Debbie Does Duluth

Onward....

2009-12-22T06:15:00.001-06:00

Still getting the new cyber home fluffed and ready but please find me here.

Put up your feet, pour some coffee, and don't mind the dog hair...

One Year

2009-12-19T05:03:00.004-06:00

For a year, I've gotten to contemplate the idea of crime and punishment. Too bad I'm not a Russian writer soaked in vodka. It might have made the journey a little more coherent.

Often I give myself homework. Often I say "I know this will piss me off but I should read it/see it/do it. I just might learn something." Such was my idea behind watching The Woodsman. I thought it would push me a little too close to the edge but I thought I might also learn from it.

Which I did.

The movie centers around a pedophile getting out of prison and his attempts at reintegration into society.

In all honesty, there have been times when I have been so financially stressed that I just sat down and though "Hmmm. All he ever did was sit on his ass. How is doing that exact same thing in prison any kind of punishment?" Hey, he's even going to get tips on how to write out a job application and a resume which will allow him to list the prison system as his EMPLOYER while he's inside working for a buck-o-five an hour.

He will also never have a single obligation ever again for the kids. Life will proceed for him just like it always has...everything will be about him and him alone.

One time during our marriage, he told me he could never handle the thought of ever losing me. If something were to happen to our kids on the other hand, he could handle that...just not something happening to me.

Thankfully, I believe I responded to that statement with "What the fuck????"

So, I'm still trying to understand the idea of punishment.

He will only be able to live in certain places.

He will only be able to hold certain jobs.

Hmmm. Once again... how is this any different from the life he chose for himself before prison? He stayed in jobs that caused him to chafe and bitch at every human interaction. Unless he held a job that was just about him doing solitary tasks, he would never stop complaining.

My only two glimmering lights are that he will have to report to a parole officer. He will have someone who is in charge of him. He will have someone that knows his history and won't take his bullshit.

The other glimmer is that, as a convicted felon, he will never be able to vote again.

As someone who would often spout paranoid drival reguritated by the latest nutcase that he had listened to, voting was something very important to him.

Voting was a hell of a lot more important than his wife or kids.

I guess it's the little things that count.

Mother's Little Helper

2009-12-18T07:25:00.003-06:00

I am choosing not to medicate myself with anti-anxiety meds this morning. They have a tendency to make me slow and stupid, like I'm swimming through jello.

A year ago, my doc gave me this prescription to help me through the madness. He warned me that they can be addictive and that I should only take them when I REALLY NEEDED THEM.

Well, on the first anniversary of the two anniversaries over these next two days, I'm still on that original prescription.

There were a couple professionals that tried to get me to take anti-depressants instead but the last thing that I thought I needed was to feel numb, no matter how much I really wanted it.

Walking into the courthouse? Yep. I was medicated. It's a good thing that I was drugged at the attempted name change because it slowed me down a bit when I ran screaming after him at the elevator. Had it not been for the intervention of chemistry, I very well might have leaped onto his jugular and feasted on the refuse of humanity. I am, after all, a Krillitane.

So, I guess the medical community and the criminal justice community can stand down. I'm not addicted to their pills and I didn't act upon the darker impulses in my heart.

Now if I could just kick that black tar heroin habit, I'll be golden.

Not Impressed

2009-12-17T07:31:00.002-06:00

There are certain people in this world that you just don't want to imagine them coming in last in their class.

Like, your brain surgeon.

or perhaps, your lawyer.

Since my lawyer gave his lawyer all the paperwork and said "just fix the typos and submit it to the courts" and he did, I received a cc'd letter from my lawyer to his lawyer telling him there were still minor errors that needed to be corrected. Nothing earth shattering, nothing that changes any legalese in the document, just a couple of formatting issues basically.

The thing is, it was already submitted to the court.

And as I reread her letter this morning, I noted that in paragraph two? There is a typo.

Is it possible to have two lawyers that have graduated last in their class at lawyering school on the same case?

Low Rider

2009-12-16T06:17:00.008-06:00

Dear Winter,

I am not a fan.

Your snowbanks are ever so high and as you can see, my legs are ever so short. The phrase for the season? Frozen balls.

The dumb one? Yeah, Shuggie?...he doesn't seem to mind your evil machinations. He's also got the benefit of being fat and furry whereas I am sleek, sveldt, built for speed and picking up sophisticated chicks at jazz clubs in Harlem.

In other words, I am not built for winter.

See what I mean? Look at this picture! He's packed with insulating fat! He's probably contemplating how he can lure me away from my bowl and eat all my food.

He does that.

And he sticks his entire head in the snow when we go outside. I just look at him and wonder how he is allowed to go outside without his helmet and ticket for the short bus.

He just doesn't get it.

When the owner takes us on our walk, he doesn't protest at all. He just barrels ahead with his empty head and his enormous stomach.

I, on the other hand, let my displeasure be known. I will walk one block and one block only and then I sit down.

This is the signal that the owner needs to call me a cab. I am through.

Winter? You will not defeat me. And I'll be damned if I'd be caught dead in those nerdy dog bootie things. I have my pride.

I am currently investigating whether or not Petco offers a taxi service.

Sincerely,

Kirby

The New Normal

2009-12-15T05:26:00.004-06:00

At one point in this last year, my lawyer told me “You’re going to have to realize that this is something you’re always going to have to live with.” This was her response to my pointing out her incompetence which was wasting my time as I wait for my divorce. My pushing her had nothing to do with psychology and everything to do with getting his name off the title of the house so I could refinance and hopefully not lose my home. Hmmm….still hasn’t happened yet.

This last year has been one long experience in perpetually slipping on the ice and trying to find my feet.

It comes down to the fact of finding “the new normal”.

The “new normal” is the daily struggle of not thinking about what happened right off the bat in the morning. I’m not asking to be oblivious; I’m not asking to forget. I’m just asking my brain to let me get to at least ten am before I feel the weight of it all.

The “new normal” involves watching every single parent-child interaction in public with suspicion.

The “new normal” involves walking through my neighborhood and thinking about all the awful things that are probably going on behind all those closed doors.

The “new normal” involves not speaking his name. A name gives a person power. That is what I have learned over the past year. That is why he has fought our name change so vehemently. Even as a convicted pedophile, he thought he still had power over us by denying our name change. By forcing the kids to keep his name, he was exercising his power over them, even after doing everything, by his choices, to destroy them. One day, when our name change actually happens, we will exercise our power, the power to say “no”. In the mean time, he will remain nameless.

This has caused some interesting verbal exchanges: sentences are left hanging, the air thick with pain and discomfort. “Well, we did it that way because your f…….well, we did it differently back then…we’re going to do it this way now…” It’s a dance. A dance around the center which is filled with so much darkness.

The “new normal” involves scribbling my still legal last name illegibly every time I am forced to write it. It involves repeating it in quiet tones when forced to say it.

The “new normal” involves seeing the humor in my kids as they combine their last names to be “Sharkness”. It’s the one gray area that I can appreciate.

The “new normal” involves seeing a lot of empty cupboard space. Mother Hubbard had nothing on us. I think I could develop a career on the food network sort of like Rachel Ray except my tag line will be “how to pull dinner for two out of your ass when you only have three food-like ingredients in the house.”

The “new normal” means that when I am feeling unsure if I am up to a certain task, I look back on the last year and say to myself “If I could make it through that, I can do anything.”

The "new normal" is at times terrifying, heart wrenching, and wonderful.

Knitting Without The Vampires

2009-12-14T18:35:00.005-06:00

Remember how I was all gung ho on figuring out my own Norwegian Sweater pattern?

Hey Look! Mittens! The pattern is Bella's Mittens here.

No, they are not knit because I like Twilight. The whole phenomenon makes me want to vomit. The last thing I need is a bunch of screaming fan girls swooning over teen age angst, and their daughters are really annoying too.

I knit them because I like a long cuff. And I had the yarn in my stash.

And because my sweater is in time out. I screwed up two inches into the ribbing.

I have been knitting for 31 years.

For non knitters, screwing up a knit 2 purl 2 ribbing is like Danica Patrick failing drivers ed.

It's like Magic Johnson missing a slam dunk on a Little Tyke's basketball hoop.

It's like Tiger Woods being dateless on a Friday night.

I thought I could live with the indiscretion. I thought the sweater and I could come to a mutual understanding and I would recognize that yes, it had its faults but we could always call that part of the sweater the back and no one would know.

No one except me that is.

Yeah, the counseling didn't go well. I tore it back and now it's sitting on the naughty step.

But hey, look!

Mittens!

360 Days of Fun Fun Fun!

2009-12-14T06:29:00.006-06:00

We're heading into the anniversary weekend. The one year anniversary of when the shit hit the fan.

In retrospect, it feels like a horrible Dr. Seuss book that never quite got published: "Oh What A Year You've Had!"

Complete with Trompsnuzzles and Wangdoodles and they all either end up going to prison or to the poorhouse.

Yeah, we'll call that Dr. Seuss's blue period.

All I can say is that I've never had a more life altering year. For someone stuck in a horrible rut, this last year has been dynamite.

It makes me wonder if people in prison actually wake up in their cell with thoughts such as "Hey, ten years ago, I killed my next door neighbor with an ax! How 'bout cake???"

Do anniversaries count when you're in prison? And if so, what is the typical Miss Manners gift agenda for prison? Does it follow traditional guide for the folks on the "outside"?

1st WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Traditional Anniversary Gift: Paper

Prison Anniversary Gift: Toilet Paper

2nd WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Traditional Anniversary Gift: Cotton

Prison Anniversary Gift: Cotton Balls

3rd WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Traditional Anniversary Gift: Leather

Prison Anniversary Gifts: Bondage Leather (also known as "shower accessories")

4th WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Traditional Anniversary Gift: Flowers

Prison Anniversary Gift: Marijuana (Prisoners are known for suffering from open angle glaucoma)

5th WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Traditional Anniversary Gift: Wood

Prison Anniversary Gift: It's the gift that keeps on giving, just ask your cell mate.

Eating Christmas

2009-12-13T08:55:00.004-06:00

A couple weeks ago I hooked up with a blog reader (Hi Jon!) for a donated little Christmas tree. At four feet tall, it is a perfect addition to our living room. I have another little tree coming from my holiday posse in Michigan (Hi Lu!) which will go in our dining room. Two small trees equals Christmas, right?

The little tree in the living room is covered with red and white lights which match our new paint job with an appallingly Martha Stewartesque charm. After the Great Purge, I saved about ten tree ornaments, all of which have something to do with the kids: Baby's First Christmas, handmade ornaments from preschool, et cetera. In other words, the little tree is a concentrated bolus of holiday cheer.

The concern with such a small tree and two very active dogs was of course, canine holiday annihilation.

Thing is? The dogs are supremely unconcerned.

Thing is? It has become a feline jungle gym.

I remember when I was a kid and we had a tall tree and one of our cats decided to climb it. It was at least possible to extract the cat from the branches with relatively little harm. In this instance though, the cat is fat and the tree is small.

It started with ornament hide and seek. The first few days of having the tree up resulted in finding ornaments in strange places, behind the sofa, under the table. I'd walk into the living room to find the knitted Santa that I made years ago lying splayed on the floor like a victim on "Christmas CSI".

The thing is, I'd never catch him at it. I would be upstairs and I'd hear ornaments being battered around but the second I came downstairs, he would vanish.

Cats are like Baptists. They raise hell but you can never catch them at it.

But yesterday morning was a little different. I came downstairs to discover the entire tree on its side with the ornaments all over the living room and the cat lying directly on the tree in an intoxicated state of misbehaving bliss.

He looked up at me and meowed happily. He was very proud of his achievement, why, he had even eaten a glittered pine cone that was probably fifteen years old! Delicious!

I figure it will at least make cleaning the litter box interesting in the next couple of days.

Perhaps Adding A Festive Disco Ball?

2009-12-12T21:52:00.004-06:00

It's ten o'clock p.m and I'm finally cozying down after a productive day of finishing up the majority of the painting, laying the stair runner, and doing a little holiday decorating.

And now I'm listening to my rock star neighbor.

By rock star, I'm referring to the throbbing synthetic beat that comes pulsing through our house every evening as he practices on whatever type of drum set that he recently acquired. He has yet to entertain scantily clad groupies or pass out on his front lawn after baying at the moon until 2 a.m, but if that starts to happen, I'm going to investigate. The music might be horrible but hey, perhaps a few proffered beers could keep me from calling the cops?

I feel like I'm in a gay club on Fire Island in the 80's...

And the ambiance of our neighborhood is certainly down with a rockin' club with an ever so white 30-something skinny boy laying down the beats. I know he appreciates the fact that I do my best in getting funky; why just a half an hour ago I walked the dogs half way around the block before I realized I had my pajamas on.

Perhaps I'll gather a posse of women in black suits with ear pieces and Matrix sunglasses and we'll put up a velvet rope in front of his house.

If you're on the list? You're golden!

And if you're out walking your dog with your pajamas on? Keep moving baby...

Before And After

2009-12-11T05:09:00.001-06:00

Many years ago, I listened to readings from "The Disappearance" by Genevieve Jurgensen on This American Life. It was on an episode called "Where Words Fail". I purchased the book, read it, and placed it back on my book shelf.

I used to have a lot of books but now? Not so much. I recycle books. I find them in odd places and pass them along when I'm done.

Except for a few. The books that I have kept are littered with marginalia and underlined passages. I have a couple of index card files filled with quotes that I have copied down, words and phrases that roll around in my head and heart.

I never realized that The Disappearance had a subtitle until I pulled it off the shelf yesterday. "A Primer of Loss".

Sometimes, the things we need most are right there in our hands.

Oh Tukufu, Only You Would Understand

2009-12-10T05:16:00.001-06:00

Dear Tukufu Zuberi,
I need a little help and I'm thinking that only you will understand.

See, I'm getting close to calling my remodeling project good. It's been a really long and awful year and this place? This place is a different place than it was last December. This place has been reclaimed. This place has been renamed. This place has been turned upside down, shaken, stirred, fluffed, and straightened.

And even though it doesn't mean anything to anyone but me, once the paint is dry and the carpet is down on the stairs, I will be performing a smudging ceremony. This goes down a lot easier with my hippie bon vivant than getting a priest in here for an exorcism. (Then again, having a priest in here might add a little nom to the larder.)

But Tukufu? I want to add a little something for the next people that live here. Or perhaps the next, next, next people that live here. Something that might not be discovered for a long time but would be neat to find when you're remodeling a house.

That's where your expertise comes into play. Out of all of the History Detectives, I think you and I would come up with similar ideas. Elyse? I think Elyse would stand in our house and be quietly judgemental. She would be all smiling and charming and in the back of her mind, she would be thinking "I'll bet they got those drapes at a two for one sale at Wal-Mart." Wes? Wes and his lisp would try to find something from the Civil War in my attic, all the while I'd be offering up feeble protests that really Wes? This house isn't THAT old. And Gwen? I would have to offer Gwen some calcium supplements and a glass of milk before I could even begin to listen to her theories on how a gang of drunken monkeys managed to build this house. I could snap Gwen like a twig (and I will if I'm ever forced to).

But you Tukufu? You would come into my house in your fabulous hat, with your gentleman's swagger and you would look me in the eye as I told you my story. When I wrapped it up, you would shake your head and say softly, "Maaaaaaaaan. That is screwed up!"

And then you would come up with some beautiful quote or great story and you would scribble it down on a sheet of paper and we would slip it under the carpet runner on the stairs.

Just a little note for posterity. Just a little wave from the past.

Laying Down The Law

2009-12-09T06:29:00.003-06:00

There are times when I just need to lay down the law with myself.

Myself can be quite the handful.

I need to finish painting the actual stairs (as opposed to the abstract stairs???).

It wouldn't take too long and I'd really like to be able to lay the carpet runner this weekend, it's just that I have zero tolerance for much of anything once I get home from work. Dinner? Dogs? Vegetating on the sofa? Check.

Anything productive? Uncheck.

So I'm going to tell myself that I'm going to meet a friend and go to Bentleyville on Thursday night. I really do want to go and she has a small child. Holiday lights are no fun unless seen through the unjaded eyes of a child. Me? I would no doubt spend two seconds admiring the lights and two hours wondering just how many hours you need to burn those lights to hasten the utter destruction of the habitat of the polar bears.

"See that cute light display with the funny polar bears Johnny? Well, admire them now cuz the real ones are drowning as we speak!"

Yeah, I can be rented out to kids parties to tone down any level of frivolity. I do believe I am known as a "wet blanket".

But if I go with a child I'll keep my damn mouth shut. I'll be able to see the lights as they were intended. My sarcasm will be held in check.

In other words, I will behave.

AND it will force me to realize that if I don't paint the stairs tonight, I won't be able to do it again until Friday and that is when I need to do the final touch ups with the other color on the stairs.

I am holding myself up against the wall and shaking a finger in my face.

PAINT, DAMN YOU! PAINT TONIGHT!

You've Knitted This One Back Together

2009-12-08T05:06:00.000-06:00

I love my local yarn shop. Every Sunday I go there for a little high fiber therapy.

There are usually ten or so that come nearly every Sunday and as one person noted last Sunday, "I don't come here for the knitting."

During the last year, I had many individual friends that helped me through the worst year of my life. A couple even knew the code phrase that I would occasionally force myself to admit "I need to be among the living today."

I'm not one to run around and threaten to blow my brains out and be the drama queen. I'm not one to look another person in the eye and say "Please hold my hands for the next five minutes so that I won't do something to hurt myself." I had my code phrase and there were a couple people who knew exactly what I meant.

There were times when going out on a Sunday was a chore. It would have been easier to crawl back in bed. It would have been easier to have a pity party. But I knew what I needed in my heart of hearts. I needed to be in a crowd of people that talked about their kids and their spouses (although that was always a painful thing) and their jobs and the reasons why they got out of bed everyday. I needed to stand next to their bright glow and try to feel a little warmth.

There were times when I didn't even knit. Having whatever causes my joints to be stiff and painful usually only allows me to knit a couple times a week and if I was having a bad hand day, I would go to just sit. There were times when I was glad that I didn't have to contribute to the conversation because I would have just started to cry like a baby.

I just needed to recharge my batteries with the wonderful women who perhaps don't even know how wonderful they are.

Many of them showed up to the sentencing and I think a couple might have even had their knitting out. (For all her faults, Madame DeFarge has always been my secret fascination.)

The knitting part of my brain has been in such a fog for such a long time that whenever I do knit, it is brainless scarves and simple sweaters. Certainly nothing that requires an ounce of gray matter.

But Sunday? Sunday I went in and saw the "retro" Dale of Norway trunk show. (For the non-knitters here, a trunk show is a bunch of knitted up items from an artist or a company and they are usually trying to entice you to buy their patterns or yarn or whatever.) They even have a book out of "retro" patterns that is beautiful.

But there are a few hitches here.

I've been knitting out of my tiny little stash for nearly a year now. The yarn that I have purchased for a sweater has been the less than stellar stuff but I'm ok with that. I wasn't looking for a sweater, I was looking for something that I could make for myself, something to comfort myself. It is the fiber equivalent of a chocolate sundae. I made the sweater and everything worked out just fine.

The retro book is full of patterns that I actually have equivalents at home in the "original" books. I just need to rewrite them a little to make them more "convenient".

The yarn? As much as I love Dale of Norway sweaters, I hate their yarn! A big part of yarn for me is how it feels in my hands when I'm using it and their yarn is "squeaky".

Don't ask. I can't explain.

So on Sunday, I splurged and bought a couple skeins of the cheapest yarn there. It is not all wool but I can make it work.

And I looked at the retro book.

And I looked at the sweaters.

And something in my brain went, "hmmmmmm. I can do that!"

So now I have cast on for a sweater that I'm writing half the pattern for and using a couple other patterns from a book from 1946 for ideas.

Maybe, just maybe, the fog is starting to lift.

Attack Of The Killer Reindeer

2009-12-07T06:13:00.005-06:00

So, this is supposed to be the season of giving right? The season when we all embrace our fellow man/woman/pets and say "Yes, I know that I treat you like shit 345 days a year but hey, 'tis the season!"

Well somebody needs to sprinkle that fairy dust around this place because someone has failed to tell the pets.

The dogs are having a snit with each other, the cats are having a snit with each other and occasionally a dog/cat combination will have words. Thankfully, both dogs don't throw their weight around when it comes to the cats, they just look at them in puzzlement as the cats hiss and slap them across the face.

Perhaps it was the full moon last week?

I'm working with my "personal dog trainer" (Hey Amy, it makes BOTH of us sound posh!) on the Shuggie issue.

Problem: Dog has been a rat bastard.

More complete problem: Dog has become possessive of his food and will lash out at Kirby if Kirby gets too close while he is eating. While they romp and play rough, I can always tell that they are playing. This though? This is wild eyes and snapping teeth and growling.

Last night though, in the midst of their running around the house and playing, Kirby jumped on Shuggie's back and how shall I say it? "Assumed the position"?

Shuggie might be acting like a rat bastard but Kirby has always been the "cool jazz"dog that will quietly make his point.

I had a mental image of a hillbilly prison guard with a billy club, entering the cell of a non compliant inmate: "You wanna screw with muh food boyh? Let me tell you what we do with your kind around here..."

Yeah, I've got the house all spiffed up and pretty, just in time for it all to go prison gay.

And the cats? The scrawny cat whom we affectionately refer to as Gollum cannot enter a room without walking up to the fluffy fat cat and hissing and smacking him upside the head. Of course, that just makes the fluffy cat roll over on his stomach and give his best "But really? How can you hate something as ADORABLE as me????" Gollum also goes into high end hissy fit anytime she walks into any room and finds that she is not the only pet.

Can you guess which pet in this house used to be an only pet?

So, I started taking steps to alleviate the food issues this morning. I moved the dog bowls further apart and stayed in the kitchen to monitor the "mess hall" during breakfast. If needed, I will bring my sidearm and my kung fu moves.

And perhaps, just perhaps, a little of the testosterone was drained away last night for Kirby (unfortunately NOT the one who needs it most). As we went for our evening walk, we passed a neighbor's house who has a lit up animatronic reindeer. Kirby was extremely wary of it as we started to walk by, growling just a little bit, sticking right by my side...and then it moved.

The hardest thing was getting him to actually keep walking as he was having an absolutely hysterical shit fit and I was laughing so hard I almost peed my pants.

Shuggie just watched us and wondered to himself "And these are the idiots who are trying to steal my food????"

Note Left In An Empty Paint Can By The Curb

2009-12-05T05:19:00.000-06:00

Painted in the bathroom Thursday night.

Painted in the bathroom Friday night.

Painting in the living room Saturday.

Painting will be done soon.

Send cheese and Triscuts.

And perhaps another bottle of wine.

There's a Test Tomorrow??? What??? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!

2009-12-04T04:03:00.002-06:00

So here's the plan. Gather 'round everyone. Stand in a circle so their quarterback won't read our signals...

I tell the college that I am disabled somehow. Probably deaf as the fact that I drove there to sign up for classes yesterday was a dead giveaway that I can see.

So, I tell them that I am deaf and thus need to bring a translator with me to my one class that I am taking on campus: Algebra.

I then bring my son to every class with me.

My son that gets straight A's in everything.

Especially math.

The benefits will be twofold: I won't have to answer any questions in class because I will be sure to lay the gutteral utterances on especially thick, and I will have a human powered calculator sitting next to me who will not only be able to answer my questions RIGHT NOW but who will also be able to load up the blow gun and shoot me in the jugular with curare if I get too out of hand.

So, if you think this is a good idea, make sure to start talking to me in a most animated way, gesture a lot, and play it reeeeaaaaaallll cool.

I'm thinking I'd better brush up on my sign language though. The only communication I know how to do with my hands involves the middle finger and I'm thinking I shouldn't flash that on the first night of class.

Low Fidelity

2009-12-03T05:09:00.001-06:00

Everyday I check to see if I’m divorced yet.

I can sense it. It is getting closer and closer.

Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and he will be pulled in his sleigh by eight lawyers. The team will be led by a red nosed judge, lighting the way through the fog of legalese.

The biggest holiday gift would be a divorce by December 19th, the anniversary of the beginning of the end. I’d also happily accept a divorce by Christmas.

You know, cuz I have so much SAY in the matter.

It’s kind of interesting though. I find myself surrounded by many people who have been commenting on the current Tiger Woods drama and they all seem to be of the mind that “Of course he’s cheating. When you marry a celebrity and you live in the big house with all the diamonds and riches, infidelity is the price you pay for living the high life.”

So, I’m wondering what their excuse is when a normal average joe/jane cheats? When a person isn’t surrounded by beautiful people telling them that they walk on water and there are no crowds of people throwing themselves at the person, when it is an anonymous act of infidelity, is that ok with them too?

I’m really not the person to lay that out on the table as I’m trying not to let the freak flag fly too high. What I feel and frankly, what they feel, is irrelevant. Infidelity comes down to the three (or four or ten or two hundred) people involved.

But my ideas on fidelity seem to be old fashioned. You’re married? Screw away! Chase the skirts, chase the suits, chase any willing human being down and screw them till your blind because being married DOESN’T MATTER.

So then, I propose (pardon the pun), why get married in the first place?

Speaking from the other side, from someone who doesn’t subscribe to the whole infidelity schtick, why would someone put up with a spouse that is unfaithful? I can’t wrap my head around one slip up but I know that perhaps, just perhaps, I’m a bit out of the norm there. OK, your spouse cheated on you and you took them back. Did you at least go to counseling? Did you at least try to figure out why? Or did you just push it under the rug and pretend that it didn’t happen. When you lie in bed with your spouse, do you feel like you’re sharing it with all their recent conquests?

But then, they cheat again. And you take them back. Again.

Now I’m getting really confused.

I just don’t understand the mentality.

But then again? I’d be the screaming meemie swinging the golf club at 2 a.m.

From The Mental Mail Bag

2009-12-02T04:28:00.002-06:00

Dear ITunes:

Pardon me but I didn't get the memo, you know, the one that told your customers that you were offering a new service? I'd like to personally thank you for wiping my 80 gig Ipod when I synched it last night. I understand that you must hold a great concern for those 399 podcasts that were cluttering up my device and yes, I guess I really didn't need those movies, especially the ones that I purchased from Itunes. Thanks for having my back!

Sincerely,

Your Customer With A Very Expensive Doorstop

**********************************************************************************

Dear waiter at the Duluth restaurant with the great steak fries:

Sweetheart, I have no idea what the heck your gig was tonight but just because I was dining alone doesn't mean I was lonely. I timed you. Coming up to check on me every 4.5 minutes was a bit excessive. Standing guard across the dining room and boring holes into my forehead with your attentively creepy stare was a bit trying as well. And at the end of the meal? When you told me "My night was far more interesting since you were here", I actually stopped in my tracks and gave you my best "perplexed vulcan with one raised eyebrow" look. Since you didn't even look old enough to be working at a bar I very nearly reached over and patted you on top of the head and asked you about your Lego collection. Allow me to introduce myself...I was the half of the equation that DIDN'T get off on children.

Sincerely,

So Not A Cougar

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Dear WDSE (PBS Duluth) :

It must be pledge week! All the shittiest of shows are on.
Frankly, I think you owe me money.

Sincerely,

Not Amused

**********************************************************************************

Dear Woman I Ate Lunch With:

Really? So, any intelligent woman would know that her husband is a cheater before they got married?

Really?

I very nearly blurted out "And does that go for pedophilia too?"

But we were at a full table and I thought that might be a bit of a conversation stopper.

Actually, I thought it might be a bit of a conversation starter...and you would tell me how stupid I was...and then I'd have to take you out to the parking lot where you would proceed to whip my ass seven ways till Sunday.

Yeah. I kept all niiiiiiice and quiet.

*bitch*

Sincerely,

Your silent companion

**********************************************************************************

Dear Neighbor:

I apologize for saying hello this morning at 5:20 a.m.
It didn't occur to me that you were trying to be covert. It didn't even dawn on me that a person lurking in the shadows of her own house in her housecoat, waiting for the dog to do her business, wouldn't want to carry on a conversation with yours truly.

I am, after all, at my most charming in the wee hours of the morning.

Charming, but a bit thick.

You really needn't run in the opposite direction or clutch the neck of your robe in fright.

I promise, I'll never speak to you in the morning again.

Sincerely,

Your Two Inch Tall Neighbor

I Teach Home Repair Clinics At Home Depot, Stop By For Some Pointers

2009-12-01T06:13:00.003-06:00

I think my standards must be just a little too high. That's what I'm telling myself anyway.

I mean, why would one expect that when their windows are "finished" and the guy hands you the tube from the caulk gun and says "there's still some left so you might as well have this", I mean, why would I assume that was code talk for "I caulked one side of the window and now it's late and I'm really done here so if you want to finish off that 1/2 gap that goes all around your window? Use this caulk."

Really?

Really??

So after coming home with a migraine a little early yesterday and getting just a little toasted on headache drugs, I proceeded to finish off the window after the window guy left. Needless to say, this morning dawned to the apparent evidence that my second career as a window finisher might not be the best option. Was it a bad thing that I used a half a tube of toothpaste when I ran out of caulk? It was the kind that sparkles! (When it comes to home decoration, I am ON FIRE!)

Also? My career as a curtain hanger might not be the best choice either. I did hang a set of curtains in the window of my kitchen that has not had a set of curtains since we moved here fifteen some odd years ago. It had a shade. An awful shade.

The shades in this house came in three different categories: Awful, dreadful, and DEAR SWEET JESUS WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?????

Anyway, not having a drill makes hanging curtains a challenge. Oh, STBX had a drill but it was sitting with his other tools, in a puddle of water in the garage, totally rusted out and disgusting.
This means that I end up putting the screws in the wall by hand. It involves the liberal application of profanity and hand strength, only one of which I have in abundance. (If you guessed hand strength, you haven't been around here much, have you?)

After fighting with the screws for awhile, then the hammer comes out. Very little in life can't be mitigated by the application of a hammer. It's good at making pilot holes, it's good at getting attention when you're drunk at a party, and it's good at breaking down the skull bones when you are desperately trying to hide a human head .

But I digress.

So my kitchen now has a real curtain. Unfortunately, I need to return the curtains and get shorter ones for the bedroom as I was sort of guestimating at their length. (Rumor has it, there are these highly sophisticated instruments called "measuring tapes" that "professionals" use to actually find out the length of whatever they need.

Yeah, sounds like voodoo to me to. I think it's a right wing conspiracy to make us hippies out to be inept at home repair or something.

Perhaps Quasimodo Just Needed A Good Pair Of Curtains

2009-11-30T06:09:00.003-06:00

I desperately need to hang up my curtains.

If you were to poll my neighbors, I'm guessing that they would feel the same way.

Since Home Depot, in its infinite wisdom, failed to dot all their I's on the work order for my window, the window guy needs to come back today and finish the job. Thus, I am waiting on hanging my curtains.

As a matter of fact, the shades that once hung in my bedroom (circa 1970?) no longer fit the window. DAMN! And they looked so "retro" and "cool".

Jinkies Thelma! I'm thinking Old Man Hanson needs to get some new curtains!

As I was moving my bed away from the window and taking down the shades for the window guys to come, I looked down to find the hopefully last bastion of anything to do with STBX. His dusty dress shoes that were tucked under the bed.

I threw them, along with the old shades, onto the floor and proceeded to have a lengthy conversation with all three of them. I stopped when I realized the cat was staring at me with all the wisdom that cats have. Yes, he finally realized his owner was insane.

If talking to the shoes weren't bad enough, I've also taken to slinking around the house, trying to duck down low enough so that I'm not on display for all the neighbors to see.

Not being normally paranoid, I spent yesterday painting in my living room with all of the curtains taken down in there as well. As night fell and I finally stopped painting, I went upstairs to take a shower and had to beware of that window. I then went into my bedroom and flicked the light on long enough to orient myself and then flicked it off so I wouldn't feel like the Old North Church.

Then when I went downstairs in the morning, I stood in the middle of the living room again and finally resigned myself to feeling like an animal in the zoo.

All I know is that I have developed a decided hunch in my back from trying to go undetected around here.

Tonight? There will be curtains. Tomorrow? Perhaps a visit to the chiropractor.

Puppy Pulmonology

2009-11-27T08:45:00.003-06:00

It was evident that there were issues within the first few hours of bringing Kirby home from the shelter, some sort of bronchial spasm I’m guessing.

I went directly from the shelter to Petco to outfit him with a new leash and a bowl and as we wandered the aisles, he started wheezing with a noise I can only equate to a constipated elephant trying to, how shall I put this delicately, clear the chute?

The leash from the shelter was basically the cheapest form of clothes line and I can’t begin to tell you the self esteem boost I got when I was walking around Petco with my wheezing dog on a white trash clothes line.

“Hey lady, I think you need a better leash,” was the verbatim sentence I got from three different customers.

I fought the urge to say “No shit Sherlock, I’ll bet you work for CSI Duluth.” I explained that we were fresh from the shelter and I was at Petco precisely for that purpose.

The thing is, he wasn’t really straining against the leash. He just started making the horrible constipated elephant sound as we were walking around. He didn’t stop in his tracks, he didn’t act distressed, he just kept on going. He was the elderly male neighbor that comes out onto his porch every morning with that hacking smokers cough that you desperately wish would JUST WEAR A SASH ON THAT HOUSECOAT! Either that, or realize that a ratty old housecoat over your naked withered body that is allowed to flap in the breeze is what is known as BEING A FLASHER.

Ahem.

In other words, he was seemingly oblivious.

I mentioned the elephantine condition to the vet when I took him in for his post-shelter visit and she looked him over and said that yes, perhaps he has some sort of respiratory spasms but since he looked healthy and sounded good, it probably wasn’t anything to worry about.

Since then, he has only had a couple incidences of the wheezing, both times when straining on his leash.

Until about 3 a.m this morning that is.

That’s when I was awoken by the elephantine ruckus directly in my right ear.

He usually sleeps next to me and I’m assuming that’s where he was all night but for some reason, he became discombobulated during the night. Perhaps he was sleeping with his head in an unusual position but after he calmed down and stopped wheezing, he started again when we went on our morning walk.

It didn’t last for more than a minute but I’m finding it troubling. Even if I could afford a vet visit, if he isn’t actively wheezing, what are they going to do? X-rays? Bronchoscope? Nebulizer treatment with a big cone shaped mask?

So far I’m just going with the good old treatment of calmly rubbing his throat and snuggling with him when it happens. I suppose I can run a hot steamy shower if it gets too prolonged and have him rest in the closed off bathroom.

I’m hoping that it’s just a passing thing but any other “natural” treatment ideas would be appreciated.

*Added Later: I just found out what it is! Thanks be to the interweb! It is called "reverse sneezing" but really is just a laryngospasm. It's more common in Corgis and Beagles and rubbing the throat is one of the cures!

I'll be jiggered.

Philosophical Meanderings While Making Dinner

2009-11-26T14:29:00.005-06:00

I believe life is to be learned from.

I believe it is human nature to formulate and perpetuate whichever myths support your personal outlook on the world.

I believe my myths are neither superior nor inferior to the myths I am surrounded by.

I believe some people call them myths, I believe some people call them religions.

I believe that some people call them shit.

I believe that none of us really know now, do we?

I believe that the concept of unknowing makes a lot of people uncomfortable.

I believe people that are strident and militant in their beliefs make me uncomfortable.

I believe I have been here before.

I believe I will be here again.

I believe that when we die, for a brief and shining moment, we know all the answers in the universe.

I believe we will understand the reason for the existence of the cockroach.

I believe we will understand the depth and breadth of the suffering and the goodness that exists in every person.

And then, I believe, that knowledge is taken from us.

If you have led a noble life, a good life, you will be granted access to that knowledge. It will be lurking beneath your spleen, playing peek-a-boo behind your liver and common bile duct. It will exists within you and you will, at some point, realize it. You will have the ability to quiet your mind and listen to the voices of the universe. You will realize that it is more important to be still than to shout. You will realize that the universe is very large and you are very tiny. You will realize that there are so many things to learn and never enough lifetimes to remember it all.

If your existence has been more like the wake of a hurricane and, as you look over your shoulder you see the wreckage that you have left by the machinations of your choices, you will lose all that knowledge when you come around again. You will live your next life like you lived your last life. There will be pain and turmoil and you will be screaming at the blackened cosmos, all alone.

It is the examined life that breaks the cycle. It is the realization that we are but pebbles being thrown into a pond. You ripple back to me, I ripple back to you.

I believe I have been here before. I believe I will be here again.

I am thankful for the ability to listen, learn, love, hope, and trust.

And I am thankful for all my other pebbles in the pond.

They are all so beautiful.

The Ghost Of Books Past

2009-11-25T15:22:00.001-06:00

Dear Amazon:

Stop it. Just stop it.

Stop with all the automatic recommendations!

While you may think that you are being helpful, you are not.

Yes, I did order that Harry Potter book in Spanish five hundred years ago.

Yes, I do check out your low low prices on knitting books.

Yes, I did order that book on “keeping your shit together when you are a non offending parent”

Yes, I did order that book on sexual addiction.

But STOP WITH THE RECOMMENDATIONS ALREADY!

I am not interested in knitting books for incarcerated offenders with sex addiction problems written in Spanish!

JUST STOP!

There Will Be Roast Beast

2009-11-25T04:21:00.001-06:00

For awhile, my version of Thanksgiving was going to be bowls of cereal while watching tv in our footie pj's.

Completely low maintenance.

Then I decided to splurge on a chicken from the Farmer's Market. Roasted paprika chicken with Parmesan potato rounds is always a favorite.

And the boy asked for pie. It is the ONLY time of year when the boy wants pie.

Little did he know, I am a former test pilot for Sara Lee.

Sara Lee pumpkin pie it is. For him and only him.

Then I realized how much I enjoy cranberry orange relish. I wish I could buy 40 individual cranberries because I am the only one who will eat it.

Me. Only me.

That's a lot of relish.

After going to the farmers market and grocery store, I ducked into the bottle shop because I wanted to treat myself to a bottle of wine for the mini festivities.

The best thing that the booze emporium does is to have a dude standing there behind the mobile mini bar with open bottles of wine.

One of my favorite indulgences is to flip on the radio early in the morning on the weekend and listen to The Splendid Table. I will listen to the wine guy and I will make a groggy note on his "cheap but good" picks and then I will go to the booze emporium and stand bewildered.

I will then pick out the wine with the most entertaining label or the funniest name cuz who has the brain space to remember all that expert advice shit?

That is why I love the wine dude at the booze emporium. I can give him my robotic answers and he will let me taste the wine of the day.

One of these days I will just go through the whole line and do shooters of wine and then leave without buying anything. Kind of like visiting my expensive perfume.

But not this time. He asked all the right questions to determine that yes, I was trailer trash with a very unrefined palate and I would be totally happy with purple kool aid spiked with vodka.

He then let me sample my sweet fruity wine.

I agreed that it was delicious and said "GIMME A BOTTLE".

He then paused and asked if I would be offended by the name

He quickly flashed me the label.

"Damn son!" I informed him. "That's what I get called on a good day!"

The bottle was for Thanksgiving.

Unfortunately, the bottle is now gone.

Thankfully, I did realize that a bottle of wine does not have to be considered "single serving size".

That's why it took me two whole nights to finish it.

Now I need to figure out what to drink with my chicken on Thanksgiving Day.

Got any purple kool aid and vodka?

A Gnawing Suspicion

2009-11-24T05:14:00.000-06:00

Pet abuse is a bad thing.

That is my mantra right now.

Just because we had our new dining room table for less than 24 hours before the dogs gnawed on the base, that is no reason to pin them up by their ears.

No matter how good it would feel.

Step away from the pets...

What I Have Learned Thus Far

2009-11-23T03:59:00.004-06:00

Dearest S-D-T-B-X (Some Day To Be Ex),

On this most auspicious day, which will no longer be celebrated as our wedding day, I would like to discuss what I have learned about myself in nearly eleven months.

I have learned that we were perfect for each other, in the sickest sense of the phrase.

The last eleven months have made me examine what makes me tick. I have tried to figure out your clockwork mechanisms as well, but that only leads me down blind alley after blind alley.

I only have control over me. I only have control over the few square inches inside my skull. Everything else is a tangle of darkness.

I was the perfect person for you from the time I was three or four years old. I remember thinking the disordered and disjointed thoughts that every child of that age thinks. There has to be reasons for why things happen. Small children don't understand adult problems. When they are given away for their own safety and well being, they don't, on average, go into the entire socioeconomic and psychological benefits that they stand to gain by such an arrangement.

All they know is that they were given away. People give things away that they don't want. Things that are broken. Things that are damaged.

Correct thinking? Not for an adult it isn't. For a small child trying to make sense of the world? Perhaps.

I also remember, as a small child, coming to the realization that if you can give a kid away once, you can do it again.

Would I have ever been given away again? No. Did my child's mind realize that? No.

I remember being consciously aware of being a "good girl" before I even went to kindergarten. Not because I was afraid of being beaten or anything but for the simple fact that, if I was a bad kid I would be sent away.

Here is my foundation, laid bare. I was the kid in school that could be utterly gutted by a look from a teacher. If I didn't get a sticker on my paper in kindergarten and the kid next to me did, I would spend the rest of the day wondering what I had done wrong. (Do kids ever realize that maybe, just maybe, the teacher ran out of stickers?)

And it was always that... "what did I do wrong?"

Kids always place themselves at the center of the universe, that's what being a kid is. Now, place an incredibly insecure kid at the center of the universe and you will note that they will not feel that the sun rises and sets just for them. They will feel that if they don't do every single thing right and take on all the responsibility of the milky way, that everything will go horribly wrong and it will be because they are a screw up.

Anxiety much?

Yeah. Now flash forward a few years. As the child racked with insecurities and anxieties, I was the perfect mark for the pedophile disguised as my aunt's boyfriend. He was a predator and I knew that he had hurt other girls as well. I was just another in a long line but hey, I kept my mouth shut and I learned to stuff it all down inside of me so far that it only came out at night. Night time was when the monsters came whether real or in my head.

It pretty much sealed the deal on the whole anxiety/insecurity/self-esteem thing when I went to college and fell apart so badly that I ended up coming home at the end of the year and disclosing to my aunt.

When she called me a whore and said it was all my fault, it simply proved my hypothesis: I didn't matter.

Now, all of this boo-hooing and navel gazing can be very self indulgent. If I had the chance to go back in time and meet my "inner child", I would no doubt give her a swift slap upside the head. But as I have said, kids and teenagers have their own way of thinking. I don't come to my realizations lightly or with a song in my heart.

I come to my truths as a way of understanding how I could have endured seventeen years with you.

I learned to stuff my feelings from the time that I learned to walk.

Conflict is bad. Disagreements are bad. Having a voice is bad. And standing up on your own two legs when they've both been shattered is impossible.

See, I was the perfect girl for you.

For at least fifteen years of our marriage I put up with it. I put up with doing everything and I let you do nothing. Why? It didn't take many times of being called a bitch or a nag before I reverted back to my mantra: Conflict is bad. Disagreements are bad. Having a voice is bad.

You were the kindergarten teacher giving me the stink eye and I put my head down and said nothing.

You told me that I had no right to be upset about our marriage because you didn't beat me.

And I agreed. And I raised our children and I made our home and you never lifted a finger and you only told us how much we were an annoyance to you.

But I have to agree, you didn't beat me. I guess that means we had a happy marriage by your terms, right? I guess learning about you using a belt on our son after you left was supposed to make me realize what a great dad you were as well. Top that off with molestation and physically pushing your daughter around and I'm thinking that all that means is that you believe you were an absolutely stellar human being.

The last wedding anniversary that we spent together laid bare what I was planning. When I started to take control of my life and myself and lose weight and gain back my self esteem, I knew that I had to leave you. You were nothing but toxic. The kids asked why I stayed and beyond being scared of being homeless, I didn't have a reason.

So I started making plans in my head. Plans that kept me sane when I had to walk into this house and sense your presence like a noxious miasma. There were times when I would stand behind you and fantasize about bringing my cast iron skillet down on the back of your head but frankly, I wouldn't want to chance damaging the skillet.

That's where my head was on our last anniversary together. You suggested we go out for dinner at Blackwoods and you kept asking me what was wrong. The most hilarious thing, in hind sight, is that I'm sure you were trying to figure out if I knew you were cheating on me. Of course I didn't know you were cheating me. If I had, I would have whooped for joy and handed you a suitcase.

Hooray! There are other stupid insecure fucked up women in this world! Go exploit them and leave me alone!

But all I could do was sit there and look off into the distance and dream about a day when I wouldn't have to be around you.

I could have told you a lot of things that day. I could have told you how I hated coming home and existing in the same space as you. I could have told you how I wondered what my reaction would be if you got in a horrible car crash and died. Would I be able to pull of a proper grief reaction when the police came to my door? Or would I be honest for the first time and acknowledge to another human being "Good! I hope he rots in hell."

And to think, this was my story before I ever learned about your true nature. This was my story when all I knew was that you didn't take "no" for an answer at times, which worked out really well for you since abuse survivors have a tendency to freeze and not fight back. That was the story of our first sexual encounter as I recall.

And that is what being an abuse survivor can do to you. Hmmmm. I told him no and he didn't listen and I froze and I just pretended that it didn't happen and then I made the ever so intelligent move of marrying the bastard.

I have had eleven months to rake over these coals and recognize my many failures. I feel alternately like a fool, an idiot, and a dupe.

But I also feel like a survivor. I have learned so much about myself. I am stronger than I ever knew. I am surrounded by people I love and who love me. Life is alternately terrifying and exhilarating and to top it all off, I have the most wonderful kids in the universe.

We're not divorced yet but we will be soon. Since I learned that our paperwork is where it needs to be, finally, the gray fog has lifted from my soul.

In the most sincerest of ironies, the happiest time in all of my eighteen years of marriage to you have been the last eleven months when your absence has been the greatest gift of all.

I hope you're enjoying this day as much as I am!

Not A Creature Was Stirring

2009-11-22T16:13:00.002-06:00

There are houses in my neighborhood that already have Christmas trees up.

Let me repeat that.

THERE ARE HOUSES IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD THAT ALREADY HAVE CHRISTMAS TREES UP!!!!

There are lights and baby Jesus' and an all to premature feeling of peace on earth.

It's bad enough that retailers are pulling this crap. Are these neighbors trying to sell me something???

I spent yesterday painting for ten frickin' hours, painting over the stairs with a five foot pole that looked like a whale proctology tool. I then uncrimped my back and shoulders and took the dogs out for a walk and discovered that yes, unto this day a child was born. Should I ever find that I can no longer afford my house, it's obvious to me that there is a kind hearted neighbor that is willing to go the extra mile and even before the Thanksgiving turkey is carved, he will pimp out a manger and take in any chick knocked up by a deity.

Now I just need to start tarting myself up for God.

Yeah, that last sentence is a sure fire trip to hell...I'm ok with that. It's where all my friends will be!

The Christmas thing is coming man...I can sense it in the air, I can taste it on the wind, and I can hear it on the damn radio with their crazy assed carols already.

I realized yesterday that I'm playing into the whole holiday thing and I didn't even realize it. Some people lose their socks to the dryer monster, we seem to be losing our spoons. A few months ago, I realized that our forks seemed to be disappearing. Now? Spoons. They are not lodged in the dishwasher. They are not lost in the back of the silverware drawer. They have simply disappeared.

So around here, we are reliving the Night Before Christmas. Not a creature is stirring.

Not stirring our coffee.

Not stirring our soup.

Not stirring our cereal.

We are all very still at the moment.

It's Not A Real Addiction Unless You Can Find A Support Group

2009-11-20T06:12:00.004-06:00

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.

What is "X" if y=stupidity?

2009-11-19T06:18:00.004-06:00

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!"

Meet Me At The Market

2009-11-18T05:44:00.002-06:00

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.

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.

A Harkness Family Christmas

2009-11-17T17:19:00.003-06:00

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...

The First Place You Look Is The Last Place It Would Be

2009-11-17T06:10:00.003-06:00

"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.

Neither Wine Nor Cheese

2009-11-17T05:31:00.001-06:00

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.

Paint Paint Everywhere

2009-11-16T06:55:00.004-06:00

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!

Shhhh

2009-11-14T15:00:00.002-06:00

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!

Words No Longer Fail

2009-11-14T05:54:00.001-06:00

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.

Just Move That Drop Cloth And Lay Down On The Sofa

2009-11-13T06:59:00.003-06:00

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.

Trudging Across The Frozen Sea

2009-11-13T06:19:00.000-06:00

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.

Get Art!

2009-11-12T07:07:00.003-06:00

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

2009-11-12T04:39:00.001-06:00

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...

The Dangers Of Painting With OCD

2009-11-12T04:13:00.000-06:00

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...

Joints Are For Smoking

2009-11-11T06:12:00.002-06:00

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".

Phone Tag - You're It!

2009-11-11T04:13:00.004-06:00

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.

Does This Fur Coat Make Me Look Fat?

2009-11-10T04:51:00.001-06:00

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.

Acme Ipod Repair

2009-11-09T06:16:00.003-06:00

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?

Hello Mr. King, Allow Me To Introduce Myself

2009-11-08T12:44:00.008-06:00

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!!!

Saturdays Are For Painting

2009-11-07T06:37:00.002-06:00

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.

Wonder Twin Powers Activate! - Form Of A Cold Hearted Bitch!

2009-11-06T18:09:00.006-06:00

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."

Talking Back

2009-11-06T05:57:00.001-06:00

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.

Worshipping At The Church Of The Bean

2009-11-05T05:46:00.003-06:00

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!"

Do Not Shake My Family Tree

2009-11-04T05:53:00.003-06:00

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.

I Don't Know What I'm speaking But It Obviously Isn't English

2009-11-03T05:51:00.003-06:00

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.

Sorry But I have No Coffe Mugs Or Tote Bags

2009-11-02T06:15:00.002-06:00

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.

The House Of Green Leaves

2009-11-01T04:07:00.003-06:00

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?

Hey, you've got nothing better than to stand in your bathroom and go through a partial bucket of primer and two partial buckets of dining room paint and STILL HAVE THE OUTLINE OF GHOST LEAVES ON YOUR WALLS!!!!

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!

All Hallows Eve

2009-10-31T21:39:00.004-06:00

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

2009-10-31T05:08:00.004-06:00

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.

Those Who Live In Glass Houses

2009-10-30T05:13:00.004-06:00

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.

I'd Rather Have A Free Bottle In Front Of Me Than a Pre-Frontal Lobotomy

2009-10-29T04:47:00.004-06:00

This Saturday is Halloween. I guess I kind of lost that fact due to the reality that people have had Halloween candy out for the past six weeks.

I want to go out this Saturday with a friend. All I want is a cold beverage and conversation. I do not want to be expected to be dressed in a costume. I do not want to be surrounded by a bunch of women who use the holiday to dress up like whores.

"I'm Cat-Woman!"

Yeah, if she were a whore.

"I'm a nurse!"

Yeah, if she were a whore.

"I'm a whore!"

Hey! Great costume! I never would have guessed!

Nothing against the whores, mind you. Everyone needs a purpose in life. Just don't be dippin' your buxomness in my drink when you lean over the bar. God only knows where those babies have been. (Or will be before the evening is over.)

In other words, I was just looking for a quiet evening out. I need to go to the loser bar for losers where I can get a good drink and be left to my own devices.

My Halloween costume is a bitchy old broad. I wear it everyday thank you.

Today will be the last morning that I will be at my old job. I will be going there tomorrow after work to mop up and close things out and then I will be free to devote all of my energies to the new gig where I still look like I am on Team Drunken Monkey.

I am exceedingly hard on myself. That is my blessing and my curse. I hate being stupid and not being able to do the job I'm being paid for. This is good because it makes me try harder. Conversely, it also gets under my skin and makes me ruminate on my day ad infinitum.

One of my favorite quotes goes something like this: He walked along the crowded street until he spied a nice dark place in which he could commit mortal sin.

I'm not so much into the mortal sin business, maybe next weekend. However, I completely understand where he's coming from.

The Art and Science of Sleep

2009-10-28T04:00:00.000-06:00

I often say that my sleep cycle was ruined when I worked full time, went to school, and had a colicky infant that screamed for the first year of his life.

Ah, the good old days.

I've been ruminating on it a lot lately as I once again find myself struggling to sleep. I no longer know how to sleep without medication. I fall asleep at ungodly early hours and I wake up at ungodly early hours.

When I get the inquisition about "how could your child be abused in your home and you not know about it?" Well, when you have my sleep cycle, it's not hard to imagine. Sleep is a rare commodity and when it wants to come, you let it happen. I'm sure all those "good mothers" remain totally hypervigilant and never let their husbands be with their children alone.

I've tried to reprogram my sleep cycle.

I've forced myself to stay awake. When I do this, I can physically feel my body cross over a threshold. After I cross that threshold, I will not sleep for the rest of the night. I've learned that when sleep wants to happen, I need to drop everything and let it happen because it's "now or never".

Sleep was broken for me a long time ago.

One of the major side effects of being sexually abused is sleep disorders. Night time is when the monsters came. Very often, a survivor of sexual abuse will keep their mind racing and busy all the time in order to fight off their demons and this is in direct opposition to the concept of sleep.

To this day, I can't sleep with the closet door open. I remember telling STBX that when the closet door was open, the monsters could get out. It was one of my "funny quirks".

The reality of the situation is that my abuser would sneak into my room and always pause in the doorway of my open closet. Was I asleep? Was I awake? Not that it ever really mattered. I would always pretend to be asleep when in reality, every single muscle was tensed like a cat getting ready to pounce. Getting ready to run.

That single moment of hesitation, everytime, framed by the open closet.

Open closets are where the monsters come from.

The mind, which continually tap dances during the day, spinning two lit sparklers and singing at the top of its lungs, loses its ability to distract when night falls. After my perpetrator died, I would have panic attacks at sundown. I would refuse to sleep in my room and I would lie on the sofa, staring out the big picture window, struggling to breathe, waiting for the first pink streaks of daylight to come.

Ever see how a person is treated when they go to the emergency room with a panic attack? You are treated like an idiot. You are wasting their time. You are seeking drugs. You are FRICKIN' CRAZY.

Not once did any doctor or nurse ask my aunt to leave the room and then turn around to me, perhaps sitting down on a chair so they would be at eye level, and ask "Has someone hurt you?"

Maybe it wouldn't have worked. Maybe it would have. Maybe they should have given it a go to see.

Instead, I had an intern demand of me, in front of my aunt "Just what the hell are you trying to pull here?"

Nothing. I'm just trying to breathe. I'm just trying to imagine my body without this horrifying weight on my chest. I'm just trying to imagine what my skin would feel like if it were clean. I'm just trying to imagine what I smell like, not him. I'm just trying to get out of bed and close the closet door.

It's all about the closet door. Some nights, the monsters still get me.

Talking The Talk

2009-10-27T05:03:00.003-06:00

I made it through Monday. We'll see about today. I like to believe that anything can happen, which includes being kidnapped by aliens.

Oy vey. I've been up since 2 a.m. Synapses are misfiring...

New job has nice people but bad coffee. Hmmmm. Perhaps when I get into the swing of things, I'll bring my own thermos.

I'm going to check in with the college folks today and figure out the classes to take. It will be another three weeks or so before I can sign up since I'm a new person and new people get the lowest priority on choosing classes. Underwater basketweaving, here I come!

I've actually sat down and mapped out all the classes I need/want to take before moving on to a university setting. I guess the only reason I'm going in today is to confirm my choices and get a few questions answered.

Now, my puzzlement begins when it comes to talking to someone at the fine institution that I want to continue at. I have called them four times and dropped three emails. No response.

My next tactic is to send them an email and say that I have 8.9 million dollars to donate to their institution and see how many minutes it takes for them to get back with me. Then I'll get to say "Well, ACTUALLY, I just want to TALK TO SOMEONE."

I had a couple of occasions yesterday at work to tell my quick bio. Talked about kids. Talked about pets. Talked about school. When people responded to my story with "Well, I'm divorced..." I just smiled and shook my head yes. Interesting...very interesting...

I am the Virgin Mary and my children were products of immaculate conception and we live in a barn on the outskirts of Duluth. You know, the one with the perpetual star over head?

I also kept pretty mum when it came to "So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?" Everyone is going to the relatives and cooking a five ton bird.

"I'm going to eat too much and fall asleep in front of the television," was my reply. In other words, nothing out of the ordinary at all.

When the IT guy checked in with me as to what my email address should be (officially, I'm using that damn hyphenated name for legal reasons), I gave him my bestest brightest shiney eyed psycho smile and said "Never use the S-name. I don't like the S-name."

Yup. I think I'm fitting in just fine!

New Jobs and Zombies

2009-10-26T04:40:00.004-06:00

I will be spending an hour or so each day this week at my old job. This is either called "leaving my old job with grace" or "ha ha, we suckered you into doing exactly what we wanted."

Haven't quite figured that one out yet.

But today starts the new job. Today is the "bring two forms of identification-where is the bathroom-oh my god you only have Sanka coffee!-how do I work the copier and do you have a microwave"-day.

I was a little concerned because I wasn't even having the slightest bit of anxiety. Anxiety can be a good thing in a situation like this. It makes you double check to see if your neon colored paisley underwear is showing through your new slacks. It makes you check your nose for any low hanging detritus. It makes you say your new name out loud in front of the mirror twenty-three times so there will be no wobbles in your voice when you introduce yourself.

But I have the nerves of steel thing going right now. Granted I did change my clothes three times this morning and I made sure my super soaker make-up gun was not set to "whore", but aside from that I'm feeling pretty good.

I've come to the conclusion that my anxiety neurons have fried out over the last few months. Unless there is an actual building on fire that contains three puppies, two kittens, and a baby, my likely biological response will be "Hmm, I wonder if there are still cookies in the kitchen."

I have also concluded that, should the inevitable zombie apocalypse actually happen, I will make a kick ass leader.

When the undead start knocking at your door, meet me at my house with a cricket bat and a sawed off shotgun.

We are gonna save the world.

Jesus Will Forgive You, It's His Job

2009-10-25T06:10:00.004-06:00

I received the letters yesterday from ding dong's lawyer along with my lawyer's response and those two documents, viewed side by side, actually had me giggling at the absurdity and the complete power imbalance exuding from the two documents.

Previous letters from ding dong's lawyer seemed to emit a testosterone soaked "fuck you" behind every sentence. Perhaps it was just my frame of mind when I read it. Perhaps it was my fear and insecurity. Perhaps there really was a testosterone soaked "fuck you" hidden in there like a magic eye puzzle. Whatever it was, I would read it and shake and spiral and cry.

Well, I do believe things have changed a bit. The letter couldn't have been more whipped if it had been written without any capitalization and had included a frowny faced emoticon at the end.

I could actually sense the frame of mind of the poor legal secretary that had to put that little gem together. I could hear her tsk-tsk-ing and I knew she was thinking "Jesus Christ man, what are you smoking, crack?"

My lawyers response was BEAUTIFUL! I am going to state it here and now that of the 90 billion times I have bitched about lawyers on this blog, this one letter might just redeem 80 billion of those complaints. I may even frame it one day.

She started every paragraph, nearly every sentence, with "Ms. Harkness expects" and "Ms. Harkness feels" and as I had given her my expectations that he would never track us down in the future, she framed those expectations around getting a restraining order to keep him away, if necessary.

She then stated that he has had the signed divorce documents for over a month and has failed to submit them to the court house and he had better GET HIS ASS IN GEAR.

Well, she didn't use the word ass, but it was verrrrry close.

So, I suppose he'll either submit the paperwork or else we'll have to threaten them AGAIN to go to court.

So glad those divorce papers are signed...it has really gotten the process moving...yes, that is sarcasm.

Assorted Shenanigans

2009-10-25T03:59:00.000-06:00

My epic sister-in-law brought the best shirt with her for me to try on.

I would like to recommend this t-shirt for anyone who has ever had to go to court or would just like to impress a simple message upon that special someone...

Looks puzzling but not inappropriate...

See the white dots? When the judge isn't looking, be sure to face that special someone and match the dots up...

Now you're talking!

Floored

2009-10-24T06:38:00.008-05:00

There will be no angst in this post. I de-angstified myself and am now to the stage of stopping every now and then and just shaking my head.

Onward!

It is my goal to put Martha Stewart to shame. I mean, really, isn't that everyone's goal? Even if it is for 15 seconds on a Saturday morning?

I'm going to give a class in interior decorating:

How to coordinate your pets to match your new floor!

The new floor is down and extends from the living room, through the dining room and into the kitchen.

It has been inspected and the craftsmanship has been found to be absolutely stellar (Corgi's are known for their ability to judge things with a highly critical eye, that's why the Queen has them for pets.)

It has been a learning experience for the dogs in how to run through the house. Great bursts of speed are now a dangerous proposition.

It has definitely made the rooms look bigger and it has brought a certain zen like state to all involved.

It has even caused a new behavior pattern which involves me, suddenly dropping to the floor and grabbing the camera.

I'm really glad I'm not getting a new toilet...

Not A Tiny Little Division Of Hallmark

2009-10-23T04:28:00.005-05:00

Taa Daa.

It's 3 a.m and I'm up to my old tricks: waking up at the butt crack of dawn in mid rant with the bed covers wrapped around me like a straight jacket.

Reconciliation indeed...

The person that I was ten months and four days ago is dead. Dead and gone.

No more door mat, no more excuses, no more patience, no more swallowing the day in and day out pain of being married to a fucking loser.

The most hilarious thing is (and believe me, when you wake up at 3 a.m, breaking into random hysterical laughter is a distinct possibility), even if he had just been unfaithful and I had kicked him out of the house and there hadn't been any earth shattering awfulness, I STILL wouldn't take him back!

Dear Jesus Christ on Toast! Not only does he think that I could actually stand in front of him without sticking a shiv in his ribs, but he thinks that after wasting 17 years of my life with a person that made me feel like shit on a daily basis, I would be raising my hand and saying "Oh please sir, I'll have another!"

Check this little head trip out: If we got back together do you think he'd still ask me to call him "daddy" while we have sex? Seriously...SERIOUSLY?...I just want to vomit.

Hey! Let's make the perfect Hallmark Card for this occasion! It can be a whole new line of greeting cards for prisoners!

On the cover of the card, in gilded letters with a tacky late eighties pastel color scheme:

As I sit here in my cell,
comparing ways to groom young girls for sex with my cell mate,
my mind harkens back to a far better time.
A time when I could eat all the junk food I wanted,
ignore my family,
and spend hours on end cyber-fucking my girlfriend.
I could do and say whatever I wanted
and there was never a threat of being gang raped
in the shower.
I could go to work and come home
and never lift a finger to help you with anything
and you were the perfect tool
and fitted the job with ease.
I miss you darling,
my perfect little door mat.
I miss wiping my feet on your back
on a daily basis.

Remember the good old days?

And on the inside of the card?

Wish I was there
Cuz I just realized
that in four and a half years,
I just might be homeless

I'd just like to propose my own little love song for this occasion. It's the only thing that I have that even remotely expresses my feelings at this exact moment.

Stand Back Ladies! This Winners Taken!

2009-10-22T17:40:00.003-05:00

So, here is the phone call I received from my lawyer today.

Yes! I received an actual phone call from my lawyer! Legal communication from the wilds of whatever wilds lawyers communicate from...ouch. That sentence sort of ate it's own tail and now my brain hurts.

ANYWAY, the divorce papers have been signed and the actual document went to his lawyer to fix a couple of simple typos. Perhaps the typos were put in there on purpose because it gave them the final power in submitting the document to the courts.

See where I'm going with this? Bueller? Bueller?

The paperwork has not been submitted to the courts yet and my lawyer got a letter from his lawyer today. Guess what children??? He wants me to take him back!

Wait a minute now...let me put that in a way that will convey how I reacted...

HE WANTS ME TO TAKE HIM BACK!!!

No, wait a minute...that didn't cut it either...

THE $*&$()!#$*&@&!!! Mother ^$*(#(@)!*#&!!!! WANTS ME TO TAKE HIM BACK!!!!!!!!!!!

Seriously....that doesn't even convey my emotion properly...

Yes, the reason why I'm still waiting for my divorce from a cheating pedophile while clinging on to my house by the skin of my teeth is that he has now apparently found Jesus and wants to reconcile with me.

My lawyer said she wasn't sure if I would burst out laughing or start screaming when she read the letter.

So now, I get to wait for the legal response to get back to his lawyer that not only am I not interested in reconciling, my expectations of him, after his 10 years of court appointed "Stay the hell away from us" will be that he never tries to contact any of us. WE WANT NOTHING TO DO WITH HIM SO JUST LEAVE US ALONE.

I can promise with 100% certainty that he is working through his frickin' 12 steps because guess what? I read that book too! I know exactly what you're trying to do. You're doing it because you still have no fucking idea that what you have done is so incredibly awful that you just need to go away. That's why you're in prison. Prison is for people who have done awful things.

I literally drove home from work, primal screaming "FUCK YOU" until I think the windows in the car were ready to shatter.

There have been four things in my last ten months that have absolutely rocked my world:

1) My husband was cheating on me
2) My husband was a pedophile
3) My husband showed up in court and sat next to the child he molested and said she had to keep his name
4) My husband thinks that I would even, for one single solitary nanosecond, consider his proposition.

The killer of it all is that my response will once again allow him to play the victim. "Oh poor baby, he just wants to make it all better and that big bad woman is making his life sooooo hard!" I'm sure that it will be the topic of much boo-hooing in his therapy sessions.

My concept of forgiveness still stands. I drop my shit, you drop your shit and we both walk in opposite directions.

At this exact moment in time, he is lucky to be right where he is, surrounded by pedos and murderers and psychopaths because he's a hell of a lot safer than if he was free.

As I stated before when I read the book about sexual addiction, it was totally wrapped around the perpetrator and had a scant two sentences regarding victims. I do, however, recall in the 12 steps that reconciliation should only happen if it wouldn't emotionally damage the people that have been hurt, even more.

Guess what that means?

It means that he doesn't think he's done enough damage.

If You're Gonna Put Your Name On The Purchase Order...

2009-10-22T14:55:00.003-05:00

(Text of the letter that I just got done sending to Debra.nordling@state.mn.us after discovering it was her name on the purchase order for all those 50 inch flat screen tv's at Moose Lake)

Dear Debra,

I know that you are probably not the person who made the actual decision to purchase the 50 inch tv sets for Moose Lake, but since your signature ended up on the purchase order, I am going to address this email to you.

Please feel free to forward it to any other person you feel might be interested in reading it.

My daughter's offender is currently housed at Moose Lake. This is also the person that I have been fighting to divorce for the past ten months.

I realize that in your world, the actual victim of the crime is not normally taken into consideration. In your world, it is all about the perpetrator and what they need. Allow me to enlighten you as to the other side of the equation.

I have no way to pay for the therapy that my daughter needs due to the post traumatic stress disorder that she suffers thanks to her father. The MN Dept of Corrections Victims Reparations Board was generous enough to pay for ten therapy sessions but since years of abuse can hardly be wrapped up with ten hours of therapy, she is now left out in the cold.

Our family has been driven to the brink of bankruptcy due to the fact that my "hopefully" soon to be ex-husband has fought against the desire of our children to change their last name to get a fresh start from the ugliness that he created. Some day, we will hopefully have a new last name and if we're lucky, we won't be homeless by that time.

I pay my bills. That is who I am and how I was raised. Every payday, I pay all my bills and usually don't have enough to fill my gas tank and feed my children. I have begun to visit the local food shelf.

This is where we are and this is who my daughter's perpetrator is fighting against.

As my children have commented on, after learning about the intelligent purchase for the MN Sex Offender's Program of 50 inch television screens, "Well, I guess we know just how important we are now."

Television is not therapy. Television will not make a darn bit of difference in whether or not any of the people in that facility ever have the ability to interact with society in a "normal" or "positive" manner.

The fact that the governor has removed the television sets is irrelevant. That money was poorly spent and is now gone forever.

I just wanted you to hear "the other" side of the story.

Sincerely,
Tina Shaddox
Soon to be ex-wife of Tracy Shaddox OID 229716

**Added later: This email was forwarded to the public relations person who has informed me that it will be forwarded to the Governor's Office.

Not Impressed

2009-10-22T04:19:00.001-05:00

Just a little subliminal message from the school district in Never Never Land where my daughter now goes:

Welcome to your class called "Family Life". This is in conjunction with our "Abstinence Only" curriculum...

See this square peg? This is you. We will pound down your edges to make you fit into the mold that we find acceptable. We will deny statistics. We will click our heels together and say that we ALL live in a perfect world. Since teenagers don't HAVE sex, we don't need to discuss birth control. We just need to make sure that they realize that they will burn in hell if they even think about the opposite sex and call that good. (But for god's sake, don't think about the same sex because that is CERTAINLY a one way trip to the eternal furnace of damnation.)

And mommies and daddies always stay together. It is the way that it is SUPPOSED to be. No matter what...mommies need to realize that it is in the best interest if the children to stay together. It is called sacrifice. Women must sacrifice everything for the daddy because the daddy is in charge.

And daddies always love their children. They never hurt their children. They don't call them stupid. They don't beat them with belts. They don't grab them by the shoulders and slam them against the wall. And daddies never, never come into your bedroom in the middle of the night.

See? Everything in Never Never Land is perfect. And that's what we're going to learn about in class today children...all about the perfect families that you should have but undoubtedly, none of you do.

We're all about self esteem building here. Are you feeling good about yourself yet?

No Soup For You

2009-10-21T11:47:00.004-05:00

Dear Victims of Sex Offenses:
Do you have trouble sleeping? Do you suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? Do you suffer from issues of self esteem? Have you ever tried to commit suicide? Have you ever taken chemicals to dull the pain?

Well, before you start feeling too sorry for yourselves, please remember the fine human beings that have caused these feelings within you. They suffer too. As a matter of fact, they won't be able to watch their favorite television shows on their brand new 50 inch flat screen tv's at the Pedo Summer Camp, which is my pleasant euphamism for the Moose Lake Correctional Facility where my daughter's offender and perhaps your offender is currently residing.

They are suffering folks. Please feel their pain.

What, you don't have a 50 inch flat screen tv? Why, you don't even have health insurance to cover the cost of the anxiety medications that you need to quiet the demons in your head? And that restitution that your offender is supposed to be making that currently doesn't exist? All of that pales in comparison to the suffering that these offenders must currently endure.

Personally, I'd like to see who had their signature on the purchase order for these tv's. Just curious.

And me, siding with ANYTHING Governor Pawlenty does? Yeah, I am TOTALLY uncomfortable with that...

Most Alarming

2009-10-21T05:50:00.004-05:00

Dear City of Duluth, County of St. Louis, State of MN, and all federal employees working for Mr. Obama,

They're just windows. That's what I'm getting put in. Apparently one of you bastards likes to make up rules about "having your house up to code" and so I went out and got smoke detectors for all the bedrooms. I was told to do this by the Home Depot "initial window measurement guy". Those were the new rules. Got a small house? Well, it looks like you will now have four smoke detectors installed in a twelve square foot area.

If the shit goes down in that twelve foot square area, WE ARE COVERED.

But then the "final window measurement guy" came yesterday.

(Hey, final window measurement guy? Yes, I got home two minutes late, is that why you seemed so surly? Was it just because I was the last call of the day? Or was it because we entered the house together and my dogs REALLY GET EXCITED when I get home and after ten hours, THEY ARE FULL OF PEE. Here at Castle Disaster, as long as you don't get any on you, it's considered a good day. Get the hell over yourself!)

Anyway, "Final window measurement guy" asked about my CO2 detector.

Really? Apparently, they are now "code".

So, I want to know, from one of you pencil pushing twats, what the next golden item on the list is going to be? Or is this some master plan by Home Depot to nickle and dime me every two weeks by telling me, incrementally, what I need to get this hovel up to snuff.

Have you been reading this blog? Death by carbon monoxide is better than death by a thousand cuts any day of the week. Let's face it, I haven't gotten four straight hours of complete and total relaxation for almost a year. If the damn CO2 alarm goes off, I'll probably just yank the battery and go back to bed.

And seriously. if the smoke detectors go off, do you really think I'm going to call 9-1-1? I'll tell you what is essential around this house. Have you heard of "earthquake kits" for people living in an earthquake zone? It's what they grab when they're running out of the house during an earthquake. Well, I have a "house on fire" kit by the back door. It contains passports, cash, pet leashes, my kid's immunization records, a box of graham crackers, Hershey Bars, marshmallows, and campfire roasting sticks, cuz if this bitch goes up in flames? I'm making smores!

If You're Not Losing Your Mind, You Obviously Haven't Checked Your Messages

2009-10-20T07:45:00.001-05:00

Between working extra hours this week and having visitors from out of town, blogging will be fairly low on my list of priorities this week.

What will be on my list of priorities? Well, when one does not have a life and is then faced with a seeming glut of “shit I gotta do in the next 48 hours”, my list feels a bit overwhelming.

Since my house is awful and does not have a lot of room for guests, I’m going to try to shuffle a few things around, wash some bedding and convince the dogs that if someone new is sleeping in the beds for a few days that DOES NOT MEAN THAT THEY WANT THEIR FACES LICKED AT 2 AM OH MY GOD WHY DO YOU INSIST ON DOING THAT????

They are planning on staying at a hotel for a couple nights but I feel awful not being able to offer them grand accommodations when they will be working their butts off to make this house livable.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions. It also leads right up to my front porch.

I want to have some quick meals ready for them to be able to grab it and eat when they take a break during the day. I’ll be figuring that out tonight. (I’d also like some recommendations for places with good steaks and seafood as that seems to be something that they like and if I have to take them to a chain restaurant, I WILL SCREAM. I like to show off local places when people visit but I don’t get out to a lot of steakhouses. The last time I went to Timberlodge, I was disappointed.)

Of course, I also have the Home Depot Dude (HDD) coming tonight for the final measuring of my windows.

My brother and sister-in-law are supposed to be here tomorrow evening and of course, I have an Art Auction committee meeting that I need to be at for 5:30. I would feel less inclined to go if the last meeting hadn’t been cancelled because not enough people were able to attend.

Oh, and I’m transitioning into my new job next week but I will still be working in the wee hours of the morning at my old job.

And I’m signing up for college classes next week.

Aside from that, things are pretty boring right now.

Neither Tighty Nor Whitey

2009-10-19T06:00:00.004-05:00

A few years ago, I spent over a year working on and off on a pair of knitted long john pants. I made them out of wool and since it took forever, I paid for them on the installment plan. I used the Elizabeth Zimmerman long john "recipe" from one of her books and I ended up having to wing it (Elizabeth would have been proud) to compensate for the fact that even back then, relative to the rest of my body, I had no ass.

I revelled in them for a couple weeks. They were cozy and warm and wonderful.

Then, they were accidently washed.

Yup. They went to the land of "knitting projects that will never be spoken of again".

Except I am now contemplating making another pair. Yes, I have learned my lesson, they will be made out of something washable. (Occasionally I hear someone talk about making a baby item out of wool that needs hand washing and I have to ask myself "Are you on crack? Have you never had a baby? There are days when the baby is lucky to be hand washed, let alone your blanket. Five minutes after you give it to the mother, your blanket will be covered with puke, poop, and drool. BABIES ARE DISGUSTING!" Of course all of these thoughts generally end up being expressed with a single raised eyebrow and perhaps the question "Really?" I am nothing if not understated.)

I will not be using Elizabeth's pattern this time. Yes, it was based on my own personal measurements but the assumption of ass kind of made me sad. I'm also thinking about making them in a color pattern to keep me from wanting to commit suicide after I get one leg made.

Of course, the easiest thing would be stripes. Perhaps a "Where's Waldo" red and white pattern like his hat? Or a Wicked Witch of the East black and white pattern? (Would this put me at risk for having a house fall on me? Knowing my house, I'm ALWAYS exposed to this risk.)

There's also the possibility of making them into a Norwegian type pattern. Like a sweater for my legs.

Or I could do something like pattern the outside of the leg to look like police caution tape or crayons or perhaps knit them black with white anatomically correct bones? I've always been a fan of knitting anatomically correct things.

There are far to many choices for such a big project. It's not like I'm going to make a pair and then start right in on the next pair because they were SO FUN AND FAST! If I make this pair and then even show the slightest interest in making a THIRD pair, everyone is given permission to dope slap me.

So, any thoughts? Feel free to include links to color patterns that I could incorporate.

Why You Should Never Feed Them After Midnight

2009-10-17T21:06:00.004-05:00

I'm sure you've heard of "aftermath", but have you seen "after bath"?

A $2 Dress Beats a $5 Milkshake

2009-10-17T21:05:00.005-05:00

Perhaps it is my freakishly long neck that makes my head appear so large but for some reason, these photos make me look like I should try out for the Alice In Wonderland movie coming up.

Hey, I wouldn't need any CGI alterations!

The sparkles don't show in the photo either but they exist. I promise.

NEVER DOUBT THE SPARKLE!

Now all I need is a good pair of dress shoes. Maybe I'll go hog wild and visit Goodwill!

I really do love this dress and for $2, I'd say it was a good deal. Now I just need a couple more places to wear it!

Perhaps shopping at Cub Foods? Or as my son assumed as I got this photo taken before we went to the movies last night, perhaps I should wear it to a screening of Zombieland?

Or maybe I can wear it while working out in the garden? I foresee a long pair of black gardening gloves, like Kim Woodburn only sexier?

Maybe I could wear it to the food shelf?

Nah, then they'd think I was a freelancer on First Street when actually I'm just a pharmaceutical rep.

I usually wear my $5 business suit for those transactions.

Life Outside The Box

2009-10-17T05:49:00.005-05:00

Stepping outside of the comfort zone. Mixing it up. Consciously stopping myself when I do what I've always done and taking the time to do it differently.

This has been my own personal campaign over the past few months. Since I have had the emotional ability to state my name without weeping and I've realized that my life will now be what I make of it, I've wanted to avoid what my life has been for the past 17 years: hunkering down, surviving, living in my head instead of my life, and continuing in a rut that was all to conveniently laid out in front of me.

I've managed to do this with the same techniques that I have done when I find myself in a knitting rut. I've found myself going from one project to the next, always using the same color yarn or the same sized needles or doing the same project until I finally stop myself as I'm planning my next gig and I say "What would I choose to do reflexively?"

I then formulate in my mind what would be the exact opposite of that reflex.

When I found myself nestled in the happiness of blue yarn, I decided to knit something with orange yarn. I never had an inspiration to use orange yarn. I have never picked up orange yarn and thought "Oh my, but that is lovely!" I have actually had the idea, when picking up orange yarn of "DAYEM! That is some hideous shit!"

So I started knitting with orange yarn and I started to look at the color orange with a new eye and a few more projects down the road, I realized I was getting into a rut with orange and I reached for the next challenge for myself...pink. I hate pink, pink is for girly girls, pink is all feminine and soft and weak.

Until I got to making my pink socks (put on hold currenly due to hand pain). My pink socks are beautiful. Someday, I might even have two. If not, I may hack off my other foot with a kitchen knife so as to enjoy the beauty of the single sock.

So, you get the idea. Recognize your comfort zone, be honest about how you feel about change, then challenge yourself to change without freaking out.

I've always been one to not rock the boat in my marriage because I was afraid to be called a bitch. I was afraid to be a boat rocker. I wanted everything to be quiet and normal and I defined this by being afraid of change. Let's just keep going along and pretend that everything is ok and maybe we'll convince ourselves that feeling like shit every day is normal.

Yeah, I'm trying to develop life habits that challenge my concepts that change is a bad thing. From yarn, I have traveled to clothing.

There are three or four resale shops in our area that have served as a source for my new wardrobe over the past few months. I honestly don't think I have very many pieces of clothing that I had a year ago. I used to go in and look at everything and then choose one or two frumpy things and then settle on the one that depressed me the least. Now, I literally will grab anything and everything that might be even mildly kicky and I take a mound of clothes into the changing room. I'm actually taking more than two seconds in there...you know...like girls usually do.

85-90% of the time, I don't buy anything because I now refuse to settle for anything that doesn't make me actually feel good when I'm wearing it. I'm super critical which keeps me from spending money unwisely but over the past few months, I've managed to turn over my wardrobe into something that I'm not ashamed of.

And sparkly things! OH! Sparkly things! I stopped at a garage sale today because I saw something sparkly from the road and it turned out to be a dress that I scored for $2 and I will be wearing it to an actual function next month in which sparkly things will be expected. It's slinky and shows off my tatts which I love. Even at my present weight, a year ago I would have never thought to put a dress like this on.

You never know until you try...kind of like broccoli.

So today I decided to put this challenge to myself when I got my hair cut. I do not go to fancy places to get my hair cut. I will never go to fancy places to get my hair cut. My hair has the texture of a rabid hedgehog and all the body of Don Knotts at Muscle Beach. It cannot be permed, it cannot be curled, and it is so heavy that if it is grown out, it weighs a ton and cannot be contained by any ponytail holder, barrette, or hair containment device. My last haircut had the stylist commenting that he had never seen hair so straight aside from people of Asian heritage. I told him that since I was 100% Korean, I found his failure to recognize me as a member of the Korean community to be, frankly, insulting.

For some reason, he just looked at me as if I were seriously a VERY CAUCASIAN ASIAN. I followed that comment up with a very small voice and told him that I was just kidding.

I was actually Laotian.

ANYWAY, the majority of the time, when I go in to get a haircut, I get a stylist that is no doubt competent but not necessarily creative. I ALWAYS judge a stylist by their own clothes and hair. Is this wrong? I don't know. All I know is that if my stylist looks like she put her clothes on with a pitchfork and styled her hair with an egg beater, I'm probably not going to ask her for advice on what to do with my rabid hedgehog. I will just keep it simple and have the same thing that I had last time.

But today? Today the gods of opportunity were smiling down upon me. I went in right when they opened in the morning and I was the only customer there. (I know these folks are supposed to get through a certain amount of customers in an hour and if they are busy, I also don't make them 'get creative'.) I looked at the stylist and I knew that I had a keeper. He was both artsy and fartsy and absolutely unique.

When I sat down, I asked him what he wanted to do with my hair. I told him how I usually had it and that I needed something creative. Not only did he ask all the right questions, but he also avoided all the small talk that makes me HATE getting my hair cut. I'm not an antisocial bitch, I just hate blathering on about 'what I have planned for today' or 'how long I've lived in Duluth'. I am perfectly contented to shut my eyes and just listen to the conversations around me. It can be very entertaining.

So, my hair is now cut in such a way to make spiking it up like a crazy woman the best option. Something I would have never done a year ago. (I would have WANTED to do it, but I wouldn't have done it. Why? Because I was a ninny.)

I've always lived fearlessly...in my head.

You know what? Life is way too short for that.

Ask Me No Questions, I'll Tell You No Lies

2009-10-16T09:49:00.002-05:00

Starting a new job is a lot like swinging from one vine to the next in the jungle. When you’re parsing out money with an eyedropper to pay your bills, it can involve a lot of shuffling of bill payments to meet a new pay schedule.

Yeah, I got a new job and then I missed my house payment…

Thankfully, I’ve been able to do a shell game and I should have all my bases covered.

The other thing that will be decidedly weird is entering into a bunch of new relationships where no one knows my story. Everyone at my present job knows my story because my life exploded at their feet. They even rallied their friends and went with me to the sentencing.
It was all very public and “out there”.

But now I’m left with that eternal nagging problem that has haunted me from day one: How do I deal with questions both innocent and nefarious?

I’m fairly adequate at steeling myself for specific events such as court dates (so long as I have an idea of what will happen and no overt douchebaggery takes place), where I fall down is the comments from out of the blue or the phone calls from left field. I’m not used to being left speechless and when I don’t know what to say, I’m often left fumbling like an idiot.
Even innocent comments from strangers can cause that vasovagal reaction that makes me alternately want to throw up and pass out.

“Oh, you’re getting a divorce? Do you have joint custody?”

See? An innocent question that stops me in my tracks and makes me stutter. What I want to say is “Well, if by joint custody you mean that the asshole is in the custody of the joint, then yeah.” What I end up saying is “Ummmmm. No….” and I get a pale sweaty ‘deer in the headlights’ look that probably communicates to them that upon commencement of divorce proceedings, I cannibalized my seven children and buried their eyeballs underneath the basement stairs. There is always palpable tension when the subject comes up. You couldn’t even begin to cut it with a knife, better pull out the chainsaw.

Or there is an opposite reaction. When I went in for a pre-employment physical at a clinic that I hadn’t been to in years, they went over my emergency contact information. “Is Tracy still your emergency contact?” Yup. Fairly innocent question to which I started laughing and managed to burble “Oh HELL no!”

She then directed me to the psych floor.

I don’t want to tell you my story. Neither do I want you to ask me questions. Maybe you’ll see me pause occasionally and get that haunted look in my eye. Maybe you’ll notice how I take a deep breath and shake off the sadness. Maybe you’ll surf the internet and figure it out on your own.

But when we’re in the break room, surrounded by everyone? Yeah, please. Just don’t go there.

It Isn't Easy Living With Four Deanna Trois

2009-10-15T05:37:00.005-05:00

I don't like to cry around my kids. As a matter of fact, I don't like to cry around adults either.

Crying is a normal activity, best done in privacy, with no witnesses and no regrets. Kind of like murder, only with fewer repercussions.

(Who am I kidding, all the murders I've committed have been VERY public.)

Needless to say, I've been trying to figure out if I get weepy when I'm alone because I am alone or is it my brain and heart finally deciding "Ha! You've been storing it up too long and here is a golden opportunity. The house is empty so let the waterworks commence!"

This might not be the healthiest approach. There is something to be said for the parent that can gently show their children that it is ok to feel emotions and that the world won't end if you have a good cry. It's like dusting your brain and cleaning out the cobwebs.

But when you hide it and then it comes out on rare occasions, it can FREAK THE CHILDREN OUT.

I know this from personal experience. When my aunt was going through her second round of cancer when I was in college, she remained her usual pillar of strength. I always considered myself lucky because I was the youngest and hadn't married and started a family. I was in college but I was still able to come home (and finally came home for good when she died...note my lack of college degree...). We talked about things very matter-of-factly. We were very open about life and death in a way that I'm not sure she was comfortable talking with her biological daughters. I remember many conversations when we both planned out our funerals.

Sounds kind of like a strange conversation between a 58 year old cancer patient and a 22 year old college student but it was actually quite liberating. She had cancer and I was depressed as hell, we were both ruminating on death. She was coming from a perspective of dealing with the inevitable, whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not. I was coming from the perspective of losing yet another pillar in my life. Once the heart of your young home loses its father, brother, and aunt/mother, the walls get a little shaky. We talked about death a lot.

She didn't cry. She went through a lot of awful things in her life and I didn't see her cry. During these last ten months, when I didn't think I could bear to wake up the next day, I thought of her. I thought of her staring off into the distance for a moment, lost in thought, and then shaking herself out of it and saying "Well, what are you going to do?" And then, she would go on.

But there finally did come a time, the only time, I saw her cry about her situation. She was being treated for one kind of cancer and she had come home from radiation and was sitting in her lazy boy chair and she started to tell me how she was feeling worse. She told me that she had tried to explain to the doctors that something else was wrong and they blew her off. They told her that the radiation had side effects and that she was just going to have to realize that.

I was stunned when she started weeping. She said that she knew something else was wrong and no one was listening to her.

I got on the phone with the clinic and I have no idea how, as a naive 22 year old, but I bullied and cajoled my way into speaking with the doctor. I refused to let them call me back and I refused to let them put me on hold. When I got to the doctor, I let him have it.

I told him "She has been through this before. She knows what radiation is. She knows the side effects. How dare you blow her off! She thinks something is wrong and you need to figure this out. Don't you understand??? She's crying!"

Had she told me that she thought she was being blown off with her usual "pillar of strength" attitude, I would have never freaked out. I don't know if the doctor fully understood my urgency in conveying the idea that she was openly shedding tears and we were not at anyone's funeral. That was the ONLY time she cried.

Within a very short time, she had an abdominal scan and come to find out, her cancer had spread. It was all down hill from there.

Those tears have left a lasting impression on me. That's why I cry privately. There is nothing more helpless than seeing your protector brought to her knees.

And so I cry when I'm alone. Well, kind of alone. In this house, with two cats and two dogs, am I ever REALLY alone?

My pets do not understand therapeutic keening. My pets are empaths. My pets can sense a disturbance in the force from three rooms away and within fifteen seconds, I will have two cats sitting on my chest and two dogs at my feet, looking most concerned.

It sounds ridiculous, but they really are bumming my stone. How can I step off that ledge when I have four furry characters to pull me back?

My daughter drew this and when I saw it on her site, I burst into tears. I'm sure, of all the things that she has created, this is probably the one drawing that you wouldn't think would make a person cry but it made me lose it. For all the hours of therapy, there are only four creatures on this earth that see me lose it on a somewhat frequent basis.

And funny thing, they forgive me, every time.

Algorithm by *mshizuko on deviant ART

Put Your Money Where Your Heart Is

2009-10-15T02:42:00.003-05:00

Make your appointments for a pink ribbon tattoo, birth month floral, or other design at Ink Tattoo in Superior, WI. There will be a display of bra art and a silent auction of local artwork. 100% of the proceeds are being donated to YSC Duluth! Ink Tattoo is located at 1212 Tower Ave. in Superior. Call to schedule an appointment at 715-394-6533. The event is 4-10 PM this Friday and from Noon - 10 PM this Saturday.

Join us for a night of music and awareness raising at the Rex Bar in Duluth!

Consent: To actively and willingly participate in any given activity without coercion or force

Consent should never be assumed

Consent should never be chemically induced

Music by:High Volt Rustler

Little Gray House

Old Knifey & The Cutthroats

The Keep Aways

Only $5 cover!

All proceeds will benefit the Program for Aid to Victims of Sexual Assault

Start Time:
Friday, October 16, 2009 at 9:00pm
End Time: Saturday, October 17, 2009 at 1:00am
Location: The Rex Bar on the lower level of Fitger's!
Street: 600 E Superior St
City/Town: Duluth, MN
Phone:
218-733-3090
Email: info@rexbarduluth.com

And for next weekend's activities:

The YSC Duluth is celebrating Courage Night in a special way! Join us at Thirsty Pagan Brewing on Sunday, October 25th and bring your courage! We will be having fun with karaoke emceed by the smooth sounds of Grandmaster “Mad Dog” Mattson, and sampling some delicious local beer and the best pizza in the Northland! One dollar from every beer purchased as well as $5 from every special edition hot pink Thirsty Pagan t-shirt sold will benefit the YSC-Duluth. Show off your courage and we’ll see you at the Pagan!

Date: Sunday, October 25, 2009
Time: 4:00pm - 9:00pm
Location: Thirsty Pagan Brewing
Street: 1623 Broadway
City/Town: Superior, WI
Phone: 2184917195
Email: yscduluth@youngsurvival.org

I Have Not Yet Begun To Bitch

2009-10-14T02:23:00.002-05:00

Funny ole justice system, it amuses me on a daily basis.

At every single juncture over the past nine and a half months, whenever I have "assumed" anything or "figured it would be set up correctly" or trusted the system for ANYTHING, I have been proven horribly naive.

I want to trust. I want to believe. I keep clicking my damn heels together but I'm just not feeling the magic.

I admit to being annoyed when I got the letter from the MN Correctional Department that spelled out all my rights as the representative of a victim of crime. Oh, everything was spelled out beautifully, except for the fact that STBX's name was wrong. His OID number was correct and really, that's the magic piece of info when you're in the big house, but it just got in there like a splinter under my fingernail and annoyed me.

I kept mulling it over in my mind...if they can't get the damn offender's name correct, what else are they going to screw up? But then I said to myself "Self, shut the hell up! It's over and done with. Get on with your life. You have done all you can do. ENOUGH."

Then I said to myself, I said "Hey self, you need to be a little less trusting. Haven't you figured that out by now?"

It's easier if you picture this conversation with two little versions of me, one sitting on each shoulder. One of course, is all angelic and dressed in white and believes in fairy tales and lawyers with big hearts and a system that only gives victims flowers and chocolate chip cookies. The other one? You guessed it. Dressed in black, piercings and tatts everywhere, perhaps chain smoking Marlboros, perhaps just a very big hookah. YOU DO NOT FUCK WITH HER!

These two ladies were talking at me for a couple days before I picked up the phone and called my victim advocate with the county. I prefaced my call with an explanation of the letter and how it was wrong and how it really just put another hole in my balloon and I knew he was busy and I felt kinda stupid BUUUUUUUT, I had a question:

If the system can't get his name right in a letter to the victim/victim's family, how can I trust the system to work when it comes to his payment of restitution?

By the way, he was ordered to have 50% of his prison wages garnished for restitution. That is exactly how the judge stated it.

Well, our advocate hemmed and hawed and ended up sending me paperwork that would bring the matter to conciliation court.

Paperwork that asks the stellar questions: Where is this person working right now? List their employer and contact info...and be sure to have this declaration notorized and hand delivered.

Oh, and by the way, you have to file this in the county where the person is working.

In other words, I spent a couple days paging through a stack of papers that forced me to try to put a square peg in a round hole.

After pulling at my hair and pacing around the room and demanding of the dogs "How do I do this???" I called him back and asked "WTF???"

Well, I didn't quite say it like that. He is a very nice guy and we must pity him...he has to deal with me on an all to frequent basis.

I simply inquired as to whether this was really what I needed to do.

He retreated to gather more information.

And appeared again on my phone yesterday afternoon.

In order for a restitution order to automatically trigger, there has to be a stated dollar amount put into the system.

Our judge never gave us a stated dollar amount.

Do you see where this is going? Yup! Right up my own ass.

The system will not trigger for any restitution until the judge puts down an amount.

Perhaps this is as simple as him filling out a form, perhaps we will need to make another appearance at the happiest place on earth! No kids, not Disney Land! It's the St. Louis County Courthouse!!

Now, with cleaner bathrooms and cotton candy for all!

So here is where I'm coming from...money is irrelevant here. I certainly don't go hunting down pedo's that make .50 cents an hour so my kid can pay her way through college. The fact of the matter is that the judge placed an order for restitution in such a way that restitution could never be made.

Unless someone, who felt like a fool just asking, picked up the damn phone.

Here's my next question when faced with scenarios like this: How many people actually make that calll? How many people decide it's just to painful to deal with and they just shrug it off?

And why should this burden be mine?

Oh, and one more thing?

Why in the hell can't they get his damn name right on the letters that they send me???

Once Again, I Consider A Career In Pharmaceuticals

2009-10-13T05:52:00.003-05:00

I think I will start this conversation out by discussing my new job which I start October 26th. Not a change in pay but a change in scenery, people, hopes, dreams, and potentially, job satisfaction.

Yeah, smart people would probably hang onto a job in today's market and only settle for something that pays more. Well, I've been trying for awhile and I am, unfortunately, not finding much else. So I'm hoping I can cash in on my job satisfaction and tell the bank that a change in my workplace attitude has to be worth SOMETHING.

I look at it as my own little mini-reboot. They are also in a field that I might be headed into in the future so, if job satisfaction doesn't pan out, perhaps resume building will.

How's that for rationalization?

It is rather weird to walk among people that don't know my story. Right now, my name is hyphenated for pay purposes but after I was introduced to some of the staff with the hyphenated name, I've decided to tell them that the hyphenate exists just for my paycheck. I want a fresh start.

What will really be weird is that I won't be working downtown anymore. I have worked in downtown Duluth for nearly a decade and I love it. As much as I enjoy the quiet countryside and hanging out in my one room shack with my rifle loaded and my still bubbling away, there is something to be said for the vitality of a downtown area.

For those of you who are rolling their eyes and saying "Yeah, but it's Duluth...dear oh dear, you're so cosmopolitan" (I'm picturing you wearing a monocle and using a long cigarette holder. Am I right?) I really must protest. I have seen big and I have seen small and for me, Duluth is a nice "Goldilocks" kind of a town, just right.

As I've been investigating places I might want to live, I use Duluth as a population scale. I am interested in moving to a town that is two Duluth's big. There is also another town which is seven Duluth's big. It would be a fabulous place to go but I'm afraid I would need to sell drugs to support myself as the cost of living is a little high. Funnily enough, I think I'd like to keep 'drug dealer' off my resume.

Hey, speaking of resumes, drug dealers, and new jobs, I learned that prisoners are put through classes in prison before they are released that teach them how to write a resume and fill out a job application while tactfully avoiding, or at least downplaying, their prison record.

I also learned that prisoners are garnished a $400 gate fee when they first enter prison which is the money they get when they leave. Since they can only garnish 50% of their wages, the gate fee comes off first. Then and only then do they begin to pay their court ordered restitution.

And when you're making .50 an hour, you get to pay yourself for quite some time before you even begin to think about your pesky victim.

All I can say is JUSTICE ROCKS!

Who Am I Kidding? My Entire House Is A Code Violation

2009-10-12T06:22:00.003-05:00

Far be it for me to second guess the local fire codes, especially when I live in a house that, at any moment, could probably burst into flames simply because IT HATES ME, but really?

I got an appraisal on windows on Saturday and the new fire code is that a house has to have a smoke detector in every bedroom.

We have a tiny house. Upstairs we have a tiny hallway with all bedrooms coming off it.

The smoke detector is in the tiny hallway, less than four feet from each bedroom.

Yeah, yeah, I realize that the reasoning stems from people shutting their bedroom doors at night but it seems like there should also be some sort of indication of how far apart the smoke detectors need to be.

But, as I said, my house hates me. If it ever burns to the ground and the arson investigator has to write a final report, I can guarantee his conclusions would be: "Cause of fire: The house appears to have gathered tremendous amounts of psychic energy over the years and it used this to burst into flames when its lack of arms or hands disallowed it from 'cutting a bitch'".

The windows dude said that inspectors have been notorious for going in after they have installed their windows and not bothering to look at the windows, they just check to see if the smoke detectors are in place. Oh? Not in compliance? Guess what? You get to pay this fee to the city which is great because the city is broke and this is how we're making up for it."

Parking meters and smoke detectors people. We'll get this city put back right in no time!

Do Not Adjust Your Monitor: It Is, In Fact, Knitting

2009-10-12T05:20:00.006-05:00

This used to be a knitting blog.

Hey, guess what? Here's some knitting!

I only made the squares about two and a half years ago.

I discovered them during the great purges that have happened periodically over the past few months.

I had high hopes and big plans for a HUGE afghan but I only got this many squares created before I started to drift.

So instead of a HUGE afghan I now have a lapghan, or a HUGE potholder.

I like the word HUGE.

It's quite toasty warm and since every last project I've had has been eaten by a pet before completion over the past few months, I'm going to call this a success.

I'm sure the cat will have it destroyed by next week.

Didn't I Hear All This On Dr. Phil?

2009-10-11T07:48:00.003-05:00

Ever had a couple glasses (bottles) of wine and started to comprise your list of relationship "warning signs"? You know, actual things that have happened in your past relationships that you were to stupid to heed but in retrospect, with a head soaked in a little too much alcohol, you realize can be tragically hilarious?

Cuz really, pain and sadness not only deepen our strength and give a greater luster to our colors, but it also gives us some kick ass stories to tell as we whistle past the graveyard.

STBX put an engagement ring on my finger and as I was going all gushy he says "Yeah, that ring has only been on the finger of one other girl. She turned me down." Hmmm. Smart girl.
My former father-in-law warned STBX against marrying me because I was filled with too much "moxie". What the hell does THAT mean? That I'd get a little pissy if you hit me? Apparently it was a latent moxie, also known as "Mamma Bear" syndrome.
My former father-in-law explaining to me, as I held my newborn, how it was important to know that you should beat your kids if you needed to, cuz it's the only way to get your point across at times... Yeah, thanks for that Doctor Spock. Hooray for stellar parenting! He also chewed me out for dressing my little girl in blue because it would make her "funny". Sorry to rain on your parade dad-in-law, but the first signs of a lesbian baby are the booties. They will be VERY SENSIBLE.
After being found out as a cheater, having STBX literally look me in the eye and say "You know, I could go and visit her on the weekends and stay here during the week." This was about 24 hours before I learned the whole story. This was his line of thinking and to this day, I regret not dope slapping him with a crowbar.

We all have them...cringe-worthy moments...let's discuss!

The Ups And The Downs

2009-10-10T04:59:00.001-05:00

To follow up Thursday's discussion on forgiveness, let's continue on with today's discussion: Revictimization.

I think the majority of crime victims will probably agree that what ever restitution was ordered for them wasn't nearly enough. I'm going to hazard a guess and say that for many people, money is quite a ways down on the list. I'm going to guess that most crime victims want what was taken from them. They were violated and given back a lifetime of anxiety, fear, depression, sadness, low self esteem, loss of a loved one, health, ability, and being made to "feel like a victim".

Go ahead and place a monetary value on that. I'll give you this form and you need to show receipts to support your answers and please, make sure you use a black or blue pen and I'll just let you sit here for the next five minutes and finish it because I actually should have given you this two weeks ago but I forgot so now I have to go and file it with the court by 4:30 today. OK?

That feeling that you get as you sit there and stare at the clipboard and the pile of receipts and doctor's reports sitting next to you, getting progressively more illegible because you seem to be leaking tears all over the place? That's called revictimization. That is the day in and day out feelings that the system and our society put on a victim of crime. Perhaps you're getting blamed for being in the short skirt at a bar at midnight, I mean, when a woman is raped one of the first things she's asked is "What were you wearing?"

Do you think they really are asking her what she was wearing because they were interested in her fashion sense? Or is she being asked this because hey, who wouldn't give permission for five frat boys to gang bang a pretty girl in a short skirt?

It can be as overt as that or as subtle as a trip to the courthouse for an order for protection and being treated by an officious clerk as if you were the stupidist human being ever to walk the face of the earth. What do you mean you don't know how to fill out this seven page form in which you are asked to detail every intimate aspect of your life and why you are now terrified of this person and please describe in detail the perpetrator and what do you mean you didn't bring a photo of him? How do you expect us to know what he looks like if you didn't bring a photo??

Yeah, just a little bit of personal experience there. Put that experience on top of having two or three children at my feet, having to have ridden the city bus there, and not knowing where I will take my family because if I go home, he will find us all and kill us.

That's the journey that victims of physical abuse go through. And what do their friends say to them? "Why didn't you leave sooner?"

And what do people that I've met ten minutes earlier say to me? "How could you have NOT known what was going on?"

That was a question posed to me a couple days ago. I then spent fifteen minutes explaining some of the tactics used by pedophiles: lying by omission, manipulation, taking advantage of situations where one spouse works one shift and the other spouse works a separate shift. In the middle of it all, I wanted to stop and ask: Are you with your husband 100% of the time? Do you ALWAYS go to bed at the same time? Do you ALWAYS get up at the same time? Do you NEVER let your husband and your kids spend time alone together?

What would be their answer? "Why, of course they spend time alone together but I TRUST him. He would NEVER do that."

And then I will lean across the table and say "Welcome to my word. By the way, you are full of shit."

But of course, I didn't do that. I did the dance that society dictates that I do. I gave my report in blue or black ink and I did it in fifteen minutes so that it could be turned in to the powers that be because it was up to ME to justify that something had been done that was wrong.

I am tired of playing this game. I am promising myself that the next time this happens, I won't explain the MO of pedophiles. I will explain the concept of revictimization.

And then I will tell them to shut the fuck up.

A little musical interlude anyone?

My Right Arm

2009-10-09T01:15:00.006-05:00

I have had two spectacular things occur in my life. Yes, I could get all into the Hallmark greeting card way of thinking and say that "Every day that I wake up and see the beautiful sunrise is a spectacular day," but I'm not. Sunrises are nice but they existed before I walked this earth and I'm guessing they will exist for quite a long time after we've all shed our mortal coils.

So, suck on that Hallmark.

I'm bringing things down to a much more personal level. I am talking about my life seventeen years ago changing drastically in the best sort of way.

I never was the kind of person to babysit when I was a teenager. I never found other people's children to be that fascinating.

At the time that my daughter was born, I had probably held two, maybe three babies in my life.

And let me tell you, labor and delivery nurses have NO sense of humor. If you make a joking comment that "Food goes in one end and the diaper goes on the other, right?" they will not be amused. Nor will any other adult in the room. (It might not be post par tum depression ladies, you might actually be surrounded by assholes.)

But I had my little girl. She was pink and round and wonderful. From her first few hours, she was already developing her sense of humor. I've never seen a new born baby picture where the

baby actually looks like she is saying "hmmmmm. Do you really think your qualified to operate that camera?"

Perhaps it was just my lack of knowledge about the whole baby-thing but I had never seen a happier baby. When I got her first real belly laugh, it made me understand what all the hoopla was about. Yeah, these baby-things can be kinda cool.

I remember the baby monitor as being a curse and a blessing. Her room was just down the hall and any normal human being would have not even bothered with it but of course, the "how to be a paranoid new mother" manual said I needed to get one.

So I would wake up at every little rustle of the blankets. That was annoying

But I would also be woken in the morning with the conversation of a happy baby with her toys. I remember lying there, listening with a stupid grin on my face as she rang the bell and turned the knobs on her busy box. I'd want to rush into her room to pick her up but I also wanted to wait and listen to her conversation.

After a few minutes, I'd come into her room and I'd be greeted with this amazing smile.

Every day is ripe with infinite possibilities. That is one thing that I learned about being a parent.

I wanted my little girl to know that she was loved and to know that no matter what, I believed in her.

I remember actually having moments at the playground where I though, hmmmm, a good parent wouldn't let her do that because she might get hurt but, if I stop her and tell her not to climb so high, I'll be giving her the idea that she is incapable of climbing. I'll be letting her know that since the world is a dangerous place, it is best not to do things that can get you hurt.

And then I would shake my head and think, do all mothers have this struggle? I'd look around at the other mothers on the playground that wouldn't let their little girls climb to the top of the slide or worse yet, would tell their daughters "don't get dirty" while their sons were covered head to toe in mud.

"How high can you go?" I'd ask her.

And then I would casually stand beneath the monkey bars and try not to give the impression that I was the least bit concerned when I was actually terrified out of my mind.

But I was always ready to catch her if she needed me to. That's another thing I learned about being a parent.

I also learned that a broken camera was a good thing and no empty oatmeal can should be thrown away. They didn't beep or flash or do anything fancy. They just provided hours and hours of fun.

There were those hazy times, about nineteen months into the whole "first time parent" schtick when certain additions made life even more interesting. There were days when I was fully aware that this new baby-thing that I had brought home from the hospital was not necessarily appreciated, but it was none the less, tolerated.

Since we lived in the middle of nowhere, Oklahoma and I functioned as a single parent the majority of the time (STBX was in the merchant marine still), I learned to take the kids and hit the road and get stuff done.

Driving to Oklahoma City to get Christmas shopping done with two small children and no help? Piece of cake. Coming out of the mall to discover that you have a flat tire after hours of shopping and two children THAT WERE NOT AMUSED? Piece of crap. Getting a spare tire onto the car and getting the kids over to the tire place where we had to wait another hour or so for service? Piece of bigger crap.

Feeding my babies from a vending machine for the first time and telling my daughter that she could have some "fizzy juice" when it was really Sprite? Priceless. I watched her drink a pop and I thought to myself "Now I'm truly an Oklahoman. Next time, I'll have to fill the baby bottle with Coke." Not a stellar moment but we rolled with the punches.

We moved to Minnesota right before Christmas in 1995. Want to have some fun as a parent? Take two kids that have never seen REAL snow and plop them down in a snowbank as soon as the moving truck stops.

Much hilarity will ensue. And you will no doubt be the cause of their lifelong aversion to snow and cold.

But I have to side with Garrison Keillor when he says that the cold Minnesota weather makes people stronger. I've been trapped alone in a cabin with my kids for three days with a one day diaper supply and we managed. Not well, but we managed.

And I believe the sum total of our last few months could be told in the story of returning from that snow bound cabin. We struggled to get back to Duluth (after dropping STBX off at a ship up the northshore) and when we got back to lakeside, our street hadn't been plowed. The snow was up to my waist and there was not a single broken track down our street. I looked at my baby boy and my toddler girl and I realized we had no choice. I couldn't leave them behind to go break a trail and I couldn't just take one without the other.

I did my best to convince my daughter that this was just another step in our very snowy adventure. I grabbed our bags and the baby and broke a trail as best I could. This consisted of wallowing in the snow in a forward motion for an entire block, all the while telling my daughter to "keep it up! you're doing good! We're almost there!" The snow was practically over her head but she persisted. We worked together and when we reached our front door, we opened it and basically fell into the front hall and just laid there for a few minutes, collecting our thoughts.

She looked at me, lying there in a breathless heap with her baby brother in my arms and stated matter-of-factly, "I don't want to play in the snow anymore."

I couldn't have agreed more.

I think that was the origin of the dream team known now as the Harkness Family.

Sometimes the snow can be over your head and all you can do is the best you can do. Forward momentum and warm woolen mittens can be the most important in life.

That and the realization of just how much you are loved.

For seventeen years, I have known the most amazing woman on the face of this earth.

Happy Birthday my dear.

Hmmm. I'll Bet Prisoners Don't Go Hungry...

2009-10-08T08:59:00.004-05:00

I refuse to go into an extended diatribe of what payday is.

I'm not going to give any visuals of a drowning woman who gets to surface twice a month, long enough to pay the bills. only to look in the cupboard and wonder if two people can eat crisco smeared on triskets for the next two weeks.

No, because that would be depressing and whiney and oh so irritating. No one likes irritating and the pedo coddlers would accuse me of feeling sorry for myself.

So I won't.

I also won't go into the story of trying to visit the food shelf last week after work and as I pulled up, three cop cars with their light's flashing came to a screeching halt in front of me and jumped out and ran inside.

Yeah. Just want some food. Not looking to be a witness to a crime. I've had enough of criminals making my life an adventure.

I'll pull up my big girl panties and try it again next week.

Hey, my bills are paid, I guess I shouldn't bitch.

But I sure as hell have a new favorite song.

The F Word

2009-10-08T04:06:00.001-05:00

No, it's not that word.

I don't need to discuss that word. That word, for me, is the colored marshmallow in my breakfast cereal; totally unnecessary, no doubt bad for me, and I'm going to eat it just the same. It keeps my head from exploding and prevents aneurysms.

The other "F" word I'm going to touch on today is actually more highly charged in my mind. It is forgiveness.

Up to this point, I've been under the impression that forgiveness meant condoning the action. Forgiveness meant throwing open my arms and saying "You were right! You didn't have any control and I'm so sorry for all your personal misery."

Yeah. That ain't gonna happen.

I even discussed forgiveness with my therapist and I asked if I needed to forgive in order to move on and be healthy in my own head. She said I didn't.

But I have had the opportunity to discuss the concept of forgiveness with a person from the criminal justice system recently. (And no, it wasn't the MN Sex Offender's Program.)

Forgiveness looks a lot different when the relationship is not going to continue. It isn't about communication and dialogue and rebuilding trust and going forward from this moment with a clean slate. It isn't about condoning an action. It isn't about making excuses or accepting excuses.

It basically involves cessation of negative actions against that person.

It basically means that you take that two ton weight that is around your neck and you set it down and you walk away.

Oh yeah, and you won't stand outside the prison gate with a shotgun on release day.

Framed like this, I can see where, someday, I could get there. I don't know if I would call it forgiveness, I think apathy is a more apt description. I have days where I can actually do apathy. That is an easier concept for me because I can honestly say "You've done nothing but negatively impact my life for nearly 18 years. I'm not going to expend anymore energy on you. You aren't worth it."

But I suppose when the last bit of legalese is finished, I get to call my apathy "forgiveness". Perhaps forgiveness is apathy on steroids? There are just a couple more legal hurdles as far as STBX goes and then I might have to meditate on my belly button for awhile.

The hardest part, the one that will take a lifetime, is to forgive myself. I can learn all about how pedophiles are masters at manipulation and I can be stunned by the concept of "lying by omission" that was the trademark of STBX's modus operandi. I can learn about the wheels of power and see how I was a cog in the great machine. I can learn all of the concepts and the vocabulary and see the statistics laid out in front of me.

But to acknowledge the weight of the three rocks lashed to my back, labeled "You could have...", "You should have...", and "You didn't" and then set them down and walk away?

I'm working on it.

Father Merrin, My Interior Decorator

2009-10-07T04:04:00.008-05:00

Hooray for the people that "get it".

When all the shit hit the fan, we were living in the physical manifestation of what was going on in STBX's head. In other words, a disaster zone.

I had many smart people tell me that I needed to "reclaim the space". We needed to make it a new space. Something that looked and felt different. Something that, should he ever care to think back upon what he did, he would be remembering a place that no longer existed.

Getting rid of furniture that he had lived on was the first step. There are ghosts imbued in furniture, in case you didn't know. If you sit at the end of the dining room table and look across at the empty chair, it's never just an empty chair. It is HIS empty chair. You know, the one that did this and that and the other and zoooooom....you're down the road a million miles and hour, careening out of control.

That's why my first purchase was a comfy chair for myself. I had never had my very own comfy chair and our house had always, ALWAYS been a very uncomfortable place. Every place to sit down on was hard and painful and I made it my own personal mission to never have any of my friends come to my house. I love my friends. I hated my house. The two just don't go together at all.

The fixing up has been gradual, I do what I can, when I can. But a couple days ago I ran into a friend that I hadn't seen in over a year. He had seen the article in the paper and was asking how I was "really" doing. When I said I was still in the same house, he gave me his total and complete "I love you and I have the ability to see to the very center of your soul" look and asked that most important question "And is this ok with you?"

Those are the questions that lay a gentle hand on your softly beating heart. There have been a few moments like that in this journey, times when I have such an overwhelming fondness for my friends that I nearly start to cry. Not because I am sad, but because I am loved.

"Well, it's getting better," I explained. "It's already very different than what he would remember and most of the things that he poisoned are gone."

I then proceeded to explain. The time is getting closer. The time of the great fix up.

See, there's this guy I know. We go way back...

Now, most people might look at their old family photos and laugh and tell this story or that and pass it all around to the rest of the family members present, who, of course, get to see each other regularly and can remember and embellish upon each others stories.

Since we didn't get to grow up together and so many of our separate family photos were lost, finding photos where we are actually together is like finding a diamond ring your box of Captain Crunch.

I don't know how my siblings react but I find myself holding these photos delicately. They are proof of a time that I can barely recall. Proof that, at one time, for one day, maybe for a few hours, we were together and whole.

Even at a young age, my big brother was no doubt thinking of ways to trick out the tricycle.

Yeah, the plastic streamers on the handlebars were waaaaay to 1960's.

Now my brother is iinto creating beautiful old cars out of scrapped old bodies and pieces and parts from all over the world. Everything is original and incredibly restored. There are many trophies and awards to show just how good he is...

I felt like The Joker when I was standing inside his garage while on vacation.
"Where does he get all those COOL TOYS!"

But my brother has always been there. In bad decisions...

and in good...

And if I included the photo that I have of his amazing wife, she would no doubt dope slap me so I will just say that they are a dynamic duo and I will get a much better picture of her when they come to visit in a couple weeks.

Yes, they are taking a vacation to visit Duluth, MN, right when it's getting cold.

Snow? Why I believe it is in the forecast for this weekend...

And they are bringing with them their dynamic duo capabilities. And tools. And my birthday present...a new floor.

Because they get it too. They understand that it's not just about fixing a house. It's about exorcising the ghosts and claiming a space.

Tools? Check. Paint? Check. Screws? Check Holy Water? Check.

God Is Dead And 10,000 Social Workers Have Risen To Take His Place

2009-10-06T04:09:00.001-05:00

Going to a human services conference can be an interesting experience, especially when you, as a human, have been serviced so much in the past nine and a half months.

I can see it now, lines and lines of broken human beings, one by one being put on hoists like a car. With much pneumatic noise in the air, social workers rush in to tighten all their loose screws.

A great cosmic pit stop.

Well, that's kind of how my brain works. No matter where I go or what I do, I can stop without meaning to and totally have a moment of cognitive dissonance.

I am among hundreds and hundreds of amazing people doing amazing work.

And the world is so broken and the task is so big and I just have to have a moment to take it all in...

And then my brain just sort of skips ahead to visions of a real body shop...

And then somebody bumps my elbow as they hurry by and I'm torn from my daydream to find myself standing in front of the booth of a group that is all about fatherhood...Did you know that fathers are not only wonderful and great but are also a necessity? And in times of severe deprivation, they can be used as a viable protein source by cannibalistic societies? Hooray for fathers! Giving it their all!

Yeah, I went THERE too. I know I stood in front of their booth, staring at them for longer than was socially acceptable and quite a few thoughts ran through my mind but thankfully I shook myself out of the urge to verbalize them and I made a quick turn and walked in the opposite direction...

and nearly tripped over the MN Sex Offender Program's booth.

In my head, I was thinking "oh, HELL no!" but once again, I think I just sort of stood there gaping like a fish out of water. The woman at the booth gave me a quizzical look and said in a very upbeat tone "So, are you interested in a job with the MN Sex Offender's Program?"

In the period of three minutes, I had gone from visualizing an entire universe of broken people to the tragedy of shitty fathers to the bigger trauma of meeting STBX's new foster family.

"Nooooo," I know I sounded batshit crazy at this point. "My daughter's offender is in Moose Lake and someday, I hope to not be married to him so I don't think I'm your best potential employee..."

She never missed a beat. She just smiled and said "I think you're right."

Well, everybody needs to be right at least once in a day.

Perhaps She Was Just A Young Writer On A Bus, Dreaming A Young Writer's Dreams

2009-10-05T01:21:00.000-05:00

Dreaming about the future is an amazing activity. I highly recommend it.

When was the last time any of us really sat down and said "In five years, I want to be doing this and I want to be doing it here..."

God! It's a hard thing to come to terms with the fact that you have been sleepwalking through life. I started "leaving" in my head a couple years ago. I told myself "anywhere but here".

Things are certainly more precarious now, but I can actually think for a change. I am formulating my plan, I'm dreaming, I'm checking out potential job markets, and I'm even being so bold as to look at real estate listings in the part of the country where I want to be.

Yeah, there's still the plan to hang out here until high school is done and college is started. That will just give me time to do the whole school thing myself.

But it just lifts my spirits.

Possibilities, hope, planning, and forward momentum.

I'm ok with that.

I Need A Therapist Who Can Do Home Repair

2009-10-04T02:25:00.001-05:00

For those of you about to get a claw foot tub, can I offer you a gentle piece of interior decorating advice?

AREYOUABSOLUTELYINSANE???

The funniest thing about my house is that, when we bought this place we ticked off all the awful things about it (which I actually thought would get fixed one day) and then I said those fateful words: "But it has a claw foot tub. I love claw foot tubs!"

Before encountering this claw foot tub, I had only experienced one other. I was house sitting in Maine and there was a claw foot tub. I was determined to take a nice bath in it because hey, that's the way it goes in all those chick flicks, right?

Little did I know that most old houses don't have enough water heating capacity to fill an old tub, even up to a somewhat acceptable level. This means you might have a beautiful tub surrounded by romantically lit candles and sensuous rose petals but the .5 inches of water that you will fill it with will turn stone cold in approximately 3.68 minutes. You will struggle to get out of the massive beast when your muscles have atrophied due to the cold and the second you hit that pile of rose petals, you will slide across the floor and upend one of those candles, scalding your nethers and forcing you to come up with a creative story when you go into the emergency room with a second degree burn on your labia.

Not that I know from first hand experience or anything.

So yeah, I thought a claw foot tub was a positive thing because I don't learn things too good.

So, our hot water heater never kept up with it until I replaced it at the beginning of the year.

Hooray! I thought, now I can enjoy our tub!

But there's always the problem of painting around it. And tearing up carpeting around it. And scraping paint off the window right next to it and getting ones thigh wedged between the tub and the wall. (A situation that calls for a liberal dose of extra virgin olive oil. Not regular vegetable oil because THAT is not only unhealthy but it is also cheap. When in a crisis, it is best to reach for the most expensive oil so that when you fail to dislodge yourself, at least the paramedics and firemen will thing you are a classy idiot.)

I'm waiting on dealing with the window since the great thigh wedging incident. I have been traumatized. TRAUMATIZED! So in order to feel like I was not stagnating, I decided to rip out the disgusting carpet.

I purposely had my cell phone in my pocket since I had visions of getting stuck again and I was going to be alone. Plus, I could imagine tugging on the carpet beneath one of those oh-so-stylish clawed feet and having the entire tub come crashing down on my head. With my luck, it wouldn't kill me outright. It would just leave me dain bramaged and the source of yet another round of stories down at the lakeside firehouse.

I used to be a paramedic. Stupid people can be an endless source of mirth and levity.

And anyone that has ever worked in emergency medicine will never doubt Darwin's "survival of the fittest" theory.

I also had the lofty goal of not chopping off my fingers while dismembering the carpet beneath the tub with a knife.

Well, the carpet is gone. My fingers are intact. And I only had one claw foot come off while my shoulder was beneath the lip of the tub.

Ever think you were incapable of moving a behemoth claw foot tub using only your shoulder and a horrifying fear of dying in the bathroom? Trust me, you are stronger than you think you are.

And if you're lucky like me, when you dislocate a joint, you can just pop it right back in with a sprinkling of screamed profanities and a little bit of traction.

The experience also taught me that it is never a good thing to personify inanimate objects. Just because the tub is big and fat and does nothing but take up space and makes me very sad and angry, it is never a good idea to give it a name and start wacking it with the closest thing I have, the big rubber mallet which is kept next to the window to aid in its opening and closure.

Yes, I was alone in the house and having the occasional melt down is good for the soul but after I stopped beating the tub with the rubber mallet and I wiped the river of snot from my nose and I scrubbed my tear stained face with the back of my hand like a two year old, l realized that I had an audience.

Two dogs and two cats who were looking most concerned.

That's just not how they do it on This Old House.

A Rift Through Space And Time

2009-10-03T07:43:00.003-05:00

There is no other way to describe it. I'm tired of logic and reason.

Things in this house go missing and it has nothing to do with anything but a simple rift in the time/space continuum. It is the opposite of Cardiff which gets things deposited. I get things taken away.

Hey, perhaps my stuff is in Cardiff! Perhaps the fact that I can only find two dish towels now and two spoons is because they are lying on the pavement in the Millennium Center.

When STBX was here, he blamed any missing object on myself or the kids. He could do a fifteen minute rant about how we always lost his stuff and then when he would find it right in the pile where he left it, there was never an acknowledgement or an apology. We were always wrong, he was always right and that was the nature of the universe.

But there was always another theory that he would propose when he couldn't find what he was looking for. His propositions were sometimes given with a lack of his usual "fuck you" sarcasm, presenting me with someone who was either a really good actor (#1 in deception!) or else a freakin' lunatic.

Did you know that when he would lose his stuff it was because someone broke into our house and took it? Of course, when I would lose something of mine it was because I lost it. But since he never screwed up he had to find another reason. I never could figure out what differentiated something that he thought I lost with something that he said was stolen.

We have VERY selective thieves in lakeside. They only take the possessions of one spouse and they always bypass the flat screen tv in favor of the pipe wrench.

I think that's been one of the biggest irritants when I deep clean this house. It is the constant sliver under my fingernail. I come across things that are so totally buried in his crap and I remember the accusations and the sheer assholery that I went through when he would be so intent on letting me know that I was a screw up.

This irritation can come out in rather inappropriate ways as I'll be digging through the garage and find something and I'll stand there, object in hand, cursing it a blue streak and letting it know that no, I'm not the idiot that lost it.

Which brings me back to the present. To reality.

Things go missing in our house.

We do not have thieves that are particular to dish towels and spoons.

I do not have a spouse that I can unload on and tell him that he JUST NEEDS TO LEAVE MY STUFF ALONE!

I choose to look at the situation realistically.

There is a stuff-sucking vortex in my house that is transporting my towels and spoons to Cardiff, Wales.

Makes perfect sense, doesn't it?

And let me tell you, it is SUCH a relief to get that paranoid wack job outta here!

He was so totally out of touch with reality.

Be There!

2009-10-02T12:05:00.002-05:00

The convergence of art and survival/recovery can never be stressed enough.

If you're a local folk and are so inclined, please join me Sunday for an exhibit of just that fact.

The Sweetest Thing

2009-10-02T05:48:00.006-05:00

It is Friday and because I'm just a little bit special, that should have me doing the happy dance. However, I have been infested with a cold and I have been in and out of work all week. The most I can do right now is wave my spaghetti-like arms in the air and whoop feebly.

I am ingesting mass quantities of my admitted addiction though...no, not meth. As I stated earlier, I'm rather fond of my teeth. And not heroin, I really don't go for that gaunt- gotta get a fix and I'll mess you up to do it-schtick.

I'm speaking of honey. Yes, the golden nectar of the gods which allows me to take in vast amounts of sugar while saying in my best "I shop at the co-op and am more organic than thou" drone "Why yes, I am terribly concerned with the working conditions of the Bulu Bulu people in Farawayastan."

Anyone who has been here long enough knows that I am a bee groupie. Some people like hip hop, some like Star Trek, I like bees. And Doctor Who...and yes, most bees are aliens from Melissa Majoria and why didn't I learn this in science class??? My public school education was A JOKE!

But I digress.

I happen to use a lot of honey. I love a bread recipe in my Cooks Country Cookbook for sandwhich bread which calls for honey. I don't use a bread machine and this is one of the few recipes that I will stand at my counter and do upper body calisthenics for twenty minutes to make it come out right.

Need I mention what a BLT tastes like made with homemade bread, garden lettuce and tomato, and "happy organic pig" bacon? Why yes, I did just use my "more organic than thou" voice, thank you for noticing.

Aside from the bread, I have taken to sweetening my coffee with honey. as the weather gets colder I am gravitating towards the sweets and a sweetened cup of coffee (or ten) in the morning gives me more satisfaction than my marriage ever did.

And a sweetened with honey cup of coffee will never, NEVER, cost you $4300.00 in legal fees.

Once again, I digress. (I'm starting to wonder if there is a toxic level of honey which causes massive ADHD symptoms, as I seem to be veering all over the...hey, I need some more coffee...be right back...)

Where all this hullabaloo is leading is that I am about to do a product placement ad...are you ready? Cuz I'm about to sell out and ENDORSE a product. Buckle your seat belts because you know I am going to be raking in the big bucks from this Fortune 500 company and will be forever tainted and you will call me a schill and hate me forever. I will preface this endorsement with the following statement: These people don't know me. I don't know them. They are just my dealers.

As I stated a couple days ago, I am not only addicted to honey but I am addicted to a specific honey. It's a honey that I tasted at the Wednesday Farmer's Market (you are allowed to taste before you buy...). I don't normally go to the Wednesday market because, you know, I have a job. I just happened to be running an errand and I passed by the market and I thought hmmmm! I wonder if it's any different than the Saturday market.

Guess what! It is!

Being a bee/honey groupie gives me a cupboard full of different kinds of honey. In case you aren't a bee nerd, honey can have vastly different flavors depending on what flowers bees are hanging out on, what time of the year it is, and whether or not they are preparing for their once in a lifetime migration to Melissa Majoria. The thing is, I usually end up buying honey and using it and all is well but it is just that, honey. It is good and tasty and wonderful but I've never taken a taste and went "Holy cow! This tastes like rainbows and unicorn dreams!"

But then I walked by the Walter's Family booth and I was offered a spoonful of honey.

And it tasted like rainbows and unicorn dreams.

And then, I became a freak.

I wasn't planning on buying honey that day but I did. And I went back a week later because I had used the entire bottle and that time I bought two bottles. Last Wednesday? Three bottles.

I try not to be the freak show that I know I am but when I'm writing out my check I have to tell perspective customers that they obviously don't understand JUST HOW GOOD THIS HONEY IS!

I have a cupboard full of honey. I don't need this honey.

But I NEED this honey.

Yeah. Freak show!

So as much as I want to keep all of their wonderful honey to myself, I think beekeepers rock and I think if it is humanly possible, one should take a taste of their honey. They are on Facebook under Miel Walters. You can contact them at waltersfamilyapiary@yahoo.com.

And if you happen to go to the market next week and there is a woman with her hands full of Walter's Honey who is eyeing everyone with the suspicion that only a severe addiction can cause, just back away and don't look her in the eye.

She's only dangerous if you look her in the eye...

Dear Future Owners Of This House:

2009-10-01T17:46:00.004-05:00

I've been thinking a lot about you lately! We don't even know each other but every time I open and close my bathroom window with a rubber mallet, I think of you.

I hope that when this house is done getting its face lifted (it needs more help than Phyllis Diller ever did), that there will come a day when you are living in this house and you won't utter my most frequent phrase related to this house:

"WHAT THE FUCK!? WAS THIS PLACE BUILT BY DRUNKEN MONKEYS????"

It's almost like I'm sensing your presence as I go about my redecorating business. I walked through Home Depot and as I looked at all of my options regarding windows (note:big rubber mallets don't go down too well during a real estate open house) I didn't think about what I liked, I thought about you.

Would this be a good place for you? Will you walk in and say "Hey! That's a nice paint job!" Or will you take one look at the color choices and start exploring the back yard, looking for all the empty whiskey bottles.

FYI: It wasn't whiskey, it was beer. And the bottles weren't mine. And there were over 300 of them in the basement but now they're gone.

Hey, how do you like the basement? Note the decrease in black mold...sexy isn't it? If you only knew how I used to dread even touching the slop sink down there. That wasn't "my" territory. But since it has become "my" territory, it is at least not disgusting.

I won't even begin to go into what it was like to find his dirty work clothes thrown beneath the filthy slop sink. That was just last week. Still finding the treasures and to think, the rainbow faded a long time ago.

By the time we leave here, this will be a different house. For some strange reason, that is important to me.

We won't be passing on the neglect or the half finished projects. We won't be passing on the peeling wallpaper and the cracked walls. The rotted windows and the threadbare carpet will be gone.

And the ghosts?

Don't worry about the ghosts.

I'm sure I'll be taking them with me.

Gimme Some Sleep

2009-10-01T06:07:00.004-05:00

The inner nets can be used for good things too.

And no, I'm not about to hit people up for money so don't click onto Dooce just yet, that woman get's plenty of hits per day...sit with me a spell and engage me with your collective wisdom.

My daughter has been having trouble with insomnia lately. She is also not a fan of taking meds although I believe she's agreed to take a multi-vitamin since she doesn't drink milk and even though it would be a wonderful world if we could all eat enough ice cream to get our calcium, let's get real.

As usual, it's one thing to hear her talk about insomnia. It's another to see how she feels.

This is her...on no sleep. (This was also me about four months ago except I would have never looked that good in a dress).

She's working on taking more calcium but I know there are other ideas out there that might help her sleep. Ideas to relax the mind and the body.

Bueller? Bueller?

I GOT DOTS!

2009-09-30T06:22:00.003-05:00

Dots of a life:

* The bathroom window that was painted shut for fifteen years is now open. And now that the weather is cold, I can't get it shut.

* The bathroom carpet is pulled halfway up. Never put carpet in your bathroom. Carpet around your toilet is a BAD IDEA.

* Thankfully I have dogs that are so surprised when they wiggle out of their collars that they freeze and stare at me. No William Wallace acts of "FREEDOM!" while shaking their paws to the sky.

* I am addicted to the honey from the Wednesday Farmer's Market. The Walter's Family are unaware that they are my dealers. I am a honey connoisseur and their honey is amazing. And I'm guessing that, as an addiction, it's cheaper and healthier than meth. Hey, at least I get to keep my teeth.

* I am planning on going to Bayfield Applefest next weekend with friends. I haven't been to it since my son was about three. I'm guessing that apples are still involved?

* I am already freezing my ass off and it's not even October. I am going to inject wool directly into my veins.

* I discovered that the special slacks I bought for the sentencing and wore to the divorce paper signing were shredded when I was dragged by my friend's dog. I did love those pants but realistically, the pooch did me a favor. Now I won't say things like "Hey, I want to look nice so I think I'll wear the sentencing slacks!"

* The sales lady at the store where I bought said 'sentencing slacks' didn't get my humor when I went to replace the slacks and asked how durable the new pair were. "Can they stand up to being dragged by a large mammal?" I'm guessing that she hasn't been asked that before.

* I now have a kicky outfit in case I'm looking to do great things, like interview for a job or take over a small Central American country. Hey Nicaragua, I'm looking right at you!

I am the quiet old lady, whispering "hush"

2009-09-29T16:40:00.004-05:00

Around here, there's always an option: vacuum the carpet or tear it up.

But after tearing it up there's always the realization that you have to actually sweep the floors occasionally or else the tumbleweeds of dog and cat hair will roll in your wake and you will be followed by an ethereal spaghetti western sound track.

It is best to keep the hands as busy as the mind.

Today was a day of niggling memories. The kind of memories that curl like cigarette smoke, in one ear, swirling through the canyons and ridges of your brain, reminding you that you have been watching waaaayy to much of the Ken Burns documentary lately and no, the Grand Canyon of Yosemite is not your brain and frankly, health care for all would be America's REAL best idea.

That's the thing about memories. One little thought. One marble released into the game and you're off. You bounce from one thought to the next, never stopping, never connecting A to B and never realizing that where you are right now is a direct product of "going there" an hour ago.

Memory begets thought. Thought begets thought. Thought begets another thought.

It is hard to connect the dots because by doing so, it leads back to the beginning. The memory. The initiation of this pinball game. This mind storm. This vortex.

The beginning is always the hardest place to go.

The center of it all is where the monsters live.

Allow Me To Introduce Myself...My Name Is Jane Doe

2009-09-28T06:17:00.003-05:00

No, I'm not trying to pull a fast one.

No, I'm not trying to forge checks or use someone else's credit card.

I'm just trying to establish the new me.

As I've been working out the whole new name gig, I have been throwing my new last name in as a hyphenate while I still endure my old last name. Sort of like taking the last place pig at the county fair and putting half a tube of lipstick on it.

See, now it's ALLLLLLLL Pretty!

Except for the fact that hyphenated names annoy me.

And when I have to call someone, I invariably lose the strength in my voice once I get passed the first (legal) part. I end up sounding like some little kid that knows she's done wrong and is trying to be honest but also, trying to hide the fact that she's done wrong.

Then there are the people that know me as Christina and not Tina. Guess what I do when I answer the phone? The reflexes of decades kick in and I say "This is Tina". Funnily enough, there are a lot of people out there that can't seem to find the connection between the name Christina and Tina. If your name is Christina, you can't possible go by the name Tina, why, that would be CRAZY!

So I have people say "oh hello Tina, can I talk to Christina?" and then I have to pretend to laugh and act like I don't want to say "listen chuckles, you called the right number and the right extension and funnily enough, you got the right person."

I chose a name similar to my current name for the sake of my friends. I wanted it to be an easy choice to CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT. Christina will answer to Tina and last time I checked, Tina was ok with being Christina. It's the last name that I won't compromise on.

If I had realized that there would be these weird issues anyway, I would have gone with something far more interesting. Perhaps Penelope J. Vandersnatch?

Or as my daughter stated during this whole ridiculous name change head game by STBX: "Just call me mailbox".