got sick of filling it out, so I photocopied one of the forms, after I’d filled it out, and just sent that in, with a new date on it.

On a completely different, but absolutely related topic, we had a change in our income status last November. Thanks to the situation, Sparky is now considered “disabled”, and therefore receives benefits for that.

And now we get to the phone call.

I dialed up my “representative” at Human Services, Medicaid, yesterday. I wanted to check on our status as related to the disability, as well as this form.

So I get her on the phone. We’ll call her “Jane” for simplicity’s sake.

Me: Hi, Jane. This is Laura X. I have some questions for you. First, this
Form that I keep getting. Is it necessary for me to fill it out every
month, sometimes twice a month? Don’t they already have this
information in their computers?
Jane: What form is that? Who is it from?
Me: Medicaid.
Jane: Is there a phone number anywhere on it?
Me: Yeah, at the bottom is the generic 800- number for General Medicaid
Questions.
Jane: You’ll have to call that number because I don’t know anything about
that form.
Me: You can’t just answer this general question as to whether I have to keep
submitting the same information that hasn’t changed at all, twice a
month?
Jane: it’s not my form, I know nothing about it.
Me: But it’s a Medicaid form. And you work for… nevermind. Ok. Well, I
have one other question.
Jane: Yes, how can I help you?
Me: (in my head: HAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHA riiiight.) Well, our income
status has changed, as of last November.
Jane: Why didn’t you call me last November?
Me: I did. You weren’t there, so I left a voicemail asking you to call me
back, regarding this issue. You did call me, and left a message for me
that this wasn’t your job, that I would have to call Social Security.
Jane: Well then you should call them.
Me: I did. They referred me back to you.
Jane: *sigh* Ok, what’s your question?
Me: Well, our income status has changed since last November. Is that going
to affect our Medicaid benefits in any way?
Jane: What was your name? I’ll have to look it up.
Me: Laura X.
Jane: Can you spell that?
Me: F-r-u-s-t-r-a-t-e-d
Jane: Thank you. Now. I have to wait until my screen comes up here, so
answer a few questions for me…
Me: ok
Jane: What is the amount you are receiving?
Me: $x.
Jane: And that’s since November?
Me: Well, it changed at the beginning of the year, but yeah, it’s around that
much.
Jane: And why can you remember the number from back then but you can’t
remember the exact amount you currently receive?
Me: What???? I dunno, that first number just stuck in my head. Do you need
the exact amount right now?
Jane: *sigh*, no, I can request it from that agency. It’ll take a few days
though.
Me: Ok. You do that. So, how does this change my status?
Jane: Well, I don’t know. My screen shows that you are on Program A,
correct?
Me: Yes.
Jane: Well, that expires at the end of April, you’ll have to re-apply.
Me: And how do I do that? Is there a form that I have to fill out? Is it
automatically rolled over? How does that work?
Jane: Oh, there’s a form. (Ominous music begins in the background)
Me: Fine. Does that automatically get sent out? Or can you mail it to me?
Jane: If you want me to send it to you, you’ll have to call and remind me.
Me: What?
Jane: You’ll have to call and remind me to send you that form.
Me: But I just asked you for it.
Jane: Well, I can’t send it out until the middle of April.
Me: But you said that my coverage ends at the end of April. Don’t I have to
re-apply BEFORE then? Can’t you just stick it in the mail now?
Jane: Well, if you apply too soon, we’ll just deny you.
Me: So you can’t send me the form early, so I can fill it out, and then I can
just wait to send it in until the correct time?
Jane: you’ll have to call and remind me to send it to you.
Me: You can’t send it to me now, and you can’t write down to send it to
me…. Nevermind. Can I just stop by the office and pick up the form?
Jane: Oh, sure, you can pick up the form anytime you’d like. They’re always
available at the front desk. Just don’t get it too soon, or you’ll be
denied.
Me: Fine. What are the front desk hours?
Jane: I don’t know, you’ll have to call and ask them.
Me: Really. Do you have the number?
Jane: It’s not on my screen. You’ll have to check the phone book.

Why do I feel like I’m living a Monty Python Skit???

And Obama is stockpiling our money to implement Universal Health Care. This, folks, is what you’re in for.

Just Keep Swimming...

2009-03-04T13:52:00.002-06:00

I am seriously burnt-out. I’m feeling like I did (sometimes) when I was in HS, then college (usually Finals week), then in a couple of jobs – one that I seriously hated, and one that just had some pretty tense deadlines. I can’t concentrate, I’m tired all the time, when I’m working on one thing, my mind is whirling with sixteen other things that need to be done. My house is a mess, but not because I’m not cleaning it, because I START cleaning it, then discover something else that needs doing NOW, and go do that, and don’t finish that because I’ve found something else that needs doing NOW, and go do that and don’t finish that because I’ve found something else that needs doing NOW and go and do that and…..

Then I have lunch.

Like right now. I’m writing this to help get it all down so I can go do something else. And a fly lands on my arm, reminding me that I haven’t cleaned the catbox in a couple days (don’t ask. Really, don’t ask). And I see the taxes out the corner of my eye, which reminds me that I need to get THOSE done, but then I realize that I haven’t done my homework for my three classes yet, and “classes” reminds me that I’ve got stuff to do for Hot Rod’s school, and THAT reminds me that I have a PTO meeting tonight, and I’d wanted one of those things done for that…. AND I have to get my sheets washed, and I got the vacuum fixed so I need to do that, and the garage door needs fixing still, and it’s getting warm now, so I really should fix the lawn mower to make sure it’s ready to go, and oh, yeah, I have to schedule an eye appointment, and my annual physical… and we won’t even think about all the letters I have to write to my lovely and phenomenally incompetent representatives (both local and state) because that just makes me tired and more mad than I can handle right now.

See? I’m getting tired just THINKING about it.

So I try things that have always worked. But those have packed on more pounds than I’m willing to admit or even acknowledge.

So I go to the gym. But the whole time I’m there, I’m thinking about all the things I SHOULD be doing, like cleaning, and homework, and taxes, and for the love of Pete, I really should find a job, too. But at least I’m burning calories and stretching and lifting while I’m being stressed out.

I would say that I need a vacation, but I know that I’ll just come back to the same problems, the same stress, the same burnout. Although I did NOT turn down a trip to AK, and I would NOT turn down a trip some where else (anyone? Bora Bora? Anyone????)… I just know that those things will give me rest (figuratively speaking), but not solve my problems.

I know that the solution is the same as it’s always been, the one that has served me throughout my whole life… and that’s (in the words of that famous blue tang) to “just keep swimming”. I’ll get through it all – the homework, the taxes, the emotional upheaval, ALL of it (except the exercise, that, it seems, is here to stay), and come out the other side a little more tired, but wiser for it.

I just don’t wanna.

On the upside, I DID get my TV fixed. I moved the antenna to the other side of the VCR. Tell me, WHY SHOULD THAT MATTER????? IT WAS ONE FOOT TO THE LEFT!!!!!

WHY??? WHY WHY WHY???

2009-02-25T10:37:00.008-06:00

This is another Girl Post. Boys, you will find better entertainment (maybe) here.

Ok. Can someone PLEASE explain to me why perm curlers come in only three sizes?

We have Large:

Medium:

And Small:

Even the large ones give you hair like this:

When what we’re REALLY looking for, is this:

Ok. Yes, I know that my new perm (which is only in its second day… or first FULL day, if you want to be technical) will relax in the next week or so, and I will cease to look like a show dog, and smell like a week-old kennel. But that’s not the point.

The point is…. HOW do you get fast, and permanent, “beach curls” like that girl up there? Yeah, I know… lots of mousse, hot rollers, hairspray, and a good 50 minutes every.single.morning. NOT what I’m looking for. I’m a wash-and-go girl. I have things to do, even if it IS just surfing Facebook and writing inane blog posts. I’m too busy to be spending hours in the bathroom every morning, playing with my hair.

WHY can’t there be another set of Perm Curlers? Ones that are, say, an inch or so around, that don’t make you look like you tried to recreate Ben Franklin’s midnight kite-fly. Or maybe even a little bigger, to create those awesome, soft, and oh-so-touchable curls? To quote Nancy Kerrigan… “WHY? WHY? WHY???””

A.D.D. moment… there is, at this very moment, a bald eagle circling outside my window. I’m just going to sit and stare for a while.

The Switch

2009-02-24T20:59:00.008-06:00

I was so entertained by myself and my response over at Joy’s Page, that I decided to reprint it here.

She expressed her exasperation over the Digital TV switch, and for the love of PETE, just do it already, and stop TALKING about it. And here’s my response:

Ok, here’s the other side of it. (brace yourselves, rant ahead)…

I got my boxes back in November. We’re not a huge TV watching family, but we enjoy it well enough. We are plenty satisfied with network/analog, thankyouverymuch, and don’t much care that cable isn’t available in our neck of the woods. If we want “cable”, we’d have to get a dish, and that’s just not practical, considering how little we really do watch.

I’m happy if I get to watch Numb3ers (pause for obligatory sigh over Dylan Bruno)

and Red Green reruns each week.

So…

Last October or November, I got my two Miracle Boxes, hooked them all up, and figured, “ok, good to go.” We were happily surprised to discover a couple of stations we hadn’t gotten before: RTN (Retro TV, including the A-Team and Magnum P.I…. such fun!), and Qubo (all *nice* cartoons, all the time). I figured I was golden, and was being all smug, with the same attitude of everyone else… “just get it DONE already! I’m SICK of hearing about it.”

And then, last Tuesday, our local NBC Affiliate turned off Analog.
Now I do not get NBC AT ALL.

I got it before the switch, both through my Miracle Box, and on analog. Now? Nothing!!! So I e-mail the station. Apparently, I’m not the only one with this problem. I got an email yesterday, outlining the things that I should do:

1. Make sure there are no obstacles between my antenna and the tower. Well. Hmmm. Do two walls of my house count? Because the tower is a mile from my house, as the crow flies - I can see it from my living room, way up here on this hill. The only obstacle between my little rabbit-ears and the tower is my actual house.

2. Place the rabbit ears OUTSIDE the window. Um. How???? This is NOT an inside antenna. It’s a top-of-the-tv unit. What, you want me to duct-tape it to the front of my house???

They offered a couple of other suggestions as well. What all this crap boils down to is this: apparently, the signal is TOO STRONG, and my little (formerly useful) antenna can’t handle it. So I’m probably going to have to go out and drop another $35, minimum, PER UNIT (that would be 2, in my house, possibly 3, if I do the guest room), on new antennas. AND I don’t know WHICH new antenna is going to work. Those new, snazzy, HD antennas? Don’t work with digital. Any ol’ rabbit-ear antenna won’t do, either. SOME people have had luck with Brand 1. Others have had luck with Brand 2. NOBODY has had full luck with BOTH BRANDS.

On TOP of all this… this is only one station that has made the switch, in the teeny-tiny market of Cedar Rapids/Waterloo.

CBS (where my beloved Numb3ers resides), ABC, and PBS (Red Green) are scheduled to follow in the coming weeks. And guess what. According to the folks at our local NBC affiliate? We can expect the same problems again, with those channels.

And nobody *really* knows how to fix it. The “professionals” at the TV stations are completely perplexed.

One suggestion has been made by lots of people… why not just switch the Analog back on, until we can figure out what’s wrong? Well, sorry folks, can’t do that. Because the Feds have already SOLD those frequencies to somebody else. Who? No idea. But they’re gone.

So, now I’m sitting here on top of my little hill, looking at that stupid antenna shooting a mile into the air, and cursing it’s power.

You just wait. The next bailout will be to purchase specialized antennas for all of us who don’t get the channels that we had last week.

So, thanks, in advance.

SQUEEEEE!!!!!

2009-02-18T15:45:00.001-06:00

Girls only. Boys, you have my permission to roll your eyes, and go to another blog. But I don’t want to hear a WORD about how “Friends don’t let friends watch Friends.” Because we do.

Anyway…..

HOW CUTE ARE THESE?????

Remember that scene, in the very first episode (part 2) of Friends where Rachel came into the coffee shop, all happy and stuff, and said that she’d been laughed out of 57 interviews that day, but she didn’t care because she found a pair of boots at 50% off?

“They’re my new, ‘I don’t need a job, I don’t need my parents, I’ve got great boots!’ boots.” Yeah! THAT scene.

So those up there are my “I don’t have a job, I have NO idea what’s gonna happen next, but I’ve got the world’s CUTEST CLOGS” clogs!!!

AND I got them 30% off.

Oh, and I used up the last of my gift cards today, and sprung on a bottle of DKNY Be Delicious perfume. Yeah, I shoulda used it on groceries, but a girl can only buy so much toilet paper before she explodes.

Wait. That was a REALLY disgusting image.

Who cares? I’ve got cute clogs!!

Hot Rod/Short Round

2009-02-16T08:01:00.003-06:00

Ok, the Short Round thing...

Last week, Hot Rod and I started playing a LOT of Uno. He has this set of "Cars" Uno cards, and he just loves playing. And, of course, we really get into the game. He's always trying to sneak in a card that doesn't match (change the color by placing a Mater on Lightning, for example, instead of a Mater on Mater... or use a 2 to replace a 1, rather than a 1 for a 1, for those Uno Purists out there)

And it inevitably begins a good-humored argument with me accusing him of trying to cheat, and him saying, "No, no, no... YOU CHEAT!!!" And we both dissolve in a fit of giggles. And then it started all over again when he won, and I called him, "Rotten Kid"... and then he called me "Rotten Mommy" when I won the next game. It was great fun.

One recent game reminded of a scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, where Indy and Short Round were playing poker. The scene begins at :49...

Ok, I couldn't figure out how to embed the video here (Joy, you're gonna have to give me a crash course!), but you can view it here.

On the Other Hand

2009-02-14T16:18:00.005-06:00

On one hand, I’m perversely glad when things break around here. No, I’m not talking about the lawn mower again – that’s LAST week’s news.

This week - or this half-week, as the lawn mower decided to give me fits on Tuesday – it’s the garage-door opener. I came home yesterday from a jaunt into town, and pressed the door button, only to have the door go halfway up and stop. I growled at it, cursed at it, even kicked it. All it did was growl back.

So I took it apart…

Yeaaahhhhhhh. No, that white gear is not supposed to look like that. All furry and frayed. It’s supposed to have nice, smooth teeth that mesh with a little screw-thingy (see how technically savvy I am?) on the other side.

And this pile of shavings is CERTAINLY out of place:

That's the inside of the opener cover. Son of a…..

So now I am a manual garage door opener, until I figure out if I can replace the gears (again. Because that one that got tore up? Yeah, I put that one in probably a year and a half or two years ago), or if I should just bite the bullet and buy a whole new garage door opener.

So anyway, on one hand, I’m entertained when things break like this. It gives me a chance to hang out in Handyman's Corner. Be self-sufficient and all that stuff.

But on the other hand? It really makes me angry. Because those things are not supposed to be my job. My job is supposed to be the “girl stuff” – taking care of the house, making meals, the bulk of the child-rearing. And my partner is supposed to be doing the “boy stuff” – clearing snow from the driveway, mowing the lawn, household maintenance.

There’s supposed to be a division of labor, a give-and-take. But there is none. And it makes me angry and sad. And worst of all, it doesn’t surprise me. And I know that, right now, he can't be doing all that stuff, because (on one hand...) he's not here, and also, he's injured. But it's a vicious circle. One that I'm really sick of treading over and over and over again.

*mentally shakes off the glums*

But … I will get through this. I always do. And somehow, I will come out the other side of whatever it is that I’m in right now, better and stronger and healthier and happier. I have to. Hot Rod is depending on me.

And while we’re on THAT subject, I may be changing his nickname to Short Round… (points if you get that reference)

More on that some other time.

Emotional Roller Coaster

2009-02-13T09:32:00.002-06:00

Ugh. I am so emotionally drained.

There are no words to describe the frustration and anger I am feeling over this stupid political mess that our government has led us into. They are boasting that they will be voting on this so-called ‘stimulus’ package sometime today. But they haven’t read it. In the time that they have allotted themselves to read it (from 7:00 PM last night until 9:00 AM this morning), they would have to read at 640 words PER MINUTE. Glenn Beck, on his radio show this morning, tried to demonstrate that speed. He recorded himself reading part of it at normal speed, then asked the computer to speed it up to 640 wpm. The computer COULDN’T DO IT.

I don’t sign the HIPAA Forms at the Pharmacy without reading them. And they’re the same EVERY TIME. And yet, Congress is blithely determining the future of our country by passing this 1000+ pile of crap without reading it. Why? Because Nancy Pelosi wants it done before she goes off to tour Europe and receive some cockamamie award.

And yet, as much as I’d like to unplug, I can’t. I have a little boy who depends upon me to make sure he gets this country in better shape than I received it. At this point? I can’t do that. And it pisses me off.

So I wrote to my Rep., Bruce Braley, and said the following:

Don't you DARE sign that Stimulus Bill.

There is NO WAY that you could have read the whole thing in the time allotted, much less have researched everything that the package provides for.

If you sign that document, it will be a spectacularly irresponsible act, in my opinion, grounds for firing. Nobody in their right mind would sign something THIS important without reading it first.

VOTE NO. Because even if you support the concept, there is NO WAY you can know for sure that this is the right thing for our country without having read it first.

And I know for sure that he will ignore what I said, because it’s more important to those who “represent” us to vote along party lines than to do what’s right for the country.

On the home front, I’m riddled with angst. Because even though this is a nice, quiet week, a week of relaxing and resetting, and regrouping, I know that there is still emotional upheaval on the horizon. Things have been hard in the past, and evidence suggests that it will continue to be hard. That nothing will change. So it’s up to me to decide what to do with that knowledge.

Sometimes I hate being an adult.

The Calm After the Storm

2009-02-11T11:43:00.001-06:00

Ahhhhh….. well, THAT’S over.

What a week. Making lists, revising lists, tons of laundry, packing, repacking, unpacking, repacking again, finding that one particular cord that MUST be taken along, because no other cord will do, last minute shopping, labeling, and oh yeah, all the other regular mundanities of life, like getting Hot Rod to and from school, and silly things like making meals.

But whew. It’s done. Sparky is down in Des Moines and all settled in. It was a long day on Monday, which started on Thursday, actually, with packing all his stuff up. We worked through the weekend, chasing down all the items on the master packing list, as well as making other minor packing lists, because OF COURSE, I didn’t take the Master List with me everywhere, so I was nearly buried in a sea of post-it’s by Sunday night. But by 8:30 Monday Morning, we were on the road, arriving at the school around 11:00 to do check-ins and whatnot.

Then it was off to his apartment, where we unloaded, had some lunch, did some grocery shopping, and eventually unpacked and settled everything in. I left for home at 8:00 pm, and arrived back here at 10:45, exhausted.

My parents stayed for another day, and we spent all day yesterday handling some details of life that had been cast aside – like sorting through Hot Rod’s outgrown clothes, and attempting to repair the lawn mower… again. Remember the mouse bits? Yeah, it’s still not running. We replaced the part of the engine that wasn’t working, only to find out that the ignition switch is FUBAR. So I had to order a new one of those. Should be in on Monday or Tuesday, at which time I will install it, so I can figure out the NEXT thing that’s wrong….

Set an extra plate at dinner, Murphy is here.

But things really are settling down a little. Of course, Hot Rod misses Sparky, so there were, and will be again, lonely tears and missing Daddy, at least for a while. But we’ll handle that, as we did before, with nightly calls to share the events of our day and to sing bedtime songs. And a couple of weekend visits here and there. And we’ll all be ok.

Now I am going to go up and soak for THREE HOURS in my giant bathtub, because even though the house is a wreck and the laundry is clamoring to be done (I only washed Sparky’s stuff over the weekend), and the recycling is taking over the garage, I just want to sit and do NOTHING for a while.

At least until 2:00, when Hot Rod gets home. Of course, he’d have an early-out today!!!

Man Rules

2009-01-28T08:37:00.006-06:00

The "Men's Rules for Women" thing has been going around in e-mail for quite some time, and it keeps irritating me that no one has written "Women's RESPONSES to those rules".

Well, thanks to Joy, who posted the rules on her blog today, I've been inspired to finally respond....

MAN RULES

#1 Men are NOT mind readers.

Neither are women. Speak up if you want something. Doesn’t mean you’ll get it, but at least you said it.

#2 Learn to work the toilet seat. You’re a big girl. If it’s up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don’t hear us complain about you leaving it down.

When you’re the one who falls into the water that YOU can’t bother to flush down, then you can dictate whether the seat is up or down. Until that happens, it stays down. Learn to aim.

#3 Quit putting the toilet paper roll on backwards.

Learn to put it on right. You managed to assemble that 3,000 piece Ship in a Bottle and you can’t put a roll of toilet paper on correctly? Seriously.

#4 Sunday sports. It’s like the full moon or the changing tides. Let it be.

Last time I checked, Figure Skating IS a sport. Deal with it.

#5 Crying is blackmail.

Then quit doing it.

#6 Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this.
Subtle hints don’t work!
Strong hints don’t work.
Obvious hints don’t work!
Just say it!

Take your own advice dude. WE’RE supposed to “connect the dots with a thick red line” (thank you Dr. Phil) for you, but you don’t have to pay attention to us? Get real.

#7 Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.

So are “fine” and “nothing”.

#8 Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That’s what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.

Remember that the next time you’re in bed “dying” with the common cold and you expect homemade chicken soup served in bed by me, wearing 7” heels, fishnet stockings and a French Maid’s dress.

#9 Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 days.

Ditto. Stop bringing up the guy I dated 20 years ago.

#10 If you think you’re fat, you probably are. Don’t ask us.

And if you think you’re too small, you probably are. Don’t ask us.

#11 If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of them makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one.

Unless you’re drunk. Then it’s the God’s Honest Truth. So quit getting drunk, doofus.

#12 You can ask us to do something, but don’t tell us how to do it. If you already know how best to do it, just do it yourself.

Remember that the next time I’m driving. Read a book and shut up. We'll get there when we get there.

#13 Whenever possible, please say whatever it is you have say during a commercial.

Same rules apply during “Desperate Housewives”. Write it down if you can’t remember.

#14 Christopher Columbus did not need directions and neither do we.

Mmmm…. Good one. Except that he ended up in America instead of India, where he THOUGHT he was going…..

#15 All men see in 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach and pumpkin for example are fruits. We have no idea what mauve is.

Really? What about “Bordeaux”, “Crème”, and “Rosso Barchetta”? Bet you’d memorize those in a heartbeat. They’re Ferrari colors. Just because it isn’t important to you doesn’t mean it’s not important.

#16 If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.

Then take it somewhere else and scratch it. We don’t want to see it, smell it, or hear it. And furthermore, if this rule is fine for you, then I don’t want to hear about it when I decide to talk about my period or PMS.

#17 If we ask what is wrong and you say “nothing,” we will act like nothing is wrong. We know you’re lying, but it is not worth the hassle.

If you know what’s wrong in the first place, don’t make me lie about it. Just fix it. Then I don’t have to say “nothing” to you when I’m so supremely pissed off at you that saying anything else will open the gates of hell.

#18 If you ask a question you don’t want to hear the answer too, expect an answer you don’t want to hear.

If YOU ask a question you don’t want to hear the answer to, expect an answer you don’t want to hear. Amazing how that works, isn’t it?

#19 Don’t ask us what we’re thinking about unless you’re prepared to discuss such topics as fishing, hunting, hockey, football, snowmobiling or baseball.

Perhaps you should expand your horizons a bit.

#20 You have enough clothes.

You have enough tools.

#21 You have too many shoes.

You have too many video games.

#22 I am in shape. Round IS a shape.

Well then, Beach Ball And Proud Of It, you can take comfort in those words next time we’re at the beach and that really hot guy is chatting me up.

#23 Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know I have to sleep on the couch tonight. But did you know we really don’t mind? It’s like camping.

Good. More of the king-sized bed for me. Enjoy your camping. By the way, weatherman says tonight’s a thunderstorm.

HOLY CRAP!!!

2009-01-27T12:20:00.002-06:00

My mom just called me. Seems she and my Dogsledding Adventurer Friend have had their heads together, cooking up a late birthday present for me. A birthday present to be “delivered” in July.

They’re sending me to …

ALASKA!!!!

My Musher Friend lives up there, has a full kennel of Siberian Huskies in fact, and has been trying to get me to come and visit since she moved up there the same year that Sparky and I moved here. Life and other crap have always gotten in the way.

And now, since everything that has happened, they’ve decided that I need a break, and they combined miles and whatnot, and have bought me a ticket.

I’m floating about six inches off the ground right now.

And speechless. And it takes a LOT to render me speechless…..

Better...

2009-01-24T20:24:00.001-06:00

Things are better. Not exactly calmer, but better.

I hadn’t realized just HOW much of a ‘loosey-goosey’ I’d become. I always SWORE that I would be the Mom Who Drew The Line. I would always be the wall against which my child butted, always there, never giving way.

But I’ve realized, since Sparky has been home, that I’ve become more and more permissive. I’ve thought on it, asked for outside opinions, thought on it some more. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve been counter-reacting to his discipline. When I think he reacts too harshly, it’s become my custom to react too softly. And that’s given Hot Rod just a whole lotta mixed and confusing signals.

So today, when he screwed up, I went right back to the Frownie Chair – our version of SuperNanny’s “Naughty Chair”. Five minutes in it. And the five minutes starts over if he sasses back, pitches a fit, argues, or otherwise interrupts the countdown. Pretty much if he does anything but sit quietly in that chair.

And it had to start over a couple times today. At one point, no… two points, he had to stand with his nose against the wall because he threw the chair in a fit of temper.

And each time, I “won”. He served his time each and every time.

I’m learning. I know it took 5+ years to get here. But I’m learning.

Thanks to all of you who commented, either here or privately. I have taken all of your kindness and advice to head and heart, and am beating myself up where I need to, and forgiving where I need to, as well.

And for those of you who advise counseling if we need it…. It’s not a problem. It’s one of the arrows in my quiver, as it were, and I’m absolutely not afraid to use it.

Later That Day…

2009-01-23T16:44:00.004-06:00

Ooooohhhhh, yeah. Feelin’ like the Worst Mommy In The World right ‘bout now.

Hot Rod came home a little while ago. I asked him how School was. It came to pass that he told me that he kicked Classmate G, and got his name put on the board for it.

I asked him why he did it.

“I don’t know.” “Yes you do.” This exchange has become routine around here.

“Because I like to,” was the eventual answer.

We got home, and my heart was heavy. I knew what I had to do.

I called Hot Rod into the living room, where his Legos were spread all over the coffee table.

“I told you what would happen if you didn’t keep your body parts to yourself, didn’t I?”

“yes,” came the tiny little voice.

“What did we agree the consequences would be?”

“Take my Legos away,” an even tinier voice answered.

I started clearing the little bricks into their bin, and the meltdown started. Screaming. Stomping, Yelling. He hit me, once.

Quietly, I looked at him.

“If you hit me again, I take the trains, too.”

He continued with the screaming and crying, but there was not more hitting.
He even tried to get me to take the trains, instead of the Legos. But I just kept packing them up.

“NOT THE LEGOS!!! NOT THE LEGOS!!!”

He hung on my legs, tried to block my way as I moved up the stairs to stow the toys in my room for the week.

He ran to his room, buried himself in his bed.

When I came out of the room, he tried again.

I told him he could go talk to Dad, if he wanted to, but I didn’t want him screaming at me anymore.

He’s up there now, and has been for about 20 minutes, talking with Sparky. I’ve heard bits and pieces of the conversation floating down the stairs… part of it included, “It was an accident!!! I kicked G by ACCIDENT!!!”

My heart has broken a little today. I feel like crying. Like curling into a little ball and crying my eyes out. Because I hurt my little boy.

But I know that it’s a little cut, that it’ll only bleed for a while, and it’s mostly a cut on his pride. This too, shall pass. And hopefully, this is a lesson learned for the long run.

We’ll both live, we’ll both heal. We both still love. But it still hurts like hell.

Big Brother, HOW did you manage it? HOW did you survive being the “Meanest Dad In The World”?

Because it’s killing me.

Off Balance

2009-01-23T08:26:00.002-06:00

When you are a mom, every single day is a learning experience. Just when you think, “Sweet! Got it covered!!” Life, or more accurately, a very small person, throws a curveball at you.

That curveball came yesterday, in the form of a phone call from the First Grade Teacher at Hot Rod’s school. Seems that Hot Rod has been causing problems while standing in lines. Hitting other kids. Pushing, shoving, tackling. He was actually sent to the Principal for this once, and yesterday, had to ‘serve time’ with the Mrs. First Grade for awhile – time away from Miss Kindergarten’s class, where he belongs.

When he returned home, I asked him about it. “Why did you hit your friend? Why did you push the other boy? What’s going on?”

Same old answer: “I don’t know”

“Yes, you do.”

“Because I like it.”

Hmmm. Well. Seems that we’ve had a breakdown in communication, or something, around here.

So we issued consequences. Because of the hitting, the shoving, and the sassing back to the Principal (oh, yeah, there was THAT, too)… you will lose ALL of your “Cars” toys for a week. I made him pack them up himself, including the rug and the CD, and I put them away.

And then issued the next step. I wrote a note to Miss Kindergarten, asking her to please let me know if there is ANY problem with him. And made it clear to Hot Rod that if there IS a problem, the next things to go are the Legos and the Train Set.

Yesterday, I was completely depressed and bummed out about this. Who is this child, who has suddenly become defiant, manipulative, sassy, and almost cold? This is not my sweet little boy. Yes, he has spunk. Yes, he has spirit. But he’s not mean. Or, he hasn’t been.

I can’t help but wonder if this has anything to do with The Wreck. It’s a long time after, but things are still off-balance here. I’M still off-balance, so I can only imagine how off-balance he is. And it kills me that I just don’t know how to help him. I don’t know how to get him past this.

Bureaucracy at it's Finest

2009-01-22T10:04:00.002-06:00

Being gone for two weeks always messes things up for me for a couple weeks after. The mail piles up in an incredible fashion – especially with all the catalogs and ads that come around Christmas – and it takes a bit to wade through all the nonsense.

So, yesterday, I was going through the bills that were coming due, and I discover that one of the bills from Sparky’s hospital stay STILL hadn’t been paid, and was now being referred to collections. Lovely.

Allow me to backtrack a bit here…. (wavy lines cover your vision as the picture blurrs and speeds in reverse – we’re going back several months here, don’t get dizzy)

Back in May, when The Wreck happened, we had no health insurance. We were SO SURE that this wouldn’t be a problem, because he was starting a new job soon. Well, The Wreck happened before we could sign up for that insurance, so we were caught with our pants down.

Fortunately, there’s a very well-kept secret in this country. We really DO have “Universal Health Care”, and I was able to sign us up for Medicaid – known as Title 19 here in Iowa – and make it retroactive to May 1. So everything related to The Wreck was covered.

Which is why this particular bill was driving me crazy.

I have been calling the billing department of the hospital in question since Summer, trying to get a comprehensive statement of all of the charges incurred during his stay. I don’t know how many times I’ve called, how many messages I’ve left, but I’ve never actually talked to a real person. Ok, I get that at the beginning, when I started calling, my problem paled when compared to the fact that the department was facing rapidly rising waters.

But they moved back in at the end of July, and I’ve been calling since then. Leaving message after message… “please call me at XXX-XXXX. I’d like a printout of his entire statement, and I also have this dental bill that needs to be cleared up.” I’ve obtained the name of a supervisor, who doesn’t answer HER phone, either. Nobody has EVER returned my call. In what, five and a half months?

So finally, I’m faced with this bill yesterday that has gone to Collection, despite the fact that this hospital has known since MAY that we are Title 19 recipients.

I notice that the bill this time has a different phone number on it. So I call it. And get the Dental Billing Department. Good. These are the folks I’ve been trying to deal with all the way along.

I call that number and FINALLY!!! A human being answers!! I tell her my story, that I’m The Wife, I’m handling the bills, and this should have been taken care of MONTHS ago, if someone had answered the damn phone.

She pulls up the account. “We only have the automobile insurance policy listed, and that payment has been denied.”

“Yes, I know that. We’ve been on Title 19 since May 1. The bill is supposed to go to the first policy, be denied, then be reverted to Title 19.”

“We didn’t have that information.”

“All of the other bills have been paid this way – the Billing Department has had this information since June.”

“We’re not a part of the Hospital Billing System.”

“Aren’t you part of the ABC Hospital???”

“Yes, but we have a different computer program.”

I grab a pillow because I KNOW that the banging of the head on the table is imminent…

“I’ve left message after message with the Billing Department to try and get this cleared up.”

“We don’t talk with the Hospital Billing Department. We’re on a different system.”

“The information has been in his Medical Chart since mid-May. Why hasn’t this been paid yet?” I ask.

“Because we don’t have access to that information.”

Wait a beat.

“You don’t have access to the information in his medical chart that is the property of your hospital?”

“That’s right. We’re on a different computer system.”

WHAM WHAM WHAM!!!

Good thing I grabbed the pillow.

The Price of Priceless

2009-01-18T15:41:00.011-06:00

Last night, Hot Rod and I joined my Mom and Sister-in-law at a stadium halfway between our homes for an afternoon showing of Disney on Ice: Worlds of Fantasy, thanks to the generosity of my nephew The Cop, and his sweet and lovely girlfriend. We had a blast, and I had a great time watching Hot Rod watch Lightning McQueen.

But let me digress a bit here…. Have you seen the PRICES of stuff lately??? HOLY COW!!! Ok, so…. We get there and of course we’re greeted, before we even present the tickets, by a souvenir stand. Mom looks over and says, “program?” I said, sure… so she asks how much.

“$15” was the answer.

FIFTEEN BUCKS????

“But it comes with a flower pen!!”

How much WITHOUT the pen? Same price. My mom said, well, the flower better be PURPLE, then.

So we entered the venue and found our seats, which were really good. Close enough to see, but far enough to see the whole thing.

Immediately, the Snipers are out…. “Popcorn!” “Get your SnowCones, HERE!!”, “Flashlights!!”, “Overpriced crap that you’ll never use again, RIGHT HERE!!!”

Hot Rod falls for it. “I want one of THOSE!!!” (snowcone in a fancy cup)… “I want one of THOSE!!” (anything that lights up).

We gave in, and started emptying our investment accounts by first purchasing a box of popcorn. For $7!! But I COULD have spent $10, and gotten the fashionable foam traffic cone hat!! (HOW they figure that popcorn costs $7 for a cereal-sized box but the hat's only worth $3, I have no idea).

And then we needed something to drink. So Sis-in-law and I excused ourselves and went up to hit the concessions before the show could start. She was smart. SHE bought two 20 oz. bottles of Pepsi. I, on the other hand, fell for more commercialism, and forked out $12 for a SNOWCONE!!! I managed to save $2 by not buying the “matching” spoon.

But at least I got a reusable water bottle and can koozie!

The show started, complete with all the Disney Magic… Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, Donald, the Cars Crew, Ariel, Simba, Timon and Pumbaa… Hot Rod loved it, and soon, intermission came, and with it, the snipers again.

This time, Hot Rod wore Grandma down, and managed to score a sword and scabbard, for the low, low, bargain-basement price of $16! And it doesn’t even light up!! For the light up one, it would have cost $12. HOW that works, I have no idea. I gave up trying to figure out the prices long ago.

But, you know, it all becomes worth it when you see the look of joy on your kid’s face.

… priceless…

On the upside.... it's good to know that they are "so confident in our souvenir products that we guarantee your purchase for two years":

I'm thinking of saving the popcorn and sending it to them in January 2011 and demanding a replacement!!

Government, redefining "stupid", daily

2009-01-15T16:24:00.003-06:00

You may have noticed a new badge over there <-- (and up there, too ^), entitled “Save Handmade”. By clicking on it, you will be taken to a site that explains the debacle entitled the “Consumer Product Safety Improvement Act”, also known as the CPSIA. I am infuriated by this stupid law, and have written to both of my Senators and my Congressional Representative about it. A poisoned-pen letter that included the phrases, “did you even READ this stupid law before you signed it??” and “FIX IT”.

I received a response yesterday from one of my senators. He was proudly patting himself on the back because he’s one of the co-sponsors. I hang my head in shame and apologize to my fellow citizens for my “representative’s” obvious bumbling.

Anyway, I urge you all to go and read the information on the law that is slated to go into effect as of February 10, 2009. (It’s amazing how fast our government can move when they want to, isn’t it? This stupid thing was proposed in March of last year.) There are plenty of rumors flying around about it, but the “Save Handmade” link provides plenty of information, including how the law will affect resellers, like thrift stores, libraries (yes, books are included in the law), and home-based children’s businesses.

The most important thing is to spread the word. When the lead recalls were happening, everyone yelled that something should be done. What we meant, of course, was to look into those companies who were producing and importing the tainted goods – namely big-name stores and China, not the little home businesses with Old Joe sitting in his workshop, making rocking horses by hand. Or Miz Clara, sitting on her rockin’ chair on the porch, knitting baby booties for her daughter to sell on Etsy. But those are exactly the people who are going to be hit the hardest. Because the big retailers – Wal-mart, Target, and the like – have had plenty of time to clear their shelves of “uncertified” toys, and to put a testing procedure in place.

So I urge you to do the research, then sit down and put pen to paper (or pixels to screen, as it were)… and contact your representatives. Sign petitions. Let them know that their job is to actually represent our interests, not do things that they think will make them look better while in reality it’s just making a mess of things.

You know, like they usually do.

Step Back, Regroup

2009-01-14T20:52:00.002-06:00

Hot Rod taught me a lesson today, one that I hope to keep present in my mind and skills, and never, ever forget.

He’s been whiny lately. Whiny and full of attitude and very much the emerging, independent spirit, testing and stepping over that line every single chance he gets. Sometimes he steps a toe over it, sometimes he takes a running start and hurls his little body as far over it as he can.

Tonight was a run-and-hurl night.

Most of the day had been touch-and-go. It was a snow day, so his schedule was thrown off. I got to sleep in while he watched PBS Kids with Sparky. All of us were curled up on the bed – even the dog and cat – and it was very cozy.

But as the day went on, there were flickers of temper coming out. He was getting bored, he was getting hungry. And by dinner, he was completely out of sorts because he didn’t want the Bruschetta Chicken that I was making, he wanted a hot dog instead. Well, of COURSE I said no, and the battle began.

He fussed through dinner, and at times was downright rude. He ended up in the Frownie Spot (like SuperNanny’s Naughty Spot), had toys taken away, and even got a spanking. Nothing popped him out of that screaming, cranky funk that he was in.

Finally, I’d had enough, and as he was in the bathroom screaming that he WAS NOT GOING TO GET READY FOR BED, NO, NO, NO… *SLAM!!!* I threw up my hands and thought, “Now, what? I’ve already taken away toys, he hasn’t had much dinner, his dessert is gone, I’ve taken away all his books AND his bedtime songs… NOW WHAT???”

And then I saw the rocks. Those little clear, squished-marble rocks that are so popular now for fish tanks and centerpieces alike. I grabbed two little cups, and five rocks – two blue and three clear – and went into the bathroom with Hot Rod, who was Suff-Suffing (Bill Cosby Fans, Unite!) and had tears flowing down his cheeks. He was obviously exhausted, but too wound up and stubborn to quit.

I knelt on the floor and gathered him close to me. He kept crying. I rubbed his back, and felt him relaxing.

“Been a pretty rough night, hasn’t it?” I asked.

“suff-suff… uh huh”

“Well, you’ve lost all three of your bedtime songs, and your two books, but I think I might have a solution. Wanna hear it?”

He pulled back a little, wanting to talk, a wary look on his face. He nodded.

I gave him an empty cup and showed him the five stones in mine.

“These stones represent your books and songs,” I said. “Each time you do something to get ready for bed without complaining or yelling or anything, you’ll get a stone.”

His little face lit up, and immediately he headed for the toilet, pulling at his jeans as he went.

“I can earn them all back?”

“If you do your stuff without complaining. I’m going to go finish in the kitchen… you tell me when you’re done, ok?”

“Ok!!” suddenly, there is glee in his voice.

A minute later, I hear the toilet flush… “MOM!!! I finished that one!!”

And he came and picked a stone. One book earned.

He finished getting ready for bed – washing hands and face, brushing teeth, putting on P.J.s and throwing dirty clothes in the hamper. All without a single argument, and with a smile on his face.

And I had to eat some crow, and remember what I too easily and often forget. Mary Poppins was right… sometimes all it takes is a spoonful of sugar.

Give a little...

2009-01-08T20:11:00.002-06:00

Why is it that some people will NOT participate in big decisions?

Either they must take control and decide every little detail of the matter – with no input or argument, or they drop out completely.

I know why they do it, of course, that first question was mostly rhetorical. They do it because they have a need to be completely in control, or conversely, they want deniability. As in, “well, I didn’t make that decision, that’s why it’s such a disaster”.

What they don’t realize is that often, the person who ends up making the decisions starts making other decisions despite, or in spite of, them. That person, who would have welcomed the input, discussed the options, probably enjoyed the discussion, and ultimately, made a joint decision – possibly making plenty of concessions and compromises to get there – that person starts making decisions all by him- or herself, and becomes very reluctant to take the other person’s feelings into account. Or perhaps that absent person’s feelings ARE considered, as in, “I know that ‘person’ doesn’t like it this way, so that’s the way I'm going to do it.”

Vindictive? Yes.

Childish? Yes.

Absolutely human? Yes.

It’s frustrating to always be the person who ends up making the decisions. It gets old when you’re always the one deciding the little/insignificant things, like what to have for dinner, or what to do for the weekends entertainment. It gets a lot stickier when it’s major decisions. And you have a partner who is supposed to be a part of those decisions, but who refuses to take part.

It’s frustrating. It’s tiring. And it’s stressful. And it’s ruinous.

So if you see yourself in what I’ve written – particularly if you’re one who tends to shy away from helping with the decisions, because it always seems like you’re outvoted anyway – and I know you’re out there – take part. Put aside that part of you that wants to have your way (and we all have that part), and start exercising your Compromise Muscles. You might be pleasantly surprised at the outcome.

And if you're the one who always ends up making the decisions? I'm not sure. Because pretty much, I'm that person. That's why I'm lamenting here. I'm just stuck on this one.

Funk

2009-01-06T07:19:00.000-06:00

Pfshew. The holidays are over. Back to real life. Darn. It was so much fun, being home, with all the family, doing things, just hanging out. And now life comes slamming back. Joy.

Poor Hot Rod still hasn’t recovered. I drove him to school yesterday so he could get an extra hour of sleep. He went to bed at 7 last night, and this morning, at 6:30, he was still comatose. So I’m letting him sleep again. Hopefully, the extra hour will help things.

I, however, have not recovered.

We brought back a FULL truck of stuff, and I’m still not done unloading it. ‘Cause I don’t want to just unload, I want to put away, and that means finding a home for all this new stuff. Which means moving old stuff out of the way…. And wow. We have a LOT of stuff.

I think I’m going to be doing a lot of e-baying this year.

I’m definitely in a mood this morning, cranky as I’ve ever been. I don’t much like being cranky, I just feel overwhelmed… again. I’m getting tired of overwhelmed. It’s time to move on to a new state of being. But how? How do I get from here to there? I know I definitely need sleep, but then something else gets pushed to the back burner. And if I do that other thing – laundry, cleaning, putting away Christmas decorations – then I just get more tired. It’s a vicious circle.

I know I want to get things done – organize things, start/finish the taxes, start a ‘healthy eating program’, get to the gym…. But I feel paralyzed. Guess it’s just a funk.

I’m back to wishing for Bora Bora. Ahh, lovely beaches. Warm breezes. Those cool huts out on the water… I’ve never been there, but it’s fun to think about.

Christmas is Coming!!! Christmas is Coming!!!

2008-12-11T15:16:00.001-06:00

So, last week I was all smug and “I’m totally at peace with the whole Christmas Thing because I’m making all my presents”.

Uh huh.

Except “making all my presents” actually means SITTING DOWN AND DOING IT. So of course, like I do every year, I watch the days tick, tock, tick by, until one day I look at the calendar and go, “Holy CRAP!!! It’s only TWO WEEKS AWAY!!!” And HALF of that, we’re going to be in other places. Which means that all the presents have to be done by next Friday. And wrapped!

So, do I sit down, and diligently start working?

Of course not.

Instead, I open up Facebook and start browsing through Flair and Bumperstickers. I’m a lost cause.

I don’t even know how many pounds of flour or cups of cinnamon I’m going to need, and yet I’m sitting here cracking up over a picture of Achmed the Dead Terrorist saying, “Silence!! I keel you!!” (ok, still cracking up over that one.)

And the worst part about one of the projects that I’m doing is that I HAVE to use the computer to do it. So whenever I get frustrated with it, of course, I go surfing over to something else – just to clear my mind, of course – and WHAMMO!! THREE HOURS. Gone. Daaaang.

I guess what I’m saying here is… I may be on and off for the next little while (like I’m here every stinkin’ day already!), and the next time we meet, if I’m bald? Pay no attention. It happens every year. It’ll grow back, and I’m cute with short hair!

Oh, and I’d love to show you a picture of the gifts that I’m making, but that would spoil the surprise, if one of the recipients happened along.

So, if I don’t see you until after…

MERRY CHRISTMAS, Y’ALL!!! And Happy New Year.

Oh, and Karen? Happy Birthday! Today’s a day to celebrate. You’re 39 for the FIRST TIME!!!

(oh, yeah… and you’re OLDER than me!!!)

An Interesting Weekend

2008-12-08T08:54:00.002-06:00

First, an update on Hot Rod and Twinkle. It’s such a riot to watch… Every morning, Hot Rod gets up and comes to the living room looking for Twinkle, and gets all excited when he finds him… usually sitting high on a shelf so he can see the whole house. Hot Rod talks to him, too. But Twinkle wisely told us, in a letter at the very beginning, that Elves speak so quietly and with such a high-pitched voice, that humans can’t hear them. But the Elves understand human speak perfectly, so it’s fine for Hot Rod to talk to him as much as he wants. Hot Rod will often ask Twinkle for advice on things. “Which color crayon should I use, Twinkle? Blue, ok, that’s a good choice!” Oh, so much fun. We’ll be putting up our tree this coming weekend, so Twinkle is gifting Hot Rod with four little ornaments this week – one each day, for each letter of his name. And they hook together to make one long ornament, so it’ll be ready by the time we have the tree up. Hee hee hee... I love having an elf around!

Turning to other news….

On Friday, Hot Rod skipped school to go with us to the Iowa Department for the Blind in Des Moines. There, we visited a school that they operate, where blind people can learn everything they need to be productive, and have a life, rather than a dependent existence. It was absolutely fascinating. To start with, 30% of the faculty/staff is blind, so they’re teaching from experience. Also, the entire staff must go through the program – learn Braille, learn computers without seeing them, learn to travel with the cane, the whole ball of wax. The program itself is fascinating…

Students live there, and it takes an average of 6-8 months to complete the program. They reside in a dorm-like setting and attend classes during the day. In the evenings, they are encouraged to eat out, experience the city at night, make friends and do stuff (not just sit in their rooms listening to an iPod). If a student is not completely blind like Sparky is, they wear “sleep shades” – a blindfold that makes them completely blind – so they learn to function in the most extreme conditions. This is based on two reasons: first, many of the folks have degenerative eye conditions, meaning that their vision is only going to get worse. Second, if you can function with zero sight, then you have no excuses with partial sight.

The classes that they take are designed to foster independence and confidence as well as skills needed for home and work life. They learn to read and “write” Braille, use computers with the aid of a program called “JAWS”. Home Ec includes laundry, cleaning, sewing, cooking, shopping, and culminates with the student preparing a 7-course meal and serving friends and family. They have a Shop class. In this class, they start by making a picture frame out of wood, and then graduate to a larger final project. Some projects that have been done in the past: rebuild a car engine, build a john-boat, rocking chairs and tables. There is a student right now who is making a grandfather clock. This class is in place not only to teach students how to use things like measuring tools, but to boost confidence. If you can use a radial arm saw without seeing what you’re doing? You can do damn near anything! The final class is one called “The Business of Blindness”, which is not a business class at all, but a combination of counseling, get-to-know-each-other, iron out differences, and inspiration. In this class, they may discuss a problem that exists between personalities, they may help a student who is having difficulties in a particular area, or bring in a guest speaker who has ‘been there, done that’. They even have a fully appointed gym, with a swimming pool, for the student’s use, as well as the largest Braille/audio library in the country.

And all of this is free to residents of Iowa. Including all of the meals that he will eat, cab/bus fare to restaurants, etc.

I see it as a Godsend. It appears that, if this horrible thing had to happen? We’re darned lucky that it happened in Iowa. The support that blind people receive here is stunning. I am most grateful for it.

Unfortunately, I wish that Sparky could say the same. He’s not very enthusiastic about the whole situation. I get that he’s afraid, that he’s looking into an uncertain future, that he’s impatient and wants to just get on with life, as normally as possible. But there are things he must go through to get to that normalcy, and he doesn’t want to do that work. Sigh.

A Little Christmas Magic

2008-12-02T17:06:00.007-06:00

Criminy. December already. But ok, I’m off to a running start. I blew it a little yesterday, because I didn’t get the Advent Calendar up…

But I fixed that today, with a little help from a friend. Meet Twinkle:

Twinkle is a very special Elf. He’s one of Santa’s Travelers. You see, with so many kids around, Santa sometimes has trouble keeping track of them all, so he sends Travelling Elves out to watch over some of the better kids – you know, the ones who don’t need direct Santa-Supervision at all times. Each Travelling Elf is assigned to one special child, and he (or she, Santa doesn’t discriminate) arrives at that child’s house on December First, and stays until Christmas. Each night, the Elf – Twinkle, in our case – leaves a note on Josh’s Christmas Ribbon:

And before bed, Josh opens the note for that day, reads it, and follows the clue. Sometimes the note leads to a gift or a treat, and other times the note leads to yet another note… which then leads to the prize. Sometimes the prizes are big, sometimes they’re small. And sometimes they’re chocolate!

After Josh goes to bed, Twinkle leaves, returning to the North Pole to give Santa a full update on Josh, and then returns in the wee hours, so he’s here when Josh wakes in the morning. And he’s always in a different place, so Josh has to find him. Always up high, too, so Indy can’t get him, because everyone knows how much cats LOVE to stalk and pounce on unsuspecting elves. And a half-eaten Twinkle would definitely earn this house a basketful of coal.

It’s wonderful fun.

Twinkle arrived today, announcing his arrival with a scroll in the mailbox.

Josh was beside himself. He opened the scroll and read the first two paragraphs, and then the excitement got the best of him. So I finished reading it to him – and he scampered off my lap and went in search of Twinkle. He eventually found him perched atop the microwave in the kitchen.

I can’t wait to see where he hid the first prize!

Winter of My Discontent

2008-11-30T14:37:00.004-06:00

Today was the first official snow of Winter. True, it’s not the first actual snow, and it’s not Winter yet. But this is the first one that really stuck, and there’s snow on the ground and we’re past Thanksgiving. Therefore, it’s Winter.

So, Hot Rod and I gleefully went out to shovel. He was more gleeful about the actual shoveling part than I was, but I love winter and snow, so there was plenty of glee on my part, too. Especially since I got to wear my rockin’ new snow boots (I *heart* Keens. Just sayin’)

So, as we’re working hard, shoveling all two inches of melting snow off of the ridiculously long driveway (because the stupid lawn tractor is still in multiple parts in my garage... but at least it's nest-free), with plenty of breaks for snowball fights and sledding, I start thinking. And that’s not always a good thing.

I started thinking about how, back when we bought this house, we’d agreed that the work would be divided between us… he would take care of lawn and stuff. I would take care of the inside.

Well, over the last two years, we’ve had two very rough winters, including three massive ice storms – one of which left us without power for 55 hours. When it came time to clean the driveway from those ice storms, I found myself outside, alone or with neighbors, chipping ice. At one point, my neighbor had to bring over his bobcat to clear 4” thick slabs of ice for me. I couldn’t do it alone.

And each time, Sparky wasn’t there. First, during that massive first ice storm, he was sleeping. Now, in his defense, he’d been up throughout the night, sitting vigil on our fire, keeping the house “warm” (55 degrees). And while Hot Rod and I were out cleaning off the driveway, he was catching up on his sleep. But last year? He was down in Des Moines (for work) for two of the ice storms, and the subsequent blizzards that followed. I shoveled our driveway each and every time. And finally, I got Hot Rod used to the snowblower, so I could use it and save my back.

There was one weekend when Sparky came home, and each day, I asked him to deal with a 3” snowfall that had occurred the evening before. When he finished running the snowblower, he came in, panting and expounding on the work that he’d just completed, he had the nerve to say that, in that weekend, by cleaning off a total of 6”, he’d done the equivalent amount of work that I’d done all winter, through two ice storms, and three blizzards.

So I’m reflecting back on this, as I’m shoveling the driveway again, and he’s in bed sleeping. Or maybe he was awake by this time, listening to football games. But he doesn’t come out, not even to see what we’re up to, or if he can help with the snowmen that eventually got built.

And I started getting bitter. I believe in work. I believe in pulling one’s weight. I also believe that sometimes marriage is a 100/100 proposition, and sometimes it’s 50/150. But it seems like, for fifteen years, it’s been more of the latter than the former.

Over the years, I’ve said, “maybe after…” as in, maybe after he starts that new job, maybe after we move to that new town, maybe after he gets his Master’s degree. And the newest one, maybe after he gets to blind school. Maybe it’ll get better.

But so far, it hasn’t.

And, I fear, I’m running out of maybe’s.

Mouse Bits

2008-11-27T09:54:00.001-06:00

Every time any part of my family comes to visit, I have a “To-Do” list that’s nearly as long as my leg. And though they’re, um… ‘beefy’… my legs are long. So it’s usually quite a list.

Well, Mom and Dad got here Monday night, and Dad started working his way through the list. Yesterday, he got to “put snow blower attachment on mower”. Which means, remove the blade deck from the riding lawnmower/tractor and replace it with the snow blower. This is actually a job for me, but because it requires heavy lifting and much finger-pinching, I wanted help.

So we hike down to the barn, get the blade deck off without much trouble, and I sit in the seat to start the tractor, so I can drive it around and into place to hitch up the blower.

Reeaarrr…reeeaaarrrr….reeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaarrrr…..*cough* *cough* … rrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr……….

“um. I think it’s flooded.”

Ya think? As I’m choking on gas fumes.

I try again. Nothing, it just won’t turn over.

So Dad opens the hood, and starts jiggling wires. The man is a mechanical genius. “Let me just check the sparkpl…” snap. And he’s standing there with the spark plug wire in his hand. It does not belong in his hand, of course. It belongs attached to the motor.

Murphy has once again joined the party.

He looks at me with a sheepish grin. “Now what?”

“I’ll get the truck and the tow chains”

We hook up the lawn tractor to the pickup, and tow it up to the garage, where it is considerably warmer – all the way up to 45, with the sun shining in – and start taking apart the engine.

That’s when we found the mouse nest.

And about ¼ cup of acorn shells. About 4 cups of shredded fiberglass insulation.

And what appears to be mouse bits. I’m sure it’s a tiny mousey rib cage that I pulled out of there. And that unidentifiable wad of grey fur definitely had a foot.

Well, we finished cleaning out the engine, and ordered a replacement part, which, of course, won’t be in until Tuesday, which means that I’m going to have to repair the engine without the guidance of Dad.

Maybe I can get big brother out here. There ARE chocolate chip cookies freshly made and available. And another bag of chips waiting to be stirred into even more batter.

Any takers?

Meet Alice

2008-11-20T15:17:00.006-06:00

The last six months have been the beginning of a journey for me. I’ve done a lot of soul-searching, surprised myself with the depth of emotion that I’m capable of. I had no idea that a person could feel that depth of anger, or just how disabling despair could be. And in the last couple of weeks, I’ve discovered the existence of… well… I guess you could say it’s an “alter ego”.

A little explanation is needed, I believe.

I swiped a magazine from one of the many doctor’s offices we’ve been visiting. It was a Self Magazine from July, 2008. I grabbed it because there was a teaser on the front cover that said, “Make time for YOU!” And I thought… yeah, I need that.

But that’s not the article that spoke to me. The one that got to me was called, Talking myself up, by Deanna Kizis, about silencing that destructive, critical inner voice that is always undermining things. The author went so far as to name hers – Stan, a bitter man, “short, with a comb-over and a paunch that comes from eating gelato all day while telling me I’m too pudgy to have any sweets.”

I get that. I hear that voice every day. Constantly. Ms. Kizis was able to silence “Stan” by challenging his criticism. And I think it’s time I challenged my inner voice, too, instead of always believing it. Problem is, I’m so used to it that I don’t even hear it anymore. I just mutely agree with whatever it says and keep going, usually with a hunk of junk food in my hand.

I had planned to call her “Agnes.” That’s a good “old woman” name. But apparently, SHE doesn’t like that name, and is insisting on “Alice”. Well, I guess I can cooperate with her, this one last time. And that's her, up there in the picture. Or at least what I imagine she would look like if she were, indeed, flesh and blood.

Twice, last night, I was conscious of her visiting me.

The first time, I was standing on my front porch, letting Cruise out to stretch his legs one last time before bed. I stretched up, and then looked at the sky. Beautiful, cloudless, full of stars. And bitterly cold. And I spoke, out loud:

“God, I just want to be happy. Is that too much to ask?”

“Yes, it IS too much to ask,” this was Alice’s voice. “You don’t DESERVE to be happy.”

Rather than defy her, I simply slumped my shoulders, called my dog, and went back into the house. And she stayed around for a while longer.

I went up to put the laundry away, and as I’m hanging shirts in my closet, I hear her again,

“So fat, so ugly. Don’t you just hate yourself? No wonder you have no nice clothes. You can’t FIT into anything nice!”

Yes, she is a mean, bitter, judgmental woman. Unhappy with herself, unhealthy, and willing to drag all around her down into her own personal Hell.

And I’m sick of her. She’s been around for as long as I can remember. But it’s just now that I’m realizing that she is not me.

I no longer wish for her to undermine my life. I no longer wish for her to walk in lock-step with me, second-guessing my every thought, move, desire. Trying to tell me that when I discipline Hot Rod that I’m being a bad mother. Telling me that when I stand up for myself that I’m just being selfish, and I should shut up and do whatever others say.

Now, it’s time for me to get in HER face and tell her to sit down and shut up. And eventually, make her go away for good.

Back-to-Basics Christmas

2008-11-19T15:14:00.001-06:00

A strange sort of peace has stolen over me. I was in Wal-mart today (big surprise), and saw one of my friends from our old Mom’s group. She and her children were out Christmas Shopping. I told her that this year, due to circumstances, we aren’t really buying anything for anyone. Oh, of course, Hot Rod will get stuff, and I’ve found something appropriate and fun for Sparky, but other than that? I’ve come across a couple of cute, useful, and easy (I hope) projects that I’m going to be doing for Christmas. And baking bread, of course.

And it has made me peaceful. Because I know that I’m not going to be FREAKING OUT on Christmas Eve trying to get everything wrapped and under the tree. OK, yes I will, because I will insist on wrapping every last loaf of bread. But at least I won’t have broken the bank this year, as I have in past years.

Don’t get me wrong… I’m not one of those people who distains the gift-giving at Christmas. I LOVE giving, and yes, getting presents. And I’m not ashamed of it, though there are plenty of people out there who would make me feel bad for it. But I don’t like the stress that comes with it… feeling like I have to spend $XX on each person, because that’s what they’re spending on me. When I give a gift, it’s a gift. Not an exchange. While I enjoy something in return, I do not expect it. When I’m pressured to give gifts, it takes all the fun out of it.

That’s why, I think, I’m doing better this year… we’re broke. Nobody expects anything from us. And so, I can freely make my little crafts – things that probably won’t amount to much, monetarily, but will tell the recipient, “I was thinking about YOU when I made this.” And to me, that’s the best gift of all.

2008-11-17T14:34:00.003-06:00

Cause I need MORE excitement in my life

2008-11-10T21:35:00.001-06:00

I was feeling glrpy today. That’s the official, doctor-approved word for “just feeling yukky with a sourish stomach”. So I took it easy today. Took it easy this evening, and had every intention of going to bed early and reading magazines until my eyes rolled back in my head.

Cruiser had other ideas.

While I was putting Hot Rod to bed, he got ahold of a half a pack of Orbit Gum. Remember a couple of years ago, people’s pets were dying from poisoned food out of China? Well, one of the early suspects was Xylitol, a common sweetener used in lots of people products, from toothpaste (Tom’s of Maine) to, yep, you guessed it… Orbit Gum. (Less than 2%, thank goodness)

So I discover that Cruise has eaten not only the gum, but also the packaging, so I have no way to find out what is in this stuff. So I call Poison Control while I’m rooting through the internet to find the ingredient list. Google came through for both me and Poison Control, and I discovered the “less than 2%” bit. But, to be on the safe side, they said, feed him 35cc’s of Hydrogen Peroxide to make him puke.

Just for reference? 5cc = 1 tsp.

7 TEASPOONS of peroxide, y’all.

Good thing I was a Vet Tech in a former life, and had swiped the BIGGEST SYRINGE you’ve ever seen in life. This thing is marked for 60cc’s and can hold more than that, if you pull it out all the way.

But I didn’t have any peroxide, and no neighbors were home. So here’s me, 8:15 at night, whipping through Wal-mart, buying a 99ȼ bottle of peroxide WITH A CREDIT CARD (because I left my cash at home), and running out to the parking lot, whipping the truck to the greenway, and force-feeding my 77-lb dog a syringe full of peroxide, chanting, “puke, baby, puke!”

My life really needs to get more boring. Please.

The saga doesn’t end there, though. Of course, the first syringe full doesn’t have any effect, so I call my friend in Alaska, who is a 20-year Vet Tech, and currently owns 18 dogs (she’s not crazy… well, ok, she is, but not that way. She’s a Musher – a dogsledder), and she advises me to give him MORE peroxide. “Sometimes it takes extra, and sometimes they don’t puke at all.”

Great. Open up, Cruise, here comes more. Only this time, he was savvy, and I ended up wearing half of it.

Still no puke.

I gave up at 8:50, and drove home, sticking to the dirt roads, in case he decided to puke on the way, I could swerve and toss him out in the ditch, maybe save the upholstery.

We get home, I put him in the yard, where he proceeds to “butt run” (that’s the run where they get all wild-eyed, and tuck their tail under their body to maximize the aerodynamics) for ten minutes.

This is not a sick dog.

So, I’m thinkin’ he’s fine. Bring him in the house. Proceed to start shutting down for the night, and ten minutes later, I hear…

HUUUUUURRRRRRRLLLLLL

Foamy, minty, stringy vomit. On my hardwood floor.

But at least he puked. So all is well, once again.

But, as if I needed a reminder, life is never dull.

Dumb dog.

Let Her Eat Cake! PLEASE!

2008-11-08T08:59:00.002-06:00

I have GOT to find a way past the stress of this situation. Yes, it’s stressful. But we’ve established that. And now it’s time to find healthy ways to deal. So far, I have not. I’ve been cranky. I’ve been short-tempered. I’ve been eating. Bingeing, really. And when I’m not bingeing, I’m grazing, nonstop.

Yesterday, I ate an entire box of Hostess’ Chocolate “Plastic Donuts”. An entire box. In one sitting.

I don’t care who you are, that ain’t healthy. But, like the alcoholic needs his booze, I gravitate to food when I’m stressed. And when I try to rationalize, talk, cajole, or otherwise distract myself from what I know in my very soul is the worst thing I can be doing, that other voice (which I’m considering naming, by the way) says, “You’re an adult now. You can eat anything you damn well please.” And I inhale stuff. You name it, it goes in… string cheese, bags of Doritos, boxes of donuts, oreos. And don’t get me started on the Mountain Dew.

I’ve tried every diet that’s out there. I’ve tried Weight Watchers. I’ve tried Overeater’s Anonymous. I have their workbooks and I’m working my way through them myself because the OA group here is pretty much nonexistent. I was halfway through a book called Intuitive Eating when The Wreck happened. Of anything I’ve done so far, that one was the closest to making sense. I should probably go back to it. It defined the stage that I’m in as “F* You” eating, as in, “F* you! I can eat whatever I damn well please!” But then you overdo it, because you know that this food really is forbidden, and you’re eating it out of spite, rather than because you really want it, or because your body needs it.

So, start with my stubbornness, add a whole lotta stress, and then pile that “F* you” attitude on top? You’ve got a recipe for disaster.

I know that it’s me struggling to regain control of my life. A life that has been out of my control for pert-near 20 years. Yes, I know that I’m the one who let it get that way. And I also know that it didn’t happen overnight, so getting it back on track isn’t going to happen overnight. But in the meantime, I have GOT to find a way to get something on track.

...To Be Continued...

Redeemed!

2008-11-07T11:26:00.001-06:00

Fshew! We have survived the Great Moth Flush, and I have, in fact, redeemed myself as the Coolest Mom Ever.

I rescued a spider.

This was no ordinary spider, you understand. It was the MOTHER of all spiders… it had to be an inch and a half long. And it was sitting on the side of my kitchen sink when Hot Rod went up there to wash his hands before helping me prepare dinner.

“Mommy! Look!! A spider!! Cool!”

Fortunately, I am not one who is immediately skeeved by creepy crawlies. I actually cultivate spiders around here, to help combat the massive swarms of houseflies that invade every fall.

But this spider was a bit big even for my taste. He (she?) was HUGE. Something that size would surely be far more comfortable on a nice, warm leaf… outside… wouldn’t it?

So, in Quick-Mommy fashion, I scooped up a cup and plopped it over my leggy friend, and scooped one of those ubiquitous magazine subscription postcards (see? They’re not just annoying, they’re useful!) underneath. Then Hot Rod and I paraded outside, where I deposited Arachnid outside. On a very pretty orange and yellow oak leaf.

I feel much better now.

And the Award Goes To.....

2008-11-05T07:57:00.003-06:00

Well, I officially became the Worst Mother Ever this morning.

Trying to get Hot Rod out the door to school this morning, I had to keep fussing at him to go to the bathroom and get his teeth brushed. Well, he finally brushed his teeth, with me hovering over him, saying, “Hurry up!! We’re going to miss the bus!” every two seconds, and finally I got him to go over to the toilet…

“There’s a moth in there, mommy. Get the moth out.”

And, in a fit of “this is TOTALLY not what’s important – we HAVE to catch the bus”…. I flushed the moth down.

And Hot Rod was horrified. Crushed. Mortified. And very, very sad. And he burst into tears.

And I felt like the scum on the belly of a dead snail.

Next time? I’ll take the half-a-second, and fish the bug out. Even if it’s dead. Even if it’s so waterlogged that it won’t survive, I will still fish it out and place it gently on a Kleenex to dry.

Lesson learned.

Halloween!!

2008-11-01T12:18:00.003-05:00

We live in a cool town that shuts down part of Main Street for a couple of hours and all the stores host a Halloween Party. The kids trick-or-treat from store to store, each of which has set up a table on the sidewalk in front. The cops are there, talking to the kids and managing traffic, and the local radio station shows up and hosts a costume contest. It’s all great fun.

After the kids have loaded up on candy, the town finishes up the party, opens the street back up to traffic, and the neighborhoods open up to real trick-or-treating until about 7.

Hot Rod had a really good time, got only a little jacked up on sugar – and that was from a grape slushee that I bought him between picking him up at school and trick-or-treating. Sparky had fun, too, and got into the spirit of things by dressing up as the Three Blind Mice. Yes, we have a sick sense of humor. Ain’t it grand?

We rounded out the day by getting a box of fried chicken (we have the Ranch, not the Colonel – a tragedy, if you ask me, although the Ranch is plenty yummy), with the GP’s from Sparky’s side. It was an interesting and entertaining day.

Boxed In

2008-10-29T15:45:00.002-05:00

Oh, the frustration. I know, here we go again. But maybe someone has some insight here, because I’m fresh out. Of insight. And nearly patience. In fact, I lost a little of it today…

Sparky has been moping. I know he’s frustrated, both with the eyes and the non-functioning knees. I know he’s anxious to get those knees fixed, and getting delayed by a malfunctioning non-functional internal organ didn't help anything.

So in the face of his moping, I have been trying (and succeeding only part of the time, I’ll concede) to be more understanding, a little more helpful, a little more, um… I don’t know… just a little more.

Today, I went and bought a wireless hookup for the computer that the Department for the Blind loaned him (don’t get whiplash, this isn’t as big a subject change as it seems – stay with me here), that’s been sitting here for close to a month. “Why don’t you use it? Just try it and see what it’s about,” I say. “No, I don’t want to do anything with it until I can check my e-mail.”

Ooohh, kaaay. Don’t know how to use the machine… it has a program on it called Jaws that adapts the system for the blind. Reads everything that’s on the screen, and you can use a mouse if you’re able, or you can use keys (f-keys, control+ keys, and arrows) to navigate around… but you won’t try until you can get onto the internet. Hmmm.

So I get him the wireless hookup, and get the computer all set up. He stands in the kitchen, “staring” at the machine, and finally, I get him to sit down at it. He can’t figure out how to use it.

“Call your tutor,” I said.

“No.”

“why not?”

No answer. None. Just limped up the stairs and went back to bed.

So I ask you, what’s a wife to do? I’m trying to help him. He keeps saying that he needs this or that to accomplish something. When that thing manifests itself, he won’t do what it is he’s supposed to do.

I know this is probably a symptom of the depression he’s surely in (and being treated for). I know that I should be patient, kind, understanding. I know I shouldn’t yell at him and tell him… for the love of Pete!! I just got you everything that you said you needed, and now you won’t even TRY!!! Ok, I KNOW I shouldn’t have yelled that at him. At the top of my lungs. While considering throwing the cat at him. Because the cat has claws and would stick better than the dog. I know I shouldn’t have done that. But it’s so frustrating to see this. He’s smart. He loves doing computer stuff. I know that if he just sat down and dedicated some time with the tutor, he’d get it. But he won’t. And he gets mad at me if I mention it to him. AND he gets mad if I just leave it be, and don’t say anything.

The Golden Plunger

2008-10-28T13:26:00.000-05:00

I must expound for a moment upon the Golden Plunger in yesterday’s picture…

One day last year… I think it was sometime in the spring… I woke at six AM to a hissing sound. Always a wonderful way to be brought out of a lovely dream… As all humans do, I headed immediately for the bathroom, where I stepped into a puddle of water. Joy.

The toilet had sprung a leak. And of course, the toilet, like most are, is snuggled between two walls. I am not a small woman, but thankfully, I am very bendy, so I was able to slither in and figure out that the leak was coming not from the tank, but from the little metal tube that connects the tank with the wall.

See how technically literate I am?

Upon discovering the source of my foot-soaking, I did what any woman would do… I called my big brother. At six in the morning. It’s damn lucky that he lives 5 hours away by car, or he’d still be pummeling me, I’m sure.

So, he starts talking me through fixing the problem, and three hours, two broken nails, an extra pair of (dry) pants, and one visit to the hardware store later, I was the proud owner of a well-fixed plumbing unit.

The next time my family came to visit, they presented me with the Golden Plunger Award.

And now it’s a putter.

Fore!!

2008-10-27T19:59:00.002-05:00

“Hot Rod, into the bathroom! Potty, wash hands, brush your teeth! Almost time for bed!” In pj’s, he scampered past me and closed the door. I could hear him singing in there – usually a good sign, but sometimes a forebear of doom.

A few minutes later, while finishing up the dinner dishes, I called to him, “How ya doin’ in there?”

No answer. Almost ALWAYS a sign of doom…

Then I hear a little scrape behind me.

I turn around.

There he stands, naked from waist to ankles, pj pants pooled around his feet, his bare little butt mooning me. He’s hunched over the plunger from the bathroom, lining up the perfect shot – one of those little half-sized Pepsi cans. The boy was playing golf!!! He putted, and the can shot across the room. He ran after it – pj’s STILL around his ankles - putting the can down the hallway until I regained some of my Mommy Authority and corralled him back into the bathroom to finish his job.

You have any IDEA how hard it is to get a five year old back on track with tears running down your face and laughter bubbling out of your throat? No credibility whatsoever.

And it didn’t help that Sparky was doubled over on the couch, snorking into a pillow. Even the dog was laughing at me.

And no, I did NOT take pictures. Sorry.

Maelstrom

2008-10-26T08:07:00.000-05:00

I feel like I’m standing in the eye of the Hurricane. Of course, I have no point of reference, it’s not like I’m a Storm Chaser, and have actually been in the eye of a hurricane, or a tornado, for that matter. All I really have as reference is that ridiculous scene in Twister where they tied themselves to a pipe that just happened to be out there…. But I digress. And yes, I did like that movie. Anyway…

Eye of the storm.

If I stand still, I can deal with the debris flying at me. Appendectomy. Dealt with. Knee Surgery. Scheduled. Hot Rod having minor dust-ups at school. Handled. No job. Crap. Somebody shoots a horse in my field. What the…???

But if I stay as still as I can, things only come at me one at a time. But if I move, a step or two in any direction, things will start flying fast and furious. Step forward or backward and find a job? Can’t pick up Hot Rod from the bus, can’t get Sparky to his appointments. Step back to the Eye. Don’t have a job so we have to rely on others for everything. Step to the left or the right? Get clobbered by all the emotional stuff that’s swirling there, that could be enough to drop another nuke on this place. And I don’t think any of us are ready for that. Back to the Eye. Stay bottled up and cranky.

I hate being cranky.

So what’s a woman to do? Well, try and make lemonade, I guess. Today, we carve that pumpkin. And Hot Rod wants to make “Very Hungry Caterpillar” cookies. The Bears have a Bye this week, so I don’t have to worry about THAT emotional upheaval. And I voted already, so they can just STOP with all the political ads, thankyouverymuch.

And I will try and continue with a promise that I made to both myself and my friend Kate, and finish the Ekhart Tolle book, A New Earth. And devote more time to learning to meditate. At least maybe I will find some clarity, which just might give me guidance and insight so that when it finally is time to step into that storm, I’ll be ready.

Peace and Fun

2008-10-22T12:42:00.005-05:00

Ahh, the calm that comes after the storm.

Sparky is home and feeling better… milking that stapled-shut incision for all it’s worth. Which means that he’s healing just fine.

My parents (who would be considered saints, except that they like causing trouble too much for canonization) went home this morning, and the house is quiet. And already getting messy. My parents bring neatness with them – they walked through the door last week, and within 24 hours, the laundry was done, the floors vacuumed, the dishwasher run and emptied, and the dining room table newly clothed. And then they fed and entertained Hot Rod.

But all good things must end, and today they had to go home. And as much as I enjoy having them here, I like the quiet, too.

While they were here, Mom and I took Hot Rod to the Pumpkin Patch…

Yep… it’s almost as big as he is.

The selection is amazing.

And there were fun things to do, too…

I love fall.

And now, we carve….

Sparky's Wild Ride

2008-10-18T10:49:00.001-05:00

Well, the roller coaster continues.

For those who don’t know, Sparky went in yesterday to have his knee operated on – minor surgery, just a scope to fix a torn meniscus. But he’d been having sever stomach pains all through the night, and when we arrived at the O.R., the doc took one look at him and said, “see you next time. I’m not touching you today.” So, we took a wheelchair ride down to the E.R., where they did tests and found out that the stomach pains were due to appendicitis. So, he had surgery, but not on his knee, but on his gut, instead. And, of course Murphy insisted on coming along, so instead of just a quick in-and-out surgery, they discovered that the appendix may have perforated, so now he’s in the hospital for the weekend, at least.

Fun.

On the upside, it was like “Old Home Week” in the hospital. The surgeon who was on duty in the E.R. was also on the Trauma Team. And she was one of the docs that welcomed Sparky back in May. And after his surgery, he was put in the same ward that he was in last time… in the room next to the one he was in before. All the nurses remember us, and are giving him no end of grief for landing his butt right back there.

As for me, I’ve had a few moments… I had a brief horrible flash when we entered the E.R. waiting room. But a few minutes of deep breathing to clear the mind sure helped. There was also the discussion with the woman in the waiting room who was a little distraught over her husband, who was also in surgery, undergoing a rather serious procedure. We talked and talked, and I think we both felt better for it.

So, the dips and turns continue. One of these days, I’m going to figure out how to jump off of this one, and onto… I don’t know… maybe a nice, sedate Lazy River Ride.

Beautiful

2008-10-15T21:38:00.003-05:00

I found this picture here. It’s an amazing website filled with beautiful photography.

I think this is going to be one of those ‘cut it out and put it on my mirror’ pictures. It’s a good life philosophy.

Decisions, Decisions

2008-10-13T09:34:00.005-05:00

After the angst of yesterday, I decided that I needed a Pink Sock Day. But WHICH Pink Socks???? They’re all so awesome! These are the ones sent to me by D.

Frustration

2008-10-12T18:02:00.001-05:00

Learning to live with a disability is an interesting proposition. It’s not just the newly disabled who has to figure out how to handle things. The other family members must make allowances, change routines, change perspective on things.

And remember, always remember, to keep the disabled person’s well-being first and foremost in their thoughts.

It’s a tiring and daunting task, because you have to be “on” from day one. With blindness, sometimes there is no room for mistakes. One wrong word, and the blind person walks into a wall, steps into a hole, walks into traffic. And that can be dangerous, even deadly.

But sometimes, no matter how hard you try, no matter how conscientious you are, things happen. It happened this afternoon. We were walking down a narrow pathway, and as I gave a direction – “turn right and continue straight” – Sparky had already turned right. So he turned right again, and straight into a row of bushes.

And got furious with me because he thought I did it on purpose. And I got mad right back, because dammit, I’ve been trying. Every damn day, I try to make things right for him. Every damn day, I’m on the phone with doctors, with the pharmacy, with physical therapists, with occupational therapists, with Braille tutors, even with people wanting to send him gifts. Every day, I’m trying to hold our world together, trying to keep myself from flying apart. And while I’ll be the first to admit to laughing when he bonks into walls at home, I have never – never – intentionally walked him into things, especially when we’re out and the terrain is unfamiliar. And yet, there was anger, fury that I would do such a thing to him, intentionally.

We have a lot of work to do. Between the blindness and the alcoholism, he has a lot of recovering to do (as do I), and I truly don’t believe that he realizes just how far he has to go and how long the road may be. He is taking the attitude of “it’s done, now let’s move on.”

And it’s so very hard for me to just let bygones be bygones, especially when something like this happens, and I’m blamed for something I didn’t do. And there is no apology for jumping to conclusions. This happened a good three hours ago. Events have been attended, balloon animals made and carried out by a happy Hot Rod, cake and appetizers consumed, people talked to and laughed with. And yet, that stiffness remains, because he still believes that I did that on purpose.

And it hurts. More than I ever thought. And even if I tell him? He won’t believe me that I’ve been hurt, because he doesn’t think that he’s done anything wrong.

All this goes back to the forgiveness thing. I guess I’m just not there yet. Sometimes life really sucks.

Phoenix

2008-10-09T14:48:00.002-05:00

First things first.

Thanks, D. You make me cry, you know that? W.O.W.

Second, I’ve changed the display from “Rhapsody” to “Laura”, which, incidentally, is my REAL name. Amazing how that works, isn’t it? When I started this blog, I wasn’t real sure how to do it, and I figured that the “display name” was something different than it actually was. Don’t ask me what, I have no idea. It’s a computer. I type into it. Words that I (mostly) thought suddenly appear on a screen. There are geeky people who know way more about it, and I don’t ask questions. I just bake lots and lots of chocolate chip (or oatmeal) cookies in the event of a meltdown. So now I am officially Laura. Which is nice, because that’s who I’ve always been.

Third. Yes, I know that was a bit of a personal message up there under “first”. Suffice it to say that D is one of my two bestest lifelong friends. One of those people that you just know was meant to be your sister, but somehow there was a mixup and she got different parents. But it’s ok, because she’s your sister anyway, and she’s more fun because she DOES have different parents and now we can laugh at each other and say, “heh, at least MY mom/dad doesn’t do/say/wear THAT!! HAHAHAHAHA”

Anyway, she sent me the picture that is now my Photo. It’s a Phoenix, the mythical bird that rises from the ashes of its own fiery demise. And the fact that she did, and the things that she said to accompany it, grabbed my heart and hugged it so tight that I just sat and stared at that picture, teary eyed and sniffling, for I don’t know how long. But she’s so right. This whole thing was a mess, an explosion, a nuke dropped on our lives. But it’s making me look inside myself and figure out exactly who I am, and who I want (and don’t want) to be.

It’s a scary, painful, and often funny journey. But it’s a journey, and I’ve always loved to travel.

To Trust or Not To Trust?

2008-10-08T10:10:00.001-05:00

Why do “A-HA!” moments always happen when you’re nestled comfy and cozy in your bed, just as you’re approaching that line between awake and sleep, and then it hits you, and you have to go running downstairs to find paper and pen because of course the computer isn’t on, and of course you don’t have pen and paper next to your bed because you had to make a grocery list the PREVIOUS night while you were approaching that blissful state…..

My epiphany from last night was this: I never learned to trust myself.

Pretty deep, huh? I know. I’m amazed at myself. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized just how true it is. Consider:

• I married Sparky when I was 23. Before that, it was school, school, school. Never on my own, really. Oh, sure, I lived in the dorm, had my own car, and a job, but there was always that protection of the parents. And the schooling thing? I just followed a track that was set for me. Not so much by my parents, although they certainly (and correctly) emphasized the importance of education, and encouraged me to attend and finish college. But honestly, I wasn’t ready for college, because I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up. Still don’t, for that matter.
• When we married, he had (and has) very definite ideas for the way things should be done. And with his strong personality, it’s typical for him to voice his opinions about everything. So I found myself trusting his judgment more than my own, without even realizing it. I’m a laid-back, “be like a duck” kind of a person, so when someone wants to do something a certain way, I usually don’t care. Most of the time, that’s a good way to get along. But in a marriage, it’s a good way to lose yourself.
• As I look back on my life (yeah, like I’m 98 and facing the Pearly Gates…) I see patterns that have developed. I overeat, especially when emotions are high. Why? Well, lots of reasons. But one of them goes right back to that trust issue. I don’t trust my body, I don’t trust myself to be able to figure out when I’m full, so I just eat and eat. Also, I don’t trust myself to be able to handle those emotions, so I eat to cover them. Very psychological. Unfortunately, identifying the problem is the first, and easiest, step in solving it.
• Finally, I realized that I haven’t submitted any of the writing I’ve done, because I don’t trust myself that it’s good. Others have told me it’s good, I’ve written for our local paper, done volunteer stuff, but that’s always been just for fun, or for pocket change. Now, faced with our family’s financial stability, I have to write for Real. And it scares the ever livin’ bat crap out of me.

Soooo…. Here I stand, with the epiphanies coming at me, forcing myself not to bolt. I’ll take a deep breath, and dig in, I guess. And start learning to trust myself. Because thus far, I haven’t done too badly, flying by the seat of my pants.

Healing

2008-10-04T21:00:00.002-05:00

I put a post up on Sparky’s blog – he has one provided by the hospital where he was taken after the wreck, and it helps us keep in touch with people regarding his recovery. I posted today not about his physical recovery – which has hit a bit of a plateau – but about another kind of recovery:

Some may think has nothing to do with healing. Actually, it really does – Steve is healing in so many different ways, not just the physical. And it’s pretty cool to see him so open and silly.

It’s been on my mind all day, these different kinds of healing. This is the first time I’ve thought of this aspect of the “after-wreck” as ‘healing’. You see, he’s a recovering alcoholic. And I'm a recovering enabler.

For fifteen years, twenty if you count our dating years, I have helped him drink, encouraged him to drink, and accepted and covered the results of his drinking.

When he was obnoxious from it, I blamed myself. Or the stress of his job. Or our finances. Or myriad other ‘problems’. I never (until more recently) blamed the drink.

By the time he became truly verbally abusive – I’m talking nasty, here, not just the occasional trading of barbs that we all do – I figured, “that’s just who he is, and I married him, so it must be ok”.

What I never realized, again, until recently, was that it’s NOT ok, and I was just as “sick” as he was. I was caught in the tangled web of The Enabler. Don’t rock the boat. Keep everything together, so that when he does get drunk, he can just stay over there in that corner, and the rest of the world will be fine. Keep paying what you can on the bills, and somehow things will all work out. They always do…

And then the wreck Nuked our lives.

And now we both recover. He, in his way, dealing with the triggers and the desire to drink. Me with the desire to make everything better, because that’s my job.

Sometimes I can’t make it better. Sometimes I have to let a ball fall out of the air. Either it’s gonna bounce or it’s gonna break, but I will be ok. And it’s time for me to let someone else bear the consequences, because it’s not always my fault.

So we’re both healing.

We’re both learning.

We’ll both make mistakes, of course. That’s part of the learning.

But I never realized fully, until about an hour after posting that little paragraph on HIS blog, that I, too, was going through a healing process. And it’s up to me the direction I take.

Trust?

2008-10-04T20:58:00.001-05:00

Hmmm.... I wrote this on Wednesday, Oct. 1, and then forgot to post it. so I'm putting it up now...

I think I’ve figured out part of why his easy recovery is making me uncomfortable. Yeah, uncomfortable. I count anger under that umbrella.

I don’t trust him.

I don’t trust that what he’s saying this time is the truth. Past behavior has shown that he has a golden tongue – he’s said himself that he could sell ice cubes to Eskimos. So why should I think now that he’s telling the truth?

Because he says so. Hmmmm……

Petty

2008-09-25T09:38:00.002-05:00

Ok, I’m really struggling down here in the Pit of Despair… (that’s from Princess Bride for those of you keeping score) Yes, I’m stressed. Used to that. Yes, we’re broke. Used to that, too. My struggle du jour is, to me, more pettiness, and I’m trying to get away from it, but it keeps coming back on me.

I’m angry.

Bone-deep, toe-curling, angry.

And I have been since The Wreck.

Oh, yes, it’s been simmering, and I’ve let off steam, and I’ve even talked with Sparky about it, some. He knows it’s there.

I’m angry that the wreck happened. I’m angry that our entire world has exploded because of it. I’m angry that each month, I am humiliated over our bills.

I’m angry because he seems to be getting over this whole thing just fine and dandy, while I struggle.

I’m angry because, dammit, I want him to suffer. There, I said it. And I am NOT PROUD of saying it, either. I’m humiliated that a thought like that would even enter my mind after the stuff that he went through. But dammit (again), he slept through most of it. He woke up two weeks after The Wreck, and by then, everything had been handled. I’d already enrolled us in Medicaid, already lined up financial support, given our most intimate financial records to the entire planet (that’s how it seemed, anyway), and admitted to the world that, yes, indeed, now we are broke. And he slept through it all.

And now? He continues on his recovery, and is boosted every step of the way. “You’re losing weight!” “You’re looking great!” “You’re getting stronger every day!” all while I handle the details, the scheduling, the business of getting things back on track.

I want to see him struggle. All his life, things have come easy for him. And it’s still coming easy, in part, because he doesn’t have to deal with the details. They’re already dealt with.

And I hate myself for even thinking that, much less writing it down. It’s petty. It’s negative. It’s rolling around in the manure of my basest emotions. But I can’t find the ladder to climb out of it.

...and I think it's about...

2008-09-23T13:26:00.001-05:00

Forgiveness: The Wreck was not an accident. That’s why it’s referred to here as “the wreck,” instead of “the accident”. It could have been prevented. And someday, I might talk about it. But right now, I’m struggling with Forgiveness.

What, exactly, does “forgiveness” mean? We hear it bandied about enough in this society. Politicians routinely do asinine things, swindling us and having affairs right and left, and “beg” our forgiveness so they can ensure a win in the next election. Radio and TV personalities utter offensive insults, or hurl obscenities, and “apologize” to us, again, asking our forgiveness, and they’re back in the good graces of their audiences the next week. Or they’re in Rehab, which has apparently become the Holy Water of the 21st Century. We’re asked to forgive our parents and our friends for transgressions large and small. Christians even ask God (and perhaps other religions do, too, I have no authority or experience to know… forgive me…) to “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us”.

But what does it mean?

Does it completely erase the swindling, the affair, the insult, the obscenity, the big and small mistakes in parenting, the big and small mistakes in friendship, all of our wrongdoings, whether calculated or random?

Can we forgive some things and not others?

And when we do forgive, how does that work? Does it mean that the transgression is gone, never to be brought up again? That we don’t discuss it? Or that we discuss it, but cast no blame?

And how do we know that we have truly forgiven someone, and not just uttered the words “I forgive you,” just to make ourselves feel better or to avoid the big confrontation, or to avoid a more ominous route that not forgiving may take us down?

2008-09-22T07:04:00.001-05:00

Stupid Bears.

The Road to enlightenment is strewn with challenges

2008-09-19T14:27:00.000-05:00

Ok, I know that this is going to sound like a continuation of yesterday’s Pity Party, but it’s not. It really isn’t. I’m actually in a pretty good place today. Busy, but good. The weather is beautiful, the sun is shining, and all is right with the world.

Well, as right as it can be when your World is Turned Upside Down…

So, one of the projects that I’ve taken on is to buff up the ol’ spirituality thing. I say the “spirituality thing” because, for me, it is completely separate and distinct from religion. Religion makes me claustrophobic. Spirituality, to me, is enlightenment, openness, awareness.

To that end, I watched the first chapter of Oprah’s interview with Ekhart Tolle, author of A New Earth – the bestseller from last spring. Now, I haven’t read the book, but the conversation made sense to me anyway. It was a stand-alone conversation, with references back to the book, and if you’re into that kind of thing, it was fascinating, and, well… enlightening.

I tried one of the exercises – walk “consciously” up a flight of stairs – and it was amazing. I was completely aware of my body, the muscles, the tenseness in my shoulders, neck and back, my feet touching the carpet, the soft scratchiness beneath my feet… I could go on. But that’s not what this is about.

I’m trying to align myself with awareness, with enlightenment, with a “new” spirituality, with what I feel is my true path. Releasing negativity, and not allowing it to run my life. Remain in the now, don’t borrow or project into the future. But I have a question.

When you’re faced with people who are, frankly, toxic, what do you do? It’s easy enough when they’re a stranger, you can simply end the conversation and remove yourself from the situation. But what if it’s a friend, a coworker, a family member? Someone with whom you (or someone you’re close to) have a relationship. One that’s not likely to end anytime soon?

How do you deal with that toxicity? With that negativity that accompanies? How do you remain enlightened, aware, positive, when the energy around that person positively vibrates with negativity and judgment? When even the mention of the name makes you tense up?

And before you say, “talk with that person”… it doesn’t work. Conversations have occurred. Nothing is going to change. At least not on that end.

Guess I’ll keep reading the book.

Pothole

2008-09-18T11:12:00.003-05:00

It creeps up on you, silently, slowly. At first, it’s unnoticed, maybe just a bit of an annoyance – you leave your shopping list on the counter, you forget why you went into a room, you are snippy at your spouse, impatient with your children. But none happen in the same day. Or maybe one or two. But soon, they’re coming faster and faster. It’s getting harder and harder to keep the house clean, to work a solid day, to finish the laundry, to be gracious and kind. You want to stay in and do nothing but sit on the couch and eat. And eat. And eat.

You blame everything you can think of. It’s gotta be the diet, so you start popping vitamins and snacking on carrots. Maybe it’s the caffeine, so you dump the Mountain Dew habit (oh, how I mourn the loss of my Dew). But that doesn’t work, so it’s back to the Dew. You blame PMS, because that’s the go-to problem. Cranky? PMS. Hungry? PMS. Hair out of place? PMS!!!

And then you start to think, and count days, and realize that it’s not PMS.

It’s been four and a half months since The Wreck. Immediately after, during that first week, I felt just about every emotion known to man… fear, anxiety, sadness, horror, depression. Happiness, joy, gratitude. Love and hate. Anger and fury the likes of which have never existed in my life before. And sometimes those emotions happened all in the same day.

And then, as quickly as they came, they went, and I was able to function. Scratch that… I functioned pretty well from the beginning, just because that’s what I do. I function.

But now, I’m starting to not function. Things that I thought were going to change, didn’t. Things that I thought wouldn’t change, did. Old behaviors and feelings, things that should have been gone, are resurfacing again.

I’m beginning to recognize that the life I’d built for myself isn’t going to happen. And more importantly, the life that I have isn’t necessarily the one that I want anymore. But at the same time, I can’t change it. Ok, maybe that’s not right…. I’m too rooted in the responsibilities I’ve set for myself to just hit the remote and change the channel. This is a mess that’s been a long time building, and one that needs to be worked through, not just have a band-aid slapped on it.

So I go on, with a heavier burden than before, because now it’s fallen to me to get the things done that need to be done. I can’t say, “I don’t want to cook today, let’s go out.” Because that’s not an option. I can’t say, “Ahh, let the laundry slide” because if it slides for another day, it’s going to rise up and grab me by the throat and throw me into the compost heap.

My counselor says that somewhere around the sixth month after a life-changing trauma or death, those who are closest often experience a dip or a backslide, and it’s a major surprise. They expect it on the 1-year anniversary, but at six months, when they’re doing so well, climbing that hill out of the depression? Nope. And it’s like a slap in the face, “You’re not as capable as you thought you were. Fool!”

So here I am, a little over four months past The Wreck, and I can feel the weight, heavier and heavier on my shoulders. The responsibilities of a home. Increased parenting duties and the care of a disabled loved one – including being the only source of information, transportation, and human contact for that loved one. The pressure of finding an income when working outside the home is a difficult option because of the restrictions of your other responsibilities. So I plug on.

I seek solace in things that comfort me. My son’s laughter, my pets, my adopted ponies, my garden, just sitting outside in the grass. And the occasional catapulted penguin.

I seek wisdom and enlightenment through like-minded friends, and ones who don’t share my views at all, but understand what it’s like to seek. Reading books that might offer insight, shed light on this path I’m walking. I’ve even started watching a few videos online that might lead me in the right direction. And all have helped, a little. So have the “happy pills” that my kind and lovely doctor has given me.

I will make it through this, because that’s what I do. And I will learn a lot from the process, because that’s also what I do. But in the middle of it, I have to throw a pity party now and then. This one is it, I hope...for a while.

Happy Birthday Hot Rod, and a Thank You

2008-09-11T10:33:00.001-05:00

Today, I sit and listen to the tributes being played on the radio. Some are perfunctory, delivered coolly and dispassionately; some are heartfelt, accompanied by cracking voices and deep emotion. All are referring to a bright, sunny Tuesday morning in September, 2001, when our lives and our country changed forever.

I mourn for my country, for the division I see during this turbulent election cycle. I weep in longing for the unity and the pride that I felt that day, watching firefighters, police officers, soldiers, and “regular” people, even dogs, working side by side, risking – and sometimes giving - life and limb for others. And I mourn for those lives lost, and for their families, who may have moved on but for whom the pain will always be real.

But as strong as those feelings are, other emotions overshadow all of it. Love, joy, hope. All so strong that they nearly bring me to my knees when I focus on them.

Today is my son’s birthday.

He was born on September 11, 2003… two years, almost to the minute, after the attacks on the World Trade Centers. And daily, his sun shines in our lives.

He will grow up knowing that his birthday falls on one of the most horrific days in his country’s history. But he will also grow up knowing that on that day, the best of his country came together, and showed us all what it means to be Americans. Not chest-beating, “Our country is better than yours” Americans, but real and honest, “we help each other because that’s who we are” Americans.

So, today, amidst all of the emotion of the day, I take a moment to think of our Police Officers, our Firemen, our Soldiers, Marines, Airmen and Sailors, who stand at the front lines and protect us every day. And I thank God for you.

Keep up the good work.

Learning to Live Again

2008-09-09T12:13:00.001-05:00

As I’m writing this, Sparky is having his very first Braille Lesson. Sitting here and eavesdropping, I’m feeling like a proud parent. He’s been at it for maybe ten minutes, and he’s identifying letters already. I cannot imagine having to learn something so basic as reading, all over again, at age 40.

But oh, the lessons that he is teaching me.

I used to think that I was the optimistic one in the family.

But he has faced death, severe injury, and permanent disability, with a smile on his face. He never complains. He gets frustrated, yes, but never whiny.

I used to think that I was the patient one in the family.

But here he is, at age 40, learning to read again. And handling it with grace and dignity, and more patience than I think I could ever have, were I in that position. I cannot, even now, four months after the fact, imagine losing my sight. I can’t imagine how I would handle it. He humbles me.

Fall Harvest

2008-09-08T14:42:00.002-05:00

You’d think that living where I do – in the middle of the Midwestern Corn Belt, on top of some of the most fertile soil on Earth – and loving fresh produce like I do, that I’d have the biggest, coolest, most productive garden ever.

I don’t. It’s small. And hodge-podge. And something that I’m very proud of, because in college, my thumb was so black that I killed air plants. Apparently, it has evolved.

Earlier this summer, taking a break from hospital visits with Sparky, Hot Rod and I planted the garden. We put in seeds for tomatoes and cucumbers, and some seeds that I had harvested from an organic cantaloupe we’d eaten months before. And then we wandered around our property and found where last year’s pumpkins had decomposed. There were piles of pumpkin seeds, sitting on top of rocks like little golden nuggets. We gathered as many as we could find, brought them back to the garden, and planted them, as well.

Last night, we harvested the first of the cukes and pumpkins. The cucumber wasn’t big, but it was sweet. I just love me a good, fresh cucumber.

And the pumpkins are tiny and perfect, and scattered about the house (yes, that's a quarter in front of the pyramid):

The tomatoes never came up. I think I thought they were weeds, back when they were seedlings, and plucked them out, instead cultivating some sort of furry-leafed weed. I have no idea what those things are in the tomato cages, but they’re definitely not Big Boys.

But I have a nice selection of mini pumpkins now, and more out in the garden. I have several cucumbers on their way up. And three cantaloupes on their way!

Pink Sock Day

2008-09-05T08:01:00.000-05:00

When I was a teaching assistant in a middle school band program, I bought a pair of hot pink socks. It was a complete whim – I had nothing that matched them, but there they were, calling to me from their perch on the store shelf. So I took them home and made them mine.

The next day, I wore them to school. They matched nothing. I wore my usual uniform – blue jeans and a sweater, gym shoes, ID around my neck. But I had on those hot pink socks.

The girls in the flute section noticed.

“Mrs. H, what’s with the pink socks?”

“It’s just a Pink Sock kind of a day.”

And thus was born my own personal tradition of Pink Sock Day.

Pink Sock Days are ones that you know are going to be hectic, maybe you’re a little blue, or stressed or whatever. You can’t be all that serious, though, if you’re wearing hot pink socks.

Those girls took notice, and every now and again, I’d notice someone in the band (even the boys) wearing weird-colored socks, sometimes even pink. Each time I’d ask, the answers were different, but the same…

“Test today”, “bad hair day”, “didn’t feel all that good this morning”… kids fighting off their stresses with a little frivolity.

So, when you know you’re going to have a crazy day, dress yourself up, make sure your makeup is pristine, no hair is out of place, and your purse matches your shoes.

Then put on a pair of Pink Socks, and remember that nothing is so bad that a pair of Pink Socks can’t help.

The Joy of Government Work

2008-09-04T15:35:00.002-05:00

When The Wreck happened, we had no health insurance. Sparky was to sign contracts and start a new job the very next day. Needless to say, that job never happened, although, bless them, they are still in contact, hopeful that when he is fully recovered, he’ll still be able to work for them.

So there I sat, in the waiting room of the University of Iowa Surgical ICU Ward, freaking out about how we were going to afford this. We’d have to sell the house in a falling housing market, I’d have to sell my beloved pickup truck (yes, I luuuuuv my Silverado), I’d probably have to hock my engagement ring, and move in with my parents. So I asked the Social Worker there for some help.

Two weeks later, we were not only covered by Iowa Medicaid, it was retroactive to the beginning of the month, so The Wreck was completely covered.

Fshew. Talk about a weight off my shoulders.

Fast forward to today, and I have discovered why I am against Universal Health Care. Don’t get me wrong, I believe that the Health Care System in this country can be improved, and should be. But this demonstrates why I do not want the government running it:

I am trying to purchase adaptive equipment for Sparky. He needs stuff, like a talking watch, a collapsible White Cane, and stuff to help him begin learning Braille. I was told that the Medicaid system would pay for a lot of this stuff. Cool. So I call them.

After navigating my way through the system to get to a real person, and after identifying myself, I ask what I need to do to get the stuff for him. Is there a list available, perhaps? One that I can look at before ordering? Nope. That’s a super-secret list, not available to customers, only to providers. And I can’t have the provider phone number, either.

Well, can I just order the stuff and submit the receipts to Medicaid, then? Nope, that’s not how The System works.

They told me to provide a list of everything that we need to our doctor, who will order it, and submit the stuff to Medicaid. Because Doc has nothing better to do than go shopping for me.

So I brought the list to Doc, and his nurse called me this morning. “What the heck is this?” she asked

I told her what Medicaid told me.

“I just called them and they don’t know anything about it,” she said.

Greaaat.

So I call Medicaid back. They told me the same thing they said before. Submit list to Doc, Doc orders stuff. I said Doc knows nothing about this, and when Doc’s Nurse called Medicaid… THEY knew nothing about that procedure.

Helpful Medicaid Operator: “Well, then they called the wrong people.”

Me: “Can you give me the number that they should call to get the RIGHT people?”

Helpful Medicaid Operator: “it’s on the back of your card”

Me: “There are SIX numbers on the back of my card, can’t you just give it to me?”

Helpful Medicaid Operator: “No, ma’am. It’s printed on the back of your card, though.”

Me: For the love of… is this a joke? “Is it this number?”

Helpful Medicaid Operator: “No, it’s on the back of your card”

Me: “THIS number?”

Helpful Medicaid Operator: “No, it’s on the back of your card”

Me: WHAM WHAM WHAM!!!! (banging the phone on the table.)

Me: “THIS number” (four more times)

Helpful Medicaid Operator: “Yes ma’am” when we hit the last one. “That’s the correct number”

Me: “And you couldn’t just TELL me this?”

Helpful Medicaid Operator: “No ma’am. I don’t know the number.”

The Wreck

2008-09-03T14:54:00.004-05:00

Ok, well, I guess I should start at the start.

I woke in the middle of the night, on the first Sunday of May, to find that my husband, Sparky, hadn't returned home yet. He's a fishing nutcase, so I didn't worry overmuch, as he's been known to spend more than one entire night wandering the banks of the local river, in search of The Big One. So I went back to sleep.

And woke up every hour on the hour after. By 5:30, he still hadn't returned home, and I couldn't sleep anymore. I got up and as I was about to step into the shower, Hot Rod came stumbling into my room, eyes rheumy with sleep. "Where's Daddy?" he asked, as he flopped into my still-warm spot on the bed.

"I don't know, honey, probably still fishing," I replied. I set up a Veggie-tales video for him, and took a shower.

An hour later, as we sat to eat breakfast, I received The Call.

This is the call that every woman dreads. It's the same as The Visit, when the police come knocking at your door at the wrong time of day.

The police dispatcher on the other end was collected and infuriatingly calm. All she would tell me is that there had been "an accident" and that the officer on the scene would be in touch with me. And yes, my husband was alive.

I shook. I was cold. I had to stay calm. Hot Rod is a tiny boy, but very perceptive, and I couldn't let him know that anything was wrong.

"Mommy, are you cold? Should I get you a sweater?" he asked, looking up from his breakfast.

AH! A non-scary explanation for the shaking. "Yes, honey, I'm cold. But I don't need a sweatshirt. You just finish your breakfast. I need to go make a phone call." And I ran from the kitchen, taking solace in the laundry room, where I made phone calls. First to my brother, who immediately jumped in his truck to come here; second to my friend who lives down the street, our awesome babysitter who has become the sister I never had. Within five minutes, she was in my house, still in her pajamas.

A short time later, the police informed me that they were bringing in AirCare. Anyone who has been in this position knows that "bringing in AirCare" is never a good phrase. They were airlifting my husband to the University of Iowa, where, they hoped, he would be kept alive. But they were bringing him to our local hospital first, to be stabilized.

"Please," I begged, "can I meet you there? I need to see him."

"You'd better," was the answer.

When I got there, he was unconscious, and they were performing CPR on him. I screamed and nearly went to my knees, but one of the nurses, my babysitter's mom, caught me and talked to me.

"It's not what you think. He's alive. He's hypothermic, and this is just a precaution," she said, as she held me tight. I could barely feel her.

Soon, a friend arrived, and together, we walked to Sparky, laying there unconscious on the table. Together, we prayed, we talked to each other, and we talked to his spirit.

"You have a decision to make," I told him. "You have to decide if you're going to live, or if this is Your Time. If you choose to live, I will welcome you home. If it's your time, I want you to know that I love you, and that Hot Rod and I will be ok. You need to worry about you right now. We're fine. And if you do decide to go, remember, I love you. Goodbye."

And they bundled him in blankets and technology and flew away.

***

Sparky survived that trip. He survived the day, and the next, and the next, too. And the next weeks, and months. He's still with us today.

He's walking, and talking, and apparently, none the worse for the wear.

Except that he has some pretty nasty nerve damage in his leg, and his knee is all bashed up.

And he's completely, utterly, blind.

Turn the lights off on a dark night and close your eyes blind.

So now I stand facing the future. He was once the breadwinner. Now it falls to me. I was once the at-home person, taking care of laundry, cleaning, shopping, meal planning. I still do that.

It's making me just a little crazy, to tell you the truth. Not a lot, just enough so that I found a GREY HAIR on my head this morning.

It's gone now.

Score one for me.

The Beginning

2008-09-03T13:29:00.000-05:00

This is the beginning. Of what? I'm not sure yet. Certainly a new chronicle, but perhaps also of a new life, since the old one ended with The Wreck, nearly four months ago.

Apparently, The Universe decided on that day that things needed a shaking up, and I've been dealing with it ever since.

I know this sounds morbid, and sad-sack, and whiny, but really, it isn't. There is a whole world of possibilities out there, and it's as exciting as it is scary. So this is the beginning. The beginning of what?

A new life.
A new career.
A new way of being who I am, maybe even of finding out who I am.

That day, my World Turned Upside Down.

Since I can't turn it back, I'm trying to figure out what's right now.

Join me.