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.
Friday, January 28, 2011
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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