The Big Cement Mixer In the Sky

And so it has happened. While my dad was visiting us this weekend, the cat finally shuffled his mortal coil. While I am completely and inappropriately relieved, my ire over two points has me seeing red.

My mom is devastated and still will not talk about it. Apparently, when she woke up Tuesday morning, the cat was "completely incapacitated". Then, and only then, did she take him to the vet to be put down. I am irked because the poor thing had been suffering for weeks, and my parents refused to do anything to ease his pain. Why in the world she had to wait until he was incapacitated to do anything proactive is beyond the scope of my comprehension.

Horror of horrors, I am completely disgusted by the second point. My father, having come home the same afternoon as the trip to the feline death panel, sunk the poor thing in concrete. Just like he promised. Right now, somewhere in my parents' garage is a macabre geode waiting for strategic burial in the backyard. There is not enough coffee in the world to get me through a morning phone call bearing this kind of news.

Drink, Dammit!

My sister called me unexpectedly last week. We rarely speak, and it was with trepidation and a roll of my eyes that I answered my mobile. It turns out she rather magnanimously called to tell me about a new dermatologist she was going to see. The two of us have been on the hunt for a decent skin doctor for years, and a referral from a friend had her excited. Her appointment was that afternoon, and after a surprisingly upbeat conversation promised to call me with the verdict.

I honestly did not expect to hear back from her as she tends not to follow up with anything that has to do with me. Imagine my surprise when, several hours later, she called with the results. She loved the doctor and gave a detailed litany of her skin issues. The conversation came to a screeching halt when she said the dermatologist took one look at a spot on her breast and declared it to be melanoma.

Apparently, I made the mistake of asking if the doctor had taken it off immediately. Her tone began to frost over as she explained she was going to look into her schedule and get back to the doctor about it. I swear I tried not to get that big sister screech to my voice, but I told her melanoma ain't no joke, and that it needed to come off. Like yesterday. She slammed the door on the subject with the justification that she had to talk to her husband, that she would have to take several days off of work. She would get to it when she had the time.

Listen, crazy bitch. You won't have a job to go back to if this cancer kills you. You have a nine month old son. Yes, keeping to your job schedule is important, but this isn't a sinus infection. It is melanoma. Do I need to spell it out for you?

It has been a week now since the phone call. She still has not told my parents, and as much as the pleaser part of my personality wants to get my parents on her ass about this I haven't mentioned it, either. She is 34 years old. What she will not do for herself I cannot do a damned thing about. Horses and water, right? More like horse's ass.

And the Green Grass Grew All Around

Yesterday, we hit the pediatrician office. My daughter had her five year check up and got her final boosters for kindergarten. My son got in on the action, too, with his very own shot in the leg as we are start to catch him up on the recommended schedule.

Still hanging in the lobby and several of the wait rooms are flyers advertising the "new" vaccine Pentacel. Reading the various titles and information, the advert left me feeling vaguely irked regarding both the product and the marketing.

The first thing that struck me were the bold letters stating the vaccine has been used in Canada for years. For those Americans (and there are many) who eschew the evils of Socialist Medicine, how is telling parents the vaccine has been safely used by our Great Neighbor of the North supposed to be a selling point? Isn't it the American Way or the highway?

The second bit that struck a chord of irritation was the statement: Eight Less. Eight less needle jabs for our kids. Maybe I should be more sympathetic, but I just feel rather meh about it. So what? The majority opinion seems to be that vaccines in any shape, size and volume are a privilege of living in a first world country. Lollipops and band-aids are a right of passage. I would personally rather stagger the shots (as we have) than have a super shot that packs in an obscene number of diseases.

The early 90s heralded the arrival of the DTaP. More bang for your buck. Diphtheria, Tetanus and Pertussis all rolled into one. Sweet deal. Now, enter Pentacel. Kids get to have the DTaP, the Hib*, and the IPV* in one vial. Isn't that awesome? Five vaccines, one shot. PENTacel. Get it?

I suppose I am on the dark side of science, but I just don't get why more is better. Where do we draw the line? We are a nation of all you can eat buffets and McMansions. Doggie bags and warehouse grocery stores. First we are sold on the idea of a three-in-one-shot, now it is five-in-one. Is the end result to give a child one giant shot in the ass and be done with it? I don't know, but the thought scares me.

And the green grass grew all around, all around. The green grass grew all around.


*HiB protects our kids from the Haemophilus influenzae type b bacteria.
*IPV is the polio vaccine

Where I Am and Where I Need To Be

Where I Am:

Hear that lonesome whippoorwill
He sounds too blue to fly
The midnight train is whining low
I'm so lonesome I could cry

I've never seen a night so long
When time goes crawling by
The moon just went behind a cloud
To hide its face and cry

Did you ever see a robin weep
When leaves began to die?
That means he's lost the will to live
I'm so lonesome I could cry

The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky
And as I wonder where you are
I'm so lonesome I could cry

Where I Need To Be:

There's no room in my heart for the blues
Love is satisfied to either win or lose
Darlin', if our pathways part, let there be no broken hearts
There's no room in my heart for the blues

There's no room in my life for a sigh
We'll be strong enough to face our last goodbye
Darlin', if our romance ends, let us part the best of friends
There's no room in my heart for the blues

There's no room in my memory for tears
We'll let bygones be forgotten souvenirs
If your hungry heart forgets, let there be no sad regrets
There's no room in my heart for the blues

There's no room in my life for a sigh
We'll be strong enough to face our last goodbye
Darlin' if our romance ends let us be the best of friends
There's no room in my heart for the blues

And Atlas Shuddered

The past two months?

My mom nearly lost her job.

My grandmother has been in and out of the hospital.

My sister got married under dubious circumstances.

My uncle went in for a checkup and ended up with double bypass heart surgery.

My girlfriend in ATL ended up in a hospital in Mississippi that almost killed her because they misdiagnosed a heart condition she has apparently had since birth.

Hubbie has a new boss who has no interest in furthering his career, only covering her ass.

Hubbie put in for a transfer to a different job site, which she denied so that she can keep him under her thumb and maintaining her workload.

LittleMan fell into and shattered the glass from the giant picture frame.

LittleBird's dental appointment turned up a cavity which required a laser, cajoling, and a fuckload of money.

One of my closest friends showed me her ass.

Today? We got the phone call that Hubbie's dad has been hospitalized. He'd had a bit of leg trouble, went to get it checked out and collapsed in the ER. All we know right now is that he has multiple blood clots in his lungs. He has been stabilized but the prognosis is uncertain. Hubbie's got a ticket booked for Thursday, but we are waiting for tomorrow to determine if he must go sooner.

I have never been one to beg for comments. I've always felt lurk or show the love as you feel. But the heavens are heavy, my friends. I am swimming upstream in a river of shit and the waters continue to rise. I know we will come out clean on the other side, but I need a little love right now. Hubbie doesn't have the strength. My little ones are beautifully self-absorbed toddlers worried only about their comfort (as well they should be). You guys are all I've got.

Of Cherries and Chinchillas

In my travels to Croatia, I learned several important lessons.

First, Croatia has the most amazing cherry trees you will ever see. The cousins I stayed with had cherry trees in their front yard that were laden with fruit. To the point the branches appeared to bow to visitors coming up the walkway. Snacking on cherries still glowing with the warmth of the sun is not anything a grocery store can duplicate.

Second, closed doors are closed for a reason. I stayed with my cousins for several days. Despite the fact that I couldn't speak Croatian and they couldn't speak English, we had hours of great conversations with a dictionary as our mediator. Which is why when the topic of chinchillas came up I was surely lost in translation. I mean, chinchillas?

Turns out, in the garage area, they kept chinchillas. Lots of them. As in row after row after row. I was shocked. Usually any kind of breeding facility is going to have a smell attached to it. I had been there for days and never suspected.

The father showed me around his source of income* and took one out of its cage for me to hold. I cuddled it as we walked around, eventually ending back up in the house.

Which leads me to my third lesson. Cherries and chinchillas don't mix. And here's why:

Chinchillas love fruit. Love it. When a person has been eating fresh cherries all afternoon, their hands are (apparently) going to smell like cherries. We stood in the living room talking blithely about god knows what subject when I started to scream.

I screamed a high-pitched scream that would make it into the Record Book of Girlie Screams. Interestingly, I started to scream before I felt anything. One minute I was talking, the next I was screaming and didn't know why

Until I looked down at my hand, and the chinchilla was gnawing on my finger.

I started jumping up and down, shaking my hand. The Chinchilla of Caerbannog** hung there by her teeth.

My host took the chinchilla and my fingers and managed to release its hold on me. Everyone had a good laugh at my expense. Once my finger stopped bleeding, I might have laughed a bit, too.

Today's lesson is not to visit family members with a chinchilla farm in their garage. If you do, soak you hands in lye before you touch any of the animals. While it may make for good blogging at a later date, getting chewed on by a chinchilla kind of sucks.

*Don't make me explain this. If you can't figure it out, think a bit harder.
**Same goes for this bit. If you don't get it, either look it up or be done with it.

Social Mathematics

Sometimes one needs an outside perspective to see a situation clearly.

The following situation is true. I have a surprising number of male readers, and I am hoping they will weigh in on this. And all you lurkers? Yeah, you too. Feel free to chime in. Think of this as a NATUI-style Mastercard Commercial. Add this up for me. Tell me what it tells you.

A girl in her early thirties.

Meets a guy.

They have their first date, and they fuck all weekend.

Two weeks later, she calls to tell him she's pregnant.

It is her second pregnancy this year by two different men.

She has masses of credit card debt and has filed for bankruptcy.

The guy is sticking by her and said he was going to tell his mom and sisters.

By all reports they love her and are so happy that that she's his new girlfriend.

Turns out that they've met her, but he hasn't told them that she is knocked up yet.

How's that for some shit? You all know that I am praying for male birth control. For me, this clinches it. How about you?

Bilingual Doesn't Make You Stupid or Blind

In my daughter's preschool class of eleven, there are three students whose parents speak something other than English at home. My daughter, a little boy who speaks Afrikaans, and a little girl who speaks Chinese.

I find this to be a huge advantage for my daughter and her classmates. It brings a sense of normalcy to hearing something other than English come from someone's mouth. There is no fear or paranoia, the kids simply go about their business of play as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

The parents could learn a lesson from their children.

In this hall this afternoon, I was speaking to the Chinese-speaking mother. She is very nice, very enthusiastic. Her English? Not all that great. She speaks rapidly and has a heavy accent. She is intelligible, but one must listen carefully. We talked about getting our girls to play together outside of school.

Enter non-bilingual mom. We joined her in our conversation because both of our daughters have mentioned how much they like playing with her daughter.

Watching this mom listen to the Chinese-speaking mom infuriated me. This was her expression. I took a picture of myself to illustrate.

When listening to a non-native speaker, it is not necessary to squint your eyes at them. Neither is it necessary to bare your teeth and slacken your jaw. It quite unbecoming. You may as well walk around with an ear trumpet and staple a sign to your forehead to warn people.

This woman obviously needed a lesson in interpersonal communication. Let's get schooled, NATUI-style.

How do I put this delicately? The mom who spoke Chinese? She isn't stupid, and you aren't deaf. Take care of your facial expressions. They can be hurtful and tell much more of your personality than you care to let on.

When listening, show interest when people speak to you. It is respectful and shows good breeding, or lack thereof in this case.

And finally, to include my daughter in on a future playdate and intentionally exclude the person standing next to you is rude beyond measure.

I hope the Chinese-speaking mom didn't hear the other mom intentionally exclude her daughter. I hope she missed it, but I don't think she did. Bilingual doesn't mean stupid. And she surely isn't blind.

As a parent and decent fucking human being, all I can do is steer my kids clear of this kind of behavior through teaching them to be kind. It is my small way of making the world a better place.

Which means the NATUI clan has a Chinese playdate this week. Ni hao.

My Only Political Post

Okay, that's probably a lie.

I will not preclude myself from venting discussing politics in a future post, but Hubbie and I had a disturbing conversation in the kitchen last night.

For my readers with a fucked up sense of humor: You know how even though you know doing or saying something would be a huge misstep, but the fun factor makes you seriously consider it anyway?

I think Obama must have phenomenal self-control.

See, people have been calling him a Marxist. They've been calling him a Muslim.

How hilarious would it be for him to take his girls trick-or-treating dressed like Karl Marx wearing a turban.

I know he would never go there, but I'm just saying.

Feast or Famine

One of the reasons Hubbie took the job transfer to NewTown was to give him the opportunity to network. It isn't that he is necessarily unhappy in his job, it is just that we want to keep our options open.

I recognize that it seems a bit selfish to keep our eyes open for "something better" when so many people have had their jobs eliminated. However, I want to be proactive about our quality of life. I am a stay-at-home mom right now. It is something we chose to do as a couple. This decision brings many financial constraints, but we have been willing to live with the consequences of our choice.

In the past 72 hours, we have found ourselves in the position of two job prospects. Two. Both are likely possibilities. One would allow us to stay here, if we so chose. The other requires another cross-country move.

Now, I many have jinxed things by posting this and both opportunities could go to shit. It would be fine for Hubbie to keep the position he has now, but we also know that this position will not be open to him for long and he will have to transfer.

So here I am today, sitting here in this fuck-up of a rental house, climbing the walls trying to figure out how to sit back and just let things happen.

And I suck at it.

What Qualifies As Internet Porn?

I had a great sex dream this morning. A frolicking romp around the bed, legs and arms akimbo.

Chick on chick action, no less.

With Love Bites.

What. The. Fuck.

I mean, I think her avatar is groovy. And sexy in a Do you mind if I take a nibble and an ounce of blood vampire movie kind of way.

But, seriously? What the fuck was that about?

I cannot even begin to delve into the possible reasons why she and I had a little Sunday mornin' luvin'.

But she was good. She knew her shit.

Thanks, baby. I think I need a smoke.

Living Jackhammers

Adding to our rental drama, we have a neighborhood visitor. An early morning neighborhood visitor.

I noticed him the first weekend I was here. I heard a jackhammering noise coming from our backyard. Oh! I naively thought We must have a woodpecker! How wonderful!

I looked out the window only to see something the size of a large cat on one of the trees out back. Woody Woodpecker is no cartoon. Here is what I saw in my backyard.


Is that some scary shit or what?

I have never seen a bird this big before. He was across my yard, and I do not really want to see him up close. He can stay on his end, and I will stay on mine.

Except that this weekend, at sunrise, Hubbie and I woke up to the loudest vibrating jackhammering noise I have every heard. Woody was on the fucking roof. Or on our gutter. Or somewhere on our house. Pecking and pecking and pecking away.

This is going to be a long spring.

Those Sneaky Koreans

Today I had the pleasure of hosting Crazy LandLady, Chief HandyMan, and his buddy Sketchy SideKick. They were here for eleven hours.

You heard me.

I could write a book about the craziness I endured today. Instead I will share the choicest morsel.

Our neighbor has a new wooden fence in his backyard. New as in within the past 2-3 years. When he installed his fence, someone made the decision to take the chain-link fence on our property down. They did so by taking a saw and sawing the metal posts off at ground level.

This means every three to four feet we have jagged hunks of metal sticking up out of the ground.

Part of our fix-it punch list was to take care of this safety hazard. Chief HandyMan looked at them, kicked them a few times and said that he would hammer them into the ground.

Huh. Good luck with that dude.

Crazy LandLady looks at these hacked-off fence posts, gestures to the neighbor's house and says, You know, there used to be Koreans living in that house.

Huh?

What in the name of all that is holy does that have to do with the fence posts on her property?

I happen to have met this particular neighbor already and know the history of his house. I happen to know Crazy LandLady is full of shit.

However, even if she weren't, what the fuck do Koreans have to do with anything? The fence posts are on this property. Apparently she thinks Koreans sneak out of their houses in the middle of the night and chop down your fence posts while you sleep.

I feel it is my duty to pass along this new-found piece of wisdom: If you have Koreans move in next door, put motion detector lights in your backyard or you make wake up to find your fence missing.

More Money Than Sense

There was an article in our local paper today about three-year olds going to a party put on by Posh Tots Events.

Will someone just shoot me now.

The paper quoted a children's tea party for 10 ranging from $600 to $1400.

Let that soak in for a second.

A mortgage payment for a toddler birthday party.

Chris in Oxford thought he had it bad with the locker room banter.

You could do this yourself, have so much fun doing it for your child, and save all that cash.

But I guess that isn't the point.

When you have more money than sense, these companies are more than happy to take it from you.

And you deserve to get taken to the cleaners for being such a pompous fucking ass.

When a Roach Just Isn't A Roach

Chris' post over at CDV got the ol' memories flowing today. His topic? The lovely Palmetto Bug.

Those of you who have not lived in the South would argue that a roach is a roach. No ma'am. Indeed the Palmetto Bug is SuperHero of RoachWorld. He is the Emperor of that which is the Insect Dark Side.

See, they are big. Like the size of your thumb big. And they fly. Fast.

Let me share a few of my favorite memories for your blogging pleasure.

The College Years
The first time I stepped on one in my dorm, this thing's exoskeleton held my weight, as in balancing on one foot weight, for a good three-count before it finally gave up the ghost. I swear I felt as if I had stepped on a mouse.

Or the time boyfriend-now-Hubbie sprayed roach-genocide-foam all over one in his apartment and the thing ran all around the living room like a giant white tennis ball. Under the couch back up again, blindly zig-zagging across the room until he pounded it to death into the carpet with globs of foam flying everywhere all the while the both of us screaming and hopping up and down. I believe the cover of his textbook was ultimately ruined.

Apartment Living
Or the time I could heard a scraping click-click noise. I triangulated until I determined it was coming from my bedroom window. The Palmetto bug was (thankfully) on the outside of the mini-blinds, using each individual piece as a ladder to climb it. I could see its little feet as it climbed "rung by rung".

Or the time I opened the medicine cabinet to get my contact lenses and one fucking jumped out at me like some kind of sadistic monster-in-the-box. I learned to pound on the mirror and listen for a few minutes before I opened the medicine cabinet in the mornings.

Our Condo
My favorite is the catch-and-release program we had going on at the condo we owned in ATL. These things make such a mess when you kill them that they will ruin your carpet or your paint job. So sweet, laid-back Hubbie would chase the thing down with a plastic cup, slide a CD-case underneath it, pick it up and throw it out the door. One of the proudest moments of my life came when our nice but preachy neighbor came to visit while I was preggo with LittleBird. We saw one, he caught it. He looked at me. I looked at him. We looked at my neighbor. He started shaking the giant bug in the cup and lunged at her. Her shrieks of Holy Sweet Jesus Save Me! as only an African-American Evangelical Christian can as he chased her around the living room nearly had me pissing myself.

The lessons I learned?

• It doesn't matter how clean you keep your house. If you live south of the gnat line (that would be Macon to you non-Southern folks) you just have to accept them as a part of life.
• My cats are lazy fuckers smarter than you think and give these things a wide berth.
• Most people have a story of waking up with one on their face, as Chris so eloquently blogs.
• Hubbie may try and charm you, but he is married to me and that means he has a wicked sense of humour when the mood suits him. God I love that man.
  

Between Residences

That is the best way I can describe it. I flew across country and am now staying at my parent's house with the kids. It was strange to leave our townhouse this morning. It doesn't really feel real that it will be a long time before we go back.

I have been wanting to post about the breakdown, death, and selling of our Jeep. Of my Jeep. I love that damn car. I have shed countless tears over the past few weeks because we had to sell it. I think it was a blessing that I didn't have to watch the new owner tow it off into the distance this afternoon. More on that later. I just can't go there right now.

So, I am without a home and without a car. Literally. Our place to rent is currently in limbo, and we have no transportation. Funnily enough, I am not really stressed out about either one. The having to buy a new car right now is shitty financially, but if the car died, it died. Eventually the housing situation will be nailed down, and I can live with my parents until it does. It's just kind of a funny situation to be in.

Nothing Like A Little Perspective

I thought you guys would get a kick out of this. Here is what we are dealing with right now. You can click on the photos to make them larger--it really helps you get the idea...

Hubbie took this photo of me from the balcony. See the cars behind me? I am actually a good 10-12 feet up in the air.
Now Hubbie is taking my picture from our downstairs patio. No, I did not actually yell I'm on top of the world, but I really wanted to.


Here is a close up--notice the roofline behind me? Yeah.


Just to give a little more perspective, here I am at the back fence. I am standing on a good 18 inches or so of snow.


A few days ago, the icicles in our window looked like this.



This afternoon, from the outside they looked like this.





So, if you think it is cold at your house, quit your bitching! LOL

And as crazy as it sounds, I am really going to miss this place.

And if you have two minutes and want to see some CRAZY icicles and snow, watch this. My last statement that gets cut off is "waist high".

Insurance Companies Are Morally Bankrupt

If you work for a medical insurance company, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves.

My bc pills are not working. I cannot take the generic. CANNOT take it, I have now been told. My insurance company will not cover the name brand with any decent copay. They want me to pay a $50 copay each time, plus the difference in the cost of the meds. Fuck that. You want to know why we have so many unwanted pregnancies in this fucking country? Because the drug companies and insurance companies make it impossible for women to afford their medication.

I wish this were as simple as preventing pregnancy. I am taking this for my endo. I hate hate hate all of you in the medical and insurance community today. Give me my socialized Swedish medical system any day of the week over this shit.

And if you have NOT lived in a socialized country and actually experienced socialized medicine firsthand, do NOT comment to me lauding the US system. You don't know what the fuck you are talking about.

Can I Start The Day Over?

Holy sweet mother of god.

My day thus far:

• Hubbie took my mom to the airport. She had no airplane.


• Hubbie drove back up the mountain in driving snow. Our Jeep broke down once he crested the summit and came into town.


• LittleBird didn't get to go to school because we only have the one car. She has been pounding the shit out of LittleMan all day. He's been pounding right back.


• LittleMan woke up from his nap early, waking ME up because I had tried to catch a little shuteye while they were passed out. What woke him up? The EARTHQUAKE that hit our side of the lake.

Those four horsemen will be sprinting past my window any moment now...

If Eating Bread Is A Sin, I Don't Want To Be Forgiven

The stupidity of the masses never ceases to amaze me. When it comes to food, all common sense goes out the window. Case in point:

Hubbie had a little holiday potluck at work yesterday. He gave me fair warning that we needed to contribute. One of his colleagues was bringing her famous spinach dip. One was bringing her famous blueberry bake. Since this was for lunch, and it seemed as if people were bringing lots of "snacky" stuff, I thought I would send sloppy joes. Easy to make, easy to eat. Win-win for everyone, right?

Apparently not.

I made a medium-sized batch, and I make this shit from scratch. Living overseas for years with no access to the canned crap teaches one to be innovative. And yes, I do sing Adam Sandler's "Sloppy Joes" song from SNL while I cook. But I digress.

Hubbie took our crockpot and two bags of hamburger buns to the office.

He came home with our crockpot and both bags of buns.

What the fuck?

The sloppy joe meat was mostly gone. But only a few buns had been taken out of the first bag. The second had never been opened. I looked at him, and he cut me off before my mouth could ask the question in my eyes.

Him: They didn't eat the buns because they don't eat bread. Something about watching their carbs.

Me: Are you fucking kidding me?

Him: No.

Me: But the sloppy joe mix is mostly gone...What did they do? Just put it on their plates?

Him: Yeah...they said they liked it. But they didn't want to eat the buns because of their diets or whatever.

Who the fuck just eats sloppy joe meat on a plate? I can see not eating a hamburger or a hot dog on a bun. That is a hunk of meat that can be cut up, or even held in ones hand.

Why not just stand at the damned crockpot with a spoon and eat it directly out of the pot?

And! And!! And!!!! Sorry, I need to take a breath here...

You are eating spinach dip and blueberry bake and god-knows-what-else, and you are going to tell me you are watching your CARB INTAKE!?!?!?!?!

Who the fuck thinks like that?

And they certainly had no problem eating the box of DOUGHNUTS I brought by the other week. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

I told Hubbie that is the last time I will go to the trouble of making something for those wackos in his office. There is no reasoning with that kind of logic. They can have their fucked up holiday diet. Give me bread and give me lots of it.