the pitter patter of curiousity (and the chaos that ensues)

Weird things are happening in our house.

There are doors closed. Particularly, there are doors being closed by my son. My nine year old son, who has never given a rats ass about letting anyone at all see him pee, poop, shower, change clothes, whatever. When friends were over, or we went to go visit people in THEIR homes, I would have to remind him, "CLOSE THE DOOR!" when he went off to the bathroom.

The last few days he's come home, thrown his book bag down and made a dash for the bathroom, door closed, where he remains for a good thirty minutes at least. That part isn't unusual. Even his pooping-with-the-door-open days were the same. He'd just sit there, singing a song to himself, looking around, talking to himself. A regular chip off the old block, he is.

The bathroom door being closed was odd, but hey, I don't want to smell someone's poop, so I noted it silently and went on about my day. Then yesterday, something even STRANGER happened.

He came home, did his poop thing, did his homework, then dashed off to his room and closed the door. He then stayed there for a good hour before my husband came home. Since he has very occasionally closed his door before, I was just grateful since I was in a buttload of pain and not feeling like I was up for the Happy Mommy Award or anything. Basically, I figured it was my own rotten mood that made him scuttle off and hide, and I didn't blame him. But when my husband came home, he asked where the little guy was. I just shrugged and said, "Eh...he's in his room." "With the door closed?" he asked. "Yah," I said, "Perhaps he's picked up on my evil mommy with PMS going through Darvocet withdrawal vibe."

I toodled down the hall and knocked on his door, which was locked. Interesting, but not terribly unusual. When he opened it, I asked him if he was ok, wanting to make sure he wasn't tweaking out over my shitty mood. "No, no," he quickly assured me, "I'm fine, just reading..."

I walked into the bathroom to pee, lights off and door open, and little guy came around the corner suddenly. He stood in the doorway and shifted from foot to foot. "I'm....er....studying," he said, holding up what I consider the Holy Grail book of sexual information, the book I WISH I had when I was kid, the book I got him years ago when he started asking questions that simply couldn't be answered. I don't mean I wasn't willing to answer them, I mean I literally could NOT. The particular question was, "What does a vagina look like?" and when I tried to explain it, he said with full childhood innocence (he was all of six years old at the time), "Couldn't you just show me yours?" We were at the bookstore within the hour.

But so far he's just been embarrassed that I leave the book on his bookshelf, and for a long time insisted that it hide under his bed, lest anyone see that he OWNED such a thing. I've been telling him for years that it's nothing to be ashamed of, and that if he ever has any questions he doesn't feel like asking, he can just read his book. The thing covers damn near EVERYTHING.

Suddenly, out of the blue, he was completely absorbed in it. So much so that he asked if we could even cancel our family plans that we had that night (we agreed, under the circumstances) and stayed holed up in his room the entire night, door closed, reading, er...uh, studying. He did take a break when I came in to ask what he wanted for dinner, and even showed me a "hilarious" illustration of "evil sperm trying to attack foam", as in, spermicidal foam. I agreed that the illustration was quite amusing and left him to it.

We had to finally insist he come out to eat dinner, which he reluctantly did, then insist he snuggle up with us on the couch until bedtime, using his favorite show as bait (the rerun of last nights The Colbert Report). He fell asleep and my husband carried him off to bed.

I, in the meantime, freaked out about the implications of it all. My husband was trying to point out all the positives and how healthy it all was, and I interrupted him to say, "I KNOW! But don't you see? Once he's grown up, we can kiss our snuggly boy goodbye! No more kissies! No more snuggles! It's going to be closed doors and ew-don't-touch-me from that point out!" I started to cry. "My baby...I'm not ready for this..." My husband got a little verklempt at that realization, too. "Oh... I.... haven't had enough snuggles. I haven't had nearly enough snuggles yet. Oh no...."

I stared at him through my tears. I said what I thought would never ever pass through my lips, the very words that I have heard other women utter and thought they must be losing their minds:

"We could always have another."

At the same time picturing the hideous years of screaming, puking, diaper changing, the very things I dread more than maybe anything in the world. Nothing makes me quite as claustrophobic as the thought of having another child. I know that's not something many parents care to admit, but when I have admitted it I have been amazed at how many parents say to me, shocked, "Oh my God. I thought I was the only one that felt like that..." only to have me respond, "ARE YOU FUCKING NUTS? Diaper bags and sleepless nights, fuck it's like a ball and chain around my leg, no no no no no I don't want to go back to that."

In all fairness, my years when my son was an infant were spent with his asshole father, a man who made my life hell in so many ways, and my experience of child rearing is severely tainted because of it. Rape doesn't even compare. Those were, without a shadow of a doubt, the most traumatic years of my life. Even life with the abusive boyfriend was a walk in the park compared to that. All the shit in my childhood. Nothing compares to the horror of living with that man, and those were the years that my son was born. I moved out of town on my sons second birthday. The years after that were filled with the struggle of being an twenty-something with no real job skills trying to raise a child on her own with little to no help from his drug addict father. To say that I am biased would be a heinous understatement. For that reason, I have always told Jack that I would have his child if he truly wanted one, but that I was really rather adverse to the idea. Honestly, screaming babies and toddlers fill me with a sense of deep anxiety, and no small wonder there.

My fears aside, these crazy words escaped from somewhere that might not be my brain. Could be my uterus. Could be hormones that are located somewhere unbeknownst to me. Wherever they are, they have been chewing on my brain today. I watched some show about childbirth and found myself trying to figure out how we could have a baby without me losing my fucking mind. A nanny? But I don't have a job, what kind of selfish mother am I? Fuck.

And all this because of a closed door and a curious nine year old. Oh, dear.

While I was typing this, he's been sitting nearby doing his homework. He then finished, looked at me nervously, ran down the hall, followed by the faint sound of a door clicking shut.

Oh my.

"These are not the drugs you are looking for..."

(A little Star Wars joke, for those of you who aren't in on my favorite geekery...)

*sigh* I had my appointment with the pain specialist today. I told him my stupid tale, about how I decided yesterday that I was just going to stop taking the Darvocet and see how that went.

I'll tell you how it went. It went like hell. Not like ACTUAL hell but rather damnable, for sure. Burning up, freezing cold, running to the bathroom, head pounding, everything hurt, and this morning I woke up at four something A.M. thinking, "Vomiting is possible. Quite. Fuck this." And then I took half of a Darvocet.

That made it better, but not by much. A whole day without it was a bad plan, which is my opinion corroborated by my doctor. Now I have withdrawal on top of the pain I was in from physical therapy on top of the normal aches and pains that are normal but I haven't had to feel in months, and did I mention my period is about to start? Ah yes. I'm a regular freaking JOY to be around. A joy.

I'm trying to keep it to myself as much as possible, but I'm bitchy and transparent, at least to those who know me well. My husband can just look at me and he'll start frowning, eyebrows knit together in concern. I tried to assuage his fears last night, telling him, "Look honey, we knew I'd have to come off this shit eventually. I knew it was going to be rough. It's ok. It'll be over soon." That did nothing to help him sleep last night, though, while I freaked the hell out and yelped in my sleep every time I rolled onto my hip, which was screaming. I couldn't even sleep on my back without thrashing and moaning. I remember freaking out about noises, I kept hearing someone banging on something and I was tweaking out about that.

That part where I told my husband, "It'll be over soon" is the part that makes me really upset. The reason being, it won't be. The doctor told me withdrawal could last about a week, but that he didn't want me just stopping the medicine yet anyway. I was surprised.

"But I'm done with therapy (at least, my retarded insurance has decided I'm done, bastards)! I really want to get off these meds. What are you saying?" He explained that my hip was still very weak, and until the exercises I have to do strengthen it sufficiently, stopping the pain meds was equal to shooting myself in the foot, basically. The exercises are very painful, it's very painful afterwards, and if I get off the pain medication the likelihood of me doing them at all is pretty much nil. (hangs head) He's right. Damn it all, Dr. Asshat is RIGHT about something. Of course, if I don't do them, the hip won't strengthen, I will remain in pain, I won't get better and I run the risk of falling again, since that's the damn thing that gave out in the first place and made me fall down the stairs. For some bizarre reason, one of my hips is extremely weak, and the other is extremely strong to compensate for it.

"Wait...so how long do I have to keep taking these?" I asked. He told me it might be weeks, it might be months. It all depends on how fast I can get my hip to strengthen. Oh fuck a duck. Then he's right...I can't stop taking the damn shit. After not taking it at all yesterday, and just taking enough to make me not puke this morning, the fact is I can barely put pressure on it. I had to drive to his office using my LEFT foot. I do NOT own a stick shift. Meaning, the pain in my hip is still so freaking intense I am NOT better, despite my optimistic hopes. I just thought it was better because it's getting a little stronger and the pain meds were covering how painful that healing process actually is. A day without them made it CRYSTAL CLEAR, in full screaming vomit vision. Got it. Ok.

I have to do my exercises, and if anything I'm more determined than ever to do them. Religiously. Psychotically, if need be.

I won't lie to you- I'm already trying to figure out if maybe I can stop taking the muscle relaxers instead. Maybe those can go first then? It seems illogical that muscle relaxers could help make my muscles stronger, but I know they are there to help with the wracking spasms that the exercises cause.

Oh dammit dammit dammit. These are not the drugs I am looking for. But they are the drugs that I must continue to take. As counterintuitive as it may seem, they are the drugs I must take if I want to stop taking them.

Weeks. Maybe months. It makes me want to lay my head down and cry. I don't know why I thought I was ok now, I just did. I guess I didn't really think about it. I was no longer going to physical therapy and getting my ass kicked for three hours a day, twice a week, so I must be ok, right?

Wrong.

Damn it. *sigh* Oh well. Chin up. I've got exercises to do.

what it's like in my brain

The other day we were all driving down the road and I saw a mini van with a long rope hanging off of it's luggage rack. It was just dangling down the back, flopping in the wind, and I turned to my husband to say, "Hey. I think whoever was walking that mini van let it get away..."

There was a moment's pause while he looked at it and caught my funny, then he laughed.

argh

For those of you in the know, I've been in physical therapy for months, and on pain killers and muscle relaxers for months. Well, as of last night, I decided I would stop taking the pain killers and see how I felt. I have a doctors appointment tomorrow and it's time to assess what the plan is, but how can I know how I feel when I'm up to my eyeballs (oh please, I wish) in narcotics? (They didn't really give me that much, but I have been taking them religiously for months...)

So, today is no Darvocet. It's sucking. I won't lie. I've spent the day looking at new apartments on line and yapping it up in IM with friends. That, for me, is really freaking unusual. Those of you few folks on my IM list know I'm rarely ever on. It's just so distracting. Anyway... I may be a wee bit out of it for a few days while this crap gets out of my system.

Right now my hands are ice cold and I really have to poop a lot. I know, you wanted to know that, but hey- it's my reality. Let me deal with it my own way (which apparently is making you come along for the ride, ha!)

ARRRRGH. Just.....argh.

It's not that easy....

It's been a hellacious weekend, and by that I'm referring to my hormonal onslaught.

For you long time readers, you know that I have quite the ongoing battle with my hormonal balance. In fact, I would liken it more to playing on a see saw with a bully. Sometimes you're up, sometimes you're down, but either way it's not your choice. You can scream, "Lemme down! Lemme down!" all day long but it's not up to you. Then the jerk hops off and lets you crash to the ground, with a nice jarring thud that leaves you wondering about the structural integrity of your tail bone. Yah. It's awesome like that.

While I've pondered seeing a hormone specialist, I decided to listen to my husbands good advice and start taking more vitamins. My vitamin intake is sporadic, at best, because most vitamins hurt my ulcer prone stomach. The only ones that don't are the super fabulous and mighty expensive whole food vitamins, which hubby said, "Fuck it, go buy them!" So I did. For the last month or two I've been taking these vitamins, which happen to contain Chaste Tree (also known as Vitex) which is an herb that I used to take many years ago to help with PMS and worked wonders.

I noticed a slight difference last month, and this month has been really weird. Instead of my usual 2-7 day migraine, I was really feverish (usually one of the first signs that my migraine is coming on) and that lasted a day. And that was it. A fever for a day. Now I'm VERY emotional, but with some effort and if need be, sedatives, I can get through that ok, too. It's weird because I seem to be more emotional than usual, but maybe (I hope) it's a sign of my hormones coming back to a more stable state. I mean, a week long migraine in exchange for some weeping and neediness, shit, I'll take it. That's a bargain, a blue light special, shoppers, do not pass this one up!

That said, the last few days have NOT gone off without a hitch, oh hell no. Remember that see saw and the bully? Psssh. The other day I woke up to find that none of my clothes fit. I had gained four pounds overnight. That right, of water. Four pounds. My poor bloated midsection was downright damnable. I was in a lot of pain, whining, moaning, the whole bit. Jack was getting tired of it. I didn't know what was wrong with me until I tried to put on my pants to get dressed and realized that I couldn't fit into my size nines. I tried the size elevens. Nope. The size thirteens? Barely, and that was uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable.

While talking this over with a friend of mine she pointed out something I thought was rather astute. She said, "Guys just don't get it! We have to have, like, four different sizes of clothes just for ONE freaking month! They have no idea what it's like to just wake up and *BLAM* you're suddenly fat and everything hurts and you have to keep a closet full of different sized clothes because of it!" I brought it up to my husband. "How do you think you would feel if you woke up four pounds heavier than when you went to sleep, and suddenly none of your clothes fit?" He just blinked at me with a wretched expression and said, "I think that would fucking suck," in a very matter-of-fact way. Well, there's an understatement.

Not only that, but those size thirteen pants I could barely squeeze into Saturday morning? Remember those? Yah, I put on the size elevens the next day and they were loose as hell. I weighed myself. Four pounds lighter. What the fuck....I got up today, weighed myself....four pounds heavier again. I'm wearing the size elevens, but I'm not liking it, folks.

It feels like someone has been beating me in the top muscles of my ass with a tack hammer all night, and this morning I just wanted to go back to sleep. I don't mean that lightly. I mean it took every ounce of my will to get to the kitchen. Once there, I realized I was in too much pain to even stand and take my medicine, so I just sat on the kitchen floor and tried to stretch. Normally I'm very flexible, but I could barely move. Seeing that Jack was at the computer, and despite the fact that I had to eat and wake the little monkey up for school, I just curled up on the kitchen floor and thought, "Just a few more minutes of sleep...I bet that would work...." only to hear my husband call my name in that tone and tell me I needed to get up. Even my feeble attempts to convince him that it could be great, I could be like the family dog, didn't work. Damn. I got up, wobbled to the table and sat down, and Jack brought me my medicine and cereal. I ate the cereal with my hoodie pulled low over my eyes, head propped up with one hand, eyes closed. I wondered if I was going to pass out into my cereal bowl and what that would look like. I decided I didn't care, and just forced myself to continue shoveling in food and gulp down my medicine, silently thinking, "Come on, Adderall..." like I was rooting for the home team to make a magical come back and save my ass from total exhaustion.

Lame.

That gave me just enough energy to take little monkey to school, go grocery shopping, write this, and now I'm ready to pass the fuck out. The question then becomes...do I need to just sleep? Should I take my second dose of Adderall or just sleep? Which will make me feel better? Because, see, PMS is really weird like that. You can be tired as hell, but if you end up having to go for a walk or something you end up feeling a whole hell of a lot better. But what if I don't sleep, waste my nap time doing stuff, then little monkey comes home from school to one exhausted and weepy unbalanced mother? Decisions, decisions...

I don't care, by the way. I would rather be a girl any day. I wouldn't trade it for being a guy, nope, nada, no way. I'm not sure exactly what I'm basing this opinion on, when I stop to think about it all I can come up with is a cranky little girl in my head saying, "'Cause boys SUCK."

Well. Not terribly enlightening, but there you have it. I think I'll go take my medicine and try to dig myself out of this hormonal funk hole. Blech.

You know what I want to see? I want to see Kermit the Frog singing, "It's Not That Easy Being Green" only to have Miss Piggy suddenly jump in and sucker punch that frog and dramatically take over the song only to make it about PMS. There would be much hair flipping and holding the back of her hand to her head, of course. She's the queen of drama, isn't she? Yah. That'd be great. Not that I don't love Kermit (as does Miss Piggy), I'm just saying... that's something I could nod along with and feel understood. *sigh*

adorable

You know what's the cutest thing ever? When you freak the hell out over your own wedding and your friend manages to be cool as a cucumber and talk you down off of every freak-out-ledge you have, then it's her turn to get married and you assume she's going to be just as chill but then you go to a bridal expo with her and she looks like a deer caught in the headlights of a monster truck.

You know who you are, you darling little Bambi. Just keep me in your pocket, ok? I may have been a wreck at my own wedding, but my mama instinct is rock hard when it comes to yours. You say the word. I am your bitch, and I am ready to hire and fire the wedding who-the-fuck-evers faster then Donald Trump, and stab a stiletto heel into the foot of any gown consultant who does not do your bidding and listen the fuck up.

You let me know.

I AM

"What shall we say, shall we call it by a name?
As well to count the angels dancing on a pin
Water bright as the sky from which it came
And the name is on the earth that takes it in
We will not speak but stand inside the rain
And listen to the thunder shout
I am, I am, I am, I am...."

Grateful Dead, Weather Report Suite Part II: Let It Grow

Lyrics: John Barlow
Music: Bob Weir

Going with the weather theme, ha. It's running through my head, and one of my all time favorite Dead lyrics. Gorgeous, shining, dark and brilliant. My favorite combination.

forecasters: tough job to put a spin on

Forecasters have the most difficult job, don't they? Not only do you have to predict the weather accurately, but you're never going to make everyone happy, no matter what. There's always some bastard that LIKES rain (me) or isn't thrilled at all when the temperature suddenly shoots up into "fry an egg on the pavement" (also me), but then you get a day like today and have to come up with something like this:
(actually pulled straight off of www.weather.com this morning)
Abundant sunshine. High 39F. Winds WNW at 10 to 20 mph.
Abundant? Abundant? As if the sun were a veritable cornucopia of light that would somehow make up for the fact that it's currently 24 degrees with a stiff wind?

Days like this make me realize I was not cut out to be the local weather girl. I might be able to hold it together for a little while, but sooner or later I'd just crack and say what I was really thinking. Like today. Today's forecast would be something like this:
"It's cold! DAMN COLD! Sure, the sun is shining, but all that damn glowing ball is gonna do is light up the fact that your ass is FREEZING out there today! Wear clothes, all the damn clothes you have! If you walk out your door looking like anything less than a bag lady I'm gonna smack the shit outta ya when I see ya! You hear me? It's windy! Cold! Ladies, that wind is gonna blow right up your skirts and make you wish you were never even BORN until you get your ass back indoors, so skip the damn skirt and wear pants. Ten of 'em. All at once, you heard me! Bring that guy that stands by the interstate some hot chocolate, and not the cheap shitty kind, either! Don't skimp on the cream! If his ass is standing out there today, don't even worry if he's faking it or not! Don't think twice! Give that man some gourmet hot chocolate, a freaking Chewbacca suit to put on, and all the money in your wallet. He's EARNED it, you got that? IT'S FREAKY COLD, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? Ok, good. Don't make me come to visit you at the hospital with hypothermia because your dumb ass walked outside wearing a light jacket and just assumed your car wouldn't break down TODAY of all days, right? So help me I will smack your frozen fingers with a ruler and holler, 'I told you so, ya jackass!' THINK! It's COLD! ARGH!!!!!!"

For real.

one can of whoop ass, long overdue, coming right up

Ugh. I've been staring at legal documents for hours now. That's always good for you.

Here's what's going on:

My son's dad reappeared again, right before Christmas. His usual "doesn't call for weeks, months, then suddenly calls reappears" trick, the one where he expects us to all jump up and down for joy at the fact that he managed to pick up a fucking phone and dial our number. Yah, I'll throw a fucking party.

It always throws my son for a loop, being in a nice stable family environment otherwise. Sure, my husband and I are wacky, I'm a woman with one hell of an anxiety disorder, but other than that, we are pretty normal people. Well, as far as the courts would decide.

*sigh* It's time to file for custody. I dread this. I dread the scene and the screaming phone calls to me and the guilt trips Spermdonor is going to try to lay on his already emotional son.

I've never filed for custody before because there was no point. His dad didn't want him. He never has. He wants to BE his dad, he just doesn't want to act like it, or he wants to act like it whenever he gets around to it, play "dad" for a couple of days, then go back to his usual self absorbed asshattery. A few years back he threatened to give up his parental rights to my son so he wouldn't have to pay child support. I wish he would have. He doesn't pay it anyway.

Right now he's wanted by the cops for failure to pay. He only owes $200 a month. Yah. For a forty year old guy you'd think that wouldn't be such a big deal, it's not like he's eighteen and working his teenage fingers to the bone at a fast food joint for minimum wage. No, he's just a failure. He's a failure at everything, it seems, except saving his own ass, when it suits him. Sometimes he even fails at that.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. I don't know where to begin or end. The problem is that my son is going batty with stress over the latest reappearance because Spermdonor mentioned that he really wants to move here so he can be close to his son.

Reality check: the likelihood of that is nil. He's four hundred miles away, hiding from the cops, working under the table so child support can't find him, he has no car, no money to move here with, and frankly, he couldn't afford to live here. It's not a cheap place. The whole cost of living thing is twice what it is where he is now.

Regardless, my son has been a wreck ever since hearing the news. The weird thing is, it's only showing up at school. We've been totally baffled at what the hell is wrong. For weeks now my sons homework is ok, but his schoolwork looks like a crackhead did it. The teacher tells me he's acting out in class, his hands are shaking and he constantly looks like he's on the verge of tears. She was thinking maybe he isn't eating enough, and maybe his ADD medicine is too strong. So I went in for a conference.

I told her that he doesn't act like that at home, he isn't shaky and actually eats (he barely eats at lunch at school), and other than a few small outbursts, which are definitely a new thing, we haven't seen this tweakiness at all. His outburst I was chalking up to puberty kicking in.

She and I talked back and forth for a while till it suddenly hit me: this is only at school. It's ONLY at school. It's only at the one place where my husband and I are NOT present.

I told her that we had a long talk this past weekend. My son has been asking to talk to the school counselor, and we always know when that happens that it's something about his dad. He talks to us about everything, but when it's his dad, he asks to speak to someone else.

After seeing his schoolwork that came home on Friday I sat him down and said, "Look. I know you don't want to talk to us about this, but you're going to have to. This has gone too far. Your grades are suffering, YOU are suffering, and I won't let you do this to yourself. Talk to me."

He told us he was freaked out about his dad moving here. He thought he might have to go live with his dad or that his dad would try to take him away from us, or that he might try to kidnap him or something.

No shit. I could have burst into tears FOR him, that was so distressing. But my job is to be a rock. So, a rock I will be. For him.

We explained that he couldn't do that, and that was when I set up the appointment with his teacher. After talking to her I realized that he was terrified to be at school, because parents come in and out of there, and there was nothing stopping his dad from just walking in the door and taking him. Because there is no custody agreement, he has every legal right to do so.

Now, even though I don't think he would, that hardly matters. The fact is that my SON is worried that he would. That's a whole different matter. Screw my fear of the drama of a custody hearing, my kid is freaking OUT.

The teacher then had me talk to the school counselor, the school counselor talked to my son, I talked to the principal, my son and I talked to the principal together, and I think he feels more secure in knowing that he's not going to be snatched out of school by his erratically behaving father.

But there's only one way to make sure- to gain full custody of him. It's not going to be a hard case to win, it's pretty much a joke of a case to begin with, but it has to be legal, so legal it shall be.

I just...I can't even write about this any more right now. The whole thing just makes me want to flip the fuck out. For my sons sake, for my sake, for the whole damnable thing. Why did I ever breed with that asshole? How could I have cursed my child with a father like that? I feel so responsible, so guilty, and it's up to me to fix it, as much as I can, anyway.

I've got shit to do.

Prince-e-Pal

It's funny how school principals exert so much control over our lives when we're younger, and that doesn't really ever go away.

I've had some serious shit going on with my son at school (I'll get to blogging it some magical day) and requested a meeting with the principal. So yesterday I get the call, and I must confess I was intimidated.

I wanted to yell into the phone, "You don't scare me you know! I'm thirty two! I'm a grown up! Ha! Fuck you! (long pause) ohmygodyoudoscareme I'm sorry. How about I bring you an apple? A nice shiny apple? Please don't hurt me..."

Eeep.

The Worm Whisperer

This morning I went to the bus stop with my son, only to discover tons of worms on the road, in the freezing puddles, drowning or dying of hypothermia, whichever gets them first. I don't even know if a bird would pluck them up they were so cold.

I started to pick them up. You see, when I was a kid I had a thing for worms. My brother and I used to take our little red wagon and walk up and down our dirt road collecting worms after it rained. They would all come to the surface so as not to drown, and we would load up the wagon with a big pile of dirt and pluck worms out of puddles and such. Luckily, we never found out our dad was just using our "Worm Farm" for bait when he went fishing. I don't think that would have gone over well with us.

So I've just always had a thing for worms. Little slimy wiggly worms.

A few weeks ago the same thing happened, and one of the girls at the bus stop screeched when I picked it up and put it in my hand. "OH THAT IS SO GROSS!" she yelled. I just held the cold little worm in my hand for a minute and warmed it back up. She thought it was dead. Then I opened my hand and showed her that it was wiggling around again, and explained how cool worms are because they aerate the soil and without that, plants wouldn't grow as well. After a minute or two of Worm 101, she seemed placated and I placed the worm under a bush so it could hide it's juicy self from the birds while it got back underground.

This morning they were everywhere, freezing and drowning from the sleet and freezing rain from last night. I started scooping them up while the kids at the bus stop stared in amazement, asking me what in the world was I doing and WHY? I told them the worms would either drown or be run over, and they need to get back to the dirt, so that's what I was doing- helping them get back faster.

I had about fifteen wiggly little warmed up worms in my hand by the time the bus came, and by then all the kids were quite officially on board, yelling, "There's one! Don't forget that one! OH! There's one over here!" I had to actually herd them onto the bus and get them to stop worm hunting and just go to school.

I finished up, came inside, washed my hands, puffed out my chest proudly and told my husband, "I am Jill Introspectre: I am the Worm Whisperer" ala the intro to the show "The Dog Whisperer".

He laughed.

Death By Stupidity (the question is: whose?)

I was listening to the radio the other day and caught part of a story about a radio station that had pulled a promotional stunt about people drinking as much water as possible.

Now, I didn't catch if these people were forewarned that drinking too much water can kill you, but I did hear that they had an intern in the studio who told them that it was dangerous.

Guess what? A girl died from it. Not really a shocker, in the day and age of psycho reality shows where people will do damn near anything to be on TV and win something. I don't know if there was a prize offered.

I don't even know if there was any disclaimers or warnings or whatnot. What I do know is that some asshat radio DJ's came up with a brilliant plan that could possibly kill people, somehow this brilliant plan actually passed their supervisors, and people tried to win, then someone died.

On the station I was listening to, they were asking people if they thought the DJ's should be held responsible, or if it was the fault of the people for being so stupid in the first place.

For me that depends on whether or not they were warned, but even that aside, the DJ's should be at least heavily fined for being so callous, so flippant with human life. I mean, they could have held a Russian Roulette Tournament, you know? What's the fucking difference? You might die, but HEY! You might not! And then you win a prize! A years supply of Stupid-B-Gone! Whooopeeee!

It seems to me I have not forced myself to watch Jerry Springer in a long time. I've forgotten just how retarded people can be.

how things change over time...

where did I go?

Sorry, folks, I'm here. I've been dealing with some pretty heavy sex issues and so I'm mostly just saving it for the sex blog. Ok, I'm saving it all for the sex blog. I've decided to (duuuuh) throw the link in to the sex blog, in case you don't know where to find it. (Have you never heard of Google? I kid, I kid.)

Anyway, if you want to know what's going on, the link is on the left now.

it's cold

It's cold, damn cold! I'm staying inside with my hat and scarf on, two pairs of socks, legging, pants and a long sleeve shirt. The heat is on, don't get me wrong. I'm just c-o-l-d. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, my muscles are sore and I think it's time for a nap. 'Cause it's cold. Damn cold.

Where's the hot chocolate? Ahh, there it is...

Wonky Eyed Shrink Gets The Boot

Strike up the band, people, and get ready to shake your asses in tune to my victory dance:

I don't have to see my dumb ass shrink no mo'! Hallelujah!

Today I had an appointment, and as usual, she was late. Not a little late, but a full hour late. And not "oh there was an emergency" late, but I watched her come in and out of the waiting room taking patients back one by one as I waited, just like EVERY TIME I SEE HER. When it was my turn I got the usual smile and "Oh my, sorry I'm running late..." and thought, "Shut the fuck up." But I did not say that. She said, "How's it going?" and I said, "About the same."

I had already decided in the waiting room, while I writhed on the godawful uncomfortable chair for an hour, that I was done with her. I refuse to see her again. Not only is she always late, but she is uncommunicative, vague, unresponsive, and generally weird as hell. My husband sees the same lady. Not a problem. But me? Total problem.

It all started when my original shrink kept getting sick and was in and out of the hospital so much that the office finally called and said they were going to switch me to another shrink because she just couldn't keep up with her appointments. Damn, but ok. They switched me to some militant Middle Eastern asshole with an attitude problem, and after seeing him a few times I requested a different psychiatrist. He was rude and constantly interrupted me, and just an all around class A jerk. Fuck him.

Then they stuck me with Ms. Weird-O. At first I was ok with her, because at least she wasn't a rude asshole, but she was flaky and weird and with that one lazy eye I could never really tell what the hell she was looking at. My husband suggested throwing something across the room to see which of her eyes followed it. I chose not to. I mean, it's my shrink. She's the one prescribing me crazy pills, right? I don't need to be put on anti psychotics because she thinks I like to take off my shoe and throw it against the wall randomly.

She did manage to figure out the difference in my chemical imbalance, and put me on a GABA based medicine instead of a seratonin based medicine (she put me on anti-seizure medication instead of anti-depressants, which every other doctor had tried with little to no success and if anything, they made me MORE depressed.) I feel a lot better taking the Gabitril, but it has not magically cured my panic attacks, not by a long shot.

She put me on Klonapin, saying that it was better than me taking Xanax (which my first and favorite shrink had put me on), and the only difference that I can surmise from her jibber jabber is that it basically acts like a long term form of Xanax. Well, it also helped, but didn't make the panic attacks go away. No, indeed. So I've had a tiny dose of Xanax that I can take when needed, and some days I need it, some days I don't. That's how it goes.

But Silly Wobbly Eyed Shrink decided that I should be all better. I don't know what she's basing this opinion on, perhaps a book of "How To Cure All PTSD Cases", which doesn't exist FYI. In fact, from what I'm been reading, most PTSD cases never really get all better. If they did, then Silly Eyed Doc could just give everybody her magical fix em up concoction and praise Jesus all the war vets would be cured, rape victims without a care in the world, and she should get a fucking medal.

Instead, I'm still having panic attacks and she's decided, all on her brilliant own, that I should be much better now and also that I'm obviously hooked on benzo-whatever the hell kinds of medications and that I need to be taken off of them, pronto.

"But I'm still having panic attacks. You want to take me off of the medications that actually help. How exactly is that going to make me better?" I asked her. She just shook her head and mentioned that I was "all doped up" and "on too many drugs". No shit, Sherlock, YOU put me on them! But you still haven't FIXED THE PROBLEM...

And to clarify: I'm not an addict. I can stop taking them any time. I'll just be having all the constant panic attacks that I used to, fucking DUH. I pointed out to her that I take less of the addictive Adderall than she prescribed, although she got pissy and said, "YOU were the one who wants to take it THREE times a day!" I responded, "Yes. I ALSO am the one who asked you to lower my dosage by half, DESPITE the amount of times during the day that I take it. It goes through my system quickly, hence me taking it three times a day. But I'm still taking HALF the amount you put me on. AND I don't even take it all the time, if you'll check your records you'll notice I only ask for a refill once every two months, not one, so that means I'm actually take a quarter of the addictive drug YOU prescribed."

"As for the Xanax," I continued, "I don't take it every day. I only take it when I'm having a bad panic attack. And for the record, I'm taking probably an eighth of what I was originally prescribed. So again, I take less of the addictive medications than I'm allowed to. How exactly do you justify saying I'm that an addict?"

No answer from Stupid. She just lowered her head into her papers, shuffled through them and mumbled to herself like usual.

If anything, I think she's got a rocking case of ADD and frankly, I don't know how in the hell she manages to hold down a damn job.

Well, today I had had enough. As soon as she asked me how I was I told her point blank, "Look, I've been thinking about switching back to (my original shrink, who is treating again). You seem like you are overloaded with patients and you just don't have enough time to fit us all in. You're always late, and I can't sit in the waiting room for an hour, it's incredibly painful."

She glared at me, but was trying to hide it behind a poker expression. Oh no, bitch. I have an anxiety disorder, but I'm not stupid. She snapped at me, "I don't think she'll take you back. Most doctors don't take back a patient that dropped them. I know I certainly wouldn't take a patient back after they dropped ME."

I explained, rather nicely, although her snotty diatribe pissed me off, "I never dropped her. She was in the hospital and the office called ME to tell ME she was dropping ALL of her patients last year and I got reassigned to someone else, and then to you. I never dropped her. I liked her just fine."

She just wanted to fight. I could tell. She mumbled something about how I DID drop her, I told her again, calmly, that no I did not, and she hopped out of her chair and said, "Let me go talk to her secretary and see IF she'll take you back." She actually ran down the hall. No shit. heels and all, she took off running. She could have just called them on her stupid phone, right there on her desk, but that damn bitch ran off down the hall to find out if I had indeed dropped the first shrink I had or if I was telling the truth. She just didn't want to do it in front of me. I don't know who the fuck she thought she was fooling with that shit, but it really pissed me off.

She came back a few minutes later and said, "Well. It seems you can make an appointment with her sometime within the next few weeks. So. Hmm," and shuffled through her papers some more. I tried to ask her a few questions about specific medications and she wouldn't do more than mumble at me, then finally wrote out the ones I was almost out of (including one of the "addictive" ones I had already told her I didn't even need, fucking A! What's WRONG with her?) and told me I should just discuss medications with my "new doctor".

She opened the door. I stood up, told her a pleasant goodbye and walked out.

You may now commence the dancing. Ding dong the witch is dead.

T.J.Maxx: Get Your Retarded Freak On (Sale)

Since when did T.J.Maxx become a label whore? Anyone? Anyone?

I went in there yesterday, looking for a few various things. What I found was a shitload of Prada. Huh? The only reason I noticed it at all was because I wondered how much anyone would charge for a butt ugly shirt that was made with some gruesome skin like plastic material on it.

Let me explain: there was both a dress and a tank top. The tank top had this weird plastic around the neckline, like most designers put lace or something pretty, but no. Prada had designed a tank top with a piece of fleshy colored plastic lining the neckline. It almost felt like something you might make a dildo out of, I don't know. Not the cheap ones, but those realistic ones that have a little cut out hole in the box that says, "feel me!" next to it.

So I fished the tag out of the offending cyborg shirt and stood there bug eyed looking at the $200 price tag. Who would pay two hundred dollars for that gruesome thing? And who could get away with it? Ah, yes. Prada.

The only use I could think of for that shirt was as part of some creepy Halloween costume, maybe using that fake skin stuff make up artists use to make it look like the dress or shirt was actually attached to your skin. My ex was crazy into sci-fi make-up artistry, and I can tell it's been a long enough period of time that we've been apart that I've actually forgotten the name of the goo. I used to well versed in the names of all that stuff, I was down, I was jiggy. I had to be, because he used it a lot, and by a lot I mean it was Halloween in our house all through the year. He would just mess around with stuff, making crazy ass masks with horns and just wear them around the house, you know, just because. I thought it was charming, personally.

The Prada clothes, however, were NOT charming. Neither was any of the other insanely priced (yet- HA HA marked DOWN) label ho clothes that were in there.

My favorite moment was when I was looking at belts and an older woman was standing next to me. I heard her make some strangled little noise and I looked up to see her staring at me aghast. I blinked and waited. She said, "Can you...think of any....reason..." She struggled to get the words out of her blown out mind, "that someone...could...charge...EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR THIS?" and held up what looked like a regular old run of the mill blue sack. It had a drawstring, a long ropey handle, and the material was odd to the touch, but other than that, unremarkable.

I looked at her expression and just had to save her from the fact that she had just found some crack in reality and was having trouble comprehending how she had gone this far through life without ever having heard about magical silk worms that shoot diamond fibers from their tiny asses and feed solely on the rare but divinely expensive feathers of the now extinct dodo birds, who scientists have managed to clone using one set of perfectly intact skeletal remains, housed in a secret underground lair made just for the scientists to clone dodo birds from the only usable dodo skeleton on the planet, just to feed silk worms so that they may shoot diamond fibers out of their asses to make boring and rather uncomfortable looking blue sacks that they can then sell in T.J.Maxx for eight hundred dollars each.

I mean, really. That's a lot to comprehend.

I decided to spare her the knowledge of the dodo bird cloning operation and just told her, "Oh, it costs that much because it's so FUNNY. They charge you for the really good laugh." And we both cracked up.

That done, I walked around the store and found one ridiculously priced item after another. T.J.Maxx used to be a frugal girls best friend. I don't know what happened to them, because now it seems they're trying to be the BFF of rich girls with shitty taste that like to think they're getting a bargain, but what they're actually getting is a marked down but still overpriced piece of crap.

T.J.Maxx, I disown you. I have no T.J.Maxx.

Pssssht.

ladies, try not to ovulate while watching this...

fly ball?

something's coming....

I saw this in Blockbuster....what could it be?



It's huge!



It's takes up so much room, it must be mind blowing!




OF COURSE! What else could it POSSIBLY be?

one hungry tree

Photo compliments of photo-dude.

good times

This morning I woke up feeling a little better, and sat down to eat my bowl of honey nut Cheerios with a banana cut up on top. Then, as I was chomping away on them, my mouth full of yummy cereal and fruit, I suddenly coughed, uncontrollably and spewed mashed up bits of food and germs all over the table.

Awesome.

I then got the Lysol or whatever it is and coated the table in it, wiping my germy chewed up breakfast off of the eating surface everyone else uses.

Good times.

little evil bug of DOOM

That is what has invaded my body: a little evil bug of doom. Ok, doom is mellow dramatic, I'll give you that. The weird thing is, I never get sick. Other than that one winter when I got strep throat three times in a row, I'm the Queen of Immunity.

When I got mono in the ninth grade, the doctors told my mom I'd probably be out of school for a month. Can you say hell yes? I thought you could. The crazy part was, I wasn't feeling sick. By the fourth day I was jumping up and down on the furniture, stereo full blast, home alone and howling along to the Ramones "I Wanna Be Sedated". I was supposed to be getting bed rest, that's what the doctors said, but I think I was healed by Joey Ramone's voice, god rest his blessed soul.

Now this evil bug...it came on about a week and half ago, nearly two weeks, I think. I noticed the sore throat but thought nothing of it, because surely it would just go away like everything else did. Uh, no. The sore throat became a WICKED sore throat, enough for me to run to the health food store and buy colloidal silver, throat lozenges, and fifty dollars worth of vitamins. When that failed me, I actually bought some drug store throat numby spray shit. For me, that's hard core.

After days of not sleeping because I can't stop coughing, I caved in again and bought cough medicine. I have the herbal expectorant, my health food store working, book reading, holistic health researching butt knows all about how to get better, thank you very much. But, there is only so much a woman can take of waking up to hacking up a lung and telling her husband she's going to sleep on the couch just so the rest of the household could sleep.

Last night I took the cough medicine for the first time. (long pause) I don't know if I can convey the sheer wretchedness of that heinous chemical concoction, but it did not agree with me. I started coughing, then hacking, then coughing and hacking so hard I thought I would pass out or puke and started pounding on the counter top so hard my husband actually lost his temper and told me to quit hitting things. He was lucky he wasn't next. I couldn't breathe, and it seemed to work like some kind of Heimlich maneuver for the lungs, just smashing my fist down on something. I felt like it was that or pass out.

It was during this time that my husband looked at the clock and said, "Oh, baby....Happy New Year..." and tried to kiss me. He was trying to be romantic, I was trying not to end up in a hospital. Seriously. I was sweating profusely, stomach muscles cramped up and crying by that point.

We spent the next hour sitting side by side while he looked at watches online and I sat writing notes instead of talking. Talking would make me break out into hacking spasms again, so I gave up. He laughed and said I was good at the note writing, even making jokes and making him laugh. I thought back to the days that I quit smoking and how I used to spend all my time in the smoking cessation chat room of Yahoo IM. That was how I learned to type. I would get so frustrated trying to keep up with the chatter, by the time I wrote something the conversation had already veered off another direction, and talking kept my hands busy, and all those people were pissy and cranky with nicotine withdrawal, too. I wished I had IM instead of paper, because now I'm spoiled and can type way faster than I can write.

What's my point? I don't know. Happy Hacking New Year? I'm going to go eat some peanut butter and honey covered English muffins and drink soymilk and watch The Adventures of Narnia.

And I will be very, very quiet. I just took some more cough medicine. No talking. Shhhh, the movie's starting...