Embrace Your Flying Monkey

And Blinking, I Stepped Into The Light

2010-10-24T05:34:00.000-07:00

Here's what I think is funny. I think it is funny that back when the shit hit the fan 22 months ago, there were folks who commented on my blog that I needed to "get over it" even before we had completed the criminal proceedings. Unfortunately for that poor sod, I never claimed that my blog was for their personal reading pleasure. It was a place to get my head straight, to vomit up the ugly and confront the beer and pizza that I ate the night before.

While there are some folks who firmly believe that any discussion of the contents of your inner soul should be forbidden and if you indulge your inner psychologist you are looking for sympathy, I still believe the bravest people are those that look with honesty into their own hearts.

So, yeah. It's been a journey. A looooong freakin' journey. I have blogged, chatted up therapists, gone to group therapy, read books and more books, started an education in criminal justice, and attended conferences and trainings regarding sex crimes and sex offenders.

And I realized something just about a week ago.

I finally see a light at the end of the tunnel and it no longer looks like an oncoming train.

For twenty two months, I have survived by telling myself that my kids need me. Yes, there were good days in there but an overarching feeling of having no true meaning to my personal life made it very bleak inside my head.

What's really funny is that I can't tell you exactly what the meaning of my life is right now, what the overall goal is, or where I'm going to end up in five years.

Even better than that is, I'm not overly concerned about it right now. I've finally hacked my way through the jungle and I've found the right path.

It's my path.

And it's full of learning something new everyday and someday, I'll help people find their path...

Now, back to the books...

Don't Piss Off The Sistahs

2010-10-14T18:24:00.000-07:00

Tap Tap Tap
*cough*

"Hello?"

Two months later, I surface and remember, "Hey, I had this blog thing awhile back...I wonder if it still exists..."

I have reached the half way point in the semester and I am fighting the good fight to have my next university accept credits from my previous college that has now gone out of business.

Yes, this was a real college.

Yes, I can get official transcripts.

Yes, everywhere else I have gone has accepted these transcripts.

Everywhere except "Stupid U" where I am supposedly going starting in January. Oh, they'll take my present classes and my degree from my present college which I'll complete in December, but for some reason, they won't take the classes from the college that went out of business that my present college took in order to help me complete the degree in December.

In any great philosophical debate, just follow the logic until it leads you up your own ass.

So, I have contested this and gotten a letter saying that the college isn't "regionally accredited". Yeah, because IT'S OUT OF BUSINESS!!!

The thing is, it WAS regionally accredited when it WAS IN BUSINESS!!!

So I hopped on the internet and I looked up the Sister's of St. Joseph who ran the college.

And I found out that the convent is still on the college campus.

And I called them and told them that "Stupid U" is telling me that they weren't accredited.

And I got transferred to Sister Irene.

Sister Irene used to be the college president.

And Sister Irene didn't like to hear that her beloved institution was being called "Not Accredited" and one of her former students is being hassled by "Stupid U".

She gave me a couple of "official" channels to follow and then said that if I can't get it ironed out, she'll compose an official letter to tell "Stupid U" that they need to reassess.

Which is the clerical form of a rap on the knuckles by a Sistah.

And everyone knows, you don't piss off the Sistahs!

There are a lot of references to poop in this post

2010-08-14T19:43:00.000-07:00

I have to remind myself that I am the bigger person. And I have to remind myself that I hate the DMV, for they are the stir stick in my pot of poo.

A couple weeks ago I got a parking ticket. I just so happen to be one of those people that absolutely refuses to pay $4 to park when I could pay nothing three yards away. I do this often. As a matter of fact, I am planning on investing in a metal plaque to adorn my favorite spot "Cheapskate parking only". Since I do this enough, I really don't grouse when I get a ticket. $12 for a ticket when I've saved about $30? Yeah, I still come out ahead.

So I got a ticket and I paid it the next day (mailed it in, thank you. Oh, they have a 'convenient' online payment service which tacks another $3 onto the cost.) I didn't think anything of it until last week when I got a letter in the mail from "he-that-shall-not-be named's" sister. It's one of the last bastions of "oh shittedness" that can turn up in my mailbox. Any other shittery is basically my own to deal with, but seeing a single piece of correspondance from her makes my stomach tighten.

It was a copy of my parking ticket. Apparantly, the ticket gets mailed out to the person who the car is 'registered' to. Since he has all his mail going to her (except for the ten thousand Charter cable ads I get for him), she had the pleasure of receiving notice that 'his' car got a parking ticket.

She didn't write a note or anything, she just circled the make and model of the vehicle to point out the fact that IT WAS NOT HIS VEHICLE.

Now, I could play devil's advocate here. I could see how she doesn't know that it takes our DMV over seven months to get a title change registered in their system. I could see that she might be under the impression that I have left the car in his name and I have gone on a crime spree, parking errantly and giving the meter maids the finger as I byass the parking meter, all with the overarching plan to rack up a million dollars worth of parking tickets in his name.

I could see that...if I wanted to be the bigger person that is.

But what I really wanted to do was to take out a big red sharpie and circle the date on the ticket and send it back to her with the little reminder that I highly doubt he is getting parking tickets in my car while he is in prison.

Better yet, what I want to do is to send her a note that affirms how I have done everything there is to do to seperate myself from her family and all of their members. How, even though she seems to find it necessary to send junk mail to me regarding defunct accounts that no longer exist, there is not a single missive that she could send to me that is necessary. All I want is to never hear from any of them again.

Or even better yet, since she refuses to use my new legal name, I should just send them all back to her with "no such name" written on the outside of the envelope.

Or perhaps I could fly out to Denver and put a flaming bag of poo on her doorstep.

Complete with a DMV stir stick.

The Shit Shifters

2010-07-31T09:17:00.000-07:00

I used to haunt garage sales like mad. You know the type, early middle aged women who prowl the neighborhoods every Saturday morning at five miles per hour making sudden U-turns and running up a sidewalk and throwing themselves bodily onto a slightly scratched inn table that's going for only $10.

Thankfully I had pretty good garage sale karma. If I were heading to the store to purchase shoes for one of my kids and I just so happened to stop at a garage sale along the way, odds were that I would find a pair of shoes there and I could turn around and go home.

My perspectives shifted as our house began to fill up with assorted crap that my lesser half would find for free sitting by the side of the road somewhere. My idea of a good deal was paying $1 for a pair of shoes that the kids could wear the next day. His idea of a good deal was anything for free that would sit out in the garage or in the basement and rust or mildew. It wasn't until the great purge that I realized how utterly mental he really was. I unearthed a seeming grand scheme to purchase nasty crocheted afghans made of 1970's crunchy acrylic yarn and resell them on the internet for untold wealth and fame. The same went for books and small appliances and gizmos and gadgets and snoozles and doozles and whatsits.

Every single thing that I found ended up in the garbage. There wasn't a single thing unearthed that wasn't either moldy or rusted or broken. Not just unusable because I didn't want them and was annoyed by their presence, but things that were truly and undeniably shit.

So now that the house is cleaned out, I look at garage sales in a different way. As I make my way to the grocery store, nearly getting sideswiped two or three times by women intent on paying $3 for a set of dishes, I get a little tetchy.

I still go to the occassional sale. I go with a specific intent in mind. I've been fortunate enough to find clothes for work for less than $5 an outfit. I've gotten a new pair of shoes while heading to the mall for a pair of shoes. I've found a chair and a free cabinet that I adore and use everyday. Perhaps this leads me to my biggest garage sale rule now: I refuse to buy anything that I won't use in the next three hours (or wash and hang in the closet within three hours). I've seen a lot of neat things and I've admired them and I've walked away.

For some strange reason, I get more of a thrill out of that then buying a meat grinder for $5 and finding it three years later, rusted in the basement.

Also, when everything in the house is second hand, I don't feel nearly as attached to it. It is good. It is functional.

And it no longer defines who I am.

Running With The Wolfe's/Wolff's/Woolf's

2010-07-09T05:07:00.000-07:00

There is something that I do when I'm feeling dangerously sad. Back in my youth, I would let the feeling consume me. Now? I seriously don't have time.

But those feelings are there nonetheless. Feelings that have always been there my entire life and thankfully have only bitten me in the ass on a couple of occasions.

I'm thinking there are a thousand euphemisms for it: Introspective, brooding, thoughtful, and occasionally, bug nut crazy.

So recently I did what I had to do when one does not have access to a psychologist or hard liquor. I sat down and metaphorically held my heart in my hand and examined it.

(I then shouted KALEEMAAAAAAHHHH! and dropped the basket with the human sacrifice into the pit of fire...that fuckin' Dr. Jones needs to stop messing with my jewels...)

a-hem...

But I came to realize what over riding feeling has permeated my entire life: loneliness.

My very first human-type memory that I can recall is being lonely.

And then there were all those coloring books where I used only black crayons and colored over the entire page (hey, there weren't art therapists back in the day...there were just a lot of CLUELESS PEOPLE!)

I couldn't spend the night at other people's houses until I was practically in high school because I would get lonely.

As a kid, I was the misfit that wandered off from the party where everyone was having FUN in order to properly brood by myself.

I was also the one that desperately wanted to get to someplace where I wouldn't feel that way: Sesame Street was the place I pined for as a kid. Everyone was happy and they loved you and accepted you for whoever you were. As an adult, it pretty much consisted of a string of bad relationships where the overwhelming idea was to "not feel lonely".

It becomes an interesting study in nature vs. nurture.

My entire biological family was riddled by chemical abuse and mental health issues and bad relationship after bad relationship.

Hmmmm. Kinda the response that one might have when they are feeling the same way.

We were also the product of an un-nurturing mother who had the very same issues.

Whether chemically through brain juices or physically through neglect and abuse, there is a disconnect that happens. On the colorful canvas of life, the one black spot will be us, passing through the crowd, feeling as if the world knows a secret that it's keeping from us.

Or as Virginia Woolf would say "The world is entire and I am outside of it".

Or as Thomas Wolfe would say "And left alone to sleep within a shuttered room, with the thick sunlight printed on bars upon the floor, unfathomable loneliness and sadness crept through him: he saw his life down the solemn vista of a forest aisle, and he knew he'd always be the sad one: caged in that little round of a skull, imprisoned in that beating and most secret heart, his life must always walk down lonely passages."

So, the lonely ones that choose to cope without drugs or booze or abuse or bad relationships, we end up sitting on our back porch occasionally. Sometimes you'll find us staring off into the sky, not able to tell you what we were thinking of because you just wouldn't understand. We work, we laugh, we act stupid, we love, and when we're alone, occasionally we cry. We're the ninjas of sadness. Our hearts can be breaking but you'll never know it.

As Virgina E. Wolff said "Right down there in the - in the wry retina of your heart, you've got this little soft Ionic curl. It's the part where you stop laughing at everybody and everything for just a moment, it's the part where you actually admit joy and tears."

Debt Debt Goose

2010-07-09T04:30:00.000-07:00

Today is a Friday and today I have off work, until I start my second job tonight that is. I'm starting a second job at night for one or two nights a week which will, perhaps, allow me to keep the lights on.

I'm also checking in with the bank on consolidating some of the high interest debt that I have on one credit card.

Woo hoo! For all ya'll that sent me the message that I needed to blog more, hey baby! Let's talk debit consolidation!

Actually my trip to the credit counselor was about what I expected, come to find out I am a fine upstanding citizen in the credit world. I should keep on doing what I'm doing until I can't do it anymore and then come back and see them.

And there was a suggestion that I check into selling my plasma.

Frankly, I've always expected it was my leukocytes that were the whores but whatever. I take drugs (prescribed, thank you) and have squiffy vasculature so that will not be an option. The young woman that was helping me looked about the same age as a wart on my foot and she was very sweet but I almost asked her point blank "How much do you think I could get for my cooter?"

Something tells me that I would not have been the first person to utter that phrase in her presence.

But she did say something that I hadn't even thought of. As I went over all the things that I have cut from our lives and all the ways that I try to save and how I realized that credit cards were bad but I had to get a f------ lawyer and blah blah blah, she commented that this debt is not just debt. This debt is everything that he has put me through: it's anger and shame and pain and betrayal. When I go into the grocery store and realize I have $2.50 and milk cose $2.79, it doesn't just hit me in the wallet, it hits me in the heart.

And she was right.

I don't "go there" often because nothing good comes from it. I have listened to women who have been divorced for twenty years and they still can't seem to talk about anything else but the bastard that did them wrong. I don't want to be that person.

But I must admit that when I left there, allowing myself a few golden moments of blinding anger felt good. I'm gonna guess that the cars around me thought I was WAAAAAAAYYYYY to emotional about the construction zone but that's ok.

And then I went home and made dinner.

Afterall, after a suicide bomber takes out a crowded marketplace, somebody has to pick up the pieces.

Handy Tips for Hard Times

2010-06-29T15:28:00.000-07:00

I've finally arrived at the place that I've been circling for months and months and months: Poorsville, USA

Sure, there was a time when I thought things were a tad desperate, when I wiped the tears from my eyes at the food shelf and thanked the wonderful folks for the gallon of milk that turned out to have the consistency of cottage cheese but now I'm thanking my lucky stars that it is summer.

Cuz currently I can pay all my bills and buy enough groceries to get us through about ten or eleven days of my two week pay period but when winter comes? I'm sensing a sincere Sophie's Choice between heat and food.
It may come down to eating the pets and wearing their skin. Don't tell PETA or else I'll have THOSE nut jobs to contend with.

I'm seeing a credit counselor tomorrow although I'm not really sure what they will be able to do since I am not behind on my bills and I can't imagine my one overloaded credit card will budge on my interest rate.

But it is always enlightening and I am discovering that the smaller the checking account gets, the more I grind my teeth at night. By the time I hit 45 I'm guessing I'll be able to wear a pair of dentures without ever having had any teeth removed. (I saw a pair at the antique store that I'm coveting in case I have the need…brand new ones are WAY to expensive and hey, maybe they're made out of something cool like rhino horn. And again, don't tell PETA.

I ended up having to pay $51 for classes over the summer as I only took 6 credits since the classes are compressed. Last semester I took a ball breaking 12 credits and had everything paid for and nearly lost my mind. (And I got straight A's, thank you very much). I sat down yesterday after paying the college their money and thinking "Hmmmm, that was a lot of Ramen noodles….", and I figured out that unless I take another 12 credits in the fall, I will have to pay more then. Since I only need 6 credits to graduate, this makes me a bit of a cranky camper. I could always have the philosophy that I could just take those classes and squeek by with a good enough grade to maintain my financial aid but unfortunately, that is not how I operate. I can tell myself that all I want but then I log on to the first day of class and I'm all like Seabiscut, kinda sad and dumpy looking but I WILL LEAVE YOU BITCHES IN THE DUST!!!!!! I WILL CRUSH YOU!!!!!

And then somewhere halfway through the semester the stress is too much and I throw my jockey and lie down in the stable and whinney cuz my oats aren't perfect and my straw isn't immaculate and all the other horses around me are saying to each other "JESUS CHRIST THIS BITCH MIGHT BE FAST BUT SHE IS DRIVING US INSANE!!!! TELL HER TO SHUT UP!!!!!!"

Yeah….something like that…

So I'm finding ways to deal with my financial woes that are both positive and constructive. (Thankfully I can't afford booze or else I would be uncomfortably numb 99.99% of the time). I thought I would list them here in case anyone else is in the same boat and needs a little free advice (Warning- you get what you pay for). Also, I am open to your helpful tidbits as well.

1. Free samples at the grocery store - Mt. Royal Fine Foods has amazing donut holes and they always have a big bowl out for free samples. You could spend all day circling the store and casually grabbing one each time you pass through the bakery. You could but I'm a busy woman with an empty stomach and I find that if I accidently trip and fall in the bakery section, I can aim my face to land directly in the middle of the bowl. It helps to have your mouth open when you do this and if you were born with the ability to unhing your lower jaw like a snake, all the better.

2. Drink your coffee at work. It might taste terrible and force you to shave your tongue when you get home but the ability to store coffee in your system like a camel stores water can be a life saver.

3. Nutritionists overexaggerate the detrimental effects of the sodium levels of Ramen noodles. Just wrap your balloon-feet in paper bags when they no longer fit into your sneakers.

4. Never let the gods of finance EVER hear you say you like something. They are doing the dirty with the goddesses of fate and they will SCREW YOU UP. Example "Boy I love these sandles!" Literally, five minutes later, the strap breaks and they are now rendered useless. I might even suggest going in the exact opposite direction and stating how much something you like sucks when you encounter it.

5. When your son's friend's mom cuts his hair for him to thank him for doing chores around their house, don't be afraid to call her up and say something like "Since I need a haircut too, can I do a few loads of your laundry?"

6. Make a list of your expendable organs. There is a market out there, I guarantee it.

Hush

2010-06-20T15:43:00.000-07:00

Today was supposed to be our reclaimation of Father's Day. We renamed it Harkness Day and spent it sticking our fingers in our ears and shouting "lalala" at the top of our voice.

I have spent time with loved ones who are dying, in conversations that sounded normal to any outsider but between the words, between the letters, were moments of incredible aching sadness. To understand the truth, one needed to listen to what wasn't being said.

We went to the beach today. We took the dogs and a cooler and made a fire and ate smores. And then a young family came down from the parking lot, sharing our space and celebrating the day; a young mom, dad, and toddler.

Gradually our conversation died away and it wasn't until a considerable amount of silence had passed that I realized all three of our chairs were facing this young family instead of the water. We watched them quietly, the spaces between words filling with our individual, collective pain.

One Little Nothing

2010-06-14T16:12:00.000-07:00

Late June is now a time of the year laden with emotional land mines. Father's Day falls just six days before the first anniversary of the sentencing. Year one is complete. It feels like nothing. It feels like in four more nothings, life will once again be turned upside down. My goal is to be gone in four more nothings. When I find myself alone with my thoughts I close my eyes and commit to the wind my most frequent mantra "Anywhere but here".

I have to stop myself and acknowledge that I am doing everything that I can. I have set out a list of goals and thus far, I am working my way down them. I work on schoolwork, I work on myself, I climb in my head and mine my thoughts; I break off pieces of anger, betrayal, and frustration and I hold them in my hands. They no longer burn my skin and their weight feels cold and heavy. I work with people everyday who meet people in the last days of their lives and talk about forgiveness and how everyone deserves a good death surrounded by people who care.

I find it amusing almost that my last sense of retribution lies in the fact that I hope someday that he dies alone. I agree with my coworkers that being present at someone's death is a gift. Helping someone to go forward into the biggest journey that any of us will ever take is an incredibly important task.

And then I cradle those cold, hard pieces that I have mined. Late at night, I'll notice a faint glow and a mild heat eminating from their surface. One short year later and I still have two wishes: Anywhere but here for me and a cold and lonely death for him.

Maybe some day I'll change. Maybe some day I won't.

Like A Death, Only Without The Body

2010-06-06T08:10:00.000-07:00

A thought occurred to me yesterday. It was a thought that flits in and out of my mind at least once a day, a thought about certain incarcerated people that shall not be named.

It's not always the same thought but usually there is either a song on the radio or a sign for Father's Day, or a mention on the news about sex offenders, something that makes my mind drift in that direction for a nanosecond or more.

Yesterday I realized that this experience is following the same course of healing that I went through with the death of my dad and my aunt (who raised me as a mom). When the experience is fresh, when it sits on your skin like a poisonous sheen, you can't even begin to articulate it to another human being. I remember as a twelve year old kid welling up with tears at the mere mention of someone else's father. I remember as a young woman not being able to tell someone that my mother was dead because to speak the words would give them power. It would make her die all over again.

But then the mercy of time happened. I could listen to other people talk about their dads and I could distance myself from their story. I could appreciate their tales and I could casually mention, if asked, that my dad died when I was twelve.

The same for my mom.

And a couple of days ago, when a co-worker recommended a book to me and talked about growing up with an abusive, alcoholic parent and how this book helped him with the fear that he has carried with him into adulthood, I took a deep breath and gave him a two sentence synapses of our recent experience.

And yesterday, as whatever stimuli brought the thought to my brain, I noticed a change. Since the beginning, these thoughts have taken a physical toll on me: an actual physical sensation in the solar plexus. A gut punch perhaps? Or the knowledge of what it feels like to have your heart ripped out.

But yesterday the thought flitted into my mind, flew around like an unacknowledged ghost, and left again.

It was startling enough to make me stop in my tracks. For a few weeks now I have been acknowledging each morning with the realization that it is, in fact, a beautiful day. Not because I'm trying some new age pop psychology bullcrap of "if you say it, it will come true" but because I feel it in my soul.

When you know what it is like to barely scratch the surface of your existence and find that you desperately do not want to go on and then compare it with delving into the soft ionic curl of your innermost heart and knowing that life is good? That is not only healing, that is strength

and that is power.

Wakey Wakey

2010-05-26T01:43:00.000-07:00

I really need to get a job as a baker. I'm up at the ass crack of dawn (3 a.m anyone?) and I fall asleep standing up at 7 p.m. It doesn't matter if I am determined to stay awake (shakes tiny, flailing fist in the air), the narcolepsy is overwhelming.

So I end up in the wee hours trying to quietly entertain myself. Let me tell you, tap shoes make a hell of a racket, as does fine tuning a Harley engine.

Thankfully I have a new addiction. Since I listen to about ten different podcasts related to Doctor Who and they often discuss other British television shows, I have become interested in Ashes to Ashes. Of course Ashes to Ashes is a spin off of Life on Mars so it's essential to go to the very beginning. (And there is an American version of Life on Mars. And the Americans excel at dumbing everything down so I don't bother with it).

So at the ass crackery of morning, I'll probably be hunkered down in my nerd nest, wondering if I should try to get another hour of sleep or press on for just one...more...episode...

Driving Ms. Daisy

2010-05-18T04:45:00.000-07:00

I'm down down to just two semesters before I can start taking REAL classes. This means that I have to go through the college application process AGAIN, the search for transcripts AGAIN and I get to write my entrance essay on why I have chosen to go into the field that I am going into. (For all the shits and giggles, OBVIOUSLY!)

I'll probably spend some time this weekend getting all that crap settled. I have a couple of years left here but I am starting to see a picture of where I want to go and what I want to be doing. I'm setting an employment goal of attending a big convention for people in the field of family violence and abuse next April. It not only looks incredibly interesting, it is also located in the town where I just might move to. I could attend a great conference, network with employers, see my new potential home, and check out some of the neighborhoods and get the low down from Realtors.

Yup. I'd say that it would be time and money well spent.

I'm also contemplating "life after" Duluth. I'm thinking about the day that I can pack my vehicle and leave, dogs plastered to the windows, this place so filled with horrible sadness and wonderful friends, growing smaller in my rear view window.

And I'm visualizing it with me driving something like this:

I'm not looking to store my surf board or my weed, just my life and all its precious contents.

Perhaps I could go for an upgrade?

It's really quite addicting. Oh no! Perhaps I have an addiction to downloading images off the internet!

Just because I hover over the keyboard for hours and quickly click over to Corgi.com whenever anyone walks up behind me doesn't mean I have a problem...

It's just that they're all so pretty

And they represent freedom.

And they could actually make me like the color pink!

And of course, they would allow me to blend into my new town with the subtlety that I am used to.

You Gonna Eat That?

2010-05-13T04:57:00.001-07:00

Oh my God, I have another adventure to explore!

Yeah, that is the ultimate nerd sentence but it's true. I love me some true adventure tales, preferably filled with harrowing tales of normal people doing extraordinary things, pushed to the brink at the ends of the world. And naturally, cannibalism always adds that certain je ne sais quoi.

Imagine my delight when I stumbled across this. Now, I was a member of Greenpeace back when it seemed to matter and my earth muffin love has always been for whales. I worked on a whale research team in the early nineties in college in Maine and I have had the immense pleasure in seeing them up close. I'm in love with tall ships and maritime history and I've burned through my fair share of nautical tales including Moby Dick (three or four times as a matter of fact).

Here's the kicker, I never realized that it was based on an actual event.

Or maybe I heard it years ago when the kids were little and my mind flipped between Sesame Street and the deck of the Pequod and it just didn't register. Whatever my reasons, I watched the show on American Experience and then quickly ordered the book (still in print) written by the first mate on the Essex. There are many other books out there written about it as well.

Woot! Woot! I now have my own white whale to pursue!

Let's face it, after you've read every book on Shackleton, devoured the Donnor Party, determined that Scott got what he deserved and read a plethora of books written by hapless souls that get stranded on floating bits of wood in the middle of the Pacific, not to mention Kon-Tiki (no cannibalism but a cracking good tale), it is with giddy excitement that I find another subject to dive into.

And frankly? As a whale loving earth muffin, I have to admit that learning about one whale that managed to kick a little human ass and not get killed? I find that fanTAStic!

The Thrill of The Hunt

2010-05-06T04:35:00.001-07:00

There is a certain form of extreme sport practiced by Murdoc, the fluffy cat in this house.

No, it is not Lethal Cuteness or even Deadly Hairballs.

It involves waiting patiently for me to put the dog's food down in the morning. More patiently than the dogs ever will be.

He will sit next to Kirby's bowl, eyes bright and shinning, tail happily curled around his fluffy butt. He is the epitome of Norman Rockwell Americana.

And then I put the dog's food down and they begin to eat.

Murdoc will then inch closer and closer to Kirby's face as Kirby wearily continues to eat while looking out of the corner of his eye at the cat.

Murdoc will then stick his face into Kirby's face and start licking Kirby's muzzle.

I have no idea if he's getting food crumbs like some sort of obese remora or if he has discovered the feline equivalent of sneaking up to Boo Radley's house, touching it, and running away.

Occasionally Kirby will growl but his reaction is not nearly what I would have should someone do the same to me. (I have killed blood relatives that have tried to brush powdered sugar dust off my face-FYI).

But he has yet to try this little trick with the other dog. The dog who obsesses about food and will try to eat anything and everything. The dog that freezes mid-bite and gives you the hairy eyeball if you even enter the room while he's eating.

I'm waiting for THAT little episode. Hey, I've got hardwood floors now, the blood will wipe right up.

Equate This!

2010-05-05T04:51:00.000-07:00

Tonight is my last night of math class for a whole summer! I did such a happy dance this morning that the dogs lost their minds.

Yes, four months. Just the right amount to forget everything that I learned this semester.

Heck, as we were reviewing for the final exam, I realized I wasn't the only person in the class that remembers stuff just long enough to get through the test and then it sort of leaks out of my ears like a happy pink gas laced with fairy sparkles.

There was a couple of times when the teacher asked a question about a concept and we all just looked at him with that suspicious look that cows have when they're led into the slaughterhouse.

"Remember? We talked about this two weeks ago????" He prompted.

Yeah, but two weeks is kind of like two years in mathematically deficient brain-land.

All I can say is that I have never done this good in any math class. I have studied, I have done my extra credit, and I have appreciated a math teacher that realizes we are sooooo not Poindexters.

Speak very slowly, write your equations in pretty colors, be encouraging, and have a good sense of humor.

I would have baked him a cake for tonight's class if it wouldn't come off as totally creepy.

Got Time For A Quickie?

2010-05-03T05:04:00.000-07:00

I have actually been up to a few things lately, just no time to yammer on and on about them ad nauseum...but I have five whole minutes to nauseum so here it goes!

We went down to the cities to check out my daughter's new school for next year and it ROCKS! I am so excited for her. It was the first time in my life that I uttered the phrase "I want to go back to high school". We also did a campus tour at MCAD and I met a lovely couple who were from Chicago and were touring their son. They both sounded like they had some fairly well paying jobs and they were talking about how expensive it was. I wanted to hold up my hand and say "You really need to stop now. I've been getting food from the food shelf and work clothes from Goodwill and you ARE NOT MAKING ME FEEL GOOD AT ALL!" It was, after all, their job to make me feel wonderful that day. Apparently they didn't get the memo.

My daughter also painted me this picture of our pets

And then I took the picture of them admiring the picture.

We also did Take Back The Night and we both stood up to speak at the Speak Out afterwards. It was a very powerful night. Being surrounded by an entire room full of people who know exactly what you're talking about is incredibly moving.

And now? Time for work. Later!

The Maid Will Be Fired

2010-04-23T04:42:00.000-07:00

The Eagle Has Landed.

Girl child is in MN and I will be seeing her in less than 48 hours. Woot Woot!

Since she is bringing her boyfriend with her, I have spent approximately three seconds looking around the abode and realizing that it is nothing short of a college flop house. At least there are no empty pizza boxes sitting around, however, every flat surface is covered with books and binders. They are the only thing not covered in dust.

Perhaps, just perhaps, I will gather up some books and put them away as they are not the cheeriest of reading.

My algebra teacher, who strikes me as a revamped version of Donny Osmond, has tried to engage me in conversations twice by asking what I was reading before class. The first time I just kind of smiled and said "oh, something for another class..." and I flashed the cover. It was a book on domestic violence.

The second time that he asked I said a bit hesitantly, "ummmm. Rape?"

Just before my last class, I got another book in the mail which I was very interested and excited to dig into. As I sat in the classroom before class buried in my book, the teacher walked by, hesitated, and then told me as he walked on "I'm not even going to ask..." Smart boy, that Donny Osmond...

Skule

2010-04-17T09:43:00.000-07:00

I have less than a month left in school. My English class has taken every last bit of joy out of the writing process and now I understand my daughter when she was hesitant about going to art school. There are times when creating with wild abandon means so much more than the proper placement of a comma or the horrifying possibility of a dangerously long and perhaps what could possibly even be termed "run on" sentence...

Yes, I did that JUST BECAUSE I COULD BITCH!

It will be a wonderful thing when, just for a few days, I can just go to work and not have to worry about class.

Other news? Girl child is coming home for a visit next week and she will be working in town for the summer and she will be staying in MN to go to art school for her senior year. Woot Woot!

I am giddy with anticipation.

Boy child will be attending college for his last two years of high school which equates to two free years of college and a two year head start on his collegiate edumacation. He's been so ready to get out of the high school scene for quite some time and I'm excited for him to have a new challenge.

Aside from all that, I am discovering that I have absolutely no interest in gardening this spring. My front yard is full of ugly from last fall and I really need to just get out there and clean it up. I have a compost bin full of goodness and no inspiration to do anything with it. I have a strong personal interest in getting rid of the hop vines that are horribly invasive and I DID NOT PLANT, but that would mean getting out there and doing...stuff. I love fresh veggies from the garden so I wish the gardening sprites would just hurry their little fairy asses up and get busy.

I'm The Kid In Class That Everybody Hates

2010-04-13T18:04:00.000-07:00

So, I'm coming up on the last three weeks of classes and I finally kinda snapped with my Domestic Violence class.

And no, I didn't become violent.

I have called myself a pretentious bitch when I nit picked the illegible spellings by other students on the discussion boards.

I have gritted my teeth when using a self-help book as a text book.

I have not gone nuclear with comments as enlightening as "I can't believe that someone would hurt a child! It's just unbelievable! How can they be so crewel???"

And that was one of the more stellar and intellectual comments...

But when the final paper topic came out (of which I have been very excited because I thought we were going to be able to pick a topic that we covered already and discuss it more in depth) and the topic was "Pick 5 or 6 things that you learned in this class that surprised you and talk about them", I kinda lost heart.

Can I write my paper on the following?

1. That even though spellcheck is readily available, people publish comments that are so riddled with spelling and grammar errors to be nearly illegible.

Multiplied by 5?

I just sent an email to the instructor with an idea for a more in depth paper. I respectfully pointed out that with my background experiences, I had had a lot of what I already knew confirmed by her class but when it came to actual brand new concepts and ideas? Yeah, not so much.

In other words, I asked my teacher for a harder assignment.

So, either she'll tell me to suck it up and keep it simple stupid or else she'll agree and then grade me with a microscope and a big red marker.

Frankly, I like purple markers...maybe I'll send her another email with THAT little recommendation as well...

Yipee Ki Yay

2010-04-10T16:23:00.000-07:00

The new job is going great! Granted, I'm only into it by one week but there is a completely different feel to it. I have actual people educating me and telling me what the hell I'm supposed to do. It is enlightening and wonderful.

Plus, these good folks know nothing of "Tina". They know me as "Christina" and I have shortened that to "Christy". I am now known by a name that sounds nothing like my old self. For some reason, it makes me immensely happy.

Also, it feels like a fog has been lifted from my soul. I guess it isn't until you leave the crap that you realize how much the crap held you down...that, gentle reader, is my life lesson for the past year and a quarter.

Classes are coming into the home stretch as well. I've got grades of over 96% in all my classes. Math? 103%.

And I found a zazen group of which I attended a session this morning. It was wonderful! And tomorrow? I'll be attending a discussion group in the afternoon.

Boy, when things are going great, it doesn't make for very interesting reading.

Here's to a long life of boring!

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night

2010-04-09T04:14:00.000-07:00

I don't know what is going on but it could escalate into a dead dog before long.

The fat dog has escalated his barking benders. I can't tell what the heck he is upset about but all of a sudden, he will just trip balls. Of course the other dog will join in after a moments hesitation in which the look on his face tells it all "I have no idea what I'm barking at but I'll feel like a damn fool if the SWAT team breaks down the door and I'm just sitting here staring at the wall..."

As I've mentioned before, when we were in that limbo right before we got the Order for Protection, the fat dog going off his nut would send me into a major anxiety attack. I was SURE there was a reason. Nope. Actually, it was sort of like a reverse Pavlovian experiment where the dog would bark and the human would pee.

But last night? Last Night? Twice in the dead of the night, he just lost his mind and barked and barked and barked. Both dogs were downstairs, restrained from sleeping on my head by a cleverly placed baby gate. They've been kept downstairs before...it's not like I'm rigging elections and stacking my government with anti-Corgi sympathizers. And the skinny dog had the common sense not to join in. I could just visualize him standing in the dark with that other look on his face "ohhhh this just isn't going to turn out well..."

So I did my best "700 pound woman found living in her own excrement-has to be cut out of her rusty trailer" impression and just screamed down the stairs at the top of my lungs. For future reference, "God damnit" is more effective than "Fuck" in getting a damn fool dog to shut up at the ass crack of dawn.

I promise you, that is something the Dog Whisperer will never tell you.

You'd Better Not Be Getting Sleepy

2010-04-05T04:35:00.000-07:00

Why is today unlike any other day?

Because I start my new job!

Oh the thrill of not knowing where the bathroom is and walking into the broom closet by mistake. Of trying so hard that your head hurts at the end of the day.

And then going to school for a math test.

And then coming home to start another paper.

It would have been really convenient if I had actually went to sleep last night but I started watching season two episode one of Being Human which led to episode two which led to... yeah...by the time I looked at the clock it was midnight. Since I still wasn't sleepy I just turned on a podcast or two and kept listening until this morning. The first time I even yawned was at 5 a.m.

So, new job, busy day, no sleep.

I think the first thing I'd better locate is the coffee.

On Why I Love Amy Pond

2010-04-04T15:26:00.000-07:00

I have just watched season five, episode one of Doctor Who.
If your not a Whovian, just move along, not much to read here...

Now, with the riff raff removed, let me expound on the fact that I think I'm in love. Not, this time, with the Doctor but rather, in fact, with his new companion.

I realize that the whole reason behind having a companion is to have "human" eyes in which to view the Doctor. To have someone "accessible" for interpretation. I guess I've always been the odd duck when it comes to companions. I've identified more with the Doctor in the past. I wanted my own Tardis, my own sonic screwdriver, and my own manic agenda. If the companion freaked out, I wanted desperately to be able to turn to them and say "Shut the hell up, would you? I'm thinking here!"

Thankfully, the new Who has offered a better chance that the companion will be a little less "freak-out-able". They can walk, talk, and reason at the same time. While this has occurred in the past on a hit and miss basis, it is now a necessity if the writers are going to get the "chick vote".

And the new Who companions have offered depth and interest and angst. They have had over the top mothers, they have suffered the slings and arrows of fractious families, they have known rejection from the ones that were supposed to love them but they persevered and overcame. And then some of them forgot.

So, what makes this new companion different for me? Why do I look at her and know every fiber in her being? Every hope and dream in her heart? Why do I understand her far more than this new Doctor of whom I am more than willing to give a chance but yet don't find him as eminently squeeful as his predecessor's?

It's because I've seen her as a child.

It's because I've been that child.

Maybe some people watched episode one of season five and smiled as she knelt down on her knees and prayed to Santa Claus to make everything better. Maybe they could recognize the lonely child when she told the doctor that she didn't have a mum and dad, just an aunt.

Maybe they didn't pick up on the momentous request that the Doctor made of her when he asked her "Just for the next twenty minutes, trust me..."

Amy, as a child, met the Doctor and believed that he had come to rescue her from a lonely childhood. She packed her bags and ran out to the garden, sitting on her suitcase, waiting that "five minutes" until the Doctor would come back.

Five minutes for the Doctor was twelve years for Amy. Actually fourteen when all the dust was settled. She spent her childhood telling everyone about the raggedy doctor that was coming to take her away. She was branded as crazy, sent to psychiatrist, and told that no, she was wrong. No one was coming to rescue her.

And then he came.

Perhaps that phase of my childhood is a little raw for me but I recall like yesterday when I packed my bags and loaded up my tricycle. I was going to go to Sesame Street. I was going to visit Louise and Maria. I was going to tell them that even though I was a child and I had a teddy bear and a blanket and I looked like any other kid, I felt so very different and alone. Maria and Louise would understand. Marie and Louise ALWAYS understood. They would hold me on their lap and they would listen. Maybe they would sing me a song or stroke the top of my head but in the end, whatever they did would make me feel better. I knew that Maria and Louise had all the answers.

And then I got to the end of the driveway. And the traffic was fast. And the traffic didn't care that I wanted to go to Sesame Street.

I turned around and walked slowly back to my house and unpacked my bag. Maria and Louise would not be there to rescue me. Maybe Maria and Louise didn't even exist.

That was what I thought about when I saw little Amelia Pond sitting in her garden on her suitcase, waiting for the Doctor.

This was a lonely little girl, utterly brilliant and wonderful, who ached inside.

But then, finally, the Doctor came. Again.

And frankly?

He was, to quote # Nine, "Fantastic".

I'm willing to take his hand and take a chance but in my heart of hearts, I will always understand the ultimate risk that Amy Pond took when she chose, just for twenty minutes, to trust him.

Don't Let The Door Hit You On The Way Out

2010-04-02T09:33:00.001-07:00

It's finally done. It's FINALLY OVER!

This morning a guy came over to my house and loaded up the last of ding dong's stuff. The detritus from my marriage is no more.

My garage is so incredibly empty that I just want to lay down on the floor and make dirt angels while giggling maniacally. The car engine? The broken down pieces of exercise equipment? The old computers and busted desk and pans of motor oil and disgusting futon mattress? GONE!

I honestly think the guy was concerned that I might try to throw a hug on him before he left. He made mention that "Yeah, it sure does feel good to get rid of stuff."

Brother? You have noooooo idea.

Fly My Monkeys, Fly!

2010-03-30T13:54:00.000-07:00

It is a beautiful day. Just had to put that out there.

Yesterday, as I was drowning in homework and job related angst, I decided to do a patently irresponsible thing. I decided to take advantage of having a little cash in the bank from the refi and taxes and I took off early from my old job. I made this decision after having my second "exit interview" in which it was once again stressed that I was expected to be a "good ambassador in the community". They also expressed disbelief that I could find anything wrong with them. It was about at that particular moment when I felt all the muscles in my jaw clenching and the muscles surrounding my coccyx starting to invade my nasal passages that I, diplomatically, let it fly.

It was after I had started working there that I found out that my position actually was a new position. I had asked in the interview about the person that had the job before me and was told a few pleasantries about her. It was all good. The job ended up as an amalgamation of sorts, kinda like Auntie Myrtle's fruitcake at Christmas. And like the fruitcake, it was slapped together, ugly as hell and reprehensible to taste.

I was actually a good girl. I just told them that it was an absolutely ridiculous job that had no redeeming value. I then proceeded to work the rest of the day, being given a 'job' to deliver appreciation plaques for businesses that had supported the company in functions in the past. By past I mean as long as ten years ago. Yes, I was supposed to drive around the city and drop off plaques and say something along the lines of "Remember when your company supported us back in 2000? Well, here's just a little something to say thank you..."

Ummmm. Yeah. Did I mention I have A LOT of homework? Did I mention that I can go without a paycheck? Yeah...did I mention that if I put that big box of plaques in my car that I was going to conveniently drop them off the side of an overpass?

So, yesterday was my last day at the pretentious torment factory. I cleaned out my desk and typed up an email at the end of the day to my boss.

4:30?
Send.
Turn computer off.
RUN LIKE HELL.

Today has been blissfully spent reading reports on rape and graphing equations.

And the sun is oh so bright.

Canine Diets and Tasty Tasty Poop!

2010-03-28T14:46:00.000-07:00

One week of the canine diet is done.

We are to the point of continuous hunger on their part. Or at least continuous hunger for one of them.

The one obsessed by food that is.

Walking the dogs now consists of walking two feet and having the fat one rutting around for ANYTHING in the grass that might be edible.

Things that he has discovered on his afternoon walk today:

A pair of abandoned men's underwear. Under what circumstances do men discard their underwear? Yeah, two seconds from getting laid or two seconds after realizing that they didn't have gas after all. Judging by his keen interest, I'm guessing it wasn't the former.

An abandoned Starbucks cold drink container.

A piece of dead animal. Kinda skunky.

A child's riding toy. (Only licked, not bitten. He has his standards after all.)

A shoe.

A ball.

A LOT of poop.

The latter is not only good for eating but makes a WONDERFUL beauty treatment. All dogs should roll in it at least twice a day. It's even more effective when the owner has given them a bath within the last 12 hours.

Aside from the rutting pig dogs, this weekend has been fairly productive. All homework has been done which didn't require more questions from instructors. Certain alcoholic beverages were consumed along with a wonderful olive and sour cream burger at JT's, and I finished a pair of socks that I have been knitting on for about a year.

I'm wrapping up the evening with some steak and roasted potatoes and a glass of wine along with one of my favorite movies, In Bruges.

"Maybe if I grew up on a farm and I was retarded I'd love Bruges, but I didn't so I don't..."

Best line ever!

Everything I Learned, I Didn't Learn From You

2010-03-26T14:21:00.000-07:00

I'm not quite sure what it is about my current composition teacher that annoys me so much but perhaps it is the fact that she refers to herself in the third person when she gives out assignments.

This is an online class so everything is written down. Once again, I realize this is community college but perhaps, just perhaps, we could all be treated like semi-conscious adults.

When I get an assignment that begins with:

"How will Kelly grade me?" and then proceeds to list the expectations, it makes me want to pull out a nice fat purple crayon and scrawl my research paper in backwards letters along with cut out words from a magazine and put them all on a cardboard Pizza Hut box top and turn it in. Extra credit for strings of cheese hanging off the back.

"Hure is wut I knowed 'bout muh subjext"

Kinda feeling a bit pissy here.

I Really Like Being a Girl

2010-03-25T11:40:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I just find myself surrounded by a lot of people like me, maybe THAT’S my problem.

Problem being defined as “I’m not really good at meeting the cosmetic expectations of womanhood”.

To further break it down: “I buy my shoes at the Harley Davidson store and my purse at Duluth Pack.”

I believe I was born with a recessive princess gene. Some of my happiest memories are of catching frogs and tadpoles in the creek next to our house and playing in the mud with my big assed metallic Tonka trucks. Oh, and I had an absolutely kick ass collection of Match Box cars.

As I look back on it, I realize that I did play with my cars a bit differently than the boys though. All of my cars and trucks had personalities. Some of them even got married and had little baby sub compacts. To this day, whenever I see a Mini Cooper, I just want to pick it up, lay it across my shoulder, and give it a good burping.

And Barbie? Oh I had those too. Barbie and all her incarnations were good for playing “drama in the trauma ward”. My Barbies had horrifying accidents on a near daily basis. I remember having a ski outfit for Barbie, complete with skies and boots and poles. Well, Barbie went to Aspen and needless to say, there were tragic results. Not only did she have to get rescued by Ski Patrol and their St. Bernard, (part played lovingly by Boing-Boing, the two foot tall carnival-prize green and white bulldog filled with those dreadful little white beads that are probably now outlawed because they cause cancer or something.) She also shattered her femur in several places.

Yeah, I don’t think I was much more than eight or nine at the time but somehow I knew all about pinning bones together and adding rods to shattered limbs. Frankly, I think I was an orthopedic surgeon in a former life.

ANYWAY, I had an Exacto knife and a clothes hanger (Hey, I was brought up on Quincy and McGyver). I ended up opening Barbie’s leg and inserting a length of wire coat hanger. I then mixed up a batch of flour and water (white trash plaster of Paris), and gave Barbie a toe to hip cast.

When it hardened, all her little friends signed it.

So, princess gene? Definitely not there.

Which brings me around to the fact that I have met someone who has been unwittingly tutoring me on the finer points of being a girl.

Now, I believe the reason why this person has affected me so much when normally, any femmie chicklet drives me around the bend is this: She also has tattoos and I know for a fact that she could kick my ass seven ways to Sunday.

As a matter of fact, I think she could do that to a lot of the guys I know too.

But that is why this person is such a dichotomy. She is also “girlie”.

So I find myself asking her surreptitious questions. I’m afraid that she is going to think I’m a total freak one of these days.

They aren’t just questions like “Wow! Nice shoes, where did you get them?” (Insert “purse”, insert “perfume”, insert just about any fashion item you can think of in that sentence.)

It ends up with us having extended conversations that start like this:

Me: You know how you have long hair and it doesn’t look like the north bound end of a south bound moose? How do you do that?

And then I get the inside scoop on how to have long hair while also having really heavy hair.

TIP: Go and get it thinned out every two weeks. It’s perfectly OK to go to a cheapo salon, just know what you want them to do before you ever walk in. This is in direct opposition to my normal schedule of visiting the cheapo salon every three months, plopping myself down in the chair and saying “I don’t know…what do YOU feel like doing today?

Me: You know how you wear those really big earrings that look so totally cool? Don’t they hurt your ears?

TIP: Break the big earrings in gradually. Wear them for a few hours at a time and then give your ear lobes a rest.

I suppose these were the kind of things that people with the Princess Gene discuss with their BFF’s when they are, oh I don’t know, twelve???

But see, I couldn’t be bothered by that stuff when I was twelve. That was around the time that I found the dead dog in the woods and I decided to take the carcass home and take all the bones out and boil the rest of the skin off and take it into science class to see if I could get extra credit.

Note to those thinking of trying this: Be sure to emphasize to the teacher that the dog was dead BEFORE you started doing your Frankenstein’s Lab Schtick.

It will save you a trip down to the school social worker.

The Mystery Girl

2010-03-24T18:13:00.000-07:00

I am currently in college. A local community college in which I am taking a combined track of online and on campus classes.

Now, back in the day, I actually went to one of them there fancy private Catholic colleges. That was where I learnt me to write.

But now I'm consolidating credits and planning to move to a fully online college for my bachelors degree in a bit.

But currently, I'm slogging through. At least it's a time when there are a lot of other people my age in class. Hey, if your life is going to splatter into the wall it's nice to do it when you have a lot of company.

But I am surrounded by a lot of ummmm. Young'uns.

There is one that I am particularly intrigued by. I have an almost maternal fondness for this girl of whom I have never even spoken to.

She has come to every single class in her pajamas.

I'm not just talking about the pj bottoms that are so popular right now. I'm talking full on pajamas with big fat fluffy slippers. It wouldn't even faze me to see her holding a teddy bear and carrying a Linus blanket.

Now, I really did used to be a college student back in the day. While I never wore pajamas to class, I certainly saw those that did. The thing is, we LIVED ON CAMPUS. This lovely young woman leaves her house and drives to campus and comes to class in her pajamas. And her fluffy slippers.

I find myself drifting off in class, mulling over questions in my mind:

Does one change into ones pajamas before coming to class?

It's an evening class, does she change into pajamas so that she can just go to bed when she gets home? If that's the case, she might be onto something.

The big question is, when does she change out of her pajamas?

And then the teacher calls on me.

Crap!

Haven't I Seen This First Act Before?

2010-03-24T11:41:00.000-07:00

First posts are like first dates. What should we reveal about each other? Is it too soon to tell you the story about when I shot milk out of my nose in the elementary school cafeteria and covered my best friend in what can only be termed as "ghost buster slime"? Yeah, you're right, too soon.

This might be a new blog but I am far from a new blogger.

I have children. I have dogs. I have cats. Occasionally I have a wild hair up my ass.

While not in the witness protection program, I have personal reasons for anonymity.

I am rebuilding my life, my family, and my world.

And I can shoot milk out of my nose.

So, what's new with you?