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? :)