Thursday, May 31, 2012

Why don’t you get a job sewing?

You know, I’ve thought about this.  I really have.  But the issue at hand is that when I deal with sewing all day long, I won’t sew at home.  Kind of like the person that cleans all day long, you get home, the last thing that you want to do is do more cleaning at home.
There’s very few sewing jobs out there, too.  There’s one at the VA in their laundry.  But you’ve got to know industrial machines, button machines, and something called a heat patch machine.  Cirque wants wardrobe people.  But you need a year of experience and have to be familiar with a particular wardrobe system.  I think the one that I designed for the play would be laughed off as “cute” if they even granted me an interview.
The biggest issue is that I’m in desperate need of a job.  I’m usually 300 over budget at the end of the month.  It’s not like I do it on purpose, but when expenses like nearly $100 in medications for the kids, or the ex’s child support being late come up, there’s really no way around it.  Then you look at the whole "work to pay for daycare" and I seriously have to decide if it would even be worth it?
I’ve tried with a couple of the temp agencies.  I’ve got the skill set that most office jobs would love.  My lack of recent job experience is screwing me over.  Even though most employers aren’t going to admit to it, if you are unemployed, they don’t want to even give you an interview.  I’m to the point that I’m seriously considering fast food or even – shudder – tech support again, just so I can go in and say “I’m working right now, but I want something better!”
If I could just get an at home sitter, I could work for one of the craft stores or a book store or something.  Anything to just get to the point that the bank account isn’t negative when the allotment hits. 

Monday, May 28, 2012

Service v. Sacrifice

Today is Memorial Day, and as I have for the past 3 years, I will spend it with the children, at home.  We will BBQ.  We will, as we do every day, have D on our minds.  One of my old (M and I have known each other since he was jail-bait; he now has a wife and child Boychik’s age) friends posted something in regards to Memorial Day.  Because he’s a Marine (once and always – never former or ex) I mentioned my family’s living Marines.  He thanked me for my family’s sacrifice.
That kinda stopped me.  So many others, those that aren’t closely involved with the military in one way or another wouldn’t understand this.  Being in the military, or public service such as police, EMS, or fire IS sacrifice, not just service.  But in all honestly, I really think that the military has it a wee bit harder…
My father is still alive.  He served the Marines during the Viet Nam conflict, driving trucks in Da Nang.  I’m not sure if I still have some of his pictures.  Although he was “in the rear, with the gear,” he was still in a combat area.  He told me about being escorted en mass to the airport rest rooms by an NCO so that he and the other Marines he had made it back with could change into civvies.  For his service, his sacrifice, he suffered a nervous break-down, a broken marriage, and social awkwardness that he’s never been able to shake.
My brother J went into the Marines to leave home.  He excelled, as we all knew he would.  While on leave in Australia, September of 2001, the locals went out of their way to get the Sailors and Marines back to the boats.  He spent the next season at a horrible place called Camp Rhino.  He, like our father, doesn’t talk about his service much.  What he did say is that you haven’t lived till you’ve taken a canteen shower by moonlight with 200 of your closest friends.  J’s sacrifice was to miss out on the first 6 years of his son’s life, and the last few good years of our mother’s.
All of you already know what D has given up.  This is my wailing wall, so to say.  So while you’re getting drunk, having fun cooking with fire, or out on the lake, remember families like mine.  Remember the families and service members that SACRIFICE family time, knowing their children, sanity, limbs, and for some, THEIR LIVES so that you and yours may feel safe in your beds, or fill the ranks so there’s no need to draft your sons.
And for those of you that are so against conflict, think on the fact that service members go where they’re sent, do what they’re told, and, for many, if there were a job or college fund option, would not have joined.  Our military isn’t “full of mindless, violent killers that love their job;” it is full of men like my father, my brother, my husband, and L’s husband.  Men and women that would much rather be at a BBQ with their loved ones than in places where the majority want to kill them.

I will now return to the mindless gibbering,
potty training complaints, disbelief of my husband
random fuckery that you all know and love.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Final Destination

It’s nearing the end of May, the school year, and double digit temperatures here in Cat Box.  Oh how I hate it.  The part of the yard that needs the most work is of course in the sun most of the day.  My hands are healing up well .  I talked to the doctor and he asked if there was anyone that could/would massage my incision site.  I told him that D’s still in Europe, so he suggested a “personal massager” to help me with that issue.  I’m pretty sure I blushed when he mentioned it, cause, honestly, who thinks of a personal massager in an innocent context?  I mean, damn, “personal massager” and the phrase ‘brown chicken brown cow” (sing it out loud, you’ll get it) streaks through my mind like a nudist on a preschool playground.  Yes, complete with police chasing him demanding that he stop.  Ha ha.
Current word on D coming back to the states is “within 30 days or someone’s getting fired.”  Riiiiiiiiiiiiight.  Suuuuuuure.  Pull the other one, it’s got bells on it, mister.  I told D that someone NEEDS to get fired.  I’ve told everyone else that I’m not gonna believe it till there’s orders.  Period.  Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars.  A friend of the family told me that no one will get fired, they’ll just get a slap on the wrist.  I’m past caring.
So far so good on the progress on the new place to live back East.  Yeah.  Final destination, right there.  I’ve got a tentative address, I’ve looked at it with google earth.  The people involved (there’s multiple families) have all been doing their own research about personal interests and ways to stay as off the grid as possible… D’s obsessed with rabbits.  Lenny in Of Mice and Men* level obsessed.  L and I giggle about it when we compare notes every few weeks “I wanna pet the bunnies, George.”  I’m not sure that D gets it; I’m pretty sure he’s never seen the movie or read the book.  But that’s okay.  It’s something to tease him about that isn’t going to set off his anxiety like the big freezer sealing itself does.
So there’s this new distribution company that I NEED to get involved with…  It does skin care and the products may FINALLY get rid of the visible red veins on my cheeks and the gross sticky/oily skin left on my face after I wash it.  But, as with anything else, it costs money.  So, it’s on the back burner.  Dammitall. 
And with that, dear readers, I need to consider supper, and possibly start organizing/purging my bookmarks.  It took me a few tries to find the link for T1 lines that I’d told D about a few weeks ago and again today…

*Thanks to Squish for correcting me!  You rock out loud!

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Waaaaaaaaah, I’m a plant killer!

So, as you can probably tell, my youngest, Miss Scarlett, has a bit of an attitude.  The other night I was working on something for school and she crawled under my desk.  I told her “You better get outta there before you get hurt.”  She immediately smacks her head.  I ask her “are you okay?”  Her answer?  “ Can you PWEASE kiss my head” in a “geez woman, and you call yourself a parent” voice.
Boychik is sick sick sick.  He’s nearly six and of all things, he’s got croup.  Dr C describes it as a “barking seal cough” to the interchangeable interns.  I swear, they’re like the Emilys in Terry Pratchett’s books.  So Boychik’s on an oral steroid for three days, panda time for 2 weeks, and singulair.  The consensus is that the oral steroid is horrible, and to give it to him I have to straddle his chest to control his arms, hold his forehead, and repeatedly say “open your mouth!  You can’t have your chocolate milk till you take all your medicine!”  Tonight was a double dose and he tried to spit the last little bit in my face.  He missed and it ended up running down the side of his face.  Joy.  Right now he’s passed out in my over-stuffed chair and IS NOT coughing.  Yes, that’s a HUGE deal.
I'm kinda sick, too.  I'm coughing, I've got a sinus headache that is affecting my jaw and my wisdom teeth (yep, still got them, I'm wise, hahaa) and making me miserable.  Throat is raw, I'm taking medicine that doesn't need a prescription but you've got to sign for it.  Stupid meth cookers.  I've got cough drops, too.
The culmination of nearly three years is now in the final stages.  I’m excited, but not expecting much at the same time.  Still no news on D’s orders.  In a little over 2 months he’s TECHNICALLY supposed to get out.  He and his friend IR are waiting on medical extensions.  I’m not cruel enough to tell them not to hold their collective breath.
Oh.  I almost forgot.  My 20 year high school reunion is this summer.  I’m not sure how I really feel about that.  I mean, I didn’t really like these people when I went to school with them…  Do I really want to go?  I WAS the freaky weird kid that no one wanted to talk to…  The adult part is $55-$65 depending on when you buy tickets.  The family party starts at $15.  Both serve food.  The grown up party will have booze…  I really don’t want to go by myself.  I’m hoping that D will be home or can take some leave by then.  The thought of going to this thing not only fat but sans husband doesn’t really sound fun.
All the lettuce that I’ve tried planting keeps dying.  Either from Miss Scarlett helping or I don’t know what…  It’s annoying.  I WANT to grow veggies dammit!  But instead I’ve got sad little plants that are fighting to die.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Gaaaah, when do I get something good?!

It was a VERY bad weekend.  The high point was finding this thingie Sunday afternoon: For some reason this really spoke to me...

My spouse has joined the military and has been sent away.
My family is left behind.
Your family moves to join your spouse.
My family has to make due with seeing my spouse once a year.
Your family gets to see your spouse every day that they aren't deployed
You exercise with your spouse.
I eat my feelings.
My family sees pictures of our loved one on outings.
Your family enjoys outings together.
My family is isolated and will eat junk food while I am sick.
Your family has your spouse home to take care of you when you are sick.
My spouse's annual leave never matches up with holidays or birthdays.
Your family enjoys holidays, birthdays, and vacations together.
My spouse is stop-lossed repeatedly.
Your spouse gets to leave the service when it's time.
The God of my faith has spoken.
He has said, "Do not trust the military, they will lie to your face while they f*ck you over."

The high point of the weekend was buying a BBQ that I couldn’t really afford and doing free comic book day with the kids.  Instead of being able to get someone to watch my kids so that I could go see Avengers, I watched someone else’s kid. 
The convo went something like this
Me: do you know how jealous I am of you right now?
C: what, that I’m going to the movies?
Me: the last time I went to a movie D was home.
C: Well, when D’s home, I’ll watch your kids for you.
D’s most likely not going to be taking leave here ever again.  Once he gets to wherever they’re sending him, I get to figure out how to pay for ANOTHER move and move myself, the kids, the dog, and a houseful of furniture on my own, cause EVERYONE’S saying that he won’t be allowed leave during a medical extension.
Ugh.  I hate my life right now.  I really really do.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Why my birthday usually sucks

Yeah.  In a couple hours I’m 38.  Big fat hairy deal.  The only person that will remember and acknowledge it is my 13 year old (well, and E, but she's awesome).  Not even my baby brother, whom I SHARE the day with will call me.
Me and the baby bro.  We share 
the "day of twinkies and suck"
Last year I ran an experiment.  I took my birthday off of FaceBook.  I can count how many remembered on one hand.  Yep.
So why is this a big deal?  I’ve no real idea.  Maybe it’s the whole concept of being an eldest child in a SEVERELY dysfunctional family…  The last really amazing birthday that I remember is 30 years ago.  My Gran did something kind and indulgent and amazing – she let my mother have my birthday party at her house.  This was huge because my Granna had a POOL.  For one shining afternoon, I felt loved, like I had friends, that people besides those that had to actually gave a damn cared.
The following year I got chicken pox the day before my birthday.  I knew that nothing was going to be done for my ”special” day, but I didn’t even get cake.  My birth father remembered, and sent me a gigantic hand-made music box.  The box is long gone, lost after too many moves to too many states.  It played “you are my sunshine” and I swear that it carried Dad’s scent.
The year after that, weeks before my brothers and I were taken out of Mom’s house for a year and the beginning of really bad financial crap, I was sick all day and was still expected to do my chores.  Again, no cake.
The day I turned 14 a chemical plant exploded.  That was about it on the exciting for me; again, no “happy birthday,” no cake, not even a hug from my folks. 
The day I turned 16 the boy I was dating took me to prom.  That was pretty awesome, despite my mom forgetting my birthday again.  K was dapper, fun to be with, and we went to dinner.  I can’t remember if I had cake, but by that time, the cake had literally become a horrible lie to me. 
The crappy birthday train just continued on, with some really bad ones…  Broken promises from my mom, moving by myself, dealing with sick kids…
And now I’m 38.  I still cannot stand birthday cake.  This is the third birthday without my husband, who can generally be counted on to eventually remember my birthday.  Our “real” anniversary is his birthday, no way to forget that.  I will be at home with a pack of kids that don’t care that today is supposed to be Mommy’s “special” day.
Mostly, I want that feeling of my eighth birthday again.  Friends coming to celebrate with me, the feeling of being liked and loved, someone more than the freaky weird kid that no one wants to play with and the woman that is told “If I were there…”
            I guess that’s the big one…  I hate the isolation that birthdays seem to rub my nose in, just like the isolation I feel around the holidays.  I miss having friends that don’t live in my computer.  So once again I am going off-line for my birthday.  I’ll have my phone, but I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to handle all the “happy birthday” messages from well-meaning friends.  See you on the fifth, dear readers; All three of ya.

This week's crap driver

So, I needed some mane and tail (which it turns out the pet store doesn’t carry?); while I'm there, I decided to I make an appointment for Ratzilla to get a bath and to get her nails trimmed.  When I bring her back for her appointment, the closest non-handicapped space under a tree is taken up by a THIRD of a Ford truck.  See, this person decided to park their piece of crap diagonally with all the shade on their precious vehicle.

Big truck, big ego...
When I walked in, I asked M, my favorite cashier, who’s the idiot with the truck.  Seems I wasn’t the only person to ask; I was the sixth or seventh to demand this.  So, since this person feels that they are so very very important, I’ll give them a wee bit of internet fame and show their plate not only to my FB friends, but the 3 people that read my blog.  That way when y’all are toodling around Hendertucky, you can watch out for this truck. 
Maybe you’ll be more prepared with “you suck at parking” cards than I was today.  I need to print some out, especially with summer cranking up the heat and douchebags taking one or more spaces in the shade or (my personal fave) parking in handicapped spaces without plates or placards.  My personal favorite message by far has been “you are an inconsiderate parker” left on a car hogging all the shade in front of Momma C’s place.  They didn’t park there anymore.
Little over 24 hours till the big day…  And by big day I mean hide in my room and eat twinkies day.  I get a wee bit morose this time of year, more so since D entered the military and was forced to leave the family here.
Let’s see…  Little kids emptied a bottle of super glue.  Don’t ask where.  I have yet to find the glue, and I didn’t even know I had any.  Miss Scarlett emptied a box of light bulbs and hid them…  She also cut her own hair last week.  That was exciting to come home to.  She climbed my desk to get the scissors and I’m STILL finding pieces of her hair.  The gal that helps me not stay in bed all day, C, told me I should’ve just shaved Miss Scarlett’s head.  I told her I’m really not into the concentration camp haircut.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Vacation's over, get back to work!

Yes I realize I haven’t been blogging. 
You try blogging when you’re moving, dealing with pukey kids and have hand surgery all while going to school and tutoring kids that really don’t want to be tutored.
My poor little fat hands,
3 weeks out of surgery
So.  Anyway.  Three weeks ago I had my hands operated on.  It was endoscopic surgery, and my hands are still so weak I can’t open up the pickle jar, much to Ms Scarlett’s disappointment.  Have you ever gotten the "well what good are you to me" look from a three year old?  Well, that's the look that I got from her when I told her "Momma's hands aren't strong enough yet."  It's some kind of special.  She stomped her little foot and stressed to me "MOMMY.  I NEED pickles."  I told her she'd have to wait for Auntie C.
D’s been extended AGAIN.  Once in December, now again.  The extensions are only a few months at a time, but DAMN if they’d told me that he was going to be in Europe this long, I could’ve gotten me and the kenders to Germany already!  And right before they extended him, they packed most of his stuff and sent it here.  So last week, I got to open a few containers that hold my husband’s life; everything smelled like him, it was packed willy-nilly, like him…  I haven’t cried over it yet, but wow, it’s been a fight.  I’ve got the baggage, but not the soldier, how does that work?
Boychik and I ran errands and I was talking to the sewing machine ladies at my local holy shrine craft store.  This woman said to me that if I want the military to treat spouses and families like they matter I need to vote Republican.  Oh, and she’s very thankful that the ‘lower ranks’ qualify for food stamps.  Her daddy’s a general.  Her husband is a colonel.  No way she’s EVER been left behind like we have.
Lately anytime D gets mentioned, one little kid or the other starts whimpering, and the other will say at least one of the following:
I miss Daddy
I want Daddy
WHERE is Daddy
Daddy’s stuff here, why not him?
On that last one you’ve gotta remember, the little kids are 3 and 5, and speech isn’t a strong point for either of them yet.
Thinking back on it, the only good thing lately has been an improved GPA and both little kids FINALLY being daytime toilet trained.  In fact, Boychik’s only accidents have been either at school or throwing up in bed at night.
Ooooooh buddy, you haven’t lived till you’ve woken to either the sound of a child barfing, or the smell is so BAD it wakes you out of a dead sleep.  Then there’s the whole “put a towel over it and try to get more sleep, or let the kid into bed and get no sleep”.  This time around it was the co-sleep option.  The co-sleep option, at least with Boychik, blows goats.
And on that thought, I need to go pack his “uh oh” bag for school.  Seems his has been misplaced or it got used and I never sent a new one… that scenario’s more likely, honestly.