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.
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