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.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, May 30, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Mom vs Mt. Washmore
I am a psycho about laundry. I have no choice. With the dirty socks of 9 people piling up (quickly, mind you) my laundry room either smells like teenagers' feet or Bounce. The sad fact is that I prefer Bounce. Teenagers stink. And for all the showering they do, they should be relatively clean. My water bill says they should be clean. And yet they smell like an odd combination of stale popcorn and wet dog. GAH! So back to the laundry...
We have a laundry chute, so the wash piles up on a daily basis to form what I affectionately refer to as Mt. Washmore. I do at least a load a day, just to keep up on things. If I get behind, I get waaaaay behind, and digging out is a terrible task. So when Mt. Washmore didn't seem to be growing in stature, I inquired about the status of everyone's laundry. Yep, they were putting it down the chute. But oddly, they were running low on jeans.
I was still washing on a pretty regular basis, so I just thought that I was ahead of the game. Maybe they were using their towels more than once, and actually were hanging them up in the bathroom to dry. Maybe they were wearing their sweatshirts and jeans more than once, and putting them away in between uses. Maybe I was DELUSIONAL!!!!
Mt. Washmore was definitely shrinking, though. Until I went upstairs and saw the clothes pouring out of the top of the chute. Apparently someone who shall remain nameless (Zane) had stuffed a basketball into the chute. I was perplexed. I was afraid. I was furious that no one informed me the dirty clothes was coming out the top of the chute.
I donned my best attitude and went downstairs. I jammed a broomstick up the chute. The basketball was wedged up there, oh yes. I jammed it again. Nothing. FUCK.
I, being the child of an engineer, was not to be daunted, however. I fashioned a bayonette using a steak knife and duct tape on the end of my broomstick. Die, basketball! And I think the dirty clothes is still falling from the chute as we speak.
We have a laundry chute, so the wash piles up on a daily basis to form what I affectionately refer to as Mt. Washmore. I do at least a load a day, just to keep up on things. If I get behind, I get waaaaay behind, and digging out is a terrible task. So when Mt. Washmore didn't seem to be growing in stature, I inquired about the status of everyone's laundry. Yep, they were putting it down the chute. But oddly, they were running low on jeans.
I was still washing on a pretty regular basis, so I just thought that I was ahead of the game. Maybe they were using their towels more than once, and actually were hanging them up in the bathroom to dry. Maybe they were wearing their sweatshirts and jeans more than once, and putting them away in between uses. Maybe I was DELUSIONAL!!!!
Mt. Washmore was definitely shrinking, though. Until I went upstairs and saw the clothes pouring out of the top of the chute. Apparently someone who shall remain nameless (Zane) had stuffed a basketball into the chute. I was perplexed. I was afraid. I was furious that no one informed me the dirty clothes was coming out the top of the chute.
I donned my best attitude and went downstairs. I jammed a broomstick up the chute. The basketball was wedged up there, oh yes. I jammed it again. Nothing. FUCK.
I, being the child of an engineer, was not to be daunted, however. I fashioned a bayonette using a steak knife and duct tape on the end of my broomstick. Die, basketball! And I think the dirty clothes is still falling from the chute as we speak.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
What Sundays are For
Most folks go to church and then repent or relax or watch sports on TV. We do none of these things. We do the necessary evil when living in a household with 9 people. We shop. Grocery. Other miscellaneous. Today it was lawn furniture.
I've never had nice lawn furniture before. I had a picnic table once that I swiped from an out-of-state forest preserve. I had an old wire spool once that eventually became inhabited by a giant nest of wasps. I've had cheap plastic chairs that collapse under the weight of 200 or more pounds. Never nice lawn furniture. Today was the day.
I picked a glass topped table, not exactly the best choice with 7 kids around, but it was tempered glass, so I figured I was semi-safe. I also told them that under no circumstance were they allowed at, near, or on my table. As a consolation, they got two picnic tables, one for the bigger kids and one for the little shits. I basically threatened them with death if they came near my tables or chairs. I think they understood. I hope they understood.
As they screeched their way through Menard's (with people offering advice and stories of their own children/grandchildren left and right) I fake-whisper to my darling 3-month-old "That's why we do this shit on Sundays. The liquor store isn't open." It had to have been when the 19-year-old stockboy with no kids but a good crop of acne was listening. The poor kid damn near pissed himself laughing.
All I can say is this: condoms, kid. Use em.
I've never had nice lawn furniture before. I had a picnic table once that I swiped from an out-of-state forest preserve. I had an old wire spool once that eventually became inhabited by a giant nest of wasps. I've had cheap plastic chairs that collapse under the weight of 200 or more pounds. Never nice lawn furniture. Today was the day.
I picked a glass topped table, not exactly the best choice with 7 kids around, but it was tempered glass, so I figured I was semi-safe. I also told them that under no circumstance were they allowed at, near, or on my table. As a consolation, they got two picnic tables, one for the bigger kids and one for the little shits. I basically threatened them with death if they came near my tables or chairs. I think they understood. I hope they understood.
As they screeched their way through Menard's (with people offering advice and stories of their own children/grandchildren left and right) I fake-whisper to my darling 3-month-old "That's why we do this shit on Sundays. The liquor store isn't open." It had to have been when the 19-year-old stockboy with no kids but a good crop of acne was listening. The poor kid damn near pissed himself laughing.
All I can say is this: condoms, kid. Use em.
Adios, DIPSHIT!
Derek Boogaard, aka "the Boogeyman" died last week. As a Minnesotan and a hockey fan, this made me sad. But only until the M.E.'s report became public. It wasn't a giant anyuerism, as I hoped, given Boogaard's history of many concussions. It wasn't a heart attack, or a subtle heart defect.
It turns out that Boogaard, the gentle giant of Minnesota hockey (he actually left the Wild last season for a season with the NY Rangers--doesn't change the fact that he was Minnesotan) O.D.'d on oxycontin and alcohol. The M.E. is calling it "accidental." HOW exactly is this accidental, I ask myself. Did he trip and fall on that concoction? And if so, shouldn't this be ruled murder, as someone left this known lethal concoction laying around Boogaard's apartment? Calling this accidental is a favor to Boogaard's family and fans, but it is TOTAL BULLSHIT. He had to have known what he was getting into, given the precedents.
I'm mad, though, mostly because this big lug had everything and he gave it all up. All the O.D.'s we hear about are folks like him. James Dean, Elvis, John Candy, Charlie Sheen (well, not quite yet, but its coming)...they were all icons. They had it all. And maybe that's why they do it. They forget they are just human, that this shit can ruin them too.
So do I want my kids to idolize these dead superstars? No. Do I want them to aspire to be like them? Absolutely not. But do I want them to appreciate their accomplishments and understand that their success was also their downfall? Sure. It's always better to learn from someone else's mistakes, after all. Thanks for that, Boogaard. I bet you wish you were remembered as more than just another dumbass.
It turns out that Boogaard, the gentle giant of Minnesota hockey (he actually left the Wild last season for a season with the NY Rangers--doesn't change the fact that he was Minnesotan) O.D.'d on oxycontin and alcohol. The M.E. is calling it "accidental." HOW exactly is this accidental, I ask myself. Did he trip and fall on that concoction? And if so, shouldn't this be ruled murder, as someone left this known lethal concoction laying around Boogaard's apartment? Calling this accidental is a favor to Boogaard's family and fans, but it is TOTAL BULLSHIT. He had to have known what he was getting into, given the precedents.
I'm mad, though, mostly because this big lug had everything and he gave it all up. All the O.D.'s we hear about are folks like him. James Dean, Elvis, John Candy, Charlie Sheen (well, not quite yet, but its coming)...they were all icons. They had it all. And maybe that's why they do it. They forget they are just human, that this shit can ruin them too.
So do I want my kids to idolize these dead superstars? No. Do I want them to aspire to be like them? Absolutely not. But do I want them to appreciate their accomplishments and understand that their success was also their downfall? Sure. It's always better to learn from someone else's mistakes, after all. Thanks for that, Boogaard. I bet you wish you were remembered as more than just another dumbass.
We Should Know Better than to Trust a Guy in a Van
So yesterday was the Rapture, according to some wacko fundamentalist Christian group. Maybe their world ended, but for the rest of us heathens out here, there was no cyanide-laced kool-aid ala Jim Jones. We just went about our day, expecting nothing in particular. We weren't scared or particularly worried. Personally, I watched the couple episodes of Nurse Jackie that I was behind on, made fajitas for supper, and played with my kiddos. Nothing spectacular. Except I did get to sleep until 9:30, thanks to my sweet, sweet husband paying off the older girls before he went to work for them to keep Zane and Nora busy until I got up. So maybe the world DID end, sometime before 9:30. Maybe we are all dead, and being dead is EXACTYLY THE SAME as being alive. What a disappointment. Either way.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Smelling myself to tears
So earlier, when I opened the mail and got the forms to fill out to go even further in the financial hole for school (20 grand in one year, yes, it's true) I was hesitant to sign them.
I was in the midst of putting my groceries away. Zane and Nora were laying down for a nap. Luna was sitting in the Bumbo chair smirking at me. I set the papers aside. I opened another envelope, a big one. My nephew David's graduation announcement/invitation. It hit me like a Mack truck in the chest.
I looked at Luna. She looked at me. Grinned her funny, gummy, dimpled grin. I got right up to her, nose to nose. Her breath smelled of milk and innocence. She laughed, then puked in my face. I can't believe she will be going to college someday, someday way sooner than I would like. I can't fathom that she will want to leave her father and me. I'm weeping as I write this, I miss her so much already. (Lots of people have told me that is why God makes teenagers so awful, so their parents are ok with them leaving.)
So now I am in a conundrum. Do I continue with school, knowing full-well that it won't even be paid for by the time these beasts want to go to college? What if I can't find a job at a University? I mean, that was my plan all along. Find a job at a U so the kids can go to school for free. Its a perk that weighs more heavily than any salary they could offer. (Think about it...7 kids at even community college prices is $$$$$) What if schools don't offer this as a benefit anymore?
The papers are signed. I just can't bring myself to mail them yet. I've got time to mull it over. I want to send them, I do. I just can't figure out if its the right thing to do.
I was in the midst of putting my groceries away. Zane and Nora were laying down for a nap. Luna was sitting in the Bumbo chair smirking at me. I set the papers aside. I opened another envelope, a big one. My nephew David's graduation announcement/invitation. It hit me like a Mack truck in the chest.
I looked at Luna. She looked at me. Grinned her funny, gummy, dimpled grin. I got right up to her, nose to nose. Her breath smelled of milk and innocence. She laughed, then puked in my face. I can't believe she will be going to college someday, someday way sooner than I would like. I can't fathom that she will want to leave her father and me. I'm weeping as I write this, I miss her so much already. (Lots of people have told me that is why God makes teenagers so awful, so their parents are ok with them leaving.)
So now I am in a conundrum. Do I continue with school, knowing full-well that it won't even be paid for by the time these beasts want to go to college? What if I can't find a job at a University? I mean, that was my plan all along. Find a job at a U so the kids can go to school for free. Its a perk that weighs more heavily than any salary they could offer. (Think about it...7 kids at even community college prices is $$$$$) What if schools don't offer this as a benefit anymore?
The papers are signed. I just can't bring myself to mail them yet. I've got time to mull it over. I want to send them, I do. I just can't figure out if its the right thing to do.
Donation Thursday
One of the biggest challenges of being a mother to 7 children is ORGANIZATION. Anyone who has ever known me knows that this is not my strong suit. I'm a fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants kind of lady. Yes, Great Aunt Margaret, I wear pants. I do. I reject the notion that a lady can only be a lady in a skirt, with the wind whipping at her hoo-ha. I mean, really?! Who does that anymore? Jeans and tshirts are my uniform most days, and a hooded sweatshirt if its too cold, but not cold enough for a coat. But I digress...organization. Yeah. Even my thoughts are unorganized most of the time.
Well, today's the day I dread. I have to sort through all the kids' clothes and figure out what stays, what goes, and what gets put away for fall. Its a task in great speculation (as in, how much will each one grow in the next five months) and also a sentimental task. I love looking at all the little clothes and remembering the funny things the little parasites have said or done while wearing a particular item of clothing. The reality of the matter is that I DO NOT have room for sentimentality. There is physically no room. I am happy to have my shoeboxes full of pictures, and should be.
Zane and Nora are helping me. We have garbage bags galore. I am glad to see some of this stuff go, like the socks that are too small for everyone, yet always seem to make it into the laundry basket week after week. I can't even drink because I have to make an appearance at work tonight. St. Mary would not appreciate a drunk Respiratory Therapist, even if it meant I did a better job and enjoyed it a lot more.
See what I mean about disorganized? Maybe I have ADD. Or ADHD. Maybe it was never diagnosed. Maybe life would be easier if I were medicated. Ah, Jesus, off the subject again. The eternal rant...maybe I should sort through my books too, and make room for the new ones that should be delivered this week. Thanks, Amazon! But, yeah, I'm staring at this pile of clothes, and it needs to be dispersed, and nothing's happening with my ass rambling away here, so...
Well, today's the day I dread. I have to sort through all the kids' clothes and figure out what stays, what goes, and what gets put away for fall. Its a task in great speculation (as in, how much will each one grow in the next five months) and also a sentimental task. I love looking at all the little clothes and remembering the funny things the little parasites have said or done while wearing a particular item of clothing. The reality of the matter is that I DO NOT have room for sentimentality. There is physically no room. I am happy to have my shoeboxes full of pictures, and should be.
Zane and Nora are helping me. We have garbage bags galore. I am glad to see some of this stuff go, like the socks that are too small for everyone, yet always seem to make it into the laundry basket week after week. I can't even drink because I have to make an appearance at work tonight. St. Mary would not appreciate a drunk Respiratory Therapist, even if it meant I did a better job and enjoyed it a lot more.
See what I mean about disorganized? Maybe I have ADD. Or ADHD. Maybe it was never diagnosed. Maybe life would be easier if I were medicated. Ah, Jesus, off the subject again. The eternal rant...maybe I should sort through my books too, and make room for the new ones that should be delivered this week. Thanks, Amazon! But, yeah, I'm staring at this pile of clothes, and it needs to be dispersed, and nothing's happening with my ass rambling away here, so...
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
There's not room in this bed for all 5 of us, put the seat down, etc.
My kids have taken over my life. I used to have a life of my own, but it is no longer.
I used to ride a motorcycle. I was the heavily tattooed, boisterous, outspoken writer who had a day job. I was a smarty-pants and knew it. I wasn't afraid to tell stupid people just how stupid they were. And if they didn't get it, they were even stupider than I thought. (I met a couple like that, the ones who wanted to talk about their FEELINGS and not the reality of the situations they created.)
This new crop of kids has put a new spin on Me, though. I never thought I would let a few little people distract me from what I am supposed to be doing. But still, this summer, when I should be on Ender's Island having my residency for grad school, I will be at home with the shrieking beasts. I just couldn't stomach the idea of leaving them alone with my husband, as saintly as he is, for ten whole days without any day care. Its a practical decision. I have an infant. He would have to take a week off work during his busiest time of year. I hate that I have to defer this residency, but I know its the best choice I could make.
I still have my tattoos. They aren't going anywhere anytime soon. But I am more hesitant to display them. I used to love looking like a thug/hoodlum/white trash. It was a good way to keep pretentious people from talking to me. The kids' teachers thought I was on the dumb side, I'm sure. It was nice to shock them with my education and vocabulary. I'd leave parent-teacher conferences and see them scratching their heads, having the "What just happened to me" dialogue with themselves. It was funny.
But now I have sold my motorcycle and my Jeep, am selling my husband's bike, and have become self-conscious. I am no longer boisterous or outspoken. In fact, if anything, I have become more introverted. I don't like people looking at me. (I'm afraid they will see what I used to be and wonder how everything changed.)
I don't resent the littles. I think they may have saved me. I wonder, though, if once they get bigger, I will return to the Me I was. Will I kick everyone under the age of six out of my bed, and go back to sleeping with my husband? Will I rant about the toilet seat and how nasty it is to have to touch it before I can sit to pee? Or will I continue to accordion in on myself, until I am completely invisible?
I used to ride a motorcycle. I was the heavily tattooed, boisterous, outspoken writer who had a day job. I was a smarty-pants and knew it. I wasn't afraid to tell stupid people just how stupid they were. And if they didn't get it, they were even stupider than I thought. (I met a couple like that, the ones who wanted to talk about their FEELINGS and not the reality of the situations they created.)
This new crop of kids has put a new spin on Me, though. I never thought I would let a few little people distract me from what I am supposed to be doing. But still, this summer, when I should be on Ender's Island having my residency for grad school, I will be at home with the shrieking beasts. I just couldn't stomach the idea of leaving them alone with my husband, as saintly as he is, for ten whole days without any day care. Its a practical decision. I have an infant. He would have to take a week off work during his busiest time of year. I hate that I have to defer this residency, but I know its the best choice I could make.
I still have my tattoos. They aren't going anywhere anytime soon. But I am more hesitant to display them. I used to love looking like a thug/hoodlum/white trash. It was a good way to keep pretentious people from talking to me. The kids' teachers thought I was on the dumb side, I'm sure. It was nice to shock them with my education and vocabulary. I'd leave parent-teacher conferences and see them scratching their heads, having the "What just happened to me" dialogue with themselves. It was funny.
But now I have sold my motorcycle and my Jeep, am selling my husband's bike, and have become self-conscious. I am no longer boisterous or outspoken. In fact, if anything, I have become more introverted. I don't like people looking at me. (I'm afraid they will see what I used to be and wonder how everything changed.)
I don't resent the littles. I think they may have saved me. I wonder, though, if once they get bigger, I will return to the Me I was. Will I kick everyone under the age of six out of my bed, and go back to sleeping with my husband? Will I rant about the toilet seat and how nasty it is to have to touch it before I can sit to pee? Or will I continue to accordion in on myself, until I am completely invisible?
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Spring in Duluth
What does Spring mean, besides being that span of time between April 21 and June 21? I'm pretty sure it is something different in my world than many other folks'.
Spring means it might stop snowing sometime. The only month Duluth has never had snow (yet) is July. And there's a first time for that, too. Mostly it means things turn to mud, and it rains a lot. But like lots of other places, the robins come back. The squirrels and raccoons come out of hibernation and desecrate the neighborhood garbage cans in search of food. Which means we have a rifle in our dining room and a pistol in our vestibule. Yep, it looks like the Clampetts live at our house. But I doubt any robbers will look through the windows and decide ours is the house to rob.
It also means my kids try to sneak out of the house in shorts. Nevermind that it might only be 35 or 40 degrees. If ths sun is out, so are their pasty white Minnesotan legs. I've tried to explain that since the calendar says spring, it is not automatic shorts weather. They don't seem to get it.
Spring is also a time for a couple birthdays. Rudy and Casey both roll over another year in May. They ask for the same dumb shit every year. Floaties for the lake, squirt guns, the gamat. The May birthday party is quite the ordeal, though, because there are a few others in our extended family that celebrate with the kiddos. Its mayhem, but I love it.
Spring is anticipation of Summer, in my book. Mud and filth do not appeal so I ignore them and wait for green to emerge. Waiting, waiting, waiting...
Spring means it might stop snowing sometime. The only month Duluth has never had snow (yet) is July. And there's a first time for that, too. Mostly it means things turn to mud, and it rains a lot. But like lots of other places, the robins come back. The squirrels and raccoons come out of hibernation and desecrate the neighborhood garbage cans in search of food. Which means we have a rifle in our dining room and a pistol in our vestibule. Yep, it looks like the Clampetts live at our house. But I doubt any robbers will look through the windows and decide ours is the house to rob.
It also means my kids try to sneak out of the house in shorts. Nevermind that it might only be 35 or 40 degrees. If ths sun is out, so are their pasty white Minnesotan legs. I've tried to explain that since the calendar says spring, it is not automatic shorts weather. They don't seem to get it.
Spring is also a time for a couple birthdays. Rudy and Casey both roll over another year in May. They ask for the same dumb shit every year. Floaties for the lake, squirt guns, the gamat. The May birthday party is quite the ordeal, though, because there are a few others in our extended family that celebrate with the kiddos. Its mayhem, but I love it.
Spring is anticipation of Summer, in my book. Mud and filth do not appeal so I ignore them and wait for green to emerge. Waiting, waiting, waiting...
They Rise Earlier and Earlier...
Its not fair. I have a newborn who goes to sleep about 9. As in PM. She, being the angel she is, gets up at 4, eats, and then retreats to her slumber for another 5 or 6 hours. A mother's dream? You would think so. I actually have to get up somewhere in the middle there because my hooters are screaming at me that if I don't DO SOMETHING they are gonna blow. I'm not really awake for that 1AM pumping, I'm just on autopilot.
So my baby sleeps all night. I don't. I sleep for shit. The littles get up earlier and earlier, now that it is light at 5AM. They stomp down the stairs and demand breakfast and juice. They demand to get dressed. Zane wants to know if he can go play in the driveway at 0530.
Then I have to make lunches for the other 4 freeloaders. By the time this is done (usually in a total daze) I feel the need for coffee. Then I take a quick shower--I try to savor it as it is my only "alone time" anymore. When I emerge from our lukewarm shower (it never did get rectified that the water in there is never above 95 degrees)I feel like I am ready to deal with the world.
The baby squawks a little. I pick her up and she barfs on me, my hair, my clean shirt. I stink like baby barf. Nora wipes toothpaste on my jeans, one of the two pairs that fit. I change my shirt some days. Other days I just hit it with a baby wipe and spray the spot with Love's Baby Soft.
I love them. I love them, I really do. I wish, though, that they would coordinate this morning routine so NO ONE got up until ten. Just one day a week, so I had something to look forward to. For now, though, its just purgatory.
So my baby sleeps all night. I don't. I sleep for shit. The littles get up earlier and earlier, now that it is light at 5AM. They stomp down the stairs and demand breakfast and juice. They demand to get dressed. Zane wants to know if he can go play in the driveway at 0530.
Then I have to make lunches for the other 4 freeloaders. By the time this is done (usually in a total daze) I feel the need for coffee. Then I take a quick shower--I try to savor it as it is my only "alone time" anymore. When I emerge from our lukewarm shower (it never did get rectified that the water in there is never above 95 degrees)I feel like I am ready to deal with the world.
The baby squawks a little. I pick her up and she barfs on me, my hair, my clean shirt. I stink like baby barf. Nora wipes toothpaste on my jeans, one of the two pairs that fit. I change my shirt some days. Other days I just hit it with a baby wipe and spray the spot with Love's Baby Soft.
I love them. I love them, I really do. I wish, though, that they would coordinate this morning routine so NO ONE got up until ten. Just one day a week, so I had something to look forward to. For now, though, its just purgatory.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Our Trek through Appliance Hell
The last year has been a bad one for our appliances.
First the dryer, born in the 1960s if you judged it by its color, refused to spin. So clothes got hot, the ones on the top dried, and the ones below got moldy and smelly. We expected its death, actually a lot sooner, considering we had to prop the door shut with a 2X4. It never latched from the day we moved in, but I was happy not to have to drop a load of cash on a new one right off the bat. So the new dryer was welcome, a far more energy efficient model that dried in half the time. And it was white, not avacado green.
Then the refrigerator stopped cooling. Bart Simpson called, asking if our refrigerator was running and I had to tell the little stinker "No." Joke aborted. We put all the food we could in the downstairs refrigerator, remainders in coolers on the porch and under the kitchen table. I was beginning to think that this was a conspiracy formed entirely by Maytag.
Conspiracy theory confirmed: The washing machine was next. I called a repair man in hope of resurrecting it, since it was relatively new and modern. It was a front loader, which I thought I would like until I had one. The seal around the door always smelled moldy, the damn thing never really drained. The repair man charged me $90 to tell me it would cost more to fix the stupid thing than get a new one. Shit!
Then last week, Nora (aka No-No Nora) pushed all the cycle buttons on the dishwasher and then held in the start button. I was watching this in my pre-coffee daze from the dining room. The dishwasher made a grinding sound. Smoke started rising from the door. She giggled, thinking this was great fun. The smell of burning electrical components filled the air, and then.....the door blew open with a POP! Broken dishes everywhere! Lights went out! Two-year-old screaming and bleeding! Yes, bleeding! The shards of broken dishes scratched the side of her face before catapulting her backward onto her ass, making it look like Freddy Krueger had attacked.
I put my head down on the table as she climbed up into my lap, tears and blood mingling on my pajamas. Yes, the dishwasher was dead too. And now, the only appliance in our ENTIRE HOUSE we have not replaced in the last year is the oven. Which is gas. Which is impossible to break/wear out/destroy. Right/
First the dryer, born in the 1960s if you judged it by its color, refused to spin. So clothes got hot, the ones on the top dried, and the ones below got moldy and smelly. We expected its death, actually a lot sooner, considering we had to prop the door shut with a 2X4. It never latched from the day we moved in, but I was happy not to have to drop a load of cash on a new one right off the bat. So the new dryer was welcome, a far more energy efficient model that dried in half the time. And it was white, not avacado green.
Then the refrigerator stopped cooling. Bart Simpson called, asking if our refrigerator was running and I had to tell the little stinker "No." Joke aborted. We put all the food we could in the downstairs refrigerator, remainders in coolers on the porch and under the kitchen table. I was beginning to think that this was a conspiracy formed entirely by Maytag.
Conspiracy theory confirmed: The washing machine was next. I called a repair man in hope of resurrecting it, since it was relatively new and modern. It was a front loader, which I thought I would like until I had one. The seal around the door always smelled moldy, the damn thing never really drained. The repair man charged me $90 to tell me it would cost more to fix the stupid thing than get a new one. Shit!
Then last week, Nora (aka No-No Nora) pushed all the cycle buttons on the dishwasher and then held in the start button. I was watching this in my pre-coffee daze from the dining room. The dishwasher made a grinding sound. Smoke started rising from the door. She giggled, thinking this was great fun. The smell of burning electrical components filled the air, and then.....the door blew open with a POP! Broken dishes everywhere! Lights went out! Two-year-old screaming and bleeding! Yes, bleeding! The shards of broken dishes scratched the side of her face before catapulting her backward onto her ass, making it look like Freddy Krueger had attacked.
I put my head down on the table as she climbed up into my lap, tears and blood mingling on my pajamas. Yes, the dishwasher was dead too. And now, the only appliance in our ENTIRE HOUSE we have not replaced in the last year is the oven. Which is gas. Which is impossible to break/wear out/destroy. Right/
A Day Late...A Dollar Short
In honor of mother's day, albeit a Horrendous Halmark Holiday.
A poem you will never find in a card for it is way too gritty and real:
My Grandma Milkweed
Sprouted up in 1916, a girl
who lived through Prohibition,
the Great Depression, the wars.
First in France, then Germany, then deep jungles
of Southeast Asia followed by desert sands.
She could have predicted
the outcomes of all of them
after the first one, her crystal ball
was clear on that.
Tall, her fibrous limbs worked
the farm, picking and bundling
firm stalks of asparagus she sold to Naples
Fruit Stand down
on River Road. Her stem
was straight. Her leaves
were full. Flowers sprung up
in her hair, making her look exotic
not just overworked.
Her skin took on the hue of dirt
but her hair was always red, wrapped
up in kerchiefs. She went to work
welding fittings and never returned
to housewivery or the dirt
when the boys came home.
She sipped sangria
once, at the kitchen table
where she pickled canned baked.
She got a little heated
over the bastard she had married, the one
who drank his paychecks up and left her
to feed their seven children:
my mother, my aunts, my uncle.
But then she laughed
since she was the one who took up with him
anyway. Not like she didn’t know
what she was getting into.
Now, though, my Grandma Milkweed
doesn’t speak. She doesn’t know my face or name.
I tried to coax a word or two out of her
last time I saw her, eight years ago.
She was mostly gone then. She still lit up
when her dog brushed against her leg, begging
for a scratch.
I stopped going to visit her. I stopped
thinking of her
as anything more than history.
Her pod, split open
gave its seeds, adrift on their silken wings
to the wind. All that remains now
is hard, grey casing
and the silvery stem
where once we all attached.
A poem you will never find in a card for it is way too gritty and real:
My Grandma Milkweed
Sprouted up in 1916, a girl
who lived through Prohibition,
the Great Depression, the wars.
First in France, then Germany, then deep jungles
of Southeast Asia followed by desert sands.
She could have predicted
the outcomes of all of them
after the first one, her crystal ball
was clear on that.
Tall, her fibrous limbs worked
the farm, picking and bundling
firm stalks of asparagus she sold to Naples
Fruit Stand down
on River Road. Her stem
was straight. Her leaves
were full. Flowers sprung up
in her hair, making her look exotic
not just overworked.
Her skin took on the hue of dirt
but her hair was always red, wrapped
up in kerchiefs. She went to work
welding fittings and never returned
to housewivery or the dirt
when the boys came home.
She sipped sangria
once, at the kitchen table
where she pickled canned baked.
She got a little heated
over the bastard she had married, the one
who drank his paychecks up and left her
to feed their seven children:
my mother, my aunts, my uncle.
But then she laughed
since she was the one who took up with him
anyway. Not like she didn’t know
what she was getting into.
Now, though, my Grandma Milkweed
doesn’t speak. She doesn’t know my face or name.
I tried to coax a word or two out of her
last time I saw her, eight years ago.
She was mostly gone then. She still lit up
when her dog brushed against her leg, begging
for a scratch.
I stopped going to visit her. I stopped
thinking of her
as anything more than history.
Her pod, split open
gave its seeds, adrift on their silken wings
to the wind. All that remains now
is hard, grey casing
and the silvery stem
where once we all attached.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Best Kids' Shopping in Duluth!
I am on a limited budget. With 7 little parasites, I guess that goes without saying. Part of the "How do you do it?" question is financial, and I would like to share the best, kid-friendly places to shop in fair Duluth. This means mostly that prices are good, products are decent (but don't obviously last forever) and salespeople are kind to harried mothers.
5. Wal-Mart. C'mon, you knew it would make the list for cheap prices. And the salesfolks there are so used to nasty, bratty, white-trash kids that when you bring a herd there and they behave in a semi-human manner, the salespeople sing your praises and damn near applaud you. Cheap clothing, but don't expect to hand it down, as it is NOT of fine quality.
4. JCPenney. A bit high-end for us, but I pride myself on always getting the little freeloaders new shoes of decent brand. (Nike, Adidas, Skechers, etc.) I had to wear generic shoes most of my childhood (He llo, Payless tennies) and always swore my kids wouldn't have to endure the heckles of their friends for such humiliation. Not to say Payless isn't THE place for dress shoes, because it totally is!
3. Lots for Tots. Quality, clean used kids clothing and accessories. An awesome staff. A place for the little kids to play while I do boring things like shop. High end stuff at a great price. A rewards program. HIGHLY recommended. HIGHLY.
2. Goodwill. Hit or miss. Cheap. Dirty place, but wonderful staff. Nice place to ditch all the outgrown stuff without feeling guilty.
1. Savers. Even though it smells like puke as soon as you walk through the door, the selection is always changing. The salespeople are pleasant, they offer good coupons, a fair selection of toys to keep the brats busy, and great prices. Also hit or miss, but usually there is a large enough inventory to get what we need. Prices are good, and all profits go to the Disabled American Veterans.
5. Wal-Mart. C'mon, you knew it would make the list for cheap prices. And the salesfolks there are so used to nasty, bratty, white-trash kids that when you bring a herd there and they behave in a semi-human manner, the salespeople sing your praises and damn near applaud you. Cheap clothing, but don't expect to hand it down, as it is NOT of fine quality.
4. JCPenney. A bit high-end for us, but I pride myself on always getting the little freeloaders new shoes of decent brand. (Nike, Adidas, Skechers, etc.) I had to wear generic shoes most of my childhood (He llo, Payless tennies) and always swore my kids wouldn't have to endure the heckles of their friends for such humiliation. Not to say Payless isn't THE place for dress shoes, because it totally is!
3. Lots for Tots. Quality, clean used kids clothing and accessories. An awesome staff. A place for the little kids to play while I do boring things like shop. High end stuff at a great price. A rewards program. HIGHLY recommended. HIGHLY.
2. Goodwill. Hit or miss. Cheap. Dirty place, but wonderful staff. Nice place to ditch all the outgrown stuff without feeling guilty.
1. Savers. Even though it smells like puke as soon as you walk through the door, the selection is always changing. The salespeople are pleasant, they offer good coupons, a fair selection of toys to keep the brats busy, and great prices. Also hit or miss, but usually there is a large enough inventory to get what we need. Prices are good, and all profits go to the Disabled American Veterans.
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