What can I say?

I am a TOTAL bad ass!

21

Find a Sonography school near you

Happy Day

It's Christmas. For years, every time the subject of this day has surfaced, I have met it with nausea and a rolling of the eyes. I have hated Christmas for as long as I can remember. Let me clarify, I hate what the day has become. I hate the frenetic shopping/wrapping/greed mongering that takes place in the name of this holiday. I hate the fact that some people feel this day gives them license to be assholes of a variety they wouldn't dare to be any other time of year. I am not a Christian. I do not believe in Christ. I am not at all certain that there is a God. I hate the assumption that everyone here IS a Christian and DOES believe in God, and therefore celebrates this holiday above and instead of all others. I hate the fake happiness and insipid posturing of plastic people. I hate the bull shit. In fact, if I hear one more jackass say "Jesus is the reason for the season," I may have to punch them in the throat. I'll forward my cellblock and inmate number so y'all can write me love letters while I'm in the Pen.
But now I have kids. And I love what this holiday gives me the opportunity to do for them. Because of this day, I can give them traditions, and memories and fun like I never experienced as a kid, and I can make them better people. I realize that I don't need a special day to make memories or create traditions for them, but there is something magical about this day that lends itself to the memory making. My eldest is just now 4, just now old enough to remember, just now old enough to get excited about things to come because of the way things were done before. The excitement and energy and sheer joy in his eyes and squeaky little voice have been a constant source of entertainment and inspiration for the last week. Like every little kid in America, the land of excess and ease, he has been beside himself in anticipation of what Santa might bring, vibrating with the hope that he might get Lego Star Wars: The Complete Saga for his Nintendo DS. But what has kept him up at night, what he has run through the house celebrating and anticipating and singing about, has been the arrival of his grandma, and his grandpa, and his aunt. His family. In celebrating this day, I have the opportunity to cement into the very fabric of his tiny little being that it is the people in life that matter. Not the gifts. Not the money. Not the bull shit. He seems to have gotten that message already, and I couldn't be happier or more proud. For him, and for his brother, I will celebrate this day and love every minute of it.


And for you, my friends, I will say thank you. I love and appreciate every, single one of you. Your presence and participation in my life enriches it in ways I cannot find words to express. No matter what this day means to you, I hope that it was spent in ways that make you happy. I hope the coming year brings you health, happiness, and success in ways you've never known. I love you bitches.

My House Hates Me.

I'm convinced that my house was built upon an anthill, and that my house thinks it's funny to let the little fuckers in when I least expect it just so it can watch me jump and scream and cavort like a complete tard while simultaneously trying to avoid and destroy the ants. I hate ants. I hate them more than any other living thing on the planet. They are disgusting. They stink. I am CONVINCED that one day I will wake up covered in them and will have to set myself on fire on that day. I hate them with the passion of a thousand burning suns. They are the only thing that has that much power over me. And yet, they are everywhere. Every-fucking-where in my house, and they come out of nowhere for seemingly no reason. The other night I was up late, working on a project prompt to torture my students with when I felt a tickle on my foot. I reached down, without looking, to scratch at my foot and felt the tickle move. Up. My. Leg. I freaked. I looked down and my carpet was ALIVE. There was a GIGANTIC trail of fucking ants from my dining room table, where I was working, to the closet door in my hallwa, where my sons have a little activity table. There were thousands upon thousands of ants all nasty and writhing on my floor, up the wall, and around the closet door. They were in my carpet, taunting me with their stink and disgustingness. For a half second (maybe a little more) I seriously considered setting my house on fire to kill them all. Common sense prevailed though and I opted for poisoning the hell out of the little fuckers. I emptied half a bottle of poison onto my carpet and some of them were STILL alive. I swear they are bionic and will take over the world one day. It took all night for the stuff I sprayed to dry. The next morning I vaccumed all the little carcasses up and did a little dance of victory on the mass grave I'd created before leaving for work.
When I got home from work, I really had to pee. So without really paying attention, I ran into the hall bathroom to do my bidness. When I reached for the toilet paper, I screamed like a 12 year old girl at a boy band concert. The vanity was COVERED in ants. COVERED! The entire counter top was alive. The mirror was black with ants. The wall looked as if it had veins. The sink was FULL. There were SO many ants I actually reached for the lighter and nail polish remover and seriously considered creating a molotov cocktail to set that mother ablaze. Again, common sense prevailed and I let out a string of obsenities to make a sailor blush and went for the other half of the poison I'd used the night before. I bathed the entire bathroom in that shit. I could not for the life of me figure out what they were after.Mr. Mature heard me screaming and came to see what was up. When he saw the ants he just smiled. When I asked him why he was happy he said "now they're not lonely." Huh? Lonely? "Yeah mama, when I was in here this morning, I saw an ant and he looked lonely. So I gave him a snack before we got in the car." WHAT? Snack? "Yep. I gave him some crackers from yesterday. I put them in my room because I didn't finish them and wanted to save them. I shared though, cuz I'm a good boy." And with that, and his little chest all puffed out with pride, my darling midget marched back into the living room to play with his borther, completely blind to the trauma he'd caused me. Yeah. So now, it's not just my house plotting against me. My kid has joined the party.

Maybe we haven't come so far.

The commercials this time of year either annoy me or piss me off entirely. On the annoying side you have the increase in shit peddled to little kids. Everything sings, dances, vibrates and/or has wheels so the little buggers can simultaneously deafen you and knock you on your ass by running it under your feet. Awesome. On the entirely piss me off and make me frothing-at-the-mouth-angry, you have This. When I first saw the commercial for this thing it annoyed me, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. It irritated me that the commercial kept playing in my head. But it wasn't the commercial itself that was bothering me. It's the idea of it. Why, in 2007, damn near 2008, are we still telling little girls that they should hope for nothing more than a fucking cottage kitchen with a cradle and all the other acoutrements of a domestic centered life? Is there no higher hope for our daughters than poppin' out kids and tending to a home? If I had a daughter, there's no way in hell that thing would make it into my house. There is NOTHING wrong with being a mother, a wife, a domestic person. There's nothing wrong with playing house, playing mommy, or playing wife. But I'll be damned if I teach any little girl that that's what she SHOULD be. And this 'toy' (I'm more inclined to think of it as a weapon.) does that. It's not marketed to boys. There are no boys in the print/net/tv ads for it. The whole thing is pink and purple and soft yellows-all the colors generally associated with femininity. Their description of the thing even points out that it is specifically for girls. "Rose Petal Cottage gives your little girl a house of her own to live in, take care of, and decorate" and "Playing “house” in the ROSE PETAL Cottage lets your little girl build her very own home – and her imagination – right in your living room!"
Hello, 1950 called and wants its gender roles back.
Why can't we teach our little girls that they can be doctors, or lawyers, or police officers, or professionals of any kind AND play house at the same time. Why isnt' there a briefcase included in that kitchen set? A microscope? How about a law book or a gavel? Why isn't there anything included in that kitchen set that teaches a little girl to imagine her potential beyond exercising her uterus? Why are we still propogating the uterus-as-clown car mentality? (I LOVE that phrase Michelle !)

Conversations with Mr. Mature

So, tonight I was in the kitchen making taquitos to take to Mr. Mature's karate Christmas party. He saunters into the kitchen and plops down in his chair at the kitchen table. We're chatting about games and his day at the babysitter's house when out of nowhere he gets very quiet and serious. This beauty of a conversation followed:
MM: "I don't want to lose my teeth, mama."
Me: "Lose your teeth? Your baby teeth?"
MM: "Yep. I don't want to lose my baby teeth."
Me: "Well, there's not a lot you can do about that honey. It's going to happen. It won't hurt though. It's a good thing. It means your growing up and becoming a big boy! That'll be cool, won't it?"
MM: "NO! I don't want to grow up. I LOVE being a kid mama! Being a grown up is NO fun."
Me: "Well, sometimes that's true. But being a grown up is fun sometimes and you get to do tons of fun stuff you can't do when you're a kid."
MM: "Nope. Nothing fun. You can't have my teeth. I won't let you make me grow up. I'm never getting bigger ever!"

And he ran out of the kitchen with his hands over his mouth! He cracks my shit up!

Random Announcements

Pinky and The Brain = Best cartoon EVER!

Smokin' Aces = Crappy movie and waste of 2 hours of my life I'll never get back.

I hate bigots. Sucks that I work with a gaggle of them.

4 year olds hopped up on sugar should be illegal.

My kids are cute.



That is all.

Odd

I did something odd the other day. I shaved my arms. Now they are hairless. It feels odd. I can't stop touching them, and I feel dirty because of it. They are just so soft and smooth and, well, hairless. They are fascinating! I highly recommend shaving your arms. Of course, I have no idea what the regrowth will look or feel like, since I've never done this before, but for now it is teh awesome! I am such a hairy beast, it's ridiculous. And don't tell me I'm not, those of you who've actually seen me in person. Because I am. You just can't tell because it's all blonde and very light brown. It took me 4 passes with the razor in each spot to get my arms all sexy smooth. 4 passes people! I bet there are sasquatch running around who wouldn't have to work that hard to get a clean shave!

There are some things

a father and daughter should just not discuss. Fecal sacks and breast feeding rank at the top of that list. Particularly in the same conversation.
My father observes no such boundaries or rules of decorum. Whatever pops into his fetid little head comes right out of his mouth. He called to say Happy Thanksgiving this morning, and instead read to me from his medical reports detailing all of his newest, shiniest ailments. Included in the litany of diabolical afflictions which he imagines will eventually kill him, was acute pressure on the fecal sack secondary to a slipped disk in his back, at which point he informed me "I can't stand up straight, and Ifeel like I have to shit all the time." Nice. From his pressurized ass, he ventured to my breasts and whether or not I still nurse my infant son. Ten minutes later, after hearing all about what a saint my mother was for nursing all five of us, even after we had teeth, I answered that I was, indeed, still nursing Count Latchula. For this, I received the verbal equivalent of a good game ass slap. "Ah, good girl. You know that's what they're there for. And they look nice too. Hehe. Hehe. Hehe." Good. God. Kill me now. I can't believe I share the man's DNA. I live for the day my mother tells me she had an affair and I'm her love child.

Happy Thanksgiving hookers! May you have poop-free dinner conversations!

New Decade, New Perspective

For as long as I can remember, 30 has been the magic number, the number I've feared and anticipated since I was a child. It has always been the number of adulthood, the magic number at which I would become old. I remember being a kid and thinking that anyone in their 30's was close to death and must be so scared to be almost done living. I was a dumb kid. While I've grown and come to realize just how far from death 30 is, on some level, that thinking stuck with me. I began to see 30 as the death of my youth, the beginning of a period in my life where it would be unacceptable to be child-like at all. I relish acting like a child! My inner twelve year old boy needs air time at least once a day! The thought of having to be grown up all the time was depressing. All last year, I was displeased about my impending change of decade. I, at various times, wanted to skip the day entirely and pass quietly into a new decade without ceremony or notice. Thinking that, if I paid it no attention, the adultness of the number wouldn't apply to me. The closer the day came, the more upset I got. And then my friends stepped in. Most of my friends are older than me. All of them are successful, independent, amazing women. They all told me how ridiculous I was being, that 30 was way better than 20, and a whole host of other things that were wise and sensical. So I entered the day pensively. I examined my every feeling and twinge, every creak of my spine and crack of my joints, and realized they're the same damn twinges, creaks, and cracks I've had since I was 16. I walked through the day owning my adultness, and enjoying the fact that I can still act like a complete retard, and exercise that inner twelve year old boy, without losing and adult-cred. The surprising thing about turning 30 has been the validation I feel. I feel like I've earned my place in the adult world, and it's not such a bad thing. During my 20's, I felt like an imposter, like a little kid playing at being an adult in an adult world. And although it wasn't a conscious thing, I believe that underlying feeling of 'faking it' kept me from doing things I need and want to do, like pursuing an advanced degree and taking on certain posts at work. But now that I'm 30, I'm a real adult. I've earned the right to be where I am. I belong in the adult world. And I like it. Thank you bitches.

It's been 3 years

and I finally feel ok. There have been days where I felt as if I couldn't make it through the daylight hours because the sadness was so intense, the anger all consuming, and the brightness of the sun was an insult to my pain, assaulting me with it's light and warmth. But they have lessened in numbered and intensity. Time hasn't made it any better. It's just made it different. I've finally come to a point where I've accepted that he's not coming back. He won't need his art supplies, his back pack, or a ride anymore. It's ok to give them to someone else. He won't call in the middle of the night and leave ridiculous messages, or silly songs on my voicemail anymore. It's ok to stop looking for the messages. He's gone, and I'm ok.

For a while, after he died, I saw a therapist. She was a complete joke, but in talking to her, I realized something, or rather, I acknowledged something. My brother's death forced to the fore-front my life-long struggle with my lack of faith. It just isn't there. I have never really believed in a god. Ever. I have tried. I have pretended. I have agonized over it. It's. Just. Not. There. I see the world in a scientific way. Things live. Things die. Everything serves a purpose, supports something else, and then goes away to make room for the next cycle, the next species, the next phase of evolution. My brother died. There isn't room on the planet for everyone to stay forever. It was his turn to go. It's ok. For a long time, I felt guilty for feeling that way. And now I don't. The retarded therapist said that I needed to accept my loss, to make peace with his death. I don't. I accept that he's never coming back. I acknowledge that he's gone. There's no peace to be made with those things. They are facts, indisputable facts. I am not at war with his death. I was at war with myself, with my misguided notions of what grief should be, and what the 'appropriate' way to mourn his death was. I was angry with myself for not being able to just accept that there is a god so that I'd have a place to direct my anger, something to blame for my rage at his death, frustrated with my 'stubbornness'. But that war is over. I have finally come to the realization that I am accountable to no one for my grief, my opinions, my loss. They are mine to deal with as I choose. Am I angry that my brother died? Hell yes, and never moreso than when I see some shitbag masquerading as human stumbling around taking up space and using up oxygen, doing nothing to better this world. But I'm ok. My brother died to make room for someone, something, else, better, more, new. While he was here, he used his time. The world is a better place for having had him in it. I am a better person for having known and loved him. And even though he's gone, I'm ok.

As if I'll ever grow up!

My friend MichelleL tagged me with the task of explaining to you what I would like to be when I grow up because I'm a lazy ass blogger with little inspiration. She's stepped in to save y'all from another bitch and moan session from moi. However, she's assuming that I actually want to grow up, which is debatable! But here ya go.

'Write five things you want to be when you grow up. Big dreams that seem like folly, but in your heart of hearts are very real and dear to you. Things that maybe you have forgotten about in the ebb and flow and toil of the everyday, but that never really leave your soul. What you would do if anything was possible?'


1. A doctor. From the time I was able to talk, until I was in 7th grade, a doctor is all I ever wanted to be. I am fascinated by the inner workings of the human body. Blood and gore do not disgust me or even make me queasy. They intrigue me. I love science and everything related to it. Had I not met Mr. Tenbrook in 7th grade Algebra, I'd have pursued a career in medicine. At that time, he informed me that I was too stupid to be a doctor and that if I tried, I'd end up killing someone. If anything were possible, I'd go back to 7th grade and tell Mr. Tenbrook to go fuck himself, and told mini-me to ignore him.

2. A professor. I love teaching. I am a teacher. But there is an allure associated with teaching at the college level that does not exist for the high school teacher. Teaching adults, students who want to be in class and can participate in intelligent discussions is a tantilizing prospect. If I had the money and the time, I'd pursue a master's/doctorate so that I could teach at the college level. I wouldn't want to teach Spanish though. I'd like to teach linguistics or Englich language acquisition classes. As soon as I win the lottery I never play, I'll be making this happen.

3. A chef. I. Love. Food. I love cooking it, and I love eating (most) of it. The things people do with food fascinate me almost as much as medicine does. If I could, I'd go to a culinary academy and learn how to create the artistic masterpieces I see them create on the cooking shows on TV, and put Rachel Ray out of business. I'm tired of seeing her manhands.

4.A CSI. And not because of the show-which isn't all that close to reality anyway. Again, I have a love affair with science. The information gathered and processed by CSI/Forensics team and lab are tantamount to magical in my book. I'd LOVE to nail creeps with their own DNA for a living.

5. An author. For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to write a book. I just can't decide what about. There are just too many idiotic and freakish events and stories in my life to choose from, and then there's the shit I make up in my head. I've actually started two books, but haven't finished either one, not even close. I get started and then get distracted. So, on the same day that I win the lottery I never play and become a graduate student, I'll sit down and finish a book or two.


Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand, that's it. All the people I know on here who would do this, have already been tagged, save one. So I tag Amy Lane and any other passersby who feel the need to share.

I'm tired.

I'm tired of irresponsible people. I'm tired of hyper-sensitive people. I'm tired of ghetto-ass ignorant people. I'm tired of people who don't know what they think, but like to argue. I'm tired of people who have nothing better to do than meddle. I'm tired of fragile egos. I'm tired of people who want to be something they're not. I'm tired of jealous people. I'm tired of bitter, angry people, who've no right to be neither bitter, nor angry. I'm tired of the people who have let themselves fall so far down the rabbit hole, they couldn't claw their way out if they wanted to, and I'm tired of them trying to drag me down with them. I'm tired of the emotional retards I seem to be surrounded by. I'm tired of the walls I've built up and can't seem to knock down. I'm tired of working in the ghetto. I'm tired of lazy speech and limited vocabularies. I'm tired of the foolishness that passes for appropriate behaviour anymore. I'm tired of seeing asses hanging out of pants and boys who waddle instead of walk to keep said pants off the ground. I'm tired of people who refuse to let their kids grow up. I'm tired of people who refuse to accept responsibility for the choices they've made in this life. I'm tired of people who cannot handle confrontation. I'm tired of not being enough. I'm tired of allowing other people to 'make' me feel anything. I'm tired of taking shit and owning other people's misery. I'm tired of being sad. I'm tired of being strong. I'm tired of being it. I'm tired of being stuck. I'm just tired. I think I need a nap.

Freakish dreams

When I dream, I dream so intensely, vividly, and in detail, that I wake up tired from the dreaming. But with an infant in the house, and in my bed most of the night, it's rare that I sleep well anymore, let alone well enough to dream. Last night, however, I managed to sleep deep enough to have a freakish dream that I cannot thoroughly explain. There are a few things that are obvious representations of things going on in my real life, and a few that I just don't get. The telling of it may involve a little TMI, just sos ya know.
Here's the dream:
I finished pumping and was cleaning myself up, putting things away and getting my bra back on.(I am breastfeeding/pumping milk for the aforementioned infant in real life.) I went to put the pads back in my bra, only they weren't pads. They were square chocolate muffins. And they were HUGE. So I'm sitting here, on my couch, shoving chocolate muffins into my bra, snapping the bra closed, all like this is completely normal. When I pull my shirt down over my bra, I have square boobs, which I walk to the mirror to check out. Instead of being horrified, I smooth my shirt down over them, stick my chest out, and the start smooshing the corners of the muffins with my fingers, trying to round them out. Having successfully rounded my corners out, I brush the crumbs off my shirt, look down and see the crumbs on the floor around my feet, and proceed to pick them up and put them BACK IN MY BRA.
This whole scene repeated itself 3 times before I woke up.

So, I ask you, wtf is wrong with me that on the one occasion in the last 10 months that I've gotten decent sleep, my brain decides to give me chocolate square boobs? Anyone? Anyone? Yeah, I don't get it either.

Sometimes I suck at life

and parenting in particular. Mr. Mature has six, count 'em 6, cavities. I have brushed his teeth and taken him to the dentist since he was an infant. He has always gone with me when I've had to go to the dentist. He loves it there. He loves brushing his teeth, and I've never had to fight him to do it. So imagine my horror when, today, the dentist informed me that my kid had so many cavities, and one so bad that it requires a root canal and a fucking crown, that she didn't feel she could treat him in the office. Instead, she feels he needs to have all his dental work done at once. In the hospital. Under sedation. Yeah. She wants to put my kid to sleep to fix his rotting teeth. And all for the low, low price of $3k.
I feel like an utter failure. He's only 4. I don't understand how this happened. Well, that's not entirely true. I know how it happened. He has my horrid teeth. They are very close together and difficult to clean in the back. Any guesses where the cavities are? Yep, you guessed it, in between his teeth and in the back. Which is exactly where all of my issues have always been with my teeth. My parents didn't take me to the dentist when I was a kid, except for when I broke my front teeth out while being an idiot. The result? I had completely rotten molars and an abcess when I finally went to the dentist at 13. I had to have four root canals, two crowns, and what seemed like a hundred fillings. I lived in the dentist's office for months and probably paid for his vacation home in the Bahamas AND his kid's college tuition with the work he put into my mouth. As he was repairing my teeth, the dentist lamented not only the condition of my teeth, but their make-up as well. My teeth suck. They are too close together in the back and the enamel is weak. He called them 'pithy' because they are soft and porous. And this festering cesspool of a dental nightmare is what I passed on to my son. Awesome.

A post for future explanation

Why, WHY do people I can't stand feel they are entitled to a 'drop-in' visit? Mr. Mature's birthday party is tomorrow. If you can't make it, so be it. That doesn't entitle you to suck up all of my Saturday with your inane drivel and passive aggressive shittiness. For the record, I hate you as much as you hate me. Since you've stopped pretending, so will I. I don't want you in my house! The only reason I'll open the door is because that little boy still thinks you are a nice person. Some day, when cheap toys and Wal-mart outfits lose their mystique, he'll see you for the fucked up mess you are. I. Can't. Wait.

A little late, but as promised

The health update.
I'm about to turn 30 and my body is falling apart, or threatening to. It's highly annoying. It seems as though this summer was spent either in a doctor's office, an lab, or travelling to one or the other. I have been having trouble iwth my right ear. I used to have very accute hearing. Even with my back turned, I could hear my students' whispers from across the room and repeat what they had said. Now I just hear the hushed buzzing of secrets, but not the actual words. And there is a constant pressure in that ear, like someone is sticking their finger in it and pushing hard. Sometimes it hurts, mostly it just pisses me off and distracts me. It annoys me and concerns me. So I went to the doctor. She threw lots of scary words and referral slips at me and sent me on my way. I had to have an MRI and then go see an ENT. The end result, nothing. The MRI showed nothing that shouldn't have been there. Good news is, I do, in fact, have a brain. The ENT did some hearing tests, a physical exam and then shrugged his shoulders. He said something like "yep, you've lost some hearing on the right side. It's definitely not as good as the left. But there's nothing physical causing it. That's just weird. I don't really know what to tell you other than come back in a year so we can monitor your hearing loss." Gee. Thanks. So, here I sit with my retarded ear. Now my jaw is starting to hurt on that side, so I'm thinking maybe TMJ (which the ENT did mention but said he was pretty sure I didn't have it.) So I may go back to the doctor and ask her about that. We'll see. I'm a little sick of seeing her face, as I'm sure she is of seeing mine.
While I was there for the ear thing, I mentioned my stomach issues. I have a very grumpy tummy. It hates me, in fact. It hurts at least daily, usually more than once a day. It feels like the right side of my abdomin is trying to claw its way out of my body with a teaspoon and fire. I also have issues with food. When I eat, I usually have a five to 20 minute window before I'm going to have to run for a bathroom, depending on what I've eaten. I've suspected for a while that my gall bladder was unhappy. So, upon giving her this little nugget of information, she scrunched up her face at me and tossed some more scary referral slips at me and sent me to have an abdominal ultrasound and referred me to a gastroenterologist. The ultasound showed I have small gall stones, but that's allegedlly normal given my age and the fact that I've had two midgets. Apparently exercising your uterus can cause gall stones. I still haven't figured out how that works, but whatever. The gastro was a very nice man who can't tell time. I sat and waited in his lobby for the better part of an hour, trying to entertain 2 kids because he (or his underlings) had forgotten about my appointment. Nice. The short of it is that he believes I will have to have my gallbladder removed at some point, but before he hacks up my tumtum, he wants to be sure there isn't something else to blame, since the stones are so small. So I get to have a scope shoved down my throat and more scanning and poking and prodding done of my innards in the coming weeks. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Whatever. I just want this feeling to stop. It sucks recycled ass.
So, there ya go, the health update I promised. Lovely, wasn't it? :)

Good to know.

$4925.00The Cadaver Calculator - Find out how much your body is worth. From Mingle2 - Free Online Dating

Mingle² - Free Online Dating

Wow. I suck at this blogging stuff.

It's been two freaking months since I blogged! I officially suck at this. It isn't that we haven't been doing anything. We've done lots and there's lots to report on. I just suck at the reporting part. There's medical stuff, a wedding, and a vacation to discuss, plus pictures! I'll do all that later. (See how I continue to suck!)
But for now, I'm here to tattle on myself.
I did something the other night that I haven't done in 17 years.
I ate red meat.
I quit eating it when I was 12 because I didn't really care for the taste and it was a way to annoy my parents.I was a vegetarian for a loooooooong time (12 years or so) and a vegan for about 4 of those. I started eating chicken because I wasn't getting enough protein and my kidneys were freaking out.
Lately, I've been super frustrated with my diet because it's so limited. I can't eat any dairy products or eggs because I'm nursing the baby and we're trying to prevent him from developing food allergies like Victor has by not exposing him to the allergens (milk and eggs). It has seemed like the only things I can eat on any given menu when we're out to dinner are deep fried and horrible for me. I don't really care for deep fried foods to begin with (there are a few exceptions like really good fried chicken but on the whole-yech!) And it started me thinking. Red meat cannot be as bad for me as all the fried crap. I made the decision to not eat meat when I was a kid. My tastes have changed in other areas, so I wondered if they had in this one too. So I ate a little shredded beef I had made for John and Victor. It was weird, but it was kinda good. Not something I'd want to eat every day, but not something I'll refuse again. The weird thing is that I feel a little guilty about it. Like I did something wrong. How stupid is that? I know. I'm a freak.

Taggety Tag, Tag, Tag

Amy Lane tagged me this mornin'. I am to tell you 8 random facts about myself and then tag others to do the same. I don't believe there are enough people who read my drivel to tag, so if you happen upon this and feel so inclined, consider yourself tagged by moi.
1. I'm bendy. Even when I'm fat, I can put my hands flat on the ground and put my feet on top of them.
2. I wanted to be a doctor when I was a kid. It's the only thing I ever really thought about being until second semester of my 7th grade year. Mr. Tenbrook changed all that by telling me I was too stupid to be a doctor and if I did, I'd end up killing someone. No medical career for me.
3. I have a head full of useless and random knowledge and sometimes it seeps out of my mouth before I even know that I know it. It happens in my classes all the time. For example: Flamingoes are pink because of the iodine in the shrimp they eat.
4. I am the go to girl for all things inappropriate at work. If a kid has a question that should not be asked, they will ask me. Gynecological advice? Ask Ms. C. Parent issues? Ask Ms. C. Birth control? Ask Ms. C. Bodily functions not functioning? Ask Ms. C. It is bizarre.
5. I am right handed but there are some things I cannot do with my right hand.
6. I love to cook but don't enjoy eating most of the things I cook. You'd think this would be an excellent weightloss plan, since I'm the only cook in the house, but no. Oreos are not cooked by me and thusly, are delicious.
7. I haven't eaten any red meat or pork for 17 years. I was a vegetarian for 11 or so years, but my kidneys revolted and now I eat chicken and turkey.
8. I am afraid of ants. Not much else scares me or freaks me out, but ants will send me running and screaming like a tard as soon as I see them. I hate them and wish I could obliterate them.
So there you go. A little bit of an insight into the freak that is me.

It's been far too long

So it's been a while since I've posted anything. Spring break ended and I went back to work and got sucked back into the miasma that is a teacher's life. No time for social stuff. So anyway, here's a brief rundown of what's gone on since my last post:
-Our house got egged on Easter night. We caught the little fucker. I say we, but I mean my husband, who, due to his detainment of said fucker, has earned himself the name Mr. Ninja amongst my friends. He chased the kid down, screaming "your mine motherfucker!" and pinned him down using his super secret agent ninja skills to detain him until the police arrived. Fun!
-I cut and colored my hair. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Lady in Red once again has red in her hair.
-We attended a Shabbat dinner at a Hassidic Rabbi's house. I met his wife in my OB's office while I was pregnant. She saw my Hebrew tattoo and followed me out. That was in September or October and she's been inviting us over since then. Until recently, we always had something else going on. When she called in April, we were free, so we went. It was awesome. There was a lot of singing and praying, which are usually not my thing, but it was beautiful. The food was really good and the company was really nice. It was nice to get a glimpse of my heritage. It kind of made me sad in a way, too. I feel like I missed out on a whole life, a whole culture I could have known if I hadn't had defective relatives. Eh. Whatever. I'm just glad we got to go.
-The little fucker from above, the one who egged our house, we're pretty sure he and his little fucktard friends slashed Mr. Ninja's tires two weeks ago. We can't prove it, but we KNOW it was them. Asshats.
-Work has been tumultuous at best. We are finally done with testing, and now onto the downhill slide toward the end of the year. I have enjoyed the kids I've had this year. They are overall the kindest, most respectful, well behaved bunch of kids I've had the pleasure of teaching, but I'm so done with them. They can move on to someone else now. Please.
-The midgets are growing exponentially. Oscar had a visit to a cardiologist to rule out any heart conditions and deformities. He is perfectly healthy. Thank Pete.
I do believe that's it folks. If I think of anything else, I'll add it later.
I hope y'all have a great Mother's Day.

Already bought my ticket...

Your Deadly Sins

Envy: 60% Gluttony: 40% Lust: 40% Sloth: 40% Greed: 20% Pride: 20% Wrath: 20% Chance You'll Go to Hell: 34% You will die at the hands of a jealous lover. How ironic.

How Sinful Are You?

So gross

So, I went to get a pedicure earlier today, because I'm a princess and I can, and as soon as I walked in the door of the place, this girl starts asking me if I want my eyebrows, lip and legs waxed, if I want fake nails or maybe a manicure. I politely tell her "no, I just want a pedicure, thank you." So she points to the row of pedicure chairs and tells me to sit wherever. A few minutes later, I'm sitting in the fun chair and a different lady is rubbing salt stuff on my legs and massaging my calves (which feels so yummy) and the girl who had accosted me with the list of available services when I walked in sits down next to her. She hoists her leg up on one of the chairs and starts picking at her toes. Yuck. But then her pant leg fell back (she had her leg way up there) and I almost screeched. Her legs were HAIRY! I mean, not just a little stubble. I mean full on, haven't been shaved or waxed in years, you could braid it and make rope with it, hairy. So I sat there for the rest of the pedicure, creeped out, thinking, if you're in this business, wouldn't you use the services you are selling? Wouldn't that make sense? I mean, what the hell would make me let you put hot wax on my legs and rip it off if you aren't even willing to do it yourself? I don't think I'll go back. I'll find somewhere else to be a princess, thank you very much.

I may need a face transplant.

I DO NOT look like Tara Reid. I DO NOT! I hate that tramp.






This one is marginally better. At least I got Buffy!



..>



..>

http://www.myheritage.com

Teacher of the year

Yeah, that's me. I just spent a good 10 minutes of my class explaining the linguistic differences between the words force and fart to one of my students. He was adamant that 'force' was the word used to describe a fart. Fist shakingly secure in his belief that he was right, he announced it to the class. The kids were cracking up. I almost died. I was laughing so hard, I was almost crying. It's a good thing this kid has a good sense of humor. He even went on to make up a little song for himself so that he could remember the difference between the two words. I couldn't make out all his lyrics, but there was mention of a bathroom, so maybe I'm glad I missed them.
This is, however, the same kid that told me an amphibian is a girl who likes to kiss other girls, so I'm not sure I should have been surprised by today's conversation.
Most days I really like my job, but some days, I love it.

Snackage and Random Musings

I'm gonna whine a little.
I'm on a restricted diet. It sucks. I have been since the beginning of the 7th month of my pregnancy. My eldest son has pretty severe food allergies, and because of this, the doctors suggested I restrict my diet during pregnancy and while nursing to try to prevent Oscar from developing them, or lessen their severity should they develop. It still sucks. I can't eat anything with milk or eggs in it. No real bread, no milk chocolate, no ice cream, no cheese or yogurt. I can't even eat scrambled eggs for breakfast or have belgian waffles. Pfft. It isn't as bad as it was with Victor. I can at least eat a little bit of a variety because in the last 3 years, I've assembled a nice little list of allergen free foods and alternatives, but they just aren't the same. No matter what the label says, a vegan waffle just does not taste the same as a regular one. It just doesn't, but with enough syrup, they are palatable, and they do satisfy my carb cravings.
While I was in Target the other day, spending more money I don't have on a secret pal I've never met, I stumbled across a treasure trove of snackage that made my heart skip a beat. Chocolate. Honest to Goddess real chocolate that has no milk in it! It's semi-dark and has fruit and nuts in it and I am in HEAVEN! I haven't had real chocolate in 6 months. 6 months people. Do you know how homicidal I was about to become? Extremely. It's bliss. And it has poetry in the wrapper, which I consider to be a bonus. I was good and only bought two bars. The first had cherries and almonds in it. It was gloriously delicious. I stretched that puppy out over 3 days. The one I busted into today has freeze dried raspberries in it. It is also delicious. I like just looking at it too. The brilliant redish fuscia color of the dried raspberries against the dark, dark brown of the chocolate is beautiful. It really is, and not just because it tastes good!
Speaking of my homicidal tendencies, what the fluck is the deal with soccer moms? I'm not talking about every mother of every child who has ever played soccer. I'm talking about the 'soccer moms'. You know, the perfect little bitches with one child who is involved in every conceivable activity, who drives an SUV because she can, even though she only has one kid to cart around, and feels the need to inform everyone she meets that she owns every gadget known to man and so does her kid. I don't get it. It's just stuff lady. Now I'll explain my random rant. There's a new kid in V's karate class (which could lead to a whole other rant all by itself, but I'll save that for another day.) He has been there twice. Both times, he's been a total spaz, which is ok because he's young and new and still learning the ropes. His mother is a nice enough lady. The first day he was in class, she sat right next to me and about in my lap and talked the whole time about how our two boys were just too cute and needed to be friends. She went on and on about how we should do play dates and how they'd love it and yada, yada, yada. I'm cool with that. V needs friends his own age who live around here. But class ends that day and they leave without saying a word. Sweet. Whatever. So we're talking after class yesterday, and she brings up the playdate thing again, only this time, she goes off about all of the things her son has that mine could play with. He's got a car that drives and a motorcylce too, and all the Star Wars movies, and...............for five minutes while I sat there staring at her. My social retardation came into play here, because I totally didn't know what to say to her. Your kids a spoiled brat? Why don't we just go to the park? My kid has toys too? So I pussed out and just said we could talk about a playdate next week, scooped up my midgets and tore ass to the car before she could talk anymore. Maybe it's just where I live, but this happens all the time. This is the reason I don't associate with any other moms around here. They are ALL like this. Or at least, they appear to be. I don't get it. Is it me? Has my retardation reached such a level that I've just completely lost the ability to behave appropriately in social situations? Or are they really the status hungry money-mongers I think they are?
Moving on, I ordered something for my secret pal and it was supposed to be here yesterday. I procrastinate, so of course I ordered it late and then paid an exorbitant shipping charge for 1 day Air. It didn't show up when it was supposed to. I need to mail her package off tonight so that she will get it before April 1st. Yes, I've waited THAT long. If there is not a package on my doorstep before the post office closes tonight, I'm gonna hurt me a UPS guy.
I am so ready for spring break, it isn't even funny anymore.
And on that note, I'm off to do some more dishes before yoga.
Later peeps.

Gratitude with Grace

A friend of mine posted this on myspace saying that this is how she likes to view the world. It struck me that I agreed, and yet I have difficulty with parts of it.
Here is what she posted.

The Law of Giving (adapted from Deepak Chopra)
1. Wherever I go, and whoever I encounter, I will bring them a gift. The gift may be a compliment, a flower, or a prayer. Today, I will give something to everyone I come into contact with, and so I will begin the process of circulating joy, wealth and affluence in my life and in the lives of others.
2. Today I will gratefully receive all the gifts that life has to offer me. I will receive the gifts of nature: sunlight and the sound of birds singing, or spring showers. I will also be open to receiving from others, whether it be in the form of a material gift, smile, or a compliment.
3. I will make a commitment to keep wealth circulating in my life by giving and receiving life's most precious gifts: the gifts of caring, affection, appreciation, and love. Each time I meet someone, I will silently wish them happiness, joy, and laughter.

I do this, to a degree. I am the consumate gift giver. I am always giving someone something, a compliment, a smile, encouragement, a pencil, advice, an actual gift, whatever. I like to give things to the people around me.
What I don't do is receive. It isn't that the 'gifts' aren't offered. It's that I don't know how to take them. I cannot take a compliment. I don't know what to do with them. It has been pointed out to me before that I am more comfortable taking criticism than compliments. This is true. I know what to do with criticism. I evaluate it, and either dismiss it or act on it to make improvements or corrections. But with compliments, I can't do that. It's almost as though I don't feel worthy of them. They make me extremely uncomfortable. It isn't that my self esteem is so low that I think there is nothing in or of me to compliment. I know that there are things I do well and good parts of me. I just rarely feel that compliments are sincere. I guess it's more of an issue of trust. I don't trust many people, and as such, I don't trust that what they are telling me is true or well-intentioned. I usually feel as if there is an ulterior motive. Yes, I'm a jaded little bastard. My inability to simply trust that a compliment is nothing more than a compliment causes problems. Some people take it as arrogance or aloofness on my part, when really it's just my emotional and social retardation rearing its ugly little head. It's just one more thing I need to work on.
Oddly enough, having children has helped lessen my retardation just a touch. When I first had Victor, three years ago, people would tell me how adorable he was and I would just smile and stare, not sure how to respond, and afraid that agreeing with them might encourage them to try to keep talking to me. So retarded. I'm sure that all the little grandma types who ran into me that first year and gushed about my baby thought I was the consumate a-hole for the way I responded to their compliments. But over time, it's become easier to just say thank you when someone compliments my child (or children.) Maybe that's what I need to do when someone compliments me, just say thanks and move on instead of sitting there, red faced and mute, internally analyzing all of the possible motivations for the compliment. Yeah, that would be the sane thing for me to do. We'll see if it actually happens.
I want some continuity in my life. I want some peace. I think that the only way for those things to happen is for me to get over this issue I have, heal up some of the more jaded parts of my soul, and learn to receive the things I most like to give from the people in my life who are trying to give them to me, despite my best efforts to thwart them.

Sweet, sweet pain

How I've missed thee. I started back to yoga class tonight. It was blissfully painful. I haven't been since around this time last year, shortly before finding out I was pregnant with Os. I have missed it. It centers me in a way that not many other things do. I feel so much more calm and in control when I have my weekly dose of self inflicted torturous stretching and introspection.

Bittousy

I have issues. The people that know and love me, love me in spite of them. I am having an issue and I don't know how to deal with it.
We threw a baby shower lunch thing for a co-worker of mine today. She's a nice enough lady, having her third child, a girl. She wasn't looking to get pregnant. Things happen though, and she's happy about it. I'm happy for her, mostly.
She's having a girl and I find myself feeling bitter and jealous, bittous.
Oscar was supposed to be a girl. Throughout my entire pregnancy, I swore that all I wanted was a healthy baby, that I didn't care if it was a boy or girl, just healthy. To a degree, that was true. But something in me came alive during the ultrasound when the perinatologist told me we were having a girl. I want a daughter. I have always wanted a daughter. I love my sons more than I love life itself, but I feel incomplete. When Oscar was born and they told me he was a boy, and not the daughter I had planned for, I wanted to cry. I don't know if I can explain this very well. It makes perfect sense in my head, but, like a lot of things in my head, may not translate well into intelligble language. I felt as if I'd gained and lost someone at the same time. From the moment the dr. told me it was a girl, she had a name. I said her name outloud and she became real. She became my daughter, a real, living, thriving human being. I spoke to her. I sang to her. I made plans for her. I knew her. I didn't know him. I felt as if I'd lost her, almost as if she'd died. And I felt like I had been handed a baby I didn't know. There was an instant disconnect-not from my son, but from the situation. I have bonded with my son, but I still have not been able to take apart the nursery we prepared for her so that we can make it boy-friendly.
I find myself feeling bittous toward complete strangers who happen to wander by me with their baby girls. I just had a baby. I should be happy. Everything went really well, and he is the picture of health. He is a great baby and relatively easy. I don't resent him, or blame him for having a penis. But I want her. I want them both.
This whole thing is stupid. I need to get over it and just accept that I don't have a daughter and that I may never have her. But I haven't been able to. My brain just won't let it go.
For the longest time I felt like the worst mother in the world because I was sad. I couldn't just be happy that I had a healthy baby boy. My joy and happiness in his arrival and existence was, and is, tempered by the sadness of not having her. I think that makes me crazy. I don't want my son to grow up thinking that I didn't want him or that he wasn't enough for me. I do want him. He is enough for me in that he is my son, and I love him for who he is and will love him for whatever he becomes.
But there is that empty place inside me waiting for her. I don't know what I'll do with it if she never comes.

Best. Question. Ever.

So, I'm giving a spelling test in my ELD writing class test today.These kids speak some English, but not much. They are amassingvocabulary rapidly though. One of the words on the test today was freedom.They have had and worked with these words all week. I ASSumed that theyknew what they all meant based on the work we had done with themearlier in the week. Back to the test. The test is oral. I sayit,they write it out on their papers. I say the word freedom forthem. I repeat it and enunciate clearly, even breaking the word down intosyllables. One of my brightest and most advanced students raiseshis hand and says "Maestra, why we free the dumb? Aren't they likeidiots or something? How you free dumb people? Where they go?" Myresponse? "Huh? What dumb people? OH! Free-dumb! No honey,freeDOM, not free-dumb like idiots. There's no helping those." The classwas rolling, and so was I. Seriously, the best question ever asked in my class!

A little self loathing never hurt anyone

I kind of hate myself right now. It'll pass. It usually does, but this time is more intense. I lost it yesterday. It could have been worse, much worse, but I still feel like total shit. I'm not sure how to make it better, or if I can.
I had a craptastic afternoon yesterday. After teaching my classes, I had to attend a 2 hour meeting in which I (along with my fellow teachers) was told that I am not good enough. Not only am I not good enough, but that, unbeknownst to me, I am a racist and that by simply showing up to work, I violate the civil rights of every student I come into contact with who is not white. My skin tone is apparently more indicative of my personality, biases, assumptions, values and beliefs than are my practices and the opinion my students hold of me. What. The. Fuck. Ever.
So I leave the meeting, glad to be done, missing my boys and excited to go pick them up and head home for some quality mom time. Yeah. Not so much. I get there and the babysitter looks like she's had her ass kicked three ways from Sunday. I guess all four boys tag teamed her. Vic cried and had a melt down every time something he didn't like happened, refused to take a nap and screamed at the top of his lungs when she put him down for one. Naps are not optional at this point. Os wasn't feeling well because he got his first round of vaccinations on Tuesday. Diarrhea, crankiness, lots of the crying for no reason. The other two boys she watches are still in boot camp-still learning the ropes of the place so they act up all the time because they don't know any better yet. So fun!
I walk in and Vic immediately starts acting up-ignoring me, ignoring the babysitter, pushing his little friend, just being an ass. So I tell him to knock it off and get ready to go. He needs his shoes, back pack, yada, yada. He walks off. I tell him we're leaving and he starts screaming at the top of his lungs, seriously, like he's being beaten. He doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to pick up the toys he threw all over. Whatever. He goes into total meltdown mode. Time out doesn't help. He just screams louder. Swat on the pants doesn't help. He just gets pissed and gets louder. So I drag his ass out to the car and tell him he can't get in until he's quiet because I can't drive with him screaming like that. Takes a few, but he finally calms down. I get Os into the car, load Vic, get in myself and head down the road. Vic starts screaming again. He wants his music. No. Ya don't get to dictate what we do or what we listen to in the car if you get in trouble at the babysitters. All privileges go away. He knows this. Meltdown x10. I have never heard my child scream like he did yesterday afternoon. Never. He was out of his ever loving mind. So I pull the car over on the side of the road, screeching tires in the dirt and asphalt and everything. I get out, march over to his side of the car, open the door and lean in to talk to him. He screams louder into my face and won't stop. He just won't stop. I'm yelling and I can't hear myself over his screams. He was that far out of control.
I slapped him.
I didn't hit him hard, just enough to get his attention and get him to stop screaming long enough to breathe.
But I slapped him.
I slapped my baby in the face.
I didn't know what else to do, but I instantly regretted it. I pulled him out of the car and told him to take a few deep breaths to calm down. He just kept wailing. So I pulled him into me for a hug and told him I loved him, that I was sorry I slapped him and that I never wanted to do it again. But I also told him that his behavior was out of control. There was no reason for it. He wasn't hurt, in danger, or sick. There was no reason for it.
He just melted into my shoulder and told me how sorry he was and that he 'wubbed' me too. Then he asked if he could get back in the car because the traffic was scary. So I loaded him back into the car, got in myself and then drove home.
He was the perfect kid for the rest of the night.
As soon as he was in bed, I cried. I cried for a good hour. I feel like the worst mother ever. I know that it probably isn't a big deal. He'll forget it ever happened soon enough.
But I won't. I lost control. I would not tolerate anyone else doing what I did to my son. I can't excuse it in myself either.

Still Grief's Bitch

I woke up in a foul mood this morning. On the surface, there didn't seem to be any reason for my poor humor. I had a good day yesterday, a productive day. Something I hadn't had in a good long while. I went to bed exhausted, but happy. But when I woke up this morning, I was ready to tear someone's face off. I was just pissed at the world. I stayed that way all day. Work was abismal, and it wasn't because my students were poorly behaved or any more obnoxious than normal. I just didn't want to be there. I gave them their work, answered what questions they had, and took refuge in my email inbox. I sent an all call out to my IGs to rescue me from my sour mood, and they rallied, making me laugh with their jokes, stories about their delinquent brothers and the goings on of their day. (Have I said lately how much I adore my IG sistahs? Because I do. I really, really do.) As much as I enjoyed the stories and jokes, I just still couldn't snap out of the funk. I couldn't make myself not be pissed. My classes ended and the kids left. I sat in my room for a bit just trying to center myself and dig through my noodle to figure out what was bugging me. I needed to pump so I locked up and got all set, pulled out my Ipod to block out the noise from the kids in the hall and it hit me. Raymond. His birthday is Sunday, or it would be. He would be 28. I was cleaning last night and found the cds I made to play at his funeral. The music we used to say goodbye. I am still angry. I still don't have answers. I still don't understand how my brother ceased to be. Only now it's been two and a half years, so instead of grief being overt, causing me to fall apart, cry and generally cease to function until it passes, it's become a passive aggressive little whore, stealing my good mood and happy thoughts while I sleep. Even after all this time, I am still its bitch.
I feel a little better for having figured out what's wrong with me, but only just a little. I just want to not be angry anymore. I want to not be sad anymore. But every day there is something new that reminds me he's not here, something he misses I wish he could see. People have told me over and over again that time will make it better. It hasn't. It's just made it different.