What do you get for someone on their 750th post? Cookies? I'll take chocolate no bakes please.
The story on chocolate no bakes? Back when I was in second or third grade one of my friends brought chocolate no bakes to school for her birthday or something (yes children, there once was a time when we were actually allowed to bring homemade food to school) and I had never had chocolate no bakes.
It was like CRACK! I know I had to have made an absolute ass of myself. Sorry Roxanne, I know it was your birthday but your cookies were just REALLY REALLY GOOD. I believe I followed the teacher around like a lost puppy dog, asking every three seconds "Did everyone get one yet???? Are there seconds????"
In other words, I was the kid that, if I were to meet myself in some horrifying parallel universe in which I am forced to look at the elementary aged me and see just how funny my mother dressed me, I would no doubt shoot out my hand and strangle myself right then and there. "NO YOU CANNOT HAVE ANY MORE FRICKIN' COOKIES!!!!"
And then I would disappear in a puff of smoke and it would all turn into an awful sci-fi cliche.
Damn, I just got tangent-sickness...
Anyway, I went home and trumpeted these cookies. They were like heaven! They were wonderful! OM MY GOD!
Then I went back to school and badgered my friend for the recipe.
Yes, just visualize this: Small child, ugly, ugly glasses, probably plaid pants, thick awful hair that always looked like a mongoose tried to mate with an ostrich, asking my very cool classmate for a recipe.
a recipe for craaaaaaaack!
But within a couple days she handed it to me, no doubt to get me the hell away from her.
My little fingers were trembling with anticipation. I had received manna from heaven! I actually remember being distracted in school that day because I was so excited to get home and GET MORE COOKIES!
When I finally got home and handed my mom the recipe she took one look at it and shrugged her shoulders "They're just no bakes..." She opened her recipe book and there, right there before my eyes, was THE SAME RECIPE.
I was stunned. It was like I didn't even know her. She had been collecting food stamps, all the while secreting the Hope Diamond in the bottom of her purse!
She had access to the Holy of Holies and she acted like IT WAS NO BIG DEAL.
But then?
She made me cookies.
And it was aaaaaaaaaalllllll better.
I still have her cookbook and that page is delightfully smudged.
For your consideration, I give you my childhood recipe for crack:
Chocolate No Bake Cookies
2 C. sugar
1/4 C. cocoa
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 stick butter
1/2 C. milk
2 1/4 C. Minute Oats
1/2 C. peanut butter (crunchy kind is great here)
1 tsp. vanilla
Mix sugar, cocoa, and salt in a 1 1/2 quart saucepan. Add butter and milk, bring to a boil. Boil for 1.5 minutes, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon. Remove from heat, add remaining ingredients. Mix for 1 minute. Drop by spoonsfuls onto wax paper. Chill until firm.
And when you're done with the saucepan? Don't share it with ANYONE! Take it into another room and lock the door behind you.
You're gonna need a little time alone.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
What is "X" if y=stupidity?
Have you ever had an experience where you look at something and know that you have seen it before but in reality, it might as well be some strange alien artifact?
Or cuneiform?
Or algebra?
Yeah, I didn't have to take a math placement test for college since I actually have college math credits (Twenty years ago, scratching sums in the dirt with a stick. Kinda like public schools today in Alabama.)
But since I was ready to resign myself to mouth-breather math class, it was recommended that I volunteer to take the math placement test just to be sure.
When the first algebra question popped up it was kind of like someone holding a gun to my head and demanding "Flirgurtimkiii Myefoootikilgului???"
I ended up guessing on half of them. My score was 56%. Does that mean I'm really good at guessing or really bad?
I was going to hold off and not take a math class the first semester but since it will take me three successful semesters of math (notice the qualifier) to get where I need to be and since I really only need two semesters of classes to get everything else, it would behoove me to suck it up and start taking math right off the bat.
It was rather weird though, taking a test with a bunch of much younger people. Since I only had to take the math portion and everyone else had to take math and English, I got done very quickly.
Well, guessing on half of the questions is also a great time saver.
But standing up and leaving the computer lab was a little like doing the walk of shame.
"That's right bitches! I'm re-tah-ded!"
Or cuneiform?
Or algebra?
Yeah, I didn't have to take a math placement test for college since I actually have college math credits (Twenty years ago, scratching sums in the dirt with a stick. Kinda like public schools today in Alabama.)
But since I was ready to resign myself to mouth-breather math class, it was recommended that I volunteer to take the math placement test just to be sure.
When the first algebra question popped up it was kind of like someone holding a gun to my head and demanding "Flirgurtimkiii Myefoootikilgului???"
I ended up guessing on half of them. My score was 56%. Does that mean I'm really good at guessing or really bad?
I was going to hold off and not take a math class the first semester but since it will take me three successful semesters of math (notice the qualifier) to get where I need to be and since I really only need two semesters of classes to get everything else, it would behoove me to suck it up and start taking math right off the bat.
It was rather weird though, taking a test with a bunch of much younger people. Since I only had to take the math portion and everyone else had to take math and English, I got done very quickly.
Well, guessing on half of the questions is also a great time saver.
But standing up and leaving the computer lab was a little like doing the walk of shame.
"That's right bitches! I'm re-tah-ded!"
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Meet Me At The Market
Copied from an email: Hope to see you at the Farmer's Market this Saturday
The Festival of the Season is coming…..Mark your calendars for this coming Saturday, November 21. This is the biggest event of the year at the market. We have 26 local vendors and you can find anything you need for your upcoming holiday season.
The Festival of the Season is coming…..Mark your calendars for this coming Saturday, November 21. This is the biggest event of the year at the market. We have 26 local vendors and you can find anything you need for your upcoming holiday season.
Some regular FM vendors will be there, but we have a lot a really great local vendors.
Plan to pick up holiday centerpieces, wreaths, garland, bakery, jams, jelly, honey, mittens, aprons, pottery, jewelry, pasties, and so much more, I can’t even list them all.
If you are starting your Christmas decorating, and are in need of garland, let me know and I will have it ready for you. If you are looking for fresh Holly, you will be coming to the right place. We will have bundles of holly and other greens. This is a very big event for our family, so please stop in and see us, visit with the vendors, have a cup of coffee, and enjoy a beautiful Saturday.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
A Harkness Family Christmas
Everyday, I check the court records on the internet. I check them to see if chuckles and knucklehead have turned in my divorce paperwork.
Yesterday it wasn't there.
Today, it was.
My divorce papers are now in the hands of St. Louis County.
I was told that it just depends on how busy the judge is as to how fast the papers will get signed. A fair estimate would be a month.
This means that I could be divorced before December 19th. Before the first anniversary of the beginning of this journey.
This means that the Harkness Family might officially and legally be "The Harkness Family" by Christmas.
There is no amount of manufactured crap that you could buy in a store to equal just how fantastic this holiday will be...
Yesterday it wasn't there.
Today, it was.
My divorce papers are now in the hands of St. Louis County.
I was told that it just depends on how busy the judge is as to how fast the papers will get signed. A fair estimate would be a month.
This means that I could be divorced before December 19th. Before the first anniversary of the beginning of this journey.
This means that the Harkness Family might officially and legally be "The Harkness Family" by Christmas.
There is no amount of manufactured crap that you could buy in a store to equal just how fantastic this holiday will be...
The First Place You Look Is The Last Place It Would Be
"See, the trouble with having such a long period between taking the curtains down and putting the curtains back up again is the fact that you just might forget where the damn curtain hooks and brackets are."
These words are spoken by a large greasy man with plumbers crack and a nasty cigar as he walks through my head, holding a clipboard, tutting at my inefficiency.
Yup. I wanted to put the curtains up last night. Nope. They didn't go up. They are gracefully adorning the hideous green chair that I got for free.
I am starting to think that they look pretty damn good on that chair.
This house has been gutted, shaken, stirred, turned upside down, and examined with a proctoscope. There are very few places that the curtain hooks and brackets COULD be. There is a decided lack of clutter going on here.
Oh, and I'm missing one end off my curtain rod.
It's kind of like seeing the most beautiful girl you've ever seen and after you're halfway down the aisle in your mind, she smiles and reveals a row of teeth like ill begotten tombstones.
And that little voice in your head says "oh....It was going to be sooooo perfect...."
So, let's play a cyber game of "Button Button Who's Got The Button", except that instead of buttons, we're looking for curtain hardware and instead of people, we're thinking of locations.
As a matter of fact, it's nothing like "Button Button", it's more like "Crazy Crazy".
I can start this game by telling you where it isn't. It isn't in the bathroom, it isn't in the living room, it isn't in the dining room, it isn't in the mud room, and it isn't in my son's room.
Of course, all of this kvetching could be moot if the unimaginable has become imaginable.
Yes. I am speaking of aliens.
Never rule out the aliens.
These words are spoken by a large greasy man with plumbers crack and a nasty cigar as he walks through my head, holding a clipboard, tutting at my inefficiency.
Yup. I wanted to put the curtains up last night. Nope. They didn't go up. They are gracefully adorning the hideous green chair that I got for free.
I am starting to think that they look pretty damn good on that chair.
This house has been gutted, shaken, stirred, turned upside down, and examined with a proctoscope. There are very few places that the curtain hooks and brackets COULD be. There is a decided lack of clutter going on here.
Oh, and I'm missing one end off my curtain rod.
It's kind of like seeing the most beautiful girl you've ever seen and after you're halfway down the aisle in your mind, she smiles and reveals a row of teeth like ill begotten tombstones.
And that little voice in your head says "oh....It was going to be sooooo perfect...."
So, let's play a cyber game of "Button Button Who's Got The Button", except that instead of buttons, we're looking for curtain hardware and instead of people, we're thinking of locations.
As a matter of fact, it's nothing like "Button Button", it's more like "Crazy Crazy".
I can start this game by telling you where it isn't. It isn't in the bathroom, it isn't in the living room, it isn't in the dining room, it isn't in the mud room, and it isn't in my son's room.
Of course, all of this kvetching could be moot if the unimaginable has become imaginable.
Yes. I am speaking of aliens.
Never rule out the aliens.
Neither Wine Nor Cheese
I realize that I have reached that time in everyone's life when the aging thing sneaks up on you.
Somewhere between 39 and 43, it seems to hit you, right between the eyes. And below the eyes. And on your skin. And in your hair.
I've stopped coloring my hair because it takes time and money. I've had one spot of gray in my hair for at least the last ten years. It's my skunk spot. My "oh, did you bump some paint?" spot. It's my soul patch.
I've often wondered how I will age. I see the women that get wrinkles in the corners of their eyes and the corners of their mouth and you know that they have decades of a sunny disposition behind them.
Then there are the women who have their eyes sink in a little and their head becomes a little skullier (definition: looks like a skull. It has nothing to do with the X-Files.). They are usually the skinny women that you hope never get stuck in a windstorm.
Then there are the women who seem to wear a map on their face. They have wrinkles everywhere and there is no rhyme or reason to it. It might be a map of the London Underground, it might be a map to the buried treasure that is their soul. They are often photographed looking off in the distance. Everyone knows they have a story to tell and very few people take the time to slow down and listen.
Those are just the faces...it was about six months ago that I first noticed that someone had snuck into my house in the middle of the night and replaced my hands with the hands of an old woman. The skin is a little papery, it will tent for a moment when you pinch it and OH MY GOD IS THAT A LIVERSPOT?????
Then it was the eyes. My eyes have aged five decades over the past year. Not just around my eyes but my actual eyes. They seem to be verrrrrry tired.
Last week? The gray hair at the temples.
This week? The road map that is my face.
Yup. I'm becoming one of those village Shaman-type women who looks across the plain and everyone who doesn't know her thinks she looks so wise.
The reality of the situation? She's just thinking REALLY REALLY HARD because she can't remember where she left her damn car keys.
There is absolutely nothing magical about it.
Somewhere between 39 and 43, it seems to hit you, right between the eyes. And below the eyes. And on your skin. And in your hair.
I've stopped coloring my hair because it takes time and money. I've had one spot of gray in my hair for at least the last ten years. It's my skunk spot. My "oh, did you bump some paint?" spot. It's my soul patch.
I've often wondered how I will age. I see the women that get wrinkles in the corners of their eyes and the corners of their mouth and you know that they have decades of a sunny disposition behind them.
Then there are the women who have their eyes sink in a little and their head becomes a little skullier (definition: looks like a skull. It has nothing to do with the X-Files.). They are usually the skinny women that you hope never get stuck in a windstorm.
Then there are the women who seem to wear a map on their face. They have wrinkles everywhere and there is no rhyme or reason to it. It might be a map of the London Underground, it might be a map to the buried treasure that is their soul. They are often photographed looking off in the distance. Everyone knows they have a story to tell and very few people take the time to slow down and listen.
Those are just the faces...it was about six months ago that I first noticed that someone had snuck into my house in the middle of the night and replaced my hands with the hands of an old woman. The skin is a little papery, it will tent for a moment when you pinch it and OH MY GOD IS THAT A LIVERSPOT?????
Then it was the eyes. My eyes have aged five decades over the past year. Not just around my eyes but my actual eyes. They seem to be verrrrrry tired.
Last week? The gray hair at the temples.
This week? The road map that is my face.
Yup. I'm becoming one of those village Shaman-type women who looks across the plain and everyone who doesn't know her thinks she looks so wise.
The reality of the situation? She's just thinking REALLY REALLY HARD because she can't remember where she left her damn car keys.
There is absolutely nothing magical about it.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Paint Paint Everywhere
The dog has paint on his ear.
The cat has paint on his tail.
The second I pen the dogs up in the kitchen and give them the talk regarding behavior and civic duty, the cat goes springing over the gate and flying through the wet doorway. Cats do not honor any thoughts of civic responsibility. When the zombie apocalypse happens and you're rallying your friends and neighbors, your cat will be in the corner plotting which of you it will cannibalize first.
Yesterday, I also had to wash my hair and deal with the fact that the entire back of my head had paint on it. Never let a klutzy person paint in a confined space. Better yet, never let a klutzy person paint.
I do not paint responsively. I'm sort of like an epileptic with a home decorating fetish.
For all the drama and trauma though, I am very nearly ready to declare two whole rooms painted. There are still a few touch ups that need to be done but nothing that will take over an hour in its entirety.
This evening, my goal is to hang my curtains back up in my dining room. That doesn't sound like a monumental goal until I look back and realize that I haven't had curtains hanging up in my dining room since before March 8th.
Over eight months of interior disarray.
I won't be posting photos of the goodness because I have made the determination that when my daughter comes home for the holidays, I want to surprise her with how it all looks.
YES! I HAVE BOOKED HER FLIGHT!
I was able to thank everyone with a note that donated to her airline travel fund except for one person who donated anonymously. I'd like to thank that person here and now.
She will be coming in on the 22nd of December and leaving on New Years Day. We aren't planning on doing anything special and we aren't going to have a tree or presents (no, I am not asking for a tree or presents...don't worry...) but we are going to have each other.
And a house with a kick ass paint job!
The cat has paint on his tail.
The second I pen the dogs up in the kitchen and give them the talk regarding behavior and civic duty, the cat goes springing over the gate and flying through the wet doorway. Cats do not honor any thoughts of civic responsibility. When the zombie apocalypse happens and you're rallying your friends and neighbors, your cat will be in the corner plotting which of you it will cannibalize first.
Yesterday, I also had to wash my hair and deal with the fact that the entire back of my head had paint on it. Never let a klutzy person paint in a confined space. Better yet, never let a klutzy person paint.
I do not paint responsively. I'm sort of like an epileptic with a home decorating fetish.
For all the drama and trauma though, I am very nearly ready to declare two whole rooms painted. There are still a few touch ups that need to be done but nothing that will take over an hour in its entirety.
This evening, my goal is to hang my curtains back up in my dining room. That doesn't sound like a monumental goal until I look back and realize that I haven't had curtains hanging up in my dining room since before March 8th.
Over eight months of interior disarray.
I won't be posting photos of the goodness because I have made the determination that when my daughter comes home for the holidays, I want to surprise her with how it all looks.
YES! I HAVE BOOKED HER FLIGHT!
I was able to thank everyone with a note that donated to her airline travel fund except for one person who donated anonymously. I'd like to thank that person here and now.
She will be coming in on the 22nd of December and leaving on New Years Day. We aren't planning on doing anything special and we aren't going to have a tree or presents (no, I am not asking for a tree or presents...don't worry...) but we are going to have each other.
And a house with a kick ass paint job!
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Shhhh
I have to get ready for the PAVSA Art Auction in a few minutes. I got home from delivering donated cakes a little while ago and let me just state for the record, there are a few things in this life that I should never be allowed to do. One of these things is delivering cakes.
There is a story there. I will not be telling it.
Finally!
A way to get me to shut the hell up!
There is a story there. I will not be telling it.
Finally!
A way to get me to shut the hell up!
Words No Longer Fail
I have just finished Slamming Open The Door.
It is an incredibly thin book of staggering power. The thinnest blade to slice open your heart.
It touches on things that I only knew in my heart. Things that I could never properly verbalize. Things that I didn't always realize I felt. (I've written the poem titles in parentheses.)
The notion of violently getting you heart ripped out while everything around you goes on as normal (Tea Time). The paralyzing disgust at a defense attorney (Defense Attorney), the warmth toward an investigating police officer (Homicide Detective) , all the many things that people can say wrong (What Not To Say), or do right (William). It even touches on the fact that no amount of punishment will ever feel like enough (Life in Prison).
It's similar to visiting the Art of Recovery exhibit.
Without hyperbole, with the simplest of words, it encapsulates an emotion that few would feel comfortable saying and even fewer would be comfortable in hearing.
How can I explain that for eight months or so, I would go to bed at night and wish that I wouldn't wake up in the morning? I couldn't tell my friend that, they would have freaked out. They won't have understood that I wasn't saying that I was going to do anything about it. That would have actually entailed the mental ability to contemplate something other than putting one foot in front of the other. That would have taken up too much energy.
But I have found the words to wrap around the nakedness of that time.
I'll only quote the end of the poem "Kidney Stone".
After finding out her daughter was murdered, the author has a kidney stone attack and has to go in for surgery:
But first, afraid, on the litter,
I say to my sister,
What if I don't wake up
from the anesthesia?
and she presses my hand
and says, No, no,
don't even think that way-
you are not that lucky.
It is an incredibly thin book of staggering power. The thinnest blade to slice open your heart.
It touches on things that I only knew in my heart. Things that I could never properly verbalize. Things that I didn't always realize I felt. (I've written the poem titles in parentheses.)
The notion of violently getting you heart ripped out while everything around you goes on as normal (Tea Time). The paralyzing disgust at a defense attorney (Defense Attorney), the warmth toward an investigating police officer (Homicide Detective) , all the many things that people can say wrong (What Not To Say), or do right (William). It even touches on the fact that no amount of punishment will ever feel like enough (Life in Prison).
It's similar to visiting the Art of Recovery exhibit.
Without hyperbole, with the simplest of words, it encapsulates an emotion that few would feel comfortable saying and even fewer would be comfortable in hearing.
How can I explain that for eight months or so, I would go to bed at night and wish that I wouldn't wake up in the morning? I couldn't tell my friend that, they would have freaked out. They won't have understood that I wasn't saying that I was going to do anything about it. That would have actually entailed the mental ability to contemplate something other than putting one foot in front of the other. That would have taken up too much energy.
But I have found the words to wrap around the nakedness of that time.
I'll only quote the end of the poem "Kidney Stone".
After finding out her daughter was murdered, the author has a kidney stone attack and has to go in for surgery:
But first, afraid, on the litter,
I say to my sister,
What if I don't wake up
from the anesthesia?
and she presses my hand
and says, No, no,
don't even think that way-
you are not that lucky.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Just Move That Drop Cloth And Lay Down On The Sofa
Time to split myself in two again.
Me #1 needs to pull out the tweed jacket and the pipe and sit next to the sofa while Me #2 reclines uncomfortably on the sofa, fidgets with an unused kleenex and stares down at my shoes.
Schizophrenia can be fun when you role play!
At least, that's what the voices in my head tell me.
I notice stress as a problem when I start losing my shit with the pets. When I start telling Thing One that he is one classified ad away from finding a far more forgiving home, I know it's time to do a little mental house cleaning.
Which led me to the realization this morning that the overwhelming stress of the last year stemmed directly from my inability to put a single finger on anything in my life, except for my job, and say "I am in charge of this. I am responsible for what happens here. I am guiding this ship."
When you allow life to "just happen", bad things happen. That's what I've learned as a grown up. The one constant thing over the past few months that kind of held my glue together was getting up in the morning and going to a job that I at least felt mildy competent at.
Now I'm rebooting. Now I'm trying to learn how a new place does things while trying not to feel totally incompetent. It doesn't help when you have someone look you earnestly in the eye and ask "Is this a little above your skill level?"
I really had to bite my tongue from saying "I sure as fuck hope not."
I'm trying to figure it all out and sometimes I succeed and sometimes I get those earnest looks. I then come home to mass chaos as the painting has stopped during the week since it's already dark when I get home.
I'm just taping and planning out my next strategy...
I'm grateful that I'll have a little painting time this weekend as I find it to be meditative and therapeutic.
Meditative while I'm doing it and therapeutic when it's done.
Hopefully, it's not too far above my skill level.
Me #1 needs to pull out the tweed jacket and the pipe and sit next to the sofa while Me #2 reclines uncomfortably on the sofa, fidgets with an unused kleenex and stares down at my shoes.
Schizophrenia can be fun when you role play!
At least, that's what the voices in my head tell me.
I notice stress as a problem when I start losing my shit with the pets. When I start telling Thing One that he is one classified ad away from finding a far more forgiving home, I know it's time to do a little mental house cleaning.
Which led me to the realization this morning that the overwhelming stress of the last year stemmed directly from my inability to put a single finger on anything in my life, except for my job, and say "I am in charge of this. I am responsible for what happens here. I am guiding this ship."
When you allow life to "just happen", bad things happen. That's what I've learned as a grown up. The one constant thing over the past few months that kind of held my glue together was getting up in the morning and going to a job that I at least felt mildy competent at.
Now I'm rebooting. Now I'm trying to learn how a new place does things while trying not to feel totally incompetent. It doesn't help when you have someone look you earnestly in the eye and ask "Is this a little above your skill level?"
I really had to bite my tongue from saying "I sure as fuck hope not."
I'm trying to figure it all out and sometimes I succeed and sometimes I get those earnest looks. I then come home to mass chaos as the painting has stopped during the week since it's already dark when I get home.
I'm just taping and planning out my next strategy...
I'm grateful that I'll have a little painting time this weekend as I find it to be meditative and therapeutic.
Meditative while I'm doing it and therapeutic when it's done.
Hopefully, it's not too far above my skill level.
Trudging Across The Frozen Sea
I haven't been reading a lot of poetry lately.
Poetry is what breaks me open. It is the axe that shatters the frozen sea in my soul.
Smart people know when to set down dangerous things.
I'm not too sure how smart I am because I have to lay my hands on this book.
Poetry is what breaks me open. It is the axe that shatters the frozen sea in my soul.
Smart people know when to set down dangerous things.
I'm not too sure how smart I am because I have to lay my hands on this book.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Get Art!
This Saturday, PAVSA will be having their annual Art Auction fundraiser at the Holiday Inn Great Lakes Ballroom.There is information here from their website
And here from other sources.
There will not only be an art auction but a dessert auction.
Like, really really good desserts...
I like me some art but ya can't eat a ceramic bowl...
There will be all kinds of art for auction by many incredible local artists.
There will also be a piece from my favorite artist...
You can check out her other works here...
If you can, stop on by and place a bid or too. I'll be working the check in area so be sure to say hello!
Linguistical Abuse
Family slang is cute and all, but once you get a little older and go out into the world and discover that not everyone calls a certain thing what you call it? It can be enlightening as to how screwed up your family has really made you.
This isn't a job for a psychologist. This is a job for a linguist!
Back when my children were wee puffs, I would throw together a treat of cheerios, chocolate chips, little marshmallows, raisins, and whatever else I could find in the cupboards.
I knew it as Gorp. Others call it trail mix.
All this was at the time of the teeny beenie baby toys at McDonalds. (Yes, as a matter of fact, we were bastions of good nutrition. I always made them eat ketchup with their fries. Ronnie Reagan said it was a vegetable!) My daughter had the little turtle and let me tell you, that little turtle was talented.
It had a far more interesting life than I did.
And it liked trail mix. A lot.
It got to the point where my daughter wouldn't tell me that SHE wanted trail mix. She would tell me that her turtle wanted it.
Thus, Turtle Mix was born.
It has been known as Turtle Mix for well over a decade now. We buy it in bulk at the grocery store and call it Turtle Mix. We pick up a tin of "trail mix" and call it Turtle Mix.
Long after the teeny beenie baby turtle has gone to the Japanese soup pot in the sky, it is still known as Turtle Mix.
It wasn't until recently that I discovered how my kids learned the hard way that the rest of the world did not know what Turtle Mix was.
Of course, in a group of incredulous pre-teens that couldn't possibly comprehend how trail mix is called Turtle Mix.
Well, ya see...it's kinda like this...
This isn't a job for a psychologist. This is a job for a linguist!
Back when my children were wee puffs, I would throw together a treat of cheerios, chocolate chips, little marshmallows, raisins, and whatever else I could find in the cupboards.
I knew it as Gorp. Others call it trail mix.
All this was at the time of the teeny beenie baby toys at McDonalds. (Yes, as a matter of fact, we were bastions of good nutrition. I always made them eat ketchup with their fries. Ronnie Reagan said it was a vegetable!) My daughter had the little turtle and let me tell you, that little turtle was talented.
It had a far more interesting life than I did.
And it liked trail mix. A lot.
It got to the point where my daughter wouldn't tell me that SHE wanted trail mix. She would tell me that her turtle wanted it.
Thus, Turtle Mix was born.
It has been known as Turtle Mix for well over a decade now. We buy it in bulk at the grocery store and call it Turtle Mix. We pick up a tin of "trail mix" and call it Turtle Mix.
Long after the teeny beenie baby turtle has gone to the Japanese soup pot in the sky, it is still known as Turtle Mix.
It wasn't until recently that I discovered how my kids learned the hard way that the rest of the world did not know what Turtle Mix was.
Of course, in a group of incredulous pre-teens that couldn't possibly comprehend how trail mix is called Turtle Mix.
Well, ya see...it's kinda like this...
The Dangers Of Painting With OCD
When it comes to painting two very different colors, I start to think about the success rate of cutting your own hair.
Oh! This side is a little shorter than that side. Let me fix that!
Wait a minute! Now the other side is shorter! Let me just give that a little trim...
oh damn.
Well, you always did wonder what it would be like to look like Moe from the Three Stooges.
Here, the conversation is going something like this: Oh there's a little bit of red paint on the white...let me just fix that...ooops. Now that's a little too much white. Let me wait for that to dry and then I'll just touch it up again.
Now, times that conversation by 10,000.
I'm going to live with this for a few days, noticing spots and putting up sticky notes by each one. Then, perhaps I'll be able to go through in one fell swoop and fix stuff.
And three days later, I'll fix stuff again.
And three days later...
Oh! This side is a little shorter than that side. Let me fix that!
Wait a minute! Now the other side is shorter! Let me just give that a little trim...
oh damn.
Well, you always did wonder what it would be like to look like Moe from the Three Stooges.
Here, the conversation is going something like this: Oh there's a little bit of red paint on the white...let me just fix that...ooops. Now that's a little too much white. Let me wait for that to dry and then I'll just touch it up again.
Now, times that conversation by 10,000.
I'm going to live with this for a few days, noticing spots and putting up sticky notes by each one. Then, perhaps I'll be able to go through in one fell swoop and fix stuff.
And three days later, I'll fix stuff again.
And three days later...
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Joints Are For Smoking
It's never easy learning the boundaries of new co-workers.
In other words, it is completely draining to be on one's best behavior ALL THE TIME!
Having come from a very open work place where it wasn't unusual to have someone call from there office "Hey, can you come here for a minute? What do you think this rash is?", I don't know if I should explain my current behavior of visiting the bathroom twice an hour and the drinking fountain 40,000 times a day.
Yes, another bladder infection.
No, I didn't want to ask for time off to go to the clinic.
Yes, I went to urgent care after work.
No, I didn't bother to go into the details with anyone.
I actually did a two for one special and went in with a bladder infection and a possible broken rib (from painting the bathroom...I'm hardcore like that). I know that there isn't jack squat that can be done for a broken rib but I wanted it recorded somewhere in my medical records that I was having this problem. I've found that when I talk about all the times that I dislocate a joint, the doctors will ask "but did you come in for it?"
"Why no, I didn't. I can pop things back in place myself, use one of the 28 joint immobilizers that I have in my linen closet, take ibuprofen, use ice and take it easy all for the low low price of absolutely nothing."
"Well, if you don't come in and see us, it obviously either didn't happen or wasn't a true dislocation..."
So, yeah. Kinda wanted it to be all "official" since the connective tissue in my ribs seems to be the latest, greatest place of discord. That and the kneecaps.
I can't wait to drive myself to urgent care with my kneecap on the inside of my leg. I will then get the triage nurse to visualize it and then I will do what I always do, dig my little fingers under it and slide it back into place. I will then hobble out without seeing the doctor.
Maybe I should just start taking videos of these events at home and taking the video "evidence" into the doctors when I go for something completely different.
"Yeah, I think I have a sinus infection and I'd like to show you the five dislocations that I've had since the last time we've met."
Hey, I'm all about saving money in the health care industry. I think Barack should give me a job.
Anyway, what I'm having is not broken rib pain, just dislocated rib pain.
In other words, I have not "broken my boob". I'm actually quite disappointed. I kind of liked that diagnosis.
This is, in fact, the continuation of a problem I had earlier but didn't go to the doctor for. (This means that it really didn't exist.) Last time it was located in my lower ribs and everything sort of came unmoored quietly and over the course of a few days. This time, it came loose with the sound of a gunshot, albeit a very tiny gun. Perhaps gunshot is a bit dramatic...maybe I should equate it to a very sudden and aggressive bowl of Rice Krispies?
Snap Crackle and Pop are gonna cut a bitch, so watch out!
Needless to say, there isn't anything anyone can do about it. The doctor was kind enough to assure me that "maybe someday, after enough of your joints are compromised and more symptoms appear, we'll be able to figure this thing out."
Thanks doc, you really were very kind. It was a definite improvement from the last time I went into Urgent Care with a joint issue. It was my first kneecap dislocation and although I moved it back myself, it was horribly painful and new and I stumbled into urgent care only to have the doctor tell me "If you're really dislocating your joints like that, I'm calling Mayo and having this disease named after me because there is no way that this can be happening."
I ended up calling Mayo myself and naming the disease for him.
It's now called "asshole".
In other words, it is completely draining to be on one's best behavior ALL THE TIME!
Having come from a very open work place where it wasn't unusual to have someone call from there office "Hey, can you come here for a minute? What do you think this rash is?", I don't know if I should explain my current behavior of visiting the bathroom twice an hour and the drinking fountain 40,000 times a day.
Yes, another bladder infection.
No, I didn't want to ask for time off to go to the clinic.
Yes, I went to urgent care after work.
No, I didn't bother to go into the details with anyone.
I actually did a two for one special and went in with a bladder infection and a possible broken rib (from painting the bathroom...I'm hardcore like that). I know that there isn't jack squat that can be done for a broken rib but I wanted it recorded somewhere in my medical records that I was having this problem. I've found that when I talk about all the times that I dislocate a joint, the doctors will ask "but did you come in for it?"
"Why no, I didn't. I can pop things back in place myself, use one of the 28 joint immobilizers that I have in my linen closet, take ibuprofen, use ice and take it easy all for the low low price of absolutely nothing."
"Well, if you don't come in and see us, it obviously either didn't happen or wasn't a true dislocation..."
So, yeah. Kinda wanted it to be all "official" since the connective tissue in my ribs seems to be the latest, greatest place of discord. That and the kneecaps.
I can't wait to drive myself to urgent care with my kneecap on the inside of my leg. I will then get the triage nurse to visualize it and then I will do what I always do, dig my little fingers under it and slide it back into place. I will then hobble out without seeing the doctor.
Maybe I should just start taking videos of these events at home and taking the video "evidence" into the doctors when I go for something completely different.
"Yeah, I think I have a sinus infection and I'd like to show you the five dislocations that I've had since the last time we've met."
Hey, I'm all about saving money in the health care industry. I think Barack should give me a job.
Anyway, what I'm having is not broken rib pain, just dislocated rib pain.
In other words, I have not "broken my boob". I'm actually quite disappointed. I kind of liked that diagnosis.
This is, in fact, the continuation of a problem I had earlier but didn't go to the doctor for. (This means that it really didn't exist.) Last time it was located in my lower ribs and everything sort of came unmoored quietly and over the course of a few days. This time, it came loose with the sound of a gunshot, albeit a very tiny gun. Perhaps gunshot is a bit dramatic...maybe I should equate it to a very sudden and aggressive bowl of Rice Krispies?
Snap Crackle and Pop are gonna cut a bitch, so watch out!
Needless to say, there isn't anything anyone can do about it. The doctor was kind enough to assure me that "maybe someday, after enough of your joints are compromised and more symptoms appear, we'll be able to figure this thing out."
Thanks doc, you really were very kind. It was a definite improvement from the last time I went into Urgent Care with a joint issue. It was my first kneecap dislocation and although I moved it back myself, it was horribly painful and new and I stumbled into urgent care only to have the doctor tell me "If you're really dislocating your joints like that, I'm calling Mayo and having this disease named after me because there is no way that this can be happening."
I ended up calling Mayo myself and naming the disease for him.
It's now called "asshole".
Phone Tag - You're It!
So here is an example of how having the tiniest bit of competence and empathy can be a good thing:
Still trying to sort out the restitution kerfuffle.
Actually, it's not a kerfuffle. A kerfuffle sounds too much like a fun thing. Something soft and sweet and perhaps not unlike a guinea pig.
So, I'm trying to sort out the restitution debacle.
Since I'm tired of using the victim advocate, I pulled out the letter from the Moose Lake Prison, send by STBX's caseworker, that invited me to call her if I had any questions. (This is also the letter that got his middle name wrong.) I ended up leaving her a message.
Two days later, she called back. In the course of the conversation I learn that no, they have no order for restitution, blah...blah...blah. I've heard it all before. What was striking though is that during the course of the conversation, she referred to me on three different occasions with three different first names, none of them correct. She also referred to STBX's last name twice and both times got it wrong.
Hi there! I'm not Susan. I'm Not Mary. I'm not even Tricia. Also? His last name isn't Shannon or Shandling.
Well! At least I can be fully assured that you were the one that wrote the letter you signed!
So, my conversation with Ms. Smith, I mean Ms. Jones, I mean Ms. Headuptheass lead me to call the courthouse.
Hooray! I got to talk to the fine folks in the finance office! Now that is one place that I haven't had the opportunity to be transferred to yet.
Now, there is no way to begin to describe just how difficult it is to encapsulate our story in one or two sentences on a cold call to accountants and bookkeepers. It's hard enough to verbalize to probation officers and law clerks.
I stumbled my way through my story only to have the woman say that she only dealt with part of it and would have to transfer me so that the person that dealt with the other part of it could investigate.
And I got the next person. And I asked the second person "Did the first person tell you anything?"
Of course not.
OK. Here's my story. Again.
She checked a few things and then determined that I needed to talk to another person.
I asked the third person "Did the second person tell you anything?"
Of course not.
OK. Here's my story. Again.
Oh, but wait! The third person had a question! It was a question for the second person!
So what did she do? She just held the receiver away from her mouth and asked the woman.
Yes. The three women that I had just individually spilled my guts to were all in the same office and within conversational distance.
Now, perhaps I'm expecting too much. My only experience with this sort of thing is working in the medical field. I learned that you actually prefaced your transfer to another person with at least the gist of what was going on. The fact that these women were all in the same area and could have easily put me on hold to discuss things instead of passing me like a hot potato didn't escape my attention.
So allegedly, the order is now in the system. I get to call back in two days and talk to a supervisor who will be able to access the magic vault and tell me definitively that yes, the US Government does in fact have the Ark of the Covenant in a large warehouse outside Washington DC. Oh, and whether or not the order that was put into the system has "triggered" all the bells and whistles.
Then I'm supposed to call down to Moose Lake and talk to Ms. Smith - Jones - Headuptheass so that they can check the system on their end and see if they can actually find the order for restitution.
Right hand? Meet left hand. Maybe you should finally get to know each other.
Still trying to sort out the restitution kerfuffle.
Actually, it's not a kerfuffle. A kerfuffle sounds too much like a fun thing. Something soft and sweet and perhaps not unlike a guinea pig.
So, I'm trying to sort out the restitution debacle.
Since I'm tired of using the victim advocate, I pulled out the letter from the Moose Lake Prison, send by STBX's caseworker, that invited me to call her if I had any questions. (This is also the letter that got his middle name wrong.) I ended up leaving her a message.
Two days later, she called back. In the course of the conversation I learn that no, they have no order for restitution, blah...blah...blah. I've heard it all before. What was striking though is that during the course of the conversation, she referred to me on three different occasions with three different first names, none of them correct. She also referred to STBX's last name twice and both times got it wrong.
Hi there! I'm not Susan. I'm Not Mary. I'm not even Tricia. Also? His last name isn't Shannon or Shandling.
Well! At least I can be fully assured that you were the one that wrote the letter you signed!
So, my conversation with Ms. Smith, I mean Ms. Jones, I mean Ms. Headuptheass lead me to call the courthouse.
Hooray! I got to talk to the fine folks in the finance office! Now that is one place that I haven't had the opportunity to be transferred to yet.
Now, there is no way to begin to describe just how difficult it is to encapsulate our story in one or two sentences on a cold call to accountants and bookkeepers. It's hard enough to verbalize to probation officers and law clerks.
I stumbled my way through my story only to have the woman say that she only dealt with part of it and would have to transfer me so that the person that dealt with the other part of it could investigate.
And I got the next person. And I asked the second person "Did the first person tell you anything?"
Of course not.
OK. Here's my story. Again.
She checked a few things and then determined that I needed to talk to another person.
I asked the third person "Did the second person tell you anything?"
Of course not.
OK. Here's my story. Again.
Oh, but wait! The third person had a question! It was a question for the second person!
So what did she do? She just held the receiver away from her mouth and asked the woman.
Yes. The three women that I had just individually spilled my guts to were all in the same office and within conversational distance.
Now, perhaps I'm expecting too much. My only experience with this sort of thing is working in the medical field. I learned that you actually prefaced your transfer to another person with at least the gist of what was going on. The fact that these women were all in the same area and could have easily put me on hold to discuss things instead of passing me like a hot potato didn't escape my attention.
So allegedly, the order is now in the system. I get to call back in two days and talk to a supervisor who will be able to access the magic vault and tell me definitively that yes, the US Government does in fact have the Ark of the Covenant in a large warehouse outside Washington DC. Oh, and whether or not the order that was put into the system has "triggered" all the bells and whistles.
Then I'm supposed to call down to Moose Lake and talk to Ms. Smith - Jones - Headuptheass so that they can check the system on their end and see if they can actually find the order for restitution.
Right hand? Meet left hand. Maybe you should finally get to know each other.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Does This Fur Coat Make Me Look Fat?
Too bad I don't have a Princess Leia slave girl action figure to place next to the cat.Actually, the cat isn't getting bigger, the chair just keeps getting smaller.
It's sort of like Alice In Wonderland, except it's the furniture that shrinks instead of the pets.
That's what I keep telling him anyway. I wouldn't want to injure his self esteem.
The other pets don't feel this way though. They have begun to stage rather heated interventions.
The dogs couldn't agree if it's the carbs or the lack of exercise that's the main culprit.
The cat just gazed into the kitchen and plotted how to eat a hole in the cat food bag and never come out again.
No resolution was reached.
I think it's time to invest in that Princess Leia slave girl figure and call it a day.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Acme Ipod Repair
I should get a job at the Apple "Genius" bar.
My 80 gig Ipod was having seizures months and months ago and since it would have cost, you know, money to get it fixed, I put it away.
It's been riding around in my purse for months, vying for my attention with unwrapped pieces of Juicy Fruit and clean but tattered tissues. (The kind that, when your friend needs a Kleenex and you produce one from your purse, she will look at you skeptically and surreptitiously examine it for old boogers before daring to touch it to her oh so delicate proboscis.)
Never throw away those unwrapped pieces of gum. I live in a fantasy world where one day some horrible event will take place right in front of me and Richard Dean Anderson will appear and begin to frantically search his pockets for the one thing that will save the day. Juicy Fruit gum. (It will have to be Juicy Fruit do to some chemical reaction that would occur if Double Mint was used. That's why the bitch standing next to me waving her pack of Double Mint under his nose gets TOTALLY IGNORED.) One day I will prevent another 9/11, Murrah Federal Building, Texas chain saw massacre with a stick of Juicy Fruit and Richard Dean Anderson. This is the reason that I change my underwear everyday.
It can be really draining to live in my world.
Side note: How do sticks of gum become undressed in a purse? Is there some sort of faction of ultra liberal sticks of gum that feel they need to go "natural" before they die?
Yes...yes...I was going somewhere with all this before I saw that deer and hit that tree...my Ipod! I pulled it out last night, charged it up, and was able to actually put things on it AS GOD INTENDED.
The computer didn't suddenly vomit, I Tunes didn't suddenly freeze, and that whole issue with the green smoke emanating from the headphone jack? Gone!
I don't think I'm a mere Genius...I think I'm a soooooooooper Genius.
This is where I realize I'm holding the lit stick of TNT, right?
My 80 gig Ipod was having seizures months and months ago and since it would have cost, you know, money to get it fixed, I put it away.
It's been riding around in my purse for months, vying for my attention with unwrapped pieces of Juicy Fruit and clean but tattered tissues. (The kind that, when your friend needs a Kleenex and you produce one from your purse, she will look at you skeptically and surreptitiously examine it for old boogers before daring to touch it to her oh so delicate proboscis.)
Never throw away those unwrapped pieces of gum. I live in a fantasy world where one day some horrible event will take place right in front of me and Richard Dean Anderson will appear and begin to frantically search his pockets for the one thing that will save the day. Juicy Fruit gum. (It will have to be Juicy Fruit do to some chemical reaction that would occur if Double Mint was used. That's why the bitch standing next to me waving her pack of Double Mint under his nose gets TOTALLY IGNORED.) One day I will prevent another 9/11, Murrah Federal Building, Texas chain saw massacre with a stick of Juicy Fruit and Richard Dean Anderson. This is the reason that I change my underwear everyday.
It can be really draining to live in my world.
Side note: How do sticks of gum become undressed in a purse? Is there some sort of faction of ultra liberal sticks of gum that feel they need to go "natural" before they die?
Yes...yes...I was going somewhere with all this before I saw that deer and hit that tree...my Ipod! I pulled it out last night, charged it up, and was able to actually put things on it AS GOD INTENDED.
The computer didn't suddenly vomit, I Tunes didn't suddenly freeze, and that whole issue with the green smoke emanating from the headphone jack? Gone!
I don't think I'm a mere Genius...I think I'm a soooooooooper Genius.
This is where I realize I'm holding the lit stick of TNT, right?
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Hello Mr. King, Allow Me To Introduce Myself
It makes me wonder if I would have been quoted had I chosen to talk about one of my common themes: Dog poop.But today is not for dog poop. Today is for paint.
Red paint.
With the blue painter's tape, I don't know whether to keep painting or start singing "God Bless America".
I have a tendency to get involved in projects such as these and I will ruminate on it and think about it even when I'm not actually doing it. It's either called creativity or mental illness, frankly I think the two go hand in hand.
Perhaps this is why I had nightmares all night long. All frickin' night long! I haven't had such awful nightmares since I was a mere puff of a child.
Stress? Nah.
I know my stress dream. It's the dream that I had every night for about five or six months. That's the one where I am lying face down in the middle of the road in the dark and when I lift my face up to look down the road, I see the headlights of an oncoming car. I then proceed to realize that I am either paralyzed or on a sheet of ice or somehow immobilized and unable to escape from the path of the oncoming car. I always wake up when the car bumper is right in front of my face. I'm usually drenched in what I can only hope is sweat.
No, last night was honest to god Gothic haunted house horror happenings. (Say that three times fast.)
Last night was sponsored by HP Lovecraft and Anne Rice.
It involved vampires. Lots and lots of vampires. I would jerk awake in terror only to go right back into the dream where it left off.
It wasn't until I started painting again this morning that I began to put two and two together. Red...red...red...red...red paint...red...red...red...red blood
Red...red...red...RED RUM RED RUM RED RUM!!!!OH MY GOD!
All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!
All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!
All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!
All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!
All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!
All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!
All paint and no play makes Debbie a sad girl!
I really think I need to take a shower, wash the paint out of my hair, and get out of this house cuz those freaky twin girls standing in my hallway are starting to GET ON MY NERVES!!!
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Saturdays Are For Painting
I'd like to smooth the waters a bit today. I'm aiming for a universal Zen like calm in the universe. What shall we discuss?
Abortion?
Gay Marriage?
Gay married people that want to get abortions?
Gay married people that want to get abortions and have the government pay for them while also subsidizing the removal of granny from her ventilator?
Yeah...I'm still working on that Zen thing.
Perhaps I should limit my discussions to the ever popular, thrill a minute topic of painting.
I will be painting in our mudroom today. Since I'm still waiting for the bathroom window, I can't do anything there but I'm feeling the need to tape up the living room and corral the furniture.
I can foresee breaking out the red paint for trim today.
I've been dying to break out the red.
Red is the color that I have been lately. Red purse, red sweater, and soon to be red trim. The way I paint, I'll soon be covered head to toe in red and then go out to pick up my mail.
I will be the source of all the zombie apocalypse rumors emanating from Lakeside.
No, I don't want your brains, just your body. In my house. With a paintbrush.
Abortion?
Gay Marriage?
Gay married people that want to get abortions?
Gay married people that want to get abortions and have the government pay for them while also subsidizing the removal of granny from her ventilator?
Yeah...I'm still working on that Zen thing.
Perhaps I should limit my discussions to the ever popular, thrill a minute topic of painting.
I will be painting in our mudroom today. Since I'm still waiting for the bathroom window, I can't do anything there but I'm feeling the need to tape up the living room and corral the furniture.
I can foresee breaking out the red paint for trim today.
I've been dying to break out the red.
Red is the color that I have been lately. Red purse, red sweater, and soon to be red trim. The way I paint, I'll soon be covered head to toe in red and then go out to pick up my mail.
I will be the source of all the zombie apocalypse rumors emanating from Lakeside.
No, I don't want your brains, just your body. In my house. With a paintbrush.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Wonder Twin Powers Activate! - Form Of A Cold Hearted Bitch!
I am going to take a page out of my rockin' daughter's playbook. It comes from absolutely ignoring that 50 ton elephant in the room that is both asthmatic and flatulent, You begin by sticking your fingers in your ears and following the mantra "sunshine, lollipops. and the delicate first flowers of spring," and then, after several hours of chanting, you begin to hold your gracefully poised hands under your chin and sleepily blink as the the fairy dust gently rocks you to an imaginary land filled with love, and the milk of human kindness.
And no one is ever sad. Except when your children utter the occasional phrase of "How I really don't like myself". It's then the flatulent elephant makes his presence known and all of your years of telling your kid how amazing they are start to unravel before your eyes.
You can visualize the insomnia, you can empathize with it wholeheartedly. You can listen to their stories and instead of the fluffy clouds of sparkling purity that were once surrounding you in your attempt to "move on" and "get a life", you look down to see your children's hearts in your hands.
And you start to notice that flatulent elephant in the room. And you start to stick your fingers in the many whole of their hearts, trying to stem the bleeding.
The dutch boy had it easy.
But anger is a bad thing. It is wrong to look around at the people that played a part in this destruction for they will proclaim their innocence. They just wanted to do what they wanted to do.
Your kids were just collateral damage. And so were you. So buck up and start smelling those unicorn farts, cuz they smell like skittles. Buck up! Stop whining! Get the fuck over it. It's history. You're just playing the victim. You're a whiner and a loser and JUST PLAIN MEAN.
It's not right to ignore the strides that fucked up women make after they get done fucking up your life.
It's also cruel to be hateful to STBX's siblings when they were just trying to convince you how much he really loves his kids.
Words can be said to "come from the horse's mouth". They can also be said to "come from the horse's ass."
But if I state my belief that kids should come first and their protection should be paramount above all else and the definition of love does not include molestation and physical beating and emotional torment, I have the sneaking suspicion that I would start to get the doe eyed lecture myself.
"Just because he did these things to the kids, doesn't mean he doesn't love them."
There are no bad people. Just bad choices. Let's join hands and sing!
No, I do frame my arguments with anger. It's the anger that makes me a "sanctimonious bitch". It's the anger of incredulity at anyone that could choose their own self interests over their children. It's the anger of incredulity that a mother with a son could even attempt to defend a perpetrator because he had "had a hard life". It's easy to say that when dear Uncle Tracy wasn't playing "cho cho train" with your little boy in the dark. Don't worry, I'm sure if he would have, you would be able to separate out your feelings and still agree that poor Uncle Tracy really had his best interests in mind. I'm sure he loved him too...every night for years.
I don't give a shit about any of it. I care that every day, I try to find the words to say to make things better for my kids. I try to tell them that they are loved. That they are wonderful human beings. That above anyone else in the world, I will always have their back.
As Charles Baudelaire said, "I cultivate my hysteria with joy and terror"
And with a happy little Parker-esque spin on Eminem: "Look, I can't change the way I think/ I can't change the way I am/ but if I offended you, GOOD/'cause I still don't give a damn."
And no one is ever sad. Except when your children utter the occasional phrase of "How I really don't like myself". It's then the flatulent elephant makes his presence known and all of your years of telling your kid how amazing they are start to unravel before your eyes.
You can visualize the insomnia, you can empathize with it wholeheartedly. You can listen to their stories and instead of the fluffy clouds of sparkling purity that were once surrounding you in your attempt to "move on" and "get a life", you look down to see your children's hearts in your hands.
And you start to notice that flatulent elephant in the room. And you start to stick your fingers in the many whole of their hearts, trying to stem the bleeding.
The dutch boy had it easy.
But anger is a bad thing. It is wrong to look around at the people that played a part in this destruction for they will proclaim their innocence. They just wanted to do what they wanted to do.
Your kids were just collateral damage. And so were you. So buck up and start smelling those unicorn farts, cuz they smell like skittles. Buck up! Stop whining! Get the fuck over it. It's history. You're just playing the victim. You're a whiner and a loser and JUST PLAIN MEAN.
It's not right to ignore the strides that fucked up women make after they get done fucking up your life.
It's also cruel to be hateful to STBX's siblings when they were just trying to convince you how much he really loves his kids.
Words can be said to "come from the horse's mouth". They can also be said to "come from the horse's ass."
But if I state my belief that kids should come first and their protection should be paramount above all else and the definition of love does not include molestation and physical beating and emotional torment, I have the sneaking suspicion that I would start to get the doe eyed lecture myself.
"Just because he did these things to the kids, doesn't mean he doesn't love them."
There are no bad people. Just bad choices. Let's join hands and sing!
No, I do frame my arguments with anger. It's the anger that makes me a "sanctimonious bitch". It's the anger of incredulity at anyone that could choose their own self interests over their children. It's the anger of incredulity that a mother with a son could even attempt to defend a perpetrator because he had "had a hard life". It's easy to say that when dear Uncle Tracy wasn't playing "cho cho train" with your little boy in the dark. Don't worry, I'm sure if he would have, you would be able to separate out your feelings and still agree that poor Uncle Tracy really had his best interests in mind. I'm sure he loved him too...every night for years.
I don't give a shit about any of it. I care that every day, I try to find the words to say to make things better for my kids. I try to tell them that they are loved. That they are wonderful human beings. That above anyone else in the world, I will always have their back.
As Charles Baudelaire said, "I cultivate my hysteria with joy and terror"
And with a happy little Parker-esque spin on Eminem: "Look, I can't change the way I think/ I can't change the way I am/ but if I offended you, GOOD/'cause I still don't give a damn."
Talking Back
It's always interesting to check in on the keyword searches that bring people to this blog.
Every month, over 200 people are looking for Tracy Shaddox or Tracy Curtis Shaddox. A large amount seems to come from one person so obviously, it's someone that doesn't understand the concept of "bookmarks". Or perhaps it's someone who doesn't want her husband to know that she's still obsessed with Tracy Shaddox. I don't know, just a theory.
There are also people looking for actual victim impact statements. I'm glad when they come here and I hope they find what they need.
The phrases that I'm more puzzled by are ones such as "You rustler on roller skates, reach for the sky wise guy."
Or the disturbing "Bizzaro Porn Pedophilia". Hey you? I hope your wanker rots off. And the person looking for "Debbie Does Incest?" I hope someone chops your wanker off. Perhaps this is the person that sends me constant hateful comments that I keep deleting?
I'm always amused by hits for "cheapass suits". Are you looking for them? Is there a company that actually calls themselves "Cheapass Suits"? -Now with 99.99% petrochemicals!
I don't even want to know why someone would be looking up "Cooking feces".
For the person who was looking up "Duluth, Found Corgi"- if you found a lost Corgi, email me! I would be happy to babysit until the owner is found...it's like Corgi Playschool around here!
For the person wondering if Shark is served anywhere in Duluth, well, does anyone know if Shark is served in Duluth?
Whoever is interested in inflating their wife like Violet Beauregard, I sincerely hope this had something to do with Halloween.
Many people seem to be concerned about Norm Abrams being sick. Someone else is wondering if he's going through a divorce. Has Norm been losing weight or something?
Apparently there is someone who wants to know how a pedophile stays sane. If you're a pedophile and you have never gotten treatment or disclosed to anyone, you can't stay sane on your own. Start off here. You need help and if you know you're having problems, you know you should get help. You are not only responsible for your actions, you are responsible for your treatment.
Yesterday's search for "Tracy Shaddox, child molestation, 90 months in prison" was oddly specific.
Another search asked "When does it start to snow in Duluth". The answer to that is, IT NEVER STOPS. I believe historically, the only month that has never seen snow in Duluth is either July or August. Bring your woolies.
And as far as "What movie tastes like rainbows?" Well, it depends on what drugs you take before you head out to the theater.
Every month, over 200 people are looking for Tracy Shaddox or Tracy Curtis Shaddox. A large amount seems to come from one person so obviously, it's someone that doesn't understand the concept of "bookmarks". Or perhaps it's someone who doesn't want her husband to know that she's still obsessed with Tracy Shaddox. I don't know, just a theory.
There are also people looking for actual victim impact statements. I'm glad when they come here and I hope they find what they need.
The phrases that I'm more puzzled by are ones such as "You rustler on roller skates, reach for the sky wise guy."
Or the disturbing "Bizzaro Porn Pedophilia". Hey you? I hope your wanker rots off. And the person looking for "Debbie Does Incest?" I hope someone chops your wanker off. Perhaps this is the person that sends me constant hateful comments that I keep deleting?
I'm always amused by hits for "cheapass suits". Are you looking for them? Is there a company that actually calls themselves "Cheapass Suits"? -Now with 99.99% petrochemicals!
I don't even want to know why someone would be looking up "Cooking feces".
For the person who was looking up "Duluth, Found Corgi"- if you found a lost Corgi, email me! I would be happy to babysit until the owner is found...it's like Corgi Playschool around here!
For the person wondering if Shark is served anywhere in Duluth, well, does anyone know if Shark is served in Duluth?
Whoever is interested in inflating their wife like Violet Beauregard, I sincerely hope this had something to do with Halloween.
Many people seem to be concerned about Norm Abrams being sick. Someone else is wondering if he's going through a divorce. Has Norm been losing weight or something?
Apparently there is someone who wants to know how a pedophile stays sane. If you're a pedophile and you have never gotten treatment or disclosed to anyone, you can't stay sane on your own. Start off here. You need help and if you know you're having problems, you know you should get help. You are not only responsible for your actions, you are responsible for your treatment.
Yesterday's search for "Tracy Shaddox, child molestation, 90 months in prison" was oddly specific.
Another search asked "When does it start to snow in Duluth". The answer to that is, IT NEVER STOPS. I believe historically, the only month that has never seen snow in Duluth is either July or August. Bring your woolies.
And as far as "What movie tastes like rainbows?" Well, it depends on what drugs you take before you head out to the theater.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Worshipping At The Church Of The Bean
I have discovered where it is at work...the secret place where the good coffee is. It does exist.
I found my way to the magic portal by smell. It was a heavenly smell. It was wafting through the air and to my nose in a purple, sparkly cloud of stars and seahorses. It was the Lisa Frank of smells.
Have I ever mentioned my psychotic addiction to coffee that DOESN'T put a rotting hole in my gut?
And my inability to properly answer the question "But what IS good coffee?"
"Coffee that doesn't taste like crap," never seems to be a sufficient answer.
I can't define it in positives, but I know what it isn't:
1. You would not be tempted to pave a road with it nor fill in potholes.
2. You would not be tempted to mainline it once your heroin ran out.
3. You would not be tempted to put it in your snow blower once the gas ran out.
4. You would not be tempted to use it as oil in your car.
You would actually lean over the coffee pot and give it a good sniff and if it didn't smell like a 4 alarm fire at a carpet factory, you might actually utter those adventurous words: "Hey, I'll have a cup of that!"
I found my way to the magic portal by smell. It was a heavenly smell. It was wafting through the air and to my nose in a purple, sparkly cloud of stars and seahorses. It was the Lisa Frank of smells.
Have I ever mentioned my psychotic addiction to coffee that DOESN'T put a rotting hole in my gut?
And my inability to properly answer the question "But what IS good coffee?"
"Coffee that doesn't taste like crap," never seems to be a sufficient answer.
I can't define it in positives, but I know what it isn't:
1. You would not be tempted to pave a road with it nor fill in potholes.
2. You would not be tempted to mainline it once your heroin ran out.
3. You would not be tempted to put it in your snow blower once the gas ran out.
4. You would not be tempted to use it as oil in your car.
You would actually lean over the coffee pot and give it a good sniff and if it didn't smell like a 4 alarm fire at a carpet factory, you might actually utter those adventurous words: "Hey, I'll have a cup of that!"
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Do Not Shake My Family Tree
For a person that loves history, can pour over old photos for hours, and can watch Ken Burns until my eyes bleed, I'm not that much into genealogy.
Maybe it's because I've seen it misused.
I've been that poor sot, trapped by people who have brought out their years of genealogy research and plopped it in front of me at their kitchen table.
"Do you wanna know where Becky Sue gits her red hair? It's cuz her daddy's uncle's brother's cousins niece had red hair! We can trace that red headed gene back to 1847!"
I'm the one smiling benignly and wondering if Becky Sue's mother's red headed boyfriend has heard this theory.
It's not that I'm not fascinated by the minutia of the history of the common person...who am I kidding...in most cases I get to hear the story of the day to day living by amateur genealogist expecting my breathless enchantment. If one single, solitary person tracks my history back in two hundred years and traps someone at the food-o-later shelf on the space station Ming Mong orbiting the fair planet of Diddly Squat, telling my tale as if it were both adventurous and epic, I will track them down across the galaxy and give them the ectoplasmic slap of a lifetime.
Family stories are great, they are also like home movies; best kept among those people genetically encumbered to bear their history.
Which is why, when I have encountered three separate people in the past three days, asking for my genealogical history "and are you related to this Harkness or that Harkness?" I have been tempted to interrupt them by saying "I am related to a 51st Century Time Agent who will shag the coffee boy and sacrifice his own grandson in order to save the entire planet."
But I just smile benignly and say "Nope. I'm not from around here."
One day soon, the freak flag will fly.
Patience.
Maybe it's because I've seen it misused.
I've been that poor sot, trapped by people who have brought out their years of genealogy research and plopped it in front of me at their kitchen table.
"Do you wanna know where Becky Sue gits her red hair? It's cuz her daddy's uncle's brother's cousins niece had red hair! We can trace that red headed gene back to 1847!"
I'm the one smiling benignly and wondering if Becky Sue's mother's red headed boyfriend has heard this theory.
It's not that I'm not fascinated by the minutia of the history of the common person...who am I kidding...in most cases I get to hear the story of the day to day living by amateur genealogist expecting my breathless enchantment. If one single, solitary person tracks my history back in two hundred years and traps someone at the food-o-later shelf on the space station Ming Mong orbiting the fair planet of Diddly Squat, telling my tale as if it were both adventurous and epic, I will track them down across the galaxy and give them the ectoplasmic slap of a lifetime.
Family stories are great, they are also like home movies; best kept among those people genetically encumbered to bear their history.
Which is why, when I have encountered three separate people in the past three days, asking for my genealogical history "and are you related to this Harkness or that Harkness?" I have been tempted to interrupt them by saying "I am related to a 51st Century Time Agent who will shag the coffee boy and sacrifice his own grandson in order to save the entire planet."
But I just smile benignly and say "Nope. I'm not from around here."
One day soon, the freak flag will fly.
Patience.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
I Don't Know What I'm speaking But It Obviously Isn't English
I had another "Am I beating the dead horse?" moments a few days ago. The victim advocate had left a message with the judge's clerk telling him that we needed an actual dollar amount to set up the restitution order in the system.
So, did I really need to get a copy of the transcript of the sentencing? Wasn't that going to accomplish nothing but to send me spiraling over STBX's statement in court? You know, the one where he never said he was sorry?
(Hey, it's all water under the bridge, right? Cuz he loooooooooves me! Please excuse me, my skin just crawled off and is weeping in a pile in the corner.)
Yeah, like I said, spiraling.
But I did get the transcript.
And right there in the judge's own words is a dollar amount. Granted, it's just shy of $2000 (I guess that's the going prices for three years of tormenting a child) , but nonetheless, IT IS A DOLLAR AMOUNT.
It is a dollar amount that the victim advocate told me didn't exist. He told me he was going to check on it and when I called him back a week or so later, he told me that the dollar amount didn't exist. Yes, I was in the court room that day but frankly? I WAS A LITTLE DISTRACTED!
Which leads me to the conclusion that the one person in this entire equation who is PAID TO HAVE MY BACK, didn't.
I have hopefully left him the last message that I will have to leave him in quite awhile. I did my absolute best not to reach through the telephone wires and rip out his eardrum.
A wise woman once said "The bridge you blow up today might be the bridge you need to cross tomorrow." (I can't lie, I am that wise woman...why should Confucius get all the glory?)
I simply told him that I had bought (yes my lovlies, to actually check up on people in the justice system and see if they are doing their jobs, you need to BUY the transcript) the transcript and the non-existent dollar amount actually existed. I told him what it was and then I made a simple observation. "I thought we were both speaking English but obviously we are separated by a common language. I fail to see what the problem is here."
I have always had the sneaking suspicion that I've been patted on the head, placated with whatever they thought I wanted to hear, and then blown the fuck off. I honestly thought that it was just my own screwed up sense of entitlement that made me feel that way. I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt because, are you ready for this? Because they seemed so nice.
No, please, don't do your job properly, just be nice to me.
I know that I am high maintenance. I know that when my phone number shows up on their phone, cringing ensues. The funny thing is, this is one trait that I have actively cultivated over the past ten months. Anyone who knows the "public" me would never have thought that this was a problem. I have always pretty much opened my mouth and inserted my foot rather handily. But not when it comes to the relationships that really matter. Not when it comes to people who I wanted to like me.
And that, my lovelies, is how you become a doormat in your own home. You never open your mouth and you swallow all your own opinions and you tell yourself that if you ever absolutely put your foot down that you will be hated and left in the cold.
Guess what? Just between you, me, and the fence post? That is a CROCK OF SHIT!
I am learning. I am learning to disagree without being disagreeable. I am learning that the only person that really has my best interest in mind is me. I am learning that just because someone is paid to be my advocate, it doesn't mean that they have the ability to even find their own ass with both hands tied behind their back.
Maybe they are overwhelmed in their job. It isn't a stretch to think that. However, don't feed me a line of bullshit when it's my life and my child's life that you're screwing with. I have a far higher opinion of the person that says "I don't know but I'll find out" than the person that coos platitudes in my ear and just desperately wants me to SHUT UP AND LEAVE HIM ALONE!
Yeah...I've had a lot of experience with men with that opinion.
It's getting pretty old.
So, did I really need to get a copy of the transcript of the sentencing? Wasn't that going to accomplish nothing but to send me spiraling over STBX's statement in court? You know, the one where he never said he was sorry?
(Hey, it's all water under the bridge, right? Cuz he loooooooooves me! Please excuse me, my skin just crawled off and is weeping in a pile in the corner.)
Yeah, like I said, spiraling.
But I did get the transcript.
And right there in the judge's own words is a dollar amount. Granted, it's just shy of $2000 (I guess that's the going prices for three years of tormenting a child) , but nonetheless, IT IS A DOLLAR AMOUNT.
It is a dollar amount that the victim advocate told me didn't exist. He told me he was going to check on it and when I called him back a week or so later, he told me that the dollar amount didn't exist. Yes, I was in the court room that day but frankly? I WAS A LITTLE DISTRACTED!
Which leads me to the conclusion that the one person in this entire equation who is PAID TO HAVE MY BACK, didn't.
I have hopefully left him the last message that I will have to leave him in quite awhile. I did my absolute best not to reach through the telephone wires and rip out his eardrum.
A wise woman once said "The bridge you blow up today might be the bridge you need to cross tomorrow." (I can't lie, I am that wise woman...why should Confucius get all the glory?)
I simply told him that I had bought (yes my lovlies, to actually check up on people in the justice system and see if they are doing their jobs, you need to BUY the transcript) the transcript and the non-existent dollar amount actually existed. I told him what it was and then I made a simple observation. "I thought we were both speaking English but obviously we are separated by a common language. I fail to see what the problem is here."
I have always had the sneaking suspicion that I've been patted on the head, placated with whatever they thought I wanted to hear, and then blown the fuck off. I honestly thought that it was just my own screwed up sense of entitlement that made me feel that way. I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt because, are you ready for this? Because they seemed so nice.
No, please, don't do your job properly, just be nice to me.
I know that I am high maintenance. I know that when my phone number shows up on their phone, cringing ensues. The funny thing is, this is one trait that I have actively cultivated over the past ten months. Anyone who knows the "public" me would never have thought that this was a problem. I have always pretty much opened my mouth and inserted my foot rather handily. But not when it comes to the relationships that really matter. Not when it comes to people who I wanted to like me.
And that, my lovelies, is how you become a doormat in your own home. You never open your mouth and you swallow all your own opinions and you tell yourself that if you ever absolutely put your foot down that you will be hated and left in the cold.
Guess what? Just between you, me, and the fence post? That is a CROCK OF SHIT!
I am learning. I am learning to disagree without being disagreeable. I am learning that the only person that really has my best interest in mind is me. I am learning that just because someone is paid to be my advocate, it doesn't mean that they have the ability to even find their own ass with both hands tied behind their back.
Maybe they are overwhelmed in their job. It isn't a stretch to think that. However, don't feed me a line of bullshit when it's my life and my child's life that you're screwing with. I have a far higher opinion of the person that says "I don't know but I'll find out" than the person that coos platitudes in my ear and just desperately wants me to SHUT UP AND LEAVE HIM ALONE!
Yeah...I've had a lot of experience with men with that opinion.
It's getting pretty old.
Monday, November 02, 2009
Sorry But I have No Coffe Mugs Or Tote Bags
Last summer I did something that I didn't necessarily want to do but I had to at least try. I asked the readers of this blog to consider whether they would be willing to donate to send my son to summer camp. People did donate and my son ended up going to summer camp. I was floored and humbled and immensely grateful.
That's why I'm hesitant to do this again. People will think that I'm modeling myself after NPR and every six months I come up with another sob story and ask for donations. I am not NPR. I do not have an award winning news staff. I do not have coffee mugs and tote bags.
I do, however, have a daughter who is currently far away. She has been working on her fresh start at an undisclosed location beneath a volcano with a lot of lab equipment and plans for world domination.
We've already determined that there will be no materialistic exchanges this year. I am blessed with kids that have always understood that life is not about what you have. However, as we close in on the month of December and the anniversary of the end and the celebration of the beginning, I am realizing that yes, materialism is nothing but proximity is everything.
The only gift I want to give to my kids is to be together for the holidays. It's also the one thing that I am completely unable to do. I'm planning on setting up a travel fund for her after I get my tax refund. This won't happen in the future.
Currently though? There would be no greater gift than to be able to greet my girl at the airport and to talk and to talk and to talk.
So I'm putting up a donate button for a little while, upper right side of the blog. This will be for her round trip air fare from the bowels of the volcano to home.
Questions, suggestions, and vilifying screes can be left in the comments section. Any confidential comments won't be published.
Thank you.
That's why I'm hesitant to do this again. People will think that I'm modeling myself after NPR and every six months I come up with another sob story and ask for donations. I am not NPR. I do not have an award winning news staff. I do not have coffee mugs and tote bags.
I do, however, have a daughter who is currently far away. She has been working on her fresh start at an undisclosed location beneath a volcano with a lot of lab equipment and plans for world domination.
We've already determined that there will be no materialistic exchanges this year. I am blessed with kids that have always understood that life is not about what you have. However, as we close in on the month of December and the anniversary of the end and the celebration of the beginning, I am realizing that yes, materialism is nothing but proximity is everything.
The only gift I want to give to my kids is to be together for the holidays. It's also the one thing that I am completely unable to do. I'm planning on setting up a travel fund for her after I get my tax refund. This won't happen in the future.
Currently though? There would be no greater gift than to be able to greet my girl at the airport and to talk and to talk and to talk.
So I'm putting up a donate button for a little while, upper right side of the blog. This will be for her round trip air fare from the bowels of the volcano to home.
Questions, suggestions, and vilifying screes can be left in the comments section. Any confidential comments won't be published.
Thank you.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
The House Of Green Leaves
Yeah, we've ALL been there. You can't deny it. You see one episode of Martha Stewart and you, YOU, the one who couldn't manage to do more than sniff glue in art class...YOU decide to get all crafty.
Well, reality has set in my friend. Big fat reality. Someday, Castle Disaster will be someone else's home and they aren't going to think your adventures with Martha Through The Looking Glass are very appealing.
As a matter of fact, they just might roll their eyes and ask the realtor if they could "see a REAL house now."
So, do it the white trash, I mean, eco-friendly way. Investigate all those paint cans in the garage and see which ones are white...found some primer? Cool! And it resists mold? Even better because you could feed a posse of Hobbits off the crap I've been finding in there.
Now, cover up all those frickin leaves!
What's that you say? You've painted over them three times and they still show through??? Hey, Martha never mentioned that possibility.
Do you think that perhaps she never really thought about the consequences of her brilliant ideas? That someone might actually do what she said and then have to FIX IT YEARS LATER????
Naaa! Martha's all good...you know, she does all that work herself don't you?
After the fifty second coat, have you noticed that your bathroom is twelve inches smaller in floorspace and there are still three leaves that are rustling...just hiding beneath the surface? Has it occurred to you that you will end up being like that woman in the short story who was driven mad by the yellow wallpaper?
You know that you will have to do another coat once the new window goes in.You need to come to terms with that. You need to hold it in your heart.
What heart you have left that is.
Obviously, Martha Stewart has broken most of it.
And what was left, she made into mosaic tiles and resurfaced her shower.
She's crafty like that.
No one ever mentions on any of those home improvement shows just how many inter state shooting sprees happen after a person has spent the day in a confined space with a hell of a lot of paint.
Stand back Martha. This brush is loaded.
I've used all my paint, Can I go home now?
Ah crap! I AM home!
Saturday, October 31, 2009
All Hallows Eve
Satan's Little Helper here...Just back from a night of shenanigans.
It's really strange but no matter how many times I go to The Main, the boys just don't seem interested...
What am I doing wrong????
Also, I believe I have fractured my right boob. Is that a possibility?
I can just see it now...an episode of 60 Minutes with that damn clock ticking in the background and the voice of authority in the foreground:
"Every year, 8 million American women fracture their boobs but yet go undiagnosed due to our ever increasing health care debacle."
Yeah, it was another unfortunate incident with the claw foot bath tub. As I was draped over the tub, painting with the roller brush, I felt a most distressing tearing sensation in my right boob.
Perhaps it's not broken. Maybe it's just sprained.
Should I elevate it to prevent swelling? Or should I thank god that finally, a part of my body is swelling that the prevailing culture in this country can appreciate?
All I know is that it makes moving my right arm difficult, As a matter of fact, I had to use both hands to elevate my drinks to my poor dehydrated lips as we went to the bars.
We managed to avoid any real crowds although we did see a couple of walking beer cans with pull tab hats and when we got to The Main, I MET JESUS!
Funny thing, I asked him to lay his hands on my boob and heal me but he was far more interested in the bald man with the tiny panties.
Frankly, if you can't get a rise out of Jesus, I think you're screwed.
Living With The Dead
This just so happens to be my standard Halloween story. Yes, I told it over three years ago on this here blog but the statute of limitations on the internet is 2.5 seconds, 1.25 if you have ADD.
It's not my only ghost story, but it is the one that formed my opinions of the living and the dead. The living? Meh. They are what they are. The dead? YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH THE DEAD!
Here's my story and I'm sticking to it:
This isn’t something I tell just anyone as this is a topic that I think is far more personal than religion, politics, or sexual indiscretions. It is the one bombshell that when you drop it, there is a high probability that the majority of the people in your audience will immediately write you off as a nut job, as I would have done myself before sailing on the LNG Taurus.
Now one thing you have to realize is that when you are the only female on a ship, you are being constantly tested. Your strength is always in question, your intelligence, your hutzpah, your sexuality, everything is under attack by your co-workers. It is a situation that will either make you hard as nails or completely insane. I believe I fall under the former, but perhaps after this story you will disagree.
So, when we were taking on stores off Singapore in the middle of the night and the bos'n told me not to take the port side tunnel when I returned to my cabin, I was immediately suspicious. The ships were 1000 foot and had a port and starboard tunnel that ran the length of the ship. This allowed you to go from the bow to the stern in the tunnel and avoid inclement weather. The tunnels followed the shape of the ship and thus you could only see a few yards ahead at any one time. They were lighted intermittently with hanging fixtures but there were always small pools of darkness to contend with.
Now, what no one on the ship knew at the time was that I had been in the port tunnel a few days earlier. I had been traveling from the bow at the end of the day and mid-way I stopped dead in my tracks. The only way to describe the feeling that was following me that day was to think back to any Hollywood action flick that has a huge ball of fire chasing the hero up an elevator shaft or through a tunnel or cave. It is big, it is bad, and it is coming for you.
There were no footsteps. There wasn’t a single crew member in the tunnel at the time. There was, however, a horrible malevolent presence that grabbed me by the gut. I had never been more afraid for my life and I had no idea why. All I could do was to run. I couldn’t turn back, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t scream, all I could do was run.
I hit the final steps up to the hatch leading to the deck and almost lost my mind opening the dogs on the door. I stumbled out onto the deck and slammed the heavy door behind me. Looking around, I was alone. I was leaning on the door, shaking so much that I couldn’t even raise my hands to dog the door again for a few minutes. Then I asked myself, “What in the hell just happened?”
I didn’t dare bring this up to anyone. It is a very isolating experience to be in the middle of the ocean and to have such a terrifying experience and not have anyone (read “female” here) to talk to. If I would have told any of the guys they would have either laughed their heads off or they would have wanted to go down there to investigate. Neither of which I was interested in.
So, I asked the bos’n why I shouldn’t use the port tunnel and he told me very mater-of-factly that it was haunted.
Now, as any casual observer of the human animal can tell you, there is no more vehement denier than one who knows in their heart that what they are denying is, in fact, the truth. I gave him my best skeptical look and sputtered some sort of condescending noise, all the while realizing that I was in danger of shitting my pants.
The bos’n then called over the chief mate who I held in considerably higher regard. The bos’n asked the chief mate to tell me about the port tunnel.
The chief then regaled me with the tale of the former captain of the ship of whom the chief mate served under. The captain had a nasty little incident where he ran the ship aground. The Japanese coast guard were called in to investigate the incident and the captain told them everything they needed to know and all of the papers were filed and the I’s dotted. The captain then proceeded to go up to his cabin and shoot himself in the head.
Well, at least he waited until the paperwork was done…
It was the chief mate that found him and was left to, metaphorically, clean up afterwards. After that incident, there had been reports from many different crew members about places on the ship that held an incredible presence, most reports were that it was a malevolent presence. The chief mate had experienced quite a few incidences where he went up to the wheelhouse in the middle of the night when the ship was docked only to find the captain standing by the wheel. When he stopped and did a double take, the captain was gone.
“And I never, ever, go through the port tunnel…I did it once and that was enough…”He concluded.
It’s kind of funny how well I remember that conversation with the bos’n and the chief mate. I remember the lights of Singapore in the background, the smell on the air, the sound of the supply boat motoring off toward shore, and the earnestness on the face of the chief mate. I would have never believed it if I hadn’t gone through it myself but I felt my universe shift a little that night and I’ve felt the duty to remember and respect the dead from that point on.
It's not my only ghost story, but it is the one that formed my opinions of the living and the dead. The living? Meh. They are what they are. The dead? YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH THE DEAD!
Here's my story and I'm sticking to it:
This isn’t something I tell just anyone as this is a topic that I think is far more personal than religion, politics, or sexual indiscretions. It is the one bombshell that when you drop it, there is a high probability that the majority of the people in your audience will immediately write you off as a nut job, as I would have done myself before sailing on the LNG Taurus.
Now one thing you have to realize is that when you are the only female on a ship, you are being constantly tested. Your strength is always in question, your intelligence, your hutzpah, your sexuality, everything is under attack by your co-workers. It is a situation that will either make you hard as nails or completely insane. I believe I fall under the former, but perhaps after this story you will disagree.
So, when we were taking on stores off Singapore in the middle of the night and the bos'n told me not to take the port side tunnel when I returned to my cabin, I was immediately suspicious. The ships were 1000 foot and had a port and starboard tunnel that ran the length of the ship. This allowed you to go from the bow to the stern in the tunnel and avoid inclement weather. The tunnels followed the shape of the ship and thus you could only see a few yards ahead at any one time. They were lighted intermittently with hanging fixtures but there were always small pools of darkness to contend with.
Now, what no one on the ship knew at the time was that I had been in the port tunnel a few days earlier. I had been traveling from the bow at the end of the day and mid-way I stopped dead in my tracks. The only way to describe the feeling that was following me that day was to think back to any Hollywood action flick that has a huge ball of fire chasing the hero up an elevator shaft or through a tunnel or cave. It is big, it is bad, and it is coming for you.
There were no footsteps. There wasn’t a single crew member in the tunnel at the time. There was, however, a horrible malevolent presence that grabbed me by the gut. I had never been more afraid for my life and I had no idea why. All I could do was to run. I couldn’t turn back, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t scream, all I could do was run.
I hit the final steps up to the hatch leading to the deck and almost lost my mind opening the dogs on the door. I stumbled out onto the deck and slammed the heavy door behind me. Looking around, I was alone. I was leaning on the door, shaking so much that I couldn’t even raise my hands to dog the door again for a few minutes. Then I asked myself, “What in the hell just happened?”
I didn’t dare bring this up to anyone. It is a very isolating experience to be in the middle of the ocean and to have such a terrifying experience and not have anyone (read “female” here) to talk to. If I would have told any of the guys they would have either laughed their heads off or they would have wanted to go down there to investigate. Neither of which I was interested in.
So, I asked the bos’n why I shouldn’t use the port tunnel and he told me very mater-of-factly that it was haunted.
Now, as any casual observer of the human animal can tell you, there is no more vehement denier than one who knows in their heart that what they are denying is, in fact, the truth. I gave him my best skeptical look and sputtered some sort of condescending noise, all the while realizing that I was in danger of shitting my pants.
The bos’n then called over the chief mate who I held in considerably higher regard. The bos’n asked the chief mate to tell me about the port tunnel.
The chief then regaled me with the tale of the former captain of the ship of whom the chief mate served under. The captain had a nasty little incident where he ran the ship aground. The Japanese coast guard were called in to investigate the incident and the captain told them everything they needed to know and all of the papers were filed and the I’s dotted. The captain then proceeded to go up to his cabin and shoot himself in the head.
Well, at least he waited until the paperwork was done…
It was the chief mate that found him and was left to, metaphorically, clean up afterwards. After that incident, there had been reports from many different crew members about places on the ship that held an incredible presence, most reports were that it was a malevolent presence. The chief mate had experienced quite a few incidences where he went up to the wheelhouse in the middle of the night when the ship was docked only to find the captain standing by the wheel. When he stopped and did a double take, the captain was gone.
“And I never, ever, go through the port tunnel…I did it once and that was enough…”He concluded.
It’s kind of funny how well I remember that conversation with the bos’n and the chief mate. I remember the lights of Singapore in the background, the smell on the air, the sound of the supply boat motoring off toward shore, and the earnestness on the face of the chief mate. I would have never believed it if I hadn’t gone through it myself but I felt my universe shift a little that night and I’ve felt the duty to remember and respect the dead from that point on.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Those Who Live In Glass Houses
Oh Friday, how I have longed for your gentle embrace. I have soothed myself, secure in the knowledge that yes, yes indeed, this week really will end.
Unless I get hit by a bus or a meteor today.
I got to sleep in a little this morning. Perhaps I should rephrase that...I got to lounge in bed for a few minutes this morning and listen to the radio. For me, that is the start of a good day.
And then I heard this.
I've been living under a rock lately so perhaps I'm horribly behind the times. Apparently it was also discussed on Talk of the Nation.
I know this isn't anything new. It's been noted throughout history. It's been caught on tape.
What is it in a person that allows them to break free of fear of retribution so they can call the police? What is it in a person that would allow them to stand by and watch, perhaps cheer, perhaps take pictures with a cell phone, of a gang rape?
I think I've told the story before (damned if I'm going to search for it) of when I knew that I had to get out of my marriage. It was years ago. We were driving to the cities and as we drove south, in the northbound lane there were two cars pulled off to the side of the road. There was one guy lying on the pavement and another guy standing over him with a gun to his head.
STBX was driving and as we saw this I told him that he needed to call 911. He told me that he wasn't going to get involved. I was absolutely incredulous. I wasn't asking him to break up the incident, I wasn't asking him to go anywhere near it. I was asking him to call the police to deal with a situation that we obviously didn't understand.
"I don't want them to be able to find out who I am", was his explanation. He was always a conspiracy nut job, always convinced that everyone was out to get him (always playing the victim) and up to that point, I didn't think that there was any reason why he would feel that way. After years of being treated like shit, it took the revelation that not only didn't he give a damn about me, he didn't give a damn about society at large. (This incident has haunted me even more since realizing what he really was hiding. It also makes me think that there was probably even more that he was hiding.)
Not helping others, even actively participating by taking pictures or laughing, it makes me crazy. I suppose if you are unable to empathize and life and death are equal jokes, it really wouldn't be that big of a deal. It makes me wonder if they would have any expectations of others if they were in a similar position. In all reality, my guess would be no.
But I'm also thinking that there are people that are just too scared or too comfortable in their own ruts to allow for unexpected occurrences. I was on the city bus once when a young woman got on who had obviously been involved in a domestic assault. She flung herself onto the bus as her attacker screamed at her from the sidewalk. He chased the bus, continuing to scream profanities, as she stood in the aisle and scanned the crowd. No one moved. No one even acknowledged her. Including myself.
She then pulled the signal and the bus stopped, right in front of where the guy had stopped at the corner. She turned around and started to walk down the stairs.
I waited until she was halfway out the door to finally break out of my silence and holler to her. I told her that she didn't have to get off the bus.
She never looked back. She just walked up to him and as the bus pulled away, he was grabbing her by the hair and dragging her down the sidewalk.
I could have stopped that. Now, I'm ready. Now I know that I will look the person in the eye, tell them to sit down and let them know that they can rely on me to get them the help that they need. I now know who to call.
But it haunts me and I hope that it always will. I would hope that anyone who hears of a story in the news of bystanders that did nothing would stop and ask themselves, "What would I do?".
Figure it out now. You might not have time to figure it out later.
Unless I get hit by a bus or a meteor today.
I got to sleep in a little this morning. Perhaps I should rephrase that...I got to lounge in bed for a few minutes this morning and listen to the radio. For me, that is the start of a good day.
And then I heard this.
I've been living under a rock lately so perhaps I'm horribly behind the times. Apparently it was also discussed on Talk of the Nation.
I know this isn't anything new. It's been noted throughout history. It's been caught on tape.
What is it in a person that allows them to break free of fear of retribution so they can call the police? What is it in a person that would allow them to stand by and watch, perhaps cheer, perhaps take pictures with a cell phone, of a gang rape?
I think I've told the story before (damned if I'm going to search for it) of when I knew that I had to get out of my marriage. It was years ago. We were driving to the cities and as we drove south, in the northbound lane there were two cars pulled off to the side of the road. There was one guy lying on the pavement and another guy standing over him with a gun to his head.
STBX was driving and as we saw this I told him that he needed to call 911. He told me that he wasn't going to get involved. I was absolutely incredulous. I wasn't asking him to break up the incident, I wasn't asking him to go anywhere near it. I was asking him to call the police to deal with a situation that we obviously didn't understand.
"I don't want them to be able to find out who I am", was his explanation. He was always a conspiracy nut job, always convinced that everyone was out to get him (always playing the victim) and up to that point, I didn't think that there was any reason why he would feel that way. After years of being treated like shit, it took the revelation that not only didn't he give a damn about me, he didn't give a damn about society at large. (This incident has haunted me even more since realizing what he really was hiding. It also makes me think that there was probably even more that he was hiding.)
Not helping others, even actively participating by taking pictures or laughing, it makes me crazy. I suppose if you are unable to empathize and life and death are equal jokes, it really wouldn't be that big of a deal. It makes me wonder if they would have any expectations of others if they were in a similar position. In all reality, my guess would be no.
But I'm also thinking that there are people that are just too scared or too comfortable in their own ruts to allow for unexpected occurrences. I was on the city bus once when a young woman got on who had obviously been involved in a domestic assault. She flung herself onto the bus as her attacker screamed at her from the sidewalk. He chased the bus, continuing to scream profanities, as she stood in the aisle and scanned the crowd. No one moved. No one even acknowledged her. Including myself.
She then pulled the signal and the bus stopped, right in front of where the guy had stopped at the corner. She turned around and started to walk down the stairs.
I waited until she was halfway out the door to finally break out of my silence and holler to her. I told her that she didn't have to get off the bus.
She never looked back. She just walked up to him and as the bus pulled away, he was grabbing her by the hair and dragging her down the sidewalk.
I could have stopped that. Now, I'm ready. Now I know that I will look the person in the eye, tell them to sit down and let them know that they can rely on me to get them the help that they need. I now know who to call.
But it haunts me and I hope that it always will. I would hope that anyone who hears of a story in the news of bystanders that did nothing would stop and ask themselves, "What would I do?".
Figure it out now. You might not have time to figure it out later.
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