Bad mother, bound for hell

2010! OMG, it is my first diary entry of 2010.

I am going to burn in hell. The kids have no school tomorrow (snow day). My youngest (age 13) stayed up to watch "1000 Ways to Die." He knows he is not supposed to do this! Why? Because, without fail, something on that program freaks him out. In tonight's episode, this guy took too many Viagra tablets, and it shut him down. What really got him though was the one where a rat bit the guy in the eye while he was sleeping, and he got some kind of bacterial infection that spread, thus becoming one of the 1000 ways to die.

So, I did the mom thing and reassured him that we do not have rats. He might die, but it is statistically impossible that he will die from such a thing! Not only that, the program "1000 Ways to Die" is there to show all the stupid ways and weird ways people die, not the normal ways! He was calm and reassured...

until I found the Ratatouille toy rat, said "Catch!", and tossed it to him.

I am going to hell.

And I can predict that my death will probably be by a rat, albeit plastic and lodged in my windpipe, not eating my eye.

Holes to Fill and Spiritual Spackle

Yin/yang, feng shui...Homeostasis. Osmosis.

These all have something in common - they are all looking to create a balance.

We all have holes. Some days, mine feel bigger than others. Filling them with food, smoking, drinking, yelling...kleptomania...is how people cope. Filling holes in our ragged psyches.

It's interesting that so many different cultures have the same realization that we all have places that need spiritual spackle. The most peculiar aspect is trying to figure out how all the damn holes got there!

So, how does one constructively fill them in? I'll let you know when I figure it out.

Fundie rant: It's also interesting that, just because it doesn't come labeled with a cross, my mom finds the yin/yang thing evil. My mom is still pushing Afrin. Watch for her on a playground near you.

Despite the revolving characters in my life, Christmas did a lot of spiritual spackling for me. I feel blessed. I still miss Mr. Dawg. I swear, I never think of my animals as children, but, WOW. His loss still stings. Of course, Mr. Dawg was never an ungrateful brat on whom you spent a significant portion of your income only to have him whine because his food came in the blue bag, not the black one, or flop on the floor and feign death because *gasp* you always like the cat more. I still hear jingling and look for him to come. It's very strange to still be getting used to our next dog. She's neurotic as hell but cute as hell, and that makes up for it.

In the same vein as spiritual conditions...I think I have the spiritual equivalent of penis envy.

I'd like to call it...

FACEBOOK ENVY.

It's a condition where you look at your sister's friends and then yours. She has 800+. You have >40. Okay, >30. And some of these old friends won't even answer my request. They're probably saying, "Oh, HELL no" or "Who the fuck is this?"

I need to get out of the house and make more friends, obviously. I'm also stalking authors on twitter. Some of them are quite chatty. It's not stalking so much as seeing their writing patterns. I've found a few and watch the tweets come in. I'm analyzing data as I go, I guess. See if it helps.
I also got a subliminal messaging program. OMG, isn't that too funny? I haven't set it up yet, but

I'll let you know if I write more with prompting...or shop while clucking like a chicken.

If I see a difference, maybe I'll install it on all the other computers in the house and subliminally make them clean the whole thing.

"Mom, it's total B.S. I mean, I'm like playing the game and, suddenly, I get this weird urge to clean the lint trap. I mean, weird, yeah? How do you get from slam dunk to lint trap?"

"Mom, every time I think of Mario on the Wii, I want to catch up on homework. I'm drawing mushrooms in the margins of all my notebooks!"

So, I'm spending my time wondering what kind of messages to send myself. Here's my ideas:

1. Finish work so you can play!

2. Insert character/book here - kind of sublimate character development while working??

3. List of 15 fresh fruits/veggies??? Avoid food?

I hope I can make the messages change to accommodate different times of the 24-hour cycle. Then, I will add a chore an hour or something, or tell myself to think about dinner ingredients.

If it works at all.

I HAVE UPDATED THE GLOSSARY. I will have to blog soon about my continuing beefs with Ovis Ovis and Heifer.

Harsh Truths

I am a unique writer.

It still doesn't mean that what I have isn't crap.

In many respects, it is. In many respects, it isn't.

However, if you want to get published, what I have written ain't what they want.

Which means rip to shreds, prune, and realize what I have isn't marketable.

Or start over. Give them what they want.

I do write for the love of it. I do. I also realize that what I write in context and conveyance is better than a lot of drivel on the shelves. However, there's a reason why that drivel is on the shelves and I'm not.

A) They had what the agent wanted, which is what the agent thought would make money AND could be sold to a publisher, and

B) They had the agent.

There are a lot of places that do the unsolicited MSs. They are easily found.

I, however, have a lot of works in progress. It means that maybe my first few finished babies aren't all that finished. No problem. I can do that or choose a project I have outlined that will fit, low and behold, the basic premise of a query letter.

Let's face it. If it can't be queried properly, it can't sell.

Wow.

Face it - I'm enlightened.

I have a plot. It has a hook. It has all the components of a novel, but can I point it out in a coherent fashion?

Find a sample query letter. Miss Snark, although she no longer does the blogging, has graciously left the blog up for us who are lost.

I found her here: http://agentquery.com/

It's been humbling.

I'm not going to quit. Nope. I'm just going to slack and hash a few things, and start my new stuff with a completely different approach.

I am an author, dammit. I just have to prove it :)

I'm a twit?

I am a twit. I now twit. I twitter. I have found a twit.

Now I am looking to stalk people. Forewarned is forearmed, but four-armed is not always four-legged.

You'll be glad to know I'm back to play under my rock, where I'm writing about things that go bump in the night :)

I have gone beyond needy.

I need.

I just need.

I guess it hurt to get on FB and I was about the only one an old group of employees at CB was not looking for. I worked there for four years. I did contact one of the guys, though, and he got back to me right away.

I need.

I think a hug would do. I feel like I've been emotionally leeched from for so long that I really need to be an emotional leech to someone.

I want to spend the night in a hotel, one with a jacuzzi, just so every part of me, from the earlobes down, is submersed and buffeted.

I need a cigarette. I quit two weeks ago. I'm missing it like an old friend. In fact, I have MOURNED. I want a cigarette. Nicotine has been my constant companion for so long, my sidekick, and my cloud barrier between you and me. It helped my persona look tougher (in reality, probably just more stupid, but I felt tougher).

I want my dog back, too. That would help. We got another dog and she's okay, but she's not Mr. Dawg. I don't want to get rid of her; no, I think they'd get along so well. They'd be so good together. She's been a wonderful Band-Aid, but she's Mr. Dawg's polar opposite, almost as neurotic as me!

I just need something.

I guess when I thought about cigarette withdrawal symptoms before, I thought a person would go so nuts from wanting something that they would go back to the bad habit. I found out differently. The SYMPTOMS from the smoking (the clenched-up bowels, the heartburn, the horrible taste in your mouth, the cilia coming back to life and bringing bad cases of the snots to every orifice, etc.) are the reasons people go back to smoking. I was very tempted. I would have traded a cig for a shit at one point. TMI, I know, but it's the damn truth. Even Bowel Drano (mag citrate) didn't touch it!

I feel stupid, too. I really hadn't been out of the house all week. Seriously. I did not go out of the house from Monday until Monday again. Wow. At least when I smoked, I had to go out for cigs. I usually have a problem when I go out of the house and get to talk to adults, but it was in hyperdrive today. I embarrassed the children, again. I got cautioned about talking to strangers, again. I got the "can't take you anywhere" schpiel, again. I know I'm being annoying. I can see it when they start thinking I need the Pooh print straightjacket, but just one more sentence.

Maybe I can make you laugh if I can't laugh on my own.

The kids don't do it to be mean. I seriously embarrassed myself and blushed furiously on the way home when I realized just how goofy I came across. I just have NO ONE.

I'm afraid I'll run off all my FB contacts just by annoying them to death. I mean, what is facebook protocol? These people have like 300 friends and stuff...do they really want to hear from people that often? Some of these people I admired so much more than they probably admired me; do they care if I'm lonely at 2:00 a.m. and need someone to chat with?

Christ. WTF. Shit fuzzy fuck.

I hate the Rainbow Bridge poem...

...only when it applies to me.

I'm sitting here, just zoning, a little bit in shock.

Mr. Dog went crazy Sunday morning. We use the pantry as a kennel, as he's gotten into more mischief the more age plagues him. All Saturday night, every time I walked past the pantry, he'd throw himself against the door.

I put him out right after the first time, thinking he really had to go to the bathroom, even though he'd just been inside for about an hour, more than a little disturbed at that kind of insistence.

He did this several times, and I put him out each time. A 6:00 a.m., I brought him in and went to bed.

Between the hours of 6:00 a.m. and 8:00 a.m., he managed to chew the coat peg, losing four front teeth and snapping one of his canines in half, and clawed the door, leaving 1/4" and deeper gashes. There's blood smeared toward the TOP of the door, on the jambs, and some dripped on the floor. It's like he was trying to tunnel his way through the door.

He's too big to exhibit aggressive behavior, and he's 11 years old. For months now, I've watched old age creep in and monkey with his mind, taking away that good behavior he'd always exhibited and replaced it with the desire to raid ever trash can, pull food off the counters, and come right in from outside and run to his favorite spot to immediately eliminate his bladder/bowel contents. Without warning, I went from wondering to knowing what I had to do, and did it, and it hurts.

We waited to leave the vet's office until he was well and truly in dreamland. I couldn't stay for the end. I hope he's found my father, who was always quite fond of Mr. Dog. The kids and I are all crying intermittently. He's been in our life for 9 years, and 2 years before that with someone else. The kids used him as a pillow while playing video games. He couldn't catch, but he could stand between you and someone he didn't like while out on a walk. He didn't know a lot of tricks, but his curly-cue tail managed to swing in a large circle. Our house isn't childproof; it's tail proof. When he went to "shake," his bulky frame slid down on the hardwood floor if he tried to get in a tripod position, so he'd roll onto his back and give you his paw in lieu of your traditional "shake."

Goodbye, my friend. You're meeting my next favorite dog about now, and I'm sure Dad will teach you how to hunt pheasant. You'll be incredible at it, just like you were with everything else. Thanks again for your big size and loud bark to keep us safe, and thanks so much for not letting that raccoon eat my face the night we surprised him on the porch. I'll never forget you knocking him down out of midair with your nose on its way to tear my eyes out. I will miss you so much.

Which parenting manual covers this??? Also, free novel from Ana Varza

Junior usually is an early riser and spares me the chore of waking him up for school every morning. Thank God. Until this morning, I went 17 years without waking up my son and witnessing a tent pole.

Shudder.

This week, I have been deliberately disobeyed, outlined four story ideas, and plan to write a novella for a company that takes unsolicited manuscripts. I'm out of soda, the coffee isn't kicking in, and I've got Dude in the front room, finishing his science project that we thought was due in March but it's truly due tomorrow. Thank God for my husband's OCD record keeping on his snake clutches. I'll never tease him about studying all his charts and projections ever again.

This breeding season portends great things for our ball pythons. We have more visual morphs than ever before, and we are counting on our het for piebalds to produce another beautiful piebald like they did last year. Nobody ever gets tired of ball python piebalds! There is actually a revenue potential!

I had to tease the hub the other night...his thought processes are either on one set of balls or the other.

In other news, Ana Varza got sick and tired of not being published, and just wants to be read. You can find her novel, Olympus, on either Demonoid or Mininova. Mininova doesn't require an account and the novel can be found by doing a simple search for "Ana Varza Olympus." I've read worse. Actually, I've read much worse. It's in pdf format and it's formatted nicely. It's definitely not a waste of time. Fantasy with a few sci-fi elements.

I think it's pretty gutsy. I hope she gets noticed. If you don't want to do the Mininova or Demonoid route, she says she welcomes e-mail and probably would e-mail you a copy. Actually, knowing the desperation of starving authors, I can bet she'd send it out. She can be reached at ana.varza@yahoo.com.

Something to do with the way I feel...

First post of 2009 - and six months since I last publicly fused.

Let's correct that small injustice, yes?

1. I'm sick and tired of being, well, sick and tired. I've been on antibiotics twice.

2. I'm slowly drawing into my own little world where people can't hurt me. I need to pull out of this. I'm hiding myself in books, both my own writing and other people's, but I have not accomplished much else besides the mundane tasks. Yes, everyone's got clean clothes. Yes, everyone's got food. Nobody needs to learn Gaelic and nobody wants to listen to mom say "Aye, lassie," instead of "yes, dear."

3. Bitch point #2 might be due to the fact that the new mega Wal-Mart scares the bejeezesus out of me. I can't find anything! It's like walking in the Edward Jones dome and looking for the quarter the quarterback dropped. Christ.

4. My dog's brain is giving out, and he's taking my heart with him. I don't want to put him in the pound, but I'm tired of cleaning up messes. We've had to sequester him in a certain part of the house, and I hate it, but unless he's watched 24/7, he tears into the garbage, pulls stuff off the counter and out of the shelves, and poops in a hidden corner of the house where he thinks I'm not able to find it. Folks, a 100-pound dog makes a lot of shit, especially when he's confiscated a ham from the counter. Ham tears his stomach up.

5. The cat's common sense is giving out. He's making messes from the other end - if you feed him too much, he'll scarf it all down and get sick, puking it up not five minutes later. The kids can't figure this out - a handful of food at a time, please. They just don't want to get up again to feed him. I don't want to clean up any more of his completely undigested puke.

6. Our power bill was over $600 this month. Granted, there's 5 of us and a very large snake room but, still, this sucks, and then the hub laughs at me because I download files on generating your own power with a miniature windmill. Hello? I think we could at least run the TV and a few other gadgets off of that, and it would look pretty. He thinks the city won't let me build one. Fuck it. I'm still seriously considering it - and Dude has a science project coming up. Let's experiment with something other than drugs, right?

So, that ends the bitch session/fussfest for the time being.

But it has precedence...

I don't feel pretty.

I don't feel witty.

I definitely don't feel bright.

I spotted something today. I will have you know, I am aging gracefully. Ergo, I am silver, not gray--silver. Sil-ver.

It's shiny and sparkly and has already multiplied fourfold. My poor children or hub haven't caught on yet, even though Sunny commented on how my hair is thickening since taking megadoses of fish oil.

All I can think of is how my dad used to beg us to sit with his head in our hands, taking a fine-tooth comb and raking through it, using tweezers to pluck out his gray. Knowing, however, how wonderful it is to have someone touching your hair, I have a feeling the gray was just a pathetic excuse to get us to spend time with him.

I hope it works on my kids.

It's clutch time - literally. We've got ball pythons hatching, but if you go to the snake sites, everyone's snakes are cooler than ours. They've got better normals. They've got some seriously reduced patterns to make you drool. Your friends and family don't understand the obsession. It's a way of creating life to your designs, and, dammit, I want a cool-looking snake! It's not that the "normals" aren't special, because they are. We're learning a lot in this our first official season. We've reproduced. We've had to force feed (I don't like doing it, but if you want them to survive...). I learned out how to sex the snakes. My hub knows what to look for as far as ovulation and shedding and overall timing. We definitely know what a girl about ready to lay is like, and the poor ladies look so uncomfortable as they twist and writhe to get those eggs in position to lay.

Still, though, while we're waiting to get our first simple morphs, some people are producing snakes with all kinds of super powers, double and triple recessive genetic snakes, and hitting the 1:16 and 1:32 odds.

It boosts the jealousy factor. Pardon me while I seem to be coveting. It's not that, entirely. I want to get to that point. I want to have all those years of proving genetics behind us with a totally cool one-of-a-kind morph to name.

I think I'll slither back to work now, trying to afford a snake with a better gene pool.

Oh, and just so you know...2-liter bottles bounce. We sat around, amazed, as the generous people in our quickie-mart parking lot helped me chase down the bouncing bottles of pop. Our five-part consensus allows for a +/- 6" error, but those puppies really do hop up about a man's height when dropped properly. I can drop things with ease, thank you very much. Okay, okay. The curb assisted, but only minimally. I didn't even see it!

New word to add to your dictionary...

Sunny's word of the week:

Theaven. That would be a cross between thief and heathen, a term that applies to either brother when they steal her soda. She has started selling her stash to them for $1.50 a pop, which they gladly pay. She's not a big soda drinker, but she gets 4/12 of the contents of the box, so she hoards hers while the boys just suck them down, one right after the other, and they're paying and she's raking it in from the brothers Theaven.

The power went out yesterday. Yuck, extremely hot. Since we didn't know when it would come back, we made arrangements for the kids to go stay at Mom's. While we waited for her arrival, we played the "That's Obvious" game.

Obviously, it's quite fun. Junior started with, "I'm a stud." Sunny countered with, "Junior's lying." Dude decided not to get involved and said, "I like soda." Coincidentally, he had just shelled out a buck-fifty for a Mountain Dew. I, of course, said, "It's hot," three turns in a row. Later, "Mom's a nerd," Junior said, and Dude said, "No, she's not!" and Sunny said, "She's not a nerd...until she opens her mouth."

Yeah, fun. They ask me a question and get an encyclopedic answer. I impart knowledge readily. Dude asked what "venting" meant. I explained to him it's the same as "letting off steam," two thoughts similarly related by personification of pressure release through a vent or valve in an engine that has built up too much pressure. He walked away, shaking his head. Apparently, I could have just said, "It's a polite term for 'bitch session.'" That's not what he said, but I'm sure that's what he was thinking.

With the game nearly over, Junior farted, which I felt through the dang floor. I'm still recovering from one he let loose while we were in the car. It lingered to every surface and, even the windows open and air full blast, it took half a mile before that nasty worked itself out.

You'd think he eats broccoli and beans constantly. Doesn't touch the stuff, actually. I think of Mad Max and wonder how to harness all the methane he creates.

I wonder if Mom found it interesting that I'd gladly kick them out of the house but quite willingly stay in the oven-like temps of our house. Actually, I filled the tub with cold water and rose-scented bubble bath and sat in it for quite a while. When the power did come on, a fan blew right into the bathroom, across the water, and I got chills, the best I'd felt all day.

And then I read! And wrote! And...today I must clean. And Cook. And...

I really don't want the power to conk out again, do I? Let me go check the temps outside...

Note to NPs and PA-Cs

Open letter to all nurse practitioners and physician assistants:

Dear Esteemed Sirs and Madames:

Like so many, I see the value of what you do. The more and more I type for you, I see what an asset it is to have a physician assistant or nurse practitioner available. It's very convenient for patients to be seen quickly with you on staff. I am honestly amazed by what you all can do and your good judgment calls. I think PAs and NPs should be a fixture in any clinical practice environment.

I have to say that most of you dictate better than physicians as far as documentation and overall enunciation. However, there are a few things that bear changing:

1. As part of an emerging field, most of you are fresh out of school and younger than me. This means you can probably type A through Z faster than you can put your signature on a prescription form. Therefore, when you say, "Oops, cross that out," what exactly do you mean? I'm TYPING, not chiseling. I'm not that old.

2. There is no such thing as increased "laxicisty." It's laxity. Anterior and posterior drawer signs indicate laxity. I went with laxity. If you meant increased elasticity, get some more underwear from your drawer and go with those tomorrow or order the patient new TED hose.

3. The word "larynx" is pronounced "lair-inks," not "lar-nix."

4. The word "pharynx" is pronounced "fair-inks," not "far-nix."

5. What, pray tell, sensation does smoking have? Cessation of this word in that context is requested.

6. There is actually a word called "or." It really does get used quite a bit more often than "nor." Either/or, neither/nor.

7. Are infusions of the knees common with laxicisty?

8. I'm sure COPD is an exasperation for people who have such. Those exacerbations are a real SOB.

9. Please pronounce "hepatomegaly" like this: hee-pat-o-meg-al-lee. "H'OH-megly" takes us a bit to figure out.

10. Please pronounce "splenomegaly" like this: splen-o-meg-al-lee. "Spl'megly" takes us a short time less, because you've usually already done "hepatomegaly" wrong and we've kind of figured out what might come next.

11. Please pronounce "hepatosplenomegaly" like this: No liver or spleen enlargement. Thank you. If it's in the abdomen and it sounds remotely like "he-pete-she-steena-ugly," we'll probably get it. Maybe. "No liver or spleen enlargement" works just fine.

12. What is "tope-ick-el?" What does that mean when you use that with steroid cream? Is this a new route of administration?

Please understand that we know we don't have your level of education, but it is still our job to make you (and your speed-demon doctor) quality documents. As more of our work goes over to India, the above gaffes are certain to leave your dictation full of blanks or just plain wrong when those speaking English as a second language can't convert. Voice recognition will do the same thing to you.

Thank you,

Your Friendly Transcriptionist

#

If you really, really care:

My poor children are 12, 14, and 16. They are out of school. They like to stay up late.

They don't understand that our bedroom is on the ground level, next to the living room, with no door to the other exit of the room, which leads to the laundry room.

It really sucks when we're in the mood.

You try telling them why they need to go to bed. I hear the two go upstairs, but they come back down to tell me they're not tired.

Hub is not happy. I'm kind of que-sera-sera about it tonight, but it's a problem. It's hot up there, so that's all they do is sleep after turning on the window units and letting them run for an hour.
If they'd observe the rule that no one comes in after hub goes to bed at 9:30 p.m. or so, we might get away with a quickie, but, of course, everyone needs Mom at every hour of the day. If I don't answer an IM right away, in they come.

Frustrating.

My poor fried brains.

The thermometer on my window unit reads 82.

It lies. Here, on the opposite side of the room, the snake thermometer I borrowed reads 90.
If I want to cool off, I need to go to bed. Right next to the window unit.

Unfortunately, there is work to be done.

There's a damp towel wrapped around my neck, a pink one, one brought from my grandmother's house that still smells like her, or the environment she created. I pulled out an old dishtowel from a plastic bag. Now that it's wet, I feel like I'm in her house. It smells so much like her.

And I feel better.

In almost every respect, I'm like my other grandmother, the maternal one. That bombastic woman's daintiness stopped at her height, right under 5'. She used what was in the cupboard that life gave her and made the best of it. You know, if you beat anything long enough, you can get something tender in the end. I, however, came tender. She loved me lots.

I, however, received my love of air conditioning from my dad's mother. If it's hot, I don't function, and neither did she. Hot days meant piddling around the house or making a mad dash into the Caddy for a ride in a comfort-controlled environment for short shopping trips. In other words, one load only needed carried in from the trunk. Smelling this towel on me makes it all come full circle. She's here with me, hating being hot.

From her birth in 1916, she waited a long time for her air conditioner, but once she got one, she wouldn't let it go. My mom, like her mom could, can manage in any weather, hot or cold, and Mom always gives me funny looks at my temperature intolerance. In her eyes, I am her mother reinvented, with this interesting, ladylike exception.

I guess I'll take that bag of rags and hide it so, when I really need her, my grandmother will be there. We didn't have too much in common, so it's amazing to realize that I'm so comforted by her now. That's not to say that I didn't love her; I loved her deeply. I gave her her first great-grandchild, so there was a bond there that nobody else shared. She celebrated those milestones, and she was the first one out of my immediate family to "see" my pregnancy, the perceptive woman that she was. I made it two months along before she figured it out.

"Is there something you might want to tell me?" she asked, her voice soft as always.

I grinned, she grinned, and then beamed.

"Are you trying to make me feel older?" she asked, then laughed.

By the time that visit ended, my grandfather decided it was a great-grand-boy. He strutted around the house, ready to have a new boxing partner. When Junior came, my grandmother said he danced in the house and wiggled all the way to the hospital.

As I grew larger and we hit the malls for maternity wear, she shopped hard and wore me out. I told her she made me feel old, and I hoped to have her stamina when I got to be her age. She dressed me in beautiful stuff, citing that her maternity clothes made her look like a beached whale. Back then, they hid pregnancy. She liked that we celebrated with nifty clothes, now.

I gave her the first three great-grandchildren, the only ones she knew. There is a total of seven now. All mine have a memory of her. My dad only knew three of his grandchildren, my three. I started adult life early, disappointing so many, but my siblings did the right thing, and their children will be so much better off for it, but I know they're troubled at the chances I had that they don't. It doesn't make me feel superior, either. It just makes me sad to see all these beautiful children with no grandfather or great-grandmother to spoil them.

I just made a tight seal around the rest of the dishrags and dishtowels and put them away. I love plastic. Plastic and air conditioning, two great inventions.

Mag Citrate = Drano

Sunday, 06/01/08.
If you need Drano for your bowels, try magnesium citrate. 'Nuff said.

I have not been sleeping worth a darn, and the missed sleep is piling up. I can't sleep. I sleep for an hour or two, and I'm wide awake again. I know better than to drive.

I guess I shouldn't type, either.

I always brag here that I'm the floater, and they like me because I can do a variety of transcription specialties, but there's a problem with that...

Sometimes, you don't type for folks very often, and have templates that still have 2007 on it...

and you flipping miss it until day 5.

I just had to e-mail my boss. I bet they didn't catch a dang one of them, and the first two days were sent already. God, I really feel sick right now. That's probably 80 pages of documents with the wrong farking date.
Which the offices have probably printed and stuck in the charts.
And they're not going to be happy.

I heard back from her and she asked if it was just the stuff I typed this weekend. No, it's not. Can I puke now? How do you apologize for that?

In other news, Heifer has been very, very nice lately. I mean, perky nice. I mean, pleasant nice, in e-mail and a telephone call. I was pleasant back. I don't like conflict and would prefer her to suddenly like me. I'm easy to like. Maybe not, but maybe she now understands that I don't control the medical world, just type what they say to stick in the chart. The responsibility isn't mine to talk to surgeons for the referring M.D.

Ovis Ovis called yesterday. I couldn't talk to him. I was separating Sunny's claws from Dude's arm and had a spoon in the other hand, stirring dinner. Junior took a message, reluctantly. I'm sure Ovis Ovis heard me in the background...

"I can't talk. Take a message. Just take a message. What do you mean you don't know how to take a message? Ask him what he needs. Just ask him!"

Ovis Ovis just called to tell me how many minutes were on the tank and how many he was adding.

No surprise. I have to hold Junior's hand for tons of stuff. He doesn't know how to wash dishes or take the dog out when we have a new chain or make toast or do homework or do research papers or do speeches or do 16-year-old stuff in general. He does, however, know how to drive, and gets mad at me for holding his hand for that.

Gawd.

I would've shot my subcontractor. I feel absolutely sick. A feeble "I went through all my templates and changed them" just isn't enough.

She just let me know that she re-sent the files and it's up to the doctor's office what they want to do with them.

Gawd, she's too nice.

Monday, 06/02/08
Aftermath: Boss lady e-mailed me several times, assuring me that we all make mistakes and making little jokes. I truly am amazed at her patience. However, today, she's only e-mailed me once, and usually there's a flurry of e-mails throughout the day. The difference is that she sent the e-mail Sunday night and the office probably contacted her today, and now she's mad because she had to deal with all that, and I don't blame her a bit. I'm scared. I'm sick to my stomach. I like this job so much.

I don't fuck up very often but, dammit, when I do, I do it in grand style.

This is what it felt to work with D, though, every day, this constant fear of screwing up. She'd mess with your head, too, nitpicking over every detail, like too many perceived paragraphs, or the wrong Dr. Smith, even though I'd choose from within the referring specialty (like internal medicine) AND mark it for her review.

Do you think I'll ever win at anything in this life? I try so hard. I'm dedicated.

Thursday, 06/05/08, too damn early.
I've had this document open since Sunday, waiting for the final decision. Boss lady wrote me today, asking how things were going, specific questions about the kiddos, and I answered them in my typically friendly matter. She implied that work kept her very, very busy and she felt she hadn't talked to me as much as usual (no, she hadn't) and told me who I am supposed to cover for this weekend, and I assured her I'd already gone through and changed the templates.

She didn't comment on that at all, but did congratulate me for coming out of the dentist's office for me and the 3 kids alive. I have an irrational fear of dentistry. I hate anything I can't see what folks do. In my mouth, I have no idea. Therefore, I can't stand it. I don't know what's coming. I suppose if I went every six months like I was supposed to, maybe I'd have learned by now.

Junior has five cavities; the other two have none. Junior is my most picky eater. WTH happened?

"How often do you brush your teeth?"

"Every morning," he said.

"At night?"

"No, my breath stinks in the morning," he replied.

Lord, did this child listen for 5 seconds in his entire schooling? How many years did I tell him to go brush his teeth before bed? He's sleeping all night with everything he's eaten clinging to his teeth, rotting them away.

Hellooooooooooooooooo? Is there anyone home? Dang it, boy; I love you so, so much. I hate to say this, but you don't think properly.

Gah.

I will post this soon. It's been an adventure.

Oh, I have two cavities. It's been four years since the dentist saw ME. I figure just getting the kids to the dentist qualifies as an office visit, and I can kinda sneak out before they ask me if I can have an appointment because my boisterous, obnoxious children need to leave and they're ready for them to go. Two. Not too bad, all things considered.

I'm going to have Doc tackle Junior's five in one sitting. His mouth will be completely numb to the point I'll laugh when he complains about it. Life skill #1: Listen. People don't just make up rules, like brushing teeth before bed and after sticky treats, because they like to hear themselves make grown-up noises.

The worst part of it for Junior is realizing that Dude, his lifelong antagonist, knows how to brush his teeth properly, making him look like a complete and total idiot.

Go Dude.

Let's talk balls...ball pythons, that is.

The other side of me is nearly content, this side. The one you're reading right now. On the fluffy side of things, things are going amazingly well. Still, there are rumblings under the water, unseen things where the pebble only seems to stir the surface.

I'm a very fortunate person, for the most part. So why is it that when I'm, circumstantially, really doing quite well, all these other things seem to come up and take over? Is it time for me to deal with them when I'm in a decent frame of mind?

Was the flu really flu? Or was it my body shutting down so I could slow down and deal?

I never underestimate the power locked in the human body. I can talk myself into panic attacks, and I can talk myself out of them.

The Book of the Dead is open in my psyche. I've dreamed of the characters therein all this week. I've been nearly grateful for the "flu" so I can go back to bed and see them. They're in character, too, me talking to my father about things on my heart as he walks away; me sitting next to my grandfather, hand in hand, saying nothing at all, because we never had to; grandma laughing at everything I say because, "You're so bad, but keep talking;" and my other grandmother looping her purse-du-jour on the crook of her arm and taking me out shopping at shops selling pillows, potpourri, and candlesticks in the shapes of Chihuahuas.

Sometimes, Dad looked back at me like something I said almost made sense, then he opened his bible and kept walking the other direction. Yeah, please don't miss the symbolism there. I'm still looking for his approval!

My grandpa and grandma: Everyone should have an unconditional source of love, and I was blessed with two. Be warned, though, when you lose that precious source, it yanks your soul in two.

My grandmother was the obligatory source of love. She loved me and I loved her, but if we wanted reared, we needed the other grandmother. She waited until we knew how to sit still in the car before taking us places, which was her right, and then spoiled us with money and gifts...and food. She was a tremendous cook. She was so right and proper, someone to emulate.
It just kills me that I'm still looking for Dad's approval while I sleep. I picked up an ashtray that always sat on my grandmother's coffee table. I use it constantly and keep it clean. It feels a little scandalous. I thought it would make me want to quit more, because it's like smoking in my grandmother's home, kinda. Some nights it works and some nights it doesn't. It's actually working a bit more tonight. Maybe putting a picture of her looking down on me would do the trick. I tried it with a picture of Dad and it just creeped me out way too much.

*****

Like everyone else in the ball python industry, we've got baby balls pipping. Nothing too exciting yet, except for hub's landed an outlet for the babies we don't want to keep for their genetics. It's a mom-and-pop pet shop, and it's good for him to get in the door that way with the local community. The guy's giving him a space in his store if we ever get anything good to keep them there for building community interests in specialty snakes. I want a banner over the top that says, "Hey. We've got balls!"

I get tired of listening to the hub lately, so I tell him to go play with his balls. I love the double entendre but I really need to be more discriminate, because somehow the kids now think it's hilarious, too.

It doesn't help when your boys are sports nuts and their mother is beyond warped. I told my oldest that I was tired of his balls going everywhere and he needed to keep track of his balls. It would have gone right over his head, and kept on going, until I realize what I said and laughed for an inappropriately long time.

Lord, those little pitchers have the ears of elephants and a mother who gives blatant context clues.

I know saying "ball python" over and again is pain in the tongue, but there are only so many ways to condense it without tons of double entendre possibilities. "We raise balls. We've got lots of balls in the incubator. I found two balls in my bedroom in the middle of the night. Oh, he's back, playing with his balls." Hub didn't appreciate that last one. It was a call from work. I didn't think about it until he yelled at me. Then I asked him to bring his balls to the bedroom. I really wanted a pair of snakes to keep me and the rodents company, but I got his instead.

It's an exciting time, where new morphs are unveiled, so I'm checking message boards, and there are taglines like "I got your balls right here!" or, the redneck version, "Baby ball's or large ball's, your choice."

Meh. If you're old enough to breed your balls, you should know proper apostrophe usage, right?

See? There are just way too may opportunities. Of course, you could call them royal ball pythons, which is even more of a tongue twister. Or, if you're talking with others who know the problem, then you can say, "I have 20 normals, four pastels, a couple of spiders, one genetic stripe, a 100% het-pied, and one 66% possible albino het," and skip the entire "balls" part.

If I've lost you, I'm sorry. I've just got balls on my mind.

Holy shit. I just realized my grandma held a snake for me in my dream. Grandpa nudged her shoulder like he couldn't believe what she was doing, but she held it at arm's length while I took it back from her, laughing, not believing she'd just done such a thing.

I think, if she was here, she might have tried it, too. I miss you all, but I have to get back to work now, so I'm shutting the Book of the Dead. I'll see you soon, I'm sure.

I am about to post this, but I must mention now that hub has gone that sometimes reading from the Book of the Dead is easier than reading from the Book of the Living. See, I'm supposed to know where HIS clothes are, and it's my fault they're not where he left them. I'm supposed to make valid excuses for HIM to get out of HIS work and KNOW why the excuse has to be concrete...

I asked him for a ballpark size on the pants and shirts that DO fit so I could go through and sort his stuff and make room to know where the appropriately fitting clothes are, and "Don't go through my stuff."

If I found a little black book in there, buddy, trust me, at this point, I'd be calling to see who'd take you! I know where the Green Lantern shirt is, I know where five pair of yellow and white bikini briefs are, 15 pairs of socks for four people, a pac-man shirt, school uniforms, and MY CLOTHES. WTF? I have to deal with his, too???

Mr. Dog and IHOP - keys to happiness

I love IHOP.

It's always had a special place in our lives.

I know; like you, I've heard the roach stories, but I never leave IHOP without a moment of profundity.

In 1982, it was the first place we ate after we got off the plane at Lambert Field after a three-day coming-home trip from overseas. I remember the chocolate chip pancakes and, even at 10, proud to be an American. I loved Eurasian food, still remember it fondly, but...pancakes. With chocolate chips. Milk directly from cows and not some processed stuff from powder because the military feared giving their families local fare...although the oils used in such weren't much better in the long run.

IHOP with my kids throughout the years has brought on some profound chit-chat. What I love most is that if we're all together, having a good time, people look at us with smiles on their faces. We love each other, and we love to have a good time without invading the space/hearing of others.

I took Sunny to IHOP once to celebrate a good report card. She ordered a salad. When brought, she asked, "What are these little round red things? I love them on the salads at school, but I don't know what they're called." Um, Mom has tomato prejudice, darling. If you like them, I'll buy them. I think she was 6.

Last night, my three kids, my two sisters, my mother, and I made an impromptu stop at IHOP. We ordered four regular meals and a dessert.

This is where the fun begins, and I wonder who else does this? I worked in the restaurant biz for 6 years combined, and my sister for 6 months in a country restaurant, and we're sure there's no one quite like us. Forget the little 60th anniversary soup-and-sandwich couples and their penchant for splitting. We take it to a whole new level.

Plates got passed around. "Can I have a bite of that?" "Oh, this is good. Have a bite." "Sis, can I have a french fry? Junior? Is that omelet good? Hey, thanks! This is good." "Want some bacon, Dude? Sunny? Dude has an extra pancake..." "Mom, hand me your plate. I have too many crepes, here."

IHOP is the place to do it, too. You don't have to ask for extra plates because the big ones are muy grande and the pancakes come on their own little plates.

"You have room on that plate now, Junior. Put your pancakes on it."

"I'll take one. Does someone want the other?"

This is our ritual. It can be observed with three or more of our clan. The bonus? Ketchup on noses, syrup on sleeves, "can we have another two forks, please?" and extra napkins requested as soon as we're seated. There is no "mine" at the table. Even Dude gets it. Everybody looks at what everyone else has and starts to barter, bite for a bite.

And we all know what the others enjoyed about the meal, because we got a little taste. We also know that we might try that the next time, too, but...it will just get passed around again.

It just seems that this family doesn't have a selfish trend. I guess if you can share food, you can split inheritances without a disagreement. I remember when my aunt cleaned out (or attempted to) my grandmother's home, all ten grandkids, spouses, and children met together, which is about as frequent as planetary alignment. I'd never heard my aunt yell. And she didn't yell about our behavior...

She yelled because we were too busy yapping to get started.

We frustrated her for two hours. "I've always like this, but I remember you have this...does it go better with that or with..." "Who wants the yellow quilt? I remember you being wrapped in it 20 years ago. Did you have good memories of that?"

I took the angel food pan, the angel food platter, but my cousin got the Coke bottle Grandma used to turn the pan upside down on.

"Would you people just make up your mind? Send an e-mail, Kiran. She'll 'e' you back, I promise!" my aunt hollered. She held up a green pitcher with all its massing glassware. "Does someone want this? It's going to auction if it's not claimed in 10...9...8..."

She's under 5' and isn't very loud, docile in every sense of the word.

When it comes time for my grandfather's belonging and finances to be divided, I expect a little friction from my aunt. My mother, who will represent my deceased father, has been his primary caretaker and my aunt hasn't been home much at all since my grandmother passed on. After her funeral, she went around with Post-It notes and claimed things. Um, my grandfather still lived there.

It will be interesting to see, but I think if you can share food at IHOP, you've got a pretty good grasp on family and life in general. I've never eaten at IHOP with that particular aunt, come to think of it.

So, we have two definite keys to my happiness: Mr. Dog and IHOP.

I rant and eat crow in the same post...

10:00 p.m., 05/18/08

Junior's mad at me.

First, I had the audacity to ask him what the main point of his essay was supposed to be. When he didn't know, I gave him the introductory paragraph with four questions to answer. That's a three-page paper, including beefing up the intro and putting a conclusion on it. Google, my son. Google. The instructor didn't assign a font limit. Courier 12 or 14? Shoot, that's a blog entry.
He can't research, according to him. It's a battle we've fought all year. He knows if he waits to exactly the last moment, Momma will freak out (200 points is a big deal, you know) and will be his personal slave.

He's been bucking it for weeks. I understand having one computer that does all the cool stuff. I can make pie charts and nifty stuff like that. At least have the common decency to keep me company while I do your work, Bud.

That was last week. I explicitly set my demands after trying to help, and, behind my back, he made the "blah, blah" motion with his hand.

I work nights. On weekends, my computer tends to be free until late afternoon. Why? I get up, I cook, I do some cleaning. On weekends, I really have no desire to be anywhere close to this damn CPU, unless I'm writing. I volunteered for extra duty again this weekend, but it still left the computer open until 6 last night and 8 again tonight.

He did look, I'll give him that. However, he couldn't pull the facts off the page.

Now...NOW he tells me "it's supposed to be about =========."

You didn't tell me that.

I told him last week I wouldn't be doing his homework for him. I will not. I won't do it. I won't. I did my sophomore year. In talking with my mother, she said, "I know I didn't write papers for you." I wouldn't have asked her. She had five kids. I relied on my own intelligence. I was arrogant enough to believe that I was smarter than she was.

Huh? She never did our homework. Who's smarter?

Everyone in this house, however, thinks because I type, I can do it all.

Here's his final offer: If I write it out, will you let me dictate?

My response? Fine, but for every minute of typing, I own you for that many minutes.

He's not happy. I don't care anymore.

Want additional suspicion? He won't tell me when it's due. I keep asking; he keeps telling me he just wants it done.

I think it's overdue, at this point.

Dude? Couldn't get him to do anything. He's got a mean streak, too, so I'm kind of wondering if he'll ever decide he's bigger than me (now that he is) and get out of control. I had enough and sent him to his room, and he slammed his door and banged on it. It's scaring me a bit.

Sunny won't go to bed. She knows the rule. Once the husband goes to bed, no kids in the room. She's been in here five times since 9:45 to report the status of her dry feet and hands and that none of my ideas are working. Of course, it's my fault that her hands and feet are so dry and my fault that she can't find her socks and my fault that she needs to wash her feet before the lotion - why didn't I explain that - and it's my fault she should have waited before getting in bed before doing the lotion for her feet.

That, and I made tons of french toast, two quiches, and BBQ pork today. For the last hour, while the pork was cooking, we had french toast and quiche to eat on. The husband kept wondering when the food was ready. He didn't want to eat anything I'd cooked already.

I feel I've been insulted, disregarded, dissed, and all other ways disrespected and subjected to ingratitude. I'll get over it, but I've got a headache. I never get headaches. When I get one, I'm past my limit on good graces. Did I mention that they said I'm no fun anymore? Indiana Jones was on the TV. I sat for an hour and watched it, begging, pleading, and then taking away privileges from Dude to get an area cleaned up that Junior already swept out. Ancient deal...Dude pitches a fit and we unfairly decide on peace and make the other two do it. Not today. He fought for every bit of paper. I explained later, when I could do it without yelling, that, had he done it all during the first commercial break, it was one of my favorite movies and I would have loved to watch it with him. Of course, he can't do that. He's waiting until we get pissed and send him away so we don't have to deal with it. I know we all do it as parents, but it's not fair. I was the appliance for my family. I know better. Bill Cosby said (I paraphrase), "Parents don't care about justice. We just want peace!" He's right. We do. But it ain't fair, and rectifying it after you've let him get away with it just isn't a good thing to do.

So here I sit, on my 20th Tums of the evening, hating this headache, and my eyelid is twitching.

I think I'll go write a decadent rub-a-dub tub scene.

#

10:00 p.m. 05/19/08

He's still not done! It's the next day, and I'm sitting here transcribing and suggesting stuff to get it to three pages. "Look it up?" he asked a few times. "Write it down and go get me some beef," I've said a few times.

Junior's a sophomore, folks. He had no clue how to do a bibliography, although I know we've done that before. He was, however, able to pull up a link about it and then say "huh" through the entire thing.

I want my mommy. I told Sunny I wanted to run away from home. She said, "Good. We can go to..."

I said, "Nothin' doing. I'm running away with me and nobody under the age of 117."

Shit fuzzy fuck. You know what I just realized?

My little girl made dinner for me. I didn't have to cook when I woke up.

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT I DIDN'T DO???

I totally forgot to thank the child who made my life a little easier.

I'll have to rectify that in the morning. Yeah, here I am ranting about being subjected to ingratitude, and I didn't bother to verbally compliment my girl's attempt to help me out.
This rant is over. I'm still going to post it, though, because I made a big goof. I will admit it. I goofed.

God baby, I'm so sorry. I get into myself and stay there.

5:13 a.m., 05/20/08

I still feel like the worst mom in the world. What it is they say about pointing fingers and having some point back at you?

6:45, a.m. I told her thank you. She said no problem, but her eyes said, "somebody noticed." The paper is done. I doubt it's what the teacher wants, because I saw the syllabus in brief and didn't even bother. Dinner's actually ready, sitting out, and I'll pre-set the oven to start cooking it for when hub gets home. It's an adventure meal. I do those well.

Now, I need a hot soak in the tub. Once I do that, I can call doctors to make appointments for the kids, who need physicals for the upcoming school year, and all need dental appointments. While I'm doing that, the hot water will refill and I can do dishes.

I think. I'll forget something, I just know it.

They doinked? Ah, hell no.

Somewhat random things over the last week:

My mom sent home a bag full of extra coffee cups and a book. Now, when she slips a book in there, it makes me pause and take a deep breath. The name of this book, you ask? "Prodigals and Those Who Love Them" by Ruth Bell Graham. I don't take offense. I just put it in the shelf next to my desk to get a good giggle.

I'm a great-aunt. My sister-in-law is 34. I'm not much older. I'm too chicken to ask if they've made ID on the father yet. There's only two possible candidates, like that makes it any better. She's just glad she didn't get started out at 14, like her ex's sister. Lord. Hub had it right; there's nothing out there but cornfields and places to f*ck. We tried moving them here several times, because he didn't want that kind of life for her kids. Babe, you were right.

I was the only one here who forgot it was mother's day. I didn't even call my mom, come to think of it. Oops. Maybe prodigals do that. Probably. Hey, she didn't call me either. I don't feel so bad!

Junior gave me his cold. Sunny gave me her crankies. Dude gave me his b-day cake. Guess who's been the easiest to get along with...

I finally found a lotion hair remover that doesn't smell like ammonia mixed with roses. Problem is, it burns like holy hell and doesn't quite get all the hair. It comes with a little scrubber that's too rough on one side and too soft on the other. I do this to myself every six months or so. I don't like shaving; I don't like to be furry. I burn myself or stink myself out with this lotion hair remover, and then I remember why I like to shave.

I was done with work at 4:30 a.m. I know I wasn't that efficient. Actually, I expected Ovis Ovis to launch into his work for another center he wants to start, but I guess I lucked out. Maybe I'll go read a trashy novel with shapeshifters and vampires. Hey, I have to check out the competition. Sex sells, and it's fun as hell to write.

Now, I just need a research man. I ask hub "how does this feel?" and I get the same answer 50 times. When I explained what I'm doing, he actually asked me why I can't just write, "Then they doinked." WTF? How am I supposed to write from a guy's point of view if I don't even know where the tingle starts? I think I'll start a poll. I guess I can look on the internet. Scary thought. Maybe I'll take a less risky approach, like interview a gigolo or something. Rather do that than get a virus or sumpin.

Remember the glossary -->

It helps me remember WTF I'm talking about, too.

Fantasies of burglary and dreams that are fantasy...

I really wish my subconscious would stop taking over and trying to fix things for me whilst I slumber.

Lately, I don't dream of running naked through dead flowers and desperate bees looking for their fix.

No, I dream of:

A conversation with hub, who convinces me I have another RAT on my computer (dream), and that's why my Imaging program won't save the patient information sent to me in e-mail (real life). In the dream, I physically watched him locate the RAT. In actuality, the computer ran ragged so I set it up for a special reboot and hadn't even logged back in.

Finding an address for Dr. So-and-so that I absolutely could not find on Google, in my Little Blue Book, or in the good company data base (real life). I found it, with the 10-syllable first name, on Yahoo addresses (dream). I knew, however, in my dream that I forgot to check there (real life).

How I typed a file for the 5th and knew I typed it (real life). It disappeared and I forgot to send it, so I redid it (dream). I hate those dreams.

The fact that I'm diuresing much as of late (real life). I ran to the toilet (dream). It felt good to go (dream). I did wake up before I wet the bed (real life) and hauled ass to the toilet (real life) and narrowly missed a very horrendous accident (real life).

The meeting that took place at the center, where Ovis Ovis gave up his majority shares and allowed the hospital to take over, and I no longer had to type for them (very good, but a dream). Seriously, I had no panic over this (real life or in the dream).

The food in my freezer (real life). It's easy to prepare (real life). It's cooking (dream). I wake up, it's not cooked, but the kids are gone anywhere and it's just hub and me (real life). We have sandwiches (real life).

I hate living my life in my dream world, too. Obviously, I'm working out some things while I'm sleeping, but I sleep to get away from all that shit! Give me Josh Holloway and my grenade launcher back, please! Did you know he looks awesomely sexy with bandoliers crisscrossing his awesome chest? Of course, I look completely sassy in my goth chick jungle wear...

Fantasy break over...

Hub reads of crime waves in our locality all the time. I think he's going to set up the police radio thingy again. He wants another dog.

Okay. He doesn't like our big dog because he scares people if he gets loose, but he thinks the dog is inappropriate because he doesn't bark in the house.

I don't think he understands, but he will. I have the world's most perfect dog. He doesn't raid the trash. He doesn't think the house is his and his alone. I can understand wanting a dog who's just a little assertive with anyone approaching the house and letting us know about it, but he's going to find out what a gem my 100-pound gentle giant really is when there's another dog in the house. It can't be a terrier; we have too many animals. It has to be able to hold its own against the cat, to whom the big dog has capitulated ownership of the house. Outside, on a thick chain and behind a privacy fence, my dog's bark makes people cross the street. When I walk him, people see us a block away and cross the street. I think if anyone is casing our joint, they know about the big dog. He lets anyone and everyone know (if he's outside) that he knows someone's there and he's watching you, dammit. He also herds us if the kids and I go for a walk and he sees someone he's not particularly fond of. It's quite amazing; he zigs through two kids, circles back around and, voila, we're all behind him looking at each other trying to figure out how we've just been loved by instinct.

I would love another dog, but I won't put up with hub fussing about how terrible the new dog is. We have animals all over the place. We produce a lot of trash, even with recycling most of our paper products for animal cages. The new baby will explore and will discover all kinds of nifty things around here and will have to be trained as to what is and isn't appropriate for dog kind, something my dog already knows by instinct. Can't be a terrier for certain because of all the rodents, and probably the snakes, too.

I agree, though, something has to be done to protect our house. There is a serial bank robber out there. In the crime blotter in the paper, five geniuses have decided to go ask for a glass of water, get inside the house, and start stealing at gunpoint. With gas rising to $200 a barrel, Ameren not even kissing us before they screw us, and food prices going up, it's not going to get better. If we're not in country-wide recession, a lot of us are in a PERSONAL recession, and it's going to get much uglier before it's done. Living in a poor white trash house in a nondescript neighborhood with a big dog outside is somewhat of a deterrent, I hope. I would think a robber running into a room full of rats, then a room full of mice, and then into a room full of snakes would make him or her pause. If he comes in the other way, there are more rodents and a big 100-pound dog and me. I only just don't look scary. Truth is, I'm the territorial bitch around here and the dog's my backup. Shoot, the cat might get him first. He's an ornery sonovabitch.

I guess the biggest advantage to authors is their ability to see things in a setting. It's useful for preparation. I have a big pan by the kitchen door and the front room's got so much furniture in it that it will be hard for a perp to see what's coming and negotiate, at least while we're playing room-around-the-rosie and getting everything in their places for summer animal adjustements. I have a crowbar. I already carry my milk and soda in case I'm accosted out in a parking lot. A gallon of milk at the head or a 12-pack, take your pick, fucker. The kitchen door has a habit of getting stuck all the time, and it's hard for us to open it, so I can imagine that a stupid fool couldn't enter the house as easily as he'd want.

It's like the guy who stole our car some 10 years ago. The heavy door often bent the hinges, and there was a certain knack to closing it properly. When we found it ditched, he had taken the speaker wire and wrapped it around the lock to keep the door from opening at highway speeds. I figure he got what he deserved. I can imagine him feeling panicky about stealing a car anyway, only having to stop time and time again, trying to figure out how to keep that damn door closed. The car was old; it wasn't a great loss but it was a loss, but thinking about how the car must've frustrated him on the lam helped us deal with it.

So, the same principle applies to the house, whether or not we get another dog. I hate this old place sometimes, but there are tips and tricks to its proper use, any of which works in our advantage and not a trespasser's. Still, with a fledgling business, it would be irresponsible of us not to foresee the big, big picture, and getting another dog that barks is one answer, and definitely more fun than a very expensive alarm system with its monthly fees.

So, what's a girl to do? While we debate the dog situation, I'll stash lethal nonweapons around the house, and make sure the really big snake food items hang out close to the doors and windows. I know I won't go in that room...

Stimulous package for my nipples.

Hi! I'm an author who hasn't written anything worth a damn in quite a while. How's that for a building block to success?

Actually, I have four books in my head, the ones of the sexual nature most prominent. Why I don't know. I usually put less emphasis on the lust and more emphasis on destruction, but it's all I can do to keep up with their sexual antics. I'm hesitant to put them down on paper, though, which is the big problem. I'm so very busy with work, and I know I'll want to just write them all and get them out of my system. I think I must be sexually repressed here lately. (Ms. Obvious, at your service.)

Ovis Ovis: "Please don't leave me." Yeah, I kinda told him I'd already talked to the good company and can let them go quite easily. There's a clandestine deal in the works and the hospital might take over my transcription, but the good company is getting two new practices NOW and I thought it would be a good time to drop the center.

Yeah. Please don't leave me. Good one, Ovis Ovis.

I'm such a sucker. I wrote the good company and told them I felt I owed Ovis Ovis a bit longer of my time. He's doing interesting things like certificates of need for new projects, since a couple of his ships seem to be sinking. Plus that, he does a lot of personal--and I mean personal--correspondence through me, because he knows I keep my mouth shut.

Please don't leave me. Okay, Ovis Ovis. He seriously meant it because I got paid on time for the last certificate of need project. He still owes me lots, but the project I just completed included a hefty hourly fee for creating documents from scans in addition to the transcription. It came at just the right time, too. We counted our stimulus eggs before they hatched.

God, I don't think I've ever had anyone ask me that before. It sounded like something he'd never say, and how do you say no to that?

I did mention that this is contingent upon proper, ethical, and polite correspondence from the office staff. He agreed.

On one hand, I want to kick myself. Keeping the center means nightly commitment to clear everything off their system. Going exclusively to the big company means I can ask for a day off and truly get the entire day off! Ovis Ovis has pointed me to a lot of job leads over the years (which FIA stole it they didn't leave the area or retire), and he said "please don't leave me."
Seriously. I've never heard that before from anyone in my life! I worked in nursing homes, too!

I'm not as much a softie as I am loyal, I think. With the kind of business Ovis Ovis does and the situations he's in currently, he needs one individual he can whisper secrets to (who can type) and be assured of confidentiality. He's been good to me over the years, mostly. He just lets the inmates run the asylum too much, methinks.

So now I'm sitting here thinking I just passed on some new experience with kick-ass neurosurgeons. That would've been fascinating, and my experience with that is limited, and I would just love, love the research and making myself proficient at that. However, I requested an internal medicine doc whose line count is quick and staggering, so I'm making more money in less time, which means I can kind of zone and think of how many positions from the karma sutra I can use in my books.

Lord, help me. I need...a cookie.

I told hub that, with our stimulus package, I want stimulated, as well. I found some nipple stimulate-ors. No lie. If he's not going to take time on me, I'll hop on the bed before he gets there and buy some triple-A's, put my hands behind my head, and relax. That's my favorite part of the entire process some nights.

TMI.

Yeah, like I've ever been guilty of that before.

Oh, oh, oh...I'm tired, but even if I want to sleep, it's been requested that I not share a bed with hub because I snore. He does plenty of snoring, too, but I can sleep through his, but he can't sleep through mine. Over the weekend, he asked what I was still doing up at 4:00 a.m. I told him I can't come to bed while he's there. The rule then changed to co-sleeping on weekends. I stayed up until he got up. Yes, I'm being pissy. I know he's a light sleeper, but sheesh.

Book of the Dead, continued.

Dad: Five years you've been gone.

For the first time, there is laughter in your house on this date. Your grandchildren are here, and your six-month-old granddaughter has a captive audience. It's been a long time since anyone laughed like this. Mom answered the phone barely able to talk, the little one had her held so hostage by her cuteness.

I won't be there today. I can't; must work. But I'm thinking of you, and happy that there is laughter on Mom's most somber day.

Love and miss you.

I make myself laugh, but I doubt anyone else will.

How much fun would it be to stop by a Christian Science church and ask for some Motrin for a slight headache?

I've typed for a few Christian Science patients this week, and I wondered what would happen.

They're healthy people, I have to report, and a doctor wrote a thank you letter for a recipe one shared with him. I don't have anything against them. I'm just rotten and would like to see the looks on their faces.

I wonder if anyone else has ever done that before. Probably.

I think I need sleep.

I think I need help.

Hell, pass me a cookie. I'll take it with my fish oil.

Tranny CD no more

I woke up and *boom* had an answer to that CD problem...

I took the dog for a walk, found the CD, and, although the sewers clearly indicate not to litter with this nifty little green/blue sticker, and, although the city's redone the grates so that not much bigger than a few leaves at a time can run under and parallel to our streets, the people in question are now doing their banging in the city sewers, thanks to a freaky-weird chick writhing with the CD to stuff it down the drain. I hope no one was watching. The dog lifting his eyebrow was enough.

I send my kids to the empty lot adjacent to that lot to play baseball. Sorry, city, I had to do something.

Go with the flow...

And most people see nature when they walk the dog

So, in a prior post, I concluded that the dog is responsible for my happiness. In seeming cosmic agreement, all our rain rusted the very heavy dog chain (meant for 200-pound dogs), which means Mr. Dog needs walked frequently for potty purposes.

There are plenty of places along the way for waste deposition, abandoned lots and "do not trespass" houses with the orange tags of the city labeling them as unsafe. The best spot is totally grass, where an old granary used to sit. This at the end of a gravel drive which, of course, is quite suitable for the dog. There are a few semi trailers at the end of the gravel drive, leftover from tearing the granary down.

In this very secluded spot, where I was just positive no feet tread on a regular basis, I walked over a muddy CD. Curious, I looked down.

"Transsexual Gangbang Volume 4. Three solid hours!"

Three solid hours for whoever so indiscriminately left it there. I don't even want to contemplate the neighborhood residents right now.

What it was doing where the dog does his necessities, I don't know. I don't even know if there's power supplying those old houses.

Weird. I didn't know what to do with it. I thought about crushing it with my heel, but I wore my slippers. I thought about pocketing it and bringing it home, but I could just see my husband waking up the same time I walked in the door, and me trying to put it in the trash where, even crushed and dirty, some of those CDs are very, very not rated G. Some body parts just look unique, you know? I left it there. If my son walks the dog in my stead (ha ha), he'll be going another direction until I figure out what to do with that CD.

Of course, in my mind, how did they find enough transsexuals for three hours, let alone four volumes?

Counting Pros and Cons of life

This thing is being goofy. I'll try to fix later.

Cons	Pros
Washer leaked everywhere	Still works with no leaks on warm setting
Rainy weather caused dog chain to rust and snap from big dog pulling at it	Needs walking versus putting him on chain, which means exercise, which means a really nice wake-me-up at midnight. It was actually, seriously, very, very nice!
My hands ache	Lots and lots of work
Steve Guttenburg got voted off DTWS	I got to watch DWTS
Son got dumped, panic attacks	Eating and doing much better
Son got dumped, "just friends" schpiel	She actually said "hi" today
Son got dumped, was really moping around here for a few days	News out, girls now know he's back on the market, and they're flirting...a lot.
Keep forgetting to thaw chicken for supper	Pizza and Mom bailed me out with soup to go with leftover pizza!
No bath due to no hot water	Dishes done
My niece gave birth, still doesn't know who father is, now engaged to someone completely different, and she just turned 17.	I'm a very, very, very, very, very young great aunt.
Can't get WordPerfect installed on kids' computer, daughter very upset	She's been bitten by the writing bug and pencil/paper is just too slow
My printer has to be hand fed one piece of paper at a time	Kids not wasting ink for stuff they leave on the floor to step on, anyway
Flooded basement, temperamental sump pump, water up to heater base	The sump pump is holding, we haven't had to use the heater in four days
My grandfather keeps picking on my weight and has Alzheimer's disease	He was very sharp mentally, only getting one of the kids confused
No time to write	Book is so vivid I'm conversing with myself while I do dishes, take a bath, or no one is home
Tornado warning	Basement flooded after we were done hiding down there
Son got dumped	Sunny still got b-day presents from XGF
No correspondence from Armenian acquaintance since I admitted to living in Turkey as a kid	Got helped bunches with the historical aspect of the book I'm writing, and timing coincides perfectly

Nursing license still not updated	For the same money, can get degree in web design. Don't need a car, either.
Password mysteriously appears on document for Ovis Ovis, who can't open or proofread document	I can dispute every little detail on this, including forwarding the original e-mail.

I'm crying about my father, again, and I'm thinking about everyone else, too	I helped someone with dealing with impending loss of a loved one
23 mins 29 seconds of background office noise because doc left machine going	I know the doc has a promiscuous grandfather and his new wife, 18, is pregnant
23 mins 29 seconds of background office noise because doc left machine going, continued.	Hey, I'm caught up reading on a couple of other blogs. I wonder if they'll feel sorry for me at Good Company and pay me for a little of this...
Tired of working	Two dog bites, a cat bite, and a nail gun injury do make the night go faster
Floor rotten under washing machine	Might get to China?
Power supply to desk/cell phone chargers shaky	I always do put stock in good shock value
Not enough power supply, nearly all 110 anyway	Um, we're a little more green than other folks?
It's raining again.	...
Kids off Friday	Kids off Friday
Forgot to make hub's coffee	Didn't say anything. Phew.
I really don't want to deal with Heifer
So much work...	Being indispensable at the Good Co.
Lots and lots of work...	Rheumatology is a nice change

So, that's it in a nutshell. It kind of worked.

Junior learns what "just friends" means.

Sooooooooo...

The day's heartbreak came not only for son, but for mom as well. Hub came home from work earlier, bringing our son with him.

"They called me to come get him from school," he said. "His blood pressure was up, his pulse was up. They said he hasn't eaten since Saturday..."

He walked in the room and I saw him. He breathed in a weird pattern and his heart pumped along at about 120 beats per minute.

Congratulations, son. It's your first panic attack.

I slipped him half a nerve pill and, in half an hour, he felt better. The knot in his stomach loosened a bit and he ate a couple of hot dogs. I took him with me to do some errands because I don't like giving pills without a prescription, but I felt it was an emergency. Trust me, Mom's had her share of panic attacks.

He learned what "just friends" meant today, when he tried to say "hello" and she turned up her nose and walked off. He's trying to get me to load up MSN on his new puter, and, for some reason, it won't install. I've got work to do, he doesn't need to torment himself, and he needs to find something nice and easy to do.

He can't think of anything else, he says. Can't fix his broken heart. Wish I could, though. Wish I could.

Help. Lord, help me. He came in to inform me that her Myspace page indicates that she feels "guilty." I told him it's not right to be happy over stuff like that and he's just making it worse for him, nursing that bruise in his psyche, so now I'm not privy to any more information.

I just want to cry. Okay, I am crying. I wanted my children not to be me.

...and she broke up with him by e-mail.

Lord, my baby's hurting. He's been dumped for the first time. She wants to be "just friends."

He's not experienced enough to know what that means.

Junior and I are close, close enough that he wants me to know every aspect of it. He kept his IM open long after he was done so I could read it, if I wanted to. I didn't. I didn't want to see her keep hurting my baby and his desperate pleas for "why?" She didn't even have the courage to do it in person. She won't accept phone calls and took care of the business through IMs and e-mails.

I finally told him enough's enough, she wants to be "friends," and his behavior concerns me because she obviously wants space or for him to leave her alone entirely. He went for the phone. I asked him whom he was calling. You see, his best friend met the girlfriend's best friend and now they're dating, so he could call any number of people and pump them for information.

Not him, man. He's going straight to the source. He told me he was calling Miss N. I told him torturing himself wasn't going to help. He said, "But friends talk on the phone."

He can't get "just friends" through his head. She's telling them they've "drifted apart" in 3½ months (!). I told him it sounded like she picked a sappy line from every TV show she's watched in the past week after he wanted me to read that first gut-stabbing e-mail.

He got angry at his best friend for saying, "Dude, you know how many times I've been dumped?"
The poor guy's trying his best to cheer him up, and Junior wanted to hang up on him.

What really sucks is this: She's adequately demonstrated that she's really good at playing the girl victim game. She's going to pull that victim act and probably burst into tears whenever she sees him because "it hurts me, too."

I've said it before: Females are evil until proven otherwise. I told my son that. I told him that she's going to enjoy the melodrama.

I just hope I don't get a call from the school tomorrow asking me to do something about it. You see, his best friend's girlfriend's, the "just friends" girl's best friend, mom works at the high school. I do hope if she calls, though, it's out of genuine concern.

Junior's always been persistent and won't take no for an answer. He tried for 2 hours to get his kite from a tree once. He's hounded me persistently on a number of subjects over the years, trying to wear me down and get his way. I can see this turning into stalkerish behavior.

This is my first "I've been told she wants to be 'just friends,'" experience of my stint as mother.

My heart doesn't feel so intact, either.

Now he's up, and wants my computer for IM purposes. Nope, nope, nope. Conveniently, I'm waiting for e-mail from the Good Job boss lady.

God, please let her not get the jollies from watching him mope today. God, please don't hate me if I blow a fuse because she seems to enjoy watching him beg.

Ultimately, the dog is responsible for my happiness.

I'm having one of those days. Contemplation runs rampant. The thought that's eating me to day is:

Ultimately, I'm responsible for my own happiness.

That's a lot of work. It feels overwhelming.

I'm already expecting a confrontation with Heifer tomorrow. I asked a simple question, and I expect to be blasted for it. I know that's her kick for power, her making me feel bad, and I'm letting her do it by letting it get to me, even when I know I'm in the right.

You have to understand, though, I still feel guilty about letting two Dobermans eat a pair of socks I took off a toddler for whom I babysat. I pulled them off, they gulped them up, and bam. I even explained to the parents what happened, and they laughed it off.

Poor dogs.

I see so many people say this: "Fuck guilt."

Okay, so how do you do it?

I feel guilty for being angry. Even the bible says, "Be angry, but do not sin." I tell my kids, "You can be mad at each other all you want. Yelling and screaming or otherwise working out your problems is perfectly acceptable. I draw the line, though, when you get insulting." I don't like them calling each other idiots, retards, spazzes, or fags. I guess that's pretty normal, huh? Point for me.

If I have to get mad, I feel guilty. Problem is, I know that my "angry" goes so far down that I'm obsessing about possibly getting my feelings hurt tomorrow. I know I'm going to crumble. I probably won't even shoot back a quick-witted reply, although I've already got an entire list running through my mind. Why? Because it will be my fault if she gets mad, then. I'll be perpetuating the problem.

I'm not sure this is making complete and total sense, so let me keep going. Maybe I'll get the concept straight in my own mind. This is how writing helps me most, keeping up a steady ramble until I can see it in print. It might also be justification for flight of ideas, who knows?

I have always been affected by others' negativity. I went for a temporary transcription job once at a really nice hospital. The lady for whom I took over constantly nagged and bitched about why she wanted to leave so badly. Never once did she say anything directly involving me; in fact, when she saw my abilities, she was quite complimentary. However, I could tell within an hour that it was HER who had the problem, not necessarily the others around her. How many temps do you know who are given parting gifts (hospital T-shirt, beanie babies, and a card), including your own personal specimen cup of gallstones and kidney stones? I know; I'm weird, but they're so interesting, and they knew I found them fascinating. I loved the pathology staff. Even the doctor, who had so many quirks, didn't bug me nearly 1/10 of what the resignee insinuated he would.

I want to fix things. I tell jokes and prostrate myself all the time. I'll do anything to blow sunshine up your ass, dammit. I want to make life better for other people, but how do I fix me?
I'm broken. I'm not incapacitated, yet, but I can sure see me becoming that way. I'm having dreams about running away from home, chucking my cell phone into the ocean when my kids start calling, crying, "Mommy, when you coming home?"

The other night, I whined about "when do I get my break?" Why haven't I created my own?

Quitting smoking would be so beneficial. Funny excuse?

My physician says, "You need to quit smoking."
I said, "Yeah, but I'll take hostages."
He said, "Just throw them away!"
I said, "The hostages?"
He got mad at his assistant, who left the room grinning.

I don't like me when I don't have my habit. I also use the excuse that, unless hub quits, I really don't have a chance. I could, you know, cut back. Chantix is a possibility. So why haven't I done it?

Another break: Lose some weight.

I don't eat a lot and I eat healthy foods (I don't like prepackaged, and I'd rather make it from scratch), but that's not the problem. My butt is stuck to this seat so much, either by work or by hobby. The dog needs walked; I could take him. Why don't I take mini breaks throughout the day to get away from it all?

Another break: Take a ride on the metrolink somewhere. Cheap, no wasted gas, but...I'd have to rearrange my entire schedule to do it. I hate changing stuff around.

Another break: Hang some laundry lines outside. That one I might be able to do. Just need to think about how to do it and dodge our all-to-frequent raindrops, but it will keep the natural gas bills lower. Ameren's really jerking us around over here.

Another break: For every negative, look for a positive. Okay. This one I'll have to work on over time, ingraining a new train of thought. Let's say that Heifer gets to me tomorrow. Why don't I go play with my dog, who loves me? Take him for a walk? Let's say the kids fighting gets to me, and I need to leave in order to keep the negativity from getting to me. I take the dog, who loves me, for a walk. Two possible solutions in one? One for my mind and two for my waistline? Go look for some beauty while I'm out and about?

Huh. It all comes back to the dog, who loves me whether I'm in my PJ's with a hole in the leg or if I'm wearing makeup. Interesting. I guess I could talk to him while I'm out. I guess crazier things have happened.

Except I'm still embarrassed about banging my head to Ozzy Osbourne in my car when I was 17, and some guy made fun of me from his car. I'm still embarrassed about my appendectomy experience, when I was freaking 9 years old, and the nurse told me to pull a cord if I needed some help. I just had surgery. I left my clothes on the other side of the room, and I hurt and it looked slippery, so I pulled the cord. When I looked out, no less than 10 emergency personnel and my mother, who looked absolutely faint, stood out there. I pulled the emergency cord. Whoops. Or when I was six and didn't realize the cow poop was deeper than it looked. I got sucked down up to my calves.

God, I suck. I refuse to put myself out there, lest I look stupid, and Heifer's making me feel and look stupid. Yet, if I want to make someone smile, I'm stupid on purpose, but that doesn't bug me. Why?

I'm the kind of person who can make all kinds of funny comments from the back of a crowded room but, Lord, put me in front of all those people, and I'd rather die. Why?

Mom asked me what my favorite Easter memory was. I told her that it was my worst AND my best. She made me a cute bunny outfit with a fluffy tail for a school function. The worst part of my 6-year-old self had to shake the tail at the audience, who laughed and laughed. I ran off stage from embarrassment. The best part is that my dad took the bunny ears from the brand-new costume, told us we couldn't peek, put them on, and hid eggs in front of God and everybody in the neighborhood, wearing those stupid ears.

And I loved him for it.

And Mom still has that costume.

Now I'm embarrassed for being such a whiny-ass bitch. I don't do this anywhere else, just here.
Maybe that's a problem in and of itself. How are people going to know what's going through my mind unless I tell them? God, I might hurt their feelings.

I call Ovis Ovis a wimp. Maybe I need a mirror.

So why don't I get embarrassed when I wear my slippers and flannel sleeping pants to get milk and soda? Because they don't question my intelligence. They don't question my honesty. They don't question my dedication. If my kids go with me, I will put on jeans as not to embarrass them, but the slippers...no way are those coming off my feet. They're nice ballerina slippers. I have four pair so I can wash and keep them looking good. I have one set for nearly every shirt I own. Heh. How's that for pathetic? I have more slippers than I do shoes, which is one pair of tennies. Like I said, I don't dress up much and I don't go to church, so what's the point?

It's also interesting to note that, although we definitely need the $$, I really work because it makes me feel good. I'm good at what I do, which is why any challenge to the contrary (i.e., Heifer), makes me feel like I've been bitch-slapped. I don't do what I'm not good at, or what makes me feel inferior. Sad, but true. I'm a quitter. I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I know transcription is going obsolete, maybe in the next 10 years. Instead of renewing my LPN license, I'm looking at school again for web developing. It's not expensive, and I'd probably be good at it, or competitive enough not to look stupid in front of my peers, who will probably be mostly male and very, very young. Actually, that's sounding kind of fun, now. When I go, I'll probably have classmates not much older than my son! I can be the geek room mother! Woo hoo! Forget the scouts...

I just re-read this. It's rambling, but I think I need a source of unconditional love, i.e., the dog, motivation to get out of here, i.e., the dog, and assurance that I'm not a complete and total idiot, i.e., the dog.

I can't walk the bunny...

Resurrecting beauty on Easter

Today is Easter.

Churches will play "Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?"

Maybe a church will have a soundtrack of the sickening noise of the nails being hammered into Christ's hands.

No one will have a dry eye. They will feel the humbling feeling that someone would love them so much that they died for them. Their lack of worth will make them crumble with gratitude.

I'm not there.

I should be, I guess. I believe.

After the shock of the crucifixion, the pastor will launch into the days where Jesus went down below to minister to the dead. It's a sketchy part in the Bible, yet the most fascinating part of the entire story to me.

Then, the congregation will launch into the beautiful refrains of "Christ The Lord Is Risen Today" and "He Arose!"

I should be there. I can't go. I'm grateful, but I can't go. I won't set foot in a church. I won't be among those people who are so heavenly minded they have no earthly good.

Crystal, you've touched me again. This is so profound:

"It never occurred to me that I can examine the past and accept that my childhood was not normal without being vindictive or resentful toward my Mom and Dad. They screwed up a lot; so do I. It doesn't make me love them any less fiercely than I do and it doesn't make me think for one second that they were bad parents."

That's so much what I needed to hear! It's the absolute truth. I know I complain about them here, but I do love them so much and still want to be with them, but I know they don't understand. They think they're "forgiven," i.e., perfect, and that's okay. They think I'm not. I understand why they do, and it's okay. They just put me on the prayer chain, and that is so funny to me, but it's okay. It's how they think I need dealt with, and that's okay. That's how they show me they love me and are concerned for my well being. I blogged recently how they came to my aid for just my laundry. They're GOOD people, but they're also involved with and tend to gravitate toward these people:

Love thy neighbor as thyself, the church chants. As long as they're Christians. They can't risk the stain of being around nonbelievers.

I've gone into the past here before where my father accused me of being possessed because I had terrible headaches that "possessed" me throughout the week, but he only saw the ones that kept me from attending church on Sundays. I can still see the road we traveled, the gravel turning, and the car we drove. It hurt. It really, really hurt...especially when, a year later, we discovered that my thyroid manufactured no hormones whatsoever. I started medication, and the headaches never came back. But he only remembered the Sundays I didn't complete the family row in their pew at church. He never acknowledged the possession accusation and, in fact, used it a few years later when he felt moved by God to buy us a car (I loved him for it; don't get me wrong), but it was a lemon upon purchase and was a lemon the two times we drove it and it was a lemon on the third time we got it and tried to start it, and it died. Somehow, it was our fault the car didn't work; my possession spread to cars, apparently.

Around the same time as the first possession accusation, I remember a beautiful pants set that I wore to play piano for church. Afterward, the pastor's wife pulled me aside and told me I couldn't wear pants if I were to play in front of the congregation. Okay, no problem. It was the most beautiful outfit I owned, Sunday wear, but if she wanted skirts when I played, I could see her point of view. A few Sundays later, I, in the same outfit, went to church, but my name wasn't on the bulletin to play. The choir's pianist got sick; could I fill in? Sure. I sat down and learned the music for a few minutes, we rehearsed, and I got a good idea when I needed to back off my part so the soloists could have theirs. We had a great time with fellowship and appreciating each other's God-given talents. I forgot about everything. It had been a long time since I remembered what goodness God gave to this world. We totally gelled during the performance. I felt God's presence. He wrapped his arms around the congregation in a big thank you for our devotion to him. But the pastor's wife pulled me aside. "I told you not to wear pants if you were going to play!"

By that time, after the possession accusations, after the years of being subject to the dogmatic Christian life, that was the last time I went to that church. I felt blessed, as had so many others, yet she hadn't felt it, the wife of the pastor of the congregation. It wasn't me trying to impress the congregation that morning; it was a mesh of God-given talent to perform something beautiful.

Ruined.

Since then, I've found fellowship with patients and their families. I've seen more goodness from CNAs who swear endlessly to staff, but in the room with a patient, the patient cradled in their arms, a fragile, bent, pain-ridden person, they croon to them and help ease their pain so that the simple act of getting them dressed for the day isn't the worst part of it.

I've seen a great-grandmother give up her entire life to make sure her grandkids can *make* it. She drinks a lot, cusses more, and smokes weed. She also kicked a crack habit a few years back by herself. "We are the righteousness of God through Christ Jesus," in lieu of goodbye to her friends and family is her favorite credo.

I see the goodness of life outside church, and it's beautiful and nonjudgmental. It's the lady who blocked a toddler's path in the grocery store as her pregnant mother huffed behind her. It's the stock boy who didn't need asked to pull a heavy box down for a grandmother, waiting until she saw what she wanted to offer his help. It's the guy behind the kid in line who is 15 cents short to buy a candy bar, and the gentleman just whips out a $5 and says, "You just keep the change, son." Two beautiful people smiled and grabbed a few bags out of their cart so I could have theirs on a busy, busy Saturday at Wal-Mart.

There is so much beauty to see outside the church, but some Christians miss it. They're too busy seeking each other's company to see how much good is left in the world.

My dad started to see it when he started dying. I'll never forget the day a band at my sisters' talent show played a song by the Red Hot Chili Peppers that he'd never heard. They looked grungy and wasted, but my father saw how amazingly they played. He shook their hands and complimented them, his hair just starting to grow back from the last round of chemotherapy. He shook the hands of the kids he'd rather see rot in hell than let me hang around with years before--I was so proud. My grandparents on my mother's side always saw it, and my aunt, too. My mother is starting to see it, as her youngest children enter the secular world and my kids who are in the secular world. They're beautiful. There's nothing wrong with them. My son, the eldest, is a kid magnet. When he goes to church, although he doesn't do it often, there's a group of kids and he's in the middle, directing play. At family functions, nobody asks him to, but the adults find themselves being able to visit without distraction, because my son--MY SON (hear with deep emotion and extreme pride)--has decided to organize 10 to 15 kids of varying ages and keep them all interested, be it outside with a football or inside with a PlayStation and decks of cards. My daughter--you just don't meet her, you experience her. Meeting my temperamental Sunshine on a good day (LOL) is like walking into an aura of someone who gets it. She might not know you, but she can, and you want her to. At 11, my baby is the best hugger known to man. He senses a bad day. He's the hardest to get to do chores, yet if I'm really, really struggling to get through the day, suddenly I have a steady supply of whatever I need, because he's in here every so often to see if I need something, from a soda to cookies, and he knows what I need without asking, because he'll wrap his arms around my shoulders from behind and rest his chin on the crown of my head.

I don't think possession got me my children. Again, I complain about them here, but listening to them giggle and laugh in the front room together is what God must feel when angels sing.
Maybe, Lord, I'll be able to blend the two sides of life and beauty I see together. Maybe, someday, I'll go back to the traditional "fellowship" of believers. I believe, Lord. I do.

I need to work on forgiveness. I need them to see what I do. I'd love to walk into church with a bunch of "sinners," from alcoholics to corner workers, and take up the back three pews, just to see Christian goodness. I know you could spot the ones who felt the call to all right away, welcoming them for their chance to see the goodness.

Your resurrection means a lot less to those who can't see the goodness resurrected anywhere else with You. Help me help them see what good is without putting on their church-influenced goggles. Help ME see what is good in THEM, since my goggles were church-influenced, too.