My kid just asked me if "teabagging" was a real thing.

I'm walking by his room and I stick my head in the doorway and say "G'night, see you in the morning."

And he says "Hey mom, is teabagging really a thing? Or  is *** just kidding?"

And I say "What the WHAT?!"

Whatever happened to "Goodnight mom"?

Dammit.

So I took a deep breath and stepped into his room and said "I'm sorry, I think I misunderstood you. What did you just say?"

AND HE REPEATED IT.

If there was ever a moment when I wanted to run screaming out of a room, this was IT. I stood there, clenching and unclenching my fists, and trying like hell to figure out what to say. And hoping that when I opened my mouth I didn't puke.

Okay, mama, think. First, I need to figure out what he knows. Or what he *thinks* he knows.

"Hm." I played it very cool. "What did *** say it meant?"

"Well, he kept bending his knees and kind of squatting and saying he was teabagging. He did it over and over again. And while he did it he said "Teabagging, oh yeah, I'm te-"

"Okay, thanks I get it."

Oh my god.

I was gagging. I couldn't breathe. I did NOT want to talk about this ANYMORE.

" Max, that kid is awful. Yuck. Gross. If he ever does that again walk away - quickly. And please, do not ever repeat that phrase. I never want to hear you say 'teabagging' and if you say it in front of anyone else and I find out about it I will SPANK YOU."

His eyes got wide and he said "Yes mom, I won't ever say it again mom."

Which is the right answer DING DING DING GIVE THIS BOY A PRIZE because he is only 11, after all.

Yes, that's right. My 11 year old heard about teabagging from another 11 year old.

Their testicles have barely descended. Oh, good god.

I am skipping my mug of Lipton tonight, I just don't think I can stomach it.

Oh Hawaiiantel, you make it so hard to be nice

You may or may not remember this post. I switched our phone and internet from cable back to the telephone company a few weeks ago, and regretted my decision while the installation was taking place. I was flooded with emails from friends, family, and total strangers, regaling me with tales of their hideous experiences with the phone company, and their suspicions that they had dealt with the same miserable install technician. EVEN THE PHONE COMPANY EMAILED ME. And I promised the phone company that I would follow up on my post and let you all know if I decided to give them another chance. But I had to think about it. I was really mad, and after hearing all of the horror stories, and being reminded of the hours and hours and HOURS I spent on hold with the phone company straightening out billing issues and trying to get my service to work the last time I was their customer......I just didn't know if I could do it again. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice shame on me, right? So needless to say, the equipment has been sitting in a sealed box on my kitchen counter ever since that night. I didn't want to deal with it. The whole thing was just so annoying. Plus, my cable internet still works. Because in Hawaii, we do things AWESOME.

Fast forward to tonight - I reorganized my office. Disconnected every power cord and wire, cleaned and relocated every piece of electronic and computer equipment, and started to put everything back together again with cords untangled and everything arranged neatly. Sounds great, and very type-A of me, doesn't it? In reality, it was a terrible idea. I was covered in dust and dirt, I disconnected all of the power cords from the back of whatever it was they were powering, and then had no fucking idea which power cord went to which device, and I ended up with a bunch of wires that - I guess? - were just behind my desk and not connected to anything at all. At least, that is what I am telling myself.

During all of this, I decided to go ahead and hook up the modem from the phone company. The one that was still sitting in the sealed box Sam brought back from the phone company last week.

So I hooked that shit up. Hooked it up real good. Read the manual and everything.
And it didn't work.

I pulled all of the wires out, and started over again.
Nope. Still nothing.
The phone worked, so I knew the jack was working and I knew we had service.......but no internet.
Hm.
Went to the troubleshooting page of the manual.
Troubleshooted.
Still nothing.
Called the phone number for 24/7 service.
It disconnected me.
Four times.
Then, an automated voice referred me to their website for assistance. Except, I was calling the number to report problems with my internet connectivity. Chances are, people who call that line CAN'T GO TO THE FUCKING WEBSITE.
(this is not rocket science)
I called back, 3 more times. And finally after pressing a random series of numbers, the # and the * buttons, and shouting "operator" and "customer service" into the phone repeatedly, I got a real, live human being. I use the word "live" very loosely - the dude sounded like he was 85. He was doing the old man mouth breathing into the phone, and "tsk"ing and "you don't say"ing and it was like having my great grandfather helping me hook up a wireless modem with all of those "doohickeys" and "thingamabobs".
"Is the light blinking fast and then slow?" he asked.
"No, it's just blinking steadily."
"Hmph. That's not good."
"Yeah, soooooo......"
"Here's what I need you to do" he said. "I need you to hang up, and unplug the phone, and plug the modem into this same jack and leave it for FOUR minutes. And then I want you to plug the phone back in and I will call you back."
"Um, okay."
"So plug it back in at 8:10."
Since my kitchen clock said 8:11, I decided to just set the timer and hope for the best.
And he did call me back about 6 minutes later.
"Sorry I am so late calling you back (breathe breathe breathe) I was checking the line."
"No problem, I was jus-"
"There is a problem with the service. I have scheduled a technician to come out and make the repair. You don't eed to be at home or anything. It should be fixed by Wednesday."
"By Wednesday."
"Yes. (breathe breathe breathe)."
"Okay then. Thanks so much for your help!" I said brightly, as I started unplugging all of the phone company equipment and throwing the wires and cords and plastic bags back into the box.
"Thank YOU for being a Hawaiiantel customer. Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?"
"Oh no (yank) I'm good (tug) Thanks for your help (crash) Have a great night!"
And with that, I plugged my cable modem back into the wall, and fired up that internet connection that the phone company had turned off two weeks ago. Thank god they are so on top of it.

Dear Hawaiiantel: Suck it.

****this post has been edited because - shockingly - my local phone company found it and responded. Which I appreciate. It was very kind of them to contact me. They were very kind throughout the order/install process, except for the installer who was a little grumpy - but dude it was like a hurricane outside so I don't blame him, really. And it made for a good story! Anyway, they have been lovely people, I don't envy them for having to deal with disgruntled customers like me. I did try to respond to the email they sent - but sadly, their email address - the one connected to the phone company - bounced back. I guess they are having issues with their email service. Hm. So regardless, I took out the bad words in case thier work email doesn't let them read things that have profanity in them. You're welcome, phone company employees. Hope your email gets fixed soon. Sincerely, I do.****

A few years ago, I cancelled our phone and internet with the local phone company.

Because the bill was ALWAYS wrong. And the service would go on and off with no warning, rhyme or reason. And it was just a hassle dealing with them.

So I got cable internet and phone. Which was great. Except when it wasn't. And then they started jacking up the prices. Higher and higher my bill went. And I wasn't even getting any cable TV. If you are gonna jack up my prices and not even give me some Big Love for my trouble, well...... screw you, buddy.

When I got the flyer from the phone company, the one that was all "baby I've missed you please come back I'll do you right this time etc. etc. and I'll give you 6 months of free intenet because you were the best thing that ever happened to me I can't believe I let you go" well, what can I say? I'm an easy mark. A softy. I like it when you talk sweet to me. So I caved. I called and sold my soul to the devil......in the form of a one-year contract with the phone company.

There was a caveat. They needed to send someone out to the house to switch over the service from the cable company to the phone company. And that "someone" wasn't available for a week.

No big deal, our install was scheduled for the following Friday. Only, Friday didn't so much "dawn" as "rise from the gloom and the muck" - after 4 days of solid, torrential, landslide instigating rain the backyard was one big mud puddle. The gutters were overflowing. The dog was racing around the yard like a basket case because he hadn't had a good run for a while. The wind was gusting, thrumming against the windows with all of the energy that was being sucked out of us slowly during the days spent inside in the relative dark, bitching and moaning. (Remember, this is Hawaii. We don't do days and days of rain very well.)

And my appointment window was "sometime between 8 and 5". I laughed when they told me that. "Are you serious? I have to sit here for 9 hours waiting for someone to show up? Are you sure we can't just do this ourselves?" But no, I was informed solemnly. A professional needed to handle this transfer of service. Sometime between 8 and 5.

So I settled in for a day of waiting for the phone company. And as I looked out through the sheets of rain I thought "It's good to have professionals to handle this sort of thing." I ws very pleased with myself, and with my phone company's excellent service.

Only, the guy who showed up was not pleased. Nor was he particularly professional. He didn't like our wires. He didn't lke the location of our jack. He hadn't brought a modem because "no one told him he needed one". He was itching to drill a hole in the side of my house for a cable he wanted to run.

I refused. There were plenty of holes in our house already. Find one and make it work.

He got snotty. My signal was weak, the connection was all static, we needed to rewire, he didn't have what he needed, and had I noticed that it was raining outside?

As his complaints grew, so too did the volume of his voice, until he was practically shouting. And I was not pleased. "Listen, man, I didn't want you to come here to begin with. I told them we would do this ourselves. It's not my fault you don't have what you need, and it's not my fault the wire you chose is not the right one and it certainly isn't my fault that it's RAINING outside. If you can't do this install, then you can go ahead and leave. I'll figure it out myself."

So he stomped out mumbling, shovd his feet into his velcro sneakers, straightened his tool belt, and sauntered off down the stairs, secure in the knowledge that we needed him and would be calling him back shortly.

And I got on the phone about 20 minutes later, to be sure. But not to call him. To call the phone company. Because while they sent the installer without the proper equipment, and had not been able to complete the install order, I suddenly remebered that they had managed to cancel our cable service, leaving me internet-less at any moment.

"I need internet" I hollered into the phone after being transferred for the 4th time. "I don't care who my providor is, but I must have my internet. And tell me, why would you cancel my cable service before you had the phone service connected? So now I have no phone or internet? I can't believe this."

It was the typical lament you hear from girls who take back their ex amid the pleas and promises of how "it's gonna be different this time". Because the only way it was different, is that it was worse. I was only 5 hours into my commitment with the phone company and already completely livid.

They offered to bring the modem to us, but said they would have to drill a hole in my wall to connect it.
There was nothing they could do about the cable being turned off. There were also shades of talking to me like I was stupid, which never EVER flies with me. Conveniently, I am married to a Department of Defense telcom contractor. (You didn't expect that, did you?)

So I put the phone company's customer service department on speaker, and let my husband, who had been patiently trying to help their installer all morning, explain what the problem was. The problem was, we had no modem. Because they were supposed to bring it and install it for free. The problem was, their employee was unwilling to use an existing hole. Because it was easier to just drill another hole. The problem was, THEY SUCK BIG HAIRY DONKEY BALLS.

He didn't say that last bit. (****I was gonna delete it for the phone company employees - HI GUYS! - but it makes me giggle, and it's not a swear, so I won't.)

So I took the next reasonable step.
"Just cancel everything" I proclaimed dramatically.
"Excuse me ma'am?"
"Just cancel the whole thing. I'm sorry I ever fell for this."
"Well, but....."
"No, I don't want to talk about this any more. I"m over it. Just cancel the whole thing."
"Would you reconsider if I gave you two months of free internet?"

And that was it for me. I am not playing games. I am not going to fall for your sweet talking bullshit ANYMORE. I took a deep breath.

"WHAT?"
"If you would allow us to install your service, we'll give you two months of free internet."

And I have to admit, I felt kind of bad, because I just let loose on that poor, unsuspecting woman.
"I am already getting 6 months of free internet WITH MY NEW CONTRACT. THAT'S WHY I AM GETTING THIS SERVICE. AND IT'S ALL WELL AND GOOD TO SAY YOU ARE GOING TO GIVE ME FREE INTERNET BUT YOU HAVEN'T GIVEN ME ANY  INTERNET AT ALL. CANCEL IT."

And then, suddenly, my cable internet hadn't been turned off at all. Oh, no, they never told me that. I still had cable. They had no control over when that got turned off. Why, it could take up to 3 weeks for them to turn it off, maybe never! They might just forget to turn it off at all! I might still have cable next year! FREE! HAHAHAHA they were JUST KIDDING about turning my cable off already.

(This is where my head exploded. 6 hours of my life.....wasted.)

So I still have cable internet.....for now. My darling husband went and picked up a modem from the phone company just in case my cable does somehow get disconnected - because if I wake up without internet I will definitely fall apart. But it was "just in case". Because next week, I will get wireless internet from an independent kiosk at the mall which is what I wanted to begin with. And then I will bring the phone company their modem. And the drillbit their installer left in my den. I'm sure he's going to need it.

All the things I wish I had said

Tonight was my last night working at the restaurant.

It was a very abrupt ending to a job I really loved, with people I love, and customers I love. I can't really believe it's over, actually.

But oh baby, is it over.

It is important to note that this restaurant is awesome. The food is great. The staff is amazing. So if you know me "in real life" and know where I work, please do not let this color your view of the place. The staff deserve your continued patronage. That said, I am going to tell you exactly what happened.

Because I know you love details.

You're welcome.

Honestly, I am almost embarrassed to even say what happened. Almost. But not quite. Even though people will be quick to say I am over-reacting, I still refuse to be That Girl who takes it with a smile. My embarrassment is so fucking textbook that even THAT embarrasses me. I am embarrassed about being embarrassed. Good Lord. Let's say embarrassed one more time. There - now it doesn't even make sense as a word anymore. Moving on.

The reason I left is because my employer spoke to me in a way that was just not acceptable. It was, without getting overly dramatic, abusive. Yesterday, during my shift, the owner told me to "shut the fuck up".

He told me to shut the fuck up. HE told ME to shut the fuck up.

.........

I know, I didn't really know how to respond either. There is a lot of backstory, and restaurants are pretty raunchy places so it's not unusual for poeple to use the word "fuck" or yell at someone. And I am sure if asked, he would have many reasons/excuses/justifications for what he said, the first of which would be "Well, I said it because she needs to shut the fuck up. And if she doesn't like it she can get the fuck out."

Good Thinking.

In the end, what I decided was that none of his explanations mattered. It didn't matter if he was stressed (he is), or if I was being loud or out of line (I wasn't), or if he meant it to be funny (he didn't and it wasn't). It's just not okay to tell your employee to shut the fuck up, especially in the middle of your restaurant during business hours while people are eating.

You know, I think I can take that further. It is not okay to tell ANYONE to shut the fuck up in anger. There is joking, there is kidding around, there are people who swear like sailors all day every day (like myself). I am not afraid of the word fuck. At all. I am not afraid to tell someone to shut up, or indignant at being told to shut up. People tell me to shut up ALL THE FUCKING TIME - and I happily reciprocate. Sometimes I even take their advice.

This was not That. This was your classic verbally abusive guy using horrible words and his position as the signer of the paycheck to make others feel worthless and small. You may be reading this and rollling your eyes, and thinking "Man, he must be thrilled to get rid of THIS one" and I can understand why you might feel that way. But there is another side to this. This sort of behavior is habitual, and goes on all day long - it was just the first time it had been directed at me. This was someone in a position of power trying to intimidate and "discipline" me. Good luck with that, buddy. You and my mom can cry into your drinks (tea for her, beer for him) about how obstinate I am. (Oh, she could tell you stories. And show you the bills. That poor woman.) But you cannot argue with the fact that I am a good employee, and a good person. And I am finally going to walk the walk that is so easy to talk. I'm not just going to stand around complaining about him during my shift, or tsk tsking about how awful it was, and is. That sucks, and I hate it when people do that. It's better that I leave, and not spread the negativity in the workplace. He does that just fine on his own.

An abusive relationship does NOT need to be a romantic one. Just because our relationship was strictly professional doesn't mean it was healthy. Once you have been spoken to like that, it is really easy for it to happen again (which is where we get into textbook abuse scenarios). People can be assholes, and then people can cross the line into abuse. And until you acknowledge it, until you say it out loud, until you expose someone as abusive, the abuse continues, and spirals and grows and worsens and deepens and starts to affect every part of your life and you become ABUSED and then you feel shitty about yourself and everyone else involved and it's just.......it's just not good. It's not good, and it's not healthy, and dammit people know this goes on and just sort of roll their eyes and say "Well, what do you expect. That's how he is." But it's not how I am. I am not going to make excuses or look the other way or try to rationalize it. I'll take my tax return and spread the word that I am unemployed, and I will find another job and work my ass off. I am not going to be afraid to leave.

"I can just leave" I thought to myself as he walked away to greet more customers.


So, I left. My shift was over, I had transferred my tables, my paperwork was done, and I left without a peep. He probably thought to himself "Hah! That's right, just walk away, you hoity-toity bitch". But what he maybe didn't realize is that I am not walking back.

He'll be fine, he has a great staff and I am just one of many able employees. He is lucky to have such a good team, and he doesn't need me. I know that. He just hadn't made it quite so clear until Friday afternoon, when - in front of the candidate for mayor and his campaign manager, two families and the rest of the staff - he told me to shut the fuck up.

Not fucking likely, you douchebag.

I woke up in a parallel universe, and I like this one better

This morning, I heard some hushed whispering from the kitchen. No urgent or threatening tones, so I took my time getting out of bed. IF they needed me, trust me - they would have been standing rightnext to my head prodding me and pointing at each other and layering one report of misconduct on top of another.

Eventually, I dragged myself out of bed. As I wandered into the kitchen tying my bathrobe shut and rubbing my eyes, I stopped and backed up a few steps. Lucy was standing on the toilet, brushing her teeth.

"Honey, did you already eat breakfast?"
"Yep" she said as she squirted the mandated pea-size dallop of toothpaste onto her brush. "Max made me some cereal."

I continued on to the kitchen, where Max was busily wiping off the kitchen counter.
"Good morning Mom ! I made Lucy and me each some oatmeal, and our lunches are already packed...I made peanut butter and jelly - I got frustrated because I couldn't find the jelly at first, but then I found it and I made the sandwiches and then I also packed some strawberries."

Wait. WHAT? I looked around the kitchen. The dishes were in the sink - rinsed. The canister of oatmeal was put away. The living room was still relatively clean.

"Wow Max, that is AWESOME. Thanks man !"

"No problem it was easy, and I wanted to let you sleep."

So this is where I shook my head back and forth to clear the cobwebs because obviously SOMETHING had transpired in the last 12 hours. When my child went to bed last night, he had to be reminded to use the bathroom and brush his teeth. The entire area of the kitchen where he had eaten dinner was littered with crumbs, scraps of meat, napkins and a puddle of milk. His dirty clothes had somehow been left in the middle of the hallway. Snips of paper from an abandoned art project were scattered across the coffee table and floor. He had been unable to get himself a glass of water and had requested refills and dessert be served to him, with an attitude that was more "patron of a Zagat-rated restaurant" rather then "kid eating beef kabobs at our kitchen counter."

And yet this morning, somehow, he prepared breakfast for two using the microwave, and then cleaned up after himself. He got dressed in something that was both appropriate and clean, and had sent his sister to use the bathroom while he picked out an outfit for her to wear as well. The dogs were fed, and lunches were packed complete with napkins and ice packs, fruit in small tupperwares, water bottles filled.

I am sitting on the couch right now, wondering what he's got planned for dinner. I have no idea what's going on, but if this is my new reality I will officially declare myself a successful parent and start writing a parenting book tomorrow. However, I remain highly suspicious - because really, the boy has thus far been incapable of remembering to flush the toilet after taking a dump. So until THAT happens, the jury is out.

I still got the Nasty in Me

In order to properly appreciate this post, you will need the right music. You're welcome.

Last night yours truly went out and made a night of it. It was Dede's birthday, and a celebration of the first order had been planned. We started in a hotel room full of half naked women swapping fishnets and hairspray, drinking a bottle of tequila (I think) and ended with a huge security woman talking into her sleeve as we walked from bar to bar in "The Triangle":
"I've got your group here" she said, sizing us up as we strutted by in stilettos and dresses that - by design - barely covered our asses and left nothing to the imagination. Keep in mind that most of us are married adults, with children. But not last night, oh no. Husbands and children were not part of the equation. Neither was underwear, and bras were a non-option for about 50% of the outfits we were parading around in.

So we glared at her, ignored all of the 5 foot tall Men in Hoodies that were standing around hiking up their pants and adjusting their carefully positioned "Hustler" baseball caps, and continued on our slow and deliberate way towards the thumping music spilling out into the alley. With our hair appropriately "bumped" our glitter applied liberally and our hair bows firmly in place, we were channeling our inner B-52.

With all of that to offer, you might be surprised to hear that the real spectacle came when we tried to drive anywhere. As the designated driver, I had brought the SUV, with it's 3 rows of seats. But even with all of that room, the 11 of us still had a challenge fitting into the car.

We managed, mind you. But there was some confusion, a lot of ass grabbing, and then someone said "Shit, you made me spill champagne all over myself."

So it turns out, not only was I driving 11 people in a 7 passenger vehicle - which made the seatbelts (with their damned pointy buckles) more of a nuisance then a safety feature - I also had an open container in there....somewhere. I would have challenged any cop to try to find it though. These girls are wily. They have had years of practice, and can smuggle anything from a contraband sippy cup to a 4 year old who hasn't paid admission. Stashing a bottle of champagne was no big deal for this crew. But safety first, I always say. When we drove from bar to bar, I was extremely cautious. MY seatbelt was buckled, we drove on the local road with a 20 MPH speed limit, and everyone had to keep all body parts INSIDE THE VEHICLE, keeping in mind that the closest emergency exit may be behind them. When we pulled into a parking spot, the exit involved careful, strategic planning. You cannot just throw open a door with 3 half naked girls in your lap, and expect everyone to climb out safely. Here's how it would go:

I would pull into a spot.
Someone would immediately try to climb out the tailgate window, and I would yell at them (while rolling up the window from the button on the dashboard) to not draw attention to the highly illegal number of passengers in my car. The person climbing out the rear window (I'm looking at you, Bakey) would have the rear window rolled up into her crotch while she stradded the tailgate. I would roll the window back down, and she would climb/fall out of the back of the car losing at least one stilletto and probably dumping the contents of her purse on the ground (though that might have been someone else) BUT NOT SPILLING HER BEER THANKYOUVERYMUCH while I threatened everyone else to STAY SEATED and REMAIN CALM.

I had to remind them to remain calm because they were panicking. They were panicking because the rear doors have child locks, and cannot be opened from the inside.

Ha HAH !

So with the tailgate closed and Bakey pulling her bathing suit out of her crotch and rearranging her sheer gold dress and polishing off that beer, I would walk around the car opening doors and keeping people from falling out backwards onto their asses in the middle of the parking lot. Each girl would grab the front of her skirt, hold it down to cover her business, scootch over to the edge of the seat and then carefully climb out, with one arm across her chest to keep her tits in. After I was sure everyone was out of the car, we'd do a quick head count and then saunter towards the nearest purveyor of alcoholic beverages.

The entire operation was reversed when we decided to change locations. But when relocating, the head count is two fold - you had to be able to REMEMBER how many girls you were supposed to have, then try to count them as they were hopping all over the place straightening stockings and adjusting their boobs and handing out gum. At one point, I kept insisting that we STAY and WAIT because one of the girls was in the bathroom. The entire group left the bar while I protested and tried to finish her drink. I hate waste.

Once out of the bar, they all started trooping back towards the car, while I sort of jumped up in the air every few steps and said "But Wait !" "Um, I think we are missing someone!" "Isn't there someone in the bathroom?" Until she finally came marching around the corner and I pointed and said triumphantly "SEE ! There she is ! I TOLD you we were missing someone." And as they all laughed about how they would have left her behind, I assured them that my role as designated driver also included making sure NO ONE was left behind.

Eventually, however, I had to leave them ALL behind. They were dead set on closing down the final bar of the evening, and I still had an hour of driving left ahead of me, so by 1:30 I was in my car - this time followed closely by 2 cops and several security guards, making sure I was not planning on re-loading a dozen people into my car because they were having NONE OF THAT.

Sometime around 2:30am, I made it home. I put the carseat back in the car, pulled out the random pair of fishnets and an empty bottle stashed under the back seat, gathered up my glitter and lipliner, and headed inside through the rain. I took down the hair bump, kicked the stilettos under the bed, peeled off the stockings, washed my face and climbed into bed with my husband. No matter how much fun it is to be out with the girls, my favorite place is always going to be home with that guy.

Happy Birthday Dede - let's do that again sometime ;)

In which I am incredibly thankful that I decided to pull the rug out of the living room before I went to bed

Last night, we stayed up late, moving the living room rug to our bedroom. The weather has been so cold that bare floors are just not an option anymore, so we decided to get a new rug for the living room, and use the current living room rug in our room to try to keep it slightly warmer then the outdoor temperature. Not much, just something. Just a nod to the fact that we actually had walls and floors and windows and a roof and all of that good stuff. Things that really should keep the room vaguely warmer then, say, the driveway. It seemed to do the trick. So after getting the rug moved, and furntiure repositioned in our room, we decided to leave the living room dismantled until we brought home a new rug the next day. Exhausted, we collapsed into bed, in our new slightly warmer bedroom. It was thrilling.

At about 3:30 we heard "the voice"

The little voice, from the side of the bed. Quavering. "Daddy? Mama?" (sob, cough cough gag) "My froat hurts."

Oh dear.

We both got out of bed, and went running in different directions. One to examine the sore throat, one in search of Motrin. Parenting is never more of a team sport then during a middle-of-the-night illness.

With Motrin found and throat examined, Lucy snuggled up on the sofa and watched "Suite Life on Deck" (which led to some significant gagging - on my part.) About an hour later, she sat up. "Mama, I have to go to the bathroom, can you pause the movie?" As I leaned forward to hit the pause button, I heard a cough and a splash. And suddenly my right foot was warm. And it dawned on me - more slowly then it should have - that Lucy was standing there throwing up. No warning, no hesitation, no run for the bathroom. She calmly stood up, opened her mouth, and let 'er rip.

I grabbed the quilt and held it under her chin, murmering soothing things to her like "It's OK." and "My goodness sweetie!" and, after a few minutes, "Sam. Hey, SAM! SAMI I NEED YOU NOW." Poor Sami came staggering out of the bedroom trying to hold his robe closed, and got a good idea of what was going on. He headed for the kitchen trashcan, and in the rush to get it, he slid, sideways, skidding on one hip across the wood floor until he came to a stop lying on his side, with his head under a barstool, still clutching his robe around himself.

Lucy did not pause, did not look up from the Job At Hand, which was, apparently, to empty the contents of her stomach onto my floor.

I held the quilt steady and glanced up. "What the hell are you doing" I snapped, as though he was trying out some new choreography. "Would you get up and stop fucking around?"

"I SLIPPED" Sami protested, as he scrambled to his feet and made another attempt to get to the trashcan.

He raced towards us, holding the can out in front of him like he was passing off a baton in a relay race. I traded him one wadded up quilt, and smoothly switched to holding the bin in front of Lucy, who was still totally calm, and totally puking.

He headed for the bathroom to dump the quilt in the shower. I followed with Lucy, who had stopped hurling and was now full of wonder at the turn of events.

"I got puke on my jammies." she announced.

"Sure did!" I replied cheerfully.

"My tummy feels MUCH better now."

"I am so glad sweetheart. Let's get those jammies off, OK?"

So we took off the jammies and washed hands and Sami found clean jammies and while she finished washng up Sami and I started spraying every surface in the house with Lysol. Because clearly, Lysol was in order.

As we wiped and scrubbed and sprayed and rinsed, Lucy slowly got dressed, and waited patiently for the all clear. I dried the floor and got the movie going again. I brought a clean blanket. Sami got back in bed. I lay down on the couch in the now-freezing living room with a cold (oh so cold) wooden floor.

At 8am, I woke up and surveyed the scene. Lucy, still awake, now joined by Max. The laptop battery had run out, so they were both just sitting there quietly, Lucy giving Max the blow by blow recap of the evening's excitement. I called the doctor and we headed to town, got her checked out complete with chest x-ray and stickers for being a good patient. We bought a new rug to put down in the living room and returned home in the rain. I am going to go grab a nap now, though I must admit I am still wary of hearing a meek voice and a muffled cough in the distance, through my sleepy haze. But god knows I am not letting her into bed with me, man. I have fallen for that one before. Besides, I have a new rug in there.

Taking to my bed

I have, more then once in the past week thankyouverymuch, taken to my bed. First, it was because I was exhausted from a long and tense night at work. That was followed by a draining series of emails and conversations with my son's teachers and various friends and family. Then, of course, there was the great tsunami of 2010 which came hot on the heels of a late night at work. And now, it's 59 degrees outside, and 61 degrees INSIDE my home on a blustery, rainy day here in Hawaii. Yes Hawaii. Yes 59 degrees.

Yes.

So I am taking to my bed yet again - not just to keep my feet from burning with cold, but to try to catch a quick nap, something I always feel like I need when I am cold and tired.

As an added bonus, today I had an appointment with the nurse practitioner at my Gynocologist's office. My Obstetrician/Gynocologist. What that means is I just had to spend an hour surrounded by women in various stages of pregnancy, and recovery from their pregnancy, and their cute little babies.

Awful.

Terrible Stuff.

You know how pediatrician's offices schedule well-child visits first thing in the morning, before all the sick kids start showing up? They should do that with the OB/GYN office too. If you are there for strictly gynecological reasons - especially due to some sort of traumatic or untimely event - you should have a special time set aside, where you can go to these visits without the attendant emotional angst that leaves you wanting to wrap yourself up in exam table paper, and rock back and forth in the stirrups - which was how the Nurse Practitioner found me today.

I guess I'm STILL not quite over the hysterectomy, folks.

Sorry about that. I'm getting there. I mean, I CANCELLED my appointment altogether last year, so this is progress ! And the visit itself went fine, only one person asked me when my last period was (gosh, the answer "2005" just never fails to get a shocked look !), I got poked and prodded and felt up like a teenager in the backseat of a Subaru (not that I would know anything about THAT.) Everything checked out just fine, and after a brief conversation about extra calcium and bone scans, I was on my way. Back through the dreaded waiting room (avoid all eye contact. AVOID IT.) Down the stairs, out the door, hightail it to the safety of Henny the MiniCooper - a car I would never be able to own if I was even possibly fertile, because there is just no way to get an infant seat in there and still fit behind the steering wheel.

I drove off unemcumbered by diaper bags or bottles or screeching sobs from the backseat. I listened to NPR. I ran a few quick errands, and I headed home. To bed. To count my blessings, warm my tootsies, and take a nap I wouldn't have been able to take if I had a new baby in the house.

And I am almost able to accept my menopausal, post-hysterectomy, crone-y self. Almost.

Flashback Friday. Four Years Ago, I was given the best gift ever.

I am sure that "flashback friday" should involve memories from more then four years ago. And in a way this does.

My infertility can be traced back to my diagnosis of endometriosis. I was 19, and newly married, and sitting in a doctor's office in San Juan, Puerto Rico. In broken english, the doctor explained that I had this disease, and gave me a brochure, and encouraged me to try to have a baby. Soon. I had just had a large ovarian cyst rupture, and I was in a lot of pain, and I would be having surgery. There. In San Juan. And I was very, very frightened.

That was the beginning. 15 years ago now. And it has been a long and very sad road. The end of my first marriage, the loss of several pregnancies, 13 surgeries, and the joy of a pregnancy brought to term (with only 2 hospitalizations for pre-term labor). And with the birth of my son, complete and utter joy. Yes, there has been joy - and lots of it. But there has been a great deal of disappointment and fear and medical complications, which has at times threatened to overshadow the joy.

And so, we hoped quietly for a second child, but really, didn't dare to try. The audacity of hope (there just isn't another phrase that better describes hoping for a second child after overcoming infertility once) was too much for us to take on. We needed to stay focused on the beautiful gift we had been given with our son, and not take a single moment from his childhood to focus on the medical interventions required to give him a sibling.

And then, a series of almost anonymous phone calls led to the final call.
4 years ago.
"You have a daughter. She is waiting for you in the hospital nursery."

It really was as easy as that, in the end. And we do not forget that. It makes the gift of HER even more miraculous and magical. We cried, we raced to the hospital and down the halls, up the elevator, no idea where to go.....and then we rang the bell of the maternity ward and the nurse who answered said "We have been waiting for you !"

They wheeled out the bassinet.
We peered inside.
And this tiny little girl peered back - she was 6 hours old and she looked like a fairy, with pointy ears and dimples and a cheshire grin.

We clapped our hands, and laughed, hugged each other and the nurse, and then, reached down for our baby. Because there was just no question that she was ours, and honestly if they had run a blood test I wouldn't have been surprised if our genes had matched - it was just that simple and clear.

Remarkably, adopting our daughter - the one thing that should have been the most time consuming and expensive effort, the one fraught with drama and angst and heartache....it had been the easiest, simplest, most natural thing in the world.

The greatest gift, 4 years ago:


Happy Birthday my beautiful darling girl. You are the perfect compliment to your brother, you complete our family in a way we will never be able to explain, and we are the luckiest parents in the world.

And a special thank you to your birth parents. They will be in our hearts forever.

Bodacious TaTas and other tales

Last week, just before we left for Seattle, I used a one year old gift certificate to the Spa Grande I spent 2 hours floating and soaking in various pools, and sipping hot cocoa whilst I flipped through a spa magazine, and lounging in the steam room with cucumbers and cool towels over my eyes. I do love me a good spa. However, there is one little detail about this particular spa that will cause you to sit up and take notice. (Or at least, it certainly did for my friend visiting from Georgia, whom I had not prepared adequately.) In this spa, it is women only. And in this spa, the women feel free to walk around naked. And get into pools with other total strangers. Naked. Stark Ass Naked.

Now, for the most part, people control themselves. We avert our eyes, do not stare, and most of all, try not to compare. When you are getting into a pool (there are several large pools, with and without bubbles, one hot, one cold, one scalding) and there are other women in there, you don't go sit right next to them. Personal Space is key. And the biggest rule of thumb is the 7 smaller soaking tubs are INDIVIDUAL SOAKING TUBS. And unfortunately, my dear friend was at the receiving end of some very bad spa manners, when she was soaking away peacefully and another woman climbed into the INDIVIDUAL SOAKING TUB accommodating my friend. My friend's modesty was very clear - she had her swimsuit on in a sea of nudity, because God Bless Her she is a lady and ladies don't wander around naked in front of strangers. And this woman who jumped in her tub was letting it all hang out. All of it. She had subjected herself to The Wax. And by that, I mean there was not a hair to be seen. Nothing to offer her any sort of modesty or privacy. Nothing to conceal any part of her as she climbed down into the pool. It was all Right There.

I have never seen a stricken look before like the one that came over my dear friend. I thought I was going to have to pull some sort of lifeguard maneuver and rescue her by pulling her over the wall into MY tub, but then again, I was naked and definitely didn't want to make her even more uncomfortable. So. We all sat there awkwardly. My friend could not get out of her tub without climbing over her new tub-mate. I could not leave her there alone. So we sat. And sat. And got quite pruney. Until finally my friend, after a polite amount of time had passed, stood up and slipped sideways past the woman and out of the tub.

So on this particular visit, I had that all in my mind as I was lounging in one of those soaking tubs, and had taken up basically the whole end of the tub as to impede anyone from getting in without having to actually climb OVER ME. And every time anyone drew near, I shot them a look that said "do not even think about it". And one of the times that I was shooting the laser beams, I found myself face to face with someone that appeared to be human, but in fact had so much plastic in her body that clearly, she was a sort of half-woman, half science project.

It wasn't just the boobs (though god knows those were fake) - it was the hair, the lips, the nails, the skin, the LACK OF HAIR, the very bone structure in fact. It was all "done". As in, not existing in nature, but rather after months and years and tens of thousands of dollars worth of tweaks and adjustments and "improvements". And I am sure, to some, she was perfect. The perfect specimen.

To me, she was a traveling freak show.

And in perfect droid fashion, she was ALWAYS nearby. I would move to a different pool, she would step in. I walked blindly into the steam room, and as my eyes adjusted, there she was. I don't know how she was taking the heat - the fact that she did not actually MELT is testament to the quality of the workmanship on display. And my self-image, rather then feeling challenged, was strengthened.

Those big fake boobs will never feed a child.
Her hair was newly colored, and yet, there was just a shadow of roots already. Which looked tacky.
She looked literally uncomfortable in her own (?) very taut skin.

So I relaxed, and thought about how nice it was to be able to float around in chlorine and not worry about my hair turning green, and how nice it was that I didn't have to worry about my nipples popping up out of the water because whatever was implanted under them was so incredibly buoyant. And that my skin tone was from being outside, and not from lying under a lightbulb.

And then I made an appointment for a very overdue bikini wax. Because I am human.

Wait, what ?

If you were vacationing in Hawaii right now, you would be bitterly disappointed. It's gray. It's (relatively) cold. It's windy. It's rainy.

And, since this is Hawaii, the land of fun-n-sun, it stands to reason that indoor activities are basically non-existant. So your options as a resident are: sit in your house, go to a friends house, see a movie, or bundle up and pretend everything is totally normal. Even our malls are open to the elements - so if it raining outside, it's raining in the mall.

We have been inside for far too long now. It has gotten to the point where I load everyone in the car including the dog, and head to town to run errands - just for a change of scenery.

A pleasant side-effect of the crappy weather is my body's reaction to being cold and damp. I can barely turn my head, and the amount of pressure radiating up my neck and across my shoulders is insane. Yesterday, when I woke up, I actually had trouble getting out of bed. As I perched on the edge of the mattress and debated calling in to work, I decided to tough it out and take a muscle relaxer that was prescribed after the crash. For the first hour, I didn't feel different, but I soldiered on. And at about 90 minutes in, I was feeling GREAT. And about 2 hours after taking the pill, I tried to curl up in one of the booths and take a nap.

People, I was high. At work. Trying to wait on people. It. Was. Ridiculous.
I would approach a table, and greet them, and then sort of stare into space for a minute. Specials ? Oh, right, THE SPECIALS. Yes, yes of course....uhhhh. Yes. Today's specials. Hm. Hang on a sec, OK ?

So my neck felt FANTASTIC - like I didn't even HAVE a neck. But the rest of me was *freaking the fuck out*. I realized in the span of about 10 minutes that:
A. I shouldn't be at work, or even in public.
B. I couldn't drive myself home even if I wanted to go.
C. There was no one to call to come in and cover for me and
D. I was an ass for taking medication (even prescribed medication) right before a shift at work.

I alternated between "high-speak" (wherein I would babble to myself and anyone who would listen about how high I was, and how inappropriate it was, and how embarrassed I was to be so high, and how I probably needed to go home, and Do I Sound High to You ?) and trying to talk myself off the ledge that hangs precariously over "lock yourself in the bathroom and cry and throw up" land - a place I have seen a few times and never want to visit agin.

Man, was I high. *shakes head sadly*
What a waste.

So, fast forward to 3 hours later, I am still high, but now my neck hurts and I am getting nauseous, from a pain/highness combo that had to be experienced to be explained.

Then, a few hours after that I was no longer high, but still nauseous. So I did what any other clear thinking, non-high person would do. I went home, and went to sleep.

And this morning ? I woke up stiffer then yesterday, and in total misery. Luckily, I didn't have to work, so I took another one of the muscle relaxers. Boy, am I high.

Pizzle, my nizzle

We have a dog - Boston. AKA GDD (Goddamned Dog). Our dog, unfortunately, would be categorized as a "chewer" and a "digger". He is, in fact, many different things - some cute, some not. Housebroken is not one of them.

So, when it rains, Boston hangs out on our covered porch - but not in the house. Which makes him very sad. And he whimpers, and whines, and chews on things to express his loneliness and displeasure with his station in life.

This morning, he ate my welcome mat.

So I sent Sami off to the Feed and Farm supply store, to find something ELSE for the GDD to chew on besides my home accents.

He came home with an assortment of bones and chewy things - one of which was a "Pizzle Stick". I asked him what in the hell a pizzle stick was. I read the ingredients, which consisted of two words: Bull Pizzle. Sounded ominous.

Sami said he wondered the same thing, and when he got to the register he had in fact asked the salesperson that very question - what is Pizzle ?

The clerk looked around, then leaned in and told him in no uncertain terms, mano a mano, what Pizzle is.

"Dick. It's dick."

Then he helpfully asked if Sami would like a bag, to carry his pizzle more discreetly, I guess.

"No need" said Sami cheerfully. "It's wrapped in plastic for my comfort and protection !"

Turns out, Boston *really* likes Pizzle.

The true story of living the system

Last night, I slept. That sleep was rudely interrupted by having to wake up and go to work. What the hell ? Why can't I just put the entire world on "pause" so I can get some fucking SLEEP for once. Whatever (muttering to herself).

So I went to work, OKAY? I went, and I worked. But not without (and I counted) SEVENTEEN phone calls about Baby. Because anything involving the state is such a damned disorganized clusterfuck that seriously, I don't know how anyone can handle working in such an environment - windowless offices, with those horrible flourescent lights and gross wall to wall carpet and peeling paint and mismatched furniture. So depressing. (Think Joe v.s. the Volcano - a movie I have referenced more then once over the past few days in conversation, sadly - because my LIFE is starting to resemble parts of that movie.)

And here's another thing. You know, I am not a brainiac. But I can recognize stupid. And unqualified. And disorganized. And it just takes one or two people who have these tendencies, to completely screw up everyone else. I speak from experience, trust me. And today, well, fuckitall I was dealing with waaaay too much of that sort of shit. Which caused me to curse almost continuously in the walk-in cooler at the restuarant for 10 minutes this morning, and I continue to curse even now when I discuss it. As you shall see in just a moment.

I will give you a prime example of the ridiculousness, and the reason for the SEVENTEEN phone calls, which isn't really a valid reason at all:

The hospital couldn't provide baby with his medications, and wanted me to bring them to the hospital.
I shit you not, the hospital called, the social worker called, the nurse from the doctors office called, another social worker called, a third social worker called, another nurse called, and finally, I just stopped answering the fucking phone. Why enable that bullshit? Let's break it down - then maybe I'll feel better about this.

First - you are a GODDAMNED HOSPITAL. How can you call yourself a hospital (and the only hospital on the ISLAND) and not be able to make up any prescription ordered ? I have never in my LIFE been expected to bring medicine from home when I was admitted into a hospital. In fact, I belive it was strongly discouraged to take your own meds. Second, the baby had been in the hospital for about 18 hours before I was called about this. And of course, the calls came while I was at work and unable to BRING the medicine down - and so the calls just kept coming and coming and coming. They were even asking me to bring meds that the baby DOESN'T TAKE. Maybe that was for the kid in the next fucking bed because they aren't going to provide HIS meds either? Who knows. But here's the clincher. I wasn't called for 18 hours, because the only number they had was the number provided to them by the baby's social worker in the emergency room. So, after calling in the bio family (who showed up to stay with baby) and leaving all of *that* drama in his wake, he didn't give the staff his cellphone number in case of emergency (with baby or bio family) so they couldn't reach him after 5pm. Or maybe he just chose not to answer his phone, also a distinct possibility. And the nurses were not given any 24 hour hotline number to try to get in touch with someone else for assitance. They had to wait. And wait. And wait. All they knew was baby was in state custody - and the parent who had custody taken away was the one at bedside. Which seemed odd (understandably). This morning, when it was critical that baby have his meds, and the extended bio family was arriving and taking turns sleeping in baby's bed, the nursing staff was getting a bit anxious. What the hell was going on with this kid - And who the hell was the responsible party? And that is when the calls started coming in. Over and over and over.

(shaking head)

The lack of common sense in this world is alarming. And for the record, I do not feel better about this after dissecting the events of today. Now I am really pissed. If the social worker had simply given them a 24 hour contact number, the hospital could have called me - LAST NIGHT - and I could have brought down the meds LAST NIGHT, and everything would have been way less ridiculous today. But that is obviously expecting too much. Oh no, we needed to involve as many fucking people as possible. And since, apparently, I am the only one who answers their cellphone, I had to just suck it.

OK seriously I am going to be back later, with a nice, happy post about sunshine and cuddles and rainbows and fucking butterflies or some shit. Even if I have to make it up.

Oh. My. God.

No, seriously. I think that now, my legs might actually fall off.

It has been a 48 hour marathon, filled with bitchy customers, lovely customers, and customers who are challenged by the concept of tipping - and a few who know EXACTLY how to tip on Christmas Day.....100% ? Spank you very much ! Mister 5% ? Fuck You.

I have two stories for you today. I was going to dole them out, one at a time, over the next few days, to buy me an extra day of entertainment for the masses - but I'm just gonna go all out, and hope to god something interesting happens tomorrow for me to write about.

First, Boston the Dog.
Boston the Dog has found his bark, which is actually a very cute RrrrUFF RUFF kind of noise which doesn't really bug me at all. He keeps shitting on the porch - which bugs me a lot. We are trying to work on that. He is scared to death of Sami, which we are also working on, because honestly Sami is probably the gentlest man ever and the last person Boston should be afraid of. Max, on the other hand, Boston should keep an eye on. Boston also needs to keep an eye out for the neighborhood dogs. Because he is seriously pissing them off. Someday, someone is going to get out of their yard, or off their leash, and really mess his punk self up. He is cruising for a bruising.

Last night, I let Boston out. We have a number of dogs in the neighborhood, and as Boston ran down the steps, he got a wild hair and decided to visit all of them. So he takes off like a shot, while I run behind saying totally ineffectual things like "Boston come HERE" and "Boston GET BACK HERE" and muttering some very not nice things about what a bastard he was. First he runs across the street, into the yard of a large German Shepard. The German Shepard is extremely territorial, and has an invisible fence type of system keeping her in the yard. What that means is, anyone can go IN the yard, but she cannot go OUT of the yard without getting a shock from her collar.

Apparently, Boston figured this out. He tore up her driveway, and into the garage where she sleeps. He then comes galloping back down the driveway, looking over his shoulder at the huge German Shepard bearing down on him. She hits her boundary, stops short, and he keeps going, totally taunting her over his shoulder like "Neener Neener Neener, you caa-aan't get meeee" and runs around the street in circles, just out of reach. Torture.

The dog across the street now HATES Boston, and she is preparing herself for the next time he comes prancing into her yard. He is going to have his ass handed to him next time - I hope he's smart enough to figure THAT out. But he is just as cute as he is smart, and I have a feeling he'll find a way to talk her out of tearing him to shreds. Maybe he'll try to hump her or something....

He went on to visit several other neighbors, before I finally grabbed his collar and dragged him home. I was wet and muddy and pissed - but definitely NOT as pissed as the German Shepard.

Lest you begin to worry, let me reassure you - Boston isn't the only one leading a life of excitement and adventure this busy holiday week. I have another story for you - the tale of the yogini.

I observed a yoga class earlier this week. It should go without saying that there are more then a few yoga instructors on island. Maui is a very touchy-feely kind of place, people are all "in tune with themselves" and shit. And yoga is a very popular activity here.

Oh the stretching and the twisting.

So anyway, back to my observation class. I was trying to be discreet, and unobtrusive. I didn't want to distract anyone, or make anyone uncomfortable. I sat at one end of the studio, quietly watching. I did not take notes or photos, even though I was there because I am going to be writing about this instructor and notes would have been helpful.

A few minutes after class began, a man entered the studio. His presence created quite a stir. He was tall and handsome, and well, sort of the perfect physical specimen. I mean, if you are into a tanned, toned, chiseled sort of physique. Not really MY cup of tea, but I suppose some people might find that appealing..... Sorry, back to the story. This guy comes in, and rolls out his mat RIGHT in front of me. He was blocking my view of the rest of the class, as well as being, well, a foot away from me and totally in my personal space (which I guard with the zeal of a german shepard). So I move down a bit, in order to see the length of the studio. And that is when the man bends over, and starts grunting, with his (ahem) nether regions right in my face. He did have pants on - pants made of a very thin fabric, but pants nontheless. He did not, however, have any UNDERWEAR on. This was, well, distracting. Things were swinging around in a pendulous fashion, while I was trying very hard NOT to look. It was hard. It was very, very hard.

Adding to the swinging and swaying I was trying not to look at - He is one of those guys that just is never still. I cannot understand why yoga appeals to him, because seriously, he was always MOVING. He was never at rest. He never held a position. And he never seemed to be doing what everyone ELSE was doing. Either he is so A.D.D. he can't follow along, or he is so pompous and self absorbed that he didn't feel the need to go along with the program. Either way, he certainly didn't belong in a class, because he wasn't actually TAKING the class. He was doing some sort of crazy free form bullshit, throwing in weird poses where he was all twisted sideways and supporting his entire body with one arm, or doing headstands while everyone else was meditating. Plus, he was sweating so profusely, the mat and the floor around him was wet. I felt like someone should put up a cone to warn others of the puddle. He was fucking ridiculous. AND distracting to me and everyone else in the studio.

It was especially distracting when the instructor handed out straps, and demonstrated what was to be done with them. Of course, she chose this lovely man as her partner for the demonstration. So he bends over in a downward dog sort of pose, and she places the strap across his hips, with the ends of the straps hanging down on either side of him. She stood right behind him, and REACHED DOWN BETWEEN HIS LEGS to grab the straps and pull them through and out behind him. As she went to stand up with the straps in her hands, she said "you'll have to help me here" and he grabbed his package and moved it between the two straps, then re-assumed the position. I just had no idea where to look. I consider myself to be pretty open minded, but DAMN it was hard to keep from laughing with her all bent over, face in his ass, and her hands between his legs, and him holding his junk all bent over and sweating.....

Blessedly, the team exercises didn't last too terribly long, and then we went back to the more traditional yoga. Which is when Mr Excitement popped a boner.

Good. God. I almost had a stroke.

Holy Night

Holy Mary Mother of God. That seems to be just about the most appropriate curse I can come up with right now, because I'll bet that woman was tired too, after dragging her damn self all over town just trying to find a place to sit her ass down.

Today I walked into the cafe, and was offered a shift - starting right then and there. And it was busy in the restaurant, and I didn't have enough cash to pay for the breakfast we were planning to eat ANYWAY, so I said yes. Yes of course. Absolutely. I would *LOVE* to work.

And I was thrilled - it was busy, I made money, everyone was happy, all was well.

But my god, I think my legs might fall off. I am not just saying that. I mean it.

Fall. Off.

But it is all worth it because, you see, I am trying to be a real honest-to-goodness writer. I need to earn my street cred. Real writers (and actors, and musicians) wait tables. Or enjoy an assortment of other cash-money, easy to quit gigs that do not require (nor provide) references.

And as a writer, I need to make some cash money, to finance my extremely tenuous monthly budget.
Hah. Budget my ass. More like, write some checks and just hope it all works out.
Oops. Except for that auto-payment for the cellphone that I forgot about. Oh, shit, and the car payment that gets deducted each month. (sigh). I think I just made a big boo-boo in my checking account.

I am very overdraft dependent. As any self-respecting writer would be.

I am also angst-filled, and overly dramatic, and I like to drink and smoke and talk while waving my hands around. I take long hot showers, where I compose columns and articles and press releases in my head, and then run - naked - to the computer, clutching my towel around me and trying to get everything out of my very cluttered mind, and onto my hard drive.

I bet you are SO GLAD I shared that with you.

Let's get back in the holiday spirit, shall we ?

Today, we delivered a Christmas meal and presents to a family that was identified by a social services agency as "needy". We explained to the kids that we were going to go and bring food and presents to a family that could not afford to buy gifts this year, or have a nice meal. That really, everyone deserved a present on Christmas, and that we had so much, it was important to share. I think I prepared them well. They were excited, glad to be "playing santa" and proud to be helping someone in need this holiday season.

They would not be quite so needy, methinks, if they sold their GIGANTIC WIDE SCREEN TV.

When the father opened the door, we were all mesmerized by the TV. The TV that was, literally, the size of a small car. It took up most of one wall of the living room. When I say it was a good 5 or 6 feet across (and not diagonally - I mean straight across) I am not exaggerating.

Disillusionment, anyone ?

I'd like to say, to anyone in need....let me know how I can help. I want to help. It makes me feel good inside to help others. Need someone to watch the kids ? No problem. Need a ride ? I'll be there. Want to come over for dinner ? See you at 6.

But don't tell social services that you are in need of Christmas presents for your kids, when there is literally so much shit in and around your house, that you could open a second-hand store.

You know what I do when I need money ? I have a YARD SALE. I sell things on Craigslist. I don't call Family Services and sign up for charity. If you have a roof over your head, then there is someone more in need then you this holiday season.

And if you have a TV the size of a golf cart, you should just go fuck yourself, because you know what, those things are obnoxious, and I bet your neighbors below you and next door to you HATE YOU FOR IT.

Happy Holidays, asshole.
(Oh, did that sound negative? I really didn't mean it that way. I meant it in the lighthearted, fun way. Ha. Hahaha. Asshole.)

In a quest for beauty

I am writing this while I lie in bed, nursing my wounds. I have some serious burn blisters, and the pain is so intense, so deep to my core, that I am actually nauseous. God help me if I get a quick glimpse at the actual injury - I'll lose it for sure.

Call it what you will: yoni, hoo hoo, privates, bagina, cooter (my personal fave) I done burned my bits off.

I can't even believe I participated in the excruciating, sadistic procedure of my own free will. I lay there, on a table, with my legs spread "froggy style" as directed, and allowed someone to burn the hair off my genitals (and take a good amount of flesh along with it) just so that I could have a clean bikini line.

A bikini line that is now rocking some really lovely blisters, and scorched hair follicles.

The dermatologist is enthusiastic about her work - I will give her that.

"Can you smell the hair burning ? That means it's WORKING!" she chirped, as I cringed and gasped and clutched at my chest.

"OK, business as usual" she announced as I gingerly lifted myself off the table and surveyed the carnage.

Lady, I don't know what your business looks like - but mine is definitely not "as usual".

"What should I do with this ?" I asked, gesturing vaguely at the afflicted area.
"Oh, just wash it with your hand - a washcloth might be ouchie" she solemnly informed me.

I am way beyond "ouchie". I almost threw up out my car window several times on the drive home. It took all of my willpower to not clutch at my crotch. As soon as i got in the door, I ripped off my underwear and started frantically smearing Neosporin on the injuries. I don't know if it is helping, but it was worth a shot.

Pray for me. Pray for me and my poor, poor cooter.

Bye Bye Daddy

Saturday, my husband got on a plane and flew back to Hawaii. He left me here with both kids, to wait for the looming arrival of my niece. He is having a lovely time, in the warm sunshine. Bastard.

After leaving Daddy at the airport, we had to sing several rounds of "Bestest in the Barn" to cheer ourselves up. Then Mommy needed some Dunkin Donuts. Then we drove to my mother's house, where I dropped off the kids and left straightaway for the packie (liquor store) and TJ Maxx, to further comfort myself.

Then we had pizza with my extended family, which was wonderful, and we went to lend our moral support to my cousin, who is 4 months pregnant and needed to buy larger bras. We come from a family that is, shall we say, well-endowed in that department. So the idea that they would get BIGGER is both alarming and expensive.

After looking at all sorts of interesting undergarments with my aunt - who kept asking why in God's Name anyone would need something like THAT, while holding up some crotchless panties or something - I went back to my parents and got the kids ready for bed - sort of. Then, I went to Mystic to kick off a bar-crawl of epic proportions.

We started at AZU. We moved to Daniel Packer. We made a quick stop at Voodoo, and ended up staying a while. Then we stopped into 41, which has a new name (Ancient Mariner ?) and after a quick drink, proceeded over to Johns - where we broke a glass and played someone else's game of pool. We left pretty quickly, because John's is not the sort of place that responds well to that sort of stuff - for good reason. It is where the serious drinkers hang out. Don't fuck around in there - they will cut you off and throw you out.

So, chastened, we headed back to DPI for last call. I think we stopped somewhere else too, but I honestly can't remember much. he menu went something like this:
Hot Buttered Rum
Jack and Coke
Patron
Jack and Coke
Water
Jack and Coke
naptime.

Jack was really hard on me. I came home and fell over while I was taking off my pants. I was drunk for most of the following day. Every time I tried to bend over (and mothers NEVER have to bend over hardly EVER - HAH !) I would fall face first onto the ground. Very interesting experience. I went back to bed at about 10am, and woke up at 1pm feeling like I might die. My mother took me on a restorative trip to TJ Maxx where I dropped $150 in 45 minutes. (Totally worth it, by the way. I'll go over the list item by item later - with photos. You have to see it to believe it.)

The rest of Sunday was spent in a drunken haze. I managed to keep it together, and avoid puking - which I am VERY proud of, by the way.

So, now you are almost caught up on my adventures, and to sweeten the pot, here is the latest. My sister in law is having contractions every 3 minutes, and is dilating, albeit slowly. So it may well be baby day around here in the very near future. I'll keep you posted.