today: pumpkin-brained me

This is pulled from the sex blog today. Although it is slightly edited for the normal blog, it is still pretty racy here and there. You've been warned...

Today I am exhausted. It's partly from a week long break from physical therapy (crap involving the insurance company, blah blah) that is causing me to tighten back up into a ball of claws and pain, and part of it is because my husband woke me up last night.

(laughs)

Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm not mad at him, except in my pointy clawed sleep deprived head. Here's what happened:

I went to bed, exhausted. As my pain meds were kicking in, I was thrilled to be semi-comfortable and was very sleepy by the time he got in bed next to me. I informed him I was still, sleepiness be damned, VERY willing to be his little fuck toy should he feel so inclined.

He felt so inclined. And the sex was freaking FABULOUS.

But then... I awoke to the bed shaking. My dear hubby was jerking off in bed next to me, which I normally find totally adorable. Usually I pretend I'm asleep so I don't disturb whatever fantasy he's got going on in his head, you know? But last night was not usual, and instead of it being adorable it was rather horrible because his rocking motion was making my spine rattle around in a way that was MOST unpleasant. By the time he was done I was in pain. Yah, I could have just said something, but I didn't think it would take long, and I was half asleep, not really thinking about the repercussions of it all. I also mistakenly thought it was morning, because when I woke up I thought, "Oh! It's Halloween! I must get up and get the little monkey ready for school! Yay!" Even through my pain I was excited, because my son was so excited about it being Halloween...

Well, Jack finished, I made some joke about our sex being so good he just had to watch the rerun, and then he moved and I saw the clock. It was just after midnight. I moaned, "OH FUCK!" because I was wide awake, in a lot of pain, couldn't take any more pain meds till the morning and had fallen asleep in a freshly fucked happy haze, only to be awakened a few hours later in shitloads of pain and pissed.

DAMN IT. I got up to pee, laid back down, and started to cry. I tried to hide it, but finally it was too much. I was having a panic attack, I'd had two hours of sleep, I hurt like hell and was horrified that I would be up all night in agony. I wanted to punch Jack in his stupid head for waking me up. I was so happy asleep! I didn't know I hurt! I was content! Damn his Wake Up Wiener! Argh!

He rolled over and asked me what was wrong and I told him. He held my hand for awhile while I waited for the panic attack to pass, and I just laid there holding his hand over my chest and sobbing as quietly as I could. I finally started to calm back down and fall back asleep, but did that damn herky jerky thing I do when my muscles are spasming.

When I woke up this morning I was miserable and exhausted, but soothed by my husband and son both giving me sweet little good morning smooches while I lay in bed, to wake me up. It was terribly cute.

When I finally sat up I could only just stare at some invisible spot on the wall and groan while hunched over in pain. Jack asked me if he could get me anything and I answered, "A pile of drugs..." You know, straight up, this shit fucking hurts, please get me my medicine because nothing else is going to make this bearable. He did, and I told him I wanted to pre-apologize for being a cranky bitch this morning. He laughed, but in that I'm-laughing-but-somewhat-frightened way, and I explained that I wasn't angry about last night, there was no reason for me to be angry, and I didn't want him to feel like I thought he should feel guilty, even though my pissyness might make him feel otherwise.

I wanted him to know ahead of time that I was going to be miserable and that I wasn't mad, there just wasn't a damn thing I could do. I felt like every part of me had been beaten by what I like to refer to as "The Truck Full Of Angry Gnomes". This is my metaphor for that particular kind of pain, and I think it works very well. The image is this: a dump truck of angry gnomes runs over me in my sleep, then they all pile out and beat me with their little clubs and kick me with their little hard boots, pile back into the truck, back up over me again, and then drive over me one more time for good measure on their way off. Sometimes I swear I can hear their horrible malicious laughter when I wake up...

Anyway, that's my day. It's Halloween, I feel like shit, I had great sex last night but instead I'll tell you this tale of woe.

Underneath all this pain I am cheerful that it's Halloween. And underneath my clothes I am naked. It's one of those It's A Long Ass Way From Point A To Point B kinda things, you see?

But to show I have some sense of humor, I offer you this:



I like my men the way I like my pumpkins- glowing, finely carved and full of brains.

an impasse

Can someone please explain to me what makes men go money crazy? You know, that workaholic thing they do.

Let me back up and explain. I married a guy who was brought up dirt poor like myself. I moved four hundred miles away and left my job and all of my friends behind to be with him. It was worth it.

At the beginning, we talked for hours every day. Hours and hours and hours... well, we lived four hundred miles apart. When you can't get in someone's pants and want to really badly, getting into their head will have to do, right?

I look back on those days with longing. Back then I seemed to be fascinating, charming, glorious.

These days I seem to be a pain in his ass, needy, dependent.

I miss those old days.

I moved here because he had the much better job, and he couldn't find a good paying job anywhere near me. So, what the hell, I took the gamble and left everything to be with him. Like I said, it was worth it.

When I got here, we agreed that I would work while my son was at school, and not put him in after school day care. There are not a lot of jobs out there that want to hire someone between the hours of 9am and 3pm. Probably not even McDonald's, not that I tried. But I busted my ass and looked for a job all over the damn place, then settled for the first one I finally got offered, which turned out to be a fucking hell.

I stuck with the job, despite the complete and total stress of it, because I knew finding another job would prove to be as easy as it was the first time I tried it, duh. And when would I look for this new job? While I was working? Ah, yah. Not so much.

After about six months of losing my fucking mind at that job, my husband asked me to please just quit, it was not WORTH it. It was making me insane. It was making me a total bitch. That is all very true. So I quit.

We had enough money from what my husband makes to get by on, so he said, "Just stay home and write. Write, write, write. That's what you've always wanted to do, so do it." The idea being that I could get a book put together and hopefully start making some money at it.

He proposed a month later. I had a wedding to plan. The book idea got put on the back burner. After the wedding, there was quite a lot of shit going on, but I was writing and writing, although not specifically putting together a manuscript. My husband got irritated and wanted to know what the deal was, why wasn't I holding up my end of the bargain? I told him I was getting around to it, but I needed to figure out the business aspect, decide how I wanted to format it, did I want it to be short stories or have one big theme? That kind of shit. In the meantime, I was still writing every day, so it's not like I was twiddling my damn thumbs, I explained.

I turned up the heat on the back burner and decided to go for it, started assembling pieces, editing them, getting them in order, looking at publishers, all that stuff.

Then I fucked up my neck and entered physical therapy, which is where I have painfully existed ever since. I still write, although nowhere near as much. I still have the work that I had done already set aside, but not enough concentration to feel secure in putting together a manuscript that I would be proud of. Most days I'm lucky if I can put together a complete sentence, much less paragraph, and I feel my loopy ass should not be editing a manuscript until further notice.

The physical therapy won't last forever. A few more months, maybe, I hope.

In the meantime, my husband has been promoted repeatedly, gotten numerous raises, and is now head honcho of his department at work. In my opinion, we are ROLLING in cash. He makes more than my single parent drowning in debt ass ever DREAMED of.

That is tempered by the fact that we both have quite a bit of debts, paying off vehicles and credit cards, student loans and the like. And hells bells, you can believe my physical therapy is putting a dent in the back account.

So. We are slowly climbing out of debt, we don't have piles of cash laying around because my husband has higher aspirations than I ever did: he wants to be out of debt, buy a house, and someday retire. These are things I wouldn't even allow myself the luxury of dreaming of.

These are the things that cause a rift.

His idea of when these things should happen is much sooner than mine. Frankly, I'm still dumbfounded that I get to write, that my back is getting fixed, that we can pay our bills, much less actually pay off debts. The difference is, I am content. He is not.

He wants to pay them off faster. He has a plan, and his plan is ambitious. While I am still gawking at the fact that a bank actually let me have a credit card with MY NAME ON IT, he is watching the clock tick, seeing time flying by too fast while we are no closer to home ownership. I see our slow climb as still a climb. My point is, my bar is set much lower than his.

This is a problem. It is a problem that is getting bigger every day, at least in MY eyes.

Since my husband has been promoted, he has been working more and more, harder and harder. I assume he feels very good about that, I think if I were in his shoes I would, too. When I was a single parent supporting my child, I worked my ass off. If I could have worked till midnight I would have, just to try to get the five thousand pound gorilla of Oh My God How Are We Going To Buy Groceries This Week off of my back. That and the I Hope We Don't Get Evicted gorilla, as well.

I suspect my husband feels these things, although his are not immediate emergencies, they are future plans and time lines that he wants to stick to.

And again, this is where we differ.

I feel he is working so hard that our family is suffering. Our relationship is suffering. And in my eyes, the time line can suck a dick. It is not worth that.

I believe that he feels (I cannot tell you for sure, that would be presumptuous) that I am a slacker whose live-for-today attitude is slowing him down.

We argue about it a lot. I want more family time. He wants more working time. I feel like I stare at his back while he works from home or researches new ideas about work every weekend, every night, and every morning. He feels like he needs to stay on top of his game to get ahead. He is behind at work. He wants to impress his bosses, knock their socks off, or at least knock their wallets into his paycheck.

I get it. I do. But what about now? What about today? What about this morning?

This morning both my son and I got up a little bit earlier than usual, since the whole family managed to (FINALLY) make it to bed at a reasonable time. Usually my husband gets up an hour before my son and I, and is hard at work on the computer by the time we stumble out of bed.

I should note here: we are all ADD cases. My son and I are Inattentive Disorder type (read: space cadets) while my husband is a combo type. What this means is that we all take Adderall. What THAT means is that by the time my son and I drag our sorry butts down the hall, my husband has already eaten a bowl of cereal and his medicine has kicked in full blast. I call it his Laser Brain effect. While it's wonderful for helping him concentrate at work, it does NOT work in a family situation.

What ends up happening most mornings is that my son and I eat our cereal together at the table, while my husband is already laser brain focused on the computer. The computer desk is in the dining room, next to the table (it's sunny and bright and beautiful in here, quite a pleasant place to work). This means that my son and I are three feet away from my husband, who is frantically typing away and doesn't pay much attention to us. The attention he does give us is sporadic and usually rather pissy because he's being interrupted and doesn't like it.

This morning was no different, in fact it seemed worse. I say "seemed" because I really can't tell if it was worse or I'm just so fucking annoyed that it just pissed me off more...(shakes head) I don't know.

At some point my son and I get annoyed with each other over his clothing choice. (It's a long story.) I decide that my anger towards my husband is spilling over into the conversation with my son and I announce, "I am just too annoyed to carry on this conversation at this time. I'll be eating in the other room. I'll be back."

I thought I was doing a good thing. I put myself in Time Out, right? My attitude problem was out of control, and I chose to walk away instead of yell at my son. I thought it was a good idea.

I could hear my son and my husband talking, and as I ate my cereal in the bedroom I thought, "Oh, good. He's finally getting some attention. I guess I just need to have a fit for my son to get some attention from my husband." I was calming down, though, and that was good.

A few minutes later my husband comes in and tells me that I should really go back in the dining room, because my son was very upset that I left and that HE had been consoling him. Ooookay. I walked back into the dining room but do not see my son. He must have been in his room getting dressed or something.

My hubby tells me, "You shouldn't have just left like that! He was really upset! You know, this is a special time, we don't get much time together in the mornings and you just walked away..."

I made some snarling grunt of a noise. I don't even know what the hell that noise was, but I was FURIOUS. I told him, "I don't even know what to say to you! I'd been paying attention to him the whole time while YOU stared at the computer!" He said, "Well, no one was talking to me." As if THAT was a good reason to ignore everyone. If family time is so goddamn important, should he not start a conversation himself?

But NO. I said to him, "We WERE talking to you. Repeatedly. You never even heard us. We both said quite a few things to you but you never turned around." He said, "You did?" I nodded.

There was one time he answered me, and that was when I asked him what he was working on. I wanted to see if it was WORK or just some stuff, you know? Like, what is this thing that is so important that you ignore us, I'm just curious? It was some new add on things for the new version of Firefox. Not work. Just stuff. Stuff that could have waited until this supposedly precious family time was over, but he chose not to. Not until I walked away, anyway, and then I was the bad person. Then I was the one who didn't give my child the attention he sought and deserved.

Yes. Horrible me.

I tried desperately to not flip the fuck out and say something I would regret, something vile, something cruel, because I FELT vile and cruel, I felt fed up and pissed off and sick and damn tired of having the same conversation. We just had a talk about it the night before. I was feeling optimistic when I woke up, actually, thinking that he had actually made time to talk to me, that we had actually covered some ground, that changes were occurring,only to wake up to the back of Laser Brain once more. I realized that I had not specified in our talk the night before about MORNING and how maybe he could Laser Brain all he wanted until we sat down and then talk to us, acknowledge us for a brief bit so we can all feel connected before going our separate ways for the day. I was trying to not be a bitch since I had not actually asked for that, perhaps I should calm down and make my request once I was calm.

We decided to drop it and help the little monkey get ready for school. All appeared well, appear being the key word. My husband asked us to hurry it up, because it was getting late and he had to get ready for work.

We left. I dropped my son off at school and came back. There were still a few minutes left before hubby had to leave for work, so I thought, ok, maybe we can talk for a minute. I'd have to wait and see if he was busy trying to rush out the door.

Instead I came in to hear him just turning the shower on. I'd been gone twenty minutes and he just managed to turn the shower on? My first thought was, "Oh. He's probably been sitting here jerking off to some porn in the meantime. (He was. I checked.)THAT was his big rush. THAT was the reason for him to hurry us out the door. Family time my fucking ass."

When he got out of the shower I barely spoke to him. He asked me what my deal was, and I told him I was hoping to have some time to talk to him before he left, but that obviously wasn't going to happen since he didn't have time left. He asked me if that was his FAULT, since I seemed to be implying that it was. I was silent for a moment, and then said, "No. I did not ask that you make time to talk to me." And I left it at that.

He rushed about and as he walked out the door he said, "I hope your day gets better." I just shut the door, walked to the bedroom, laid down and cried. I thought about the word "hope" and how stupid it was. I thought about hoping he would pay more attention to us. I thought about taking my son and going to visit my family for a long ass time, and see if that made him happy. I wondered if he would give a shit, or just be glad that we were gone so he could be alone with no one to interrupt him, no one to make him feel guilty, no one to bother him with their annoying requests of attention.

And frankly, I honestly don't know the answer to that. I really don't.

When my job was making me turn into a bitch, he asked me quit it. Demanded that I do so, to tell you the truth. The money wasn't worth it, he said.

Is it now? Is the money he makes worth HIM turning into a stressed out surly bastard? If I can't be a bitch, does that mean he can't be a bastard? What is worth it? Is some house we buy in the future worth a miserable NOW? Would I rather we retire early but spend the next thirty years miserable? Of course not, that's moronic.

What do I do? I thought about just busting ass to get a book published, then paying off MY debts just in case being closer to his time line does nothing to help pull his head out of his ass. Then I cried that I would even think about such a thing. What if I made us a pile of money and he never calmed down? What if we had all the money in the fucking world? Would it be enough?

It freaks me out. I feel like my husband, the person I fell in love with, the person I married, the person I thought I knew has suddenly changed. Now he seems to be some guy who feels that making money is more important than anything else, that money is the ultimate reason for everything, that his ability to make more money trumps everything else, including his own happiness and that of his family. Sometimes I look at him and wonder, "Who the hell IS this?"

I told him last night, "I feel like you are going through the same thing I went through when I realized I was going to be a single parent. That overwhelming stress of supporting other people has hit you, and I want you to know that I understand it, I do." But there's got to be a balance between supporting a family and caring for one.

I feel like my husband doesn't take his medicine to help him concentrate anymore, he takes it to make him into some cyborg workhorse, so he can be better, smarter, faster, more impressive than everyone else.

I asked him to quit taking it on the weekends, and for a few weekends he was quite pleasant to be around. Very cuddly, very relaxed, and even told me what a brilliant wife he has and how glad he was that I knew how to help him.

Then he decided he had stuff to do and since Stuff Needed To Get Done, he went back to taking it on the weekends. It seems to me that things went back to shit at the same time.

There's no break, see? Just Robot Husband, all day, all night, constantly stressed out and working, working, working. Anxious. Argumentative. I take Adderall. I know damn well what the signs of taking too much of it are. I know how it feels coming down off of it, and it isn't pleasant. Do the benefits outweigh the risks? Within boundaries, yes. I had my doctor decrease my dosage by half. I knew that accomplishing a list of chores was not worth being a cranky bitch to my son when he came home, because I was too damn busy cleaning the house(etc) to be bothered helping him with his homework.

Strangely, my son has recently been having problems "tweaking out" on his medicine, and today I'm taking him back to have them lower the dose. For him, personally, it does him such a world of good I wouldn't think of taking him completely off of it. If I turn back into a space cadet people just think I'm a slacker. For that matter, I feel my husband already thinks that of me, but I may be wrong. For my son, if I take him off of it, he will go back to being the kid that sharpens his pencils into stubs all day at school, walks in front of cars and can't seem to remember what he was doing from one second to the next. Since starting his medicine, he's made Honor Roll, Principals List, Citizen of the Month, and all of those things make him so proud. The pros outweigh the cons.

For my husband, it DOES help him. He had a hard time concentrating before, but now he has a hard time concentrating on anything that isn't somehow technical. Work, sure. Computer stuff, sure. A discussion about artificial intelligence? Sure. How about dealing with his wife being emotional and upset and rambling on for a while about something just to get it off her chest? NO. No. No. He actually interrupts me. Yesterday he even cut me off mid sentence and did some little hand waving gesture, like, "Enough of this worthless babble" and said to me, "Yah, I get it, ok."

I was explaining to him how upset I was that I had written about this before, and yesterday someone responded to that post by telling me to "get a life". As I'm explaining how and why that upset me, he interrupted me because I was taking too long to express my feelings. He had Stuff To Do.

I nearly went psycho. I just stopped, mid sentence and stared off into space, so hurt, so angry, so fucking enraged at the irony of him interrupting me while I was talking about how he doesn't pay enough attention to me, and the fact that this irony COMPLETELY escaped him, was just too much.

Thankfully the look on my face made him back pedal FAST. "Oh," he said, "oh...that did not go the way I thought it would. You are...much angrier than I thought you would be...uh oh...."

Yes, well put, Robot.

He asked me if I would like to go talk. I almost didn't. But I did, after all. What frightens me is that I almost didn't. The reason being was that I thought, "What's the fucking point?"

When I have reached a point in a relationship where I stop trying to assess and fix problems and just say, "Aw, fuck it" that is a very bad sign.

That is where I am teetering, currently. And because I am teetering on this mountain of hurt, each tiny new hurt makes me wobble precariously.

What to do? I don't know. Frankly, I don't have the strength or energy to give a shit about it right now. I just want to crawl into a corner and lick my wounds, and just be left the fuck alone.

And that's what he wants, right? To be left alone?

*sigh*

a slice of history, a la alcoholics

I've been in a mood to bake lately. This doesn't mean I've had the energy to, but I've wanted to. There is a huge difference.

The difference mainly hinges on my desire to let the people around me feel loved, despite the fact that I haven't much energy to offer. But lordy, I can cook, and nothing says lovin' like something from the oven.

This past weekend I made pineapple upside down cake, and then a triple layer chocolate cake (ok, that one is actually easy as hell, but still) for a little party for my son. He invited some friends over. We want him to feel like he gets to bond with kids his own age, not just the ubergeeks his parent's friends are.

I realized something last week. I went to go have lunch with my son. I brought him a veggie burger meal from Burger King (he's a strict vegetarian, his choice) while I ate a sinful little hamburger kids meal and gave him the toy. The reason behind this was that my son has been having a difficult time eating because of his medicine (Adderall), and I thought if I showed up once a week at lunch with something just for fun, maybe I could help him eat more. That's a story in itself, but when I got there he asked me if his friends could join us. It wasn't what I had in mind (mommy and little monkey bonding time) but sure, why not? It seemed important to him.

The other little monkeys joined us at the table, and I quickly discovered that it wasn't just the medication that was making my son unable to eat lunch. It was also due to the fact that the only time he had to socialize with his friends was at lunch, and the four of them yapped rapid-fire the whole time. A light dawned in my head. These poor kids...the only time they can talk is during lunch and the pitifully brief recess they are allowed. (When I was a kid, recess was three times a day! Come ON!) I decided right there and then that I must remedy this kiddie plight by inviting them all over. To our house. That weekend.

*blinks*

Maybe a poor decision, altogether. I have no energy, my husband is behind at work and trying to catch up by doing some work at nights and on the weekend. (Not his fault, I note, but that's work stuff and off limits for me to write about.) Where did I think I would get the energy to entertain a pile of screeching monkeys, or at least, keep the screeching monkeys from head-butting the TV set in sheer monkey spaz joy? Hell, I don't know. But when I weighed that pain against the thought of this idea catching on with the OTHER children's parents (a girl can dream!) I realized that I would have monkeys one day a month, while the other weekends might involve free babysitting for hours at a time. I am not one to look a brilliant plan in the face and turn my back, oh no. I invited them all over.

And I baked. Made fruit bowls. Bought snacks, made pizza, took them swimming, the whole nine yards. The other parents were astounded at my bravery, and I got to feel like Parent of the Year for a day.

I discovered something else. Boys do not eat pineapple upside down cake. The eat pizza and chocolate, and if you sprinkle the fruit with just a wee bit of sugar (but tell them it's COATED in it) they will eat the hell out of that, too. Mwaa haa.

So, I ended up with a whole lot of pineapple upside down cake. For those of you unaware, the process of making such a cake involves melting one entire stick of butter in a rectangular cake pan, adding a cup of brown sugar, mixing it together until it becomes a Goo Of The Gods, then placing pineapple rings and maraschino cherries in the middle of the pineapple rings. THEN you add the entire box of cake mix on top of that, bake it, cool it, and flip it over. What you get is something very sinful and fattening, and having an entire pan of it laying around it like asking the Fat Fairy to come visit your ass while you are sleeping, thank you very much.

I decided it was time to cut the cake up and take it to my therapist. They love food. Every time I'm in the office, all anyone talks about is food. I've never seen such a food loving bunch in my life. I realize I might win Patient of the Year also, and hopefully can place that award on my mantle next to Parent of the Year. I pack a pile of it up and put it in the fridge.

The next day my neighbor goes into labor. After seeing her mother at the bus stop with her two other children, I realize *ding!* I MUST BAKE THINGS. MORE THINGS. I've had a child. I know damn well how those first weeks feel- no energy, crying baby, who can possibly cook? And by god, after nine months of heartburn, a woman wants FOOD. Not to mention her body requires it to breastfeed, I'm talking about WANTS here, people. Bring on the cake! The cookies! The pre-cooked by someone else dinners! Yes! Yes! Yes!

And I will take that Neighbor of the Year Award, please.
Note to self: might need a bigger mantle.

I realized some pineapple upside down cake was making it's way over to her house, too, and then the bug bit me. BAKE MORE. No eggs in the house, that leaves out the world class banana bread I make. Hmm. Peanut butter cookies?

I pulled out a cook book. It's my favorite. It's a compilation made up by the wives of the manly men of The Elk's Club. My own grandfather was the Grand PooBah, or whatever they call it, back in the day. The Head Honcho. The Big Cheese. His picture still hangs in the hallway, along with the other Poobahs. And the cookbook is a riot, full of old school recipes involving things like lard and a bunch of ingredients I have to call my grandma to ask her what they even ARE. It's got tips on how to make the perfect meringue, how to make fish not smell when you cook it, even a whole section in the back on how to use leftovers, what wines go with what meats, and all those things that run through the veins of Martha Stewart instead of blood.

As I flipped through the book, I found a recipe from one of my relatives. My aunt apparently donated a recipe to the cookbook. Wow, thinks I, what's this? Baked fruit? I started reading through the recipe, remembering the huge garden my aunt and uncle had in the backyard, and how my cousin and I would go picking raspberries and grapes, strawberries and whatever else we could find. Good memories were flooding through my head as I read through the recipe, right up until I got to the part:
"Pour bourbon over entire mixture."

Suddenly the memories turned to drunken uncles nearly blowing their fingers off with fireworks on the Fourth of July, and us kids hiding in the barn or the cellar when the adults started yelling. Oh yah. I remember that. Hmmm.

I made some strangled half laugh, half groan, and my son asked me what was wrong. I just blinked for a minute and finally said, "Well, I was looking through this cookbook and I see my aunt put a recipe in here." His eyes lit up, "Oh yah? What is it?" I said, "Baked fruit." He inquired further, so I read the recipe to him, and pointedly emphasized the part about the bourbon.

"What's bourbon?" asked my son, the child of a woman whose friends bought her a bottle of Grey Goose Vodka for her wedding, since it's the only kind she would drink, and which is still half full in the freezer nearly a year later. "It's a liquor," I explain and his eyes widen.

"Yes," I say, voice full of mock drama/sarcasm, "of course the recipe that MY family would put in a cookbook would involve pouring liquor all over fruit. That makes perfect sense."

And just like that, the urge to bake was shoved violently out of the way by the urge to write. Of course. That makes perfect sense.

Top with nuts. Serve hot.

the power of the pumpkin

quite the conundrum.......dammit

I'm so annoyed. I think I might toss a quiche in the shredder.

Oh- but it doesn't work. I know this because when you put paper in it, the motor whirs but the blades don't spin.

Ok, it can't be hard. If I could take apart a lawn mower engine, put in back together, and make it RUN, way back in high school, surely my thirty two year old ass can fix a simple little shredder. Pssh.

Already this morning I went out to drill holes in the front of my truck for the lisence plate. Apparently Virginia requires them, but since my truck was made in the good old Motor City, the holes aren't there. Michigan doesn't require front plates. At least, it didn't when I lived there.

At any rate, the holes needed to be drilled. My husband has been telling me for over a month now that he will do it. I suppose it's some kind of testosterone thing, him thinking he needs to do it. As if sticking a bit in a drill and going ~brrrmmm! brrrmmm!~ is hard? Hmmph. When I asked him about it this past weekend, he said he would DO it, he SWEARS, and I said, "Why don't I just do it? I know you're busy." He is. He is very busy.

*insert poker face here*

Mr. I Refuse To Delegate Any Responsibility Because Only I Can Do It Correctly didn't WANT me to drill the holes for the plate, see? I know because when I offered him an easy way out, instead of just taking it, he said, and I quote, "Are you sure you'll get it straight? It won't be all crooked?"

I managed not to clock him in his big Neanderthal head. As in, can I drill two holes in some plastic and not manage to fuck it all up? Can I figure out where to place the two incredibly difficult holes, the ones that line up with the license plate, should I be so fucking retarded that I require a giant metal stencil for fucks sake, without making the whole thing fucked up? Can I do that?

I dropped the conversation like the ticking bomb that it was and waited. He did not drill the holes. Today I did. Perfectly, for any Neanderthal that might inquire...

The next thing that's been bugging the crap out of me is the damn shredder. It's got five or six screws in the bottom. Can you say easy to disassemble (unlike my vacuum cleaner motor, which I completely took apart when it stopped working, then reassembled myself, thanks. It still works perfectly, three years later, for any Neanderthals that may be inquiring...)?

Oh, but it's not. I took the screws out, and whatever had broken inside (I could hear it rattling around) fell out. A few plastic bits on my counter. Ah, Scooby Doo, a mystery! Then all I needed to do was pull the motor from the plastic casing...

But it would not come loose. It fucking REFUSES to come loose. It is obviously meant to.

I went to the website, to look up the manual. It's got a help line. Oh, fuck you, give me a damn manual. Like an asshole on the phone is going to be better able to walk me through it than a page of text and a DIAGRAM. UGH! Moronic. Methinks they want you to just bring it in to them to fix. Methinks they fear a lawsuit because some asshats may not be able to fix the thing without shredding their hands.

I am not that asshat.

However, I am now the asshat that cannot get the damn thing back together. The pieces refuse to go back to where they were, and I never even got any father than prying the sides apart just enough to wiggle the loose broken parts out. The parts that were rattling around in there to begin with.

Goddamnit.

You see, now I'm stuck. Now Mr. I Can't Delegate is going to come home and go postal when he sees the shredder all discombobulated, after he asked me to not do it. But he's too damn BUSY to do it himself and in the meantime, MY job of keeping the house clean is hampered by the growing stack of papers and shit that are piling up next to the Doesn't Work At All shredder. Will he see the corner that I felt backed into when I attacked the beastly thing, or will he just see an affront on his manhood?

In the meantime, my hands are pinched and bruised and raw from trying to hold the stupid thing apart to see what was catching and holding it together.

Dammit Dammit Dammit.

quiche, you bitch

The skies are charcoal grey,
It's a dreary downtown day,
But at the end of my forty foot leash,
Is my little friend Quiche.
Quiche La Poodle is her name
And having a good time on a crummy day is our game.

~The B-52's, Quiche Lorraine

That song reminds me of a boyfriend I had when I was a freshman in high school. He loved the B-52's, and every time I hear thas song I picture him doing his kooky little dance he would do in his pleated pants, with his spiky hair, good looks, with one finger pointing on each hand, wiggling his obviously gay (but I didn't know it yet) butt around. He was gay. And after a few months of dating, he never so much as kissed me. As far as I was concerned, he was the perfect boyfriend. When he came out the closet a year or so later, we (our group of friends) were all so very not shocked.

But this is not a story about a little dog or a gay ex-boyfriend, it is about a very real quiche that I cooked last night.

I hate making quiche. I like to eat it. So does my husband. As a matter of fact, he begged me to get his mother's recipe so I could make quiche for him. It is, truth be told, a labor of love.

And hate.

You see, I can never quite get them to come out right. The only time they taste good is the next day, when they are reheated. I have a tendency to burn the tops and the insides are runny. Can you say gross? I thought you could.

Yesterday I was determined, despite being in a whole lot of pain, to cook my family real meals. With me in physical therapy, there are a lot of cereal for dinner meals, as well as Eggo waffles, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I can feel myself sliding like a greased pig down the slippery slope of Bad Mother/Bad Wifesville. So I made falafel for lunch and then moved on to the spinach quiche for dinner.

Disaster.

When it came out I thought it was perfect, then cut into it to discover it had the consistancy of soup. Maybe stew. Quiche stew. It's not a damn pot pie, it's a freaking quiche! But would it listen and BEHAVE like a quiche? No.

And so I did what any agonized and pissed off person would do: I shoved the quiche rather violently back into the oven, slammed the oven door shut, and stomped off to the bedroom to lay on the bed sobbing under a pile of blankets while dreaming of various quichey deaths. Hurling into the air and blasting it with a shotgun. Laying it on the counter and smashing it to hell with a hammer. Placing it in the backyard and hurling a Maltov cocktail at it over the porch railing. Or just letting it burn to an unrecognizable crisp in the oven while I lay on the bed and cried at my horrendous quiche making skills.

I can cook the hell out of anything else. That's what kills me. It's the damn QUICHE that eludes me. I've gotten a few right and the rest have been shitola.

Finally I came out and made everyone pb&j's, then announced to my husband that the quiche may be ok to eat, but I sure as hell wasn't going to eat it because it had filled me with a murderous poisonous rage and I couldn't eat such a hateful thing. I simply could not place such a damnedable item in my mouth. It was not possible.

He ate a piece. Said it was perfect. I told him that was all well and good, wrapped it up and put it in the fridge, cursing it the whole time.

Today I came back from a doctors appointment and was hungry. So hungry, in fact, that I decided to see how much of a sweet liar my husband is, and by that I mean, how bad IS the quiche?

I heated it. I ate it. And although part of it was more scrambled egg than quiche, it was pretty damn good, I must confess.

Damn you quiche. I hate your stinking delicious guts, you bitch.

insta-hilarity not included

I'm one of those people that can rarely come up with something hilarious on the spur of the moment. At least, not without caffeine (caffeine! I miss you!).

You know when you have that moment, somebody says or does something, and a few minutes later you think of something hilarious to say, but alas, the moment has passed and you can't go back and be funny.

I just had one of those.

A solicitor came to the door. Normally I don't bother to open it, but Jack had gone jogging and I mistakenly thought it was him knocking to come back in. So I opened the door, wearing my pink pajama bottoms and a pink striped tube top. Not exactly appropriate clothing, not even in the same ballpark as appropriate.

The guy gave me the once over (don't think I didn't notice that, buster!) and started in with, "Are you the lady of the house?" I just nodded, still kind of caught in the headlights as he started in with that monotone fast ramble they all do, trying to derail any thoughts you might have and not give you time to interrupt them until you're standing there with a bucket of chocolates, housecleaning products, and a giant foam statue of Mickey Mouse, wondering what the hell just happened.

I interrupted him. "I'm not interested, but thank you." He took it well, didn't try to keep talking, which is good, because nothing will raise my ire faster than a rude bastard. He just said, "Ok, thanks" and walked away.

I got ten steps from the door and thought, "DAMN!" When he asked me if I was the lady of the house I should have said, "Nope! I'm a dude in drag! I had you fooled! I look GOOOOOD, don't I baby?" and shook my ass at him, then slammed the door.

Alas, alas, alas. The moment was gone. Next time. Next time.

more: Things On My Fridge

things that fall under the category: WTF?

I mean, seriously. What in the hell is up with the stingrays?

Introspectre bows to Dove, tearfully

Thank you, 'Doodles, for bringing this to my attention.

road squawk?

Yes, I'm one of THOSE people. You know, the morbid types that just can't resist looking at the accident, trying to figure out what the blob of fur is that is smashed on the side of the road...

I do it. I frequently regret it, but I still do it.

Yesterday, just such a moment happened. I saw something road kill-ish up ahead, and just as I got up near to it I swear to you:

It was a rubber chicken.



Not, not a real chicken maybe laying there in the same position, but the fake color and everything of a rubber chicken.

I thought to myself: This Is A Good Day. A most excellent omen. Instead of a thing of death, it is a thing of jokes.

Why did the rubber chicken try to cross the road?

my heroes

My mom sent me an e-mail with pictures from my grandparents 65th wedding anniversary. I looked at them and cried. I love them, I miss them, and they have my total respect for managing to stay together for 65 YEARS!

They are, I do believe, the only couple I know that has managed to stay together longer than the 23 years that my mom and step dad have managed to keep it together. I didn't think they would make it, quite frankly, but somehow they have.

It gives me faith in the world, and in people in general.

multi-tasking: Ma Ma Say Ma Ma Sah Ma Ma Coo Sah style

It's Monday morning. Nine A.M. How do you manage to accomplish the following tasks in one fell swoop:

1) do your most hated chore while

2) driving your neighbors nuts while

3) have fabulous flashbacks to your childhood while

4) shaking your ass while

5) singing at the top of your lungs with the window open?

Easy.

Do your ironing while blaring Michael Jackson's Thriller album.

THAT is the way to start a Monday. Those of you at work need to get with the program and rock out with "Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'" or at the very least, "P.Y.T." in your cubes.

Your co-workers may frown, but secretly they will thank you. And if they don't, tell them to beat it.

Ok, this video isn't a song from the Thriller album, you got me. But it's another good song, and it's when Michael was still handsome, before he borked up his face and all. As an added bonus: the sheer novelty of old school videos is just hilarious. Enjoy.

when invitations are uninviting: how to reprogram yourself in one party or more

It's Saturday morning. It's too early to be awake, but I was afraid when I woke up a while ago that maybe I still had a migraine. A wee bit, yah, it's still there.

Mostly, I'm just nervous as hell.

Today there is a big party. Friends of ours are throwing a huge soiree, and inviting a bajillion people. Mostly their incredibly intelligent colleagues, but also some undergrads. My past trauma and paranoia say they must be totally hot and freakishly smart college girls. Girls who could knock not only my husband's socks off, but his wedding ring, too.

I am afraid.

I have good reason. I have lot of good reasons, all called Personal Experience, but none of these reasons have to do with my husband, these friends, or anything remotely current. The reasons all have to do with spending years of my life with dysfunctional alcoholics, who would have left me crying in my beer but I rarely ever drink so I was far more likely to be left crying with a broken beer bottle that I planned to slash their throats with, and the thoats of their hussies.

I have issues with alcohol. I have issues with people who drink it. My issues magnify the more the friends drink. I have even lost friends, or gone so far as to get rid of them myself, even avoided making friends with people because they drink.

I am afraid.

Alcohol has been closely connected to nearly every traumatic experience I've had. And I wasn't the one drinking it, except for the one time me and The Rat drank an entire bottle of my step dad's top shelf whiskey (oh, yes, I do remember, it was one of the few and only times we ever hung out) and I ended up vomiting in front of a boy I really liked. That was hardly traumatic, compared to the rest of my life.

The rest of my alcohol-connected traumas involve my dad trying to kill himself, my parents divorce, all that led up to and followed that, my brother nearly killing himself by blood alcohol poisoning, people I thought were friends doing crazy shit that was bad bad bad, being tricked at age sixteen by some guy to "hang out" when instead we ended up at his house where I was ass raped, being informed by my (now) ex husband that he had spent the weekend shooting up heroin with some strange girl when I was nineteen, being physically abused by a boyfriend at age twenty, the entire traumatic relationship with my sons father, the same with the boyfriend after that, and it is in particular these last two men that I need to heal from.

Or, precisely, it is these last two men and their drunken actions that have me completely up in arms over this party today.

Here's the situation: our friends are throwing a huge party, which will last most of the day. Although it is kid friendly, at some point most (if not all) people with kids will go home and the adults that drink (not me) will be trashed. Ok. We could just leave then, too, although I have given much thought to this in advance and talked it over with my husband (who rarely ever drinks) who informed me that he might just want to get trashed, too. The party is being thrown by his best friend (that lives here in town anyway) and he really wants to let loose and throw down. Ok. I have no doubt that that may be a really good thing for him, god knows he's been stressed the fuck out for months with my therapy and the strain it's put on our daily life. A day of debauchery with his favorite chum might do him a WORLD of good.

The part that made my inner tweak alarms go off was when I said, "What happens if everyone gets too drunk and I have to leave with (my son)? Then what?" Hubby says it's not a problem, he'll just crash at our friends house. The friends have no problem with that. It's ME. I have a problem with that. A problem that is making me feel like my intestines want to slide out just writing about it, in fact. The thought of my husband getting drunk at a big party with young hot potentially smarter than me college girls sends up every red flag and screaming siren in my head.

As it stands now, he had already told me that he will not stay, and that when it gets that late he will leave with me. While I find that comforting, I wonder if it will come true.

It's not that my husband has done things to make me not trust his word. It's the OTHER men in my past that have. Granted, he is not them. The problem lies in the fact that I trusted THEM.

Do you see where this goes?

I don't trust myself to trust people when alcohol is involved. Ok, there are a few other occasions, too, but I'm trying to stay on topic here.

I don't trust my own ability to judge people correctly. That is a major block to being able to trust someone, even when they may very well be the most trustworthy person of all.

The thing of it is, how the hell would I know the difference? I've proven to myself over and over again that I seem to have some kind of idiot blind spot when it comes to trusting people. I believe what they tell me because I WANT to believe it. *deep sigh* Somewhere along the line, that snapped.

I still WANT to believe, but my bad experiences left a taste in my mouth that goes far beyond sour. Perhaps if there is a flavor so sour it inspires hysteria and short circuiting of the central nervous system, it would be like that.

You see, I wasn't always this way. When Spermdonor and I got together, I wasn't the paranoid type. Sure, I may have jealous moments, but nothing hysterical like I do now. I remember Spermdonor telling me that he hung out after band practice, drank a bit too much and was going to crash at the flute players house. I knew her. I was just glad he wasn't driving drunk, and said so. "No problem, see you in the morning." And that was it, I didn't stay awake wondering or waste any energy worrying.

I found out years later that he was screwing her for over a year. She was "helplessly in love with him" said my informant. How awful for her. I was the mother of his child and a total fool in front of our entire small town. "No problem, see you in the morning"? Gee whiz, I'm so glad you're so responsible to know when you've had too much to drink? What kind of blithering damnedable moron AM I, for Christ's sake? I was busy being happy he wasn't a bad drunk, no, he was a responsible driver, when in reality he probably drove his damn self over there and fucked her brains out all night long, even CALLING ME TO TELL ME HE WAS SLEEPING THERE.

Do you get it? Do you see? I'm a fucking idiot! Why would I trust my own judgement?

And there are many more examples where that came from, I'm afraid.

So here is this party, nearly ten years later. Ten years, yes, but a lot more bad shit happened in those ten years, further cementing the belief that I am a total fucking idiot. These are different people, different man, different circumstances. Still, my intenstines want to slither out at the thought of going to this party.

What's bizarre to me is that I know, I logically KNOW that it will be fine. We will all have a good time. My husband will have a blast, and once I can pull my head out of my traumatized ass, so will I.

If I don't relax, I could turn this into a terrible event. My jealousy and paranoia could make my husband miserable and on edge, and ruin what could be a wonderful day.

I am afraid.

I've been dreading this day and this party for this reason. Although I can say, and truthfully believe, that I know today will be fine and I really don't have anything to worry about, that does nothing to stop the feelings of anxiety. I still want to throw up, freak out, throw shit at the walls and refuse to go.

I also know that forcng myself to go anyway, despite those feelings, is what will lead me down the path towards healing those past traumas. And so I will do it. I will do it because I MUST. I must work past this shit and move on with my life. I must not let my past continue to haunt the life I have now. Like my shrink said, the only way to undo the damage (or undo a bad habit) is to repeatedly do the the healthy thing that counteracts it, no matter how difficult that might be. The only way I can learn how to trust people again is to just DO it. That's a very difficult thing to do when you feel like you might simply die if one more heartache comes your way.

It feels like handing a gun to someone when you've been repeatedly shot by numerous people. Eventually you learn to fear the gun. Instead, you must pick it up and hand it to the person you know could do you the worst damage of all: the person you love most. Fall off the horse, get back on, no matter how sore and trampled you are. That's not easy. I wonder if my husband, my friends, I wonder if these people know how hard it really is for me.

I was reading about trauma the other day, and a study that had been done, using both dogs and humans. The dogs were given a small (but rather unpleasant) shock. Some dogs were in areas that had a low barrier that they could jump over, and most of them did. Some did not. Some dogs were kept in areas without any escape. Of those dogs, some continually looked for escape, even when there never was one. The author of the study said those were the optimists. When the study was changed, and the dogs who had no escape were then given an escape, many of them simply didn't bother. It was called, "learned helplessness", in other words, they had been trained to stop having hope.

The humans had similar tests, but their study was done with a horribly loud noise. Interestingly, same results. Some humans were optimists and just kept looking for the escape. Some gave up. Some, when given the escape, just didn't bother.

That is how I feel. I am fighting to retrain myself against this sense of "learned helplessness" that trauma has induced. In this case, it involves going head on into a situation that could, and has in the past, produced horrible results. Yet I am to dress up, smile, be excited and cheerful and interact with some giant crowd, while feeling hysterical anyway, and fight the hysteria with the experience of a non-traumatizing event. I am to reprogram myself, while being charming and making chit chat. My husband, however, sees it as just a simply thrilling event, other than the possibility of his wife freaking the fuck out. Which I must not do.

It's an opportunity. Sometimes opportunities do not look inviting.

masturbation- good fer what ails ya

I woke up this morning at 4:50. I was burning up. Then freezing. I had to pee.

While peeing in the dark bathroom, I very clearly realized that my body wanted caffeine, and a lot of it. "That's stupid", thought I, "for it is 4:50 am and I am not giving you caffeine you cracked out ho. Shut up and go back to bed." So I did.

However, that was my first clue- massive migraine incoming- and I dismissed it. I tossed and turned, my head hurt, I was hot, I was cold (all common migraine stuff for me) and when my husband's alarm went off at 6 am, I was under no delusion. It sounded as if someone had stuffed that shrieking siren into my head. Each beep of the alarm echoed and somehow glared, a screaming hideous pain in my head.

He turned it off, got up, and I said, "Motrin...oh god...Motrin...please bring me some..." This is a strict no-no. Those who are prone to ulcers are not allowed to take ibuprofen, especially not on an empty stomach. To hell with my stomach, I was gonna DIE! said my head. I agreed.

He brought it, I swallowed, I tossed and turned, waiting for the hideous pain to abait. It did, a bit. Not enough for me to not groan loudly when he turned on the light in the dining room, all the way down the hall but close enough that the ambient light level spiked sharply, at least to me. Spiked being the key word.

The Motrin started to work a bit, enough that I could sort of sit up. I got up after awhile and staggered into the kitchen, knowing I had to eat or I was screwed. No Motrin on an empty stomach. Besides, the kitchen contained other magical ingredients: all the other medications doctors have put me on. I had to cover my eyes to walk in there, and even the light filtering through my fingers was torment.

Shamelessly I downed Darvocet, muscle relaxers, Xanax, Clonzapam and Adderall. "Take that, you fucking migraine" thought I, and tried to get a bowl of cereal. I couldn't do it. All I could manage was a small, "Help," that my husband heard and came to my rescue. "What do you need baby? You want some cereal?"

"Yah. Just a little. In the bedroom. I have to go back to the dark..." I feebly mumbled. "Do you want me to crack you?" he asked, referring to my back. When I walk hunched over (as I was doing at the time), he can usually pop something in my back and I can stand up straight.

What the hell..."Ok." He did, it popped, and as soon as he let go of me I latched on to his wrists with a death grip, eyes closed. If I let go, I would fall. We waited. He knows. After a minute I regained my balance and staggered off to the bedroom.

I chucked pillows behind me, pulled the covers all the way up, and tried to find some crazy ass position to put my head in that would still allow me to eat, yet relieve the excrutiating pain in my neck/head. I found one, good enough anyway. He came in with my frosted minin wheats, and I propped them right up under my chin, like a freakin' invalid, so if I dribbled it would just fall into the bowl. Fucking A. I mean, really.

I ate them. The first few sounded like granite inside my skull, then they got softer and the medication started to kick in. I finished the bowl and laid there, trying to figure out what to do.

I remembered reading that masturbation is a great cure for headaches. Although I've known this for years, it never seems like a good plan at the time. Who can masturbate with a screaming head?

Sometimes, when there's a will, there's a way.

This was that time.

I did so, careful not to move my neck or shoulders funny, trying to focus on hot yummy thoughts, and sure enough the blood flow in my body most definitely changed direction. What was making my head feel volcanic was then suddenly making my nether regions feel freaking fabulous, and bah-da-boom, bah-da-bing, I felt pretty damn good when I was finished.

I shoved all the pillows away and started doing my neck exercises, laying flat out in the bed and just listening to the creaking and popping of my neck as it gave way to the pressure of stretching.

And none too soon, because the sun was coming up. Any sufferers of migraines know what I'm talking about- it was a race. I had to beat the sun coming up, or I was el-fuck-o-ed. Yah. I just made that up, and it FITS. El-fuck-o-ed. Once the sun is up, there is nowhere dark enough and the world turns into a big pile of hell. But I beat it. I made it.

I finally got up and told my husband what I did, and he chuckled. Once my son was on the bus, dear hubby wanted to further help my healing with some hard work of his own, but I wasn't game. No, sir. Wiggling my own fingers is NOT the same as having my entire spine rocked, and my head thrown about on the end like a rag doll. No. We'll have none of that, thank you. And coming from me, you KNOW that's a serious migraine.

Now it is hours later and the world is a glittering place. It's hard to explain the feeling of a migraine. It's too bright, and everything is sparkly, but not in a good way, more of a "hey, that's sparkly, oh that's a shard of glass now stuck in my eye, hence my brain" sort of way. It's not pleasant, and not pretty.

And I've taken all the help I can get from medicine. So it looks like it's time to take matters into my own hands again, and see if I can't help myself out...

projectile emotional vomit- One Epic PMS Rant

PMS fucking blows.

I've been weepy for days, and I swear every time I get PMS my husband catches it. I don't know how the fucking hell that's possible, but I swear to you, he does.

I know PMS can be ugly. And being a PMS ridden bitchola, I will opine this: it's uglier on a man. He seems snappy and pissed off and I KNOW I'm snappy and pissed off, and together that equals one household full of eggshells and awkwardness.

I feel like everything I say is going to be taken the wrong way. He insists I use some tone that I don't hear myself using. I think he's being overly sensitive and bitchy. He thinks I am.

Damn it all, this is the main reason I am not a freaking lesbian! I couldn't stand dealing with another bitch wallowing in PMS, and I would get really fucking tired of having to replaster the fucking walls each month after pulling the rage induced flung cutlery out of it.

Last night Jack got home and I was already too far past being able to put on a happy face. I told him (as I tell him a lot lately) that I was just going to take my medicine and go away for the good of the family. It's just better for everyone if I don't have to deal with a single fucking stupid ass question. I am vile. Mean. Sarcastic.

So I put myself into another room, or in the case of last night, I sat reading, refusing to interact until some of the pain had abated and I could speak without feeling like I had to forcibly retract my claws to do so. Pain does not a nice woman make.

Still, after I felt moderately (far the fuck from completely) better, I still felt like everything was awkward and our house was a verbal minefield. Dare I speak? What if I say something sarcastic? It's too fucking taxing to contemplate every word first, just to make sure there is no way anyone can take what I say in any way other than the way I mean it, and since I am repeatedly told that I am using some tone that I don't hear, how the hell do I stop doing that?

Fuck it. I won't talk.

Even that is dangerous. A wrong look, whatever, anything can start an argument, and an argument is the LAST place my sharpened tongue needs to be hanging out. If Jack snaps at me, it takes a Hurculean effort on my part to bit down on that evil tongue and just shut the hell up.

Communication seems impossible. Life is horribly bleak. I know it only last a few days so I just try, dammit I TRY to just put myself away from everyone and wait for the storm to pass.

After my son went to bed last night, I sat down next to Jack and asked him if he felt like talking, or at least, listening to me talk for a little while. I wanted to tell him what was going on in my head so there was no miscommunication, no misunderstanding of what my intentions were.

Yah, sure, he says, but doesn't look up from the computer.

*insert one very pointed and seething expression here*

Ok. I talked anyway. Maybe he just wanted to look away while I talked, maybe that's easier, maybe it's actually a good plan because that way he can't see any foul expression on my face.

Or maybe he's an inconsiderate jerk who refuses to give me his full attention, which was winning the battle in my brain over the former possibilty to explain his inattentiveness.

I decided to talk anyway, and did so for a little while, but he rarely ever looked up. The last straw was when I explained how frustrated I was that I felt like I couldn't possibly accomplish everything I had to do and he informed me that I had plenty of time to do everything, I just didn't manage my time well enough.

I think he might have heard the deep rumblings of my volcanic rage that was about to explode and rain down upon his head in an unsympathetic fury, and he looked up.

"I'm sorry baby. Did you want help with this stuff, or do you just want to bitch?" I swear he said the "just want to bitch" part as if it were the most pathetic choice used only by total fucking losers, but I tempered myself with the knowledge that PMS tends to cloud my judgement.

I took a deep breath. Let it out. "I just want to bitch."

He looked back at the computer and said, in what sounded to me like absolute dismissiveness, "Yah. I have shit every day that I can't ever finish. Every day of my life is filled with shit I can't ever get done. It fucking sucks."

Maybe that was supposed to make me feel understood, perhaps it was his attempt to express sympathy, but it sounded like he was saying, "Yah, my pussy hurts too, bitch, what about it?"

I just got up and walked away. No look, no question, he didn't ask me where I was going because, I suspect, he was relieved I left or just didn't give a shit because he was BUSY READING and not really listening to me anyway. I went to bed.

Fifteen minutes later (I assume when he finished whatever he was reading and actually noticed I hadn't come back) he came into the bedroom and said, "I didn't know you were going to bed." Yah, duh, I didn't tell you, I didn't say. What I did say was, "No. You didn't."

I fell silent, unable to find the words, unable to find the will to care enough to speak them. He was trying though, so I gathered up what strength I had left and said, "I feel defeated. I feel there is no point. You don't want to listen to me, so I left. Your tone was one of total dismissivenes, so I left."

He apologized and asked if I wanted to start over. Oh fucking jesus, no. I'd rather stab myself in the eye with a rusty fork, for fucks sake. What I said was, "No. There is no point." I paused. "I know this will pass in a few days. I know this is temporary. In the meantime, it is HERE and it is my reality and I just want to go to sleep." I thought: one less day is a positive improvement. I'll still be a morbid bitch, but at least I'll be one day closer to not being a morbid bitch. And when you have very little, you will take very little. At least it is something.

It's normally not this bad, but there's been some bad timing lately. The ever present pain of physical therapy, a lot of memories and trauma rearing their hideous heads. My shrink fucked up my meds (although she is convinced I lost it, it's possible, but I don't think so) and I can't get it filled now, but her dumb ass keeps calling me and ALWAYS WHEN I'M NAPPING to tell me she doesn't understand this or that and why the fuck do I have to explain it to HER, she's the damn DOCTOR? Ugh. My pain specialist thought I might be eligible for some study using Botox (yes, I know) into my trigger points to relieve the worst of pain for up to six months (six months!!!) for FREE, only for me to find out that he's a fucking asshat and the fact that I'm in physical therapy makes me ineligable for the study, even though he TOLD me that it wasn't a problem...I've tried not to get my hopes up, but fucking hell...six months of non-agony getting ripped out from under your feet was a tough blow. I'm deciced to try letting Jack look at all the goddamn porn he wants to in an effort to see if I can just get over it, because my shrink says I need to not take it personally and the only way to get over it is to GET OVER IT, and that is taxing the fuck out me, personally. I then start my period and my husband doesn't like period sex, so guess who's looking at lots of porn? And I'm in no fucking mood to "not take it personally" but goddamn it I'm doing it anyway. Then there was the hour long phone call from my son's father last week, which I'm still freaked the fuck out over, wondering what will happen, why did I have to be such an asshole and curse my child with a father like that, and all the guilt that goes along with such thoughts... There's been the endless battle with the maintanence people who do not seem willing to maintain my dwelling come hell or high water, and sooner or later I'm going to have to confront SOMEBODY'S ass, but I'm so damn pissed off I'd sure as hell better not do it now. I'm worried as hell about my friend who is going into surgery, maybe already has, but doesn't answer my phone calls or messages so I don't know if she's ok and it's freaking me out. This morning I thought about just dropping everything and driving the 400 miles to be with her, but how the hell can I? I could barely walk this morning! What help could I be? And the sheer helplessness of that left me in bed crying for an hour. I have to finish some driving school course and take a test for a ticket I got a while back, but the test is taking forever, even online, because it's so freaking long and I'm so fucking tired, I have to keep taking sections over and over and over because I get parts wrong, I can't focus, but the time is running out for me to send this in before my ass is toast according to the legal system, so I'd best get on it. I have e-mails piling up over my head that I haven't the strength to answer withtout feeling as if I'm an asshole for sending back a half assed reply to a sincere message. I haven't called my family in months, I know they're worried. I'm having shitloads of panic attacks, but afraid I'll run out of Xanax so I barely take it, because my dumb ass shrink (previously bitched about) told me last time I was there, "You're all doped up! You're on too many drugs!" to which I did NOT reply, "NO SHIT SHERLOCK! TOO BAD IT'S NOT FUN, YOU ASSHOLE!" because I am on too many fucking drugs and I'm still falling apart, but they DO help, and when I mentioned the panic attacks she seemed irritated as shit to put me on more Xanax (I take one a day, come ON!) even though I pointed out to her that I used to take eight a day, uh, hello? Going though some shit? Cut me some slack bitch?

There's more, but I can't type any more. It fucking hurts. I have a drivers test to take and shit to do, and my pussy hurts.

Deal with it.

Shut the fuck up, you paranoid asshole.

How many times have I sat down to write this? Oh, never mind, never mind...

Last week my son's father called. The Bane of my existence, the SpermDonor, the mightiest of asshattery. As usual, his conversation began with a rude, "What're ya doing?"

He's funny, he is. He was raised to be a full blooded redneck, but he had higher aspirations. Unfortunately, some things die hard, and I say this having met his family. His abrupt rudeness doesn't fall far from the tree, shit, it IS the tree. I would say it runs in the blood but he was adopted, so it's not genetic, simply learned.

I really despise being greeted with a demand to know what I am doing.

In reality, he doesn't give a shit, it's just what he says. But, being the bitch that didn't fall far from her bitch-tree either, I always answer him, quite specifically, in the hopes that maybe he will get the hint and stop asking me such an asshatted question.

I crack myself up. I may as well sit in a garden and speak to a shovel for all the good it would do me. And, come to think of it, that would likely be far more good for me.

Strangely enough, this particular conversation with Spermdonor went quite interesting. It was, in it's own hideous way, QUITE good for me.

Let me tell you the story...

He called, demanded to know what I was doing, and I told him. I did not add that while I was slaving over the hot stove making dinner, I was in excruciating pain that day. He wouldn't care, and to tell him and have him pass over my statement would just piss me off, so I don't tell him those things that may hurt me. If he was not the self absorbed asshole that he is, me telling him might have saved him a lot of grief, as he would have known I was in NO MOOD for his asshattery. Alas for him, he IS a self absorbed fucknut and he was NOT warned of my pain (and resulting short temper).

He immediately cut to the chase, "Did you know that there is a warrant out on me?" I answered him with a simple, "Yes. It's been there for months. You just found that out?" He owes over $14,000 in child support. While this may seem like a huge number, take a moment to ponder the fact that he only owes $200 a month. It used to be $400, but after he got out of rehab and was trying to straighten out his life, we had a court date and I told them I was willing to settle for half of it (the monthly payments), even though he owed me so much, simply because I wanted him to be able to pay it, and it was my way of being sweet. Sometimes I am sweet to him. What good it does, I do not know. But I wanted him to see that I supported his efforts in getting clean and understood that he had a lot of bills, shit he had to clean up, court costs and tickets and god knows what all from years of being a coke-meth-crack head. Besides, if I lowered it, maybe I might actually get something, which is much better than the nothing that I usually get.

All that aside, when you do the math, you realize that it takes a long fucking time to add up to $14,000 and you can see why I might be less than patient with his never ending bullshit. I should note that since he left rehab and has been (ha!) "getting his life together" he had managed to pay child support a total of four times in the last two and a half years. So much for my good deed. (rolls eyes)

He's had a warrant out for his arrest since he blew off court the last time, a few months ago. Whoopdeedoo; they never catch him. Apparently this time they may have come close, I don't know how else he would know there was a warrant out. I know from talking to child support that he hasn't spoken to them in months. I know because I asked them. I asked them because during the course of this stupid conversation, he told me he has been calling them repeatedly but they won't take his phone calls, and they won't let him talk to the case manager at all. All lies.

(deep breath)

You see, it can't be HIS fault. This is his M.O. It's always been his M.O. since the day I met his accursed face. According to the rules governing his tiny world, everyone is out to get him, everything conspires against him, nothing is ever HIS fault, and he should never be held accountable for any of his actions. His tiny world is cruel, and the fact that that cruelty spills out and affects other people is none of his concern, quite the contrary, everyone should pity him and do something to help him avoid the consequences of his tiny cruel world. For years, I did.

Those years are over.

After learning that I knew of the warrant, he made some incredibly annoyed and frustrated noise and said, "Well then, would you call the dogs off?" Meaning, would I, the person who cares for his son and has the extreme displeasure of knowing him and being forced to interact with his stupid ass for the course of my entire life (due to my own stupid act of letting him breed THROUGH ME), would I call child support and tell them to just forget about the whole thing?

He wanted me to not just get the warrant off of his head, but cancel ALL of child support. Just negate that $14,000, because he's never going to be able to pay it, and by golly, it's ruining his credit! If I would just cancel the damn child support, he informed me, he would pay money directly to ME, but he won't pay it to child support, hell no, because then it doesn't COUNT, he says. Since he can't ever pay the full amount, he's always behind and always in trouble. And by the full amount, I mean the $200 a month, not the $14,000 he owes.

I'm not sure how to describe to you exactly how this conversation went, but the gist of it might be described using the phrases: "verbal assault", "total annihilation", "ripped him a new asshole", "left no stone unturned", "reality check", "smack down", and some phrase involving the words "his delusions" and "I consistently and methodically shredded them as he presented them to me".

I could sit here and tell you the incredible amount of sheer STUPID that he spewed, but it's pointless. I will tell you that the conversation went on for an hour, as he was really TRULY desperate to get me to "call off the dogs" and kept trying to plead his case, i.e. make up good enough excuses as to why he shouldn't have to support his own child, and I patiently listened to each and every one of his excuses and then destroyed them in no uncertain terms, leaving him scratching for the next one before I'd finished terminating the one he'd already offered.

I had the image of him trying to claw his way out of a giant sand trap. Nothing to grab, there's nothing there, oh, there you go sliding back down, helplessly. Must suck to be you...

What IS important about the conversation was that I never backed down. You see, in the past he would bully me into submission. It always worked. All he would have to do is get angry enough and I couldn't deal with all that venom being shot in my direction, so I would give up.

This time was different for a few reasons.

1) I've been working very hard at learning to be assertive and stand up for myself. It has been hard as hell, but I'm getting the hang of it. At first I went overboard and got aggressive, but I am learning to come back to the middle and find my balance.

Since the asshat never talks to me about anything but himself, and very little at that, and calls a few times a YEAR, he knows nothing of my progress in learning how to stand up to him. On that same note, he knows nothing of:

2) I've been in horrendous pain with physical therapy. It makes my fuse VERY FUCKING SHORT. And in a way, it has helped tremendously with my ability to assert myself. When people start spouting bullshit at me, I am so not in the mood to have my time wasted, my intelligence insulted, and listen to another freaking second of their crap. I have snapped (and deservingly so) at my doctors, my counselor, maintenance people, solicitors, and any asshat that wants to stand before me and try to feed me a line of crap. Pain, ongoing, excruciating, never ending pain will make an assertive bitch out of anyone, I do believe. And since Spermdonor doesn't know shit about my physical therapy (I brought it up once and he just changed the subject since he didn't give a fuck), he has no clue what state I am currently in.

Spermdonor called while I was tired and in a whole hell of a lot of pain, and I was busy. He then requested that I just forget everything he has done and let him slip through yet another noose he has tied for himself.

No way in hell, jackass.

When dinner was done I propped my ass up on the counter and just kept right on ripping him a new one, telling him what a piece of shit father he was, how his problems were his own, that I would not EVER, NOT EVER help him out again, that I would not be bullied by him, I would not back down, I would not cancel child support, that I did not give a rats ass if he WAS in jail as it made no difference to my life nor his sons (he would call just as often, probably more, and still wouldn't pay child support), how I really couldn't tell if he was clean or not because he still acted exactly like the asshole he was when he was a crackhead, how I haven't noticed any change in him since the day we met, how he's a self absorbed asshole who thinks he shouldn't be held accountable for his own actions and that everything that happens to him BECAUSE of his own actions he tries to blame on someone else, that I didn't want to hear his shitty excuses any more, and I questioned him about how in the world a man who is turning forty soon can possibly be such a failure in life and not grasp the basics of cause and effect, not in FORTY FUCKING YEARS. He can't hold down a job longer than a few months, he has no house, no car, no insurance, no long term relationships, no phone (he uses his girlfriends cell phone instead), calls his kid a few times a year, doesn't pay child support, has a criminal record a mile long, and somehow believes that NONE OF THAT IS HIS FAULT.

Ok, yah. I went for the jugular. Repeatedly. Had our conversation been literal, I might have been standing in what looked like a slaughterhouse by the time I was finished. It wasn't what I intended. I had no sense of malice. I didn't call HIM. I was just making dinner for my family. He was the one who called, he was the one who repeatedly tried to convince me to "call off the dogs" by offering lame ass excuses, and I had to repeatedly explain to him why each of his reasons were total and utter bullshit. What I'm saying is that I didn't want to go for the throat, but he kept pushing me into what he thought were corners and I would have to slash my way back out of them, leaving what he thought were valid excuses as tattered bloodless notions on the floor behind me as we went. He just wouldn't let it go. He was desperate and wouldn't give up. And so it went on...for an hour.

In that time he managed to insinuate that I was a shitty parent and that he would be a better one because he wouldn't "keep our kid all drugged up on crazy pills", referring to the medication (MY) son takes for ADD Inattentive Disorder. I told him he was a fucking dumb ass who knew nothing about his own child, and that was obvious because if he KNEW his child he would know how important that medicine is to HIM. I told him how (MY son, hmmph!) used to sharpen his pencils until they were little stubs, get so confused in school, come off the bus crying every day because he couldn't understand why he wasn't doing good in school, much less the fact that he would repeatedly walk in front of cars. He's so happy now, I told Spermdonor, and I don't worry about him walking out into the street and being run over. The medicine isn't some shit I give him so I can sedate him and make him behave. He LOVES taking his medicine, because he can focus now and make honor roll, the principals list, the gifted class. These things make him feel good about himself, and you would take that away? Because you don't know shit about your own child? Because you don't even bother? Fuck you.

The final straw was when he asked me to talk to Jack (my husband) about the whole thing. "He's more rational than you are. He's more level headed." I started to laugh hysterically. Jack hates Spermdonor with a passion reserved only for those rare and beautiful step parents who are willing to step up and do the job that some other asshole can't be bothered with. The love and attention and devotion he lavishes upon my son is something Spermdonor couldn't even LEARN to do. Jack is hard with him, too, teaching him how to be a responsible and good man when he grows up, and makes sure he has enough attention, time to talk about his feelings, and cuddles him to sleep when he's had a hard day. My husband is the father I wish with a burning passion was my son's REAL father, the kind of man my son could be proud of, model himself after, instead of the fucked up asshole that is his biological father.

In the midst of my peals of laughter I said, "Oh! Why? You want to talk to Jack?! I'm SURE he would LOVE to talk to you about this!" In truth, I had been waving Jack away the whole conversation. He was sitting not ten feet away, fuming and ready to grab the phone out of my hands a few times. At one point I had to cover the phone and whisper, "SIT DOWN. This is MY battle, let ME fight it." He consented. He told me later than after a while, he knew that I was far more qualified to be having that conversation than he was, and that he was actually a bit frightened of me afterwards.

This coming from the man who has taught me to be assertive. The man who is big and scary sometimes, uses a big voice and who people frequently mistake for military (we live near a base, it's not an uncommon assumption). Everything about the man can be strong, his demeanor, everything. He chooses to be soft with us, but there have been a few arguments when he used the big voice and I used to just shut right down, too well trained from Spermdonor to say any more. It drove Jack crazy, hence the assertiveness training of his wife. I like to kid him sometimes that he might regret it, because his big voice doesn't frighten me now. And neither does the voice of any masculine manly dude. They used to terrify me. Not anymore.

But I digress. When I asked Spermdonor if he wanted to talk to Jack, Jack jumped right up and I waved him down, laughing as I heard Spermdonor rapidly backpedal, saying, "NO! I don't want to talk to him, I just meant did YOU talk to him about it, that's all, I just meant did YOU talk to him about the possibility of canceling child support, that's all."

I took a deep breath. Did I dare tell him what Jack and I had discussed? What the hell..."Yes. As a matter of fact, we have talked about it," I told him very calmly. I knew what I was about to say was going to make him explode, and I was bracing myself for it. "We would have no problem canceling child support as long as you were willing to give up your parental rights and let Jack adopt (my son)."

KA-BLOOM! I was not mistaken.

He yelled into the phone, "OH! AH HA! YAH I FUCKING THOUGHT SO! NOW WE'RE FINALLY GETTING HONEST, HUH? NOW THE TRUTH COMES OUT! THIS IS WHAT IT'S ALL ABOUT, ISN'T IT?"

Calmly I said, "Shut the fuck up, you paranoid asshole." But he continued.

"I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT! YOU'RE JUST USING CHILD SUPPORT TO TRY TO FORCE MY HAND! YOU'RE USING CHILD SUPPORT TO FORCE ME TO GIVE UP MY CHILD! WELL, I WON'T FUCKING DO IT! OVER MY DEAD BODY! YOU TWO JUST WANT TO ADOPT HIM SO YOU CAN GO ON HAVING YOUR PRETEND LITTLE FAMILY!"

Pretend? Excuse me, did you just say, "pretend"? As in, our family isn't real? As in, living with you would be a better alternative?

He went on. Blah, blah. Finally I yelled at him to shut his fucking mouth and went back to his jugular vein. I explained that it wasn't about him and his paranoid delusions, what it WAS about was knowing that if I died tomorrow, my son could stay were he was and I wouldn't have to worry about it. I would always know he would be taken care of if anything ever happened to me. Spermdonor tried to argue that HE would be the best alternative, that if I died, "he needs to be with his father!" Oh, fuck, I could nearly TASTE the blood in my mouth as I lit into him, "His FATHER? What the fuck kind of father are you? When he has a bad day, who comforts him? When he needs something, who buys it for him? Who clothes him, feeds him, pays his doctor and dental bills? Who helps him with his homework and takes him on adventures? Who cuddles him to sleep when he's had a nightmare? PRETEND? Our family is not the stuff of fairies and unicorns you stupid fucknut, you wouldn't know what a real family WAS, not that you could help that. The fact is, you can't even take care of YOURSELF. How in the fucking hell are you going to take care of a child? In the case of my death, a grieving child, who was just ripped away from everything familiar, everyone he knew, and dumped in your hands. Imagine that. What the fuck would you possibly DO? How would you get him to school, to the doctors, get groceries? You have no car. You can't even afford child support, and it takes a hell of a lot more than $200 to care for him each month!"

He actually interrupted me to say, "Well, at least I would know where my money was going!"

I snapped. "WHAT MONEY!? YOU DON'T SEND IT NOW!" As if my child is some sort of experiment, some lesson in money management for him? If I died, he would take terrible care of a grieving heartbroken child, and at least he would know exactly what bills he couldn't pay for? I could have screamed.

Instead I said, "Well. You called to see if I would cancel child support. I won't, unless you want to give up your parental rights. I think we're both clear on that, and that you don't want to even though you show little to no interest in your child. So. Is there anything else you want to talk about, because otherwise this conversation is pointless. The dinner I cooked for my family is getting cold. Anything else?"

"No."

I waited. But there was just silence. He was still there, I could hear him. I started to laugh and said, "Are you waiting for me to say goodbye?" He was silent. I just laughed and hung up.

I then sent Jack down the hall to see how much of that my son heard and counsel him if need be. As soon as he walked from the room, I sank to the floor and started crying. About what in particular, I don't know.

I managed to pull it back together and went and sat down on the couch. I noticed that I didn't lay down like I normally do when I'm depressed about something. I just sat down, hugged a pillow to my chest, and prayed that Spermdonor wouldn't get any crazy ideas in his head like trying to kidnap my son. We've never filed for formal custody, so legally...

Jack hopped to it and researched the laws concerning it, fuuuuuck, till 1 am. He told me it would be considered a felony according to the law. I told him I didn't think he would REALLY do it, I mean, he has no money, no car and the law is after him. What would be the point?

But still. I worried each day that my son went to school, and was relieved each day he got off the bus. Over the weekend, Spermdonor called back.

"I wanted to apologize for over reacting," he said. Whoa. Uh, ok. "My girlfriend just broke up with me. She cheated on me." I tried not to laugh, since he was a total fucking whore when WE were together. I think he heard my silence and said, "Yah. What goes around comes around. So...uh. I've gotta get out of here (meaning her house). I'm not sure where I'm going yet. Probably back to (where he used to live)." I said yah, ok, that sucks (about the girl, it was the longest relationship he'd managed thus far, a whole two years or something.) He said he'd call back later to talk to (my son). He didn't.

Same shit. Some things never change.

food for thought

"The mother of excess is not joy but joylessness."
- Friedrich Nietzsche

currently

Many thanks to all of you who have inundated me with e-mails and messages of sweetness, compliments and whatnots. I must confess guilt at not being able to answer you all, nor even keep this blog up to date with the vast amount of gobbely gook that occurs in both my brain and my pants (or lack thereof).

This physical therapy thing is taking a MUCH longer time than I had expected, is far more painful than I had suspected, and I think that is good, because if I had an inkling of a clue what was going to happen I might have run screaming in the other direction. As it is, I am halfway through the tunnel, or so I hope, and there is no point to just sitting down in the tunnel and refusing to move any farther, so onward I must go.

In the meantime, my writings are sparse although my thoughts and desires to write are not. It's insanely frustrating, much like that delectable harlot and her tiny breasts.

and just like that, it's gone...

with the help of Flikr. I can be such a moody bitch.

thank you, T-Shirt Hell

For helping my express my excrutiatingly foul mood via pictures of horrible T-shirts you can buy for babies.







Don't forget, they offer gift wrap!



Your regular pleasant Jill will be returning at some point that is not this current moment, so it hardly matters. Stay tuned.

fuck you universe

I feel like shit, I took a nap. The phone woke me up. It was the shrink's, calling to inform me that my first appointment with a new shrink that can do EMDR is cancelled (took me a freaking month to get IN) and rescheduled for weeks from now. I don't think I was very polite, as a matter of fact, I think semi hysterical and totally exasperated would be the correct definition of my attitude. This is, I would like to note, totally unlike me because I do not shoot the messenger, as a rule. But it was just too much.

I hung up, burst into angry tears, and fell back asleep, then had a nice restful nap full of nightmares. I woke up and dragged my still exhausted ass out of bed, pissed off.

I got onto the library website to look up more books about EMDR, even though I know it takes a damn shrink to do it, damn it, I'm desperate and even reading about it makes me feel better. I tried to put some books on hold but the website simply told me I was "blocked". Why, I don't know. It didn't bother to tell me that.

I feel conspired against, I'm fucking tired, and I'm pissed as hell. Oh, yah, and that little bit of agonizing pain isn't cheering me up.

That is my happy message for today. I had lots to write about, but I have shit to do, and was hoping my nap would give me more energy. Instead I feel even worse, and won't have time.

Goddamn I am a just a fucking ray of sunshine.

how about some Botulism for that pain?

My pain doc has suggested I might be able to take part in some study about using Botox for trigger points, part of my physical therapy stuff.

My first reaction was "hell the fuck no" until I started asking some questions and found out that the Botox shots could deliver pain relief for up to six months.

SIX MONTHS.

Six months is a hellaciously long time, and suddenly Botox took on the form of a carrot dangling in front of my nose. Then the doctor mentioned the study would make it all free, and that those Botox shots would cost about a grand, maybe two. Suddenly the dangling carrot turned into a GOLDEN dangling carrot.

I will admit, the fact that the shit is expensive as hell and I could be getting it for FREE totally appealed to the bargain bitch shopper within me. Perhaps ridiculous, considering the situation, but true nevertheless.

At any rate, it isn't decided yet. I had some chick call and give me a battery of questions about it, and they'll tell me whether I am eligible to be a part of the study or not sometime next week. I have time to decide.

What a weird idea, though. Botulism for pain. Sometimes I feel like maybe I rolled down those stairs and fell into bizzare-o world instead.

my ongoing love affair with wind

The weather, the weather, it makes me so happy!

It's storming. The wind has been howling all last night and today. Best of all, it's 60-something degrees.

Yesterday I got to put on my new sweater, the fab new super long jeans, my (faux, Wal-Mart) motorcycle boots, and my super long raincoat. I went to the grocery store. It was dark already at 6pm, wind whipping and rain intermittently streaking down, and I had my window rolled down. The Cure was blaring, my arm stuck out the window feeling the cold of the wind, the sting of the rain, and the joy of summer's heat finally fucking off.

I love fall. Something about the relief of snuggly clothes, maybe from growing up in frigid old Michigan, the joy of knowing I can be active outside without suffering heatstroke, it's all just so...

Inspiring.

The leaves rustling as they rush along the the streets, crumpled and dry (except for last night), I love those sounds. The crinkly sound they make when the wind blows them while they hang vainly onto the trees till they come tumbling down, these things fill my heart with joy.

Maybe it's a flashback to youth, to being perpetually grounded and stuck in the house, and fall meant a return of school, which meant an excuse to leave the house each day (usually to skip school and run freely about for the first time in months). I don't know.

I DO know that I pitied the people with their windows up, and I felt exhilaration at being free to revel and suck in the glory of what mother nature had to offer us yesterday. As I walked up to the grocery store, the wind whipped my full length raincoat back, my hair swirling around my head, and I felt like a character from a movie, a super hero, a goddess, a mystic.

I felt more in touch with my true self that I have felt for quite some time, and it was glorious.

Thank you, wind. You always know how to cheer me up. If I can find the time/energy, I'll go search for the poems about wind I wrote back in high school. Roger (a newly appeared reader but a long ago super best friend) might even recognize a bit of them... I still have stories to write about Roger, don't you worry my dear, I haven't forgotten. But you deserve more than the moments spent over my cereal bowl in the morning.

I want to state this: Roger is one of the few people who have been witness to that inner Jill, the one standing spread eagled on a hilltop in the howling wind and grinning wickedly at the glory of it all. He reminds me of who I am, just like the wind.

The wind...

It's so fucking beautiful outside. *happy sigh*

There's a song running through my head. I think it's apt for both the wind and the struggle with my past that I've been slogging through. For those of you who are Descendents fans, you know this sounds much better than it reads, but those of you who aren't, get with the program. The Descendents freaking rock. (I have to note that it's a rather dysfunctional love song, but then, I've been a rather dysfunctional girl at times.)

Cheer

It's been so long since I had a smile
I've stayed sad for such a long while

If you can cheer me up
I could learn to love you

You kiss me now and I turn away
I think I'm still kissing yesterday

Love me, and cheer me up
Show me you're the one who can
make me happy

Cheer me up

I don't want to spend the rest of my days
dreaming yesterday's daydreams

Out with the bad and in with the good
You feel my heart girl, you're knocking on wood

So generous, I'm being kind
with selfishness in the back of my mind

Don't want to spend the rest of my days
giving yesterday's promises

No more giving my mind away

Tomorrow's love will be yesterday

Don't want to spend the rest of my days
living yesterday

Don't want to spend the rest of my days
singing yesterday's love songs..."