Mom vs. the Bird Brains

You have to admit, people are dumb. Or maybe just ignorant. So today, as I forge out into the world filled with people, I find myself forced to remember that it isn't their fault. It isn't their fault they don't know that you don't put an apostrophe in a plural. It isn't their fault that they don't know which "their, there, they're" to use. They are victims of poor teaching, or not caring enough about the language to not look like morons. (Or is it moron's?)

I've always loved language, and I am just nit-picky enough to learn all its rules and exceptions (I before E except after C and in "ay" sounds like neighbor). To not abide by these simple, simple rules just advertises one's stupidity/ignorance. I cringe when I read the uneducated sentences, often without correct punctuation, sometimes even without subject AND verb. It makes me shudder to think these people are out in the world, representing America and our "superior" education system. What makes me want to tear my hair out and writhe in agony, though, is when folks who ARE educated make these mistakes. They blatantly post signage with misplaced apostrophes, which I am certain has gone past more than one set of eyes. These are corporate bigwigs and managers, who get paid significant amounts of money to what? Look like boobs?

I will leave my red pen at home, as I often must when I go to work. No one likes to see their mistakes, after all, the ones they put out on their advertisements. But inside, my heart is breaking, one misplaced semicolon at a time.

Deer Camp-iness

Brian has been gone since November 5. Minnesota women know what deer season does to families, and we have learned to live with it. Men disappear into the woods with their fellow men; to kill, play cards, eat meat, burp, fart, shit in the leaves, and beat their chests. A few brief stop-ins for dinner and a quick shower have reminded me that I love my husband very much, but he drives me crazy! He makes messes and does what he can to get the children wound up and out of their routines I work so hard to establish.

Brian has been gone since November 5, with only a few brief stops at home. He watches the kids when I have to go to work and daycare is closed. He leaves me money in an envelope with a short love note on the front of it, with specific instructions of what to do with the contents. It is very much the life of a single parent, but it is like he is dead, not just gone. His family stops by at inconvenient times, I think just to make sure the kids aren't tied up or starving. They try to make it look like they are trying to help, but it is awkward and tense.

Brian has been gone since November 5. He hasn't seen many deer, and he hasn't shot any. He hasn't fired his rifle once. He is getting antsy and impatient, and as deer season winds down, his impatience escalates. He becomes short-tempered (unusual for him) and moody. I have nicknamed this condition "Deer Camp PMS."

Brian has been gone since November 5. He has not shot a deer, and his mood shows it. I hope, for the sake of my sanity, my marriage, and my children's love for their father that he shoots one before this week is over. Because there is a reason PMS doesn't last all month, and certainly not all year. Men would murder us if we acted like that all the time. I don't know if I can take a full year of him having not killed anything. (Garbage-picking raccoons DON'T COUNT!!!!)

Its been a while...

Its been a while since I was here. There has been lots of goings-on in my little world. I did a reading at College of St Scholastica (a paying gig!), been working (not-so-diligently) on my schooling, and dealing with the teething devil-baby. Good times. Someone posted something not too long ago that made me laugh, about how living with toddlers is like being at a frat party. How true that is! Multi-colored plastic cups in the bathtub, half-naked girl crying in the corner, the plethora of vomit, and my favorite, waking up with someone in your bed who wasn't there when you went to sleep, and all you can think is "gosh, I hope those underpants are clean!"

Really, though, I've missed this. Blogging gives me the chance to be inside my head, but not in the clouds like poetry. I can ignore the screaming baby, the dinner that won't cook itself, and my ever-present friend, Mt. Washmore.

My husband made a suggestion the other day that I quit my job. I entertained that notion for a while, since I would both love and hate to be a stay-at-home mom. I would have to give up my few luxuries that I enjoy: permanent hair removal, designer purses, and shoes. I thought about it, but then just decided that not having the ADULT human contact with other folks who are just as angry and educated as I am would drive me to suicide. I have learned to love them all, my co-workers. We are delightfully miserable in our situation. Although now I feel like I have a leg up because I could leave at any time and not be any worse for the wear.

I won't ever leave. That's not the point. The point is that I could if I wanted. Makes it just a little more bearable, I think.

Take the Power back

I got an anthology that I participated in through the mail today. In reading some of the poems in it, I was struck by how angry our youth is. No one writes complacent, happy poems. They are all vicious! These women have been scorned. I don't know by whom or what, but I am certainly glad I am not the object of their disdain.

I began thinking then, about the things I dislike in my world. Are they things that I can change, or will I be forced to accept these maladies without fight? Well, knowing me as well as I do, I won't go out without a fight. I ponder words that can direct views, I try them out while facing myself in the bathroom mirror. They are scary words, but I feel stronger and happier having said them, if only to myself.

I say them now, and to you. Don't be afraid to repeat them. "BEAUTY FADES, DUMB IS FOREVER" "IGNORANCE IS ONLY BLISS IF YOU ARE COMFORTABLE BEING IGNORANT." I smile now, pen in hand. I create. I touch lives. I save lives. I will not die forgotten or forgettable. I will live as long as those I touch, and those they touch. I am a wave in the sea, but the sea would be nothing without its waves.

Does the color of my skin change me?

I am white. I do not profess to be anything but. Lately, however, I have been being discriminated against for the color of my skin. You see, I have tattoos, and lots of them. Clearly, that makes me unfit to work in the public eye, and a delinquent for sure.

My employer hired me with my tattoos. I believe at that point I was hired for my knowledge and ability to perform specific job duties. Somewhere in there, though, things changed. Essentia health bought SMDC a while back, and since then, there have been some policy changes. One such change is that tattoos will no longer be allowed to be exposed.

I now have to wear long sleeves at work, which is fine 9 months out of the year, but in August, it really sucks. It also poses a moral issue. Is Essentia health telling me I have to cover up the color of my skin? That is the only way I see it. They want to exude a certain image, and the color of my skin doesn't jive with that. Hmmmm....that seems closely aligned with the KKK.

So I may or may not wear long sleeves to work. I'm still debating whether or not this is worth pissing folks off who can ultimately take away my paycheck. But, if that were to happen, would that not be a glorious lawsuit?

Conductivity

I like to think that all things are somehow connected. There is a certain electricity each individual possesses that connects or disconnects them from others, and there are a kind of invisible spiderwebs that interlink all our lives.

I find this to be true on a pretty much daily basis. I connect with people I would never have thought I would connect with in ways I rarely expect.

For example, just in random chit-chat with one of the nurses I work with, I discovered that she lives in my sister-in-law's old house.

I cared for my first boyfriend ever the other night in the ICU, even though I now live 400 miles from where I grew up.

I meet people with whom I am connected in bizarre ways, and some would argue that is the curse of the "small world." I agree that, yes, it is a small world. But Duluth is also a smaller town in a big, big world, and in order to maximize the benefit of this underlying system of links, we must behave in a way that is always becoming.

Because you never really know who you are going to find yourself connected to next, and you want to be looked upon favorably at all costs. Which makes it hard for folks like me, who sometimes come off as brash. But Nicki Minaj said it best "To all the bad girls, I can see your halos."

Hey Pops!

My dad has finally got himself on the internet. I think he read my blog, and now I feel like I'm grounded. He is upset about some of the content here, and though he didn't cite anything in particular, I think he is referring to my name-calling my children. Freeloaders, ankle-biters, the gamut. I didn't think I would offend anyone with those names, as I certainly have more explicit ones.

He told me everyone can see everything I am posting. He told me that once its in cyberspace, it never goes away. I guess this would freak me out if I were running for Governor, but I gave up that goose after my 6th DUI.

Ha! Just kidding, Dad. I never got a DUI, even though sometimes I probably should have. Governor's out, but President isn't... Besides if I'd have gotten a DUI you would have been the first to know, in spite of your inability to forget or forgive any of my mistakes.

Now, my dad's usually right. I'll give him that, but he still has yet to stop me from doing something I really want to do. I must get that from some strange and distant relative, cuz I sure don't get it from him OR my mom.

Name your baby something smart, He'll have it all his life.

In the past 5 years, I have heard a lot of baby names. We have tried a lot of names out, as we have had 3 babies in the past 4 years. Ultimately, the name you pick sticks, and the child has the name for all his days. That is a heavy weight to bear.

For Zane, I loved his name before he was even conceived. It is short, masculine (no question if he is a little boy or a little girl, even before you meet him) and suits every age, from infancy to adulthood. There are few shaming nicknames that can come from his name. It was perfect, and luckily my husband agreed.

Nora was more of a challenge. For the longest time, we thought of naming her Linnea, after Brian's grandmother. Those were some big orthopedic shoes to fill, though, and I wanted her to have her own identity. She was nameless for a while, too. All the girl names he liked were too flowery, all the ones I liked were too androgynous. We did not agree on any of them. I don't remember agreeing to name her Nora (though he swears I did) but when I arrived back to my hospital room after my c-section, there she was in her bassinette, a card propped in the front proclaiming "Nora Louise Erickson." I didn't have any better ideas, so I went along with it.

Luna's name was the last name of a villian in a YA novel I read while pregnant. Actually his name was Gabriel Luna. And since I was forbidden from naming her Gabriel/Gabrielle, I settled for Luna. Luna has morphed into Luna Tuna, an unfortunate nickname that I should have forseen, but I don't mind. She will only mind after she is 13 or so, so I think we are good.

I have heard a lot of really dumb names in my day, though, working in Pediatrics, and formerly in Pediatrics in a Ghetto Hospital.

One woman had twin boys and had no idea what to name them until she looked at her menu selections: Lemonjello and Orangejello (said l'mongelo and o'rangelo) were born. Jesus.

Optimus Prime is a friend of a friend's little boy. I wonder if they are that big of nerds, or if they just thought that was the coolest name ever. Yes, I was named after a Transformer. Not any Transformer, but the leader of the Autobots. THAT CHILD WILL HAVE TO GET A JOB SOMEDAY!!!

My neighbors, who are whiter than white, have a little girl named Beyonce. I refuse to call her that, and my kids won't either. Its just too embarassing to say. We all call her Bea.

The best one, though, was the little boy who came to the ER many years ago. Shithead. Sure, they said it "She-they-ed" but it still read Shithead. The shit of it was, they had beaten him to death. So somewhere out there, there is a little headstone in a graveyard that reads "Shithead Smith." Jesus.

People really need to consider connotation and denotation when going through the baby name book, is all I am saying.

Private questions

I'm thinking about private school next year for Ava. She is competitive in her academics, yet we are too poor to send her to the 15K a year (that's college, people!!!) prep school. The private we are looking at is about 1/3 the cost, and the test scores are the same. The thing is, she can start next year. Should we start her next year so she doesn't have to have the turmoil of going to middle school AND high school? (This is a k-12 private.) Should Casey go, even though she is enjoying her middle school? (She is going for H.S.--I see this in only a cost-effective way.)

I am perplexed by these questions, and think of them only in my own selfish ways. I want to do what is best for these girls. Any suggestions?

Odds are...

Today is my friend Kate's wedding. She has been so excited and so wrapped up in planning this day, I have hardly heard from her in the past 5 months. I can't be there--the wedding is in Florida--but I wish her the best. She will be a beautiful and happy bride, and I hope she and her spouse have many, many anniversaries.

The thing is, Kate is marrying a woman. I don't care, but so many people do, I can't believe it. Who would deny someone as sweet as Kate the only happiness she has known on THAT premise? It seems so selfish and silly.

I have come to know Kate's partner, Nicole, over the past couple months vicariously through facebook and her responses to Kate's posts. They seem truly in love. I have never thought her to be gruff or harsh, like so many husbands are to their wives. I have always been an "ally" but up until the past month only thought the term was "fag hag".

I just don't care what goes on in other peoples' bedrooms. That is of no concern to me. It doesn't affect me or my relationship with my husband, so I don't know why anyone would care. I also consider the odds. I have seven children. Odds are pretty good that one or more of them might be gay. I hardly think I would love them any less if they were. I might love them more, in fact, for their adversity.

Take that, gay bashers. Throw some rocks in your glass houses. Everything looks convoluted through the spiderwebs of broken glass. And if that's how you want to see the world, fine by me. But please keep your hateful "Marriage = Man + Woman" bumper stickers to yourself. They seem so immature and offensive. That would be like saying "Only blondes can have babies" and I think there was a little German guy with a funny moustache who tried that once.

Try loving the folks you don't understand. It makes the world that much of a nicer place. And it takes far less energy, so you could conserve your efforts for truly important causes like preventing child abuse. Just sayin'...

Anniversary

Where were you when the Twin Towers crumbled?
If you are in your late 20's or older, I am sure that day resonates in your memory, especially today, on the 10th anniversary of this disaster. I remember being in RT school, in a fog, and trying to muddle my way through my ventilator lab with my partner, Theresa Fanara. Our instructor told us that the World Trade Center had been hit by an airplane, and the only thought that I had at that moment was "Damn, it must be foggy in New York today." I lived in such a bubble that even after he announced the second airplane had hit the towers, I still thought this was an innocent thing, but that these pilots must have some serious troubles if they are crashing into buildings that everyone knows are there.
I was oblivious to terrorism or to the broad label of "terrorist activity" that encompasses still today, anything destructive done by anyone of Muslim descent. I still kind of am. I like my bubble, but the walls have become a little clearer lately.
No, I don't panic when I see anyone of Middle Eastern heritage like some people. But I guess I am a little more aware of the world and the things that are going on around me. In fact, just yesterday, I had a perfectly sober conversation with a complete stranger about the droughts in Texas and how they were affecting the prices of beef.
What 9/11 taught me was to pay more attention. I am sure that wasn't the lesson the "terrorists" were aiming to teach us Americans. I'm certain it had something to do with learning our place in the hierarchy of our world, but I didn't get that. Not many folks did. It was just another reason to hate another ethnic group.
I feel for the folks who lost people in 9/11. I feel for our country as a general whole. Yes, it was a blow, and yes, it was met with blind opposition ala George W. Bush. But I firmly believe if we had paid more attention to what was going on outside our own little bubble, the whole thing could have been avoided and/or deterred.

On this, the 10th anniversary of 9/11, I will remember. I remember where I was and what I was doing. Those are things I will never forget. But I also realize that it was the "Me" and the "I" mentality that brought on these attacks, and that is a lesson most refuse to learn, even at such great cost.

Right Wing Clowns

I rarely use places like Facebook or my blog to tout my political views, but there is a face on the horizon that looms like Pennywise the Clown--you remember the fanged clown from Stephen King's "It"? Possibly the scaries motherfucker ever, aside from maybe this Michelle Bachmann. She is terrifying.
This woman thinks we can "pray the gay away." Ok, so lots of right wingers believe this. But it goes beyond this. She also thinks the hurricanes our coasts have been enduring as of later are the result of the U.S.'s crumbling economy? I have a very active imagination, and I cannot fathom any way that these two things can even be related, much less one the direct result of the other.
Just the fact that there are folks out there who support this kind of fruitcake is scary enough. The fact that she is a political front-runner does not speak well of Americans' education or common sense. Its not so common, after all, it turns out.
No wonder all the sane nations out there in the world think Americans are all morons. Look at who we vote for. Look at who we vote against. Why can't we get a politician in office who has a firm grasp on the reality of our problems and some real solutions, instead of these cockamamie dimwits who think "We all float down here"?

Drunken ramblings

I'm trapped in a sandy bed with a 2 year old, a 6 month old sleeping in a pack-n-play 3 feet from said bed. The walls here are so thin you can hear someone (who shall remain nameless) fart in the next room, even with the door shut. The lights are all off. The sleep sheep is set on "rain" mode and there are probably ten minutes left until it turns off by itself. I ate cheese quesadillas with jalepenos for supper at the bar next to the resort we are staying at after a long day of drinking tequila.
The room is spinning, but only a little. There is a mosquito buzzing in my ear. The four older kids are outside the window playing baseball with a neighbor boy.
So, NO. I don't want to have sex with you right now. I want to read my book by the light of the booklight. I want to fall asleep without a wet spot on the sheets for the sand to stick to. But I want you to love me like you did before all these babies and all this fat and insecurity took over. I know you won't leave me. I know you won't hurt me. I know you will do what you can to make life good for me and for the babies. They won't be babies long, you know. But I want it to be out there that I love you more now than I did yesterday, even if I don't feel like a little booty. I love you more than last week or last year. It just keeps growing, but I wonder if you see that.
I wonder if you realize I'm not glamorous for a reason. I wonder if you care. I see how you look at me and some days it just breaks my heart. Other days its all I can do to care. I know you love me. I just wish you'd tell me sometimes.

The gift of Imperfection

Valium. I'm not on it, but maybe I should be. It was the drug of choice to make housewives of the 1950's complacent. I could use a little complacency. No, I'm more like a 60's/80's mix--all jumped up on white crosses, cocaine, coffee...whatever it takes to get me through. My blood sometimes feels like its on fire. Definitely an upper kind of girl, opposed to the other end of the spectrum.

I don't really take drugs. Well, sometimes a Tylenol Allergy-Sinus when things get out of control with the pollen...but other than that, I'm not lucky enough to be an addict. Addicts seem to get all the breaks. Their addictions define them, and whether or not they realize it, they become a tool of their addictions. I tried for a long time to be a pot addict, but unfortunately, the only addiction forged between myself and Mary Jane was a purely psychological one. Maybe that is how all addictions start. Maybe if I would have stuck with being a pothead, or maybe would have gone at it a little harder, there would have been some physical repercussions. But what can I say? I'm a quitter.

I'd like to have a coke addiction: sniff a little powder and be all energized and motivated. Get skinny. I've heard that gets expensive, though, and can't stomach the idea of spending money on myself like that. Meth isn't my gig, I treasure my teeth way too much, and I have awesome skin. Why would I want to fuck that up to be a tweaker? Heroin would be ok, I guess, but I dislike the idea of shooting up, and could see myself O.D.ing way too easily. I guess I can just reason with myself that all these imperfections are just too imperfect. I'm too fucking smart for that.

I'll just stick with the addictions I have: purses and school. Because a girl can never be too smart or have too many cool bags.

Britney who?

The other morning I was at work and the "new" Britney Spears video came on. While my co-worker Sara and I commented on how she was trying way to hard to be "bad" these days, I was thinking how much Brit looks like a confused 12-year-old. Um, yeah, she was cursing, and then making out with random folks, which I was thinking was really relevant to her song (not) and how proud of this she will be in ten years when her boys are watching it with their friends. Who wants their mom to be shower-masturbation-material? NOBODY! Ew.

Then, the true icing on the cake. The mighty Ms. Spears had already appealed to as many demographics as I thought humanly possible. The badasses, the wannabe badasses, boys everywhere, and skanks looking for inspiration. But lo! One more! She is a true genius. Zombies. Now nerds everywhere can relate to her too!

Jesus Christ, her marketing team must have a combined IQ of about 42.

Popsicles are a sonofabitch!

So Zane and Nora love themselves some popsicles. They eat them like they are going out of style. I don't mind much. They keep them happy and hydrated on the few hot days that we have. Sure, they leave the sticks laying about, but how hard is it to pick those up and throw them away, since they lick them dry each and every time they have one?

My beef is with the freezer. More than once, after a popsicle raid has occurred, I have found the freezer not quite shut, with frosties growing out the door. I yell. Well, more like bellow. We have a little "lesson" on how to close the freezer. I tell them they have to close the freezer EVERY SINGLE TIME they get something out of it. They say they understand, and I think they do, because I haven't found the freezer open again.

I did however note a funky odor coming from the basement. I peeked. Freezer shut, check. Over the day, the odor became fouler and fouler. I investigated further and found that the reason the freezer shut was that the infamous Not Me had been at it again. Sixteen pounds of steaks shoved in the lego bin, fully defrosted and turning grey. No one knew anything about that. But they were both adamant that they had closed the freezer tight.

You just gotta love em, because otherwise, you will lose your mind.

Doctors make me Sleepy

Today, being my only day off this week that is not a recovery day from a night shift or a day off in between a night shift and a day shift (affectionately known as the "fake day off"), was the day reserved for Zane and Luna to visit their pediatrician. My day-care provider was back in full-swing after her week off for her vacation, so I ditched Nora for the day.

How does one little girl make everything so hectic? Hanging with Zane and Luna was fine. Relaxing, even. Sure I had to make Z lunch, had to feed LunaTuna her lunch and comfort her a little following her immunizations, but it was fine. Nothing like the madness that ensued as soon as Nora walked through the door.

The screeching and cackling. The running and tormenting of others. I found myself yelling at Zane, too, for the first time today. He was totally feeding into the madness. She would lay across him on the couch, he would respond with "NOOOOR-a." She stole the blanket away from him on several occasions.

Now they are both in bed. LunaTuna too, but I don't know how long she will sleep. Going to the doctor is apparently a big day when you are 5 months old. And it wiped her out. I kinda hope she stays asleep so I can soak in the tub upstairs and shave my legs without having to listen to her crab or complain. I would like her to stay asleep, but only if it lasts til morning. I kinda doubt it will. I forsee getting up at 3, but I will take my chances, I guess.

5 things kids say that PROVE you are a shitty parent

5. My mom/dad says I'm perfect. You're wrong.

4. I don't have to!

3. Fuck you, I want that goddam candy!

2. My mom/dad is on the PTA and she/he can make your life miserable.

1. Thank you for the Baby Jesus, that little Motherfucker.

All of these have been uttered in my presence. Some by my children, some not. (#2? C'mon!) And its awful hard not to bust a gut sometimes. But they affirm the fact that today's youth bear a sense of entitlement like nobody's business.

Arabic

Much to my father's dismay, I refute learning the "mother tongue" and choose instead to try to pick up Arabic. It seems like it will be far more useful. I have ordered lesson 1 of Rosetta Stone, which is, from what I understand, the method the military uses. I am presently trying to teach myself the alphabet, but I wonder if my Broca's is broken, because it isn't going too well.

Regardless, it is a beautiful script, and I may be destroying it with my attempts. My apologies.

Why would I want to learn Arabic? Well, what language will most need translators employed by the U.S. Government? Its not Chinese anymore. Not Russian. Its Arabic. Being a translator is hardly my dream job, but being a spy would be fun. I'm not into danger so much anymore, and I just re-read The Mission Song by John LeCarre, so being a spy appeals to me. Its not going to kill me to try and do something with my free time besides write, and considering how much dinero I make writing, its probably a good idea to have a fall-back career. Not that being a respiratory therapist isn't a career, its just more of a job to me.

So Rosetta Stone. Has anyone used it? Why doesn't the library carry it?

The sweet, sweet sadness

Last week, Zane, my 3 1/2 year old spent his first night away from both me and my husband. It was his first time away from us, from home. Granted, he was at his grandparents (the land of fun and never-say-no) with his two older sisters, but I was surprised it went as well as it did.

I figured the first couple nights would be fine. And they were. But homesick? Not my little guy! I called one night to see how things were going, wanted to talk to Z on the phone. He told me "I can't talk right now, Mama. I'm too busy playing." Ok, fine. I wiped my tears back and chalked it up to him having a good time. Can't discount him that, right?

Well, this morning when I asked him if he wanted to call someone to come over and play, he informed me that he no longer "plays," he now "hangs out." This is going way too fast for me. He is not cool enough to "hang out." He is just a little boy! I went to the bathroom and wept. I want my little Zane "Pine" Martin back, even if it means he doesn't get to stay at grandma and grandpa's and I don't get a much needed week off!

Water

Naturally, water is our friend. We are made of 99.3% water. Without it we are merely dust. We use it to cook, clean, drink, bathe, and many more functions. But sometimes, as our news of late shows, water turns against us.

Duluth has had some insane rains lately, which means washed-out roads, swelling rivers, and flash floods. Two mothers have lost their babies to the water: one young swimmer in the public pool in Cloquet, the other a teen swimming in the Lester River. Several "near-drownings" have presented to the hospital, as they do every summer in the Land of 10,000 Lakes.

Now, I know some Bible thumper somewhere is puffing out his chest, caressing the backyard ark he has been just waiting to use. The neighbors laughed at him for building it, but now they are thinking it might not have been such a bad idea. But lets not get that out-of-control just yet.

Water happens. Its necessary to most all the functions of life. Go a day without it, I dare you. Go two days and you will want nothing more than a tall cold glass of the tasty wet stuff. But watch your kids when they swim. Easier said than done, I know, but it is worth it, every second of the scanning of the surface of the pool or lake they are in, to not have to pull them from it. To never have to do CPR on a drowned child is not a dream that most mothers have, but it is one of mine.

Please, if your child can't swim, or isn't a strong swimmer, take them to swimming lessons. Make them wear a lifejacket, even if it isn't cool. Because its much better to be uncool and alive than the most awesome dead kid ever, I promise. Explain to them why they can't go in rivers after heavy rains. Most importantly, watch them like hawks in the water.

My heart breaks for the families of these children who have died in the water. I cannot fathom the anguish and despair they must feel. I hope I never have to find out what it feels like.

New Car

After a brief discussion with DH about buying a new car (well, not NEW, but new to me) he decided that I was indeed an emotional buyer who was easily pressured. That meant he had to come along to be the voice of reason, perhaps the only one in my head, when making such a major purchase.

I had my heart set on a Toyota Sequoia, the BIG SUV. I was ready to be king of the road, and if laying down 15 or 20 grand was what it took, sobeit. I searched, found two, and test drove one. It was 20 grand. The other one I found was 38 grand. No way I can afford that, no matter what the salesman assures me the payments will be. NO FREAKING WAY am I EVER going to spend that much of my hard-earned dinero on anything!!!

The voice of reason chimed in, saying "Why don't we look at the Chevys?" We have always owned Chevys. They are mid-line American vehicles. I wanted something foreign and flashy for once. To humor him, more than anything, I said "why not" and off to Kolar we went.

The first car we looked at was a Tahoe. It was red. The doors were open. The mileage was decent. The front seat was a bench seat. Upon further inspection, this Tahoe seated nine people, got better mileage than our faithful Suburbans, and was pretty slick. It was red, after all. I was sold when I counted the seatbelts and there were indeed 9 of them. We could all feasibly ride in one vehicle, albeit crammed in like sardines. It was totally legal.

DH did all the wheeling and dealing, which really didn't entail much. We asked the salesman what they wanted for the truck and he told us. The price was far better than I expected it to be. Then DH offered him $600 less, just on principle. The guy checked with his sales manager, who okayed the deal. All we had to do was sign.

And now we have a pimped out ride that we all fit in. It may look like a clown car with all of us Ericksons weighing it down, but its red. How could it be wrong?

Mistakes first-time parents make

The other night, I was chatting over margaritas with my friend Lacey. Lacey is young and has no children. She is not married, and she and her boyfriend of four years are "thinking about" getting engaged. She is one of those girls that girls like me used to love to hate. She does everything in the right order: college, a job, a boyfriend, an apartment, a ring, an engagement party, a wedding, and THEN a baby. I have since relegated my hatred for those girls as envy, one of those seven deadlies. I love Lacey. She is smart and sassy and unpretentious in so many ways, and very realistic about the demands of my life compared to hers. I think that is mostly why I can still call her my friend: she gets that I can't meet her on ten minutes notice for a drink or even a cup of coffee. She gets that having more than a ten minute conversation with an adult is a cherished and scarce happening in my life. So having drinks and conversation the other night was amazing.

Fortunately, we got on a topic I love. Helicopter parents. The swooping, meddling PTA parents who have nothing better to do than try to make their kids' lives unrealisticly easy. The dads who call their sons "Buddy" and "Sport" and do things like coach their soccer teams and then have all the little shits over after the game to swim in their pools, the moms who share clothes with their daughters and think that "quality time" is looking for new eye-shadows and designer jeans on sale. Someone wise once said to me "I will be my kids' friend when they are 25. For now, I'm Mom, and don't you forget it!" (Thanks, Mom~Love you!)

I cannot agree more. Kids need to understand that parents are not always going to bail them out. If they act like shits, they will be treated accordingly. Parents who makes excuses for their children are fostering this new breed of child who has no respect or fear of authority. I call them "Shits." The parents AND the children.

The best compliment a mother can get is that she has well-behaved children, as far as I am concerned. And when my kids come home from places like sleep-away camp and their grandparents' houses and people tell me how well-behaved, respectful of adults, and polite they are, my heart swells with pride. I feel like I really am teaching them something. All the yelling is really working!!!!

Not-so-happy Campers

The three middle kids (Rudy, Ava, and Casey--12,10, and 11 respectively) have been gone this past week at sleepover camps. I would have given my eye-teeth to go to summer camp in the long, boring days that ran together in my summer vacation.

I did get to go, a couple times, when I was older. (14 & 15) Then I was unappreciative because 1) I was a sullen teenager 2) I wanted to stay home and hang with my friends, all of whom could drive me to the mall 3)the camp I went to was more like a work-camp than anything else, and the "work" was waterskiing. I look back now, and it was a good way for my folks to keep me out of their hair and out of mischief. They could rely on someone else to keep vigil and make sure I wasn't sneaking out to meet boys. They could breathe a little easier.

That aside, I like sending my kids to camp. They get to do fun shit that would otherwise be foregone for XBOX360 or iCarly and other mindless television blather. The girls are going to YMCA camp at Camp Miller, which is my idea of a great time! Horseback riding AND swimming AND rock climbing AND arts and crafts? I almost wish I could pass for 13 or 14 and spend the $380 and send myself. Rudy's camp is more focussed. He plays hockey, trains for hockey, and does all kinds of hockey-related crap. Which is great if you love hockey like he does. That camp sounds like torture to me.

So today when they get home, I better hear some "thank-you"s and see some smiling faces. I want to hear about all the fun you had, you little ingrates! I want to live vicariously through you! I want to forget my week trapped with a rambunctious 3 year old, a barely potty-trained 2 year old, and a clingy infant in the high humidity 90s. I want to forget that I had no day-care for this week. I want to GO to CAMP, DAMMIT!!!!

PSYCH!!!

Did I almost get you? You really thought I could shut up about my life and my kids for THAT LONG??? Wow, I am impressed with your impression of me. I do not have that much self control, nor will I ever.

Today I am on the potty-training bandwagon. Nora will pee in the pot, but not shit. She only shit in the pot for the first couple days of this endeavor--granted its been less than a week--but I am already damn sick of swishing shitty underpants in the toilet. I know some of you childless folks out there, or those of you with kids too little to go in the pot yet, you're cringing at the thought. The other option is to wad up perfectly good underpants and throw them in the garbage. That is my husband's solution, but since I am currently on a limited budget, and am now realizing that landfill space too is just as limited, I'm a swisher.

There is nothing more joyous though, than early this morning, about 5, to hear her little cartoon-character voice from the bathroom upstairs say "Mommy, I made a poop-snake in the potty! Like a big girl!" I want to hug her, squoosh her into bed with me, from the relief of this exclamation. I will not be swishing little girl panties this morning! The turds made it into the pot! VICTORY!!!

And now to tackle the After-Lunch Poopie.

Hiatus

I'm officially back to work on my MFA, so I'll be spending my time writing focussed craft essays and new poetry instead of spilling my guts on MOP. Please don't hate me. Please don't curse my name. Just understand that this is one of those things. I will be back (if only briefly) for a stint in December. Maybe before, if things go well. I hope that they go well.

My kids will be neglected. My house will fall into disrepair. Laundry will have to wait for the one day a week that I can devote to it. My concentration will be nil. I'll resort to quick dinners like spaghetti and hot dogs instead of chicken tetrazzini and handmade sausage and rice balls. I will be distracted at work. I will be distracted at home. I will miss school performances. I will NOT miss school conferences, as much as I would like to.

But it will be done. I will finish a terminal degree. I will be the best writer I can for it. I will hopefully get emails from agents and publishers and maybe even fans. I would like to acquire a job in an English department at one of the local colleges. I would like my kids' education to be paid for, since that was one of those things I was kind of counting on, what with all the money I have dumped into my own education.

Say a prayer for me, for my family, and for our sanity and happiness. Ciao until further notice, y'all!

Back to Brunetter

I tried my hand at being a blonde. I felt like how black girls look with platinum hair: totally unnatural. It wasn't even an unruly shade of blonde, kinda strawberry with some lemon colored highlights. It just wasn't me.

I couldn't write as a blonde. I couldn't yell at my kids. I couldn't even roll my eyes. They all felt wrong. I bought a Cosmo and let the magazine decide. I made a deal with myself that I would open the mag and if the model was a blonde, I'd keep it for at least another week. If the model was a brunette, I'd buy a box of dye to get me through til my sister-in-law could weedle me back into her schedule at the salon.

Commence opening....aaaaand......Kim Kardashian. Not really fair, since she is on just about every page of every mag, but I'll take it. So me and Miss Clairol are conspiring right now (Or "processing" for you hair folks out there). I sure hope I can write after this is all said and done, cuz if my momentary lapse into blonde-dom zapped that, I am gonna be PISSED!

Hiding out

Its hot. Its wet. Sounds like the inside of someone else's mouth? Nope, its Duluth the past couple days. Horrid humidity and heat that even central air works hard to combat.

Yesterday when I went out to my truck to get something,I had to turn it on, just to see the numbers. 95 degrees! Disgusting. It doesn't help, either, that this is the week I should be in CT at my residency for school (makes me kinda angry and resentful), the kids' daycare is closed (I guess my daycare lady likes to go on vacation too), and I have PMS.

We are currently hunkered down in the a/c, watching the goonies, trying to think of things for supper that don't need to be cooked much. And certainly not in the OVEN.

Days like these are the reason I hate summer. If I could get 75 and dry every day, like what this summer has given us so far, it'd be fine. But this sucks.

Girl Day

Girl Day began as me asking who wanted to come with me to the post office. Nora, who always wants to go everywhere, shrieked in delight. Luna, who has to go everywhere, pretty much, slept in her carseat. Ava asked to come with.

Well the post office quickly became a trip to Wal-Mart for more underpants for Ms. I Pee On the Potty Now, and a trip to Wal-Mart is never complete unless I spend $50. But all three of those little ladies got new swimsuits, and Ava used the "I won't need a new one for Florida this way" tool. Ah, well. I'm a sucker for a girl in a swimsuit.

Upon arriving home, there was some discussion of my nail polish, which I purchased yesterday. Both girls (10 & 11) decided that it looked awesome, and I had to agree. Then they wanted theirs done. Ok, fine. Then they wanted pizza for lunch. Can do. Then they wanted to "help" me make cookies for their trip to Camp Miller on Sunday. Apparently, starvation is likely without cookies on an hour long bus ride. Cookies it is.

Now they are both passed out upstairs, newly painted nails dragging on the floor. Nora's napping, Luna's napping and I think Zane passed out downstairs watching Sponge Bob. The older boys went on an "adventure" down to Lakeside to get some donuts from the bakery. (I have to make up these dumb little adventures for them to get them out of the house so they don't drive me bonkers with their boyness) And I'm still cranking out these fucking cookies. If I see one more chocolate chip, I think I am going to lose it!!!

Reading List

I am a self-proclaimed bookslut. I love the library. I love bookstores. love AMAZON.COM. I really I even love garage sales that have lots of books. Possibly the only things I love as much as books are purses, and they are frivolous and impractical.

From time to time I will read a book that really sticks to my ribs. The latest on is called High Before Homeroom. I thought it would be a flaky YA novel, and on one level it was. But it went so much beyond that, I nearly forgot that layer of it. Maya Sloan is the author, and she hits the nail on the proverbial head with her depiction of mediocrity, those of us who are bored with our own mediocrity, and the responses to it. Its almost like she has lived it.

This novel is wonderfully written, wonderfully executed, and suprisingly not as far-fetched as one might expect. (A lot of YA novels are.) Bravo, Ms. Sloan. You rocked my world, and nobody has done that for a while.

Hypocrite

So not long ago, I posted something somewhere about quitting dying my hair. After today, I take it all back. All of it. Every syllable.

I can't say how long it has been since my hair was blonde. A LONG TIME. I went to my sister-in-law's salon Avenue 45 in Lakeside today with something drastic in mind. The poor girl must think I am bi-polar. Everyone must, for that matter.

My hair was au naturel. No dye since before my pixie cut last November. No product. Nothing. Brown. Scratch that. MOUSE brown. And ugly. Drab. Not in tune with my sparkling personality at all. I went a little nute, though, and fear I may have overdone it.

My tresses are now dark blonde with VERY light highlights. There is really no telling how long it will stay that way, but it will be at least until the summer is done. Oddly, I feel younger. I can't walk past a mirror without making sure its really me. It looks strange, but truth, as they say, is stranger than fiction.

I'm trying to grow this disaster out, so I think once it hits my shoulders it will go back to being dark. But in the meantime, I am enjoying life on the lighter side of things. Its a little weird, but I don't mind. I'll be back to my dark side soon enough. I'm trying to enjoy being a blonde, and you'll excuse me if I'm a bit more flaky than usual.

The Threat

In preparation for the next week, which is predicted to be sweltering 85-90 degree weather and high humidity (ok, maybe not sweltering for you southerners, but in Duluth? C'mon, that's what I came here to get away from!) Mother Nature has granted us with 4 days of jeans-and-sweatshirt weather. 60's. Ok, maybe not really sweatshirt weather, but I can fake it.

This has been an all around decent summer as far as the weather goes. I can't really complain, since the average temperature has been something like 67 since the official "start of summer." But I was hoping to make it over to the Head o Lakes fair in Superior this weekend. If its 100 degrees, I am going to be crabby and miserable. I am not going to want to smell manure and pet animals whose hair will then stick to my sweaty places (all my places, would be my guess with temps like that!) I am not going to want to stand in line to ride shitty rides that are held together with cotter pins and duct tape. I am MOST DEFINITELY not going to want to have to take my newly potty-trained 2 1/2 year old into a port-a-jon over and over, with my 4 month old in tow. I am not going to want to smell greasy carnies or greasy food (right, who am I kidding?! Being on a diet sucks when there are corn dogs and cotton candy and real dairy ice cream to be had.)

I already mentioned it to the kids, so I can't really reneg on it either. Those little fuckers have memories like elephants, but I can only hope with the lingering excitement of packing for hockey camp and Camp Miller, they will forget! I doubt Zane will let them, though, since he already made sure he was tall enough to ride the big kid rides with the tape measure, like 8 times.

Early mornings

Luna woke me this morning at 2:36. Little devil-child must be growing because she used to never wake up during the night. Now all she does is eat and go back to sleep. Wish I could!

No, once I am up, I am up. I listened to my neighbor come home at three. (What 55 year old Native woman comes home at 3AM? I'll tell you, the one who lives next door to me, Linda does!) I listened to her empty her recycle bin, which must contain solely bottles. I listened to the paperboy come at 5, the quick THAWCK of the paper landing on her stoop.

As the morning progressed, it got light way before the sun came up. And now I am ready for bed again. Too bad I can't sleep on Luna's schedule, which is pretty much any time she wants for as long as she wants. (It usually amounts to about 20 hours a day.)

No, just as I was drifting off, THUMP. The sound of 40 pounds hitting the floor above me. One of the terrors was up, which meant the other would be soon too. Resigned to the idea of getting out of bed at 6, I groan. This wakes DH, who leaps out of bed on a mission to make his coffee.

WHY DOES EVERYONE BUT ME HAVE TO BE SO GODDAM CHEERFUL IN THE MORNING????
I give up. I'm making pancakes and sausage for the beasts. I'm drinking coffee. Maybe I will find some motivation at the bottom of this cup. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.

It might be a nap day, that being said.

Sounds of Summer in Woodland

Tonight the a/c is off. The windows are open. No thunderstorm is approaching. The humidity is a pleasant 24%. All the noises of the neighborhood seem amplified, since they are no longer muffled by our sealed-up tomb of a house.

The crows are cawing in the pine tops across the street, no doubt circling in on the dentist's garbage. What a dentist throws away that crows and other varmint find so appealling is beyond me, but it seems like every week someone is out picking shreds of his garbage up after the Tuesday pick-up.

Some redneck is racing his engine at the stop sign by the Piggly Wiggly. I wonder who for, but only briefly, as the roar of the engine is cut short by the squeal of his tires. Somewhere in the distance, a siren blips.

My littlest baby is snoring ever-so-quietly beside my bed. Our tv is on, but its on low enough so I can only hear the underhum through a closed bedroom door. The dog is panting. The big kids are downstairs playing XBOX360.

Life is good. Summer is wonderful, and I wish it would last a little longer than it does up here in the North. The winters get long and brutal, but I guess that is the only reason I can appreciate nights like this, nights with the windows open, no sweatshirt required.

Photoshopped....

On Wednesday, my little Luna Tuna is getting her pictures taken professionally. So am I, for book jacket purposes, since it seems like everyone who publishes my stuff wants a picture. For some reason, they don't appreciate cartoons, even if they're funny.

How do I want to look in this picture? Artsy, badass, sensitive, caring and smart. I hope they can work in my tatoos somehow. Maybe they have photoshop and can shave a few pounds off here and there, or everywhere. "Enhanced" I think they call that.

How do I want my sweet baby to look? Sweet, sparkly, alert, smiley. All the things she is. She doesn't need a cartoon, but if she were one, she would be Maggie Simpson, minus the pacifier. Luna prefers her thumb.

Insomnia

I don't think I did enough today. I am usually in bed asleep by 9, and now here it is 1120 and I'm up and attem. I finished my book (Phantom Prey--John Sanford. 6 out of 10) and did all the laundry, which included the pairing of all the socks. God, how I hate the socks. I'm thinking about starting a new book (Soul Catcher by Michael White) but I'm frightened I won't like it and will, in turn, lose respect for the author who is also my grad school program director.

I've thought about writing some poetry, but nothing stirs my emotions these days. I feel shitty about myself, for the most part. I always do when I eat a bunch of crap. I know it before I do it, while I'm doing it, and yet I still do it. Goodbye large movie theatre popcorn. Goodbye Culver's chicken tenders and large iced tea. Fuck, maybe its the tea keeping me up, not the big greasy glop in my gut. Tea has caffeine, right?

Maybe its because this state shutdown seems to be going on longer than it should and I don't know if I am going to get unemployment or not. Maybe there is just too much shit going on in my head!

Any way you look at it, I can't sleep. I'm not doing anything productive. I ate a bunch of crap and feel shitty for it. I really have to work on this...so I'm going to turn to my stack of library books and pick one and hope its dull enough to put me to sleep. Wish me luck and only a few sheep in my counting lineup.

What were we thinking?

Taking Nora to a movie: a lesson in futility. No 2 1/2 year old can behave in someplace dark and quiet after eating 11 servings of chewy sweet tarts and a half gallon of soda. She screams, she climbs, she cries! Maybe in another year? Big maybe. My apologies to everyone else who was trying to view Cars 2 this afternoon.

Middle finger project

So there are lots of things in life that deserve the ole "Fuck You!" Let me begin then, my "Middle Finger Project." Perhaps it will be deemed worthy of its own web site someday. (I'm thinking big, here!)

What pisses you off? What, in your opinions (and I know you have 'em, otherwise you wouldn't read this blog) deserves the Middle Finger? Let me begin:

1. Bad drivers, on any day of the week, not just Sunday. Duluth is full of them. Folks sit at 4-way stops waving each other through, ignoring right-of-way left and right, and while it might seem like a courteous thing to do, it grows ever-annoying.

2. Shitty bosses. The kind who act like they are on your side and then do things to make your job infinitely less pleasant and far more unbearable. Its bad enough we gotta go to work anyway, but a little support would be nice.

3. Humidity. On a 90 degree day. Need I say more?

4. Bad customer service. Like when the cashier at the grocery store can't even speak to you to tell you the total of your purchases, but instead expects you to look at the display. That's just fucking rude.

I'm sure the list goes on. And on. And on. I am going to start passing out the middle finger like candy. Because I can and should. You should too. Forget this Minnesota-nice crap, where we act like these things are no big deal and then bitch about them later. That's known as Passive-Aggressive, and its the reason folks have high blood pressure and strokes. Let's all start flipping these folks the bird, maybe that will alter the way they act and treat other people.

I'm certain they will act all offended, as if they had done nothing wrong. And maybe they don't realize they did. But if you give them the ole "courtesy wave" maybe eventually they will get it.

Sadly, I think my finger's gonna get a workout!

Bookslut

I confess. I am a bookslut. Books are my boyfriends. When I get wrapped up in a good one, it takes precedence over my kids, my home, and my marriage. It will sleep in bed with me, often open, because I will pass out with it on my chest like a lover. They often take over my husband's pillow, and he is forced to sleep on the couch.

So, yeah. I read a lot. I am a book nerd. I have a BA in English from College of St Scholastica and am currently working on my terminal degree at Fairfield University. I write almost as much as I read, though often not as well. I have two books published, one that comes out in August of this year.

Holler at me if you would like a copy of either. They are poetry, horribly un-funny poetry, and priced cheaply. And who knows, they may be worth something someday, if this bookslut ever goes national!

Ahh, memories

This morning, when I was waiting for the little people to arise, I was laying in bed with my husband reminiscing about when we lived in West Duluth. It's where we met, where we fell in love, and started this insane family. We have only lived on the east side for 4 years.

My husband started out as my neighbor. He didn't know it. He just thought he was my kid's hockey coach. I was married to someone else. He was recently divorced. We both had small children. I saw him one day, and knew he was the guy for me. I began going the long way home to drive past his house and look in the window (which I now know was fruitless because it was Rudy's room I was trying to sneak a peek into.) I walked my dog past his house 5 or 6 times a day. Soon, we were shacking up, and there was a pathworn in the grass between our 2 houses.

Eventually, I was divorced. I was living with Brian in his house in West Duluth. We were the big fish in a little pond. We were the only people in a 6 block radius that made over 60K apiece. We did things like buy new motorcycles on a whim, and our neighbors marvelled at us. Weird, huh? But we both worked hard and often.

We used to shoot our neighbor across the street. He was often freaked out on meth, yelling at nothing and throwing things in his driveway. He was the only 48 year old I have ever known who regularly hung out with 19 and 20-year-olds, smoked dope in his driveway, and had a bumpin' system in his 1989 Nissan Sentra. He was awesome, and we liked to shoot him. We called him Captain Dipshit, because that's what he was. We had a perfect shot from our bedroom window, where I had cut a flap just big enough for the barrel of the BB gun. He'd be out in his driveway, working on his car late at night, with the stereo blasting. Nevermind all the little kids in the neighborhood trying to sleep. Captain Dipshit would be freaking out, doing his Dipshitty things like randomly yelling and throwing tools. So, for fun, we would position the BB gun, let fly, and then watch as he freaked out even more.

I don't think we ever hit him. But the sound of BBs bouncing off the non-running cars in his driveway drove him batty, and set off new rounds of freakouts. It was hysterical.

Captain Dipshit also built a fountain in his yard. For the longest time, it was just a hole he was digging. We thought it was a grave, and we were waiting for some of the neighborhood kids to come up missing. Eventually though, it had a liner in it, some plastic swans, and multi-colored underwater lights. Just what every crackhead needs.

After we talked to him several times about barrelling out of his driveway when the little kids were rollerblading and riding their bikes on the sidewalks, and he still continued to speed in and out of his drive like a bat out of hell, I collected a good bag full of dogshit and launched it into his fountain. Wonder what those colored lights did to the flotilla of dog turds?

Soon after that, we moved to Woodland. We behave here. Its a nice place to live and we are no longer the big fish. We are middle of the road. We keep quiet and the kids play nicely. But sometimes I miss the chaos and noise of West Duluth, and even Captain Dipshit.

Something's Stinky on Austin Street

The dog, who is the bane of my existence as far as cleaning the house goes, gets let out at 4AM. Much like a scene from Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, animals scatter from the summer street beside our house, which I affectionately refer to as the "pothole" as he carouses through the woods. Today though, the bastard found a nest of skunks. DH was smart enough to let him in to eat his breakfast, which means everything inside my house reeks like skunk too.

Nice way to wake up at 5AM, coughing and snotting all over the place because the reek is so thick in my bedroom that I can't breathe.

Fortunately for me, the oldest boy begged 60$ from me just yesterday for a weekend trip to Minneapolis with his youth group. I think I've got a couple bottles of peroxide and some Dawn dishsoap that says he will earn that money. Meanwhile, I plan to sit on the porch and drink margaritas all day and then fry fish for DH for supper.

Skunk and fish...maybe I should think about an air freshener? So then at least it will be flowery skunk and fish.

Does fat make you Fry?

Yesterday I ventured to the beach. This is a first since the last 3 kids were born, since I no longer had anything resembling a bathing suit body. Not that anyone cares what a mommy of 7 looks like in a swimsuit except for me, but it was a real bash on the shiny little ego. So, yeah. I went to the beach and watched the little whippersnappers play in the water and the sand at Park Point. I think we were the only native Duluthians there, everyone else was a tourist. How does that happen?!

At the beach, I relished in peace and quiet for an entire hour and a half. I sat in the sand and read a book. I went in the water when I got hot or had to pee. I watched the little kids to make sure they weren't facedown in the surf too long.

And then we went home and I discovered that my back was the color of the sunset. It was also the same temperature. I have never had a sunburn in my life, and I was wondering if it was some hormonal change brought about by 3 pregnancies in the past 4 years. Or was it just that the additional 25 pounds I have gained and kept over those pregnancies fries a little easier. Bacon wouldn't be bacon without the fat, right? Would it fry as easily? Either way, its time for me to quit making excuses and ditch that weight. Because I don't want to ever fry like this again.

It feels like someone ripped a thousand bandaids off my skin fast, that prickly, tingly, ouchie feeling. I couldn't sleep with it. I can't shower with it. I soaked in a cool tub for an hour and it still stings. So fat begone, I don't want to hurt no more!

The idea

So I've had sucess as a poet. I am a semester into my MFA, I've won a couple contests and had two chapbooks published. Ever after a new challenge, I have this idea brewing for a novel.
Its suspenseful. Its got a good heroine. Its got a semi-believable plot. I don't know if it will ever manifest itself as a novel, or even a story, but I feel like I owe it to the characters to give it a shot. But writing fiction is scary. The line between fiction and reality is so blurry, that sometimes I forget what's real and what's not. Is this character me? Is she someone I want to be? Is her situation one I long for, on some other plane?
Fiction is scary territory, especially for someone used to writing poetry. Poetry is easy. You take a situation and make it universal, or at least relatable, for other people. There is an emotional connection between a poet and her readers. Fiction is less personal. Its made up, after all.
But I think I'm going to write this. I scribbled some nonsense down while I was on vacation one morning while Brian took the kids fishing and the baby was asleep. It sounds like something you read on the back of one of the grocery-store novels, the ones the best-selling authors write. The ones desperate housewives pay 9.99 for at the checkout counter.
And tonight as I listen to the fireworks, I feel this character calling to me, telling me to write it down. I know what she wants to do. I just have to let her do it.

keeping Nora dry

Keeping Nora out of the lake while we were on vacation was like keeping flies off a big, fresh, stinky pile of shit. We went so far as to hook the screen door when we were going somewhere to keep her from venturing outdoors.
It was fine when she was wearing her suitie and someone was watching her. Even if we weren't going anywhere. I personally think Lake Vermillion is down a couple inches for all the water she sucked up, both via her mouth and into her diapers. Super-absorbency at its finest is a Huggie that weighs more than my child, yet refuses to leak. I was impressed.
Yep, we were going to dinner one night, and then, on my head-count, I was one short. Guess where she was, in her only "nice" clothes? Waist deep in the water, sand gritting in her crack. Loveley.
The best, though, was after twenty four hours of heavy rains, there were flash flood type situations. Nora, gone again. Where ever could she be? She couldn't make it to the lake, for the current. But yes, there she is. Sitting in the 4 inch deep puddle in the front yard, six ducks swimming around her. She's happy and laughing, so what do I care? Until I see her bend over and drink directly out of the puddle that these same six ducks keep shitting in. Real nice, girl. It will be a horror story to tell her future suitors, for sure.

Living half a block from a liquor store has its disadvantages...like realizing its Sunday, and they are not open on Sunday. Damn you, convenience, for making me so comfortable!
I like drinks with umbrellas in them. Some folks call them girl drinks, but I prefer to call them "summer drinks." So tough persona aside, I sip things that are pink and fruity during the hotter months. Margaritas are good, pina coladas are better. But liquor creeps up on me. I get drunk and ambitious. I do things like landscape the front yard, remodel the kitchen, and read my books from the library.
So, this is a bad thing? you say. Au contraire! Its awesome! Whoever said liquor was a bad thing didn't know about my friend Moderation. I don't drink til I am falling-down, slurring-words drunk. I just drink until I can't feel the grit of dog-hair under my feet. I drink until the shrieks of the children are muted: I can still hear them. I know they are near. I know that they are fighting. I just don't care.
So while the short months of summer wander through Minnesota, expect to find me tipsy and busy, just not usually on Sundays. After all, the liquor store is closed, and I don't have the foresight to plan my drunks. They just seem to happen.

vacation overload

Is there such a thing as vacation overload? It looks like I am going to find out!
My professional license lapsed as of midnight on the 30th and my boss informed me I won't be allowed to come back to work without it. Which would be ok if they would keep the paychecks coming, but alas...I am without!
The funny thing about this whole thing is that ITS NOT MY FAULT. I'm jacked, and I didn't do anything wrong for once. See, about six weeks ago, I got a little blue card in the mail, and this little blue card states EXPLICITLY that I will be able to renew my license until midnight on the 30th of June. So when, on the 30th of June, I went online to renew my license at 12:15 in the AFTERNOON, with nearly 12 hours remaining, I was astounded to find out that the cutoff for this renewal was NOON.
I call bullshit. I called my boss, who informed me that I was Out of Luck Chuck, that without a valid license I would be unable to return to work. Bullshit abounds, especially when she says I will be subject to disciplinary actions. HA! Lawyer on speed dial, I say. But who can I take down?
The state of MN for shutting down their government in hopes of getting a budget approval? SMDC/Essentia for giving their employees the ole middle finger yet again? Who has the deeper pockets? Who wants to pay for my lost wages, the undue stress of punitive action?
Somebody's going down, and it ain't gonna be me. I will be patient, I will lay in wait, and when the throat is exposed, I will strike!
Who likes bad press???

Without my kitchen, how can I claim to be a housewife?

We are remodelling. It is hell. The microwave and the oven are in my dining room. Neither are hooked up. The refrigerator, luckily, still resides in the kitchen, which is getting a new tile floor.(goodbye, fake wood linoleum!)

But not having a kitchen and having all the kitchen stuff packed into the dining room makes it awful hard for me to call myself a housewife. (I do this on my days off so I don't feel guilty about not working full time.) I usually cook and clean and do laundry. Housewively things. But I can't cook without a stove. I won't bother cleaning when there is crap piled up in the dining room. Laundry it is!

Good thing we have the kitchenette in the basement apartment. I can dump some beans from the can in a pot and at least warm them up down there. Because, quite frankly, (and I never thought I would say this...) I miss real food. Not pizza, not Subway, not cereal or PB&J. Vegetables.

That said, tonight is weiners and beans. With ceasar salad and watermelon. I sure wish it would get warm so my summer meals were more enjoyable.

"Hatfield" vs Erickson

My husband's family is pretty well known about Duluth. His father is active in several social clubs, owns a few properties, and is referred to by most as the "head of the Norweigian Mafia." Everyone knows there are no mafioso that are Scandanavian, but you get the idea. A pretty important guy around here.

So I have to be careful what I say here...

The other day on the way to pick up my kiddos from day care, I was taking my normal route and just happened to be behind a school bus. Where I turn off the #4 onto the dirt road where my daycare provider lives, there is a turn lane that the bus pulls onto to let a couple kids off. I waited patiently behind it. I was in no particular hurry and was enjoying actually listening to the radio, not Russ Bono singing about singing frogs. (Zane's favorite song)

Two boys belonging to one of the other infamous Duluth families got off the bus. They're infamous for their eccentricity, their role in the Apostolic Lutheran sect, their old-fashioned beliefs concerning the roles of women, and their large broods. (Simonsons, Lipes, Bruckelmeyers, etc.)
I watched them both flip the bus the bird as it drove away. Not impressed, I drove past them.

I am one of those people who wears her heart on her sleeve. My lack of appreciation for these two pre-teen boys' antics was probably written all over my face. I'm pretty sure they got wind of it, too, because they yelled something unpleasant at me as I drove past them. One boy, the bigger of the two, picked up a rock and actually threw it half-heartedly at my truck.

Now, my truck is no gem. My kids write their names in the dirt on the sides. The tailgate frequently begs for me to "wash me." There are a couple pretty good dents in it, and the paint is starting to peel off along the bottom of the doors. But I will be damned if I was going to let those little punks act that way toward me. I slammed on the brakes and backed up fast.

The looks on their faces were priceless. I think the younger boy peed himself a little bit. I asked them if they had something to say to me. Both were shaking in their Nikes at this point. They mumbled "no" and stared at me. I suggested at that point then that they not yell, throw things, or wave a certain finger at any other cars again. This was done under threat of me giving them a ride home so we could all three talk to their mother together and figure out how to solve their little attitude problem.

Now, knowing what I know about their family, I doubt their mother would be able to discipline these worthless little turds at all. I wondered what she would say to me, an outsider, chastising her children. I'm pretty sure she would take one look at my short hair, tattoos and ratty clothes and deem my ass unworthy of opinion.

But for the sake of not starting a feud that rivals the Hatfields and McCoys, I sure hope those little shits don't mess with me again. 'Cuz messing with the Norweigian Mafia around here is like playing with fire...eventually you'll get burned. (And as an Italian, I know some pretty good REAL mafia moves, and am not afraid to use them.)

How can it be?

I've been trying to figure this out. I tell it like it is. I get so many compliments on my frankness, the fact that I don't sugar-coat shit. But at the same time, that is what I get in the most trouble for at work.

So six of one, half a dozen of another. Should I shut up and be well-behaved or not? Should I speak my mind and deal with the repercussions? How come some people can get away with being sarcastic assholes and I get my ass spanked for it? WHY CAN'T I JUST BE ME? You guys read me cuz you like me, I'm guessing. I say the things we all think, in ways that are sometimes offensive. Sometimes they are refreshing. But sometimes life is offensive. Its hard to be good ALL the time. That's why there are so many alcoholics and drug abusers out there, maybe, they need an excuse for the things they say. Well, I don't need the guise of vices like those to speak my mind. I'll tell you what I think, even if you don't want to hear it. But know that it is always the honest truth. I'll never be kind just for the sake of being kind. Because if its all lies anyway, isn't that just as hurtful?

So yes, your loved-one may die. They are sick. They had serious procedures done. A hospital is a place of death, dying, and disease. It happens to all of us eventually. And if your family member is inpatient, its likely they have something wrong with them. Don't ask me for odds. Don't ssk me for false hope, especially where there is none. Ask me for my professional opinion, and that's what you will get. I wont spare your feelings.

Probably why I get very few day shifts. The boss likes me on nights, when no one is around to ask me what I think.

Kids, like Gremlins...

Who knew kids were so much like Gremlins?

They start out all cute and fuzzy, snuggly and cooing. Then, seemingly overnight, they become green warty troublemakers. Send them out into the neighborhood to play, and they multiply. Get them wet, and they boil, a rancid scent rising from the fouled waters. Feed them after midnight? Yeah, right. Then they turn into teenagers!

Epic love is infinite.

Heroic, majestic and impressively great are the words used to define EPIC. Some people are so epic I can't get enough of being around them. Epic people make you want to be better but they aren't necessarily heroic, majestic or impressively great. Sometimes epic-ness is subtle. Sometimes it is not.

Being a parent is daily bursts of subtle epic-ness. It is the common thread that keeps all of us sane yet we look for the mountain-top epic-ness, often ignoring the idea that the key to surviving and thriving in this life is merely just taking the next breath. Sometimes as a parent you have to give your children the next breath so that they can go on.

I'm not a fan of parenting websites in general. Most books, websites, blogs and even pamphlets on parenting don't even scratch the surface of how completely epic it is to be a parent yet I keep reading. I want to be an epic mom.

Don't play the result. I read that expression today in an interview with Michael J. Fox. We all know how it ends, right? We are born, we live and we die. Life is epic, no matter how it's lived and no matter how someone tells me to live so why is do l keep seeking some sort of epic, majestic and impressively great advice or wisdom on the right way to live, love or raise my children? The result won't be favorable if I don't focus on the process.

Reading the interview today reminded me that the epic-ness of my life with my kids lies in the moment. Each moment has the potential to be epic but if I'm not actually there in that moment, then I am merely existing as I await the next grand gesture or memory making moment that they might remember when I'm pushing up daisies.

I try to remember to continue to smile when they are driving me crazy. I try, but its hard. All I want sometimes is peace and quiet for five whole minutes. If the quiet went much beyond that, I think I would die. Every moment is precious, epic in its own right. Will they remember me as an epic mom, when all I did was yell and cuss? Probably. They're my kiddos and I love them, and that goes on forever. Epic.

There are starving children in Africa, you know

My kids eat their dinner. The rule at our house is that we eat our dinner or we go to bed, but this has been a relaxed rule since Zane and Nora began eating real food, people-food, if you will. I want the little beasts to have a wide variety of foods that they like. When Brian and I began dating, I recall there was a certain young man that would only eat corn dogs and chicken nuggets, both high in nutrients (preservatives are nutrients, right?)and I didn't want to have to fight the vegetable battle with the new batch of kids too.

So in order to expand their palates, I make a variety of foods. Some are kid-friendly, some are not. Tonight was burritos of the bean and cheese variety and rice with black beans and corn. It wasn't spicy or bitter, two characteristics in foods that the little folks balk at. But from all the whining and protesting, you would think I was feeding them deep fried snake balls dipped in jalepeno fire sauce.

We ate outside at our new picnic table,too, and perhaps it was the novelty of that situation that set them off. Neither Zane nor Nora would eat their dinner. This resulted in me yelling at them, then threatening them, then standing sentinel at the end of their table, making sure they stuffed something into their pie-holes besides their juice boxes and their raspberries. I almost pulled out the guilt trip my folks used to use on my ass on meatloaf night. (Coincidentally I still despise meatloaf) My mom would put on her "I'm soooo disappointed in you" puss and then tell me about the starving children in Africa, specifically in Ethiopia at that time.

What I really wanted to tell her was to box up my meatloaf and send it over there. None of those Ethiopian kids were that hungry, anyway, I was sure. Tonight the Africans would have been the recipients of beans and rice and burritos. I wonder how those kids feel about Mexican.

While I was on maternity leave, I got a new checking account at the bank across the road. I am a grown up now, and have to balance the account. My old checking account was so far off, there was no hope of balancing it. I still don't think there is, and the balance remains (I think) at zero. So I have been pretty diligent about this so far. Luna is almost 4 months old, so that means I have kept up on this for over 2 months. It's really not so hard. Mostly because I don't have internet banking access anymore.

That was a real kicker. I would look and see how much money was in my account on a daily basis, and spend accordingly. Nevermind that checks hadn't cleared. Nevermind that there was going to be an automatic withdrawal the next day. But like I said, grown up. Reality. FUCKING INTERNET BANKING BULLSHIT! I can't tell you how many overdraft fees that shit cost me.

Garage Sale Maven

I should get flashers for the back of my Suburban. A big sign warning that "I Brake For Garage Sales (and Squirrels)". I love when folks plop all their shit out on folding tables and expect others to pay good money for it. The flags at the end of driveways are my dream come true. And its getting to be that time of year where everyone is cleaning out their houses and having these wonderful little bazaars.

This morning I got a tackle box, two pairs of pajama pants, a t-shirt, and some sunglasses for Zane. Since he is 3, he isn't very particular about whether or not someone has worn his clothes before him. God bless the child for not being picky.

The garage sale is one of the only places I buy books (aside from Amazon) because the volumes of material I read are grossly extensive. I purchase kids' toys and books at yard sales, because if they are in decent shape, they are usually a pretty good deal.

I only wish there were yard sales in Minnesota in January, since that is the only time I want to spend the time getting all my old, used up crap together for a sale. In the summer, I am more about enjoying the sunshine and fair weather. (Note I didn't say "nice") Can you see that, though? Old ladies slogging through the snowbanks to come peruse my kids' too-small clothes? Not so much.

But the winter garage sale is an idea. I wonder if it could catch on, and how much I would have to pay the kids to tend the cash box. How long could their shifts be without being considered abuse or neglect? And would folks turn out? I may try it, if the mood strikes me. But more likely it will be October, before the snow is plowable.

Wrong kid, wrong place...

So I got a call the other day. For anyone who knows me, I rarely answer my telephone. Bill collectors, salespeople, and other nuisances make it virtually impossible. Anyone who understands this position is a big fan of voicemail. I use it, everyone else should too. And for the short, informational shit, I appreciate a text message as much as the next person. Basically, I hate the phone. But anyway, this call.

It was Duluth Edison Charter School, where my oldest daughter will be going next fall. The sweet woman left a message about taking a placement test of some sort. Except at the time I listened to the message, I was cooking supper, watching two toddlers, and revelling in the sale of my second manuscript. In my helpless wasteland of a brain, I processed it as my oldest son's school. I informed him that he would have to go Friday to take a placement test. He was not thrilled, but not disgruntled, either, since it wasn't until late morning. He merely took five bucks and went and hopped on the bus.

An hour later, his guidance counselor, Andy, called me. Seems they had no clue what test Eli was there to take. I had no clue either. Until I called the number that the phone call had come from only to discover it was a completely different school. WHOOPS! MY BAD! Andy must think I am a total flake, since I can't keep track of who is doing what where.

I think Eli was tickled to have 5 bucks and the rest of the day with no chores. I wonder how Casey will place, since she is at Adventure Zone with her school patrol for the time this test is being administered. Can anyone say FLAKEY MAMA?!?

This rarely happens, but when it does, I feel like a boob. Sorry kids, Mommy's on crack again.

The Black Widow Strikes!

Last week I bought life insurance. On my husband, myself, and our 7 children. You would think the insurance man would jump for joy, having earned a commission on 9 policies. But he earnestly tried to talk me out of policies on the kids. REALLY?

I have seen too much to not have policies on the little sheisters. A cabin could explode, a rogue car could careen into our front lawn, etc. I think I would rather be prepared for these things than not. He thinks I am insane. Maybe I am. Maybe not.

I sprung for the big mother policy on my husband, just because I know I'd be up Schitt Crick if he kicked off before these kids were grown and gone. Yeah, I can support myself and a couple of 'em, but I would hate to have to choose. Or move into a teeny little house while they were all still around. So half a mil on him should keep me set, and 100K on me. After all, he can hire a decent maid/cook/hooker for that.

So now I just have to wait for the inevitable. There will be an accident. Someone will die. Then it will be investigated and someone will bring up that I just bought these insurance policies. Jesus Christ! Can I not mourn in peace? No, I will be accused of orchestrating some sort of bizarre fireworks accident. Something. Maybe I should just forget it. Am I better off?

Favorite Celeb Mommy

Reese Witherspoon. I love that talented bitch. In the world of celebrity moms, she is my favorite. Remember how her Vanessa Lutz kicked pedophile ASS in "Freeway?" No? Well, you're missing out. Watch it.

I love movies and I love me some smutty gossip rags. They distract me while I'm waiting for the doctor or getting ripped off by the people at the oil change place who always tell me I need a new goddamn air filter. I especially love the idiocy and narcissism of the celebrity world.

I like how when they have a babies, they act like they are the first to do so and that we NEED to hear about their unique experience. Then they let us in on the secret of how to get rid of all that accumulated back fat when you only have a three part time chefs and trainers and nannies and.....yeah, thanks guys.

Back to Reese, why am I writing about her? Here is a favorite Reese quote, "If you are not yelling at your kids, you are not spending enough time with them."

TRUE DAT, Ms. Spoon! But my very favorite has to be when she was quoted as saying this; "There is something timeless and important about making people laugh, about being the bright spot in their day."

I laugh all day. I have to. I choose to. I see everything as potentially hilarious. Oscar Wilde quipped about this when he said, "Life's too important to be taken seriously."

TRUE DAT, Mr. Wilde, it IS too important. It is my opinion that taking things too seriously can be as dangerous as not taking them seriously enough. That is why I weave laughter into your day using my potty mouth. I do the yelling for all of us, as we spend way too much time with our kids. I try to strike a balance. Sometimes I fail.

He should know better, really

We have lived with Nora for a little over two years. We should know better than to leave her alone, especially when she is mad. Last Thursday we sent her to bed angry. Not because she wanted ice cream and couldn't have any. Not because Justin "the Bieb" Bieber was on TV and we wouldn't let her watch. But because we made her come inside and take a bath before bed. If you have any concept of just how grubby two-and-a-half-year-olds get after a day of playing outside, you understand why bathing is a necessary evil. Plus I had to work early Friday AM, so I was saving Brian an early wakeup. Baths always help the little people sleep a little sounder, a little longer.

Friday morning came, I shot off to work. At 648 I got a text message that Nora, in all her fury, had treated herself to a "spa day" using Desitin and diaper wipes. Apparently her hair would not need conditioner for the next 4 weeks, according to Brian. I asked for pictures and got a grainy image of her bed smeared in white, surrounded by diaper wipes. Not exactly what I was looking for, but whatever.

Friday afternoon, I picked Nora up from daycare. Yes, she was mighty greasy. But nothing a few Dawn baths couldn't handle. I headed for home, wit the grand idea of pitching her in the kitchen sink and scrubbing her good. Except when I got home, the ENTIRE dining room floor was covered in Fruity Pebbles. WHAT THE FUCK?!?

I phoned Brian, worried that some sort of cereal bandit had broken into the house. Not so, he affirmed. While he had snuck upstairs (not sneaky at 235#, my friend) to take that weak picture, Nora had decided to spoon feed Huckleberry (the dog) her breakfast. Brian had been in too much of a hurry to clean up the cereal, the Desitin, the diaper wipes, AND the 2-year-old.

Living with my husband is sometimes like living with FOUR kids 3 and under, except he makes bigger messes. I love him dearly, but he was REALLY DAMN LUCKY he wasn't home for that one.

Scared of the Basement

So the little shits are supposed to be cleaning up the basement (AKA the kid lair) before they go to their other parents' houses for two weeks. I am scared to go look. I keep hearing sounds that resemble whale communications, screams from Nora (nothing out of the ordinary there) and an occasional crash. I want to know what is going on, but I am scared to open the door.

There was a disaster earlier today involving the bathroom sink and Zane's watering can down there. I know because Casey came and asked me if she could use the shop vac to suck up water. Dear God! I'm afraid to ask.

Maybe if I just ignore them a while, it will end up being fine. I know there are no whales down there, so maybe I will look tomorrow. Maybe I won't. It might be one of those situations where it is just best to keep the door shut and pretend it doesn't exist.

Did Someone Say "Publish"???

So, I have been reveling.

Last week, I got a very leading email inquiring about a manuscript I sent out a million years ago. Was it accepted elsewhere? Did I retain all the rights to the poems published in other places? It ended abruptly with "call me after 5" (which I took only to mean that it was someone's home number) and the number.

I didn't want to get my hopes up, because that usually only leads to disappointment. I did, however, wait until after the kids had gone to bed so I could hear this poor guy out. I called my husband and read him the email. He said it sounded promising, and that I should call the guy. I paced. I sweated. I fantasized.

Finally, when the last little beast had lain down to bed, I sat at my desk and read the email again. It DID sound promising. I picked up my phone, dialed the number and got a woman, who was probably the editor's wife. She didn't sound suspicious that I was calling her husband at 8:30PM. I took that as a good sign.

I answered the editor's questions that he had asked in the email. He followed my answers with "then I have good news for you" at which point I think I began holding my breath. The room began to waver, and I got hot. Hotter than I think the 56 degree Duluth day warranted. Baking in the sun in Arizona July hot. I had to remind myself to breathe, both in and out, as he told me Slipstream would be publishing my manuscript. I thanked him profusely, told him he had made my life and then promptly hung up on him.

I don't think he was done telling me what he wanted to tell me though, because he called me back two minutes later, and I almost didn't hear the phone I was hollering so loudly. My neighbors must think I am out of my skull, or severely abusive to my children. Because who yells "YES" at the top of their lungs from their front porch at 9PM? This gal, that's who.

I answered the phone and made a list of all the things Slipstream needed from me ASAP. This included a publicity photo, which I ended up taking myself with my phone, after desperately searching through my pictures of myself (all 4 of them) and combing the internet for someone who could pass as me. Did I mention my hair is at the worst possible length for photos? Did I mention that my double chin was nearly a goiter? Did I mention the bags under my eyes were even more pronounced after 5 straight night shifts? Did I care? NO!

I am getting a book. My very own book. 33 pages of all me. Mine, my own. Slipstream is going to market it for an entire year on their website. It's so surreal. And now I have to con writerly folks I know into saying something nice about this manuscript so their names can draw folks in. I hate asking for favors like that. But the things they say are the best part of the whole deal.

That and the prize money!

I'd Rather Not Beg

As someone who is divorced and court-ordered to receive both child support and reimbursement for uncovered medical expenses, I would prefer not to have to jump through additional hoops to obtain what is owed to me. There is a reason I am divorced from my ex, and it goes something like this: he is a loser and I would prefer not associate with him in any way, shape, or form. This, my friends at the child support office, means I would prefer not to have to call him about medical expenses. I would prefer not to have to write him simpy little notes about the money he owes for our child's braces. I just want to fill out the fucking paperwork, send it to my caseworker, and have her forward it on to him. Why oh why must I jump through the hoops of having such things notarized? And if I do, why can the caseworker not just DEAL WITH IT???
The fact of the matter is this: there are bills involved with having a child. Sometimes theses bills exceed your whopping contribution of $200 a month, if you can believe that! I'm not getting rich off child support. As a matter of fact, I sneeze at it. I mean, really what does $200 buy? It doesn't even cover the payment plan for her braces.
And it would be a different story if, when I informed my ex of an expense, he jumped right on it and paid his portion, as deemed appropriate by the court. The fact of the matter is this: he waits the 30 days he has and pays nothing. Then I have to go through all the bullshit again and send it to the caseworker who then sends it to him. When he doesn't pay it for another 30 days, then they start to collect it incrementally from his paycheck. REALLY?! What about interest? No, no, we have to give this deadbeat who is in the hole up to his eyeballs as long as we can to pay it back, and in the meantime, I'm racking up more bills so we can start the whole freaking circus over again in 6 months.
This is a system that is broken. The child could suffer, but I refuse to let that happen. The only thing that makes me smile about the whole ordeal is the idea of him paying off what he owes once our daughter is grown and gone. Because at this rate, that is how long it is going to take.

I may look like an uneducated crackhead...

Apearances can be deceiving. Often they are not. The old saying goes "If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck, chances are...its probably a duck."
If someone saw me out randomly on the street, they would most likely think I was an uneducated thug. I will admit, that is the look I am going for. I appreciate my solitude, and the nice folks of Minnesota are hell-bent on making sure I know just how friendly and outgoing they are. This acts in direct conflict with being left alone. So what better way to be unapproachable than to look the part?
I sport tatoos, a wardrobe of black and camo, and hair stashed under a scarf. I ride a motorcycle when I can. Not your typical mommy-attire. I'd prefer not to be taken too seriously. I don't take myself too seriously, after all, so I don't think anyone else should either. It makes one appear pretentious, after all.
I don't parade around in cashmere I can't afford. I own jeans, but would rather wear sweats. I am not weighted down by outlandish jewlery, as much as I would like to be. I don't waste my time and efforts putting on airs.
I am not uneducated, as my student loans will have you know. In fact, I am highly educated, and perhaps OVEReducated for this area. I rarely utilize my education, but when I do, it is generally to bully those who have underestimated me. I pull out the master's-level, going-on-PhD vocabulary. I don't have a fancy title, a fancy car, or fancy clothes. Sometimes I shower before I leave the house, but it is not a requisite. Sometimes I comb my hair, but not always.
For anyone who takes the time to get to know me before they judge me, they will find my appearance farcical. That's the whole point. I want to know who I want to converse with, and if someone deems me uneducated and thuggish based solely on my appearance, do I want to waste my time speaking with them? I think not. So this persona I have created is a self-preservation manuever. Because if I had to talk to all the nicey-nices out there, I would likely vomit. Its just easier to have them think I am scary and unapproachable.

So...already disgruntled with Dr. Tajmahal...

Called again for a "code blue." Deep into a night-shift, I was bleary, but perked up when Dr. Tajmahal showed up for this event too. Should be good for comic relief, and since there were a bunch of ICU nurses there, I was pretty confident the patient wouldn't be harmed.
He's a scrawny little Indian guy. Hides in his white lab coat, trying not to look terrified, confused, confounded. He sees me smirking at his presence. I know he must have gotten his degree from a mail-order catalogue.
The ICU nurses are following ACLS protocols, giving meds and assessing the patient. I'm bagging her; she's already intubated, has been on the ventilator for a couple days already. Dr. Tajmahal looks awed. One of the ICU nurses asks him if he wants to cardiovert the patient (shock the heart to restore a functional rhythm). Dr. Tajmahal cringes. No, he doesn't want to do that without a Cardiologist present. You mean a Real Doctor, our faces all say. We smile behind our hands. We know he is just a formality, we could save this patient without him. I think he knows it too.
The patient lives. We go on about our shift. I wonder if Dr. Tajmahal goes to the bathroom and cries. I would if I were him.

Mom Considers Medical School

Last week was a bad week at work. Not in terms of too much work and not enough therapists, like usual. It was disconcerting. It was worrisome. It was borderline frightening.
I met, on several occasions on several different days a doctor who, for the sake of his professional reputation, I shall refer to as Dr. Tajmahal. Not his real name, mind you, but close. And a funny nickname given to him by the Anesthesiologist who was also privy to Dr. Tajmahal's antics.
I refer to them as antics because he COULD NOT BE SERIOUS! He had to have been joking, albeit in situations that did not warrant joking. First, the "rapid response" that was Everything But Rapid. Dr. Tajmahal showed up, as did the CCU nurse, several respiratory therapists, and the nursing staff of the floor where the patient was assigned.
This patient was in obvious respiratory distress. He was gasping, coughing, and sweating pretty profusely. Dr. Tajmahal thought this the opportune time to make conversation with the patient. My co-workers and I just stared at each other in disbelief. One of the respiratory therapists had the good sense to slap a non-rebreather mask on the patient for extra oxygen. Dr. Tajmahal retreated to the hallway for 15 minutes, leaving the patient struggling to breathe, to read his chart. Again, we all stared at each other in disbelief. Another of the RTs went to fetch a BiPap, a machine that assists breathing by putting positive pressure in the lungs, and thus forcing any extraneous fluid out of the lung. A good reaction to the patient's situation.
Dr. Tajmahal followed the RT with the BiPap into the room. He told the RT not to put the mask on the patient, as he had not assessed him yet. Jaws dropped. Dr. Tajmahal palpated the patient's feet for pedal pulses.
I had to leave the room because I did not want to get blamed for the patient dying. I had to leave before I told Dr. Tajmahal just exactly what a moron he was. I had to leave before I got myself fired.
In retrospect, though, I am considering Medical School. Because if they let Dr. Tajmahal in, they'll let any idiot in. And if he can pass, I am SURE I can. And the fact of the matter is that I am able to act way quicker in a situation that warrants it than he was.
Needless to say, Med School is not in my future. My passion is not the sick or the dying. But I'd like to get in, just to prove a point. Too bad the entrance exams and applications cost so much, otherwise I would do it. Just to show Dr. Tajmahal that any fool can, and that he really isn't as smart as he seems to think that he is.