Promotion, NOT graduation.

Today Boychik had a “promotion ceremony.”  If they had called it a graduation, I would’ve punched someone in the throat.  Why?

Well, I’ve always had it explained to me that to graduate is to FINISH a course of study or receive a diploma.  Kindergarten isn’t finishing a course of study.  Neither is fifth grade or eighth grade.  The “diplomas” that these graduates receive and 3 bucks will get you a Café-Mocha-Vodka-Valium Latte.  In other words, they’re less useful than a high school or Associate’s degree, particularly in our present economy.

In other news, yesterday was his birthday.  He got a gold power ranger from me, and a bear in fatigues from his teachers.  He picked out pizza and cupcakes for his supper.  And he told me “I miss my daddy.”  During his melt-down today he told me the same thing at least twice.  But I held on, I didn’t cry; even though I really wanted to.

 

The hubs has stated that he will have orders and be in the states in two weeks.  Again, I will believe it when I see it.  He’s also told me not to get my hopes up about joining him before he is discharged.  Um…  DUH?  Why would the military do something so kind and compassionate for a family that’s been forcibly separated as long as ours has?  Silly D, why on earth would the military allow you to be a part of your children’s lives again when they can just send you back to a state half-way across the country from your wife and children?  I mean really, how will the airlines survive without us having to pay for a plane ticket every time you want to see your kids?  Sure, it’s not going to be the $1500 we’ve paid every year for the past 3, but it’s still SOMETHING for those poor broke airline owners to take from us.

 

Yeah, I’m still angry.  Angry that D’s got no guarantee that we can be with him.  Angry that the command he’s under pretty much stole him from his children for three years.  I’m angry that I cannot fix this situation without breaking the lease and paying for a moving service that I can’t afford.  Mostly, I’m angry at the apathy of his NCO’s and the fact that the solution they gave him was to drink and try to socialize at a bar since he was in Europe alone.  Missile, I am so thankful to you and your family for taking in D and keeping him from drinking himself to death.  And I’m mad as hell at D’s branch.  Mad enough that I wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire.

"We the P... meh, why are we so angry?"

Today I got into an internet argument about the importance of “gate-rape.”  For him, it’s a “meh” issue, that there are plenty of OTHER things to get pissed about.

Excuse me?  Really?  So a government agency having the authority to make me pay to be treated like a criminal before allowing me to travel is nothing to get angry about?  In Corfield v. Coryell, 6 Fed. Cas. 546 (1823), the Supreme Court recognized freedom of movement as a fundamental Constitutional right. In effect travel is a RIGHT; this, to my mind, negates the whole “if you don’t like it, don’t fly – it is optional, you know.”  Business class fliers are able to BUY their way out of TSA screening.  Air crews are exempt; so are other TSA workers, who have proven again and again that they are thieves, perverts, and predators .

The TSA tells parents to make screening a “game.”  Got news for ya; those that prey on children make it a “game,” too.  And kids that go through screening and being touched by strangers end up in tears and with nightmares.  Not something that I’m real willing to subject my kids to, thanks.

Everything that Homeland Security tells us about the TSA and its gadgets ends up proven false.  Why is this agency still allowed to assault travelers?  Seriously think on this – the TSA has a right to pull miscarrying women, young girls, mothers of young children, and our elderly out of line and “screen” them for as long as they wish, away from that person’s travel companions or children.  Why are we allowing this?

They don’t keep us safe.

They’ve never caught a terrorist or stopped a terrorist action.

Every new procedure is a result of an incidence somewhere else or that another agency stopped.

They are little better than bullies and have even harassed returning troops.

The international community laughs at us.  Our economy’s in the toilet.  Our young people are joining the military and are sent to their deaths because there are no jobs.  Our country is in shambles, but we’re spending 300 million per day “liberating” the Middle East.  The TSA’s budget is 8.1 billion a year.  The costs of the wars in the Middle East are over 17 billion.

Why can’t our government just drop the pork, the ineffective agencies, the programs that have proven to be ineffective, bring the troops home and try to let our country recover?  We’ve already lost our credit rating, what’s next?

Honestly, we’d be better off becoming isolationists again.  Get our own house in order before running to the rescue of the world.

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. 

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.

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!

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.

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.

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…”

EPIPHANY?

            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.

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.

Thank you so much, military. You blow goats. With VD.

Just in case you we aren’t friends on facebook, I got a crap-tacular bit of news this morning.  D’s getting medically extended.  And not only is he getting extended, they’re sending him to Texas for the extension.  TEXAS.  Thank all the G-ds that I acted on this house when I did.  I don’t think I could put up with being in this horrible apartment for how ever long he’s going to be there.

M’s still a nudist.  We ran errands this morning, as soon as we walked in the house she started peeling off clothes. 

I’ve got an order to finish before tomorrow morning.  It’s not a huge deal, it’s just lots of little things that need to be done.  The movers are coming tomorrow, too.  OMG too much to do.  I’m wondering if I’m even going to sleep tonight?  Probably not.  I mean, I’ve done all- nighters before; no biggie dealie.  This way the order gets done and packaged. 

Once Boychik’s home I need to run to the management office to get the keys, and take the mini desk off the wall next to my room.  That way the movers can get in and out of there.  Holy crap.  Movers.  In my house.  Sigh.  At least they’re only moving the big stuff.  The rest I’m doing myself.  I just need someone to move the big stuff – they don’t even have to put it together, I can do that myself.

I wish D were here.  I really do.  Whether or not he knows or believes it, he’d be a HUGE help for this move, even if he was only making Miss Scarlett keep her clothes on.

We got it!!!!

WE GOT THE HOUSE!!!!

I didn’t think I would be this excited about a rental house, but there you go.  Right now I’m waiting for the lease and taxes to arrive.  Move in date’s in a week or so; I’ve gotta get boxes and sort through our crap and all of this other stuff that goes along with a move.  But it’s a HOUSE.  With a yard and a family room.  And storage areas.

I’m can’t stand it, I just want to get things started and done and moved already.  But I can’t.  I have contracts to finish and send off for Miss A’s kids.  Her youngest is a cancer survivor; I know going through cancer with mom was brutal – I can’t imagine going through it with one of my own kids.  So I’m giving the family a break on my usual pricing and sending a free pair of bloomers for the little girl.

OMH OMG OMG I’m going to have a workspace again!

Wow, that was a little bi-polar, wasn’t it?  It’s just that my brain is EVERYWHERE right now.  And the only time that I can work right now is when the kids are in bed because the living room is so cramped.  So a few more hours before I can do some more work.  I got one of the shirts done except for the neckline last night.  Tonight it’s the bloomers and another shirt.  Dying has to be done, and panels for the dresses. 

Crap, I’ve become organized?  When did that happen? 

house house house house house 

Are You Kidding Me?!

Alright.  We made it through B’s 13^th okay.  With being broke and being in an apartment, not much could be done.  I’ve told her that she will have a sleep-over and gifts once we’re in a house.  I got a call about it today, so hopefully all is on track for moving this Spring…

The only wrench in the gears?  D may be forced to do a medical extension.  Apparently its something that happens at the post he’s at.  So after REFUSING to extend him so we could join him in Europe, REFUSING to let him re-enlist as active duty, REFUSING to help him or tell him anything useful like, oh, I don’t know “you know, man, your wife can do all this paperwork” now the military is thinking about keeping him from us for even longer. 

Yeah.  I’m just a wee bit PISSED.  Pissed enough that if he gets extended on medical grounds, I will be contacting his CO, and then EVERY SINGLE Marine and Soldier that I know (there’s a few) and asking them to speak for the family to whoever they need to speak to, particularly since the service that D’s in is OBVIOUSLY LYING when it tries to sell the whole “family is important for the support it gives our service members” (In the words of Sherman Potter, HORSE PUCKY) and I don’t know that many members of D’s service that are in a high enough spot to do anything. 

Marines?  Oh let’s see, I know a few that are out that were NCOs, my dad’s a Viet Nam vet for the Corps.  And I know at least one officer that’s active duty.  Yeeeeeeeeeeeeah, I’m done playing nice.  Three months in three years.  THREE.  FUCKING.  MONTHS.  Yeah, now that I’ve had the time to mull it over and think about it without being sickly tired, I’m angry.  D’s kids don’t know him.  This command has SCREWED him every chance they got, at least from what my logic and common sense says, and I swear the only good thing about this has been D meeting L & I and their kids.

G-ds above and below, the military is going to make me channel my mother.  I really hate channeling Mom.  She could get so very mean and horrible, but it was always justified.  She was always so freaking calm about it though…  Can I be calm?  It’s the military.  I’ve gotta be calm.  And may be channel my inner Juanita instead.  Family knows this reference.  Insert e-vile laugh here.  And if you’re a pray-er, pray for them.  Cause I’m so done it should be criminal.

EAT SOMETHING!

Am I the only one that absolutely detests those N-V commercials with Holly, Hef’s ex-girlfriend?  The woman started off as a CENTERFOLD and is now in some sort of burlesque show here in Cat Box and she’s got the STONES to pretend she needs to lose weight?  What the EVER LOVING Fuck?  Really?  Really?  As if women don’t have enough self-hate for their physical appearance?

I am NOT skinny.  I haven’t had a flat belly since before I carried my first child to term and ended up having a caesarian section.  A little over 3 years later they had to remove the scar and then stitch me back up.  Four years later, ANOTHER caesarian and then ANOTHER one nearly two years to the day (Boychik and Miss Scarlett are 2 years and 5 days apart).  Add to that the meds, the arthritis, and kids keeping me from having the time or motivation to work out, and I’ve got “body by c-section ®” (MY saying.  DO NOT steal it.  I’ll find you and set my children upon you.)

What happened to the body image of the 60’s?  Marilyn Monroe was HOT and wore a size 12.  Yeah, not a typo there, kids.  TWELVE.  I wear a 12 in trousers.  But I’m also very short and very out of shape.  And they’re tight right out of the dryer.  Stupid tight.

So back to Holly what’s her name of the crappy Aurora costume at Southern Renn, “I’d like to exchange these for another size”.  SHE and those like her are the reason for these girls that look like they need a sandwich.  THEY are the reason that women starve themselves and hate their weight, face, hair color, etc.  Yeah, guys don’t help with the self-image, but whats with women suddenly jumping in and helping? 

How is this right?  It’s bad enough when men do the whole “butter face” thing, but now women are doing it more too… Graaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!!!!

Screw this, I’m gonna have a twinkie.

The result is worse than the pukes...

Everyone’s over their sickness, but the house is still a pit, the cupboards are still mostly bare, and I now have a snail coin bank to attempt to repair.  Yes, the snail bank that B’s had forever was just broken by her baby sister.  I’m annoyed.  It’s after eleven at night and ALL the children are still awake.  I’m on the verge of screaming my temper is so far gone.  Oh, and B just yelled “Miss Scarlett, stop playing with mommy’s rubber mallet!”  Tattling without tattling, the weapon of older siblings since Moses was a child.

I didn’t go to Costco today.  As Momma C told me, “it’s a Saturday before the Super Bowl, why would you do that to yourself?”  She gave me a kid break and I went to Smiths and got enough for supper tonight, found a dragon pillow pet for $14 (so now all three kids have a pillow pet) and bought myself 6 mini bottles of nail polish at Sally’s.  Sure, we’re destitute till either the taxes or my school money comes in, but the week I’ve had?  I sooooo deserve 6 little bottles of new colored polish to play with and a bandage set that’s supposed to stop my nails from splitting.  I’m completely off my meds right now.  Including my multi-vitamin.  Have I mentioned that?  Yeah, D’s not going to be impressed.  I’m not really impressed right now, either.  Having the pukes puts a real kibosh on schedules, showers, getting outta bed, and taking your meds.  Seriously.  But I’m back under 170 pounds.  That’s kind of cool.  It’s a rotten way to lose weight, but what are you gonna do?

Oh and that not sleeping thing from the Nick Jr. crowd that destroys my living room and all?  Yeah, we’re outta melatonin, too.  Joy.

Boychik only shares his cooties

So.  Today was a complete and utter bust.  Nothing got done, and B and I slept most of the day.  Why?  Boychik SHARED his cooties.  So both B and I got the pukes over night.  It was so bad that B vommed in her bed and I couldn't do anything about it until a few hours ago.  The only kid that hasn’t gotten sick has been our Miss Scarlett (touch wood). 

Why does this suck so hard?  Oh, lets see.  The rent hasn’t been paid yet, so it will be late.  The only food in the house is chicken nuggets, so I will end up ordering pizza.  When I’ve been this violently ill, I can smell EVERYTHING.  Including a kitchen that is demanding a game of "what's that smell?"  The little kids run amuck, oh, and this is the SICKEST I’ve been since BEFORE D went back into the military if you don’t count the heat-stroke I got in 2009.

As I write this, I’m desperately trying to re-hydrate, and justify missing 2 days of class.  So now I get to deal with the joy of paying a late fee on the rent and the ordeal that is Costco on a Saturday.  And I can only go to Costco once I’ve done inventory.  Add to that the fact that nothing’s come back on the rental house and I’ve barely gotten to “talk” to D in a couple of days and I’m a wee bit cranky…  Crap.  I’ve just realized I haven’t taken my meds in nearly 24 hours.  Perfect.

I’m going back to bed.

Sick Boychik is Sick

Boychik is grossly sick.  Vomit all over the bed sick.  He was still up at 4 this morning, throwing up.  I finally gave up and put him in bed with me with a bowl.  Imagine my disgust when trying to get the bowl to him I dipped my hand into it?  It was bad enough that he couldn’t keep down water. 

Here it is, less than 12 hours later, he seems to be fine, but we’re still going to see his doctor later this afternoon.  As I write this, he’s walking around with a pedia-lyte popsicle and part of a matzoh cracker.  He seems to be happy with it.  He’s already told me that “dere’s nothing left to frow up, Mommy,” so I’m hopeful.

I’m debating saying “to hell with it” on trying to keep the kids out of the front room with food, especially with Boychik being sick.  I’m going to give money to the management company for the house today or tomorrow.  I’m really excited about this.  House house house house….  And a raised bed area in the back yard that will get the right kind of sunshine (I think?) to grow veggies.  G-ds above and below, it should be illegal to be this excited about a stupid rental house!

I guess the big thing is that, to me anyway, a house is stability.  An apartment is temporary, and, to my mind, not suitable for kids. Unless it’s something like a townhouse or condo with a yard.  We’ve lived in horrible places since being in Cat Box; a couple upstairs apartments.  A quad-house with a horrible neighbor sharing the master bedroom wall, a house with a tiny backyard filled with dirt and then landscaping rocks.  And now this apartment complex.

Don’t get me wrong – for something that was supposed to be temporary, it’s been grand.  But temporary to me is months, not years.  We’ve been in this apartment complex too long.  So my friend PJ in the office knows that I’m trying to find a house and that I’m going to break the lease to get it.  Most of the tax return is going to rent and such till D starts getting his benefits, I get a job, or both.

UPDATE – Miss Scarlett’s sick, too.  Antibiotics for her and panda-time for EVERYONE!  GRRRRRRRRRRR

The Joys of House Hunting

Alright, the house with the pool?  Ew.  And there wasn’t a laundry room.  It was an open alcove on the back porch, which is uncovered.  Upsetting.  One of the houses was on a super busy street and the largest bedroom wasn’t the Master bedroom.  The house that I liked the best needs a 575 “holding deposit” on it by tomorrow.  O.o

So we get home, and OF COURSE M strips herself.  D’s got a case of the monthlies…  Whiney, cranky, tired; I really need the taxes to hit.  It’ll make everything easier, and the possibility of moving a reality.  I really just hate moving.  I’ve got high hopes for this house; B won’t have to switch schools, it’s within walking distance of the grocery store, Target, and Farmer’s markets.  The family NEEDS to be in a house.  The idea of being able to send the kids out to play in the back yard feels like a bit of normalcy that they’ve missed out on.  Add to that it’s a single story building and I’m excited about it.  Really excited.  Gotta have it now excited, ha ha.

Then I think about our finances, and I’m reminded of what my mom went through.  Living check to check all the time, renting her whole life, at times not having the food to make supper for us, not having health insurance till I was in junior high, the only new car she ever got she had to have my grandfather co-sign with her, and once she had it, nearly getting it repossessed.  I don’t want this for my family.  I don’t want to be rich, per se – that comes with its own issues.  I want us to be comfortable. 

What is financial comfort?  To me, it is having the money to order pizza if dinner is a crying disaster.  It’s being able to buy M shoes, or pay for B’s braces.  It’s paying someone else to cut Boychik’s hair.  This doesn’t seem like a huge deal, I know.  But I want this level of comfort for my family.  D and I just have to keep going with school and find jobs. 

I mean, the economy can’t stay like this forever, right?

I so need a job.

Just like last year, I am house hunting again.  Why you ask?  Oh, didn’t I tell you?  To keep health insurance, D’s doing nasty guard for at least 3 years.  So we’re staying in Cat Box.  Boo.  But, I’ve found something REALLY promising, even more than last year’s finds – 4 bedrooms and a pool.  A POOL.  And there’s a fence around it.  I really want to be moved in and settled before D gets home.

In addition to transitioning to the nasty guard, D’s going to do some training for a new job.  So it’s unknown if he’s going to be home before or after the kids get out of school.  No matter, he’s coming home.  The Daddy jar is constantly emptying; I really don’t want to have to add more to it on the sly, but I will if I have to.

The oral steroid I’ve been on has lowered the swelling in my forearms to almost normal again.  Which is amazing to me.  The pain med, on the other hand, is HORRIBLE.  It knocks me on my butt about 90 minutes after I take it.  And then I sleep for HOURS longer than I should.  And I DO mean hours.  The day is lost by the time I get up, the kids destroy what they can on the sly, and I feel as if I’ve got a hangover…  I’ve never had a hangover, so I’m not sure. 

My migraines are back.  Seems my dad has been getting cluster migraines, too.  His wife asked me tonight how I handle mine, and I told her “a dark room, food that B can feed the little kids, Excederin migraine, and lots of water.”

So Squish brought up a viable thought for a job…  Becoming a housekeeper.  I mean, yeah, my house looks like a bomb hit it a lot of the time, but I’m amazing at cleaning other people’s houses for some reason.  It’s a sickness, it really is.  So I’m going to discuss it with the hubs and see what he thinks about this, see if he wants me to wait, etc, and maybe put up a Craig’s List ad.  Add that to the tutoring and free-lance work, and maybe things will get a little easier finance wise?  G-ds, I hope so, cause this is getting crazy.

Too much month at the end of the money

So tonight I had the first set of two MRI’s on my arms.  Despite the MRI being one of the open ones, I found myself feeling claustrophobic…  I’m lying on a table, the machine is making my bra move of its own accord – MRI’s REALLY like underwire foundations – and the machine is loud enough that I have to wear sound-blocking headphones.

MRI’s on forearms are unpleasant for EVERYONE.  You have to lie down on the table all the way to one side or another with your arm palm up.  No big deal, right?  WRONG.  In positioning your arm that way, your elbow locks.  And it seems to go on FOREVER.  The sound of the machine keeps you from distracting yourself from the fact that you’ve got a huge machine not even six inches from your chest in breath sucking pain.  Yeah, the arms are bugging the hell outta me.  Enough that the only time the braces are off is when I’m typing or doing REALLY messy cleaning.

I hate the long months… 5 weeks in January, five weeks to stretch an allotment that barely makes three and a half.  This two households stuff is really so so old.  I hate it.  It makes me really mad at everyone that D serves with that should’ve helped him but instead giggled behind his back (I swear that’s what they did.  Really.  I know that they did.  Jackasses.  Add a few other choice blue-faced obscenities…) as he slowly descended into depression and border-line alcoholism.  Jerks.  Makes me thankful for his friends, L & I, who basically made him detox on their couch and don’t let him isolate himself.

Tonight I tried to teach the little kids how to play Jenga®.  Marion freaked out, yelling “I don’t wanna lose, Momma!  If I lose I will be saaaaaaaaaaaad!”  Oh and best of all?  Both little kids have started saying “I hate…”  Hate is a word that’s one of my peeves.  It’s a wild peeve, as opposed to a pet.  Huge, ugly, ill-mannered, and most definitely not fit for company.

Sigh.  Even less time till he’s here with us again.  Wow.  I just can’t fit my mind around it.  The other half of the parenting team back where he belongs; G-ds I really hope that the acclimation process is as painless as possible.

Yeah, I'm a slacker

I know I know, I’ve slacked off on the whole blogging thing AGAIN…  I’ve been SUPER busy, though, honest!

I just got done with my Ethics class.  I may have made full points on this one, boys and girls.  It only took me eight freaking classes, but I may have done it.  The house is never going to be clean again, I swear by all that’s good sweet and holy.  D’s set to be home in double digits.  DOUBLE.  FREAKING.  DIGITS.  I’ve got laundry strewn throughout the house.  Dishes on the floor.  I really need to finish putting up the shelves in the kids’ rooms, shovel out my room and re-arrange things…  There’s just so much to do and not enough to time.

On the other side, I’ve got tutoring appointments almost every day.  Every day!  I’m leaving the house nearly every day, and getting paid for it!  My students are amazing kids.  I need to get M into daycare though.  It would open up my availability and she’d like it…  Plus, D’s going back to school once he gets home, so having M at school just like the big kids would be a good thing.

On a serious note, I FINALLY got my hands checked out.  I’m exhibiting 3 out of 3 signs of carpal tunnel, the swelling that I’ve had just above my wrists since before B was born is very likely something called “intersection syndrome” and the soonest that they can get me in to do surgery is the beginning of April.  Oh, and the best part?  I have to get an MRI, EKG, EMG, and get blood work and labs done.  Most of that pre-op crap has to be done at Nellis.  Joy.

I haven’t kept my promise to myself to work out.  I need to do that.  I really do.  I’m waiting for the end of the month; I’ve got a fitness thing that I want to try, but to do that I need money.  No money to really do anything till the end of the month…  Come on February!  Yeah, I know that I will finally have a teenager in the house, but I could really use the allotment.

You are being f*cking childish

STOP IT! STOP IT!  STOP IT!

You’ve got facebook.  I’ve got facebook.  We’ve all seen the breast cancer “game.”  Seriously.  A game isn’t going to bring awareness to ANY type of cancer.  I say this as a “cancer orphan”; my mother died in 2004 from breast cancer that went from a stage 2, which is curable, to a stage 4, which is a death sentence, in under 6 months.

Her father had prostate cancer before he died.  He had lots going on – cancer, emphysema, COPD…  But the big one for me is the cancer, because prostate cancer and breast cancer are caused by the same genetic marker.  Did you know that?  Most folks that I tell that to have no idea.  My birth father’s grandmother had a double radial mastectomy in the 60’s.  So I’ve got it on both sides. 

I started having mammograms in my early 30’s.  Yup.  Early, huh?  It’s because mom’s breast cancer was so sneaky and her doctors thought that it developed before she turned 45 because of the hormone replacement therapy she was put on after her hysterectomy.  She had the hysterectomy when I was 17.  They found the cancer 7 years later.  It’s theorized that the cancer had been lying in wait for 6 years.  So less than a year of premarin and she got breast cancer.  After fighting it for 6 years, dealing with losing her hair, losing mobility because of a broken hip, and missing out on the retirement dreams she and her husband had, what got her was “renal failure.”

This means that the dentist gave her meds, it interacted with the meds she was on, caused her kidneys to shut down, and the doctor didn’t catch it in time.  The thought was that she could wait until her next oncology appointment, which was 5 days after the swelling started.  She died within 24 hours of her appointment with her oncologist.

Playing the cancer game doesn’t do anything.  Posting stuff about bald Barbie dolls and bra colors, and faux pregnancy doesn’t do anything.  Volunteering is effective.  Raising funds is effective.  Holding a patient’s hand during chemo helps.  Owning and donating the time of a therapy dog helps.  Listening, cooking for, and rides to appointments helps.  And, most of all, petitioning drug manufacturers to lower their prices, paying for October mammograms for the under-resourced, and demanding that a cure be found in our lifetime helps.

Early detection is key.  Save the ta-tas.

And with that, I step off my soap box and return to the insane ramblings, poop talk, and gibberish that you are accustomed to.

Act your age! D*MN!

So, come to find out, D’s mood-swings like a pendulum ex has de-friended him on the Facebook, making it so that he can’t see pictures of their daughter anymore.  Her reason?  He’s online ALL the time and never messages the child that doesn’t have a FB account.  Not sharing pictures is just one more violation of the divorce laws here in Sunny Cat Box Nevada.  I’m really hoping that D talks to a lawyer once he’s home.

I had my annual 3 month cleaning today.  And I’ve got another one in 2 weeks for a cavity and a night-guard.  Seems I clench and/or grind my teeth.  So much so that my back teeth have become pressure sensitive.  The cavity is a HUGE deal for me – I haven’t had one in over 20 years.  The hygienist said that adults my age usually end up with root canals, not cavities; I’ll take a cavity if it’s one or the other.

Once again I got the whole “do you have your wisdom teeth?”

“Um, yeah?”

“Are they impacted?”

“No, they never came in, and I’ve only got three.”

“Are you sure?  Because I don’t see them in the x-rays.”

“I’m sure.  Really.”

My wisdom teeth bug me when I’m sick or have some sort of sinus thing going on.  I’m terrified of having to get them out – everyone I’ve heard of that had theirs out has a hard time with the recovery, something super nasty sounding called “dry sockets.”  Thank you very much, but no.  My wisdom teeth have never given me any trouble, I’m going to treat them the way they’ve treated me.  I don’t poke bears with sticks, harass sleeping husbands after a long plane ride, and I most definitely don’t have surgery on pieces of myself that are minding their own business.

Thinking on the dentist, I’m realizing that once D’s out of the military, we’re losing our health insurance completely unless one of us gets a job of some sort.  Crap.  Okay, one more thing to think and plan for.  Dammit!

Today is one of my days off from school.  I should be cleaning house, particularly the kitchen (‘cause it’s demanding a game of “what’s that smell”), but I really just want to work on my web sites and deal with blogging and all that stuff… No, I’m going to end up cleaning the kitchen and at least doing SOME laundry, cause Boychik’s wearing his last clean pair of underwear.  Boo.