Today is the day that we, as a nation, give thanks to those who suffered to make this country prosper.
Over the years the thanks have become more personal. For some it amounts to nothing more than wealth, or that seat in Congress, or the "dopest" ride. For me, it is the following.
I am thankful for family, past, present, and future. They have lent a hand in making me who I am; what I might be.
I am thankful for friends. True friends. The ones that actually hear me, share in my joys, and stick by me through years of lost contact.
I am thankful for my God-given talents, passed down through Irish genes.
I give thanks for doctors. Their knowledge, along with God's help have cured many ills and continues to help heal those I love.
Most of all, I am Blessed and Thankful to have been chosen as the one to give birth to my greatest accomplishment--My Nick. He is funny, wise, strong, handsome and intelligent. I will never be able to offer the world anything greater.
Blessings to All,
Ann
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Like A Son
I'm wondering how the mind of a teenage boy works.
This morning I got a call from my son, shortly after he left to walk to school, reporting that someone found it funny to write F*** Nick on our door and a penis on our garage door. Oh, and a large happy face, as if that made it all better. For some reason, my heart is breaking.
My son's best friends frequent our tiny apartment to hang or play Xbox, often. They are always welcome. In fact, they walk right in. They help themselves to my food and drink, and most call me "Mom". I love that they are that comfortable. Why, then, would one or more of them vandalize the property at which we live? Not only that, but write a derogatory phrase toward Nick? Kids will be kids, right? Uh uh. Not on a rental. Not at all, but definitely not on property that I do not own!
I have an idea who did it. And that makes my hurt even greater, as he is a good kid, but can be a stinker (much like my own). And he is just about Nick's best friend--one of my favorite visitors. He, like so many of my son's friends, is like a son to me. I feel free to tell him to hold down the noise, or not dis someone, or stop eating so much,
Although my son said he would clean up the graffitti after school, I did it, as I would not have the obscenities staring at the street all day. This is not an easy thing for me to do. Scrubbing, thanks to my diseases, leaves pain and weakness. Nick's best friends know that I have a disease that makes doing some things difficult. Apparently, they/he don't/doesn't care about us as much as I thought.
I had to call the Sheriff. They said to report it to the landlord to find out how to procede. So then I had to answer to my landlord. Although he was glad to hear it was cleaned up, he wants to press charges if the person(s) are found. This will leave me with an ethical dillema, if it is who I suspect it to be. The landlord thinks that perhaps 30 hours of painting somewhere will teach the offender a lesson, but I just don't see that happening. This is a town of 800, with one full time cop. Around half the population are children. There is little for them to do, but take walks, or drive around. And those things get mischevious sometimes.
My son is popular. Perhaps this comes with that. Years ago, our house/property was TP'd by my then stepdaughter's friends. She too, was popular. I don't know. I was not popular, nor did I live in town. I am just confused. And all that keeps running through my mind is "how could they/he do that"?
Lately, in this tiny town there has just been too much of this going on. Thefts, vandalizations. I know it's not all done by one person or group. It's small town entertainment. I spose I should "get over it". But, it's hanging on. The hurt and disappointment are sticking with me because the one I suspect is like a son. And I would expect more from my son.
I hope above hope that I am wrong in my suspicions. I hope it is one of the usual suspect trouble makers. We may never know. But, I'll always wonder who found insulting my son good fun.
This morning I got a call from my son, shortly after he left to walk to school, reporting that someone found it funny to write F*** Nick on our door and a penis on our garage door. Oh, and a large happy face, as if that made it all better. For some reason, my heart is breaking.
My son's best friends frequent our tiny apartment to hang or play Xbox, often. They are always welcome. In fact, they walk right in. They help themselves to my food and drink, and most call me "Mom". I love that they are that comfortable. Why, then, would one or more of them vandalize the property at which we live? Not only that, but write a derogatory phrase toward Nick? Kids will be kids, right? Uh uh. Not on a rental. Not at all, but definitely not on property that I do not own!
I have an idea who did it. And that makes my hurt even greater, as he is a good kid, but can be a stinker (much like my own). And he is just about Nick's best friend--one of my favorite visitors. He, like so many of my son's friends, is like a son to me. I feel free to tell him to hold down the noise, or not dis someone, or stop eating so much,
Although my son said he would clean up the graffitti after school, I did it, as I would not have the obscenities staring at the street all day. This is not an easy thing for me to do. Scrubbing, thanks to my diseases, leaves pain and weakness. Nick's best friends know that I have a disease that makes doing some things difficult. Apparently, they/he don't/doesn't care about us as much as I thought.
I had to call the Sheriff. They said to report it to the landlord to find out how to procede. So then I had to answer to my landlord. Although he was glad to hear it was cleaned up, he wants to press charges if the person(s) are found. This will leave me with an ethical dillema, if it is who I suspect it to be. The landlord thinks that perhaps 30 hours of painting somewhere will teach the offender a lesson, but I just don't see that happening. This is a town of 800, with one full time cop. Around half the population are children. There is little for them to do, but take walks, or drive around. And those things get mischevious sometimes.
My son is popular. Perhaps this comes with that. Years ago, our house/property was TP'd by my then stepdaughter's friends. She too, was popular. I don't know. I was not popular, nor did I live in town. I am just confused. And all that keeps running through my mind is "how could they/he do that"?
Lately, in this tiny town there has just been too much of this going on. Thefts, vandalizations. I know it's not all done by one person or group. It's small town entertainment. I spose I should "get over it". But, it's hanging on. The hurt and disappointment are sticking with me because the one I suspect is like a son. And I would expect more from my son.
I hope above hope that I am wrong in my suspicions. I hope it is one of the usual suspect trouble makers. We may never know. But, I'll always wonder who found insulting my son good fun.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Like A Fist
Twenty years ago the message in the commerial was "Words Hit Harder Than A Fist." It was geared toward domestic and child abuse. Apparently, few people took this to heart, or perhaps, believed it. I believed it. Words had beaten the shit out of me all my life. At school, and at home. And yes, they leave scars. Deep scars that never heal completely because the next word, and the next, keep tearing them open. And for some reason, unlike physical scars, they don't get tougher. Each painful word or phrase hurts just as much, or more than they did the first time. And no one can see them.
Or can they? Self destructive behaviors are, many times indicative of verbal abuse. Whether it is excessive piercing, tats, promiscuity, or drugs, it does show. For me, it was alcohol and promiscuity. After being told repeatedly by my father that no man would ever want me, that I was homely, lazy, stupid, I believed it. I went bat-ass crazy trying to prove him wrong. I thought of suicide many times before I was finally forced into seeing a doctor and a therapist. I learned that I wasn't so bad. But, it took years and years of therapy, and medication combos to get to the point I am, at age 50, believing I deserve what anyone else deserves. To exist.
There are several campaigns active right now to bring awareness to bullying. Most are focused on the GLBT community, and the teens in it. Of course, that is because, recently, the suicide rate in that demographic has risen at a shocking rate. But, it is not just the GLBT community that is affected by the thoughtless, evil(?), tossing of hurtful words and phrases.
Try on these words and phrases....Cow, Fatty, Beanpole, Slut, Emo, Fag, Heifer, That's so gay, You're so queer, You run/catch/talk/ like a girl, She's so butch, Dike, Lesbo, Does your face hurt, cause it's killing me, You're a waste of air, Loser, Spoiled, If I want it done right, I have to do it myself, Waste, Stupid, Weeby, Rice Burner, and my personal favorite--Butter Butt.
I almost wish I could say that only kids used these words, but I can't. They learned these words. From parents, grandparents, teachers, coaches, older siblings. The new campaign states that "it can start as a joke." And I suppose, to some, the words are funny. Unless they've been directed toward you. Or maybe because they were directed toward you. It Ain't Funny. Period.
A local school district is being sued by the family of an African American girl who was subjected to racism/bullying by her algebra teacher. Get this. The Caucasian teacher writes an algebra problem on the board. The AA girl raises her hand and states that she doesn't understand it. The C teacher tells her that of course she doesn't, "it's a White thing." The C teacher then writes another problem on the board, and asks the AA girls if she understands it. The AA girl asks "why because I'm black?" The C teacher laughs and says "yes." At what point did Algebra become a race issue? And even if in some alter universe it was, how could a teacher--of any ethnic origin--belittle a student--of any ethnic origin--in in front of the entire class. In the school, where children are sent to learn.
I've preached this before. Parents learn respect. Google it if you need help. Grandparents, come out of your "that's how we did it in my day" frame of mind, and learn from your kids. Kids. KIDS, talk to your parents if you feel hurt, talk to your peers if they are hurting someone. Don't "go with the flow". If you see hurtful, act, tell. Don't let someone suffer the pain of verbal, but invisible fists, because you don't want to be next. If enough of you stand up for the bullied, there will be no one left to bully!
"It gets better", "stand up and be counted", "make a difference", "just do it". There are positive messages out there too. Grab them. Embrace them. Practice them. To the recipients of the good deed..."Pay It Forward." Someday, maybe some of the scars can stay healed.
Or can they? Self destructive behaviors are, many times indicative of verbal abuse. Whether it is excessive piercing, tats, promiscuity, or drugs, it does show. For me, it was alcohol and promiscuity. After being told repeatedly by my father that no man would ever want me, that I was homely, lazy, stupid, I believed it. I went bat-ass crazy trying to prove him wrong. I thought of suicide many times before I was finally forced into seeing a doctor and a therapist. I learned that I wasn't so bad. But, it took years and years of therapy, and medication combos to get to the point I am, at age 50, believing I deserve what anyone else deserves. To exist.
There are several campaigns active right now to bring awareness to bullying. Most are focused on the GLBT community, and the teens in it. Of course, that is because, recently, the suicide rate in that demographic has risen at a shocking rate. But, it is not just the GLBT community that is affected by the thoughtless, evil(?), tossing of hurtful words and phrases.
Try on these words and phrases....Cow, Fatty, Beanpole, Slut, Emo, Fag, Heifer, That's so gay, You're so queer, You run/catch/talk/ like a girl, She's so butch, Dike, Lesbo, Does your face hurt, cause it's killing me, You're a waste of air, Loser, Spoiled, If I want it done right, I have to do it myself, Waste, Stupid, Weeby, Rice Burner, and my personal favorite--Butter Butt.
I almost wish I could say that only kids used these words, but I can't. They learned these words. From parents, grandparents, teachers, coaches, older siblings. The new campaign states that "it can start as a joke." And I suppose, to some, the words are funny. Unless they've been directed toward you. Or maybe because they were directed toward you. It Ain't Funny. Period.
A local school district is being sued by the family of an African American girl who was subjected to racism/bullying by her algebra teacher. Get this. The Caucasian teacher writes an algebra problem on the board. The AA girl raises her hand and states that she doesn't understand it. The C teacher tells her that of course she doesn't, "it's a White thing." The C teacher then writes another problem on the board, and asks the AA girls if she understands it. The AA girl asks "why because I'm black?" The C teacher laughs and says "yes." At what point did Algebra become a race issue? And even if in some alter universe it was, how could a teacher--of any ethnic origin--belittle a student--of any ethnic origin--in in front of the entire class. In the school, where children are sent to learn.
I've preached this before. Parents learn respect. Google it if you need help. Grandparents, come out of your "that's how we did it in my day" frame of mind, and learn from your kids. Kids. KIDS, talk to your parents if you feel hurt, talk to your peers if they are hurting someone. Don't "go with the flow". If you see hurtful, act, tell. Don't let someone suffer the pain of verbal, but invisible fists, because you don't want to be next. If enough of you stand up for the bullied, there will be no one left to bully!
"It gets better", "stand up and be counted", "make a difference", "just do it". There are positive messages out there too. Grab them. Embrace them. Practice them. To the recipients of the good deed..."Pay It Forward." Someday, maybe some of the scars can stay healed.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
World Wide Wonderful
I received a message today on my Facebook wall that brought tears to my eyes. Not because of what it said, although the message was sweet and much needed. The tears came because the message came from a woman that was a part of my past that was self-destructive, and made few women friends. It got me to thinking.
When I was young, I knew people that I attended school and Sunday School with. Oh, and lots of cousins. When I became an "adult", I met people I worked with and attended bars with. Lots of bars. Lots of people. Lots. And it wasn't all good. I pissed alot of people off. Drinking alot, and searching for the man that would prove Daddy wrong. I didn't make many woman friends.
At that time, the 60's, 70's, 80's, we knew people by what we heard/saw/perceived. No behind the scenes stories to explain the whys of a person. The government was priviledged to have that ability for many years with a computer system that could access other computers across something later called cyberspace. I'm not sure how the story goes, as to how WWW came to the common folk, but at some point it opened up the world.
In our house, it oozed in in 1997. Although I didn't know its power yet, the idea of searching for anything my heart desired was appealing. What I discovered at that time were chat rooms. Some strange, some boring, some supportive. As I tend to do, I became addicted to the chat rooms that offerred support for my newly diagnosed Fibromyalgia. I spent hours chatting. I didn't "know" these helpful people, but they were my friends. Slowly, the fun chat rooms closed and everything became too serious for me, so I went in search (because I could!) for something else to fill my time. I found games networks. I spent my days looking for hidden objects like a pro. After all, I'd spent a great deal of my childhood in Dr.s' waiting rooms, and had found every toaster or chicken in a tree that Highlight magazine could offer.
One day, I don't remember when, the term "MySpace" entered my psyche. I'd heard stories of how such sites preyed on the young people it was set up to attract. No child of mine would become a victim. But, as kids do, my ex-stepdaughter set up an account at a friends house. Slowly, I began hearing that this MySpace was actually a fun way to stay in contact with people, share music, and express your personality. Hmmm. A way to have fun and monitor child safety at once? I was "in"! It was fun, there were a few games, people to chat with, virtual gardens...a real entertaining "Space".
And then there was something much better. It was set up for college kids originally, and young people took to it like peanut butter to jelly. When both young ones in my house had accounts online, I signed up for Facebook. At first, my friends were classmates of my ex-stepdaughter. Then I found a few adults I knew, "friended them". Then there were more. And relatives. And old classmates, work comrads, and what I have listed as "back in the day". People I knew during my party days.
Life comes full circle. I am now "friends" with two of the women that treated me badly in my days of recklessness. And they are kind. The message I got today was from one of them.
Along with the fact that we've matured, healed, and had experiences that have shaped us over these past 30 years, there is Facebook. We can send virtual gifts, birthday wishes, share joys and sorrows, share gaming, and get to know each other in a way that face to face doesn't allow for most. And, yes, there is a downside to not being face to face. Accountability. Mudslinging has risen at an unfortunate and astounding rate. But, not in my Facebook "family".
And family! I've reconnected or increased connectivity with family members. I've seen their children and grandchildren--the future of our family tree.
The future. My goodness, what wide, wonderful world will open to us in the future?
When I was young, I knew people that I attended school and Sunday School with. Oh, and lots of cousins. When I became an "adult", I met people I worked with and attended bars with. Lots of bars. Lots of people. Lots. And it wasn't all good. I pissed alot of people off. Drinking alot, and searching for the man that would prove Daddy wrong. I didn't make many woman friends.
At that time, the 60's, 70's, 80's, we knew people by what we heard/saw/perceived. No behind the scenes stories to explain the whys of a person. The government was priviledged to have that ability for many years with a computer system that could access other computers across something later called cyberspace. I'm not sure how the story goes, as to how WWW came to the common folk, but at some point it opened up the world.
In our house, it oozed in in 1997. Although I didn't know its power yet, the idea of searching for anything my heart desired was appealing. What I discovered at that time were chat rooms. Some strange, some boring, some supportive. As I tend to do, I became addicted to the chat rooms that offerred support for my newly diagnosed Fibromyalgia. I spent hours chatting. I didn't "know" these helpful people, but they were my friends. Slowly, the fun chat rooms closed and everything became too serious for me, so I went in search (because I could!) for something else to fill my time. I found games networks. I spent my days looking for hidden objects like a pro. After all, I'd spent a great deal of my childhood in Dr.s' waiting rooms, and had found every toaster or chicken in a tree that Highlight magazine could offer.
One day, I don't remember when, the term "MySpace" entered my psyche. I'd heard stories of how such sites preyed on the young people it was set up to attract. No child of mine would become a victim. But, as kids do, my ex-stepdaughter set up an account at a friends house. Slowly, I began hearing that this MySpace was actually a fun way to stay in contact with people, share music, and express your personality. Hmmm. A way to have fun and monitor child safety at once? I was "in"! It was fun, there were a few games, people to chat with, virtual gardens...a real entertaining "Space".
And then there was something much better. It was set up for college kids originally, and young people took to it like peanut butter to jelly. When both young ones in my house had accounts online, I signed up for Facebook. At first, my friends were classmates of my ex-stepdaughter. Then I found a few adults I knew, "friended them". Then there were more. And relatives. And old classmates, work comrads, and what I have listed as "back in the day". People I knew during my party days.
Life comes full circle. I am now "friends" with two of the women that treated me badly in my days of recklessness. And they are kind. The message I got today was from one of them.
Along with the fact that we've matured, healed, and had experiences that have shaped us over these past 30 years, there is Facebook. We can send virtual gifts, birthday wishes, share joys and sorrows, share gaming, and get to know each other in a way that face to face doesn't allow for most. And, yes, there is a downside to not being face to face. Accountability. Mudslinging has risen at an unfortunate and astounding rate. But, not in my Facebook "family".
And family! I've reconnected or increased connectivity with family members. I've seen their children and grandchildren--the future of our family tree.
The future. My goodness, what wide, wonderful world will open to us in the future?
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Cross My Heart
As I sit here typing, I am in pain. It's because he is in pain. He is disappointed with a change in today's plans, and he is angry and hurt and disappointed. This tears me up inside, and tears roll down my face. As he lashes out, I hear the honesty of how he really feels about our situation. And I swear, I'm doing the best I can.
I don't go shopping for the sake of shopping. I don't go out anymore, to save money. I stopped buying some things on my grocery list that were costly and unnecessary. Any extra cash goes to him. For school activites, hanging out, and allowance. I think of him first even when buying cereal.
Today he is hurting and doesn't want to live here anymore. He's tired of living in a rental, where things are older and fall apart. He's sick of me. He doesn't want me here. I love him more than my own life. His heart hurts, and as if he were still within me, so does mine. I'm not sure how to help him.
When he hurts like this, he falls back on how the past two years have treated him. Divorce, loss of three loved ones, not including his favorite dog, Mercury. Truly, he has mourned more in a short period of time than most others his age. I wish we could heal those hurts. How can I help him heal?
Just loving him doesn't seem nearly enough. Especially when he won't let me show him. I want to embrace him tightly and tell him it won't always be this way. It's only been two years. But, he pulls back when I try to hug. I know it's his age, and being a boy. And resentment.
I want so much for him to be able to see the positive things peeking through the disappointment. His multitude of friends. His love of football--that 80yd TD run. How much he is loved--by four families! Having the best "step" family, and how lucky he is that it is that way, rather than the more common conflicts.
I am sorry, bud, that today fell through. I'm sorry that you come home to just me. I'm sorry that everything doesn't go as smoothly as you want. But, I swear to you, I am doing the best I can and loving you more with every second of every day. God loves you too. No matter what you do, no matter how angry you feel, no matter how "unloveable" you may thing you are...He loves you!
Just like I do. Unconditionally...forever. Cross my heart.
I don't go shopping for the sake of shopping. I don't go out anymore, to save money. I stopped buying some things on my grocery list that were costly and unnecessary. Any extra cash goes to him. For school activites, hanging out, and allowance. I think of him first even when buying cereal.
Today he is hurting and doesn't want to live here anymore. He's tired of living in a rental, where things are older and fall apart. He's sick of me. He doesn't want me here. I love him more than my own life. His heart hurts, and as if he were still within me, so does mine. I'm not sure how to help him.
When he hurts like this, he falls back on how the past two years have treated him. Divorce, loss of three loved ones, not including his favorite dog, Mercury. Truly, he has mourned more in a short period of time than most others his age. I wish we could heal those hurts. How can I help him heal?
Just loving him doesn't seem nearly enough. Especially when he won't let me show him. I want to embrace him tightly and tell him it won't always be this way. It's only been two years. But, he pulls back when I try to hug. I know it's his age, and being a boy. And resentment.
I want so much for him to be able to see the positive things peeking through the disappointment. His multitude of friends. His love of football--that 80yd TD run. How much he is loved--by four families! Having the best "step" family, and how lucky he is that it is that way, rather than the more common conflicts.
I am sorry, bud, that today fell through. I'm sorry that you come home to just me. I'm sorry that everything doesn't go as smoothly as you want. But, I swear to you, I am doing the best I can and loving you more with every second of every day. God loves you too. No matter what you do, no matter how angry you feel, no matter how "unloveable" you may thing you are...He loves you!
Just like I do. Unconditionally...forever. Cross my heart.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Seriously??
Oye.
I have truly missed my calling. Dick Van Dyke and John Ritter made millions performing, on TV, the very things I seem to encounter regularily. Lucille Ball was loved by millions for her zany mishaps.
My life, it seems, IS one zany mishap. Without humor, I'd be dead!
I'm not sure it was all that zany when I was a child, although my Aunt Reen, Aunt Dorie, and Mom kept zany an acceptable way to live. But, when I got older....
There was the weight machine incident when I was a sophmore. I was bearing down to leg press 260lbs, and the girl in charge of inserting the pins ASSUMED that I wouldn't be able to press it and pulled the pin out at the exact moment I pressed. This left only about 20lbs to press. With all my vigor I pressed for 260, met 20 and my feet slipped right off the pedals, sending them downward into my shins. Two fractured shinbones. The gym teacher was about 5'1" and 90lbs soaking wet, and she bore the weight of my large, fainting frame to the school nurse. Must've been quite a sight. Lesson: never assume--its makes an ass out of you, and shatters ME bones....
And the rainstorm. It came down like the heavens were having super soaker wars. It left huge gulleys of water at every dip in the street or sidewalk. I tried to jump across a huge one on my way into the grocery store after the storm. Damn. Gulley too wide, feet soaking wet. After several minutes, browsing aisles, I noticed a young boy holding his mother leg and pointed down--at me. He looked a bit frightened. I followed his point and found that my canvas shoes had gone rabid. Foaming. More foam with each step. I had used a spray on canvas shoe cleaner the night before. Perhaps I could've used less or rinsed them better.....
More recently, there was a three month ride of the uprising of home machines. The computer died. The washer quit spinning, the vacuum stopped sucking, the coffemaker stopped making, and my glasses snapped. Okay, the glasses aren't a machine, but they are what gives me my super powers. This uprising cost me a ton, but on the bright side, it really would make for good TV.
After spending months waving at the cars behind me, my tailpipe was removed by a friend. Not a problem, except for the pollution of the enviroment, and the possible poisoning of anyone riding in my car. When my little Suzuki started roaring, it became embarrassing, but at least I had a car. That my son was mortified riding with me is sad, but life. However, when I jumped in and turned the key on the day of grocery shopping, and got a click, things became harried. Damn. Another breakdown. More money.....no groceries. Oh well, call a repair guy. Luck! Found a good guy that would let me pay my bill a bit at a time.
As I watched my little SUV leave the driveway, I was saddened, but encouraged to have found such a great repairman. Until we ran out of food. After all, that's where I was headed when the vehicle died. Three days later, my son was scrounging in cupboards for something to snack on. He found, stale saltines, semi stale cheese whales, and....croutons. He was overjoyed to snack on croutons. Time to get the car back? I think so. But, alas, this was not to be. I drive a '99 Suzuki and a starter, it seemed, was a rare commodity. Six days later, by no fault of the repairman, I got my little "beep beep" back. Oh joy! Oh reveillee! Oh God it needs gas! Lots of gas. I grabbed my wallet and headed to the gas station. It sputtered, but I figured it'd been sitting for six days--warm up girl. Big sputter. Well, it's mostly downhill...I'll make it. Until that little surge uphill to get to the downhill--silence. Really? Turn the key. Absolute farting sound, then silence. After a sigh, I walked to a friends house to grab a ride to the station to get enough gas--to get to the station. Had to spend $9 on a small gas can--again---yes this has happened before and don't even approach the question of why I don't carry a can in the car! Okay. Paid $5 for gas in the can. Pumped too fast and it blew up onto my person. Gas all over. Can doesn't hold $5. Can I get this in my car and get back to this stall so I get my remaining $1.88? My dear friend takes me to my "bleep bleep", I start pouring and it leaks all over, splashing onto my feet. Let me add, here, that once a can is purchased you must assemble. Directions are stamped into the plastic, making assembly impossible for a 50yr old, nearsighted lady. Back to "BLEEEEEEP!" Got in, car started. Friend left. Thanks Kate.
I raced back to the stall and 'aha!' $1.88 still there. I'm still wondering if I hadn't pressed the type of gas I wanted, if I would've gotten my credit. But, it was erased and I put my last $6 in. When a tank is that empty, $9 doesn't do much. As I walked toward the station I could see a huddle at the cash register, and knew it was about me. Reeking, I walked in and announced, "I'm bAAaaack!" "Say, I didn't use that entire $5 a minute ago...." "Yeah, I see that." Oh boy. After much discussion, I was given my $1.88 back. I went slinking home...or stinking home...dragged up the stairs while saying a quick prayer of thanks--yes, thanks--and walked in the apartment. "Everything running okay?", came the question from my son. "Great.", I say. "I ran out of gas, walked to friends, got ride, spilled gas all over, and I stink. Car's running fine." "Cool!" Seriously???
Gotta laugh at it all. Gotta. Or I'll strangle the first cheery person I see. Seriously.
I have truly missed my calling. Dick Van Dyke and John Ritter made millions performing, on TV, the very things I seem to encounter regularily. Lucille Ball was loved by millions for her zany mishaps.
My life, it seems, IS one zany mishap. Without humor, I'd be dead!
I'm not sure it was all that zany when I was a child, although my Aunt Reen, Aunt Dorie, and Mom kept zany an acceptable way to live. But, when I got older....
There was the weight machine incident when I was a sophmore. I was bearing down to leg press 260lbs, and the girl in charge of inserting the pins ASSUMED that I wouldn't be able to press it and pulled the pin out at the exact moment I pressed. This left only about 20lbs to press. With all my vigor I pressed for 260, met 20 and my feet slipped right off the pedals, sending them downward into my shins. Two fractured shinbones. The gym teacher was about 5'1" and 90lbs soaking wet, and she bore the weight of my large, fainting frame to the school nurse. Must've been quite a sight. Lesson: never assume--its makes an ass out of you, and shatters ME bones....
And the rainstorm. It came down like the heavens were having super soaker wars. It left huge gulleys of water at every dip in the street or sidewalk. I tried to jump across a huge one on my way into the grocery store after the storm. Damn. Gulley too wide, feet soaking wet. After several minutes, browsing aisles, I noticed a young boy holding his mother leg and pointed down--at me. He looked a bit frightened. I followed his point and found that my canvas shoes had gone rabid. Foaming. More foam with each step. I had used a spray on canvas shoe cleaner the night before. Perhaps I could've used less or rinsed them better.....
More recently, there was a three month ride of the uprising of home machines. The computer died. The washer quit spinning, the vacuum stopped sucking, the coffemaker stopped making, and my glasses snapped. Okay, the glasses aren't a machine, but they are what gives me my super powers. This uprising cost me a ton, but on the bright side, it really would make for good TV.
After spending months waving at the cars behind me, my tailpipe was removed by a friend. Not a problem, except for the pollution of the enviroment, and the possible poisoning of anyone riding in my car. When my little Suzuki started roaring, it became embarrassing, but at least I had a car. That my son was mortified riding with me is sad, but life. However, when I jumped in and turned the key on the day of grocery shopping, and got a click, things became harried. Damn. Another breakdown. More money.....no groceries. Oh well, call a repair guy. Luck! Found a good guy that would let me pay my bill a bit at a time.
As I watched my little SUV leave the driveway, I was saddened, but encouraged to have found such a great repairman. Until we ran out of food. After all, that's where I was headed when the vehicle died. Three days later, my son was scrounging in cupboards for something to snack on. He found, stale saltines, semi stale cheese whales, and....croutons. He was overjoyed to snack on croutons. Time to get the car back? I think so. But, alas, this was not to be. I drive a '99 Suzuki and a starter, it seemed, was a rare commodity. Six days later, by no fault of the repairman, I got my little "beep beep" back. Oh joy! Oh reveillee! Oh God it needs gas! Lots of gas. I grabbed my wallet and headed to the gas station. It sputtered, but I figured it'd been sitting for six days--warm up girl. Big sputter. Well, it's mostly downhill...I'll make it. Until that little surge uphill to get to the downhill--silence. Really? Turn the key. Absolute farting sound, then silence. After a sigh, I walked to a friends house to grab a ride to the station to get enough gas--to get to the station. Had to spend $9 on a small gas can--again---yes this has happened before and don't even approach the question of why I don't carry a can in the car! Okay. Paid $5 for gas in the can. Pumped too fast and it blew up onto my person. Gas all over. Can doesn't hold $5. Can I get this in my car and get back to this stall so I get my remaining $1.88? My dear friend takes me to my "bleep bleep", I start pouring and it leaks all over, splashing onto my feet. Let me add, here, that once a can is purchased you must assemble. Directions are stamped into the plastic, making assembly impossible for a 50yr old, nearsighted lady. Back to "BLEEEEEEP!" Got in, car started. Friend left. Thanks Kate.
I raced back to the stall and 'aha!' $1.88 still there. I'm still wondering if I hadn't pressed the type of gas I wanted, if I would've gotten my credit. But, it was erased and I put my last $6 in. When a tank is that empty, $9 doesn't do much. As I walked toward the station I could see a huddle at the cash register, and knew it was about me. Reeking, I walked in and announced, "I'm bAAaaack!" "Say, I didn't use that entire $5 a minute ago...." "Yeah, I see that." Oh boy. After much discussion, I was given my $1.88 back. I went slinking home...or stinking home...dragged up the stairs while saying a quick prayer of thanks--yes, thanks--and walked in the apartment. "Everything running okay?", came the question from my son. "Great.", I say. "I ran out of gas, walked to friends, got ride, spilled gas all over, and I stink. Car's running fine." "Cool!" Seriously???
Gotta laugh at it all. Gotta. Or I'll strangle the first cheery person I see. Seriously.
Monday, October 18, 2010
My Best Guy
He is almost 5'8" tall, with blonds curls. He is intelligent, and has a great sense of humor. He has common sense--and uses it. He is athletic, and a natural leader. He knows right from wrong, and when faced with touchy decisions, chooses right more than wrong. He is not a morning person. He is not patient. He is protective of those he loves. And loves fiercely.
He will be fourteen in December.
As any mother, I remember that uber-cold day. I was scheduled to be induced due to pre-eclampsia, and the drip started at 8am. Boredom set in for his Dad and me within an hour. It was gonna be a long day! I don't remember what I did to pass the time. I know his Dad wandered in and out, and pitched cell phones to the nurses. He was a born salesman....
At some point I began to feel something. Uncomfortable, but manageable. The two of us walked up and down the halls, as was suggested during our classes. I must've been quite a sight, waddling with my drip rolling along. Getting back onto the table, once back in the birthing room, was like an episode of "I Love Lucy", with the comic error of it. By now it was about 11am, and I was really hurting. I told the nurse, who checked the monitor and told me to relax, as the tape showed very little in the area of contractions. Boy, I wondered, what do they consider a contraction cause I'm h u r t i n g!! After reporting, again, to the nurse, and her checking the tape--again--I was told that if I didn't show some "real" contractions by noon, I'd be sent home. Panic. I begged her to believe me...these were contractions. I'm not a doctor, but I think the medical term for what I was feeling was "holy crap that hurts!" The Dr. was called in to check me and I hadn't dialated. Yep, it was gonna be home for me.
At what point it was noticed that the labor belt had slipped, I don't know. Now keep in mind that all this time, the amount of pitocin was being increased to bring on the contractions because the machine didn't show jack. The inducer was working...the look of alarm on the nurse's face when the labor belt was adjusted was memorable. I remember wanting to mock "told ya, told ya", but I was in too much pain. According to the tape, my contractions were close to going off the tape. Call in the Doc.
When she came in I had high hopes, but I was going nowhere in terms of being baby friendly. I think I cried. Birth became imminent around 3 or maybe 5pm. Doc? Still not ready. Where was my focus point? I couldn't remember. Breathe. Can't, it makes me nauseous and faint. I think I snapped at the nurse on that point. So THIS is what all the fuss is about! Damn!
The steady increase of pitocin had caused violent contractions by that time. My blood pressure, which had been dangerously high in the first place, now registered on the the machine as "please fix me". Seriously! I don't remember much...the panicked look on his Dad's face, the nurses hustling, the frustration of two failed epidurals...and the Dr. checking and finding that I'd become baby ready in an hour! The relief of that alone must've brought my blood pressure down a little, but the machine still demanded attention.
At 7:01pm my best guy litterally flew into the doctor's hands. I was kind of fuzzy, but I swear she had a catcher's mitt on. His Dad snipped the cord, and our lives were changed forever. His cries were not howling, but cute...at least at first. I remember repeating my delight at his "cute" cries. After his sister came in and declared he was purple, and I'd received congrats from the in-laws, I relaxed. I felt elation. When the nurse put him with me to feed, I felt calm, warm.
As he grew, we became best buds. It was obvious to everyone how close we were. Too close? Maybe. But, I don't think so. Perhaps our relationship was in preparation for what we face now. It's just us. And it has it's bumps. He is almost 14. He has attitude, as all kids his age do. He knows it all, as all kids his age do. We are both stubborn. There has been door slamming and yelling and silences. But given time, these iron out, and we talk once again about hunting coyote, the war, and how he wishes I wouldn't talk to his Facebook friends. Apparently, it's embarrassing to have someone come up to him and mention something I said. Go figure...
Because I am in pain most of the time, I hope he doesn't see women as weak. I hope he sees my passions and sees women as strong and committed. I hope when he sees me cry, he knows it's okay to do it. I hope he continues to see himself as "a beast." I hope I will see him graduate. I hope I will seem him succeed. I hope the world for him.
For every moment of childbirth pain, there is a moment that he has captured my heart. The endless hugs when he was younger. The surprise of receiving a Mother's Day card when I thought he was too old to go for that stuff. His declaration of "you're a great Mom!", when discussing a less than stellar parent. And, the last minute "Happy Birthday, Mom. I Love You." as he exited the truck to go to school. I know he'd been holding onto that for effect. It worked. I cried for an hour.
He was, is, and always will be my Best Guy.
He will be fourteen in December.
As any mother, I remember that uber-cold day. I was scheduled to be induced due to pre-eclampsia, and the drip started at 8am. Boredom set in for his Dad and me within an hour. It was gonna be a long day! I don't remember what I did to pass the time. I know his Dad wandered in and out, and pitched cell phones to the nurses. He was a born salesman....
At some point I began to feel something. Uncomfortable, but manageable. The two of us walked up and down the halls, as was suggested during our classes. I must've been quite a sight, waddling with my drip rolling along. Getting back onto the table, once back in the birthing room, was like an episode of "I Love Lucy", with the comic error of it. By now it was about 11am, and I was really hurting. I told the nurse, who checked the monitor and told me to relax, as the tape showed very little in the area of contractions. Boy, I wondered, what do they consider a contraction cause I'm h u r t i n g!! After reporting, again, to the nurse, and her checking the tape--again--I was told that if I didn't show some "real" contractions by noon, I'd be sent home. Panic. I begged her to believe me...these were contractions. I'm not a doctor, but I think the medical term for what I was feeling was "holy crap that hurts!" The Dr. was called in to check me and I hadn't dialated. Yep, it was gonna be home for me.
At what point it was noticed that the labor belt had slipped, I don't know. Now keep in mind that all this time, the amount of pitocin was being increased to bring on the contractions because the machine didn't show jack. The inducer was working...the look of alarm on the nurse's face when the labor belt was adjusted was memorable. I remember wanting to mock "told ya, told ya", but I was in too much pain. According to the tape, my contractions were close to going off the tape. Call in the Doc.
When she came in I had high hopes, but I was going nowhere in terms of being baby friendly. I think I cried. Birth became imminent around 3 or maybe 5pm. Doc? Still not ready. Where was my focus point? I couldn't remember. Breathe. Can't, it makes me nauseous and faint. I think I snapped at the nurse on that point. So THIS is what all the fuss is about! Damn!
The steady increase of pitocin had caused violent contractions by that time. My blood pressure, which had been dangerously high in the first place, now registered on the the machine as "please fix me". Seriously! I don't remember much...the panicked look on his Dad's face, the nurses hustling, the frustration of two failed epidurals...and the Dr. checking and finding that I'd become baby ready in an hour! The relief of that alone must've brought my blood pressure down a little, but the machine still demanded attention.
At 7:01pm my best guy litterally flew into the doctor's hands. I was kind of fuzzy, but I swear she had a catcher's mitt on. His Dad snipped the cord, and our lives were changed forever. His cries were not howling, but cute...at least at first. I remember repeating my delight at his "cute" cries. After his sister came in and declared he was purple, and I'd received congrats from the in-laws, I relaxed. I felt elation. When the nurse put him with me to feed, I felt calm, warm.
As he grew, we became best buds. It was obvious to everyone how close we were. Too close? Maybe. But, I don't think so. Perhaps our relationship was in preparation for what we face now. It's just us. And it has it's bumps. He is almost 14. He has attitude, as all kids his age do. He knows it all, as all kids his age do. We are both stubborn. There has been door slamming and yelling and silences. But given time, these iron out, and we talk once again about hunting coyote, the war, and how he wishes I wouldn't talk to his Facebook friends. Apparently, it's embarrassing to have someone come up to him and mention something I said. Go figure...
Because I am in pain most of the time, I hope he doesn't see women as weak. I hope he sees my passions and sees women as strong and committed. I hope when he sees me cry, he knows it's okay to do it. I hope he continues to see himself as "a beast." I hope I will see him graduate. I hope I will seem him succeed. I hope the world for him.
For every moment of childbirth pain, there is a moment that he has captured my heart. The endless hugs when he was younger. The surprise of receiving a Mother's Day card when I thought he was too old to go for that stuff. His declaration of "you're a great Mom!", when discussing a less than stellar parent. And, the last minute "Happy Birthday, Mom. I Love You." as he exited the truck to go to school. I know he'd been holding onto that for effect. It worked. I cried for an hour.
He was, is, and always will be my Best Guy.
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