I had promised to make a second part and here it is.
It's a well known fact that Doctors can be douche bags when it comes to humility. They have a human being come into their office and they look down at their noses because someone doesn't have insurance or a means of paying their bill. If I argue with the doctor, I am a pain in the ass. Well they are a pain in mine and need to learn how to be humble, I think.
I am a human being. I would like to be treated like a human being, thank you very fucking much. Learn how to treat me as such and don't tell me that I am crazy when I ask you legit questions about a problem I have. My fucking insurance is paying your paycheck, it is lining your pockets and feeding your family. Talk about ungrateful, you can't even be humble enough to know that I am helping you as much as you are supposedly helping me.
And maybe I am not being so humble myself at the moment, and sometimes I can have a lack of humility when the situation warrants it. Like now. Either way, now I have the displeasure of having to find someone willing to work cheaply or pro Bono to give me a second opinion. Thanks for the emotional hell.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
It's hard to be humble...
I would like to preface this post by apologizing to Doll, who asked me 3 months ago if I would contribute to this topic and give my opinion on Humility. It should have been here sooner, but life intervened. My apologies also to my much more punctual fellow posters on this thread. But now, at last and without any further ado...
What is humility? That's no so easy a question to answer as one might think. If you ask one thousand people this question, I have no doubt you would get nearly as many answers. The reason for this is simple. Well...OK, it's actually NOT so simple. It is actually rather complex. Because we, as humans, are complex. I mean, sure, you can look to Webster or Oxford or even Dictionary.com for a definition, but that is just a scratch on the surface. All you will learn from any of those sources is simply what the WORD humility means. Defining words is easy. It's when you get down to what the concept of what the humility really IS that things get interesting; because it is so, so much more than just a word.
Humility and whether one does or does not have it, are shaped by so many different factors. Spirituality, up-bringing, environment, and the vast gamut of personal experiences, joys and traumas we all expeience as individuals throughout our lives. Which, for example, is why you: the reader, get all these fascinating little essays, rants and perspectives on Humility. Each on different from the next due to all of the factors listed above and more, but none wrong. And who knows, along the way you may discover or re-define what it actually means to you, and the role it - or it's absence - plays in your own life.
And so, all of that being said, humility to me is acceptance of yourself and your place in things with pride, while striving to be the best you you can become. And the real trick in this is to not cross that sometimes hair-thin line from pride into arrogance, which then blows humility all to shit until something happens to again teach you humility. It is, I think an on-going lesson to some degree in everyone's lives. In the legends of my faith and also in those of many other cultures, even the Gods themselves are not immune to the lessons of humility and arrogance. When looked at from that perspective, one realizes how truly powerful a force humility is. It is a place we must all tread with care, lest we fall and suffer the worst fate of all... Becoming self-important pompous douche bags!
What is humility? That's no so easy a question to answer as one might think. If you ask one thousand people this question, I have no doubt you would get nearly as many answers. The reason for this is simple. Well...OK, it's actually NOT so simple. It is actually rather complex. Because we, as humans, are complex. I mean, sure, you can look to Webster or Oxford or even Dictionary.com for a definition, but that is just a scratch on the surface. All you will learn from any of those sources is simply what the WORD humility means. Defining words is easy. It's when you get down to what the concept of what the humility really IS that things get interesting; because it is so, so much more than just a word.
Humility and whether one does or does not have it, are shaped by so many different factors. Spirituality, up-bringing, environment, and the vast gamut of personal experiences, joys and traumas we all expeience as individuals throughout our lives. Which, for example, is why you: the reader, get all these fascinating little essays, rants and perspectives on Humility. Each on different from the next due to all of the factors listed above and more, but none wrong. And who knows, along the way you may discover or re-define what it actually means to you, and the role it - or it's absence - plays in your own life.
And so, all of that being said, humility to me is acceptance of yourself and your place in things with pride, while striving to be the best you you can become. And the real trick in this is to not cross that sometimes hair-thin line from pride into arrogance, which then blows humility all to shit until something happens to again teach you humility. It is, I think an on-going lesson to some degree in everyone's lives. In the legends of my faith and also in those of many other cultures, even the Gods themselves are not immune to the lessons of humility and arrogance. When looked at from that perspective, one realizes how truly powerful a force humility is. It is a place we must all tread with care, lest we fall and suffer the worst fate of all... Becoming self-important pompous douche bags!
Monday, May 16, 2011
A Heathens view on Humility.
A short essay by Gothi Lush D.D.
I will say from the start that I am not a fan of humility as it is commonly used by the American populace and the religious leadership of the “Big 3” Abrahamic faiths to keep people subjugated.
Humility seems to be the device used to keep the masses in line. It is portrayed as something to aspire to, as if being meek is a good thing. When it is said that “the meek shall inherit the Earth” I wonder “why would you want that”. Valhalla, Heaven or Nirvana seems the better option, I mean isn’t that why most people seek out religion is to find something better than what we have now? But I think I might be getting off track.
Humility is the trait of knowing your place and never “tooting your own horn” and that is all fine and good if you’ve never done anything in your life worth talking about. But most of us have. I can not imagine a world without war stories. Who could rise against authority if they are busy knowing their place? Humility is alien to me because I see no one as my superior except for the gods. And even then if I am in their presence I have done something to warrant that attention. On the whole I see humility as a bad thing, sure it’s great to not let your tongue get you in trouble but I bet you do something better than the guy who can kick your ass… just not fisticuffs. I went off track again.
I will say from the start that I am not a fan of humility as it is commonly used by the American populace and the religious leadership of the “Big 3” Abrahamic faiths to keep people subjugated.
Humility seems to be the device used to keep the masses in line. It is portrayed as something to aspire to, as if being meek is a good thing. When it is said that “the meek shall inherit the Earth” I wonder “why would you want that”. Valhalla, Heaven or Nirvana seems the better option, I mean isn’t that why most people seek out religion is to find something better than what we have now? But I think I might be getting off track.
Humility is the trait of knowing your place and never “tooting your own horn” and that is all fine and good if you’ve never done anything in your life worth talking about. But most of us have. I can not imagine a world without war stories. Who could rise against authority if they are busy knowing their place? Humility is alien to me because I see no one as my superior except for the gods. And even then if I am in their presence I have done something to warrant that attention. On the whole I see humility as a bad thing, sure it’s great to not let your tongue get you in trouble but I bet you do something better than the guy who can kick your ass… just not fisticuffs. I went off track again.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Humiliation Vs Humilty
In the eyes of the meek...
Being meek isn't as easy as people would think. Indeed, I have accepted things that other people wouldn't... For instance, I enjoy being submissive. It is a choice I live with every day because it affects me every day. I prefer to be told what to do by most people, but ONLY those whom I trust and think I ought to give such respect. However, and this is a big one, sometimes I let it go too far. I mean, as much as I like being submissive to others, there are times when I am crying out to be heard and nobody can hear me at all. Also, there seems to be a fine line between being submissive and being a doormat. I have had the unfortunate experience of being the doormat sometimes.
People sometimes ask me why I put myself through such things, and I don't ever have an honest answer I can give them, so I simply shrug. But tonight I was kind of forced to think about it because I was asked to write this blog for my friend. She wanted some "essays" on humility. So in thinking about this humility thing, I suppose the best possible answer I can give is that I am used to it... I've been pretty much talked over, ignored, pointed at, etc, since I was little. Being called "ugly" was a daily experience in my world by the kids at school.
There was a time where I was angry at myself and everyone else around me. You know, those turbulent teenage years when you're between childhood and adulthood? But then, who wouldn't be? I had stopped caring about myself because I was a victim of rape and molestation. I know what it is like to be violated so bad that being a teenager was something I wished wouldn't happen. I stopped caring so much, that people found me an easy target and teased me mercilessly, and I thought at the time that I was helpless.
Humility and humiliation are two words that are often confused. I was not humble back then, I was humiliated. Humiliation forces you into some actions that are similar to humility. Make no mistake, they are completely different. You do not force humility unto another, they are either humble or they aren't.
But you know what? Writing this is not humiliating. It is humbling. I will explain....
The whole time I was being humiliated, and this was a nearly twenty year stretch out of my nearly twenty eight years of life, I gave up on the one thing that I should have humbled myself to the most... And that was God. I said, "Why should I care about a God who is not there?" But he was. Through it all, I suppose there were always these signs that I saw and chose to ignore. He tested me.
I would never change the past. There are no "What if" moments for me. Everything, including the rapes, happened for a reason. I would not have been shaped into the strong woman that I am today. While I still submit myself in my daily life, I mostly submit to God. He has been good to me for throwing the challenges at me that make my life interesting.
Just recently, I was baptized. As I stood at the altar with my evangelist, he was crying. He was humbled to know that someone who went through as much as I had (though he doesn't know all of it), could find it in me to give myself back to Jesus. I said to him, "When you walk through life in darkness, you crave seeing the light." And it is totally true.
I started to go to church because I wanted to submit to Jesus, not just people. I want Him to be my boss, my guide. And I go to church because it makes me happy after years of being let down by humiliation.
The point is that I am humble for Jesus, and in life, because of the things that have shaped me over the years. I will have more to say about it later when I have thought, so this blog is to be continued.
Oh MY God
I know its scary when I've been thinking, but imagine what it must be like actually being inside my head, eh?
I've been thinking a lot about humility and how it seems like humanity has a complete lack of it lately. I wondered if maybe my standards are just too high or perhaps I have fallen victim to the sort of prideful self righteousness that causes so many of us to feel superior to other people. Lots of things make me feel like puking when it comes to people - the ones who think they shouldn't have to contribute to society at all because they've achieved enough in their life to be comfortable and no one else deserves as much as them AND the ones who feel like they shouldn't have to do anything but take up space and oxygen while everyone else in the world works their asses off and each person gives them just a little to make up for their total lack. Notice the theme there? Neither of them wants to give anything to anyone. One has plenty to share and the other has nothing, but thinks everyone should share with them. I believe that both points of view are wrong, prideful and flatly irritating.
Recently I have noted several people in my life who subscribe to a particular sect of Christianity committing grievous acts of blasphemy. I mean, not blasphemy in the way that I just think its blasphemy so I'm going to call it that - but no. Real, biblical blasphemy. (Coming from someone whose blog is called Well, Goddamn I suppose you'd think I'm the pot calling the kettle black and you might just be right about that). This is what made me wonder where reminding someone that they are going against the beliefs they subscribe to ends and blatant holier than thou attitudes begin.
An old friend of mine once told me "Humility is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there" which, I'm fairly sure he attributed to Mother Teresa, but I have not been able to substantiate that. I DO know that she said Both humility and prayer grow from an ear, mind, and tongue that have lived in silence with God, for in the silence of the heart God speaks.
Mahatma Ghandi said the seven great sins are 1: Wealth without work 2: Pleasure without conscience 3: Knowledge without character 4: Commerce without morality 5: Science without humility 6: Worship without sacrifice and 7: Politics without principle
Charles Dickens famously said that 'Umble we are. 'Umble we have been. 'Umble we shall ever be.
Of course, in contrast, you could go with Ted Turner's estimation that If I only had a little humility, I would be perfect.
When all else fails, we can turn to the internet encyclopedia to define humility for us.
For me, I feel that humility is a constant struggle against my own human nature. I believe very much that Man, as a reasoning being, carries with Him some pride and a lot of arrogance. We have this sort of inborn passion for ourselves that - to the best of my knowledge - other beasts of the world simply do not possess. I want to move away from that passion for self and learn to keep my mouth shut about small and insignificant things, but then I have to decide what is insignificant enough that I should not at least try to change or influence change in the world. What is small and carries no bearing ont he world? For, truly, if the wings of a butterfly flapping here today can cause a hurricane on the other side of the world tomorrow - then is someone drinking the sacramental wine as a dinner garnish arbitrary? How do you know?
To affect change in the world toward what I personally think is the best path for humanity would make me truly prideful, I think. I have no right to believe what I do is in the name of my God if my God has not personally told me to do it. And He hasn't! At the same time, I think that letting the world destroy itsself without intervention is truly selfish. One cannot stand alone and believe their actions have no consequences on those around them.
I have been accused of being a democrat, a liberal, too conservative, too religious, a nutjob, a socialist (that one was my favorite - oh no! I think all men are equal and should be treated that way!), and a republican. All because people who have no opinions of their own need to label those around them in order to be comfortable. In my life, I have learned that there is no comfort in humility. At all. Humility is a constant exercise in self control and a struggle to let go of the pride and ego which only stop me from seeing someone else's point of view and finding a diplomatic resolution. With all of these things in mind, I decided to invite some friends of mine to come here and guest author their own thoughts on humility. I don't know if they will all come forward, but I am hopeful.
I've been thinking a lot about humility and how it seems like humanity has a complete lack of it lately. I wondered if maybe my standards are just too high or perhaps I have fallen victim to the sort of prideful self righteousness that causes so many of us to feel superior to other people. Lots of things make me feel like puking when it comes to people - the ones who think they shouldn't have to contribute to society at all because they've achieved enough in their life to be comfortable and no one else deserves as much as them AND the ones who feel like they shouldn't have to do anything but take up space and oxygen while everyone else in the world works their asses off and each person gives them just a little to make up for their total lack. Notice the theme there? Neither of them wants to give anything to anyone. One has plenty to share and the other has nothing, but thinks everyone should share with them. I believe that both points of view are wrong, prideful and flatly irritating.
Recently I have noted several people in my life who subscribe to a particular sect of Christianity committing grievous acts of blasphemy. I mean, not blasphemy in the way that I just think its blasphemy so I'm going to call it that - but no. Real, biblical blasphemy. (Coming from someone whose blog is called Well, Goddamn I suppose you'd think I'm the pot calling the kettle black and you might just be right about that). This is what made me wonder where reminding someone that they are going against the beliefs they subscribe to ends and blatant holier than thou attitudes begin.
An old friend of mine once told me "Humility is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there" which, I'm fairly sure he attributed to Mother Teresa, but I have not been able to substantiate that. I DO know that she said Both humility and prayer grow from an ear, mind, and tongue that have lived in silence with God, for in the silence of the heart God speaks.
Mahatma Ghandi said the seven great sins are 1: Wealth without work 2: Pleasure without conscience 3: Knowledge without character 4: Commerce without morality 5: Science without humility 6: Worship without sacrifice and 7: Politics without principle
Charles Dickens famously said that 'Umble we are. 'Umble we have been. 'Umble we shall ever be.
Of course, in contrast, you could go with Ted Turner's estimation that If I only had a little humility, I would be perfect.
When all else fails, we can turn to the internet encyclopedia to define humility for us.
For me, I feel that humility is a constant struggle against my own human nature. I believe very much that Man, as a reasoning being, carries with Him some pride and a lot of arrogance. We have this sort of inborn passion for ourselves that - to the best of my knowledge - other beasts of the world simply do not possess. I want to move away from that passion for self and learn to keep my mouth shut about small and insignificant things, but then I have to decide what is insignificant enough that I should not at least try to change or influence change in the world. What is small and carries no bearing ont he world? For, truly, if the wings of a butterfly flapping here today can cause a hurricane on the other side of the world tomorrow - then is someone drinking the sacramental wine as a dinner garnish arbitrary? How do you know?
To affect change in the world toward what I personally think is the best path for humanity would make me truly prideful, I think. I have no right to believe what I do is in the name of my God if my God has not personally told me to do it. And He hasn't! At the same time, I think that letting the world destroy itsself without intervention is truly selfish. One cannot stand alone and believe their actions have no consequences on those around them.
I have been accused of being a democrat, a liberal, too conservative, too religious, a nutjob, a socialist (that one was my favorite - oh no! I think all men are equal and should be treated that way!), and a republican. All because people who have no opinions of their own need to label those around them in order to be comfortable. In my life, I have learned that there is no comfort in humility. At all. Humility is a constant exercise in self control and a struggle to let go of the pride and ego which only stop me from seeing someone else's point of view and finding a diplomatic resolution. With all of these things in mind, I decided to invite some friends of mine to come here and guest author their own thoughts on humility. I don't know if they will all come forward, but I am hopeful.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
The Fuck Bucket
I want to talk a little about what I've been referring to as my Give a Fuck Bucket or just Fuck Bucket, for short. See, this is something that a lot of people find amusing or offensive that I refer to when I'm not really that happy or content with my life in general. I use it to express myself, you see. When the bucket is dry, I have not a single fuck left to give.
I was introduced to this concept by my lovely daughter at the start of this school year which was the fall of 2010. She brought home from class a certificate saying she'd "Filled a bucket today". Now I was curious about why she was spending time filling up buckets and just what she was meant to be putting in them since she is too old to be playing in a sand box during school time and getting an award for it, you know? So, I sent the teacher a note asking what this was all about. I'm a very um, aggressive or expressive parent depending on who you ask. I always want to know what my daughter is up to in this public school - and usually its a load of drivel that I really feel is at least two years behind, but that is another rant entirely.
So, the teacher wrote me back that same day saying that the class had shared a book called Have You Filled A Bucket Today which is all about how everyone has these invisible buckets in their lives which get filled by kindness and consideration given to and recieved from others. Its a hippy dippy concept of community and caring where one is supposed to be fulfilled simply by the act of giving to or doing for someone else. Now the teacher in question is called Dustin Whitis and he's now teaching 4th grade at another school in the city because apparently my daughter's current school just could not contain his awesome. Or he just drew the short straw or something. I was impressed, honestly, that he would take some time not only to teach my child fundamentals of math, science and social studies but some sense of moral goodness which could lead her to think about her community instead of herself. That's admirable. Its also MY job as a parent which I tend to take seriously where some other parents depend solely on school to teach their kids shit like "Don't do drugs" or "Taking things that don't belong to you really IS stealing and that's a crime, son".
So, I have this concept just rolling around in my brain. It seems like a good idea in theory but I feel sort of like its flawed in some significant way. I mean, eventually your bucket will be empty and there'll be no one there to fill it. In such a case, one must learn the awesome concept of Suck It Up Buttercup! in which we learn that sometimes you have to get off your ass and do it for yourself instead of expecting community pride and giving to sustain you. Yes, I do teach my children morals and giving and all the tree hugging, dirt worshipping, bleeding heart, giving until you just can't give any more masochistic road to martyrdom. However, I also teach them to pull on their big girl panties and deal with their mess.
So, now we have buckets and we have self sufficiency rolling around in my head. Eventually it all gives way to the basic idea of "What do I have the strength to give a fuck about today?" And in my mind, I put all my "Give a fuck" into my invisible bucket. Thus was born the concept of the Fuck Bucket.
Today, I checked and only had half a fuck left to give. However, realizing all the stuff I needed to give a fuck about, it got stretched too thin and no I can't even give half a fuck about anything. Awesome.
I was introduced to this concept by my lovely daughter at the start of this school year which was the fall of 2010. She brought home from class a certificate saying she'd "Filled a bucket today". Now I was curious about why she was spending time filling up buckets and just what she was meant to be putting in them since she is too old to be playing in a sand box during school time and getting an award for it, you know? So, I sent the teacher a note asking what this was all about. I'm a very um, aggressive or expressive parent depending on who you ask. I always want to know what my daughter is up to in this public school - and usually its a load of drivel that I really feel is at least two years behind, but that is another rant entirely.
So, the teacher wrote me back that same day saying that the class had shared a book called Have You Filled A Bucket Today which is all about how everyone has these invisible buckets in their lives which get filled by kindness and consideration given to and recieved from others. Its a hippy dippy concept of community and caring where one is supposed to be fulfilled simply by the act of giving to or doing for someone else. Now the teacher in question is called Dustin Whitis and he's now teaching 4th grade at another school in the city because apparently my daughter's current school just could not contain his awesome. Or he just drew the short straw or something. I was impressed, honestly, that he would take some time not only to teach my child fundamentals of math, science and social studies but some sense of moral goodness which could lead her to think about her community instead of herself. That's admirable. Its also MY job as a parent which I tend to take seriously where some other parents depend solely on school to teach their kids shit like "Don't do drugs" or "Taking things that don't belong to you really IS stealing and that's a crime, son".
So, I have this concept just rolling around in my brain. It seems like a good idea in theory but I feel sort of like its flawed in some significant way. I mean, eventually your bucket will be empty and there'll be no one there to fill it. In such a case, one must learn the awesome concept of Suck It Up Buttercup! in which we learn that sometimes you have to get off your ass and do it for yourself instead of expecting community pride and giving to sustain you. Yes, I do teach my children morals and giving and all the tree hugging, dirt worshipping, bleeding heart, giving until you just can't give any more masochistic road to martyrdom. However, I also teach them to pull on their big girl panties and deal with their mess.
So, now we have buckets and we have self sufficiency rolling around in my head. Eventually it all gives way to the basic idea of "What do I have the strength to give a fuck about today?" And in my mind, I put all my "Give a fuck" into my invisible bucket. Thus was born the concept of the Fuck Bucket.
Today, I checked and only had half a fuck left to give. However, realizing all the stuff I needed to give a fuck about, it got stretched too thin and no I can't even give half a fuck about anything. Awesome.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Some days you're the windshield....
And some days you are, most definitely, the bug.
I finally got my fucking truck back from the mechanic. 4wd in perfect working order. I actually took it out and drove it today. I drove it about a hundred intown miles crisscrossing the city just to see how it would do on a "long drive". Mind you, I have had to put new turn signals, a new battery, a new rear view mirror, a patch on the windshield AND a transfer case on this fabulous vehicle which I purchased all of 9 days ago and have driven for a total of 1.
Now the front interior lights don't come on when we open the doors but it does make a lovely CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK sound until you shut all the doors, the clock has reset itsself 3 times in the last ten hours, the glove compartment won't unlock and the power door locks have mysteriously stopped working. Better than that, if you open a door while the radio is playing, it turns the radio off until you shut the door again.
I hate to be one to cry about a used car turning out to be a lemon because you really do take your life in your hands when you buy a used car, but this reeks of the old days when used car lots would put sawdust in the oil or black pepper in the radiator just to make a car run well for a day or two to make a sale and pawn a piece of shit off on some hapless individual. The ONLY thing I can hope for with this car is that when I go to fetch the title, it turns out to be a salvage title. At least THEN, I may have some legal recourse since we did expressly ask - before signing anything - if the title had ever been salvaged and were told expressly that it was a clean title with no salvage or lien against it.
Anyone know anything about wiring in Jeeps? *facepalm*
I finally got my fucking truck back from the mechanic. 4wd in perfect working order. I actually took it out and drove it today. I drove it about a hundred intown miles crisscrossing the city just to see how it would do on a "long drive". Mind you, I have had to put new turn signals, a new battery, a new rear view mirror, a patch on the windshield AND a transfer case on this fabulous vehicle which I purchased all of 9 days ago and have driven for a total of 1.
Now the front interior lights don't come on when we open the doors but it does make a lovely CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK sound until you shut all the doors, the clock has reset itsself 3 times in the last ten hours, the glove compartment won't unlock and the power door locks have mysteriously stopped working. Better than that, if you open a door while the radio is playing, it turns the radio off until you shut the door again.
I hate to be one to cry about a used car turning out to be a lemon because you really do take your life in your hands when you buy a used car, but this reeks of the old days when used car lots would put sawdust in the oil or black pepper in the radiator just to make a car run well for a day or two to make a sale and pawn a piece of shit off on some hapless individual. The ONLY thing I can hope for with this car is that when I go to fetch the title, it turns out to be a salvage title. At least THEN, I may have some legal recourse since we did expressly ask - before signing anything - if the title had ever been salvaged and were told expressly that it was a clean title with no salvage or lien against it.
Anyone know anything about wiring in Jeeps? *facepalm*
Sunday, February 27, 2011
I fell asleep and dreamed again.
One of many recurring dreams in my life came up again last night/this morning when I finally got to sleep. Not much really happens in the dream, I just see a woman's hand. Her right hand. It alternates between color and black & white. There is no sound in this dream. The hand is wearing a large, marquis shaped, wide banded, satelite style diamond cluster ring on the index finger. There is blood all over the hand, running in little rivulets down from the fingertips. There are no visible wounds or scars on the hand and for some reason I know the blood doesn't belong to the owner of the hand. This is someone else's blood.
There's always a sinister feeling in this dream. Like, I sort of suspect a Dexter-esque plot is underway but I've seen nothing, heard nothing and know nothing for sure. It isn't a terrifying dream, as some of the others are, but it feels important and poignant. There is some message being conveyed there which I'm not sure I'm truly getting.
To break the dream down, it is only ONE hand that I see and it stops at the wrist. That would count as a disembodied hand, I think. Now, a disembodied hand symbolizes being misunderstood and feelings of loneliness. The right hand symbolizes the masculine and active attributes of life. To see a ring in dreams symbolizes wholeness, commitment and loyalty. To see diamonds in your dream sometimes speaks of clarity of vision at last, but also it can speak to vanity in your waking life, possibly indicating a feeling of selfishness and vanity which is separating you from others. Dreams of blood speak of passion and love, but also of an emotional cry for help when someone else is bleeding in the dream. - Side note: Dreams of blood during menses or pregnancy are quite common - Dreaming in color and then fading to black & white speaks of changing perspectives. It signifies a time where you are looking at things objectively while laying aside emotional attachment.
So, let's put it all together. I would have to say that I feel lonely, worried and anxious. It would seem I am finally looking at things as they are instead of hoping they will go the way I want them to. Emotions no longer rule my life though I wish for more - and possibly even feel I'm entitled to more - than I have in my life at the moment.
There's always a sinister feeling in this dream. Like, I sort of suspect a Dexter-esque plot is underway but I've seen nothing, heard nothing and know nothing for sure. It isn't a terrifying dream, as some of the others are, but it feels important and poignant. There is some message being conveyed there which I'm not sure I'm truly getting.
To break the dream down, it is only ONE hand that I see and it stops at the wrist. That would count as a disembodied hand, I think. Now, a disembodied hand symbolizes being misunderstood and feelings of loneliness. The right hand symbolizes the masculine and active attributes of life. To see a ring in dreams symbolizes wholeness, commitment and loyalty. To see diamonds in your dream sometimes speaks of clarity of vision at last, but also it can speak to vanity in your waking life, possibly indicating a feeling of selfishness and vanity which is separating you from others. Dreams of blood speak of passion and love, but also of an emotional cry for help when someone else is bleeding in the dream. - Side note: Dreams of blood during menses or pregnancy are quite common - Dreaming in color and then fading to black & white speaks of changing perspectives. It signifies a time where you are looking at things objectively while laying aside emotional attachment.
So, let's put it all together. I would have to say that I feel lonely, worried and anxious. It would seem I am finally looking at things as they are instead of hoping they will go the way I want them to. Emotions no longer rule my life though I wish for more - and possibly even feel I'm entitled to more - than I have in my life at the moment.
The last week and a half has been exhausting..
Just, before I get started with my semi-weekly bitchfest, I want to say "THANK YOU!" to Natalie over at http://www.myblogisboring.com/ for naming my blog one of her top 15 favorites. I don't know if she really follows that many blogs or not, but I love her blog and it made me squee a little bit to be included in her list. :)
Just to catch everyone up, things have been going fairly well for me lately. (I managed to pay up some old debts that had been sorely behind. I am still in the hole, but less than before and that is progress. So, YAY ME!) Tax season was good to me and I have managed to purchase myself a new computer monitor which I'd put off for a whole year even though the color was bad and the screen was blinking on my old one. Due to overpayment - accidental, I assure you - I recieved refunds from a couple of other places as well. With our fabulous refunded moneys, my husband and I decided it was time to purchase a new - used - vehicle for our family. Mostly because when he works, I am left without a vehicle and I personally like to always have two vehicles anyway in case one breaks down.
I did a lot of research, drove far and wide to big car lots, small car lots, visited my favorite used car salesman - yes, I really do still love you Lonnie, even though you tried to sneak one past me this year - and visited three nearby cities in my search. I looked at, inspected and passed by at least 300 cars. I opened the hoods and sniffed dipsticks on at least 100. Throughout all of this, I only liked 3 vehicles enough to drive them. But I only actually decided to drive two of them. All of this earned me a great big "You're too picky" from my husband, my mother in law and four different salesmen. Ultimately, I have to say, "Yes, I am". So what? I know what I want, I know what I like, I know what I have to spend, I know better than to even bother looking at the price tag, I know better than to tell a car salesman my REAL budget, and I am smart enough to do my research before I even drive the car because I don't want to fall in love with it if it isn't worth the asking price - even though I don't plan to pay the asking price.
Sadly, all of my shopping did not net the results I'd hoped for. I ended up buying a 1995 Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo from http://rsautoky.com/ for $2800 total (that is sale price + ttl). It was valued, in excellent condition, at around $3600-3800, depending on which car buying manual you consult. So, it seems like I got a fair enough deal. Except, I got halfway home (don't you love how used car buying stories always include the phrase "halfway home"?) and started hearing a noise like Rice Krispies under the hood. So, I stopped off at a reputable repair shop called Grissom's Auto Care at Outer Loop and Old Shep - they don't have a website for me to link to, I'm sorry. But they're AWESOME and I trust them more than any shop I've been to in a long time - to have a word about this noise.
The lady who runs the desk had a drive round the block and she was unsure what the problem might be, so she handed the truck off to one of the repair specialists who took it round the block as well. After his trip, he got out a hydraulic jack, checked the undercarriage and come back with a diagnosis of a bad transfer case. The transfer case is the 4 wheel drive part of the transmission on this particular truck and sadly, Grissom's does not do 4 wheel drive work. They referred me to someone else who they said was trustworthy, but he wanted to keep my vehicle for "a couple of days to try a few things" and see what he could do. Now, Grissom's I trust, but this person is someone I do not know and, in my experience, it is NEVER a good sign when a mechanic has not even MET your vehicle and already wants to keep it for more than a day and fiddle with it. I opted to take it to a mechanic who is a friend of a friend.
The good thing about a bad transfer case is that, apparently, you can disconnect the whole damn thing and still drive your truck as a 2 wheel drive vehicle without damaging anything. The bad thing is, I sort of NEED the 4 wheel drive in order to make a trip to visit my daddy's stone (off road, across a creek and up a muddy hill to the cemetary). The ugly thing is that a new transfer case is $1200 - let's do some maths, shall we? I paid $2500 before TTL. Retail of $3600-3800, middle ground being $3700. SO, I bought the car for about $1200 under retail and the day I bought it, it needed a $1200 part. Is this a coincidence? Maybe. Take a lesson from me, folks. If you go and look at a 4x4 vehicle, do yourself a favor and TEST the 4 wheel drive before you sign anything, okiedokie? Because I promise you, the guys at the car lot only had this to say, "Well, we don't know a lot about the cars we sell here. We try to tell the customers everything we do know, but we just make sure we tell you up front that we don't know a lot about them". So, yes, they wash their hands of the thing, which they have every legal right to do, then they move on while I am left with a $1200 headache before any labor is considered. Oi.
The longer I stew and search for this part, the more pissed off I get. I have visited every parts website, junk yard, auto salvage and individual classified ad for fifteen states. These things are as much as $800 used. USED! For a little over $600, I can buy all the parts and rebuild the inside of the damn transfer case from the Jeep dealership, but then I have to pay for the labor on not only pulling and replacing but also on rebuilding it. I'm not sure if this is injustice or not, but it certainly hurts ALL of my happy places.
Just to catch everyone up, things have been going fairly well for me lately. (I managed to pay up some old debts that had been sorely behind. I am still in the hole, but less than before and that is progress. So, YAY ME!) Tax season was good to me and I have managed to purchase myself a new computer monitor which I'd put off for a whole year even though the color was bad and the screen was blinking on my old one. Due to overpayment - accidental, I assure you - I recieved refunds from a couple of other places as well. With our fabulous refunded moneys, my husband and I decided it was time to purchase a new - used - vehicle for our family. Mostly because when he works, I am left without a vehicle and I personally like to always have two vehicles anyway in case one breaks down.
I did a lot of research, drove far and wide to big car lots, small car lots, visited my favorite used car salesman - yes, I really do still love you Lonnie, even though you tried to sneak one past me this year - and visited three nearby cities in my search. I looked at, inspected and passed by at least 300 cars. I opened the hoods and sniffed dipsticks on at least 100. Throughout all of this, I only liked 3 vehicles enough to drive them. But I only actually decided to drive two of them. All of this earned me a great big "You're too picky" from my husband, my mother in law and four different salesmen. Ultimately, I have to say, "Yes, I am". So what? I know what I want, I know what I like, I know what I have to spend, I know better than to even bother looking at the price tag, I know better than to tell a car salesman my REAL budget, and I am smart enough to do my research before I even drive the car because I don't want to fall in love with it if it isn't worth the asking price - even though I don't plan to pay the asking price.
Sadly, all of my shopping did not net the results I'd hoped for. I ended up buying a 1995 Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo from http://rsautoky.com/ for $2800 total (that is sale price + ttl). It was valued, in excellent condition, at around $3600-3800, depending on which car buying manual you consult. So, it seems like I got a fair enough deal. Except, I got halfway home (don't you love how used car buying stories always include the phrase "halfway home"?) and started hearing a noise like Rice Krispies under the hood. So, I stopped off at a reputable repair shop called Grissom's Auto Care at Outer Loop and Old Shep - they don't have a website for me to link to, I'm sorry. But they're AWESOME and I trust them more than any shop I've been to in a long time - to have a word about this noise.
The lady who runs the desk had a drive round the block and she was unsure what the problem might be, so she handed the truck off to one of the repair specialists who took it round the block as well. After his trip, he got out a hydraulic jack, checked the undercarriage and come back with a diagnosis of a bad transfer case. The transfer case is the 4 wheel drive part of the transmission on this particular truck and sadly, Grissom's does not do 4 wheel drive work. They referred me to someone else who they said was trustworthy, but he wanted to keep my vehicle for "a couple of days to try a few things" and see what he could do. Now, Grissom's I trust, but this person is someone I do not know and, in my experience, it is NEVER a good sign when a mechanic has not even MET your vehicle and already wants to keep it for more than a day and fiddle with it. I opted to take it to a mechanic who is a friend of a friend.
The good thing about a bad transfer case is that, apparently, you can disconnect the whole damn thing and still drive your truck as a 2 wheel drive vehicle without damaging anything. The bad thing is, I sort of NEED the 4 wheel drive in order to make a trip to visit my daddy's stone (off road, across a creek and up a muddy hill to the cemetary). The ugly thing is that a new transfer case is $1200 - let's do some maths, shall we? I paid $2500 before TTL. Retail of $3600-3800, middle ground being $3700. SO, I bought the car for about $1200 under retail and the day I bought it, it needed a $1200 part. Is this a coincidence? Maybe. Take a lesson from me, folks. If you go and look at a 4x4 vehicle, do yourself a favor and TEST the 4 wheel drive before you sign anything, okiedokie? Because I promise you, the guys at the car lot only had this to say, "Well, we don't know a lot about the cars we sell here. We try to tell the customers everything we do know, but we just make sure we tell you up front that we don't know a lot about them". So, yes, they wash their hands of the thing, which they have every legal right to do, then they move on while I am left with a $1200 headache before any labor is considered. Oi.
The longer I stew and search for this part, the more pissed off I get. I have visited every parts website, junk yard, auto salvage and individual classified ad for fifteen states. These things are as much as $800 used. USED! For a little over $600, I can buy all the parts and rebuild the inside of the damn transfer case from the Jeep dealership, but then I have to pay for the labor on not only pulling and replacing but also on rebuilding it. I'm not sure if this is injustice or not, but it certainly hurts ALL of my happy places.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Why having a vagina is the bane of my existence.
Well, its been a helluva few days. The car has started doing something I am sure is bad. The wheels are all flumpy bumpy like one of them is going flat but none of them are. This makes me afraid to drive it. But I don't have another car because my other car caught fire last summer so, if I have to go somewhere, its either drive the scary car or take the bus.
The washing machine went to hell on me the night before last. My kitchen flooded and the only thing I could do was take the six loads of dirty laundry that were waiting to be washed and dump them all into the floor to soak it up. I don't own a shop vac. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. So, now its been three days and I'm finally done washing the WET clothes, but there are another six loads of laundry piled up waiting for me. Suck my balls.
The thing that chaffes my ass is this - If I had a dick, I just KNOW someone would have taught me how to fix that washing machine AND the car. But I don't have one. I got told "Girls don't do that" all my fucking life. Its gotten to be so that every time I think of vagina I think of weaknesses and shortcomings. Except for when I was a teenager and my boyfriend taught me how to drive. He also taught me how to tune up my own car and adjust the idle on my own carburator. Why? Because he didn't think having a dick meant he should have to do it for me. Ergo, if he taught me to do it myself, he didn't have to do it for me later. He was sort of a dickface but also sort of a genius.
So, a friend of mine reminds me that a penis already lives here. The one I happened to be married to, but he can't fix it. Of course he is known to look at something and decide it is just too hard and give up on it. As am I. The suckiest part of all is that, now I have to wash all those clothes by hand in a sink or bathtub before they mildew and funk up my house. Where is the justice? The car isn't working right, the washer goes bad and the kitchen is flooded which leaves me washing laundry by hand. My husband, while agreeable enough when asked to help me do most things, rarely volunteers or even thinks to do such things himself. (I don't think its malicious or anything, it just seems like he hasn't really grown out of his bachelor ways even after four years together). So, I am writhing, seething, twitching with anger and disgust at it all.
Ugh
The washing machine went to hell on me the night before last. My kitchen flooded and the only thing I could do was take the six loads of dirty laundry that were waiting to be washed and dump them all into the floor to soak it up. I don't own a shop vac. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. So, now its been three days and I'm finally done washing the WET clothes, but there are another six loads of laundry piled up waiting for me. Suck my balls.
The thing that chaffes my ass is this - If I had a dick, I just KNOW someone would have taught me how to fix that washing machine AND the car. But I don't have one. I got told "Girls don't do that" all my fucking life. Its gotten to be so that every time I think of vagina I think of weaknesses and shortcomings. Except for when I was a teenager and my boyfriend taught me how to drive. He also taught me how to tune up my own car and adjust the idle on my own carburator. Why? Because he didn't think having a dick meant he should have to do it for me. Ergo, if he taught me to do it myself, he didn't have to do it for me later. He was sort of a dickface but also sort of a genius.
So, a friend of mine reminds me that a penis already lives here. The one I happened to be married to, but he can't fix it. Of course he is known to look at something and decide it is just too hard and give up on it. As am I. The suckiest part of all is that, now I have to wash all those clothes by hand in a sink or bathtub before they mildew and funk up my house. Where is the justice? The car isn't working right, the washer goes bad and the kitchen is flooded which leaves me washing laundry by hand. My husband, while agreeable enough when asked to help me do most things, rarely volunteers or even thinks to do such things himself. (I don't think its malicious or anything, it just seems like he hasn't really grown out of his bachelor ways even after four years together). So, I am writhing, seething, twitching with anger and disgust at it all.
Ugh
Friday, January 28, 2011
On childbirth
Okay friends and neighbors, here comes a rant that a lot of people are going to be offended by.
This article http://thestir.cafemom.com/baby/112145/birth_rape_is_real kind of pisses me off. Having been through pregnancy FOUR times, I can attest to how difficult it can be to live with mood swings, cravings, morning sickness, iron deficiencies, constipation, acid reflux, cankles, sore and itchy breasts, everything being swollen out of all proportion, etc, etc; al, I know a thing or two about the process.
My first pregnancy was rather short and ended in miscarriage around 11 weeks.
My second pregnancy, I was so freaked out and worried that I would lose another baby, I went a little crazy. I read the books, the magazines, the articles about being pregnant and what it's like to be a new mom. I watched A Baby Story religiously and even made a point of looking up videos of women giving birth on the internet. I tracked the progress of a virtual baby week by week and was able to envision that this was going on inside me right now. For nearly a year, I waited and paced and waited and thought that I was making myself ready to give birth to this new person who would be so beautiful and wonderful and awesome. Those women on a baby story made it look like a breeze and those internet birthing videos didn't look too bad, maybe a little uncomfortable.
You know what I discovered when my water broke? The cake is a fucking lie. There are wires and hoses and monitors and belts and straps and - did I say hoses? Becuase there were hoses - little salad spoon looking things and little satellite dish looking things and things that go boop and things that go beep and needles - my GOD the needles - and bags and pans EVERY fucking where. And that's just the equipment they use during labor!
I went into the hospital through the ER, which is what my doctor had instructed me to do when I was in labor, only to be told that I needed to take a seat and wait my turn. Let me say that again - The triage nurse told me to WAIT MY TURN. So I flagged down another nurse who looked busy, but who actually looked at my face when I spoke to her, and explained how I was going to have a baby very very soon. She got me a wheelchair and took me over to someone who could wheel me to labor and delivery.
So, they took me to the little suite where they do the exams on us poor women who "think" we're in labor and a nice lady gave me a gown with instructions to completely disrobe and put it on. So now I'm pretty much naked in this little room by myself and my boyfriend is wandering around the hospital, like most men do when their significant other is in labor, looking lost and confused. Then the lady comes back with a little jar of litmus strip looking things in hand and I ask her, "What is that for?" So, she explains that this particular paper/gauze/stick thingy is to be inserted into my vagina to verify that my water has broken. Which I found very confusing because I already told them that my water had indeed broken. I mean, that's the whole reason I came to the hospital, lady. DUH! But she explains that LOTS of women just pee themselves and think its their water breaking, so it's time to lay back and spread 'em for verification. Oh how I resent being accused of lying or exaggeration. I am a big girl, I know when water is coming from my pee hole and when it is not.
Lo and behold, my water was ACTUALLY broken (!) and so, they moved me on over to the labor room but I wasn't allowed to walk any more because they were afraid of something called cord prolapse which no one had mentioned to me before this, ever. So, into the chair I go to be wheeled to a bed where I will be forced to lay until a person comes flying out of my hoohah. No problem, right? Riiiiight.
During my ten hours of labor - which, as I understand it, is a fairly quick labor - I am told that my contractions aren't strong enough and the baby has to come today or else I will get sepsis and maybe even die. That doesn't sound very jolly to me. However, they have this handy drug that will make things go much faster and probably stop me from dying - which they explained to me as they were hooking it up to an IV they'd already run. I wasn't really given a choice and really would have preferred NOT to take this drug but it was done and I had other things to worry about since one of the nurses examining me had no gloves on (ugh) while she was adjusting monitors between my legs. I was told that I NEEDED an epidural, not that one was strongly suggested but that I NEEDED it because my contractions were reaching a point where my eyes were watering excessively when they peaked. To be clear, I was not actually crying but tears were flowing freely and involuntarily, which was then interpreted as me being in lots of pain. It actually did not hurt that bad.
Pushing onward, I was forced to lay on my left side because the drugs I was given, coupled with the epidural (remember, I did not ask for either of them) were causing my blood pressure to fall. I protested LOUDLY that I really just needed to be out of that bed and walking, but I couldn't do that because my legs were stupid. I still felt pain in my abdomen and a burning sensation in my nethers, but the eye watering was stopped so the doctors were confident that their "pain relief" was successful. - Let me just interrupt myself to say this much. An epidural is painful, scary, and really does not make you completely numb the way it is made out to do by everyone who ever had one. - What do you suppose they did for me when my blood pressure was too low? Stop giving me the drugs that were causing it? No, that would make too much fucking sense! No, they gave me ANOTHER drug! Ephedrine, oh goodie. That stuff is not happy, I tell you. After three doses of that in as many hours, they told me I couldn't have any more because I was maxed out on it. As such, one of two things had to happen within 2 hours. My blood pressure had to stabilize or I had to deliver.
Now, mind you, during all of this my own doctor who had taken care of me throughout my pregnancy was NOT on call and some stranger was calling the shots. I vowed I would NOT be giving birth until my doctor - MY doctor, who I knew and trusted and felt safe with - came to the room. And I didn't. When the moment of truth arrived, my doctor came through the door as if he'd been there all along, scrubbed up while they were latching me into the stirrups, and then took a seat with his little catcher's mitt.
In the end of things, he had to get a suction cup to pull the babies head sideways because they'd left me on my left side so long she was trying to exit through my hip. All told 23 perfect strangers, 1 doctor who I never even laid eyes on, 1 doctor who I knew, 3 family members and the father of my baby saw my goodies on display and/or inserted something into them during the course of that day. LOTS of drugs that I did not want were given me, instruments that I could not name were used on in and around me and I was generally exhausted and starving by the time I finally could feel my toes again.
Giving birth is a TRAUMATIC experience all by itsself. Add 12-40 strangers coming and going and checking and adjusting while you are laboring and you will feel very much violated. Just like every other woman who came before you to have a fucking child did. Long and short - put on your goddamn big girl panties, understand that you are NOT GOING TO LIKE THIS, and stop being a whiny cuntbag. If you want to have a baby, you have to go through the probulatron just like the rest of us did, fucker.
This article http://thestir.cafemom.com/baby/112145/birth_rape_is_real kind of pisses me off. Having been through pregnancy FOUR times, I can attest to how difficult it can be to live with mood swings, cravings, morning sickness, iron deficiencies, constipation, acid reflux, cankles, sore and itchy breasts, everything being swollen out of all proportion, etc, etc; al, I know a thing or two about the process.
My first pregnancy was rather short and ended in miscarriage around 11 weeks.
My second pregnancy, I was so freaked out and worried that I would lose another baby, I went a little crazy. I read the books, the magazines, the articles about being pregnant and what it's like to be a new mom. I watched A Baby Story religiously and even made a point of looking up videos of women giving birth on the internet. I tracked the progress of a virtual baby week by week and was able to envision that this was going on inside me right now. For nearly a year, I waited and paced and waited and thought that I was making myself ready to give birth to this new person who would be so beautiful and wonderful and awesome. Those women on a baby story made it look like a breeze and those internet birthing videos didn't look too bad, maybe a little uncomfortable.
You know what I discovered when my water broke? The cake is a fucking lie. There are wires and hoses and monitors and belts and straps and - did I say hoses? Becuase there were hoses - little salad spoon looking things and little satellite dish looking things and things that go boop and things that go beep and needles - my GOD the needles - and bags and pans EVERY fucking where. And that's just the equipment they use during labor!
I went into the hospital through the ER, which is what my doctor had instructed me to do when I was in labor, only to be told that I needed to take a seat and wait my turn. Let me say that again - The triage nurse told me to WAIT MY TURN. So I flagged down another nurse who looked busy, but who actually looked at my face when I spoke to her, and explained how I was going to have a baby very very soon. She got me a wheelchair and took me over to someone who could wheel me to labor and delivery.
So, they took me to the little suite where they do the exams on us poor women who "think" we're in labor and a nice lady gave me a gown with instructions to completely disrobe and put it on. So now I'm pretty much naked in this little room by myself and my boyfriend is wandering around the hospital, like most men do when their significant other is in labor, looking lost and confused. Then the lady comes back with a little jar of litmus strip looking things in hand and I ask her, "What is that for?" So, she explains that this particular paper/gauze/stick thingy is to be inserted into my vagina to verify that my water has broken. Which I found very confusing because I already told them that my water had indeed broken. I mean, that's the whole reason I came to the hospital, lady. DUH! But she explains that LOTS of women just pee themselves and think its their water breaking, so it's time to lay back and spread 'em for verification. Oh how I resent being accused of lying or exaggeration. I am a big girl, I know when water is coming from my pee hole and when it is not.
Lo and behold, my water was ACTUALLY broken (!) and so, they moved me on over to the labor room but I wasn't allowed to walk any more because they were afraid of something called cord prolapse which no one had mentioned to me before this, ever. So, into the chair I go to be wheeled to a bed where I will be forced to lay until a person comes flying out of my hoohah. No problem, right? Riiiiight.
During my ten hours of labor - which, as I understand it, is a fairly quick labor - I am told that my contractions aren't strong enough and the baby has to come today or else I will get sepsis and maybe even die. That doesn't sound very jolly to me. However, they have this handy drug that will make things go much faster and probably stop me from dying - which they explained to me as they were hooking it up to an IV they'd already run. I wasn't really given a choice and really would have preferred NOT to take this drug but it was done and I had other things to worry about since one of the nurses examining me had no gloves on (ugh) while she was adjusting monitors between my legs. I was told that I NEEDED an epidural, not that one was strongly suggested but that I NEEDED it because my contractions were reaching a point where my eyes were watering excessively when they peaked. To be clear, I was not actually crying but tears were flowing freely and involuntarily, which was then interpreted as me being in lots of pain. It actually did not hurt that bad.
Pushing onward, I was forced to lay on my left side because the drugs I was given, coupled with the epidural (remember, I did not ask for either of them) were causing my blood pressure to fall. I protested LOUDLY that I really just needed to be out of that bed and walking, but I couldn't do that because my legs were stupid. I still felt pain in my abdomen and a burning sensation in my nethers, but the eye watering was stopped so the doctors were confident that their "pain relief" was successful. - Let me just interrupt myself to say this much. An epidural is painful, scary, and really does not make you completely numb the way it is made out to do by everyone who ever had one. - What do you suppose they did for me when my blood pressure was too low? Stop giving me the drugs that were causing it? No, that would make too much fucking sense! No, they gave me ANOTHER drug! Ephedrine, oh goodie. That stuff is not happy, I tell you. After three doses of that in as many hours, they told me I couldn't have any more because I was maxed out on it. As such, one of two things had to happen within 2 hours. My blood pressure had to stabilize or I had to deliver.
Now, mind you, during all of this my own doctor who had taken care of me throughout my pregnancy was NOT on call and some stranger was calling the shots. I vowed I would NOT be giving birth until my doctor - MY doctor, who I knew and trusted and felt safe with - came to the room. And I didn't. When the moment of truth arrived, my doctor came through the door as if he'd been there all along, scrubbed up while they were latching me into the stirrups, and then took a seat with his little catcher's mitt.
In the end of things, he had to get a suction cup to pull the babies head sideways because they'd left me on my left side so long she was trying to exit through my hip. All told 23 perfect strangers, 1 doctor who I never even laid eyes on, 1 doctor who I knew, 3 family members and the father of my baby saw my goodies on display and/or inserted something into them during the course of that day. LOTS of drugs that I did not want were given me, instruments that I could not name were used on in and around me and I was generally exhausted and starving by the time I finally could feel my toes again.
Giving birth is a TRAUMATIC experience all by itsself. Add 12-40 strangers coming and going and checking and adjusting while you are laboring and you will feel very much violated. Just like every other woman who came before you to have a fucking child did. Long and short - put on your goddamn big girl panties, understand that you are NOT GOING TO LIKE THIS, and stop being a whiny cuntbag. If you want to have a baby, you have to go through the probulatron just like the rest of us did, fucker.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Fuck the state of the Union. I'm worried about the state of my *life* here...
So, I don't blog every day because I usually don't have anything interesting to say. Really I have a lot of boohooing to do and I realize that no one really wants to hear it but, then again, they don't have to read it so I do come over here and type once in a while. It helps me clear my head.
So, since the last time I posted, my husband has lost his job again. Which means that, here I sit, waiting to exhale for not 87 more days, but 87 + 38 days. Because he was in a training class (he got fired for being five minutes late during his training period) where he is allowed to come back and try again the first week of March when another training class has an opening. I want to be okay with this. I've said openly that its really not a bad thing because this development actually makes us qualified for some assistances that we wouldn't be eligible to recieve if he were working and they'll be current for six mnoths which may allow us to catch up on a few things.
I'm not angry, please don't misunderstand me. I don't even blame him for what happened. It really could have happened to anyone and it isn't his fault. I'm just terribly disappointed and I don't want to take that out on him or even say it OUT LOUD to him because I don't want him to feel like he's let me down. He didn't let me down. He worked really hard just to get into that class and I don't think he deserved firing, but its what happened. I just really had my heart set on getting away from assistance and being able to consider leaving my current, stable but not very well paying job in favor of one that is not so guaranteed to last but better paying. Put that to the side and stick a pin in it for another day. That wolf is growling outside and I have work to do.
I once read The Old Wives Tale which tells the story of two sisters who went their own ways in life and were separated without word for a great many years. One of the sisters ran away to France and she bought a small brothel which she turned into a rooming house. There, she lived throughout the French Revolution. It mentions very pointedly that she never realized there was a revolution going on. She just knew that everything was expensive and her customers were fewer than they had been before and she was often very hungry but afraid to eat from her stocks of food because she wasn't sure how long it might take her to replenish them. She ends up squirreling away about 8,000 Francs by renting space in her house and by buying food at ridiculously low prices and then selling it for ten times what she paid. She took those Francs and bought the largest luxury hotel in Paris from its owners who had fallen on very hard times and could not refuse her offer which was less than half the property's worth. She went on to become very rich and quite happy.
I sort of feel like that sister because things are bad all over right now, I recognize that. I keep reading that things are bad and hearing it on the radio and the television. But I don't really know that there is a huge recession or depression going on, I don't think. I mean, things don't really seem all that different in my world now that everyone else around me is "poor". The half price section has more items in it now because people can't afford to buy them at regular price, but all the good items are picked over before I get there now because everyone has suddenly become a bargain shopper. You know, it has its ups and its downs but I'm still getting by. I have to go out earlier to find the best deals or shop as soon as a sale starts, but I'm getting by a lot easier than I used to and I've learned who has the best clearance sales for children's clothing and used furniture or appliances for free if I can find someone to go fetch them for me.
Every once in a while I get a hair up my ass I and decide that I'm going to buy a little fixer upper house and make it ours. Then I start pouring through pages of realty listings and reality sets in where I realize that even a $30k house is a pipe dream that I will probably never make come true. I feel sort of lonely most days because most of the people around me who do have things hard now, it wasn't always that way for them. It's like being forced to swim along a shorelline every day of your life and then one day, a bunch of strangers suddenly appear to do exactly the same thing. Now the power you had to exert just to get through this swim before is doubled because you have to navigate through the myriad of others who are doing it as well as actually making your goal. It was exhausting before. Now its exhausting AND competitive. I'm just tired.
So, since the last time I posted, my husband has lost his job again. Which means that, here I sit, waiting to exhale for not 87 more days, but 87 + 38 days. Because he was in a training class (he got fired for being five minutes late during his training period) where he is allowed to come back and try again the first week of March when another training class has an opening. I want to be okay with this. I've said openly that its really not a bad thing because this development actually makes us qualified for some assistances that we wouldn't be eligible to recieve if he were working and they'll be current for six mnoths which may allow us to catch up on a few things.
I'm not angry, please don't misunderstand me. I don't even blame him for what happened. It really could have happened to anyone and it isn't his fault. I'm just terribly disappointed and I don't want to take that out on him or even say it OUT LOUD to him because I don't want him to feel like he's let me down. He didn't let me down. He worked really hard just to get into that class and I don't think he deserved firing, but its what happened. I just really had my heart set on getting away from assistance and being able to consider leaving my current, stable but not very well paying job in favor of one that is not so guaranteed to last but better paying. Put that to the side and stick a pin in it for another day. That wolf is growling outside and I have work to do.
I once read The Old Wives Tale which tells the story of two sisters who went their own ways in life and were separated without word for a great many years. One of the sisters ran away to France and she bought a small brothel which she turned into a rooming house. There, she lived throughout the French Revolution. It mentions very pointedly that she never realized there was a revolution going on. She just knew that everything was expensive and her customers were fewer than they had been before and she was often very hungry but afraid to eat from her stocks of food because she wasn't sure how long it might take her to replenish them. She ends up squirreling away about 8,000 Francs by renting space in her house and by buying food at ridiculously low prices and then selling it for ten times what she paid. She took those Francs and bought the largest luxury hotel in Paris from its owners who had fallen on very hard times and could not refuse her offer which was less than half the property's worth. She went on to become very rich and quite happy.
I sort of feel like that sister because things are bad all over right now, I recognize that. I keep reading that things are bad and hearing it on the radio and the television. But I don't really know that there is a huge recession or depression going on, I don't think. I mean, things don't really seem all that different in my world now that everyone else around me is "poor". The half price section has more items in it now because people can't afford to buy them at regular price, but all the good items are picked over before I get there now because everyone has suddenly become a bargain shopper. You know, it has its ups and its downs but I'm still getting by. I have to go out earlier to find the best deals or shop as soon as a sale starts, but I'm getting by a lot easier than I used to and I've learned who has the best clearance sales for children's clothing and used furniture or appliances for free if I can find someone to go fetch them for me.
Every once in a while I get a hair up my ass I and decide that I'm going to buy a little fixer upper house and make it ours. Then I start pouring through pages of realty listings and reality sets in where I realize that even a $30k house is a pipe dream that I will probably never make come true. I feel sort of lonely most days because most of the people around me who do have things hard now, it wasn't always that way for them. It's like being forced to swim along a shorelline every day of your life and then one day, a bunch of strangers suddenly appear to do exactly the same thing. Now the power you had to exert just to get through this swim before is doubled because you have to navigate through the myriad of others who are doing it as well as actually making your goal. It was exhausting before. Now its exhausting AND competitive. I'm just tired.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Can't sleep. Can't even breathe.
So, its 4:38 in the morning and I haven't been to sleep yet. Lay in bed and let my brain wander until I couldn't take it anymore. There's just so many things going on in my dingy head, I can't stop it.
Here's the thing - I feel like I'm drowning or suffocating or something. I mean, I have a knot in my stomach that won't go away and I think I'm finally over the plague but, still, I feel like hell. I am tired. All the way down in my soul, I am tired and weary. I've been holding my breath for too long. You know, waiting to exhale?
Months and months of working as much as I can work, picking up errands to run or the odd house to clean just to make a few extra dollars (and keeping my mouth shut about it so no one knows because they will worry). Sitting at my computer and making myself available to my boss whenever I'm not doing those things, just in hopes of an odd extra hour or two of commission work (that means I only get paid for the work I actually do, not by the hour) and leaving the housework until its time to sleep. Teetering like I'll fall over when I finally do get up to do some of my own housework because I sat so long my ass is numb and my ankles look like boats. Praying and borrowing and juggling to pay this bill or that. Robbing Peter to pay Paul and knowing that I have got to keep it together. I have to stay sane because, as I understand it, maths are even harder after you've had a mental break. All the while, the big bad wolf is at the fucking door talking about "Little pig, little pig, LET ME IN MOTHERFUCKER!"
I spend hours and hours checking out sale ads for every store within a 2 mile radius of my house and then shuffling an extra 20 bucks into the budget to go around to all the stores that have what I need at the best price. Sew up the seam of those pants and go over the stitches with liquid stitch just to reinforce my work, check. While I'm in the stores where I only need to pick up two items, I visit the clearance sections and markdown racks. Meat, $3/lb? Nono. Our budget allows for $3.32 per person per day for food. We're buying the fifty cent hotdogs, the pork loin (which, frankly, looks a little bit suspect) marked $1.29/lb and the ground beef that's $1.79/lb. Ramen, lots of ramen. Damaged packages. Sodas in 12 pack boxes that are missing a can. Bread from the Butternut/Earth Grains bakery, 2 loaves for $1. Did I pay for that shirt that was stuck under my jacket? Check the reciept. Go back into the store and pay for that, its only a dollar and I have that much change in my pocket, I think. Kids don't need any more clothes for now but this is a size too big and its on sale now for the best price I'm going to get.
Niece is in the hospital. Phone won't stop ringing. Keep praying. Ask everyone you know for more prayers. Feel helpless. Don't fucking breathe. *knockKnockKNOCK* The big bad wolf is still waiting for you to open up.
Good and trusted friend and confidant (whom you tell everything to when you can't tell it to anyone else in the world) is very sick with cancer. Pray some more. Sit on your thumbs while she's in the hospital half a world away and you can't afford to drive across the city, much less fly to her. Feel super duper king sized helpless. Cry a few tears, but not too many because the baby needs a bath. Wait to hear something - anything - from her family. Pray more. Don't breathe, for the love of God.
Reach the end of the day and collapse into your chair to work a few more hours online. Wish you could just read your kids a story but you don't have time and, oh by the way, they're hungry now so you have to catch up work and put something on to cook. Catch up more work, check in on the food. Catch up again, serve the food. Husband making lewd remarks over your shoulder once the kids are in bed, but no time for that because work isn't over yet and there is another half hour to stay after your shift to help the other operators catch up again. Can't drown out the noise with music, tv or movies. I drank two pots of coffee today without realizing it but I'm still tired. To screw my husband, or not to screw my husband? Is the house clean? No. Laundry done? Well....the kids' laundry is anyway. Fuck it, I'm going to sleep....if I can.
Husband finally found a job. Will this one last? Maybe. I hope so. GOD I hope so. It's a really good job and we need it desperately. Now? Sit still on a razor's edge waiting for him to get through his probationary period and get into the fucking union. Unions are good. Unions are safe. We like unions. YAY unions! You keep people employed and shit!
So, now I only have to wait 87 days before I can breathe again. But I don't know if I have 87 more days in me. And its 5:28 now which means I can either try and sleep for 2 hours and risk not hearing the alarm go off if I do fall asleep OR I can just stay up and run my morning errands before I get the oldest off to school. Then I could sleep for, hell, maybe three - four hours. That'd be so nice. I haven't slept more than 4 hours straight in months. Mind you, I have slept 4 hours, been up for twelve and then slept 4 more a few times - but that is very rare.
So yes, here I sit, praying and typing out all the crazy in my head just in hopes of getting to sleep a couple of hours. I'm still not sleepy though.
Here's the thing - I feel like I'm drowning or suffocating or something. I mean, I have a knot in my stomach that won't go away and I think I'm finally over the plague but, still, I feel like hell. I am tired. All the way down in my soul, I am tired and weary. I've been holding my breath for too long. You know, waiting to exhale?
Months and months of working as much as I can work, picking up errands to run or the odd house to clean just to make a few extra dollars (and keeping my mouth shut about it so no one knows because they will worry). Sitting at my computer and making myself available to my boss whenever I'm not doing those things, just in hopes of an odd extra hour or two of commission work (that means I only get paid for the work I actually do, not by the hour) and leaving the housework until its time to sleep. Teetering like I'll fall over when I finally do get up to do some of my own housework because I sat so long my ass is numb and my ankles look like boats. Praying and borrowing and juggling to pay this bill or that. Robbing Peter to pay Paul and knowing that I have got to keep it together. I have to stay sane because, as I understand it, maths are even harder after you've had a mental break. All the while, the big bad wolf is at the fucking door talking about "Little pig, little pig, LET ME IN MOTHERFUCKER!"
I spend hours and hours checking out sale ads for every store within a 2 mile radius of my house and then shuffling an extra 20 bucks into the budget to go around to all the stores that have what I need at the best price. Sew up the seam of those pants and go over the stitches with liquid stitch just to reinforce my work, check. While I'm in the stores where I only need to pick up two items, I visit the clearance sections and markdown racks. Meat, $3/lb? Nono. Our budget allows for $3.32 per person per day for food. We're buying the fifty cent hotdogs, the pork loin (which, frankly, looks a little bit suspect) marked $1.29/lb and the ground beef that's $1.79/lb. Ramen, lots of ramen. Damaged packages. Sodas in 12 pack boxes that are missing a can. Bread from the Butternut/Earth Grains bakery, 2 loaves for $1. Did I pay for that shirt that was stuck under my jacket? Check the reciept. Go back into the store and pay for that, its only a dollar and I have that much change in my pocket, I think. Kids don't need any more clothes for now but this is a size too big and its on sale now for the best price I'm going to get.
Niece is in the hospital. Phone won't stop ringing. Keep praying. Ask everyone you know for more prayers. Feel helpless. Don't fucking breathe. *knockKnockKNOCK* The big bad wolf is still waiting for you to open up.
Good and trusted friend and confidant (whom you tell everything to when you can't tell it to anyone else in the world) is very sick with cancer. Pray some more. Sit on your thumbs while she's in the hospital half a world away and you can't afford to drive across the city, much less fly to her. Feel super duper king sized helpless. Cry a few tears, but not too many because the baby needs a bath. Wait to hear something - anything - from her family. Pray more. Don't breathe, for the love of God.
Reach the end of the day and collapse into your chair to work a few more hours online. Wish you could just read your kids a story but you don't have time and, oh by the way, they're hungry now so you have to catch up work and put something on to cook. Catch up more work, check in on the food. Catch up again, serve the food. Husband making lewd remarks over your shoulder once the kids are in bed, but no time for that because work isn't over yet and there is another half hour to stay after your shift to help the other operators catch up again. Can't drown out the noise with music, tv or movies. I drank two pots of coffee today without realizing it but I'm still tired. To screw my husband, or not to screw my husband? Is the house clean? No. Laundry done? Well....the kids' laundry is anyway. Fuck it, I'm going to sleep....if I can.
Husband finally found a job. Will this one last? Maybe. I hope so. GOD I hope so. It's a really good job and we need it desperately. Now? Sit still on a razor's edge waiting for him to get through his probationary period and get into the fucking union. Unions are good. Unions are safe. We like unions. YAY unions! You keep people employed and shit!
So, now I only have to wait 87 days before I can breathe again. But I don't know if I have 87 more days in me. And its 5:28 now which means I can either try and sleep for 2 hours and risk not hearing the alarm go off if I do fall asleep OR I can just stay up and run my morning errands before I get the oldest off to school. Then I could sleep for, hell, maybe three - four hours. That'd be so nice. I haven't slept more than 4 hours straight in months. Mind you, I have slept 4 hours, been up for twelve and then slept 4 more a few times - but that is very rare.
So yes, here I sit, praying and typing out all the crazy in my head just in hopes of getting to sleep a couple of hours. I'm still not sleepy though.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Having the plague and caring for children
So, I've been sick for a couple of weeks now. Like, really craptastically sick. However, I have children, so I can't really be sick-sick because I have to take care of them. So, I'm doing minimal things like one load of laundry per day, two sinks of dishes and giving them instant this or that for breakfast and lunch so I only really have to cook dinner. Here's the thing - That does not stop them from playing in the fridge and breaking eggs all over, pouring the whole box of cereal or bag of chex mix in the floor, knocking over the garbage can, or managing to soil two loads of laundry in a day. To put it mildly, I'm a little behind.
This morning I was dreaming that I'd woken up, made my husband his lunch and sent him off to work while the alarm clock was blaring in my head. I even dreamed that the alarm clock was wrong because it said 6.45 when it was actually 9 something and I apologised to my husband for making him late even though it wasn't my fault and I went back to bed. Then I woke up for real and saw that it was almost 7:30 which is bad because my husband has to leave by 7:40 to get to work on time. Fuck me sideways. He did get out of here on time and should be merrily typing away at his desk now, though.
After he left, I tried very hard to get back to sleep, but I have the plague, so I kept coughing and my nose was running all over the pillow and being gross and the Stooges marathon was on - don't be daft, can't miss the Stooges. Of course, without fail, I have to go pee and my legs get all crampy and I just HAVE to get up. Now, some alka seltzer cold medicine, one prayer to the porcelain god, some dry bread and a cup of coffee later; Here I sit thinking about my dad. Again. Like I always do in the early morning. (Just an aside to explain: I used to wake up an hour before my dad and plan out his day, draw his injections, cook his breakfast, brew his coffee and let it cool, lay out his clothing and bandage changes, etc etc. For years and years, I did this. So its really an engrained habit to think of Daddy first thing in the morning). But, not just my dad this time 'cause my uncle Carlos is on my mind too.
The Stooges remind me of my uncle a lot because he was always one to make you laugh. Now, remember, I feel like hand carved death right now. As such, I am imagining my funeral. Because that's what people really do when they have a cold is they imagine how horrible and dramatic it will be when they die of this temporary and really not so painful ailment they're currently battling, right? You'll say no, but I know you really do so it's okay. So, I'm imagining my funeral and I remember what my uncle's funeral was like. Now my uncle liked his beer and nobody in my house ever dared tell him he couldn't have it (even though we never had alcohol in mom's house) because, by hell, he never hurt anybody in all his life. Not one living soul. And his children loved him very well and they decided that they should play this party song
during the service. And I swear to God, people layed over in the pews wailing and blubbering. I don't know how much you know about country music but crying at this song is sort of like crying at Nate Dogg's Regulate. But it was so very, poignantly, Uncle Carlos and even I sat in my little pew, stiff necked, with tears streaming down my face as this song rolled on. Just determined that I wasn't going to fall over. After all, if anyone had a right to fall over wailing, it is the people who were doing it; his children and grandchildren who had already buried his dear wife of 40+ years not six months prior to this. It was dignified and it was right but it felt so terribly wrong to me on some level that I can't really articulate.
So, then I'm remembering my father's funeral. Anyone who knows me very well already knows this story but I'll tell it to you because you love me and you'll excuse me if I'm a little morose.
Now, my father was a good man and he recognised how very ill he really was. So, bearing that in mind, he made me drive him to his hometown one day not long after his own mother had passed on into the next world. Back to the very place where we'd laid her out, as a matter of fact. Because, apparently, these people are some sort of family of ours and because grandma and grandpa's family own their own cemeteries where he (we) can be buried without paying for a plot. He had me to sit down with him and a funeral director to plan out his final arrangements and one of those arrangements was who would speak at his funeral. Cove Perkus, he said. No one else. But, sadly, Cove (pronounced Co-Vee) passed on before my father's body and after his mind had gone. Meaning that I had to ring up the funeral director and decide who should replace Cove. They highly recommended a gentleman who was close with Cove and I said I would be okay with that and made notations in Daddy's funeral folder. (Did you know the feminine of executor is executrix? Well, it is).
Several months later, of course, my father passed on and had to be taken away by the mortician and made ready to be laid to final rest. My father delayed everything in life as long as he could and usually out of necessity but I realized sometime after they told me he was gone and before they let me see him that by choosing to have his funeral and burial in his hometown, he'd managed to get one last 5 hour drive. Good for him.
Everything was ready. The obituary was taken care of for me, there was food and drink aplenty, the funeral directors even had cigarettes in case I ran out. They were wonderful, caring, professional and well prepared for any eventuality. Except the headstone. That, I had to do myself. So, I pulled on my big girl bloomers and hitched up my boobs, squared my shoulders and walked right over to the "monument company" in the middle of the visitation. Friends and neighbors, I want you all to know that I haven't the foggiest of ideas how I came to choose the stone I chose. But, I chose one and I took a photo of it with my phone - because they have them on display, which is a little bit creepy - and I took this photo to my mother for approval. She very swiftly turned up her nose and said it was fine. So, I went back and ordered this stone. Then this lady is asking me what she's supposed to write on it and I looked at this poor woman like she had three heads. What do I want written on it? What the hell do you write on a headstone? Whut? Anyway, I figured it out and toddled myself back to the funeral home again.
So, the service is waiting for me at this point because I'm taking my sweetass time. I am not in any hurry to plant my daddy in a hole. I went into the lounge and had a meltdown - the highlights of which include slobbering and snotting all over my poor husband's nice clean shirt. Very dignified, I assure you. So, when I finished that, I suddenly realized I hadn't asked the funeral director this hugely important question. I mean, we couldn't bury my father until I asked this question and got an acceptable answer. So I flagged him down and asked very seriously, straight faced and all "Did you put both shoes in the casket?" Because, Daddy only had the one leg, you know? But I knew he needed both of those shoes, so of course they put them in and his favorite blanket, also. ( Side observation: You ever notice how often sad people touch everyone and everything around them? Its true. Look around at a funeral and everyone there will be touching another person or making coffee for themself and someone else who is currently TOUCHING SOMEONE).
Now, mind you my father's death came at a terrible time. It was the beginning of the big recession when companies were shutting down and layoffs were happening and even the miners were feeling the crunch. I say this because the gentleman who was meant to speak at my father's service was only a part time eulogy giver. He was actually a full time coal miner. Which meant that he could not possibly take time away from his job to speak for us. Which meant the funeral directors were scrambling to find someone else somewhere in Appalachia to do it because, while they were well experienced at their trade, it is still considered customary for an actual preacher or member of clergy to preside over a funeral.
Well, of course, they found someone to do the service for us and we all filed into the chapel very reverently and sat down to listen to the usual "He was a fine upstanding Christian and so and so forth". But LET ME TELL YOU, friends and neighbors. There is/was/never will be ANYTHING on this Earth that could have possibly prepared me for what was about to happen. My father - who was a righteous Southern Baptist - lay there in his most favorite apparel, with his lower half covered in his very favorite blanket, with his one leg and two shoes and the flowers my niece wanted him to have and the necklace my oldest daughter wanted him to have and all the love an only daughter could ever have for a father inside his casket. And in from the side door, there walked not a single preacher, not a preacher and his wife, not even a preacher and his wife and children. No, no! In walked a TROUPE of bible toting Pentacostal tent revivalists. And I felt all the blood drain from my face.
I don't know if you've ever been to a Pentacostal tent revival, but folks, it is VERY spirited. Now these good people had come to do me a favor, presumably out of the goodness of their Christian hearts - or possibly because they were being paid - and speak for my father. So, there I sat, with my jaw clamped shut, watching in growing horror as each of these people stood up and sang. Long, slow, meandering, senseless songs that you will never ever find in your hymnal, they sang. Half an hour into the singing, there was a break and the preacher stepped up to the pulpet. Now, I want you to know that this is not the sort of thing any of my family has ever had or requested at their funeral. Nor is it what my father would have wanted. But I decided to endure it because it was either them or me and I was simply exhausted from travel (fifteen hours driving and only 8 hours sleeping in two days) and grief, so if I tried I knew my knees were going to buckle.
When the preacher stepped up and the music died down, a hush was over the room. Nobody knew what was about to be said and most of us were a little bit afraid. Then he spoke. Loudly. At length. I have no idea what the hell he said. He could have been casting a demonic spell on us all and I would be none the wiser. So many words came out of that man's mouth and after four or five words, without fail, he would repeat "IN JESUS NAME LORD AND" four or five more words; repeat ad nauseum. My husband sat through about ten minutes of this and became so incensed that he pinched our six month old baby so he'd have an excuse to flee the room with her in tow.
I don't mind telling you that I was incredibly offended with the way this man carried on and I could see shame on the faces of the men who'd called him there as they looked at the floor, and after a time, they slowly backed their way out of the room altogether. The longer he spoke, the angrier I got. Just around the time my husband pinched the baby, I began to hear someone singing one of the tunes Little Black Sambo used to sing way back in the early days of television and movies. "Nya nya nya na nya nya, na nana na nya nya na nya" It was quiet at first and I thought I was imagining it. Then it got louder. Then I heard feet tapping in the room. Nowhere near as loud as the din of the preacher's voice, but sort of outside it. On another wavelength. So I start scanning the room to see where its coming from and I notice, no one else seems intrigued.
Without warning, I hear a burst of curse words coming from next to the podium. The voice is clear, angry, loud and unmistakable. It was my father's voice. So, I knew then that I was just out of my mind. I turned my wide eyed gaze slowly toward the raised voices of the preacher and of my father. And there stood my father scarce inches from the preacher's ear, screaming "Well, GODDAMN! HELLLOO!" A string of expletives and threats of bodily harm that was very colorful and not at all befitting of a chapel ensued, but the preacher kept going. Then someone else came up to sing and Daddy went back to his Little Black Sambo routine. By now I'd clamped my hand over my mouth in shock and awe and disbelief. Then the preacher started back up "IN JESUS NAME LORD" and Daddy started cursing again. At this point, I could not contain myself any longer. Tears of sorrow now mixed with tears of laughter and I was howling behind the hand clamped over my mouth. So I stood up and walked out on my own father's funeral. Half of me demanded I go back and slap that preacher's face for Daddy, but I ignored it and kept walking.
Don't let anyone like that preach at my funeral. Don't do it. I will do more than curse behind the podium. I will knock some shit over and haunt the fuck out of whoever thought it was a good idea to have someone like that speak. I will fuck you up from beyond the grave. If you have a choice between that guy and no one, that guy is still the wrong choice. Just have like, the drunkest person I know go up to the podium and be like "Well, the bitch is gone. She was a fat woman and she was a loudmouth, but she was half Irish so everybody raise a glass and let's get her in the oven".
Seriously.
This morning I was dreaming that I'd woken up, made my husband his lunch and sent him off to work while the alarm clock was blaring in my head. I even dreamed that the alarm clock was wrong because it said 6.45 when it was actually 9 something and I apologised to my husband for making him late even though it wasn't my fault and I went back to bed. Then I woke up for real and saw that it was almost 7:30 which is bad because my husband has to leave by 7:40 to get to work on time. Fuck me sideways. He did get out of here on time and should be merrily typing away at his desk now, though.
After he left, I tried very hard to get back to sleep, but I have the plague, so I kept coughing and my nose was running all over the pillow and being gross and the Stooges marathon was on - don't be daft, can't miss the Stooges. Of course, without fail, I have to go pee and my legs get all crampy and I just HAVE to get up. Now, some alka seltzer cold medicine, one prayer to the porcelain god, some dry bread and a cup of coffee later; Here I sit thinking about my dad. Again. Like I always do in the early morning. (Just an aside to explain: I used to wake up an hour before my dad and plan out his day, draw his injections, cook his breakfast, brew his coffee and let it cool, lay out his clothing and bandage changes, etc etc. For years and years, I did this. So its really an engrained habit to think of Daddy first thing in the morning). But, not just my dad this time 'cause my uncle Carlos is on my mind too.
The Stooges remind me of my uncle a lot because he was always one to make you laugh. Now, remember, I feel like hand carved death right now. As such, I am imagining my funeral. Because that's what people really do when they have a cold is they imagine how horrible and dramatic it will be when they die of this temporary and really not so painful ailment they're currently battling, right? You'll say no, but I know you really do so it's okay. So, I'm imagining my funeral and I remember what my uncle's funeral was like. Now my uncle liked his beer and nobody in my house ever dared tell him he couldn't have it (even though we never had alcohol in mom's house) because, by hell, he never hurt anybody in all his life. Not one living soul. And his children loved him very well and they decided that they should play this party song
during the service. And I swear to God, people layed over in the pews wailing and blubbering. I don't know how much you know about country music but crying at this song is sort of like crying at Nate Dogg's Regulate. But it was so very, poignantly, Uncle Carlos and even I sat in my little pew, stiff necked, with tears streaming down my face as this song rolled on. Just determined that I wasn't going to fall over. After all, if anyone had a right to fall over wailing, it is the people who were doing it; his children and grandchildren who had already buried his dear wife of 40+ years not six months prior to this. It was dignified and it was right but it felt so terribly wrong to me on some level that I can't really articulate.
So, then I'm remembering my father's funeral. Anyone who knows me very well already knows this story but I'll tell it to you because you love me and you'll excuse me if I'm a little morose.
Now, my father was a good man and he recognised how very ill he really was. So, bearing that in mind, he made me drive him to his hometown one day not long after his own mother had passed on into the next world. Back to the very place where we'd laid her out, as a matter of fact. Because, apparently, these people are some sort of family of ours and because grandma and grandpa's family own their own cemeteries where he (we) can be buried without paying for a plot. He had me to sit down with him and a funeral director to plan out his final arrangements and one of those arrangements was who would speak at his funeral. Cove Perkus, he said. No one else. But, sadly, Cove (pronounced Co-Vee) passed on before my father's body and after his mind had gone. Meaning that I had to ring up the funeral director and decide who should replace Cove. They highly recommended a gentleman who was close with Cove and I said I would be okay with that and made notations in Daddy's funeral folder. (Did you know the feminine of executor is executrix? Well, it is).
Several months later, of course, my father passed on and had to be taken away by the mortician and made ready to be laid to final rest. My father delayed everything in life as long as he could and usually out of necessity but I realized sometime after they told me he was gone and before they let me see him that by choosing to have his funeral and burial in his hometown, he'd managed to get one last 5 hour drive. Good for him.
Everything was ready. The obituary was taken care of for me, there was food and drink aplenty, the funeral directors even had cigarettes in case I ran out. They were wonderful, caring, professional and well prepared for any eventuality. Except the headstone. That, I had to do myself. So, I pulled on my big girl bloomers and hitched up my boobs, squared my shoulders and walked right over to the "monument company" in the middle of the visitation. Friends and neighbors, I want you all to know that I haven't the foggiest of ideas how I came to choose the stone I chose. But, I chose one and I took a photo of it with my phone - because they have them on display, which is a little bit creepy - and I took this photo to my mother for approval. She very swiftly turned up her nose and said it was fine. So, I went back and ordered this stone. Then this lady is asking me what she's supposed to write on it and I looked at this poor woman like she had three heads. What do I want written on it? What the hell do you write on a headstone? Whut? Anyway, I figured it out and toddled myself back to the funeral home again.
So, the service is waiting for me at this point because I'm taking my sweetass time. I am not in any hurry to plant my daddy in a hole. I went into the lounge and had a meltdown - the highlights of which include slobbering and snotting all over my poor husband's nice clean shirt. Very dignified, I assure you. So, when I finished that, I suddenly realized I hadn't asked the funeral director this hugely important question. I mean, we couldn't bury my father until I asked this question and got an acceptable answer. So I flagged him down and asked very seriously, straight faced and all "Did you put both shoes in the casket?" Because, Daddy only had the one leg, you know? But I knew he needed both of those shoes, so of course they put them in and his favorite blanket, also. ( Side observation: You ever notice how often sad people touch everyone and everything around them? Its true. Look around at a funeral and everyone there will be touching another person or making coffee for themself and someone else who is currently TOUCHING SOMEONE).
Now, mind you my father's death came at a terrible time. It was the beginning of the big recession when companies were shutting down and layoffs were happening and even the miners were feeling the crunch. I say this because the gentleman who was meant to speak at my father's service was only a part time eulogy giver. He was actually a full time coal miner. Which meant that he could not possibly take time away from his job to speak for us. Which meant the funeral directors were scrambling to find someone else somewhere in Appalachia to do it because, while they were well experienced at their trade, it is still considered customary for an actual preacher or member of clergy to preside over a funeral.
Well, of course, they found someone to do the service for us and we all filed into the chapel very reverently and sat down to listen to the usual "He was a fine upstanding Christian and so and so forth". But LET ME TELL YOU, friends and neighbors. There is/was/never will be ANYTHING on this Earth that could have possibly prepared me for what was about to happen. My father - who was a righteous Southern Baptist - lay there in his most favorite apparel, with his lower half covered in his very favorite blanket, with his one leg and two shoes and the flowers my niece wanted him to have and the necklace my oldest daughter wanted him to have and all the love an only daughter could ever have for a father inside his casket. And in from the side door, there walked not a single preacher, not a preacher and his wife, not even a preacher and his wife and children. No, no! In walked a TROUPE of bible toting Pentacostal tent revivalists. And I felt all the blood drain from my face.
I don't know if you've ever been to a Pentacostal tent revival, but folks, it is VERY spirited. Now these good people had come to do me a favor, presumably out of the goodness of their Christian hearts - or possibly because they were being paid - and speak for my father. So, there I sat, with my jaw clamped shut, watching in growing horror as each of these people stood up and sang. Long, slow, meandering, senseless songs that you will never ever find in your hymnal, they sang. Half an hour into the singing, there was a break and the preacher stepped up to the pulpet. Now, I want you to know that this is not the sort of thing any of my family has ever had or requested at their funeral. Nor is it what my father would have wanted. But I decided to endure it because it was either them or me and I was simply exhausted from travel (fifteen hours driving and only 8 hours sleeping in two days) and grief, so if I tried I knew my knees were going to buckle.
When the preacher stepped up and the music died down, a hush was over the room. Nobody knew what was about to be said and most of us were a little bit afraid. Then he spoke. Loudly. At length. I have no idea what the hell he said. He could have been casting a demonic spell on us all and I would be none the wiser. So many words came out of that man's mouth and after four or five words, without fail, he would repeat "IN JESUS NAME LORD AND" four or five more words; repeat ad nauseum. My husband sat through about ten minutes of this and became so incensed that he pinched our six month old baby so he'd have an excuse to flee the room with her in tow.
I don't mind telling you that I was incredibly offended with the way this man carried on and I could see shame on the faces of the men who'd called him there as they looked at the floor, and after a time, they slowly backed their way out of the room altogether. The longer he spoke, the angrier I got. Just around the time my husband pinched the baby, I began to hear someone singing one of the tunes Little Black Sambo used to sing way back in the early days of television and movies. "Nya nya nya na nya nya, na nana na nya nya na nya" It was quiet at first and I thought I was imagining it. Then it got louder. Then I heard feet tapping in the room. Nowhere near as loud as the din of the preacher's voice, but sort of outside it. On another wavelength. So I start scanning the room to see where its coming from and I notice, no one else seems intrigued.
Without warning, I hear a burst of curse words coming from next to the podium. The voice is clear, angry, loud and unmistakable. It was my father's voice. So, I knew then that I was just out of my mind. I turned my wide eyed gaze slowly toward the raised voices of the preacher and of my father. And there stood my father scarce inches from the preacher's ear, screaming "Well, GODDAMN! HELLLOO!" A string of expletives and threats of bodily harm that was very colorful and not at all befitting of a chapel ensued, but the preacher kept going. Then someone else came up to sing and Daddy went back to his Little Black Sambo routine. By now I'd clamped my hand over my mouth in shock and awe and disbelief. Then the preacher started back up "IN JESUS NAME LORD" and Daddy started cursing again. At this point, I could not contain myself any longer. Tears of sorrow now mixed with tears of laughter and I was howling behind the hand clamped over my mouth. So I stood up and walked out on my own father's funeral. Half of me demanded I go back and slap that preacher's face for Daddy, but I ignored it and kept walking.
Don't let anyone like that preach at my funeral. Don't do it. I will do more than curse behind the podium. I will knock some shit over and haunt the fuck out of whoever thought it was a good idea to have someone like that speak. I will fuck you up from beyond the grave. If you have a choice between that guy and no one, that guy is still the wrong choice. Just have like, the drunkest person I know go up to the podium and be like "Well, the bitch is gone. She was a fat woman and she was a loudmouth, but she was half Irish so everybody raise a glass and let's get her in the oven".
Seriously.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Just not sure
Life is moving slower than I ever thought it might. I keep seeing all these missed opportunities or having opportunities present themselves in a context of "If you can manage to build it, they will totally come". But the building is janky as hell because I have to go out and get all these permits and pay for permissions to dig before I can even start. So, of course, by the time I get all of those things taken care of, I don't have any money left to buy the building materials! Sometimes I think that by trying to do everything the RIGHT way, I'm totally doing it wrong.
This is a metaphorical building, in case you didn't know.
I do try very hard to do the right thing and in most cases, I'm confident that I accomplish that. There are those times when I really am not sure that I could possibly make a right choice so I take the path of least resistance. Those are the times when I second guess myself. I just feel like I could have done more or different, but the reality is that I probably could not have made anything better if I had chosen the road not taken.
My dad was never very proud of my career choices. He would have been very pleased if I had chosen to stay in culinary arts and made a chef of myself, but then I could not have spent his declining years with him and I'd not change that even if it meant he could have been prouder of me. I knew and know that he needed me more than he would ever admit, so I made a conscious choice not to return to food service. Now that he is gone, I do think maybe I should go back to it but at the same time, I'm very happy with what I do even though it doesn't pay as well as I'd like it to. I help people as much as I can and most of them pay me for my help. A lot of them don't, and I'm okay with that if I know that I've done them some good. It bugs the shit out of my husband, but well, he doesn't work much himself. So, stuff it. If I'm doing the work, I think I should be able to set the price, right? Right.
I'm really tired and I've been pretty sick for a while so I'm hoping winter won't be too harsh for me. Its already been a rollercoaster, but I've seen jays and cardinals building their nests already so, hopefully spring will be awesome and come soon. If I ever get to feeling well, I would love to be able to go for long walks through the neighborhood again. It really is a lovely neighborhood I live in. If you stay away from the apartments where the crazy naked man shot the police officer last summer, I mean.
This is a metaphorical building, in case you didn't know.
I do try very hard to do the right thing and in most cases, I'm confident that I accomplish that. There are those times when I really am not sure that I could possibly make a right choice so I take the path of least resistance. Those are the times when I second guess myself. I just feel like I could have done more or different, but the reality is that I probably could not have made anything better if I had chosen the road not taken.
My dad was never very proud of my career choices. He would have been very pleased if I had chosen to stay in culinary arts and made a chef of myself, but then I could not have spent his declining years with him and I'd not change that even if it meant he could have been prouder of me. I knew and know that he needed me more than he would ever admit, so I made a conscious choice not to return to food service. Now that he is gone, I do think maybe I should go back to it but at the same time, I'm very happy with what I do even though it doesn't pay as well as I'd like it to. I help people as much as I can and most of them pay me for my help. A lot of them don't, and I'm okay with that if I know that I've done them some good. It bugs the shit out of my husband, but well, he doesn't work much himself. So, stuff it. If I'm doing the work, I think I should be able to set the price, right? Right.
I'm really tired and I've been pretty sick for a while so I'm hoping winter won't be too harsh for me. Its already been a rollercoaster, but I've seen jays and cardinals building their nests already so, hopefully spring will be awesome and come soon. If I ever get to feeling well, I would love to be able to go for long walks through the neighborhood again. It really is a lovely neighborhood I live in. If you stay away from the apartments where the crazy naked man shot the police officer last summer, I mean.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Today sucks a little less than yesterday.
I have really contemplated this blog thing for a while now. I don't think I have anything really interesting to say, but I feel like yesterday would have been an AWESOME day to have a blog. Yesterday was harder than maths because I had eleventy bajillion things to say and all I wanted to do was call my dad and say them.
Picture this, if you will - I picked up the phone to call him at least three times and stopped myself, staring at the welcome screen on my cell as if I was expecting it to magically have a solution for me. Then I cried like an idiot because - hello! - No matter how many awesome features a cell phone might have, I assure you that it cannot call a dead person. Ever.
This concerns me an awful lot. Not because I was so determined to call someone who isn't alive anymore - in my line of work, its fairly normal to talk to dead people. Just NOT.ON.THE.PHONE. (I'm shaking my fists at the monitor for emphasis here). It concerns me mostly because I have kids of my own and I don't want them to grow up and need me forever. I want them to grow up and be functioning members of society wether I'm alive or not. I don't want to die and have my kids standing in their living room a year and a half later, punching my number into their phone and being absolutely SHOCKED to realize they're doing something insane. Its sad, and crazy, and desperate and a little bit stupid. That's the line I'm going to use to describe my blog, I've just decided.
This is the place where I will rant to my dad. I think its a little bit healthier than trying to get him to take my calls given how bad reception is when one is six feet underground encased in concrete, steel and wood. I'm calling it "Well, Goddamn" because that was his signature turn of phrase and I can't imagine talking to or about him without those words looming over everything. I set this thing to Public; Adult so anyone can view it but they get warned that there will probably be some offensive things here. Especially language. I say fuck a lot. A LOT.
Anyway, I think I've painted a clear enough picture for a first post so, here I go to preview and post.
Picture this, if you will - I picked up the phone to call him at least three times and stopped myself, staring at the welcome screen on my cell as if I was expecting it to magically have a solution for me. Then I cried like an idiot because - hello! - No matter how many awesome features a cell phone might have, I assure you that it cannot call a dead person. Ever.
This concerns me an awful lot. Not because I was so determined to call someone who isn't alive anymore - in my line of work, its fairly normal to talk to dead people. Just NOT.ON.THE.PHONE. (I'm shaking my fists at the monitor for emphasis here). It concerns me mostly because I have kids of my own and I don't want them to grow up and need me forever. I want them to grow up and be functioning members of society wether I'm alive or not. I don't want to die and have my kids standing in their living room a year and a half later, punching my number into their phone and being absolutely SHOCKED to realize they're doing something insane. Its sad, and crazy, and desperate and a little bit stupid. That's the line I'm going to use to describe my blog, I've just decided.
This is the place where I will rant to my dad. I think its a little bit healthier than trying to get him to take my calls given how bad reception is when one is six feet underground encased in concrete, steel and wood. I'm calling it "Well, Goddamn" because that was his signature turn of phrase and I can't imagine talking to or about him without those words looming over everything. I set this thing to Public; Adult so anyone can view it but they get warned that there will probably be some offensive things here. Especially language. I say fuck a lot. A LOT.
Anyway, I think I've painted a clear enough picture for a first post so, here I go to preview and post.
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