The 44th President of the United States of America

Well, he did it.

We have finally overcome whatever racial issues/prejudices we have held, as a country, and elected our first Black president*. We've come a long way. I can hardly even imagine: we've come from the 1860's where there were Blacks who were slaves, to the bigotry and prejudice of the pre-civil rights movement America, to today; we are finally beginning to see people instead of color.

Or, are we?

I have such mixed emotions about President-elect Obama. I would like to believe that people elected him based on his merit, his experience, and his political platform. However, I can't shake the idea that this particular election was more about race and prejudice than we want to admit.

Howard Stern proved how ignorant some of us are when he chose to do 'man on the street' interviews in the Bronx. Stern's show was asking passers-by who they intended to vote for, when the people answered "Obama" the interviewer would prompt with questions like "are you voting for Obama because of his pro-life beliefs and platform?" or "Because Obama wants our troops to stay in Iraq?" and the respondents would, shockingly, agree and say things like "yeah...I'm pro-life, and I'm voting for Obama because he's pro-life. And yeah, we don't want to pull out the troops." Essentially, the interviewer twisted everything around and presented McCain's platform, but saying it was Obama's. It was heartbreaking to me to hear it. To realize that so many of our American citizens are uninformed and so proud of their political beliefs/understanding and yet they have an equal vote to those who are informed...I can do no more than just shake my head. It makes me believe that they were voting for Obama not based on his political platform, but more for the pigmentation of his skin.

On the other side of the coin, we have McCain: the typical White Male In Power. By all accounts, if we Americans are as judgmental (racist) as we're portrayed to be, McCain should have won by a landslide. But, he didn't. In fact, he lost. One of the reasons that was brought to my attention was because of his age. "He would be, at age 71, the oldest president elect." To look at his age as a factor that counted against him i.e.(he's too old and doddering to make coherent decisions), isn't that yet another form of discrimination? Prejudice? Isn't it ageism? Does that mean that all older adults are incompetent, and that they should not be considered sentient, cerebral human beings? I sure hope not. That isn't to say that some folks as they get older don't suffer from diseases and 'old timers' that makes their intellect less sharp than it once was.

But, truly, can we say this election wasn't about prejudices? Is this yet another example of the 'Fleecing of America'? Let us hope not.

Let us not take what is evil and say that it is good. Let us not pervert the truth. Let us pray for our leaders that they make right choices for all of our people and the world, and that they do what is right, and good, and just. Let us hope...**





*(I don't like saying African-American, as all of us are equally American. Are we trying to suggest they feel more patriotic toward their ancestors' birth place? By suggesting 'African' first and 'American' second, it somehow seems anti-patriotic. We are all members of the same race: the human race. And, as an example, I don't refer to myself as a Norwegian-American...likely I am un-PC, but I don't mean it in any type of disrespectful way. I am described as 'white' they don't say 'Caucasian'. Sometimes I am referred to as 'Anglo' although, I find them term insulting. By assuming that I am Anglo based on my skin tone, you are completely discounting my heritage, it really can spiral out of control...you get the idea.)

**I hope I have not offended anyone. I don't wish to say one candidate was a better choice than the other. When it comes right down to it, I wasn't particularly impressed by EITHER candidate. I only write to sort out my own feelings and thoughts, that I might look back in the coming weeks and months to see what I was thinking at this time.

Friday, bloody, Friday (or the day from Hell)

Where do I even begin? Well, for starters, if you've got a squeamish stomach, skip this one; if you're not into listening to drama, skip this one; if you're just not willing to listen to me whine and rant and rave, just skip this one and check back another day, like on one of the days where I post goofy pictures (like the peeps) or photos of slumbering, fuzzy kittens in the sun.

Warning: Today was a bad day.

Things were going 'swimmingly' up until about 11am. That's when my dear friend, who was watching the kidlets, calls me at work to let me know there's been an 'incident' with Peanut, but that she was ok. Whenever someone says there's been _______ "but such-and-such is OK" you know it is bad. What they're really hoping is that they can be responsible and let you know what happened, all the while silently praying 'Oh dear God, please don't let them freak out. Please don't let them freak out'. You know that prayer. The one you say when you're certain all of it (and then some) is going to 'hit the fan.' Yup. That one.

Well, after the phone call, it is pointless to say, I immediately left work, and headed out to get the Peanut and do damage control. En route I phoned the pediatrician's office, silently thanking God for the invention of cell phones and the affluence of my family to be able to afford one. The receptionist clicks onto the line: "Dr. K's office. Can you hold for a moment?" Uh, lemme think about this for a nanosecond: 'No, not really." And then I explained my situation. Thank goodness the receptionist was having a good day or had taken her happy pills or taken a huge hit of meth or whatever--she was so pleasant, and was willing and able to put up with my mild hysteria.

By the time I finished talking with the pediatrician's office I arrive at my friend's house: there's peanut, sitting on the couch with my friend's sweet husband, ice pack on her little head. She doesn't look any worse for the wear, but the truth is: My little monkey had been jumping on the bed (no, really) and she fell off and hit her head (we think it was on the foot board of the bed), mama (me) had already called the doctor and the doctor said: "tell me just exactly what she did to her head!". Poor little peanut had managed to get quite a gash on the back of the crown of her head, about one inch in length and I'm guessing 1/2 a centimeter (???) in depth--deep at any rate. It had mostly stopped bleeding by the time I got there, and amazingly enough she wasn't in any pain and wasn't complaining.

Whew!

My poor dear friend, on the other hand, was a wreck. She was so upset, and worried over Peanut getting hurt, and worried about how I'd react (normal reaction, I'd be the same way). I felt so bad for her because she was so upset she was in tears, and even though I wasn't (and still am not) mad at her, nor do I find she did anything wrong, I couldn't reassure her that I understood, and that it was just a freak kid accident--it could have just as easily happened at my home as at hers, or with any other kid. I do hope that she feels better tomorrow.

At any rate, I decided yes, Peanut did need stitches, so off my friend, my Peanut, and I went to: The Emergency Room. (duh, duh, duh). There we sat. And sat. And we sat some more. We sat, with a bleeding four-year-old child in the waiting room for the upwards of almost 2 hours before they took us back.

I guess the old saying is true: you could, technically, bleed to death while waiting to be called back into the emergency room. Huh. Who knew?

After a short visit with the E.R. doctor and a nurse, they decided we needed to suture up her head, as my friend and I figured, and that they were going to use staples.

What?

We went to the E.R. for the purpose of letting my girl be sedated a bit for her stitches because we didn't think she'd be able to handle it 'the old fashioned way' (given that on the 7th of this month it took 3 adults to restrain her for a single blood draw--that is a story unto itself). Well, the sage doctor decided we'd try the staples first, and if that didn't' work, then we'd do sedation. At this point in time I was like "whatever will work. Let's just get this over and done with." All the while, Peanut has been an excellent patient--no whining, crying, or acting up (that was her mother who was doing that!!).

So, there we were, in the E.R., Peanut on my lap, my legs wrapped about her waist, holding her in a 'bear hug' while the gentleman nurse (a fantastic human being, I might add) held her head steady and the doctor stapled her scalp shut.

Ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk, and one final ca-chunk.

And it was done. Nearly 3 1/2 hours after we arrived, and $100 lighter in the wallet later, the girl was sutured up and we were on our way.

And to think, we could have had the same results, at the Pediatrician's office, and been in and out in less than 30 minutes. GARG!

Then, back home again. Peanut was feeling frisky and fine (the child was doing somersaults on the couch (getting blood everywhere-eew!) and had to be told to calm down and relax, so her sutures wouldn't be disturbed), and mommy's blood pressure was through the roof. Not the way I'd wanted to spend the afternoon.

At least my little girl was 'good as new' and feeling fine. That was the most important thing.

After both children were fed, and the boy put to bed, I headed out to run the last of the birthday errands I had left. Originally, I'd planned to do all of the errands and 'to-dos' this afternoon, but the trip to the E.R. disrupted that train of thinking, so it had to wait until after dinner.

I wound up taking care of all of my errands, with a little insult added at the gas pumps ($20 for 5.45gal. of gasoline! ***#$@@@$*$*$* insert expletive), only to walk back into the house, ready to frost the cupcakes for Peanut's party tomorrow, to discover my darling husband had only bought one can of chocolate frosting--to decorate 54 cupcakes in 'rainbow' colors. So much for being prepared the day before the party.

Needless to say, my evening ended on a truly aggravating note. But, the silver lining to this cloud is that the Peanut is OK, she's feeling good, she's going to be five, and has five staples in her head, someday this is going to make a great story to retell; and, hopefully my little monkey has learned her lesson: 'no more monkey jumping on the bed!'

Patsy Cline said it best: "Crazy"

Here I am, 2:31pm, home and already had my second cup 'o java for the afternoon (I had 2 this morning before leaving for work, and I cheated and had a small (6oz.) cup of BLACK coffee at work...). Apparently I'm working my addiction up to a full pot of coffee a day. And, to think, I'd been doing so well at only having one measly little cup (black!) in the morning before going to work. I've tried to quit coffee, go it the 'tea' way...but let's call a spade a spade: living among roosters as I do, working, having the PEANUT (note: the caps is on purpose)...facing the day without waking up to the smell of syrupy thick espresso strength coffee, to be guzzled by the 12 oz. mug, is like asking me if I'd like a visit from Jack Kevorkian (life without coffee? yes, pencil him in at 3...). So much for the reduction of caffeine. On to bigger things:

I love my Peanut. Peanutzilla; the Chubber calls her "peanut-butter", B.J. often calls her a pain in the _________ (fill in the blank: neck, butt, etc...). I do. I love her so much, I often go into the 'red' caring for her and all of her various needs. I do without, so does B.J. and the Chubb, though the latter doesn't yet realize it. Ask me how long it has been since I had a whole-hog, pull-out-the-stops-vacation. I'll tell you: I don't rightly remember. Far. Too. Long. Ago. After all, I'm the girl who buys (bought) airline tickets to Europe or Hawaii on a spur-of-the-moment 'this price is too good not to buy it' whim. Sigh. Those days are looonnng gone. I'd like to be able to go to the salon every 6 weeks and get my highlights done without my mental abacus going into guilt and worry about bills overdrive, and so I don't look like the bus driver from South Park; I'd like to be able to go shopping once in a while without feeling like I'm going over the precipice and landing us into debt. I'd like to stay in the black, but it just seems like it isn't gonna happen.

Already, this month alone, we're up to about $200 in medical co-pays for Peanut, and it isn't even the end of the month yet. Not to mention, the $2,000 invoice from OHSU that we received the other day that we may be 100% responsible for (maybe the insurance will pay it, maybe it won't. I think that BCBS uses a 'magic 8-ball' to decide on what it pays out on.).

Back to the Peanut, and, more specifically our current situation: Her psychiatrist has recommended we take her to a psychologist (main difference: the former is an M.D., the latter is a Ph.D.) for 'neuropsychological evaluation....[to] rule out other neuropsych dysfunction; to include IQ/LD'. Blah, bluh, bla? Yes. I know, it is partly Greek to me, as well. Basically, we want to find out a baseline for Peanut's cognitive performance. The psychiatrist doesn't do that kind of testing, the psychologist does. So, off I go with referral in hand.

Cha-ching.

The referral we've got in our hot little hands is for an out of network provider. Translation: mucho dinero. I, of course, don't have to have this testing done, but being the compulsive problem-solving mama that I am, I am going to. Because, after all, if this sheds more light on Peanut and how to deal with her 'quirks' I'm all for it. But! It all comes at a price.

The evaluation Peanut needs will run the gamut of $1,200-$2,000, quote that the psychologist gave me over the phone.

Choke-to-death. [insert gagging and vomiting noises here]

The insurance will pay up to 70% of what they deem 'usual and customary fees' (after I've paid my $300 deductible). In normal human being speech that means they will decide what a doctor should charge, and based on what the insurance deems to be the 'appropriate' charge, they will pay up to 70%. So, if they say this type of testing should cost, for simplicity, $10, then 70% of 'usual and customary' would mean they pay $7, leaving me to pay 30% of the balance, or $3. Sounds relatively simple, but when you're dealing with multiple zeroes after the numbers it gets a bit more...hmm...how shall I say it...distressing. Furthermore, if Peanut's psychologist doesn't charge $10 for the testing, but charges $17 for the testing, the insurance still only ponies-up $7, and I'm left with the balance of $10. So, basically I'm a bit on the screwed side.

What is a parent to do? What I always do: try to do the best I can by my peanut. I continue to mumble and grumble over medical costs--but I'm lucky: I at least have insurance. Some folks aren't so lucky, and once upon a time in the recent past I was one of those folks who didn't have insurance...and by God, did I pray I didn't get sick.

I continue to be more and more political; I follow the insurance legislation for my state. I send letters to my representatives and legislators. I've been scheduled to testify in front of the legislature before (though the meeting was cancelled). All in the name of providing my daughter with the necessary medical care she needs to live the fullest and most productive life she can live. So that my husband and I can have some semblance of normalcy in our family: we know and remember all to well what life was like before Peanut had the appropriate therapies and help; life with an untreated child like my girl is sheer hell.

So, the song that plays in my mind's Mp3 player, today, would have to be Patsy Cline's "Crazy," because I'm crazy in love with my girl.

Fulfilling my Civic Duty (maybe?)

Dun, dun, dun....I've been called for....JURY DUTY!

Ahh!

I have been summoned for jury duty exactly three times in my lifetime. To date I have served on exactly 0 trials. The first time that weighty little letter showed up I was about 22 years old, and, while nervous as 'all-get-out' after dialing the phone-in line, I was relieved of my duty: the trial had been cancelled.

The second time I was summoned was during my year-long leave of absence (read: when I was a S.A.H.M. to my Peanut and Chubbers). Due to the sensitive nature of my living situation (read: heavily lactating-mommy moo-cow who was nursing a 20lb. Chublet every 3 hours), I was able to decline to fulfil my Civic Duty.

It is always said that the "third time is the charm", and with that in mind, this past October, I received my third offical summons to appear as a juror in service of our magnificent American justice system. Unfortunately, at work, I was heavily inundated with offical State business (yet another fun audit or the like...honestly, I can't remember what legal-ish situation was going on, but it was something high-stakes (apparently) or else I wouldn't have been able to defer...) so I was able to postpone my summons until a later time.

Being the industrious little worker-bee that I am, I looked at my handy-dandy calendar and marked which bank holidays occurred in which months, and I zeroed in on February as my choice of month to commit myself to my Duty. Why February, you ask? Well, it is the month with the fewest bank holidays/inservices/out of the office days, of course. And, if I'm going to get stuck doing something I don't particularly want to do, I might as well do it and have a day out of the office, in a month where there are few days away, while I do it. Makes sense, right? Yeah, I thought so too.

So, here in my post box this afternoon what was I to find? I found the Safeway weekly mail insert (yuck--who cares, the poor slaughtered trees and environmental waste is what always pops into my brain), a Discover card advert (who cares? Aren't Americans, as a rule, entirely too far in debt? Isn't the Fed, as we speak, working on contriving a way to keep us out of a recession due to our overzealous spending habits and the poor investment choices of people with NO CREDIT have made? Isn't coroporate America crying 'poor, poor, poor, me...save me! while our Leader has (thank GOD) resolutely refused to dole out yet another form or corporate welfare...aherm...climbing down off the soap-box now). And, tucked neatly between the glorious waste of paper in my box, you guessed it, my Jury summons.

Should prove to be interesting, at the least. I wonder if I will wind up not being needed, as before. Or, will I get stuck on some sort of O.J.-esque media circus where I'll be sequestered (detained, Northern Korean prisoner-of-war style) in a swanky hotel, away from all outside influences and my precious family?

Who knows.

I call into the automated response system on February 24th to see if I will be needed on the 25th.

Wish me luck.

Angst takes a plume and scratches feverishly upon the digital parchment

Tonight I had a lovely phone call with my father, who resides (currently, as in during this season) in Florida. My entire family lives there. I am the lone loony tune on the west coast--or am I? Our phone conversation was exactly one hour, two minutes, and forty-three seconds long. A world record conversation, when it comes to my father--whom, incidentally, when in this state will drive 1.5 hours to my home, talk to me for ten minutes, give me a hug, and leave. Yes, he is rather eccentric. I know no one like that.

At any rate, one of the gambits of conversation rested upon my brother, and upon further interrogation, my nephew: Steven. Ah, Steven. I rarely (if ever) use first names here, due to respect of privacy and the ever present specter of the digital world that threatens to haunt us--should we dare utter something incoherent (I frequently do) or worse something not politically correct. Lord knows, anything in history that has wound up in some sort of public medium finds a way of rising from its musty grave of some twenty-odd years or more, and challenging the speaker's credibility--as if we aren't entitled to change our opinion, or become more evolved and more sentient beings as we age. I digress.

My nephew, Steven, and I are only 5 years apart in age. Yes, my brother is nearly 17 years my senior. In a nutshell, without going into particulars, my family has become estranged from my nephew. He has chosen to take his anger toward his father (my brother) out on the entire family, and has eclipsed reason and decided that his father did him wrong, ergo so have I. It is fallacious thinking, but alas, he is only human. I try not to hold it against him. I try.

It has been hard for B.J. and I because over the years, we have tried to reach out to Steven, include him in our lives, and entreat him to allow us into his life. He would make a few baby-steps toward that end, but then forget to follow through with his end of the deal: take our calls, allow us to see him. At any rate, it is difficult (at best) to try to stay in touch with someone who does not wish to be in touch with you. And so, times went by. Two years, as a matter of fact. And within that two years we find that Steven has had a son, Kade. We missed out on 2 years of his sweet little life. Despite our best efforts (could I have tried harder? I will be honest: yes.) Steven, and now his son Kade, slip through our fingers and are lost to the ever shifting sands of time. We hear nothing...nothing...cannot find them...then they show up! A merciful, wonderful, reunion! We are allowed to have a glimpse at Kade and Steven's life.

Fast forward, again, two years. Steven has made us 'persona non grata' and we have not been in his universe. Not, until I get the horrifying phone call last January (2007) that Kade has been killed. We are devastated. We were denied access to his precious life while he was living, and due to poor choices and (somewhat mysterious) occurrences, he is deemed an 'accidental death'. I rush to Steven, as he has finally allowed us to cleave to him in his darkest hour. We weep, he professes his errors, and we forgive him with open heart and arms.

Again, the sands of time bury him, his addictions, afflictions, and misery. He is lost to us. My heart and soul ache for him. He doesn't know what he does, and I cannot change him. I can only sit by quietly, offering my open arms, and should he choose to run to his family, to me, and clasp him to my breast and tell him that I would choose to never let him go. I cannot change someone unwilling to change. I can forgive him, but I cannot make him forgive himself, his father, or his ways. I must wait.

This evening, while talking to my father, I find out that Steven has surfaced, again. And, again, he has another child. A two-year-old boy. I do not even know this child's name. I am so angry, so broken. How I wish he would grow-up, wake-up, 'get over it,' or whatever it is he has to do to see that, yes, he has a genuine right to be angry at his father. He has a right to be pissed off at his father. My brother was wrong, did wrong, and continues to do wrong. I cannot change that. Steven cannot change that. He is old enough now to realize that I am not his father. His grandfather is not his father. We are here to love him. We want him, good, bad, ugly, addicted, unloved. We want his son. He is family.

Do we lose another precious baby to time, anger, and hatred? Does Steven have the right to deny his son his heritage? His family? Does he? I cannot imagine another loss so profound as this, short of losing my own children. I am so angry. Incensed. Yet, do I have a right to my anger? I do not know. I am sure some would say I have no right to be angry, and that I am being selfish, and immature. You're right: I am selfish. I want my family. So many today simply cast off that which they do not want, that which does not acquiesce to their wishes, and ways. And, as I say this I think, directly, of my brother. But he will face his own sins in this life, as will I. Do we suffer another Kade? Do we live our lives and let time go by, without ever being present? What do I do? I know he is approximately one hour south of where I live. One hour. Yet, the gulf that divides us is more vast than the Marianas Trench, the rings of Saturn are closer than they.

Blood is thicker than water.

Tragedy sent this bright, curious, much-loved boy, Kade, Home far too soon. Will we miss out on his half-brother's life, the way that his all-too-brief little life was lost to us? I sincerely hope not.

And, yet, I wait. With prayers and patience, I wait...

Ratatouille

I had a very interesting start to my morning.

For starters, the evil Chubber was up at who-knows-what-time (when I got out of the shower and walked into my room, he was standing in the doorway--staring at me!), so I had a super early start: 5:30am. Ugh. I really need, honestly need a half-hour to myself first thing in the morning after I get out of the shower. With the Chublet being up so early, my 'personal time' instantly evaporates. At any rate, despite the early, early start with kids, the first part of my morning went smoothly. Where's the interesting part, you ask? Here it comes:

Once I got to work I was really productive. Rare for me, as I like to socialize a little bit in the morning with my co-workers and catch up on the goings-on (I miss out on a lot since I don't technically work full-time. Yeah, right.). I got the art materials we'd be using prepped and ready to roll for Friday, and the only thing I was missing was a few gallon-sized ziplock bags.

I started to look for the bags I needed. None to be found in my supply closet, desk, or random piles of detritus that inhabit my work-space. Bummer. That left me with having to cruise down to the second floor to look in the 'science closet.' I am in this closet constantly (I have a bit of a penchant for science...) and I know that there are not only gallon-sized ziplock bags, but quart-sized bags. Oh joy! As I was opening the storage closet a friend walked by and started to chat about what was going on, and, being me, I turned and said hello and got filled in on this very important 'memo.' As I'm standing there I'm noticing a foul odor emanating from the science closet. It is nasty and somewhat familiar, though I can't quite place it. Finally, important office talk taken care of, I begin to turn around to look in the closet when I hear it (slow things down to slow-motion): the plat-plat-plat of little naked rodent feet.

Eew, yucky!

Then, it all becomes odorifically clear: that smell was rat and/or mouse pee! And, those little feet that were scuttling across the floor were rat and/or mouse feet.

At this point, the elapsed time is approximately 0:01.05 seconds. I SCREAM! and jump up in the air, doing a fair imitation of my 'arachnoleptic fit' (the jiggy moves I perform when I happen upon a member of the arachnids--I do not like spiders!). To my horror, there are two small children in the a hallway who witness my 'freak-out-fit' and I run (think 'fairy princess' in the derogatory sense of the saying) to another co-worker's office.

Talk about a wake-up-call!

I complain to the appropriate department, and find out:

1. The appropriate personnel is aware that there is a (moderate) rodent problem
2. An exterminator is to be coming soon (I asked "soon? As in we're getting our new copy-machine 'soon' (it was supposed to have been installed some time after JUNE!))
3. The appropriate personnel had, in fact, killed a mouse in said science closet that very morning

Oh, how I do love working for the US government. Your tax dollars at work, baby! Nothin' but the best for our future.

So, Disney had a 'cute' rat in their new Disney/Pixar film "Ratatouille". We have disgusting, bad-smelling-pee, nasty little scuttling pink feet, dirty ghetto rats.

Hmmm.

How did they ever think rodents were cute and cuddly? I'll never know.

Tomorrow is December 1, 2007

That means that NaBloPoMo is over. I will be able to say "I DID IT!!" and "I survived posting every single day in November (albeit, not necessarily thoughtful or good posts, but I did manage something).

Yay!!

Thanks to those of you who felt and/or posted your sympathy for my Bad Day. I'm really on a roll, today, albeit not as bad as yesterday, has been extremely aggravating. Thus, I'm having an aggravating day in lieu of a bad day. Does that count for anything? I didn't think so.

So, what was so bad about yesterday/today? (you may want to check out the list of links on my sidebar right about now, 'cuz the violins are coming out).

Rewind to Wednesday.

Work: the homo sapiens whom I deal with were great. Others, who, unfortunately, interact with my little universe were not. In fact, the description "wild-monkey-crazy-animals" would not be an overstatement. Can't go into any more details than that, because then it would be too specific,and the laws, and blah, blah, blah. At any rate, the behaviors (note: PLURAL) that were going on at work caused me to leave in a FOUL mood. I was so anxious and 'keyed-up' it took me the upwards of 2 hours to quit 'vibrating-internally' (you know, where you're so stressed out your guts feel like they're twisted in knots, and you start obsessing about what happened, and you get more and more upset--the negative cycle). Then, as a result of my stress I got upset stomach and started to have (am I actually going to publish this?) diarrhea.

Oh. So. Gross.

I was a very unhappy camper.

Then, I got to go back to work from 4:30-6:00pm for a conference/seminar that was mandatory. I'm currently taking a university class, and I have already done 25 classroom hours, and to finish it out I have a 'class' for 1.5 hours every month that I have to attend to receive my grade/credit. Oh joy. So,whatever 'unwinding' I had accomplished got undone when I walked in the doors for class.

Thursday:

Woke up at 5am still feeling ill. I have never had a somatic reaction like this to stress; ever. I rolled around and hoped I'd feel better...in the end I called in sick and spent the day feeling queasy and had unhappy intestines.

It gets better.

Wednesday afternoon after getting the mail (drove to the mailbox because, well, you know, I'd melt if I had to walk to the mailbox in the rain. You saw the Wizard of Oz, right? That was my sister), I noticed a tap-tap-tap noise. I figured I had a rock stuck in the tire of my van. Turns out I ran over a BOLT! AHHHHH!

So, after picking the kids up from the sitter (you thought I actually took a sick day and kept the kids home? Yeah. As IF.) I drove us to the Honda Dealer to ask about the tire. They told me to go to America's Tire Co. because they were really busy, and it would take a few hours for my car to get worked on.

Ok. I can do this.

We get to America's Tire Co. and my (evil screaming hellions) children behave like a 4 and 2 year old, respectively: they run around the shop, climb the tire/wheel displays, and scream like banshees. The tire guy looks mortified, and offers to 'work quickly' sine he sees I have "little ones." Great. Thanks. I appreciate it, I do. But, he tells me it is going to cost me $75 to fix my tire.

GAG!

Who pays $75 to fix a tire? Me, that's who. See, one of the joys of a 2006 Honda Odyssey Touring Model is this great little invention called run-flat tires. In a nutshell, run flats let you drive for 50 miles at speeds of up to 55mph without having to change the tire. The idea is so that if you're out and about and a tire gets a hole/leak you will be able to drive long enough (at highway speeds) to safely get to a service center without the hassle of changing a flat. Great idea. Poor design. Run flats wear out in about 30,000 miles of driving use. To replace them they are a special order, and here's what Consumer Reports had to say:

Consumer Reports magazine, said the tires offered a safety advantage, but the
tire forum on its Web site (consumer.org) had many complaints from run-flat owners about
higher-than-expected replacement costs, difficulty getting repairs and what some
considered excessive wear.

Ok. This is my only complaint about my van. Pretty good, don't you think, if that's my only gripe? I guess it is my 'just desserts' for insisting on the 'top-of-the line' if I were to cross over to the dark side of mommy-hood: driving a minivan.

The problem became, after I walked a sick me and two squealing, hungry little piggies up and down Lancaster Dr. and found a Chinese restaurant to feed us dinner (By now it was 5pm), was when we got back to the tire center an hour and a half later the tire was not fixed and he had, surprise-surprise, really GOOD news: It wasn't fixable.

I need 4 new tires (they're worn out) and I would have to immediately buy 1 new tire if I was to drive my van home. Great. The estimate he had for me for tires--ONLY, was $1,200.

It is amazing that I didn't barf right there on the counter.

Thankfully, by this time B.J. had met me at the store, and I let him take over the haggling.

In the end, since it was taking for-ever to get a tire changed, it is 6:45pm now, and we'd gotten to the tire shop just past 4:30pm, I pitch a fit, get the car seats squeezed in (should have used WD-40 to help) to the backseat of the Eclipse, if that is what you call the little shelf behind the front seats. Let's just say, preschooler and toddler in a sportscar is a real trip, in both senses of the word.

The kids and I get home. B.J. arrives about an HOUR later, with USED tire on the van, $150 lighter in the pockets for a USED FREAKING TIRE!!

We were so not loving the fancy tires, last night.

Friday:

Today was aggravating because my Nikon is still not back, got a call from the shop saying that it will be $95 to 'fix it' --huh? it is in the shop for a warranty-covered cleaning. I'm blogging right now so that I don't return the phone call and totally chew-off the store clerk's ear. My 1pm dentist appointment was cancelled. Let's just say I was dreading the cleaning all week long, and now that it has to be rescheduled, I have another new week to dread the cleaning, once I call back to reschedule.

Does it ever end? Oh, yeah, B.J. and I decided to buy new rims and tires for the Honda. No way can I put cheap-o steel rims on it (way too tacky, even for me) and that's gonna set us back $1800. But, that purchase (we're trying to hold off) is for next month--as in January.

But, to put it all into perspective, I'm grateful for what is a 'bad day' or an 'aggravating day' to me. Because, after reading about what the Ugandan people have to deal with, on Prose of Sharon's blog, I have nothing at all to gripe about. Even in my 'bad moments' I'm blessed beyond belief.

Here's to the weekend, and all the troubles I'm blessed with. I hope I can keep this perspective tomorrow, when we get picture re-takes of Peanut and Chubber.

We did it! Last post for NaBloPoMo.

And, how perfect is this? "The Twelve Days of Christmas" by The MacKenzie Brothers is on the raido right now. Their attitude sums up NaBloPoMo. Perfectly.

Bad Day

I'm having a bad day.

A very bad and very expensive, bad day.

And, I'm somewhat on the sick side. My guts are writhing and I want to barf.

And, not just from feeling ill.

UGH!

Seeking Absolution...

I normally try to make my posts more up-beat and cheerful--we all have enough drama in our own lives without anyone elses', but today I'm in a bad space. So, here it goes:

My kids are acting terribly, I'm tired and cranky, and I'm feeling pretty useless as a human being right now (can you hear the violins playing yet?).

When I'm in this space I think about social movements in history. The women's liberation movement is something that I think about quite often. Strange, but true. I often think that what my grandmother and mother have done for my generation is both good and very, very bad. The Women's Movement created the possibility of independence, a voice, and choices for women; yet it also took away that which we already had. I am grateful for what it accomplished in that I can go into most businesses, doctors' offices, or any other public place and be treated (mostly) in a fair and upright manner. I can complain and have my complaints heard, addressed, and changes made as a result of them. I can drive a car, vote, have a career, a family; I can have it all, thanks to the Women's Liberation Movement.

Or can I?

Today, I feel the crushing pressure closing in on me from all directions. Dolce et decorum est...said Wilfred Owen (one of my favorite poets, whose works were not discovered for the gems they are until well after his death). It is an old lie. You cannot possibly have it all. I cannot have it all, though try I may.

I had the luxury of being a Stay At Home Mother (S.A.H.M) for a year, after my son was born. I about went crazy the first few months--what the heck do you actually do with a toddler and a newborn all day long, with no help? I had never had the experience of being a REAL mother; I went back to work before my daughter turned 4 months old. I have felt extreme guilt over going to work so soon after Peanut was born because of the relief that I felt to be 'free' again. See, I couldn't wait to return to work. Working was so much easier than being a MOM. I got to love on my girl for an hour or so in the morning, and then whisk her off to my daycare provider (whom I absolutely adore--she is a fabulous human being who truly loves what she does) go to work and then pick her up at about 3:30pm. That left me with about 3 hours of being a MOM before Peanut went to bed. Truly, I was only a parent for 4ish hours a day.

That is not parenting.

Then, along came my Chubbers and I flat out told B.J. I would stay home for the year and be a mom. It was hard, but by the time my year was up, I was loathe to go back to work. I wanted to stay home with my babies. I wanted to be a MOM. I loved seeing all their changes and watching Chub-chub make all his milestones (Chubbers is a Typical child, v.s. Peanut having multiple developmental delays, not the leas of which is ASD). It was such a pure joy. It nearly crushed me to drop my babies off at the daycare and head to work.

Well, here it is, summer, and I am 'off' work for a couple of months. My children and I have to get used to each other again. Learn each others rhythms and needs. We're getting there. Slowly. Peanut is having a tough time adjusting. Her attitude just keeps getting worse. She is mean and nasty to her brother; she screams at me and and her brother, and her behavior is just 'ugly' overall. This makes me feel like crap. No, it make me feel like dog crap. Peanut tells me she wants her teacher. I'm glad, because it means she's having a good time at school. I'm also distraught because, she behaves nicely for the teacher and plays well with the kiddos, but for me she is a terror. I feel so ineffectual. I feel like she would prefer to be at the daycare and at school rather than be home. She has told me she doesn't want to 'go home' after school or other outings. How should I take this? What does it mean? Does she hate me? Is being home so terrible? I take it as she would rather be anywhere than with me. It probably isn't true, but on a day like today, that is how it feels.

Which brings me back to the fact that I can't have it all and that the Women's Movement had a dark side to it.

In the past women were at home, to keep house and to tend the children. Men went to work, and made a decent living wage. The roles were sex-stereotyped, but likely worked in most families (yes, I am aware of abuse, limitations, etc.). Today, women are expected to do all of the same jobs that they did before, just they're also expected to pull in a substantial paycheck to go along with it. The Second Shift details the ins and outs of a modern 'liberated' woman. I fall into that category. Men today make less money than they did 30 years ago (adjusted for inflation) and finding a decent job for them is more and more difficult. Women have bridged the gap far enough to make $.70 to every $1.00 a man makes. Men cannot support their families today as they were able to in the 1950's working a single (non college-degree) job. It is so unfair. Are we really further ahead than our great-grandmothers? It seems, to me, men and women are more depressed, more angry, and their quality of life is much lower than it was in my grandmother's day. Is this supposed to be called progress?

I work. Part-time (really my hours total up to between 35-40 per week). My children go to daycare. Daycare dissolves the majority of my paycheck; once my student loan and some of the smaller household bills are taken care of I have virtually no money left. I see my children after work (between 3:30pm and bedtime) during the crabbiest time of day for them and for me. I am in charge of upkeep of the house, groceries, landscaping, laundry, and other miscellanea. I am not complaining about my husband. He does a good job of being a husband, father, and provider. He does share in the tasks of the household. I just wind up doing more, after all, I work part-time.

Why am I working? I keep rationalizing that my children won't necessarily remember me being home while they were infants/toddlers. They grow up so fast. I'll be able to be there for them after school during their school-age years--where it really counts (I can go to all their activities, be active in their lives and know who their friends are, and supervise them when many other people leave their kids to 'fend for themselves' after a certain age--opening the door to pre-marital sex, drugs, and all sort of other fun things). But, WHY? Why do I work? My paycheck is too small to really make much of a difference. I still do everything I did when I was home for that year. I'll tell you why: So I don't lose my license. I cannot afford to stay home with my kids and lose my license. I worked so hard for it (I got a master's degree after it!!). I can't afford to take the exorbitantly priced graduate school classes that would maintain my license (at $500+ per class/term). Someday my children will fly from the nest. If my licensure is kaput, where do I go? I went to school so I wouldn't have to wait tables the rest of my life. My mother insisted I get a degree so that I could take care of myself should the need arise. As one of my collegues has shown me the need arises all too often (her husband is no longer able to support their family). Had she not maintained her license, they would be homeless. What do I do?

I am stuck.

I feel like I can't go back, and I cannot move forward. The proverbial 'rock and a hard place.' What do I do? What do I do?

I need someone to give me their benediction and tell me that I'm doing o.k. That my kids will turn out just fine. That this season in my life won't go on forever. That I'm doing the right thing.

I need to know that it isn't all for nothing. I need to know that I'm not a bad mother.

Life is hard when you're teetering on the razor's edge in a pair of stilettos while trying to be everything to everyone. Again, I think of the Women's Liberation Movement. Was it all worth it? Am I a happier person because of all the work the mothers of yesterday did? Again, I don't know.

Dante's Lost Circle of Hell

Just 4 more days until we have a weekend away! There, as always, is a lot to do, but I'm excited. Peanut is excited (she can hardly wait to go on Opa's big boat), and if Chub-chub had any concept of time, I'm sure he'd be on pins and needles, too.

Since it is such a short time until we leave, I'm already gearing up for our family weekend in Seattle. As a part of the planning I am already envisioning what I'm going to pack. It sounds a bit shallow (well, o.k, a lot shallow) but that's where I'm at. This is a good thing, in a round about way. As a part of my planning for the weekend (we're staying at the Marriott--ooh, the swimming pool) I have discovered I need a swimsuit.



Yes. A swimsuit. *screaming and sounds of agony*



I have discovered in my pre-trip planning that the swimsuit that I currently own is fairly on the ginormously too big side. This makes me happy. It actually is a demonstrable way seeing that I have in fact shed 60 unsightly pounds in the past 21 months. When you have a lot of weight to lose, as I still do, it is sometimes really hard to see the changes. Even 60 pounds worth of change can be somewhat tough to see.



Take, for example, my fattest FAT PANTS. I saved my fattest FAT PANTS to remind me of why I cannot sit on the couch and watch paint peel while getting take-away for dinner. I tried them on just yesterday for a morale boost: it was good. I could physically see where my waistline was at (even at my heaviest, my FAT PANTS were tight in the waist, hips, and thighs) and I can see that my new-er waist line sits a comfortable 4.5 inches inside the circumference of the old. My hips and thighs can swim inside the old FAT PANTS. This makes me very happy; it makes me very happy, indeed.



I digress. As usual.



Anyhow, I was mentally envisioning myself playing in the sunshine and splashing in the swimming pool with my chickadees, but not in the old swimsuit. Couldn't possibly wear it, lest I offer a free burlesque show to the poor unsuspecting sunbathers poolside. So, that meant one thing and one thing only: swimsuit shopping *blood curdling howls of terror*



Now, if you've a svelte figure that you've always had or kept hold of by religiously punishing your body at the gym, you won't be able to relate to what is to follow. You go on ahead and just cruise on over to another blog. Go on, save your self some time and trouble. Ok. Now, the rest of the 68% of you (us) out there that have *gulp* blossomed past a size 14, here's the scary part.



Swimsuit shopping is enough to give any healthy, in-shape, self-possessed woman a case of body dysmorphic disorder. Swimsuit shopping for the overly endowed, voluptuous sort is something akin to having bamboo rods shoved violently under your fingernails and asking "please, sir, may I have some more?" This type of shopping is a grueling task master who likes to crack the whip of self-loathing, under glaring overhead lighting. No one looks good in overhead lighting; if you've got a little cottage cheese to go along with your squishy dough rolls, it is even less flattering.



I trekked to many stores, spanning two cities.

Fred Meyer: Nope.

Wal-Mart: Nope (they design suits for midgets*. I swear, the suits I tried on there either left me glad that my bikini line is neat and well groomed or wishing my boobs hadn't gone as far south as they had.)

JC Penney: not only did they not have any air-conditioning on, there was a waiting line at multiple dressing rooms and when I finally got into one of the sweaty little stalls there was someone else's mess waiting for me. Now, that was just disgusting.



So, I thought I'd try out Nordstrom. I love 'Nordies.' Granted, the Nordstrom we have here is what I call "Ghetto-Nordies":it is only two floors, and the women's, Brass Plum, children's, and children's shoes occupy one of the floors--so a very small and limited selection, but I still enjoy it (too bad the prices are a bit STEEP). Good 'ol Nordstrom, should have something, right?

Wrong. They had exactly 4 swimsuits above a size 14, all of which were so old-lady even old ladies would have gagged.



My favorite stand-by: Target (tar_Shay, ya know how to say it). Nada. Again, the suits had midget syndrome. Hey, I'm tall (5' 8") but, not freakishly tall like, for example, the women folk on my husband's side (his little sis' stands at a diminutive 6' 1"). So I should be able to fit into a suit. American women aren't that short.



I eventually wound up at Macy's. I'll forever think of it as Meier & Frank--calling it Macy's just feels wrong somehow even though the buy-out has been several months ago now.

Once at Macy's I slogged down to the ground floor and wrestled my way through the remodel going on to find the swimsuits. For moi: exactly 1 rack. Uno. ONE! And on that ONE rack there were about 5 different styles of suit. I found 3 different suits that weren't too 'old-lady' or too 'ugly' or too 'midget-ish' and drug myself into the dressing room. I tried each and every one on at least two times. I figured this was the end of the road. Short of a 45 minute drive to a bigger city, my swimsuit shopping options were exhausted.



It is funny, how when you try on swimsuits, you suck in your gut, square your shoulders, twist and turn in vain to look smaller. Uh-uh. No matter what you do, in that 6'x6' portal to hell, nothing makes a dang bit of difference. Yet, we still try. Why is that? If I suck 'it' in, its gotta go somewhere; so, likely, if I suck in my gut, the 'suck in' probably bulges out somewhere less flattering, like my butt. Or my thighs. Oh, my thighs...we're just not even going to go there...



After my dressing room calisthenics I finally decided on a two-piece 'tankini'. It is a simple brown with white piping/edging and a criss-cross back (gotta have the extra support to keep the girls in line--no black eyes for me after my Bo Derek '10' impersonation on the shore). My self-esteem was about 99.7% in the toilet when I walked out at last. However, I think it tanked entirely when I went to the check-out counter.



$106.00. *retching*



As if I needed insult on top of my injury.



Could someone please tell me why on earth a swimsuit would cost that much money? Please? I don't even know what brand it is to warrant such a price tag. (likely no-name brand) But, in the end, after a few hours of self-torture and the realization that the Swedish Bikini Team will not require my presence this season, I finally sucked-up the cost and now have a swimsuit.



I may not look like Claudia Schiffer, but at least I'll be able to play with my kids at the pool (bonus: without indecent exposure!) and have a good time.



As I walked away from the department store, mentally shaking my head over the price I paid, I came to a very real conclusion: I could use this experience as an excuse to go home, boo-hoo into a pint of Häagen-Dazs or stoke the fires of motivation to continue to get into better shape and look better, for myself.



I chose the latter. Sometimes the glass is half-empty; today the glass was half-full.







*if you happen to be a midget, no offense is meant.

Post-it / Rant-it

The Peanut celebrated her 4th Birthday on the 28th of April. I cannot believe that she's already 4--that I have been in charge of the growth, development, love, and nurturing of another human being for 4 years. I. Have. Been. A. Parent. For. Four. Years.

Wow.

In a nutshell, her birthday party was great. She had a blast. [I'll post pictures. Later.] I can't ask for more than that.

Other than I was a schmuck and forgot to mail one (if not more than one) invitation and left someone special feeling left out. I feel crappy about it. It also made me annoyed at B.J. He has done absolutely 0 beyond the barest minimum to help me out with her party/health issues/etc. lately.

It is annoying.

Like I can reasonably organize:
The Chub-chub; the house (cleaning, shopping, groceries, laundry.....); my job, the three separate Grant proposals that I've been working on at the same time; Peanut's doctor appointments, her therapist, the research study she involved with, her medications(S!!! as in plural); a marriage; planning a party; and maintain sanity without help!?

Yeah. Right.

It could be worse. At least Peanut had a great B'day.

NOT HOT tub Rant

Do you see that? Do you? What does that look like?

I'll tell you what it looks like: it looks like a rain sodden cedar box with a brown synthetic leather-looking lid and some crappy plastic steps. It is my un-hot tub.

That's right. NOT HOT hot tub.

See, I wanted to go out and soak in my HOT tub this afternoon while my chickadees were napping, you know, time to unwind, enjoy the lovely Pacific Northwest "sunshine" and de-stress. So, why am I not out in my supposedly HOT tub? Well, the stinking GCFI (or whatever the electrician called it) has fouled--again. The breaker switch has blown 5 times in 10 days. THAT IS A LOT! Too freaking much. So, as a consequence, every time the switch blows, the hot tub shuts off until we reset the breaker. Result: a NOT HOT tub. So, until the electrician can pencil us into his schedule (Monday, if we're lucky) we just have to put up with a NOT HOT hot tub.

Waaa, waa, waa, you say. At least you have a hot tub, you say. Well, I'm just a big, grumpy, pissed off baby. Damn proud of it, too. Today is a rant, after all.