I can see for miles and miles

A couple of weeks ago I went to Reno for work. I'm an East Coast gal, and ALL of my travel to this point has been up & down that same East Coast, with excursions to New Orleans and the Caribbean.

And while there are so many places I've wanted to visit, Nevada was never on that list. Nor did I think I'd ever get to the other side of the country, since airfare is an absurd cost and well, it's the other side of the country. Miles and miles away.

After a day in the office, and adjusting to the brown, it became pretty hard to resist the appeal of this.

Or this.

My guys are salivating about the slopes.

The windy mountain roads and views took my breath away.

I drove to California!

And really, there's nothing like one stop shopping!

I'm trying to figure out how soon I can get my boss to send me back.

I think I'd like our next family vacation to be a two week driving trek across the country, with as few miles done on major highways as possible.

There are so many incredible sights, small and large, across the country that should be seen. Travel, explore, become adventurers. Discover the world you live in. I can't wait to see more.

i'm probably going to regret writing this post

So today I go and let some strange man tinker in my lady parts. Perhaps I should have taken a page from the Redneck Mommy and dyed my muff blue because holy hell, the reaction from a new gynecologist upon encountered a bright blue gateway would surely make me laugh my ass off and relieve some of the damn tension that has been building over the two weeks I’ve been waiting for this appointment. An appointment I didn’t realize I was completely internalizing over until I got up this morning with my stomach roiling, my hands shaking and tightness in my chest. Two thirty this afternoon cannot come soon enough, really, time warp anyone?

To shorten a long and annoying story, I’ve had some weird things happening in and about my womanly parts for a few weeks, unexplained bleeding, discharges, abdominal & low back pains, sensitive nipples, which is way more information than you really want, I know. As I’ve been in menopause for fucking ever, it was test run time, and holy shit, when a doctor does not know what the fuck is going on and cannot find any reason for the above symptoms, be prepared to be drained of all the blood in your body. NINE fucking tubes. Don’t get up for a while the tech says after the leeching. Like I could have lifted my head from the pillow. Damn Vampire. Luckily all the usual suspect tests came back negative, and aren’t we all happy to know that I don’t have Gonorrhea or Chlamydia?

Except one test that the doctor decided to run as an off chance. When she ordered it, she told me it was a long shot but since she couldn’t explain my symptoms, she wanted to run it anyway.

Of course, since we all know how foreshadowing workds, that fucking test came back with elevated levels. So did my cholesterol and LDL levels but those are due to my fondness for fatty cow meat and pork roll.

This test? Was a screening test for Ovarian Cancer and/or Uterine Cancer.

While the results weren’t off the charts high, they were higher than normal. So this doctor, who is not a Gynecologist, conferred with one of those, and asked me to go see this guy. Since my regular Gynecologist seemed to be booked until the next millennium and is located way far away for convenience now, I decided to go to the unknown, yet highly recommended new guy, since it’s always an awkward experience to have a stranger diddle in your nether regions. Gaaaahhhh.

My understanding is that there will be testing for Endometrial Cancer in my immediate future. Beginning this afternoon.

Wouldn’t I know, somewhere deep inside myself, if this kind of thing were brewing in my own body? That’s what I keep thinking, that I would just KNOW, somehow. And I don't.

Truth be told, it’s probably nothing and all is well. Soon enough I’ll have that confirmed.

I'm probably going to feel like a first class moron later for even posting this and letting my internal panic get the better of me by writing this all out but since I'm the queen of denial when it comes to my health, writing it down is so much more cathartic than letting it swirl around in my head in a toxic brew of fear, panic and dread.

the corruption i sow with scandal & intrigue

Someone told me recently that I should be careful what I plaster all over the pages of Catootes, as there are local individuals that keep tabs on my blog and might be eagerly awaiting an opportunity to use my words against me.

Really? That thought boggles my mind.

Some people need to get a life.

Really. If any of those people are checking on me today, I got some advice for ya.

Get. A. Life.

Or better yet, a therapist. Because you obviously have deeper issues than I can help with here.

In a world where poverty abounds, where cures for horrible ailments still elude us, where children are abused and any number of sickening social injustices occur every day, the possibility that someone is wasting valuable time tracking the noise from my head, seeking scandal and intrigue, well, I find this a sad and tragic picture. Not to mention small minded.

So, In an effort to make gathering that fodder as easy as possible, as I like nothing more than accommodating my readers, here are some juicy tidbits from the sordid life I lead, in no particular order:

I didn’t go to college.

I like Styx, David Bowie, Linkin Park and Reba McIntyre. I am a dichotomy.

Sometimes I sit in my living room wearing a t-shirt and my underwear. It is, after all, my house. I have also been known to walk around my backyard similarly attired.

My favorite alcoholic beverage is Bourbon. Quality bourbon, none of that cheap shit, thank you very much.

I must have a creative outlet. Right now it’s my blog and making jewelry. That might change if I get bored.

I will always take pictures.

I tell my husband and kids that I love them many times a day. Because it is important that they know this.

I do, in fact, laugh at myself. Sometimes more than I laugh at others.

I have potty mouth; one of my favorite words is FUCK. It is truly a versatile word.

I had premarital sex. More than once. And I liked it.

I don’t believe in God, nor attend church. See my point above about poverty, illness and abuse. I don’t care what anyone’s opinion is on that fact.

Yes, I did inhale.

I would pack up and move to the Salem/Ipswich area of Massachusetts in an instant. Or Eastern Tennessee. I try to be a little flexible.

I curse in front of my children. My daughter charges me a quarter for every bad word. This fund will probably pay her tuition to Princeton.

I believe political parties should go the way of the dodo bird. I also believe most politicians are dodo birds.

I hate housekeeping and would hire a housecleaner if my budget allowed me to. I do, however, get anal about having the sink empty every night.

I enjoy reading well written erotic romances. ‘Cause hey! Hawt Steamy Sex scenes!

I also read history, biography, fantasy, and countless online newspapers.

I like to sleep naked.

I am impatient when people do not get to the point. If you have something to say, SAY IT! Do not dance around it. I am not a mind reader.

Once upon a time, I thought I wanted to be an anthropologist. And then I realized how many student loans it would take to get there.

Ironing is a waste of time.

If I don’t like you, chances are I will not bother with you. Life is too short for false friendships. If I do like you, I want to keep you forever.

I am unflinchingly loyal.

I really want a tattoo, but am a first class coward. Needles, people, NEEDLES!

My family is the most important part of my life. If you fuck with them, I will hurt you.

For years I enjoyed playing Dungeons & Dragons, because I am a geek and love fantasy. Maybe in my next life I’ll be an Elf. Those ears, you know?

I have had two careers since I started working, Medical field and Books.

I have lost a child during pregnancy, details of which I don’t choose to share. And I don’t really care what anyone’s opinion on that might be either.

I am mostly antisocial. Because under all the bravado, I am relatively shy and find making small talk awkward.

I would choose hiking in the woods to a party any day.

Being dirty makes me happy. There is something satisfying when a garden is planted and it blooms.

There are stories running through my head every day. Someday I hope I write them down.

I am a nice person. As long as you are not an asshole. Then all bets are off.

Kissing is my favorite type of foreplay.

I lost my mother, my father and my nephew to horrible lengthy illnesses within a four year time period. It changed me; some for the better, some for the worse. I am still working on the worse.

I will avoid confrontation if at all possible. If it’s not, then I will kick your ass.

I love to play word games because I am a very good speller. And really bad at strategy games.

I hate math.

I almost failed high school French. I was more interested in making out with my French teacher’s son. Which is probably why I almost failed.

I pick at or chew my cuticles when I'm nervous.

I truly believe If people would just be a little more respectful of one another’s view points, and listen to each other, real quantitative things could get done to change our world. It does not always have to be about whose dick is bigger, theoretically speaking.

Given the choice of folding laundry or reading a book, the book will always win.

I love to hang out and talk with my kids. They lead much more exciting lives than I do so this is probably a “living vicariously” thing.

I prefer being behind the camera, than in front of it. I don’t like the way I look in pictures.

While strongly opinionated, I am remarkably open-minded. Unless you are an asshole. Then, again, all bets are off. 

When I lost my license for driving without insurance, I did 180 hours of community service as an EMT. I enjoyed what I did so much that I stayed with it for two more years. It was one of the most rewarding things I had done at that point in my life. Until I had kids.

I have danced at many Grateful Dead concerts.

That Hunter Thompson killed himself before the McCain/Palin presidential run will always be a regret. Because Oh! The FUNNY…..

The reason I do not dye the gray hair taking over my head? I am lazy. And it's kind've frosty.

I will recommend to my daughter, and son, to live with someone before marrying them. It is the only way to know whether two people can stand to live in the same space together.

I am menopausal.

There it is folks. The titillating fodder of my scandalous and risqué lifestyle

I forgot to mention that I’m usually in bed by 10:30 p.m. All that sex, drugs and booze make a girl tired.

Please don’t hurt your jaw while yawning.

as the dust flies from my wallet

Let’s see….

Minor oral surgery for Giggles that will pull her molars down so they don’t impact upon her other teeth, which would be painful and require teeth to be pulled. So, bands get put on the teeth under the gums and wires yank those suckers gently down and out.

The dryer finally gave up it’s last gasp, frankly after 15 years of abuse by our household, I’m amazed it lasted that long. We are so not easy to live with. The Dishwasher bit the dust last fall after only 5 ½ years. Wimpy appliances.

The awning that spans part of our back deck buckled under the weight of the bazillion tons of snow that landed on it last month. Those aluminum supports caved like G.W.’s thought capacity.

The shed roof is leaking, which is really a good excuse to dump the boxes of stuff we’ve tossed into its gaping maw for years, feeding the hungry beasty of material gathering, all the while pretending that there are precious possessions in those boxes that we need! Despite not opening those boxes in 10 odd years.

Several panels of our privacy fence fell over into my flower beds during the last few storms, which need to be replaced if I don't want my idiot dog to go tromping through the neighbors yard to face off with the really annoying and constantly barking German Shepard living on the other side of that fence. I think the Shepard could take the idiot dog in seconds and then there would be tears and all sorts of drama. 

There might be a leak in our roof. I say might because we haven’t actually braved checking in the attic to be certain, for fear it will be oh so painful to face the possible reality of a roof leak than to speculate on whether there could be one. We are so brave like that.

That about sums up the past few weeks and the absolute beating our family finances are taking.

My BlogHer 2010 budget has been consumed by these dollar gobbling life things but that is just the way it goes. It would have been fun and awesome and all kinds of wonderful to go, because it is close by in NY this year, but I just can’t justify the cost at this time. I want to, I could state all manner of nifty creative reasons why I should, but my conscious taps me not so gently on the noggin, more of a bitch slap really. Dammit.

I will definitely read all about it and sulk just a little for not being there.

As I whine and bemoan my terrible state of woe, I remind myself that this really is not suffering. Not even remotely close. Because there are men, women and children recently devastated in Haiti and Chile by random monster Earthquakes that destroyed their homes, their neighborhoods and some of their family.

The shit I was bitching about way up there? NOTHING compared to what is going on elsewhere. Miniscule in the big picture to what folks here in our own backyard are coping with every damn day.

We are employed, insured, mostly healthy, roofs over our heads, food in the kitchen with soft beds to sleep in.

FORTUNATE

GRATEFUL

I am those things in spades. Everything else is just surface drama.

questions of family dysfunctions

The other day, while we were doing dishes, because the dishwasher broke, Giggles started asking me about my brothers, out of the blue. The questions were surprising, in that she has never met my brothers, and that I never talk about my brothers, because they are not a part of my life and have not been for a very, very long time.

I often talk about the chores my sister and I had to do when we were kids, especially when my kids are assigned new household chores and they bitch and moan that they are so traumatized, because there is so much work they must do. We are evil, harsh task masters apparently, since we make them vacuum, empty the dishwasher, fold and put away their clothes and, the worst of the worst chores ever, clean their room. What are we thinking, being such mean parents and all?

But when Giggles asked about what chores my brothers had to do, it made me realize that I have very little memories of my brothers from when I was her age. This is partly because they are 11 and 14 years older than me and spent much of their time out of the house, doing god only knew what. Some of my memories are of them beating the hell out of each other to the point where heads were smashed through sheetrock. For some inexplicable reason they could barely be in the same room before arguments broke out, both verbal or physical. Meatheads.

When I was Giggles' age, I hero worshipped my oldest brother. When he went into the Navy, I missed him terribly and waited for him to come home. I have the fewest memories of my other brother. That makes sense as he avoided being home, because he and my mother argued constantly. He is probably the most volatile of all four of us. As I got older and spent time with them individually, we grew further apart as our interests and lifestyles diverged.

My brothers didn't come to the hospital when my mother was dying, not being the usual hypochondriac complainer that she was in life, but DYING, slowly and painfully from MRSA. Nor did they come to her funeral. Neither visited my father, after Mom died, or when he was sick in the hospital, when the bladder cancer was so bad, we knew he wouldn't recover. They didn't come to Dad's funeral either. These actions, or lack of actions? This is what made me write them off completely. They are not my brothers. They are men who lived in the same house as I did, for a time. They are strangers.

There were four of us raised by the same parents. Due to the span of 14 years from the first child to the last, we experienced life with our parents somewhat differently. Our lives weren't perfect, whose is, really? Were we neglected? I can't say that we were, but the emotional roller coaster of our mother left us all somewhat adrift and fending for ourselves. None of us were abused, physically or emotionally. We all experienced life with parents who didn't have money to spare, but we always had a home, food and clothes. They might not have been the best, and we all might have felt there were better ways, but for fuck sake, take responsibility for your own life after you are out on your own and living the life you choose. The boys raised by my parents continued to blame their troubles on how they were raised, even into their adulthood.

Is it my parents fault that my oldest brother couldn't stop smoking pot and his marriage failed? Is it my parents fault that my other brother married a mentally unstable woman who stole from people and had addiction issues? To continually blame whatever went wrong in your life on how you were raised, shows a decided lack of maturity and intelligence. Own your life.

My mother was a hypochondriac, manic depressive who craved attention and was prone to melodrama and my father was an enabler who devoted everything to making her happy. Somehow, in spite of that, my sister and I remained close to our parents, accepting their foibles as what they were. We grew up, have stable marriages, are raising our kids and have managed, thus far, to live relatively stable, productive lives and not blame our parents for the things that have not worked out. And we remain closer than ever.

My daughter is fascinated, in some ways, of the concept of having siblings that are not present in my life. The examples she sees in the relationships between me and my sister, my husband with his brother and sister, the relationship I have developed with my husband's brother and sister, are positive and interwoven in every day contact. Her relationship with her brother, fraught with the usual sibling grievances of "he won't leave me alone or she's bugging me" do not undermine the foundation of love and involvement they have in each others lives. I've seen first hand how they jump to each others defense, back each other up with friends and spend time together every day, either playing or disagreeing with each other. As she asked her questions, I could see she was seeking an understanding of how I could have brothers, yet not have brothers. She asked why they didn't come to her grandparents funerals. My husbands siblings attended those funerals, and frankly didn't particularly like my mother. That's okay, I like my siblings by marriage just fine, regardless. She asked what they do for work. Frankly, I couldn't tell her as I don't know. The reality is that I could walk past either of my brothers on the sidewalk and I'm not sure I would recognize them now.

I can't explain to her, as I don't fully understand it myself, how two men can turn their backs on their parents and sisters. Or maybe I do, as I have turned my back on them. I easily accept that I won't forgive them for not being in contact with my parents when they were sick and dying. I find those actions unforgivable. Maybe I'm too close to it, but that closeness allows me the insight to know that the foundation in which we were all raised was very similar, and how we chose to react to it, grow from it and make something of it, is what counts in the end.

My dishwasher was pumping & macerated all over itself

It just stopped washing dishes a few weeks ago. It made promising noises when I caressed the start button to life; low satisfied rumbling sounds that meant clean hot dish satisfaction would soon follow and then…nothing. No sploshing wet sounds emanated from the magical washing machine.

The dishwasher is a favorite appliance, because HEY! it washes all those dishes so handily, which made this very disheartening. I’d rather pick up dog excrement from the backyard than wash dishes.

All right, no not really.

I tried the meditations I read in a book once that said washing dishes should be an opportunity to be present in the moment. Just be, as I wash plate after plate in warm fragrant water, breathing in and breathing out, knowing that my body was standing and washing dishes. Yeah, not so much. I kept counting how many dishes were left in the sink. That is not mindfulness, sayeth Thich Nhat Hanh, and he should know. About mindfulness, not dishwasher porn. I don't think. That would be so wrong.

So we called the repair guy to come diagnose our sick friend, who showed up three hours late, but since he was nice and called to tell us that, it was hard to hate on him. At first.

He was optimistic that it was just a clog when he removed some suspicious pieces of plastic and rubber out of the inner plumbing. I know not where they came from. It is amazing how quickly such hope can be dashed, when the repair guy sighs and then dollar signs start floating in the air (it's true, I could see them). Not a clog, said he, after a test start. It seemed those pieces of plastic and rubber got stuck on the rim and the macerator pump couldn’t grind and swallow them, even after grinding on them for some time. I think the dishwasher may have been cruising porn online and bought some sex toys and things got ugly. Electronic toys don’t work so well in the water, after all. The pump! The pump had dysfunction, because the macerator couldn’t macerate. Since the manufacturer produces the pump and motor as one nifty piece of equipment, at over 400 bucks to fix, you’re basically screwed if either part breaks. Planned obsolescence.

A sparkling new dishwasher was delivered today and I will rub myself all over the front of it when the vibrations of hot swirling wetness begin and feel that steam, baby.

Oh Yes, WASH those dishes.

by the way, my dishwasher broke this weekend

The past few years have been the shit, in a “this shit sucks”. So far this year hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park, because SuperHubby’s back has gotten so much worse and his pain level has drastically affected his mobility, but his surgery is coming next week, and that will fix him and give him his life back. Because he will feel better once he's healed from surgery. That comment right there? Is about as optimistic as I get these days. A fact that was recently pointed out to me the other day by SuperHubby himself. I have fallen into expecting “what crap is coming at me next” mentality, which makes my worldview ridiculously pessimistic.

My pessimism has been forged by events, so to speak, let me summarize: In the beginning, my mother had back surgery in January of 2004 and died six months later from MRSA after NEVER coming home from the hospital.

Two months after she died, my Dad was diagnosed with an aggressive form of skin cancer and the medical world’s first opinion was that they should remove half his face. We all said NO, they agreed to treat aggressively and he beat that cancer after radiation and chemo. Only to be stricken with cancer in separate locations twice more in the ensuing 2 years, battling each instance with stubborn Italian pride and graceful dignity, but he passed away from bladder cancer in December 2006.

During this period, my 10-year-old son was bitten by a brown recluse spider and ended up hospitalized for 11 days, undergoing 3 surgeries and 8 weeks of antibiotic treatment.

Only a few scant months after my father’s death, my nephew was diagnosed with a hyper aggressive form of osteosarcoma, bone cancer. After undergoing aggressive radical new treatments, frenzied trips to John Hopkins for treatment and care, enduring extreme pain, he passed away in February 2008 surrounded by his family. He was 25 and left behind his wife, his adopted 7-year-old son and his 8-month-old daughter.

This past March, SuperHubby’s Dad had to have heart valve replacement surgery and developed a bleeding ulcer that landed him back in critical care days after surgery, so things were somewhat delicate for a few days. He’s doing fabulously well now, which is a huge check mark in the plus column.

Back toward the beginning of this story, we found a nasty infestation of mold under several layers of kitchen floor, moved the kids to my In-Laws while we completely gutted the kitchen to remove the offensiveness. The previous owners had covered over water damaged floors. Fuckers.

My body handled this stress and chaos so wonderfully that it was thrilled to add one more exciting factor, just to keep me dancing in my shoes. I was tossed fully into menopause, at age 37, just after my mother died. Seriously? Yes. Let us have mood swings, memory issues, diminished sex drive, fatigue and hot flashes. Because my life has been so uneventful.

I do try, seriously, to keep my view as positive as possible, mostly by reminding myself that it could be worse and people really don’t want to hear about the next miserable thing we’re enduring, ‘cause they have shit of their own to deal with every day. And not all of the past five years have been miserable. We’ve made many good memories and had exciting events to celebrate and revel in, that hold special places in my mind and heart. They are overshadowed, frequently, in my head, by the icky stuff.

Truly, I know how fortunate I am. My kids are healthy and well adjusted, in spite of our efforts to screw with their heads, because parenting? Does not come with an owner’s manual. I have a guy who’s not only the love of my life, but stands beside me, encourages me and is steadfast in his role as father, husband and best friend. He hasn’t shaken me off as more work than I’m worth. Our house is our home and comfort haven (mostly, if one ignores the lack of space and project’s left semi-completed). Our families are close knit and we’re both employed. There are superior friends supporting us on many sides. See, these are good things and worth holding onto. I know that there are worse scenarios we could be facing. So, yes, I’m totally aware that life can be so much more complicated and I’m incredibly grateful that it is not. I swear.

It’s just that the past few years have taken a toll, on my nerves, my psyche, and outlook on life, on just about everything I think and feel. I’m easily spooked by bad news now and have periodic anxiety attacks, because I expect the worst at all times. My temper trigger? Short, short, shorter. I seek times to be by myself, after the kids and Hubs have gone to bed. Sometimes I wonder if I’m pushing my kids away with my crankiness. Though they do come and sprawl all over me, whether I’m cranky or not, so I’ll take that as a good sign. Or whether I’m pushing my guy away. Or whether they would be better off if I took my moody, fractured, unhappy self away from them because what good can I possibly be bringing them like this?

I don’t find fun in as many things, nor do I seek it out as much as I should. If SuperHubby asks me if I want to go do something, see a concert or a play, I’m all “eh, whatever”. Generating the enthusiasm to go feels harder than it should, and I’ll often pass on going somewhere to do something, anything, and stay home. If I do go somewhere, it’s usually after I grumble to myself about the effort, but I end up enjoying myself more times than not, and should remember that the next time I’m inclined to pass. That counts for something, doesn’t it? Any long range planning often produces a kind of paralyzed indecision, in which I can’t make up my mind, and feel completely over whelmed by the decision making process.

The garden that used to give me such pleasure to plant and see thrive is now just one more thing that needs my attention to maintain. As is cleaning the house and the laundry and the dishes, etc, etc.

Even socializing takes more effort than I can muster these days, to the extent that I don’t spend good quality time with my sister, or those good friends I love dearly, often enough to yank my melancholy ass out of the doldrums through which I’m wandering.

Hell, I started this blog last year, in the hopes that writing would help me heal by purging the noise in my head. Instead, I wrote about lighter things, kept the topics from delving too deep, in an effort to ease my own mind and avoid any judgment or becoming another whiny ass blogger with nothing positive or good to say. Like the world needs another “woe is me” whiner. Shoot me now if I degenerate so far in that direction, please.

Something had to give, I suppose, and SuperHubby and I had a long talk this past week, sparked by a stupendously bitchy argument about short tempers, bad attitudes and how we’re not communicating productively. Either of us. How it’s affecting our relationship, with each other and with the kids. How we don’t like it and what needs to be done to fix it. Because giving up is not an option, dammit. Avoidance is one thing, a quitter, well that’s one thing I am not.

I despise arguing. Not the good-natured bantering and haranguing, but the ill tempered, hurt feeling, angry arguing that is so often part and parcel of life. I’ll toss that up to growing up with the Queen of Bitchy. My mother, (Doesn’t it always come back to our mothers? Jeez, I hope not.), who was regularly depressed and untreated. When in a funk, which could be triggered be over something as simple as her hair was the wrong color that day, she would curse and spew vitriol over everyone in her path, for hours, making it anyone else’s fault that her life was a swirling cesspool of disappointment. When she was in high dudgeon, my favorite coping mechanism was to make myself scarce, either by closeting myself in my room reading, or hightailing it out of the house, to avoid the confrontation that would surely come if we crossed paths.

I still hate arguing and still practice avoidance when I can sense a humdinger on the horizon. Which leads to unresolved issues between the man and me, when tempers are flaring, because his preference is to air it all out there and clean it up. He has the sense, or misfortune depending on your view, to be somewhat confrontational in most things, which puts me on the defensive. My stance is that unless it’s super important, why bother pushing the issue? When it really matters, then I take a stand. This approach doesn’t help the flow of idea’s and communication, however, over the long term. And it tends to foster resentments on both sides, which leads to less discussions, and more hurt feelings, and you can see the circle of dysfunction that I’m building here.

Since the cavalcade of chaos, I’ve pulled further into my own head. It has lead to issues with my self-esteem, tanking it such that I don’t value myself as much as I should. The self-esteem issues are not helped by my weight gain, fueled by menopausal metabolism and emotional eating. There’s that circle of dysfunction again. I’ve chosen to not talk through my feelings about all of this, not discussing all the unsettled, grieving emotions and certainly not reaching out for comfort from anyone, just putting all the angst, loss, grief and anger in a corner of my head and heart, hoping the badness will wither in the darkness. Somehow, I think it’s my heart that’s withering, instead of all the badness.

I’ve had some counseling sessions. While I understand, and encourage therapy as a valuable resource, I have difficulty with the execution as it pertains to me. When avoidance is the game, spilling myself out there for someone I don’t know and who is, I’m certain, judging all my flaws and failures, seems insurmountable. In the few sessions I have had, I kept myself reserved, not letting the weakness I feel inside show, choosing topics as carefully as a soldier stepping through a minefield. Talk about counter productive, go see a therapist a few times, dance around why I’m there, but avoid talking about the true issues and then decide it’s a complete waste of time.

Just about a year ago, I shared some, but as usual, far from the full load, of what I was feeling with a friend and she recommended a therapist she was seeing and felt very positive about. I went to this therapist twice and her viewpoint was that I could benefit from a short term, low dose plan of anti-depressants to help nudge my beleaguered brain out of the constant stress it had been enduring. Crisis mode, she called it. These brain chemical altering medicines? They scare the bejesus out of me, on a visceral level I can’t explain that discounts all of my adolescent recreational activities. I kicked this around the back of my head for a few days, mentioned it in an offhand sort of way to SuperHubby, who was very supportive, and made another appointment to talk some more about it, all the while already dismissing the idea as not for me because I don’t need medication to fix this, I can do it myself. And the referring friend? She took her own life, weeks after our conversation. And while I knew she had been struggling with issues far weightier than mine, in fact had been battling them for years, struggling with medications and therapy, after this tragedy, the thought of taking any anti-depressant, or going back to this particular therapist, was instantly buried. Because if the therapist wasn’t able to help my friend, how could she possibly help me and look what the medications did in this case and Oh My God! I can’t possibly do this again. There was my path to avoidance. And how screwed up is that?

One of the issues that I brought up amid the bitch fest with SuperHubby dealt with his state of mind as well, clearly affected by the severity of his back injury, the medications he hates to take and the limited quality of life he has due to the pain he experiences every minute of every day, unceasing. And also how those things affect us, me, the kids and our family life. It’s been like the pink elephant in the room everyone pretends not to notice and we bumped into it this weekend, hard. I try to respect his privacy here (mostly) and choose not to expand on his portion of this topic, as he prefers not having his dirty laundry aired before the internets, which is perfectly acceptable. Suffice it to say that we’re a work in progress, and that's a spectacular thing.

We both agreed to give counseling another shot, individually certainly, maybe together, if the situation presents itself as beneficial. So, by tapping some resources, I’ll track down a decent therapist and air my dirty laundry, stained and torn as it is. Maybe, if the therapist recommends medicinal treatment after spending some time with me, I won’t be so quick to turn away and disregard. I’ll discuss all the fears and concerns I have regarding that step, and any others, with my husband, rather than hording them like secret forbidden candy, and strip away the power they have had over my life. Maybe the withering fog that has been covering my soul will lift and my heart will begin to glow again. Because it has plenty to glow about.

By the way, my dishwasher broke this weekend.

omens

Is the spider falling off the hair dryer, directly into my cleavage on this Monday morning, a good sign or a bad sign?

Insert crazy frenzy spider dance as I wiggled my way out of both shirt and bra, one handed, as the other hand is clutching the spider, enclosed in a fist full of bra and shirt, so it does not get its creepy eight legs in contact with my ta-ta's.

eeewww. eeeewww. eeeeewww.

**shudder**

At least I didn't scream my lungs out and wake everyone up.

Pour Some Sugar On Me

In spite of threatening storms on the horizon, SuperHubby, his brother, Giggles, her friend, and I, went off to a concert last night. The rock menu was: Cheap Trick, Poison and Def Leppard. Two years ago we saw Styx and Def Leppard at the same venue, because I really wanted to see Styx, mostly for my deeply and abiding lust for Tommy Shaw, and was pleasantly amazed at how much we enjoyed Def Leppard. I liked their music, yes but never felt a desire to see them in concert Now Tommy Shaw? Oh Yes, Yes, Yes.

That show was a little mellower than last nights. The crowd not so rowdy, nor so weird. Maybe the mix of bands brought out the stranger element last night, one never knows, but there were some odd balls in the house last night.

My daughter guzzled a large root beer down within a half hour, and since the volume of liquid in the cup amounted to almost the same volume of her whole body, we made several trips to the bathroom. Concert bathrooms? One of the truly most disgusting places to be, no question. On returning from one of those trips we caught the tail end of a major catfight. Can’t say what started it but there was hair pulling, fists flying, eye scratching, kicking, obscenities spewing, and beer sploshing. Until big burly guys in bright yellow shirts that screamed SECURITY, dove in and began hauling these 80’s rock-groupie clad, hair teased, drunken women away from each other. It took a few tries to settle it all down because it is most difficult to contain and subdue some wasted pissed off big hair Jersey shore cheesebo with a grudge against another wasted pissed off big hair Jersey Shore cheesebo. High entertainment value, actually. Giggles and her friend were suitably horrified, fascinated and impressed by such a show. SuperHubby wisely moved the girls a little farther away from the melee, in case it spilled over into our section of seating, because it was that close. It’s good we’re given them exposure to all aspects of Jersey life, right?

SuperHubby came back from his own potty break and whispered in my ear that he just passed some guy in a wheelchair being pleasured by some girl, in open view. People were standing around watching, he said. Part of me was all like, Oh YEAH? Where? because, Oh my god, I can so blog about that. But then I got distracted by The guy dancing up and down the aisles, playing the air guitar. Because someone has to be the air guitar hero at a concert such as this? Clearly plowed beyond comprehension, as evidenced by the glassy eyes, stumbling steps and slight drool, he was more fun to watch. I think he scared the girls more than the fight. It was probably the drool. But he was such a happy fool; it was hard not to smile.

The family of four sitting in front of us, they needed to keep a closer eye on their kids. The young boy, around 7, was not a happy concertgoer. Holding his hands over his ears, pushing his head into his Mom’s shoulder, he so did not want to be there but tried to be game. His slightly older sister was standing on her seat, bopping away to the music, so he decided to climb up on his, but him? Not so good with the balance and he started to topple over backwards. It’s a good thing SuperHubby has excellent reflexes or that boy was emergency room bound. Not the best for my guys back, this hero action, but he’s such a good guy.

When Poison was finishing up their last song and I was checking in with the girls, some woman leaned over their heads and yelled ARE YOU THEIR MOTHER? At my nod, because the volume? it was deafening and words were swallowed by it, unless someone was yelling in your face with beer breath, as she was, she flipped me a thumbs up sign and yelled CONGRATULATIONS. She responded to my quizzical look by leaning closer to my face, Dear GOD woman have a breath mint with your Heineken! to yell IT’S NEVER TO EARLY TO INTRODUCE THEM TO GOOD MUSIC! ROCK ON! And with that she stumbled away with her equally unsteady friends. Giggles’ face had contorted into some grotesque mask of horror when she leaned in close to my ear to say, “She stinks like beer.” I had to agree. Her friend just giggled at the silly woman.

I kept staring at this one guy two rows up, because no one, no one, could possible dress like that any longer. He had a puffy Mullet and sideburns with a bandanna wrapped around his forehead. A Def Leppard concert tank with cut fringe up to his sternum and bandanna’s wrapped around his biceps, his big wallet attached to his frayed ripped jeans with a chain. My eyes were constantly drawn to this dude, because holy fucknuts, it was mesmerizing to see such incredibly bad taste, pounding one fist into the air to the music and swilling beer with the other.

Cheap Trick, they were eh. A short set, a sound system not really optimized for their music, did not make for inspiring music. We got to the show after they had started their set and it was hard to focus and the noise of the crowd was not on their side. Maybe they’d be better in a more intimate venue.

Poison, they were better. Rocked out a little harder, played the standards, got the crowd motivated, especially with Something to Believe In. Exploding flame on the stage usually gets people’s attention and Brett Michaels? he’s a little media whore these days, isn’t he? Having never seen them in concert, it was fun. I know my daughter might never recover from the embarrassment of me dancing so uninhibitedly terrible in front of her and her friend, but hey, Mama’s got to get a little groove on for some Unskinny Bop, now doesn’t she? My dancing? It is the worst. When I think about it, I wince. There is no rhythm in my body, none. So I’m sure I resembled that robot from Lost in Space when he was warning Danger! Danger! with my flailing arms as my body jerked around in halting robotic moves.

Def Leppard? Oh yes, they rocked the fucking house. Hard, Hot, and Furious. Even better than the last time we saw them, I swear. They called it the Sparkle Lounge and the stage layout was bright and set for great visuals. Joe Elliot has a great voice still and the guitars were smoking. They went acoustic for 2 Steps Behind and another song, of which my tired brain cannot remember the name. A sweaty bare-chested Phil Collen kept flashing on the big screen and while he never gave me warm fuzzies, I wanted to wipe the sweat from his chest, with my tongue. Purely an atmospheric response, I’m sure, to the hot music and sexy guitar solos.

(photo's courtesy of Google, by way of someone else. I thank whoever made them available to share)
But, you see what I mean? Anyway, Def Leppard was so worth getting my “I don’t want to go” ass to the concert and I sang so loud and often I lost my voice, I danced so much my aging knees ache today and I’m still tired from the late night.

As for the weather, we have a history of attending outdoor concerts in near monsoon conditions, so why not keep up the tradition. A little rain is good for the soul, I say, and the weather Gods were kind to us last night and the few raindrops that we did feel might actually have been beer spray from lawn crowd behind us, who wanted to be generous with their libations and clouds of pot smoke that kept drifting our way from the throng of aging metal heads. All well and good for a raucous Wednesday night concert but I think my daughter and her friend may have gotten a contact high from just being in the audience. They were both rather sleepy not long after Def Leppard took the stage.

so not stretching my boundaries

If I weren't so suburbanly complacent (and isn't that a startling reality all its own) and mindlessly terrorized by spiders, I would send in an application to be a Survivor contestant.

Each seasons requires there be at least one out of shape, slightly overweight, snarky, out of her element Mom figure, correct? I can handle that role.

Maybe a memory foam mattress could be the one personal item I get to bring with me? Because sleeping on the ground is so not happening these days.

And off they go

It’s been a month of graduations around here. Giggles’ moving up ceremony was early in to mark her jump from elementary school to middle school. She ended 5th grade on good notes, receiving an Art award and a Writer’s Achievement award, which she was very proud of and even expected a little, because when I mentioned that I figured she would get such awards, her response was “of course I would.” Just a little confidence in herself, thankfully.

As is her way, she’s been pondering on this now for a few weeks and finally said it made her nervous, this change to 6th grade. Just think about it Mom, she said the other night. Six years in the same school, with the same kids and routines. The only thing I had to worry about every year was adjusting to new teachers and classes, everything else was familiar. These are as close to her words as I can get, but there’s some paraphrasing involved. Sometimes when I talk to my daughter, it seems like there’s another person inside her head, who has vast years of wisdom. Or she’s just a little overly dramatic; I suppose it depends on the day.

Now, she continued, I have to wonder all summer about new teachers, getting lost in a new school and Lockers! How am I going to find my locker? What about all those new kids coming form the other elementary schools? What are they going to be like, because I can’t handle another rowdy class like I had this year. (See? She’s 11. What 11 year old refers to their class as rowdy?) And math? 6th grade math might be the end of me. And with that she flopped back onto the couch in vexatious exhaustion.

We chatted for a time about exciting opportunities and the possibilities of new friends and activities. She practically drooled when walking around the art classes on the tour of the middle school. I had to snap my fingers in her face to get her head back into the present as she gazed at all the tools and paints. Art is good. With distracted thoughts of making artful things in 6th grade, the trepidation seemed to fade. Sometimes diversion is just that easy.

Ace, on the other hand, can’t wait to dive into high school. He’s ready to move up, with minor hesitation over some of the classwork. He can barely wait for wrestling and working out in the weight room. Tackling a new school is exciting for him. He’s not worried about the social dynamics as he’s gregarious and makes friends pretty easy. Giggles keeps an emotional distance that keeps her hovering at the fringes of groups, rather than diving in. merges into groups, forging new ones. It’s his nature.

Ace will embrace the whole high school experience, as he has middle school. He has a deep capacity to explore his environment and an unquenchable thirst to experience things his way. Hopefully, the academic effort he’s put forth this past year, which led him to relatively respectable grades, if one overlooks the C in science, will continue in 9th grade. He’s seen, this year, that he can handle any of the work that’s put before him. Most high school kids are that way, I suppose.

Being part of the Board of Education, I got what I consider the best perk of all this week by being able to hand Ace his diploma and give him a big smacking kiss in front of his classmates. He pretended to be annoyed by the kiss but in truth he was good with it. Luckily, my kid is okay with displays of affection, mostly. He took the ribbing from his friends good-naturedly as he made his way back to his seat.

We ride him pretty hard, sometimes I think maybe too hard, but we want our kids to know that anything is possible; they just have to work for it and do their best. I believe, regardless of the push back we get from them now, that this lesson will hold. As will the encouragement they get from us as we nudge them to try harder and exceed everyone’s expectations of them. We’re so incredible proud of both of them, which we try to convey regularly, while not letting them rest on those accomplishments, and that is not always an easy balance.

Another unexpected perk came during one of the High School graduations. Several years ago a young 14-year-old girl became our baby sitter for the summer. Jacqui was smart, responsible, good hearted and had that something extra in her eyes. She asked question after question, spent time playing with the kids while she was there, reading to them and not letting them rot in front of the TV, as some babysitters are wont to do. It was a pleasure coming home and chatting with her for a little while before dropping her off at home. Jacqui stopped babysitting in favor of her studies, sports and other extracurricular activities, but I kept up with her accomplishments through her Mom.

This year Jacqueline graduated high school with high honors in Science, Math and Language and was the Salutatorian for the first graduation class of the newest high school. Listening to this composed young woman present an exceptional speech, written with heart, humor and wisdom beyond her years, brought tears to my eyes. All the potential of that young 14-year-old girl was holding true and manifesting itself right in front of my eyes. I felt as proud to know her as I would have if she’d been my own child. I hope the world presents Jacqui with all the opportunity that she deserves. And hopefully I didn’t embarrass her with the tearful hug!

Turtle Whisperer

(U.S. Fish and Wildlife Department photo)

It all started with this post. Or maybe it was really about a year ago when Giggles and I saw the very small turtle trying unsuccessfully to scale the very large curb to get to the lake on the other side of the road. At least, that's where I assume it was going because my observation prowess is amazing after all. So we pulled over to the side of the road, I dodged a few cars to nip the turtle from being flattened by passing traffic and, after dodging a few more cars, deposited it on the lake side of the road. Where it trundled off into the brush and maybe splashed into the lake.

It could be that all the rain we've had is officially turning New Jersey into a swampland and all the turtles from all the lands are moving in.

Saturday afternoon, on the way to drop Ace at a birthday/end of school party, we encountered another small turtle in the middle of the very busy roadway trying to make its way to the other side. I saw the turtle just before I ran over it. Luckily I missed squishing it and when I said as much to Ace he insisted we turn around and help get it out of the road. Did I mention the very busy road, where the traffic pattern is altered for construction and the speed limit is 50? Get the turtle out of that road. Sure, on a busy Saturday afternoon. No problem.

After making an illegal u-turn, I once again I pulled over but this time I let Ace get out of the car. He needs to learn to dodge traffic, it's a required teenage life skill after all. By this time the poor turtle was now on its back. My car, or one of the dozen or so that passed by it, over it, had flipped it over. Luckily it was still alive, legs flailing in an effort to turn itself over. Ace grabbed it up and brought it back to the car. It was another common snapping turtle, smaller than the one from a few weeks ago. Clearly a staple of the turtle community around these parts. And this one stunk just as bad. Eeewww. Another quick deposit at the edge of the lake and our turtle duty was done for the day.

Until Sunday afternoon. Giggles and I had some errands to run and there it was. Another turtle making its ponderous way across a busy roadway. I pulled the car over to the side of the road and pluckedthis one up and hauled it back to the car. Giggles had a plastic bag in her lap already and I plopped the turtle on it for her to hang onto. This wasn't a snapping turtle and it didn't smell as bad, thankfully. This one had a rounder shell with yellow and red markings, an Easter box turtle it turns out. When I started the car, the turtle pushed its head out all the way and started scrambling over Giggles' lap, looking for the nearest escape route. She almost leapt out of her skin when it started walking across her legs. After a few hundred feet, I pulled back over and placed our newest friend into the woods. At least this one didn't piss on me.

I think word's getting around town about the Terrapin Taxi Service I'm running these days. You know, quick lake or woodside drop-off, safe roadside pick-up.

Just call me the Turtle Whisperer.

why

why are those Gosselin people every fucking where?

why do 13 year old boys never hear what you say?

why does the school year not last longer?

why is it so hard to find the appropriate father's day gift?

why does wine suddenly give me vicious headache's after 1 glass?

why is it that when I need to be somewhere, the slowest fucking person in NJ drives in front of me?

why am I struggling with writing these last few weeks?

why does the dog insist on scarfing up her own feces? because that's just fucking disgusting.

why is it so damn difficult to get two kids to remember weekly chores?

why can't I find my white bra? did the damn dog eat that, too?

why do people listen to Sean Hannity & Bill O'Reilly, blow holes that they are?

why am I so fascinated with Deadliest Catch?

Twitterated

After poking about in the Twitter universe a few times, I've come to the conclusion that it has no place in my space, or perhaps the reverse is more accurate, I have no place in its space. Is it that I'm too boring for Twitter? Mayhaps Twitter is too sophisticated for me, or we're just not that into each other.

Whatever the reason, I just don't feel the love. I tried to embrace embrace the quick twit, the clever twit, the absurd twit and just felt let down, unfulfilled. I've tweeted the mundane, the snarky and the self gratifying with no sense of excitement. This social experiment is, I believe, meant for those who are not wall flowers, but for those who bask in crowded rooms full of noise. My skill with small talk is notoriously mediocre and, from my perspective, Twitter is all about small talk. Literally, if one considers the 140 character limit.

There are myriad examples of how the Twitter experience is an excellent business tool, how large scale marketing can be accomplished and how news and events can be tweeted and twittered. The social gathering power is endless and I see how affective it can be as a multi-purpose tool. No denials here of the possibilities Twitter offers those that know how to harness it, utilize it and exploit it. I have not been able to do any of these things well and Twitter thrives on a fully engaged partner, not a partial commitment.

So I wish Twitter well and predict it will not miss me in the slightest. I leave, with little regret, the pressure of wondering what should be tweeted behind, liberate myself from the ponderous effort of crafting witty in 140 characters or less (if I can even pull witty together on any given day) to keep the relationship balanced, and exit the stage for those that have embraced the Twit and found love in 140 characters.

book love in bulk

Book Expo America was just over a week ago and I haven't had a chance to even mention it except for a couple of brief twitter entries. I think Twitter and I are going to separate. Really, my lifestyle really doesn't support such a relationship.

BEA is a big bibliophile bizarre. For me, so much fun. I heard other people complain about the hassle of it. Feh! I say to those who complained. It's a huge perk of my job, a perk which I really love. I don't write much about my job here, because you know, Dooce. Things appear to have turned out okay for her, though, so maybe I'll rethink my strategy on that.

I loved BEA. The chaos of Javitz Center, the cramped aisle ways, the mass of people. It was such fun to wander around, spy the occasional author, see the new books, get some author signatures if you're so inclined. This year I was able to get Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson to sign a copy of one of their audio books in the Brilliance Audio book booth. Ridley Pearson looks like an aesthetic librarian. But he and Dave Barry were so nice when I asked them to dedicate the book to my son, who absolutely loves Peter & the StarCatchers as well as the latest Ridley Pearson series, which I cannot remember the name. Samantha Kane and Mari Freeman, over at the Ellora's Cave Publishing booth, signed a couple of their hot erotic romance books. Seriously nice ladies, go buy some of their books! SuperHubby will definitely enjoy the after effect of reading those!.

I try to avoid the huge author crowds, as it's damn hard to fit in all the business meetings and catch the big name authors. There is only so much that can be done in a day, dammit. Back in 2007, Janet Evanovich signed a couple of new books for me, which was cool and since I'm such a nice person, I gave them to my sister, who's the big fan. At the same show Laurell K. Hamilton signed a graphic novel poster of Jean Claude from the Anita Blake series, which was such a great series before it turned to shit. Look, I love me some hawt erotic vampire love as much as the next woman, but this series strayed so much from where it was that it painful to read the last two books. I'll find me some new vampire mayhem and sex, thank you very much, and hope that someday Anita kicks some ass again. That is a completely different bitch rant, because we all know how much it sucks when a favorite series devolves into a puddle of horse piss.

Friday was the only day I could get my ass into NY for the show and my day was fucking packed with meetings. Finding time to stroll the aisles and grab some swag was not so easy. I love to get my hot little hands on the publisher bags, it's my secret addiction (or it was until now). I don't know why I am so attracted to those bags, but damn, I'm a bag whore! Part of the fun is also finding the advanced copies of what the publishers are hoping will be the next big seller. I'm not even sure what books I brought home with me yet. My galley grabbing was pretty lame this year because Hey! Getting paid to work!

All in all, I had a blast and am silly happy that BEA will be back in New York again next year. With any luck I'll be able to get to all three days.

ograbme opissonu

On my way into the office this morning there was a small traffic snarl on one of the 2 lane no-passing roads I traverse daily. Usually any slow down in movement on this road is caused by some wizened senior citizen, stooped low in their seat, barely seeing over the dashboard with their cruise control set 15 miles below the speed limit. There are approximately a quadrillion "active 55+ adult" communities that have sprung up in the middle of New Jersey, and for some inexplicable reason, these developments are also located in the immediate vicinity of massive warehouse complexes which disgorge countless long-haul 18 wheeler trucks hourly. If any two things do not belong together on back country roads, it is big trucks and slow senior citizen driver's. Believe me, for I have seen bad, bad things and am constantly amazed that more accidents do not occur. But I supposed traveling 15 miles below the speed limit due to the verrrry slow car heading up a loooong line of traffic, accidents are less likely to happen. Unless there is road rage involved.

When the car ahead of me finally swerved around the obstacle, I was able to get a look at what holding up forward progress. Today's snarl did not involve any smashed vehicles but one very large turtle. Standing stock still, head held out and high, in the middle of the road. Arrogantly daring anyone to run it over, I swear. There must have been another turtle hiding somewhere on the other side of the road, egging this one not to move in the face of oncoming traffic. If I was in on that action, I would have bet on the arrogant one in the road. I had no idea how long it had been blocking traffic but given the volume of morning vehicular activity, the chances of this turtle successfully seeing the other side without becoming road kill where dwindling with each passing car. Being the bleeding heart I am, I pulled over as far as possible and engaged my hazards.

pic courtesy of wikipedia

Once I was certain there was little risk of being flattened by a slow moving senior, who can't see beyond the steering wheel, I walked up behind the turtle. It saw me coming and counter-moved to face me, mouth opening wide in battle ready mode. This was clearly a snapping turtle as the little fucker tried to bite me as soon as I reached down to grab the sides of its shell. Good thing I moved quicker than it did, I had no idea a turtle's head could twist like that! We did this little circling dance for about half a minute while I counted all my fingers and gauged just how fast and far it could reach with that beak. The waiting traffic enjoyed the turtle dance off, I'm pretty sure. Without too much more fuss I was finally able to get a solid grasp on it and make our way across the road; when placed gently on the grass it immediately tried to snap my fingers off again. Ingrate.

Instead of heading off in the opposite direction, the cranky turtle actually charged me with neck elongated, mouth open and reaching out to snap. When I walked toward it, rather than trundle away, it just backed up a bit and held its ground, straightening its front legs out and opening its mouth wide so I could image just how much of my flesh it would grab if I was stupid enough to get too close. We stared at each other for a few minutes and then it ever so slowly and disdainfully turned to wander toward the creek.

I had to laugh because it occurred to me that this is probably how I behave when anyone speaks to me before I have caffeine in the morning.

It was only after I got back in the car that I realized how disgusting turtles smell, as my hands reeked of swampy mildew and probably turtle piss, as I'm sure it tried to piss on me when I hauled it up from the pavement. If I smelled that bad I would want to bite people, too.

How ironic is it that one of this turtle's common names is Ograbme? I think Obiteme would be more appropriate or Opissonu, but I don't make this stuff up.

Thank You to the nice man who put his hazard lights on to stop oncoming traffic, watched this whole escapade from inside his SUV and then flipped me two thumbs up when I was heading back to my car. Maybe he knew that turtle's piss on people foolish enough to pick them up.

earlobe hypochondria

Mostly I'm not a hypochondriac. I left that particular skill to my mother and she was a pro in that department.

For me it's more, got a headache? pop a few ibuprofen. Got a stomach ache, drink some chamomile tea. Got a cold, drink a gallon of OJ, sleep for a day or so, and visit the homeopathic supply shop. I'm sick of sickness and all the associated drama that goes hand in hand.

But every so often, something happens, that sends me straight into a hypochondriac manifestation. (discounting SuperHubby's back issue, which is my current medical obsession, because you know, it's SUPERHUBBY!)

Maybe 3 weeks ago, I noticed a lump under my skin, just in front of my left ear. Immediate reaction? Heart stutter, skin clammy, legs shaky. ohmygod, I'm DYING. No question.

Complete over reaction. Check. I made a doctor's appointment for the very next day and later that night, after I had fortified myself with a bottle of hard cider (okay 2 bottles of hard cider), with voice quavering, I told SuperHubby there was a lump in my face, near my ear. PHOBIA, I haz it. I haz it BIG.

When the doctor, who happens to be the internist my Dad went to, which is too weird for me I've decided, asked me why I was there, I told him I had a lump in my face in front of my left ear. His response, no shit, "That can't be good for you." I stared at him for a brief few moments, and then laughed so hard I almost fell off the table. He really meant that those particular circumstances would cause panic for me (my Dad had cancer in the salivary gland that's in the cheek which was the beginning of a long & ugly cancer saga that I try very hard not to write about), not that it was a health problem, but his delivery is really, really bad. Plus, it's damn near impossible to focus on anything he says because his earlobes are HUGE. Seriously, they're like these wobbly pads of flesh that hang down. They demand my attention as they jiggle back and forth with his movements, these giant fleshy pendulums.

Earlobes was confident that it's just a bony cyst and sent me for an X-Ray. My initial paranoia quickly became avoidance and it took me over a week to get the X-Rays done. Thankfully the results were normal and I don't have to have half my face removed. His office called me with that bit of news, which is probably best, because had I been forced to go into the office to get the results from him personally, I'd probably still think I'm dying, because I wouldn't have heard a a word he spoke, I would have been so hypnotised by the swaying earlobes.

4 1/2 hours

That's how much time I spent sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the courtroom last night waiting for the resolution of my speeding ticket. 4 1/2 hours. Total time I spent with the prosecutor and Judge? 10 minutes. Truly.

Somewhere just into hour two my name was called for my turn with the prosecutor. I followed the police officer, who clearly had issues with his height based on the size of his ego, into the office and immediately the prosecutor asked for my name. Just as I got the words out of my mouth he quickly said "we'll knock the speeding down to 14 mph over the limit, which drops it to a 2 point violation, will you accept that?"

I wanted to ask what was behind door number two, but figured that would irritate the gun toting policemen present, because clearly the prosecutor needs body guards in this sleepy little burg, and really, what's the protocol here? Should I have bargained with them to drop the miles over the limit lower? It would still be a 2 point violation. The goal was keeping the points down so the insurance premiums wouldn't make my checkbook hemorrhage. The lawyer acquaintance I asked about this told me to take whatever deal the prosecutor offered that met the goal of lower points.

So I said Yes, Sir. That sounds fine. I signed my name on the dotted line thinking I was good to go pay my fine and head home earlier than expected. Except he told me that I had to go wait for the judge to hear my plea and present the fine. Still optimistic, I parked my ass front and center of the courtroom seating area so I could hop quickly up, say yes and leave. Only I waited. And waited. And waited. I think there may have been only three people waiting when I left.

On the flip side, I made it more than halfway through my book and heard some seriously funny and not so funny shit from the other people who were called up by the judge. The issues ranged from speeding violations (the speed trap I was caught in clearly netted a nice little sindfall of fines for the township), to noise disturbance violations to multiple instances of drunk driving (really really bad idea) and neighborly discord that had been to mediation twice and still the police get called 19 times a month. Can there really be that much discord between neighbors that cops have to be called that many times? Though I have to say the guy in the suit seemed like a real prick when he was speaking to the judge. I might have charged him a hefty fine just for the smarmy smirk on his face.

What also struck me was the complete lack of respect and general manners in people when they were called up by the Judge. Most people acknowledged themselves with an aggrieved "Yeah" and shuffled up to the dais. When they were asked questions, they responded with the same pissy tones and yeah's and uh-huh's. There was no indication of respect for the Judge by someone saying Yes, Ma'am or No, Ma'am, or Thank You. I know we all feel put upon being in court and having to face a Judge, but in the majority of cases I heard last night, people were in the wrong, myself included, and a little respect should be extended. Even if you feel you were wronged in the first place, extending that respect might keep your ass from a big fat fine or another court visit. Just sayin'.

on the run

There are so many things pulling me in different directions, I'm not sure where to go next. Truly, trying to factor in all that needs to be done is mind boggling and the conflicting demands on my time is disturbing in ways unexpected. I found myself almost paralyzed with indecision the other day on what had to be done and how to approach it all. This kind of internal pressure is surely not a healthy thing but it is what it is. My schedule runneth over with tasks.

I've gotten several posts started and put on hold because I don't have the time to focus and do them justice. Even now, I should be in the shower getting ready for work so as to not be late. I think I can still pull that off if I keep my whining brief this morning.

The weekend was busy as hell, from one thing to the next, with barely time to breathe. It was fun and productive but by the time Sunday night crashed around my head, I was exhausted and hadn't seen much of my family. This week so far has moved along at the same light speed pace and shows no signs of slowing down either.

So now that I've written about absolutely nothing interesting and wasted a good 10 minutes, I'll go soak my head and run to the office in the hopes of accomplishing more than can be fit into one day. And that includes a trip to the dentist to figure out why my tooth aches.

fern 'n flowers

It is possible for one's brain to cease functioning after barely any sleep all night. Sitting down to type out a coherent sentence seems to be a foolish endeavor. So for you viewing pleasure, here's a picture. I'm going to take a nap.

Ferns are pretty.