tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83962129830685951862024-03-05T00:56:44.236-08:00Fearless Fibro WarriorI'm living with pain in my body, pain in my brain, and several pains in my butt. My life and family are crazy, partly due to me and my fibromyalgia, Raynaud's Phenomenon, Chronic Fatigue, Bartonella Infection, and Chronic Lyme Disease. Enjoy my banter, rants, raves and whines. Or not. I write about my kids, my life, my health, my food, my fat.FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.comBlogger349125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-84590633534463009082013-10-07T05:00:00.000-07:002013-10-07T05:00:13.317-07:00One Way Ticket to Middle Age<br />
<br />
This is no ordinary concert pic taken with a smartphone.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
This, my friends, is a symbol of my lost youth. The loss of hip. Coolness has left the building. I am no longer bringing sexy back. Metamucil is my new BFF. <br />
<br />
So. Yes, I am a 40 year old chubby Caucasian. I also love me some R&B. Rap, Hip Hop, these are MY JAMS. Sky King just closes his eyes and does a slight head-shake that to me says, "Man, my wife is badass, and I'm lucky to married to such a hot thug-ette." Or something.<br />
<br />
So, when Justin Timberlake and Jay-Z announced their Legends of Summer Stadium Tour, I was like, OMG! Who's in?<br />
<br />
Sky King did me a solid by getting in on the pre-sell, and even got some decent seats. And, offered to go with. THAT is the part that showed me how much he loved me.<br />
<br />
We decided to make a weekend of it.<br />
<br />
I had to find something appropriate for the occasion. This brings Princess into the mix. Princess who thinks her Momma is younger, thinner and richer than she really is. She dragged me into Buckle, a store that seems to cater to young country and sparkle-loving people. But, the sparkles is what drew her (and, let's face it, me) in. I was looking for shiny and slightly slutty. Princess was looking for rock-star-chic. <br />
<br />
We found a sales person to assist, and we ended up with a pretty wrap top that had some sheer parts, and some sparkly parts. It was significantly low cut, so I knew Sky King would approve. Top it all with jeans, boots, and a new 'do, and I was ready to <strike>rock</strike> rap. <br />
<br />
On the night of, SK made it clear that, the second I was too tired, we could head back to the hotel. Such an accommodating one, he is. Not to mention, he didn't know a single Jay-Z song, and a scarce few JT songs. Add in some bad hearing, and stadium acoustics that could drown out the collective grumblings of the worlds' hipsters when faced with nothing but instant coffee (or is instant coffee now a "thing"?) and we have a recipe for Middle Age Disaster.<br />
<br />
Let's just start with, you know this is not your crowd when your hubs gives up his coveted Muni seat to a drunk chick that may or may not vomit into some dude's hoodie before we reach our stop. Using a knee to keep her from sliding into a pool of floppy human, while chivalrous, is a true sign these Are Not Our People. Her "friend" that was likely assigned to the Drunk Girl really didn't take her job seriously. ("hey, babysit me tonight, because you KNOW how I get after seven redbull-and-vodkas and nine bong-hits, mkay?", "OMG, we are TOTES gunna have the bestest time EVER", "LOL", "I know, right?") Likely, this is the convo they had the next morning:<br />
<br />
Drunk Girl: Hey. how did we get home?<br />
Loser Friend: I totally got us on the bus, and this cute little old couple gave you their seat, and I kept making sure you stayed hydrated. They were super-rad, but I have no idea why they were on the shuttle from Jay-Z. Maybe some old guy like Barry Manilow was in town...<br />
Drunk Girl: You're the BEST. Totes the BEST. And, my wallet, phone and keys are still here! You, like, ROCK.<br />
Loser Friend: I know, right?!?!?! Let's go to Denny's--don't forget the flask of vodka....<br />
<br />
<br />
Ah, to be young again.<br />
<br />
:::sigh:::<br />
<br />
So there we are, Sky King pretending he can hear, understand and identify rap lyrics (Holy Grail, OMFG, amiright???). Me, pulsing with the crowd, hoping that Candlestick isn't due for an earthquake because I really do NOT want to die like this.<br />
<br />
When the FUCK did it become a THING to stand the entire concert? Don't these bitches get tired? I see them in their $20 stilettos and I KNOW that shit is rough on the feet.<br />
<br />
So, I would stand up, do my best Hip Hop Sway and Pulse, while taking breaks to sit amongst the people that can manage to engage in complicated dance routines in a 2 foot square space.<br />
<br />
A few songs before we thought it would be over, we made a break for it, hoping that we would not stand for fifteen hours waiting for a bus to get through the streets of SF. Yes, I am now that person. "Hey kids, I know this is the best part of the drive-in movie, but if we leave RIGHT NOW, we can miss the traffic, which is EVEN MORE FUN than Iron Man 15!!!!" If you have ever been to Candlestick, you know that there is truly only one way in or out of the area, and it causes a traffic jam that even the best cabbies avoid like a case of burning gonorrhea. <br />
<br />
So we find ourselves on a bus, IN SEATS (Woot!) headed for the hotel.<br />
<br />
On that ride, I had time to ruminate on the situation.<br />
<br />
1. The concert was fun, especially since I had vowed to not consume any liquids to avoid any bathroom lines (why can't venues recognize that women need approximately 45 times more bathrooms?) <br />
2. The acoustics SUCKED (or maybe my old ears heard it wrong?)<br />
3. Despite the VAST numbers of Middle-Aged White Folks that also love Jay-Z, this is not my tribe.<br />
<br />
These people are hip. They stay up past 9:15, even on work nights. They enjoy crowds of sweaty drunks (because they are ALSO sweaty drunks) and they don't mind standing in line to use a bathroom, only to recognize they broke the seal, to then get in line for beer, to then stand in line to pee, lather-rinse-repeat. <br />
<br />
These people are not like me.<br />
<br />
I get back to the hotel, sleep til 10:45, stagger on pained feet to the nearest place to shovel food in my face, tour the City with my beloved, then hit the sheets at 7:15 <strike>at night</strike> in the motherfucking afternoon because I am OLD. <br />
<br />
Lyme Disease took my groove. <br />
<br />FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-73965666095058835072013-10-04T13:32:00.000-07:002013-10-04T13:32:00.215-07:00Today's Post Brought To You By The Letters F and UI'm mad. Like, stab-members-of-the-CDC-in-the-eyeballs-with-Chinese-throwing-stars-while-simultaneously-burning-down-the-homes-of-all-their-loved-ones kind of mad.<br />
<br />
Typically, I'm more, yell-profanities-and-make-an-ass-out-of-myself-through-bad-behavior mad. <br />
<br />
But I'm done. DONE. Stick a fork in me.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, after much fight, I lost a big battle. The war is not over, but I am sitting around stewing in my misery, sad, crying, frustrated.<br />
<br />
Here is a summary of what Lyme disease (contracted in the mid-80's) has given me:<br />
<ul>
<li>constant joint pain</li>
<li>somewhat constant muscle pain</li>
<li>an almost regular limp</li>
<li>Skepticism---imagine someone with a debilitating illness, yet they look fine. Healthy, maybe a little chubby (OK, A LOT), good coloring, keeping her hair, etc. But she tells you she has this awful disease, and she can't work much, nor commit to much. And, she will likely act like a total flake, committing then forgetting. But she blames it all on a disease that has no mainstream support or treatment. Yeah, THAT. I can see it in people's eyes. The ones that knew me before are less skeptical. But new people, it's hard to open with, "Hi, I'm Aimee. Don't bother telling me your name because I have a weird disease that makes me depressed, in pain and forgetful. Nice to meet you." </li>
<li>4 (and counting) "Temporary" handicap placards, one right after the other, waited in line for at the DMV, every 6 months</li>
<li>touch sensitivity, so when people lean on me, hug me, jokingly tap me, or pretty much any other contact, it has me saying "ouch" or worse (not the greatest, when you're a mom of kids who like to snuggle, and a husband who likes to "snuggle" too)</li>
<li>a veritable potpourri of over 40 different pills to take throughout the day, set by a timer on my smartphone</li>
<li>Regular doctor appointments-I see my Lyme doc monthly, my therapist at least weekly, my acupuncturist at least monthly (more when we can afford it), the pharmacist every couple weeks, my primary a few times a year unless things get really bad, and various people for consults (surgical, etc). When I'm not at an appointment, I am working on scheduling one, filing forms to insurance reimbursement from one, or appealing the denial of one claim or another</li>
<li>I avoid people---I have become withdrawn, anti-social, and irritable. </li>
<li>I am tired. Not, need-a-nap tired. But fatigued-lay-on-the-couch-and-barely-schlep-to-the-bathroom tired. It's different, and it's exhausting</li>
<li>Planning---whenever the rest of the family wants to do something, I have to think about whether I can, and what I need to do, to be able to do something. Cross Country Meet? I need a chair, shade, and possibly full coverage for my skin, in the sun, for several hours. A weekend away? I travel with 3 inch memory foam, a wide range of clothes, and extra medication so that if I have to be around people for longer than a couple hours, I can hang with the extra stimulation. Lord help me if I'm light sensitive that week. Disneyland? I have to borrow a mobility scooter, and after 4 hours, I'm a wreck. Basically, my Lyme disease needs tons of accommodations. </li>
<li>Pity-people I love, that used to rely on me, respect me, and expect great things from me now have lots of pity. I have less invites than I used to, and it's hard to explain to people: "Please still invite me, even though I usually say no". It sucks, having a friend that takes so much work, ya know? But it also sucks being left out. I can't win.</li>
<li>Side-effects-at any given time, my meds (which change monthly, sometimes more often) cause me to be sun sensitive, alcohol sensitive, angry, grouch, bloaty, feeling slightly drunk, dizzy, spacey, imbalanced, and incapable of losing weight.</li>
<li>Also, I have to detox---Lyme disease causes some nasty side effects WHEN THE TREATMENT ACTUALLY WORKS from which I need to detox-dry brushing, using a personal sauna, lemon water all day, and Epsom salt baths are a few of the things I have to stop living my life to deal with. And, I should be detoxing daily. A good friend detoxes for over an hour, EVERY DAY. It's a fucking part-time job.</li>
<li>I've lost much of my cognitive function. I forget names of people, offending them at every turn. I forget appointments, I forget obligations, birthdays, anniversaries, etc. And, the kicker is, that used to be my THING. I was thoughtful, planned elaborate surprises, remembered to get everyone to sign the card, blah blah blah. Now, I can't introduce people without looking like an ass. And that's one of the least annoying things about my memory loss. How hard do you think it is to explain to your staff why the phone got shut off? Twice? Not very confidence-building, I assure you.</li>
</ul>
The list goes on. Ironically, I can't think of anything else right now. HAHAHA.<br />
<br />
If you love me, know me IRL, care about me in any way, do this ONE THING for me. Watch this movie:<br />
<br />
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<br /><br />
This is Under Our Skin, a documentary about why I can't get the treatment I need. Last year, we went out-of-pocket over $12,000. I am one of the lucky ones: I found a way to HAVE that much to spend. Not everyone is this lucky. To date, the biggest killer of people with Lyme disease, right before cardiac issues and stroke, is SUICIDE. People give up. They feel like they have no hope. I get it. I really do. Luckily, I have an amazing team of people that hold me close, check on me, keep me in their hearts and prayers. And, I have a job still. I don't work at it much, but I have the distinct luxury of being a business owner, and having a ROCK STAR husband that has picked up my slack at work (along with some amazing people AT work-you ladies and the BOMB).<br />
<br />
One last favor--- share this movie. Share it with the people you love. Share it on social media. Share it with your favorite congressperson (is there such a thing these days?) Lyme
disease is in ALL 50 STATES, and the CDC recently admitted that annual
new cases number at around 300,000. I heard a person with HIV once
admit he was glad he didn't have Lyme disease. Can you imagine a
disease that is degenerative, that slowly (sometimes quickly) takes
everything away from you, all the while the agencies that should be
supporting you are telling you it's all in your head, doesn't exist, or
is not treatable? And this isn't just happening here: Europe, Australia,
New Zealand, and other countries and continents are having the same
problem with identification, treatment and acceptance. <br />
But, I am dejected, ignored, dismissed by the IDSA and the CDC, who won't acknowledge what I have, or work on an appropriate treatment. So, I see a doc that can't take insurance for fear of scrutiny, and my treatment is WAAAAAAAY outside the scope of what is "acceptable" in those damn IDSA guidelines. Having friends and family support you is HUGE, I know people that don't even have that (who would fake this? Who would pick this life???). But without aggressive treatment, I don't see how I will ever get into remission.<br />
<br />
Remission. Yep, not CURE. You see, when Lyme disease has been spending a couple decades burrowing into your tissues, heart, muscles, and brain, remission is the hope. And there isn't a simple test---it's more, "can you live with this crap?" "I guess so" "Congrats!!! You're in remission!!!" <br />
<br />
GAH. MAD MAD MAD. <br />
<br />
I promise, I will work hard to do a funny post, soon. <br />
<br />
Kisses (and gentle hugs),<br />
Aimee <br />
<br />
<br />FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-91048704931696194602013-09-02T09:05:00.000-07:002013-09-02T09:05:02.353-07:00Monkey Boy, Crackin' Me Up Since 1999I know, I know. It's been a while. I said that last time, too. Life is weird, busy, erratic, and I'm moody. Get over it.<br />
<br />
Anywho.<br />
<br />
Things have been moving along at warp speed. Princess is growing more and more precocious, and is working her way into having a dog-----Being to Lord-ette of Dog Town is IMMINENT. She's already knitted the damn dog a hat, for cryingoutloud. (Let's all have a collective moment of silence for the poor over-loved doggie that will soon be ours, shall we?).<br />
<br />
My health still sucks, but there have been leaps forward, and setbacks. Incidentally, this summer storm we are currently in the middle of apparently affects my joints. Fuck you, Rain. <br />
<br />
Monkey Boy has gone from an 8th grade class of 30-ish, to a Freshman class of 500+, with marked success. He's growing, maturing, becoming a relate-able human. It's been a pleasure. He's also crossing into Real Life socially.<br />
<br />
Monkey Boy has jumped with both feet into the realities of Dating Life.<br />
<br />
He has a true, official, holding-hands-on-the-couch, not-eating-food-in-front-of-each-other GIRLFRIEND.<br />
<br />
I'm proud of him, on so many levels:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>He took a risk and "asked her out", before school got out, risking rejection (he typically has a very small group of friends, and is more quiet, less social, rarely has friends over, so this was HUGE). </li>
<li>He has had to be assertive to spend time with her (he's 14, and she's a year younger, and lives about 20 minutes away, so they both need to step it up with their communication if they are EVER going to see each other, so transportation is by parents)</li>
<li>He's learning to negotiate the fine art of dealing with a girl (it's never too early for him to learn, "Happy wife, happy life", amiright?)</li>
<li>He's truly happier as a person, is nicer to his sister, is more patient in general. This relationship thing has really allowed him to do some maturing.</li>
</ul>
Back to the story that was intended:<br />
<br />
All of their time together is supervised: movies with an adult, errand running, meals out, hanging out at one of the homes, etc. And, Girlfriend has two younger siblings----we all know siblings make the BEST chaperones! Anyway, the sibs all go to school together (Princess included), and the little girls have grown close. Last night MB was out with Girlfriend and family for a family party than ran into the night (when I am tucked deep into my Sleep Number, dreaming about pastries). <br />
<br />
I get this text:<br />
<br />
MB: Andrea (little sis of Girlfriend) wants to have a playdate with Princess<br />
Me: (I don't know why the vibration of my phone woke me, but it did) We cN woek soemthing ojt<br />
MB: R u drunk?<br />
Me: I ws slecpng jerkface (made SURE to spell jerkface right!)<br />
MB: LOL<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, we are now in that phase of life where I get to start saying, "wake me when you get in, okay?".<br />
<br />
Any tips, besides putting the younger sister in between them on the couch?FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-76487489923125965962013-07-25T09:17:00.002-07:002013-07-25T09:17:30.265-07:00Pity Party for One, Please....Today, I went to see Dr. Lyme. <br />
<br />
I had lots to report.<br />
<br />
Since we began the process of looking for, financing, and closing escrow on what Princess calls, "Our Forever House", things have gotten dicey. Symptoms I hadn't seen in MONTHS were back.<br />
<br />
Once things settled down, some of the nastier ones went away.<br />
<br />
But, some remained. You know, like strange bugs in the rice. One day they appear. And, until you feed the rice to someone you don't like, you're stuck with weird bugs. <i> Or something like that.</i><br />
<br />
Anywho.<br />
<br />
My fatigue is kicking my expanding ass, and my hands are starting to become more and more useless. <br />
<br />
But I should be better.<br />
<br />
RIGHT?????????<br />
<br />
I mean, I have been on antibiotics for 19 months. MONTHS, people. <br />
<br />
azith. doxy. clarith. amox. rifampin. levoquin. injectibles. gulpables.<br />
<br />
stomach aches. <br />
<br />
And all the other joys that go with prolonged antibiotic usage. So, on paper I'm fine. Just ask the IDSA asshole that refused a PICC line---he says "there's nothing more I can do, you've had all the drugs I would recommend.". Fuck that guy.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I am SURE I get the side-eye from people that still don't know why I'm hardly ever at work. When will I get used to working 10-15 hour weeks? <br />
<br />
How about never? <br />
<br />
All I want is remission. Unfortunately, there's no test for that. No, "if your blood work comes back between 50 and 75 whatevers, that's remission, and we will change your treatment and stop taking so much of your disposable income."<br />
<br />
Instead, it's more like, "When you get to a place where you don't want to spork your eyeballs out CONSTANTLY, we will give it a couple months. If a major life event doesn't put you into an emotional, financial and physical tailspin, THAT'S remission. Enjoy."<br />
<br />
So, for those keeping score, I'm still doped up on a variety of drugs. I still hemorrhage cash into various doctors' student loan debts, I'm still virtually worthless at work (because when I AM there, I get tired, and can't hold a convo for more than 10 minutes without looking like a lobotomized sloth that mistakenly took Ambien instead of caffeine pills). <br />
<br />
I still work minimally, ----can we all just take a moment to pause for my awesome job? Because if I didn't have the job I have, I'd be sitting around, applying for SSI, and waiting for my "settlement"----there's just no way to be sick and keep a roof over my head when my disease doesn't officially exist, ya know?<br />
<br />
I AM improving. Just not at the rate that would please an over-achieving workaholic energizer bunny. So I'm trying to be that, less.<br />
<br />
And, writing-wise, I haven't been feeling it. I don't know if it's a lull, or writer's block, or just an issue of being sick of writing about the same old crap. Health, blah blah blah. Pills, blah blah blah. Fat ass, blah blah blah.<br />
<br />
I will try to do better. <br />
<br />
Fortunately, I have this great therapist that has taught me to not beat myself up over every little thing. It's like killing kittens, then hitting up the confessional. Fail to write? I'm okay with that. Forgot pills out of a passive-aggressive rage against the Lyme machine? I'm okay with that. Gobbled gluten with horrid gastrointestinal results? I'm okay with that. Easy-peasy.<br />
<br />
Kisses,<br />
<br />
AimeeFFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-3666934972923419102013-07-01T10:41:00.002-07:002013-07-01T10:41:24.809-07:00Monkey Boy ScoresYes, I know. It has been ages. I'm not dead. I am, however, severely undermedicated, so this makes for a less-than-funny FFW. I will try harder, sooner. But there are no promises in life. Deal.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Before I get seriously into this post, I would like to offer up a definition, for clarity.<br />
<br />
FFW New Edition Dictionary<br />
"Grind on"- (verb)-the process of a girl rubbing her breasts on your chest<br />
<br />
You will see why I needed to define this, in a moment.<br />
<br />
A couple months ago, Monkey Boy attended a Middle School Dance. The flyer announced "formal dress encouraged". Apparently, this means, "formal dress for everyone but the baddest mother fuckers around, y'all can hang in swim trunks".<br />
<br />
So, I said, "If you want to get a new outfit for the dance, I need to know by Wednesday night, and then only if all your homework is done".<br />
<br />
I guess the prospect of new gear was quite the incentive (I wish I could offer him new digs EVERY week, but alas, good grades and not screaming for homework to be completed are not the rewards in my future, at the cost of $75 per week...).<br />
<br />
So, we headed to the mall. On the way, negotiations began.<br />
<br />
MB: I want a new hoodie.<br />
Me: You have plenty of hoodies. I'm willing to buy new shorts or pants, and a new shirt.<br />
MB: How about shorts, a T shirt, and new shoes?<br />
Me: New shoes under $45?<br />
MB: Possibly.....what if the shorts are on sale?<br />
<br />
....and so on.<br />
<br />
I have recently morphed into a at-least-they-are-clean-and-dressed type of parent. Sky King disagrees, and really wanted to see me coming home with a shirt with a collar, and chinos for Monkey Boy. But, he wasn't the one <a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2013/01/shopping-with-your-teen-primer.html">stuck at the mall with a teenager</a>. I was. So it was my rules. Which are more lax than his. Whatevs.<br />
<br />
We came home with:<br />
A new "DC" T-shirt (black and aqua)<br />
A new pair of Board Shorts (gray, black and aqua)<br />
A new pair of Nikes (He had grown a full size since the last shoe-buying expedition, so I eased up on the budget)<br />
<br />
Now, he originally wanted a particular pair of shoes. But they didn't have his size (because the whole world it out to get him). Luckily, there was an upstanding young sales associate (who would be virtually unemployable if not for the advent of Zumiez, Tilly's and Spencer's Gifts) with stretched earlobes and a comb-over that rivals anything Kurt Cobain could have come up with, waiting to assist us in our time of need. He precariously climbed a 40 foot ladder (is it legal to work while high on the latest synthetic marijuana substitute?) and procured a fabulous pair of shoes that had an amazing heat-sensitive "Swoosh". Basically, "mood Nikes". All wrapped up by a guy who deliberately chose to wear cut-off jorts.<br />
<br />
SOLD.<br />
<br />
Later, we got this text once the dance had ended and he was safely tucked in at a friend's house:<br />
<br />
Us: Have fun?<br />
MB: yep. This girl grinded on me then left and after a while she came back and did it again and did it again im happy<br />
<br />
WOW.<br />
<br />
Now, in my mind, my precious little (at 5 foot 7 and growing at an alarming rate) baby got dry-humped, at a Montessori-school dance, in full view of several staff members. And, being the hip badass mom I am, I cringed. And, because I fully embrace inconsistencies and double-standards when it suits me, I thanked my lucky stars I wasn't the mother of the girl.<br />
<br />
All kinds of things flooded my mind. And I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth, and the idea that my son got to third base at an 8th Grade dance. Truly, I KNEW things were headed downhill, rapidly. My boy was growing up.<br />
<br />
The next day, he came home from spending the night at a friend's house. "How was the dance?" I inquired. He repeated his story, complete with ear-to-ear grins.<br />
<br />
I asked further-"so, she rubbed her privates on yours? At a dance?"<br />
<br />
He looked confused. "No, her boobies! What did you think I meant?"<br />
<br />
I said, "Well, I thought 'grinded on' was, you know, south of the border."<br />
<br />
He looked at me, with a snarled lip (almost in disgust, or maybe to imply that boobies are WAY better than vaginas).<br />
<br />
Umm, yeah.<br />
<br />
A boobie rub. Still, I'm glad I'm not HER mother.<br />
<br />
This is what I am left with:<br />
<br />
New DC shirt: $15<br />
New Board shorts: $32<br />
New Nikes (with Mood swoosh): $68<br />
<br />
Getting "grinded on" at a school dance: Priceless<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-23470140404605689712013-02-21T04:00:00.000-08:002013-02-21T04:00:03.070-08:00Monkey Boy and the Quest for CashTurns out, my boy has the same entrepreneurial spirit his parents both have, and both sets of grandparents have.<br />
<br />
He works hard, and the rewards are rich, vast even.<br />
<br />
It has occurred to me, that his job, at the ripe old age of 13, is keeping the change.<br />
<br />
He works hard, every time I send him into the store. Sometimes, it's only 31 cents. Sometimes, it's a buck or two. <br />
<br />
I learned this after sending him into the dollar store, for a poster board for a project. I sent him in with $1.25. You know, to cover the tax on a dollar item.<br />
<br />
Then, about 2 weeks later, I found the receipt. The poster board was 69 cents.<br />
<br />
Well played, Monkey Boy.FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-54055006838347532912013-02-14T04:00:00.000-08:002013-02-14T04:00:05.650-08:00V-Day MusingsWhy? Why do we focus on love on Valentine's Day? <br />
<br />
Besides the need to spend too much money and time trying to one-up the other moms at school with our cake pops, hand-made Valentines, and time-consuming detectible treats that will roil in tiny stomachs all afternoon, I guess I can go along with the expression of love.<br />
<br />
Except that, I blew it. I already got my guy a brand-new Spidey T-shirt, tossed the Amazon bag his way after getting home from work. He groaned, "Shit, now I gotta go to the store". I assured him that all I really wanted was a petition to get a drive-thru Baskin Robbins down the road. Or a Drive-thru liquor store (Why hasn't California gone that route? I mean, get it together, Tree Huggers!)<br />
<br />
So, that's the romance in my life (that I'm willing to brag about, since my parents read this blog.).<br />
<br />
Instead, I will re-run my ALL-TIME favorite Valentine's story, from MANY years ago. Long before the internet, texting, emails. This was some old-school love. (If you just GOTTA see the original link, <a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2012/01/one-where-i-warn-all-men-in-universe-to.html">click here</a>). Otherwise, here ya go:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to be a girlie girl, complete with
ridiculous expectations about love, and relationships. now, I am
considerably more practical, and a conversation with Sky King might go
like this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Hey-my birthday is next week.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sky King: Yep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me:
We are low on cash, so plan a dinner out, without the kids. That means,
figure out a babysitter. No gift. A card will be expected though.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sky King: Consider it done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a few days later...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(censored)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See? Easy-peasy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've
adapted into a woman that is realistic, and has learned not to judge my
honey's love for me based on what he does a few designated days per
year. Why do we do this, ladies? We set ourselves up. Most guys show
their love for us every day in all sorts of ways. Mine shows me by
being there for me, by showing up at the door when I come home from a
hard day, and he has a glass of wine waiting. Or by cleaning the house
on the sly before I come home. Things that really matter. But like many
dumb girls, I used to expect roses, sentiment and thoughtfulness from
boys that were only cognizant enough to mutter a few nice things like,
"Nice cans", before trying desperately to get into my pants.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A long, long time ago, I was a cute little thing with big knockers and a habit of getting shitfaced between classes at college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You,
too? Awesome! We would have totally been besties! (Not really, I would
not have liked the competition-I was insecure and had to be the cutest
in the room).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyways-for some unknown reason, I spent a lot of time in committed relationships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, I DON’T know why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed like a good idea at the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
while in these committed relationships, I spent much of my free time
being the best girlfriend in the world. I would buy matching bra and
panty sets, bake yummy goodies, and write thoughtful notes to sneak onto
the hood of his car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Basically, I was pretty much begging to be treated like shit from boys with red Solo cups full of MeisterBrau. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During one of these relationships, I was smitten with a boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was cute, aloof, and quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Totally my kind of guy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, he kinda sorta liked me, which made him MY SOULMATE. So what happened?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He moved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Away from me. Far far away from me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Undaunted, I pined. I called, wrote, called, and called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
would have emailed and texted, but that had not been invented yet, and a
stalker of my caliber would have taxed that system right into complete
digital failure, so I think it was for the best.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While I was pining, I was also being
incredibly thoughtful. And when Valentine’s Day rolled on in, I was
READY. I had been planning for quite some time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
had done the prep work, the buying of the necessary raw materials. I
was going to knock his socks off, which was going to probably cause him
to jump into a car (he didn’t have one, of course) and drive 2000 miles
to envelop me in his embrace, while he told me he would never leave my
sight ever again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got a big box-the kind that you use to fill with books when you move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
filled it with food and fresh new towels (kind of mom-like. I won't
even begin to go into what Freud would say) and a stuffed animal dressed
up in the same gear my guy was going to school for. I baked batches of
cut-out sugar cookies, complete with strawberry icing (his favorite) and
writing on each one, professing my love for him in said icing. I wrote a
long heartfelt poem for him. Then, I created something that was big at
the time-it was called a treasure candle. Maybe you remember them? As it
melts, different little gems and charms would be revealed, sometimes
cash. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remember these? You would have to burn it all the way down to find out how much money was buried inside:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTc130nEu7oPxWJU2UA0eOhAJYXuCIuaZmnqnc-e76asllD1DEqKOIeV1QYD0oGfmY8M0fd-sGj7kb1vCCvui0WzPP3_7YcwEfBk3gLN5y2eKf0TdaH2yvKWaL3JpHGSiglKjYyG-r55M/s1600/treasure+candle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTc130nEu7oPxWJU2UA0eOhAJYXuCIuaZmnqnc-e76asllD1DEqKOIeV1QYD0oGfmY8M0fd-sGj7kb1vCCvui0WzPP3_7YcwEfBk3gLN5y2eKf0TdaH2yvKWaL3JpHGSiglKjYyG-r55M/s1600/treasure+candle.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I made one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>MADE one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you say, “bunny boiler”? It’s no wonder he moved. I would have moved to get away from me, too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, as I was creating individual layers in the handmade mold, I stashed the poem I had written.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then,
I packed this box up and skipped down to the post office, making sure I
picked the correct shipping so that he would get in on Valentine’s Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the day before, and certainly not the day after.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ON. THE. DAY.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Wow, I’m really starting to scare the shit out of me.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I waited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surely,
with HIS pining and missing me and being homesick, he would do
something totally remarkably romantic, like profess his love to me
through song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or at least he would write something completely heartfelt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
shouldn’t get my hopes up, because after all, he was a starving
student. But true love comes through in remarkable ways-maybe he would
even arrange for a mutual friend to pick some wildflowers!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I waited and waited and waited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a Tuesday. Nothing came.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Odd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
checked the local paper to see if he had put a lovely personal ad in.
Nothing. Nada. I went to my classes, and zombie my way through a shift
waiting tables.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I most likely spit in everyone’s “Couples Prime Rib” Special. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, on Friday, I got it. A package sent 2-day Air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crammed into my mailbox.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ran upstairs to my place to open it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Inside, was this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A greeting card inside an envelope (I’ll get to that in a sec)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A copy of the newspaper from his new town</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A copy of a paperback I had already read</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s take this piece by piece, shall we? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The newspaper: It was dated Feb 15<sup>th</sup>. So, NOT the local “love” edition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fine. Maybe there is a picture of him in it for some reason? No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe there’s a regular personal ad? No. Maybe, there’s SOMETHING?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>NO. I distinctly remember throwing it all over my minuscule living/dining/family room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span></span>Next, the book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, I had freaking READ IT ALREADY.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So that got thrown, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sorry, neighbors (thin walls).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span> </span>Last, the card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>THIS would redeem him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I opened it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must have expected images of love: cupids, hearts, ribbons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pink, maybe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I was initially perplexed when the card had a picture of a cartoon dog on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It says something mildly sweet on the front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I open it. And out pops a tongue on a spring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know the cards, right? Sometimes you open a card and there is a flap, or a window, or something attached to a spring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fine. Whatever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYY9-XwxhqDL_18PN5AHMCYPmQ3t1m5sBeaawKapPhiPimaMRYfCjg4h-cs9YYKVCpxrNdc0WE0EmsIUl6rCA0uWd0Ub7Rw1Z1euANwyR-nHa9klIOAqVLnGSDYPA9EwF_7LAF44laJv4/s1600/dog+card+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYY9-XwxhqDL_18PN5AHMCYPmQ3t1m5sBeaawKapPhiPimaMRYfCjg4h-cs9YYKVCpxrNdc0WE0EmsIUl6rCA0uWd0Ub7Rw1Z1euANwyR-nHa9klIOAqVLnGSDYPA9EwF_7LAF44laJv4/s320/dog+card+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Down where you are supposed to write your deepest, heartfelt sentiments, what do I find?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His promise to love me forever? No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His
wish for a quick reunion? No. If this wasn’t a family blog, I would
tell you exactly what he wrote (and by “family blog”, I mean a blog that
my family reads, not one that is necessarily appropriate for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i> family-unless you are in a gang and consider your homies members of your family).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let
me just paraphrase, and tell you that his carefully jotted words
consisted of where he would like that tongue, had it been his, to be. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later, he called.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Him: Did you get my package???</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Yep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was with the paper?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Him: I wanted to show you where I am!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why in God’s name did you feel the need to remind me that I am 2000 miles from you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I KNOW THIS ALREADY!!!! (By this time, I was most certainly shrieking)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the conversation went downhill from
there. At some point, he told me that he and his roommates had spent a
couple hours torching the candle it took me 8 days to make, to retrieve
the poem inside. I have no recollection of the rest of the conversation,
which everyone including my therapist feels is best.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, what did I do to repay my boyfriend for his amazing lack of romance, creativity and effort?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took the sweetest revenge yet: I married him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope you enjoyed indulging my desire to NOT drum up another sickeningly sappy post. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy VD, y'all! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<br />FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-23379509161949536582013-02-05T20:00:00.001-08:002013-02-05T20:00:10.690-08:00Busy Being. Or, How Can I Stop Being ME?I have always been busy, as far back as I can remember.<br />
<br />
I also have never had the desire to slow down.<br />
<br />
Until now.<br />
<br />
I enjoy my less-crazy life. I have become one with my AMAZING Sleep Number bed. I know the intimate details of my recliner. I can sit, and just be.<br />
<br />
But old habits die hard. <br />
<br />
Now, I have been working hard to get the Lyme out of me. And things are going well. Well, not WELL. I STILL have bitterness about the whole, "3-5 years of treatment, followed by remission rather than cure" bullshit. But, as well as can be expected.<br />
<br />
You see, I have been in treatment since Jan. 2012. So, only 1 year. And, my energy is at about 70%! Big stuff, y'all. Last year, I told Dr. Lyme I was at 10% for energy. So, leaps and bounds, for reals.<br />
<br />
But, not everything is coming back at the same rate. Neuro stuff, still a train wreck of the gargantuan, midget-porn-meets-That-Creepy-Lady-with-the-catlike-plastic-surgery variety. Translation=still working hard to remember where my keys are, then where my car is, and did I drive or take the bus.<br />
<br />
But, since the energy is ramping up, so is the motivation to go back to Old Aimee. (Not 40 year old Aimee, but batshit-crazy-plan-out-every-freaking-minute-of-every-hour-to-the-detriment-of-all-relationships-Aimee.) And then I plan. I plan, and schedule, and look ahead.<br />
<br />
Then, someone calls me. Or I check my email.<br />
<br />
And I realize I am back to double-booking. And, triple-booking.<br />
<br />
See, I co-lead Princess' Girl Scout Troop. And, I own a business, which I go visit from time to time. More so when things are not going well. (I still have amazing ladies that keep all those balls up in the air like magic, so I am VERY fortunate.) But, I micromanage my teen's homework, and I am the main motivator for a family of four. So, me being all plann-y plann-y has gotten shit done.<br />
<br />
Then, cue sickness. Cue pity parties. Cue pairing down of obligations.<br />
<br />
But still, I must DO. Do stuff. Go places. Have things happen.<br />
<br />
And when I forget to note them in the handy dandy smartphone, the set of carefully poised juggling balls comes crashing down into my head.<br />
<br />
For instance, Princess wants to go to Girl Scout camp. Many of the other girls do, too. So we planned to attend an overnight campout, put on by others (instead of me doing all the work, brilliant, no?) So I booked it. <br />
<br />
Also, I booked 7 nights near Yosemite at our timeshare. <br />
<br />
The same time. Grrrrr.<br />
<br />
And then.<br />
<br />
I booked THREE THINGS for one day. All happening in different counties. Double Grrrrr. So, of course, I had to revamp, rebook, re-prioritize.<br />
<br />
Hopefully, no one will hate me.<br />
<br />
And it might just work out.<br />
<br />
But in the meantime, I have to figure out how to not overbook. Maybe I need to go back to the R<a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2011/06/tri-and-stop-me.html">ule of Three</a>? Maybe, because I'm getting energy back, I can up it to 4, or 5?<br />
<br />
What do you say, Sky King?<br />
<br />
:::crickets chirping::: <br />
<br />
Until then, I could use some advice. How do you NOT over-schedule you, and the whole fam damily? Spill those secrets!!!FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-66020667374430678522013-01-31T05:00:00.000-08:002013-01-31T05:00:10.649-08:00Shopping With Your Teen: A PrimerMonkey Boy can be all kinds of joy----we recently had an amazing meeting with the school admin, to set up a 504 plan for when he goes to high school (this is a legal doc, stating certain accommodations that help him be successful---the school has been giving him what he needs with no complaints for so long, but transitioning to traditional public school could prove to be bumpy for a kid that processes things differently soooo.....). We got tons of incredible feedback about his progress (huge), his personality (hilarious) and his smiles (giant and frequent). It was a great meeting, and we were all lovey-dovey-proud-parent-y.<br />
<br />
So when it came time to schlep to the mall to see Santa (for Princess), we let MB know that, even though he was fully committed to shorts and T-shirts, that we were going to expect a certain amount of compliance in finding a suitable jacket for snow and rain, and clothing that made him look less like a refugee.<br />
<br />
You see, MB has a history with clothing. He was borderline "on the spectrum" as a little guy--tactile issues with clothing was HUGE. They way things fit, felt on his skin, etc. were always big issues. Trying things on involved taking off your clothing in public, in a room with a door that is too short, and where you can hear strangers talking so THEY CAN HEAR YOU TAKE YOUR CLOTHES OFF. A recipe for disaster on most fronts. But, most kids need to try stuff on, unless there is to be a bunch of trips backandforth, backandforth. I don't do BACKANDFORTH. I get it right the first time (or right enough). So trying things on is MASSIVE on the scale of "shit MB hates".<br />
<br />
There we were, surrounded by people that are otherwise unemployable, what with the stretched lobes and knuckle tattoos and ironic smiles. And I gingerly suggested the possibility of pants. Jeans, specifically, because I had just buttered him up with new Vans. I had him right where I wanted him.<br />
<br />
We meandered to the jean stacks. And stared. First, he's thin. And taller than me. So, sizing is an issue. I whispered a barely audible, "remember you've grown so you will have to go into the dressing room just for a couple pairs, to see". Avoided eye contact. Kept head bowed. Showed no teeth. Discussed pocket designs. Faded vs. dark. (faded=bad) Skinny vs. slim. (skinny=bad) Blue vs. black. (black=bad). Once I knew the rules, I loaded his arms, and sent him to the dressing room.<br />
<br />
When he got in the room, I waited, talking loud enough so he could hear me, but not so loud that others could, too. Next to impossible in a store designed for teens. So, I did my stage whisper, which somehow didn't cause him to stage-whisper back, "Stop talking so loud---you're embarrassing me". Basically, he only tolerates me being with him in a store, because I have the magic credit card that makes his wants, his possessions. And why do I tolerate it? So he won't look like a refugee every time we leave the house. It's a goddamn delicate fucking dance, I tell you.<br />
<br />
Then, there was a hiccup. It seems that the regular 28s are so large, they DON'T WORK. But, the shirt that is not a T-shirt, and has a collar and sleeves, is a win. And on clearance. So, I tell him to hang tight. I find the Youth area, which also has 28s. By some amazing miracle of youth cloth I haven't discerned, these 28s are different than the first set of 28s. And, they fit. But supplies are scarce, and I may have to offer up a black pair. I slowly ease them over the top of the door, fearful of rejection, afraid my eagerness to find appropriate clothing will be seen as a threat.<br />
<br />
The jeans are accepted, reluctantly. I silently celebrate. Because if I celebrate vocally, he will know he has pleased me, and a rapid attempt to STOP THAT will ensue.<br />
<br />
He emerges with two pairs of jeans, a nice shirt that makes him look respectable, and a hoodie (like he needs another one, but it was on clearance, and it helps to cover all the name-brand shirts he wears to school that are against dress code). AND, a hoodie-looking thing, that repels water. BINGO!<br />
<br />
On the way to the car, he goes so far as to offer sincere thanks.<br />
<br />
It's only a matter of time before he becomes a full-fledged human, and these battles will be long since forgotten.<br />
<br />
<br />
What battles do you know are coming, and dread, the most? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-88700890436221039502013-01-28T05:00:00.000-08:002013-01-28T05:00:05.097-08:00Journey to MMaybe you have heard this song before:<br />
<br />
I'm a fatass. I need to stop shoveling food into my face.<br />
<br />
No? <br />
<br />
Not <a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2011/05/getting-ready-to-cleanse.html">here</a>, or <a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2011/12/my-2012-new-years-resolutions.html">here</a>?<br />
<br />
I was so young, so naive, so full of hope back then. :::sigh::: <br />
<br />
Maybe you should start, I dunno, paying attention?<br />
<br />
Anywho.<br />
<br />
It's high time I REALLY recommit (for as long as possible, I guess----I'm trying to be realistic!) to being a better me.<br />
<br />
I have made great strides in not being such a freaking bitch. I am meditating more, and working on a lot of personal shit.<br />
<br />
But the one thing I don't have on lock, the one area I am substantially failing, is weight loss. A year ago, I was down 20-ish pounds. <br />
<br />
Well folks, I found them. Meanwhile, we continue to pay the gym to keep their doors open, without the hassle of them having to actually see our faces. See how generous I am to the local economy?<br />
<br />
Well, selfish Aimee is back. Because I am sick of the XLs. I want more Ms in my closet. Less XLs, more Ms. The hope is that the loss of hunks of fat will lessen the burden on my knees. And the exercise will help my meds work. And will make my sciatic nerves less bunched up and tight, causing acupuncture needles to wiggle, they are so inflamed. (You're welcome for the visual of a bunch of needles, sticking out of my flabby ass, twitching as if the needles themselves have Parkinson's.)<br />
<br />
So, I perused the online class schedule. There is was: GIT. Group Interval Training. It's a class where you go in and hang out in a certain area for 45 minutes, changing machines and floor exercises in 2 minute, 2 minute, 1 minute intervals. It doesn't get boring, you get to chat with your fellow chubs, and make jokes. Like when the trainer says, "if you like running, these series of lunges are GREAT!" while I mutter, "If we liked running, we wouldn't be hanging out here, with cookie crumbs on our horrifically insufficient sports bras". Or, when the trainer says, "there you go, nice and slow", and I snarkily reply, "slow? Yeah, we GOT slow----like a BOSS".<br />
<br />
Is that just me?<br />
<br />
Anyway. I went. I dragged Sky King. We did the whole thing, and did not use ice cream as a reward, so all in all, it was a success.<br />
<br />
Now, Lather, Rinse, Repeat. <br />
<br />
Wish me luck, and pray for my Lycra. FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-23657086086584184932013-01-22T20:31:00.001-08:002013-01-22T20:31:12.525-08:00A Shot In The Dark, So To Speak.So.<br />
<br />
My stomach is trashed. Each morning when I gobble down my pile of vitamins, herbal supplements, thyroid enhancers, mood elevators, and antibiotics, I get this raging sour stomach that lasts for about an hour, sometimes up to 3. It feels like a cross between nausea, hunger and cramps.<br />
<br />
It has gotten worse, the harsher my antibiotics have gotten.<br />
<br />
So Dr. Lyme wanted to get one more round of oral abx in me before upping the ante. I just finished up, and it's on to Bicillin injections. Twice a week. Via a needle. Into my ass. To top it off, there was discussion about "doing them at home".<br />
<br />
Wha?<br />
<br />
Yep. Seems people like to take their drugs home, and jam needles into their own asses. Or, they allow a loved one to do it for them.<br />
<br />
Sky King? Not a fan of needles. Gets fully creeped out. FULLY. So, he was not at the top of my list. Instead, one of my sister-in-laws had volunteered. But I really wanted a back-up. So, I of course went where I usually go for support: Facebook.<br />
<br />
<div class="-cx-PRIVATE-fbTimelineStatusUnit__root">
<div class="userContentWrapper">
<div class="-cx-PRIVATE-fbTimelineText__featured">
<i><span class="userContent">Me: Good news--no more oral antibiotics to trash my stomach!<br /> <br /> Bad news--they want to shoot them in my butt, instead. <br /> <br /> Any nurse-types wanna come hang out twice a week? I will feed you, and show you my butt!</span></i></div>
<div class="-cx-PRIVATE-fbTimelineText__featured">
</div>
<div class="-cx-PRIVATE-fbTimelineText__featured">
<i><span class="userContent">(And THIS is what I was treated to...) </span></i></div>
</div>
</div>
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</i>
<li class="UFIRow UFIComment" data-ft="{"tn":"R9"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866643}"><div class="clearfix" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866643}.0">
<div id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866643}.0.[1]">
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<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866676}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866643}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866643}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866643}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Rotten Friend #1---Anal</span></span></span></i></div>
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<i>
</i>
<li class="UFIRow UFIComment" data-ft="{"tn":"R9"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866676}"><div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866733}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<i>Rotten Friend #2---<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866676}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866676}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866676}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Is it safe to say it won't be the first time?</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866676}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866676}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866676}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></i></div>
</li>
<i>
</i>
<li class="UFIRow UFIComment" data-ft="{"tn":"R8"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866733}"><div class="clearfix" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866733}.0">
<div id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866733}.0.[1]">
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<div id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866733}.0.[1].0.[1].0">
<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<i><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866733}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0]"><a class="uiLinkSubtle" data-ft="{"tn":"N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/aimee.n.walker/posts/4787785626728?comment_id=4866733&offset=0&total_comments=14" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866733}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0]"><abbr class="livetimestamp" data-utime="1358189554" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866733}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0].0" title="Monday, January 14, 2013 at 10:52am"></abbr></a></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866733}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866733}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866733}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Rotten Friend #3---Aimee, I love your sense of humor. Thanks for tee'ing that one up for us.</span></span></span></i></div>
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<i>
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<li class="UFIRow UFIComment UFIAuthorReply" data-ft="{"tn":"R7"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}"><div class="clearfix" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}.0">
<div id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}.0.[1]">
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<div id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}.0.[1].0.[1]">
<div id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}.0.[1].0.[1].0">
<div class="UFICommentActions fsm fwn fcg" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1]">
<i><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0]"><a class="uiLinkSubtle" data-ft="{"tn":"N"}" href="https://www.facebook.com/aimee.n.walker/posts/4787785626728?comment_id=4866763&offset=0&total_comments=14" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0][1]"><abbr class="livetimestamp" data-utime="1358190199" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[1].[0].[0][1].0" title="Monday, January 14, 2013 at 11:03am"></abbr></a></span><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4867249}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]">Rotten Brother---</span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4867249}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4867249}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4867249}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Eewww my sister needs anal twice a week lol</span></span></span></i></div>
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<i>
</i>
<li class="UFIRow UFIComment" data-ft="{"tn":"R5"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868078}"><div class="clearfix" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868078}.0">
<div id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868078}.0.[1]">
<div class="clearfix UFIImageBlockContent -cx-PRIVATE-uiFlexibleBlock__flexibleContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868078}.0.[1].0">
<div id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868078}.0.[1].0.[1]">
<div id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868078}.0.[1].0.[1].0">
<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868078}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4866763}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Me---For once, I was serious :::smh:::</span></span></span></i></div>
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<i>
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<li class="UFIRow UFIComment UFIAuthorReply" data-ft="{"tn":"R4"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868114}"><div class="clearfix" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868114}.0">
<div id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868114}.0.[1]">
<div class="clearfix UFIImageBlockContent -cx-PRIVATE-uiFlexibleBlock__flexibleContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868114}.0.[1].0">
<div id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868114}.0.[1].0.[1]">
<div id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868114}.0.[1].0.[1].0">
<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868114}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<i><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868114}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][1]">Me---</span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868114}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868114}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868114}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Thank
you all, most supportive people of FB. Wow. Sky King has agreed to take
his aggression out on me, and will be learning how to torture me next
week</span></span></span></i></div>
</div>
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</li>
<i>
</i>
<li class="UFIRow UFIComment" data-ft="{"tn":"R3"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}"><div class="clearfix" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0">
<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<i><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Rotten Friend #3 (again)---Just make sure he pokes you parallel to the direction he's poking you.</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></i></div>
<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
</div>
<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">So. Sky King agreed to go and learn how to do the shots--we had spent some time online looking into techniques (the bicillin is thick, so a larger gauge needle is required. Also, the medicine goes into the muscle of the buttocks, and can make the area sore for a while). He is typically needle-shy----can't stand to see needles going into skin, so it was kind of a big deal when he said he would do the shots for me.</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">When we go in, we are armed with so much knowledge that Sky King is visibly nervous, and I am anticipating a painfully horrible experience. I check in, and ask what the cost is to get the today's injection done there, with Sky King as a learning witness. The cost? $6. </span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Sky King hears this, whips out his handy-dandy smartphone calculator. </span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">"23 weeks, 2 shots per week, that's 12 times 23, for a total of $276. Done. I will be the driver."</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">You see, the shots are $70 per shot. Plus $6 injection fee. Sky King? Totally down for the $6 extra per shot. He barely made it through the tutorial, watching a three inch needle getting jammed to the hilt into the fleshy part of my upper hip. So he figures, if $700 a month doesn't break us, $60 more per month to have the whole thing done by a professional is the least of his concerns. </span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">But why shots? </span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Well, as I said before, the stomach is torn to shreds. Also, my neuro symptoms are still pretty bad. There seems to be a small amount of progress, but the shots get into the system better, they have a much higher absorption rate. And so Dr. Lyme feels the neuro stuff will improve quicker, with the higher concentrations being in me all the time, without me being all passive-aggressive and refusing my meds when my stomach hurts. So, even though my energy is leaps and bounds better than it was, I still have a long road to getting my neurological stuff sorted out. </span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">So, shots. Twice a week. Hopefully, less side effects. :::crossing fingers:::</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Meanwhile, I have been enjoying a more normal existence, and haven't been blogging as much. Also, I have been working on being more positive and eliminating things that stress me out. Turns out, ranting about other people being assholes is less stress-reducing than one would think. Which means I have less funnies to share. </span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">I hope to work out a better life balance soon.</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">Peace.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0]">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[243].[1][2][1]{comment4787785626728_4868184}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> </span></span></span></div>
</div>
</li>
</ul>
FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-23677206711665426632013-01-18T05:00:00.000-08:002013-01-18T05:00:10.485-08:00I'm The Best Wife In The World<br />
I'm all about compromise, getting along, meeting the other's needs, etc. Basically, I'm one agreeable motherfucker. I try. I put forth EFFORT. This year, I have truly put my honey's needs before my own, and given him some excellent references and advice, as well as a viable game-plan, forsaking my desire to be swept off my feet by romantic fabulousness.<br />
<br />
I'm a giver, really.<br />
<br />
In years past, I have not done my best to fully express my Valentine's Day expectations. <br />
<br />
They vary year to year, based on what's going on, how much cash we have. You know. It's not SUPER critical that I get flowers and chocolate each and every year. But this year? I have a plan.<br />
<br />
You see, I have this friend, that I secretly hate. Not because she's taller, blond, and travels the world (she always brings fun things back, which is nice). No. <br />
<br />
It's because she loves the Steelers.<br />
<br />
But not just that: She has this AMAZING yellow jacket, a windbreaker. And the godforsaken thing is embroidered with all the dates the Steelers have won the Super Bowl. ALL FUCKING SIX OF THEM. We have only five. Not six. Not okay.<br />
<br />
Because of <a href="http://elitedaily.com/elite/2012/kylewilliams/">Kyle Williams</a>, GOD'S TEAM (aka the SF 49ers) did not go last year. But when we go, we win. It's our thing. <br />
<br />
This year is our year: I am certain.<br />
<br />
And because I am AWESOME, I have taken the liberty of sending my dear Sky King a most helpful email:<br />
<br />
"Dear Sweetest Husband of mine (I'm paraphrasing...)<br />
<br />
<a href="http://shop.cbssports.com/CBS_San_Francisco_49ers_Jackets/Cutter_And_Buck_San_Francisco_49ers_Ladies_Scarlet_Astute_Performance_Full_Zip_Windshirt" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://shop.cbssports.com/CBS_San_Francisco_49ers_Jackets/Cutter_And_Buck_San_Francisco_49ers_Ladies_Scarlet_Astute_Performance_Full_Zip_Windshirt</a><br /><br />Just order it in enough time to get the embroidered dates of each Super Bowl win:<br />XVI<br />XIX<br />XXIII<br />XXIV<br />XXIX<br />and of course<br />XLVII<br /><br />When we win Feb 3rd, order that night, 2 day ship, secure embroiderer in the meantime, Feb 14th should not be a problem.<br /><br />You're welcome."<br />
<br />
See? I'm smothered in Awesome. I am one helpful agreeable fabulous person, aren't I?<br />
<br />
Remember last year, when I blogged about a <a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2012/01/one-where-i-warn-all-men-in-universe-to.html">Warning to All Men in the Universe</a>? We just can't have a repeat of that. Nosiree.<br />
<br />
:::cue line of men wanting to marry me:::<br />
<br />
Sorry, guys. This pile of train wreck belongs to Sky King.FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-24369430163034190072013-01-16T05:00:00.000-08:002013-01-16T05:00:06.802-08:00Trader Joe's And The Tampon TravestyMaybe I spend too much time worried about feminine hygiene.<br />
<br />
Maybe you don't spend <i>enough</i>.<br />
<br />
Either way, I will try to remember that there are men that read my blog, and I will do my best to be sensitive to those without delicate ladybits. Just as I hope you will continue to avoid extensive discussions with me regarding the daily trials and tribs of testicles. UPDATE: I hereby give full amnesty to my cousin's hubs, who had a cancerous nut removed, and has begun blogging about the experience. He's funny, even without a nut, and you can harass/stalk him <a href="http://www.rantingcancerblog.com/">here</a>.<br />
<br />
But, I must be clear: Bleach has no place in my hoohaw. I'm not a fan of bleach in general (did you know it will eat a hole in stainless steel???) But bleach and extra sensitive internal parts? Nope. Not happenin'. At. All.<br />
<br />
Yes, tampons are bleached. So they are whiter, minty-fresh, some shit like that.<br />
<br />
But, there are alternatives: NatraCare makes them, they run about $.33 a piece. Seventh Gen also does some work with the unbleached, to the tune of $.45 a piece. You take an average cycle of 5 days, 8 tampons a day, then factor in the one that gets rifled around your purse ultimately covered in melty gum, or unwrapped and exposed to some of the biggest debris fields known to man, plus the one that falls out of the applicator, and you could be talking an additional $20 per month. <br />
<br />
I'm sure you can shop around. But, it's not really the type of item that can be purchased online, waiting 7-10 days for eternal absorption to arrive. When you need tampons, you CANNOT WAIT.<br />
<br />
That's why I was thrilled to find that Trader Joe's was carrying organic unbleached tampons. They were always nestled amongst the lavender soap and Tom's toothpaste, a happy little stack of $2.79 boxes. Quite the deal, for a bleach-free undercarriage.<br />
<br />
But lately, I have not seen them. Which is the thing about TJ's, right? You could get totally dependent on a product---for instance, breaded calamari, or chocolate dipped fudge in a cute gifty box-----and then it is RIPPED from your life, with no thought, no warning. Not unlike a cruel tampon alien abduction.<br />
<br />
And, I was home, sick, when the NEED arrived.<br />
<br />
I ask A LOT of my man. But I truly try to not ask him to purchase things that will A) cause him extreme grief, and #2, make him use words like "freshness", "absorbency" or "with wings". Except for that one time I texted him that I needed a douche in honey and vinegar, with the hopes that he would ask for help. I then had to clarify that is was the "sweet and sour" flavor. That's when he realized I was fucking with him. But I digress.<br />
<br />
But the other day, I needed his help. So I sent him to the regular store, for the regular yellow and blue box. The word, "applicator" came into play. It was unavoidable. I promise I did not giggle. Or relish. Or say a single, "muah ah ah".<br />
<br />
Too much.<br />
<br />
And all went well.<br />
<br />
The next time we were at TJ's, I scanned, looking for my unbleached friends. Nada. Nothing.<br />
<br />
So I did what a good consumer should: I went to the website.<br />
<br />
**An aside---TJ's has their own private label-----AND, all the items under this label are GMO FREE! See? Educational shit going on. You're welcome.<br />
<br />
I found their form for questions or concerns. I filled it out, thusly:<br />
What's up? TJ's was an amazing source for unbleached (and organic, I
think?) tampons. I have not seen them in some time. And, *gasp* I
almost sent my husband there for them. I can only imagine his horror
upon finding the shelf empty, then having to actually speak the word,
"TAMPON" in a public place. Have you no shame?<br />
<br />
Where they at?<br />
<br />
They responded quickly, but with a very dry (comparatively) stock answer:<br />
Dear Mrs. Walker,<br />
<br />
Thanks for contacting us. We have discontinued
the Organic Essentials Tampons in our stores due to slow sales. Because
our stores have such limited space, if an item does not meet a minimum
sales volume, we will discontinue it in order to bring in something we
think will sell better. I will pass your comments on to our buyers for
consideration. From time to time, if there is enough outcry to bring
back a discontinued item and we are able to do so, we will give it
another run. <br />
<br />
Regards,<br />
Nikki<br />
<br />
:::harumph:::<br />
<br />
Am I the only passionate menstruater (Blogger says "menstruater" isn't a word...how about "Menstruator"?) out there? I KNOW this isn't the case, judging by the numerous Moon Cup message boards, and even groups that want to demystify menstruation. Seriously? "Taking back" menstruation is not about feminism. Or if it is, I'm doing feminism wrong. Which is apparently going to be okay for me. Because eeew.<br />
<br />
I don't sit in a meadow, reading poetry by Emily Bronte, in philosophical wonderment while awaiting my period. Period. I don't even revel in the womanly wonder of the ability to produce a child (albeit with some help). And I have never ever felt compelled to wax poetic about cramping, flow, or other facets of the uterine expulsion. I do, however, enjoy the joke about not fucking with something that can bleed for seven days and REMAIN ALIVE.<br />
<br />
Accepting a period as shit you have to go through to enjoy the finer benefits of a vagina, and glorifying the praises of reusable washable menstrual pads are NOT two sides of the same coin. NOT EVEN CLOSE.<br />
<br />
Honestly, all I want is pretty much a happy little device that prevents me from looking like a zombie is attacking me from the inside out. And if that device also does not leach chemicals into me, all the better. Oh, and price point? Let's get that to a manageable level. <br />
<br />
Trader Joe's---please bring back the tampons. I will stock up. I will use yours, exclusively. Hell, I will even do a free bloggy review for you, and my FIFTY-ONE readers!!! Most of them have vaginas, too, so there's that.<br />
<br />
See? Public Service. Or, Pubic Service. <br />
<br />
Bahahahaha! FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-51815242037142579832013-01-13T18:37:00.004-08:002013-01-13T18:37:40.383-08:00Men's Public Restrooms Have Gotten Cleaner---I Should KnowI AM very fortunate, especially as far as Chronic Lyme people go, to have so many of my symptoms decreased significantly: low energy levels, constant muscle pain, constant joint pain, depression, anxiety.<br />
<br />
BUT. There is one that has gotten worse: my cognitive abilities. Specifically, those that involve "auto-pilot", or things that, deep down, we have been taught through many years of social mores, are wrong, or incorrect.<br />
<br />
For instance, I have been driving the route I drive, consistently over time, and looked up, and all of a sudden the path is completely unfamiliar and I doubt myself, and have to pull over to rely on GPS. <br />
<br />
Or, like using public restrooms.<br />
<br />
First, let me help you to fully understand the complex mess of my brain inadequacies.<br />
<br />
We ALL know I have never had much of a filter between my brain and mouth. Combine that with a wide range of medications, and shit just gets funnier and more and more inappropriate. Really, it's like a goddamn public service I provide.<br />
<br />
A while back, Sky King wanted to go to a grown-up movie, with only me. We ditched the kiddos, and ventured out. It was nice---no germy hands in the popcorn, only $30 in concessions. Truly, a night to remember. <br />
<br />
After 472 ounces of Coke Zero, we both had to beeline for the facilities at the end. I was fiddling with my phone, having missed 9 text messages (WTF???) and like a good obedient wife, was walking a respectable distance from my man (I <i>almost</i> said that without peeing myself laughing...). Unfortunately, he did not have the wherewithal to guide me to the women's restroom. Jerk.<br />
<br />
Instead, he walked right in, and straight up to the urinal. I, hot on his heels, followed him. Pretty much right away, things seemed amiss. I turned away from the urinals, and headed to the stall because something in my brain said that a urinal would not adequately meet my needs.<br />
<br />
THAT is when I realized I was in the wrong place. NOT at the sight of urinals. Nope. Not me. Instead, I went toward the stalls (which are not as plentiful for men. What the hell?)<br />
<br />
Then, a massive fit of guffaws ensued, by me, as well as Sky King. I blasted out the men's room door, laughing (almost to the point of peeing my pants) and ran toward the proper room. Fortunately, no one was coming out the door, or I would have blasted them, in my super-fast quest to erase time by running to the appropriate bathroom.<br />
<br />
The only other witness, fortunately, was the ticket-ripper guy. And my husband. Who has been sworn to silence. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, he married a big-ass blab.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Like what you read? Quit being such a blog-hog, and SHARE! Find me on Facebook, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/fearlessfibrowarrior">https://www.facebook.com/fearlessfibrowarrior</a><br />
<br />
<br />FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-86326759684051327782013-01-07T05:00:00.000-08:002013-01-07T05:00:00.970-08:00Toddler Bullies And Zero ToleranceMany of you know, I work in a child care center. <br />
<br />
Now, I guess all of you do.<br />
<br />
Anywho.<br />
<br />
I get emails from people interested in our facility---they ask about enrollment, fees, wait lists, the usual. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, I get strange emails. Emails that lead me to believe that some people are a little off (that's nice talk for batshit crazy).<br />
<br />
It happened the other day, as a matter of fact.<br />
<br />
I got the first email, requesting info. No biggie:<br />
<br />
Crazy lady: I would like to know approximately how long your wait-list is as well as your
current tuition rates.
<br />
<div>
</div>
<div>
Me: Attached is our tuition rates for
2013.
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053365">
What is the age of your child/children?</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053365">
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053365">
(Already, a teeny little flag flew----why wouldn't you indicate the age of your child? We don't have "a spot" available, any spot we would have would be very specific: "we have a spot in our infant room", or "Little Johnny would have to wait until Spring for a spot in our Pre-K classroom". This isn't a crane game situation, where we just chuck 'em in, and let the older ones sort it all out. We are a SCHOOL. Not an overhead bin in an airplane.)</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053365">
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053365">
Crazy lady: She is 19 months old. Does your center offer potty training or just diaper
changing services?</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053365">
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td _yuid="yui_3_1_1_9_135543523053326" valign="top"><div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053374">
Me: (Wha? Where would she send a child, where it would be expected that, one day her little angel would just arrive in panties, instead of diapers? am I over-thinking this? Are my teachers working too hard? Or do they potty train out of
laziness, not wanting to deal with diapers? Flags are a-flyin' at this
point. Now, I want to meet her just out of curiosity.) Each age group works to potty train,
with assistance from parents. Currently, our toddler room is full. However,
spots do open up from time to time, so please fill out the wait-list if you are
interested, to get your place in line. Attached is the wait list, you can email
it over. Our Infant/tod program director is Ms. (redacted) , she is cc'd in this
communication so she is aware you are interested, and so that you have her
direct email for inquiry.</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053373">
Also, you are invited to stop by at any
time for a tour to see our program.</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053373">
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053373">
(The tour is where they get to decide if we are for them, and, sometimes most importantly, are they right for us. I would rather have a family NOT enroll and potentially lose that money, than deal with someone that throws up red flags. Not enrolling a potential problem for my staff is ALWAYS prudent. No amount of money compensates for a crazy parent that expects perfection from group care.)</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053373">
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053373">
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0">
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<td _yuid="yui_3_1_1_9_135543523053330" valign="top"><div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053376">
Crazy lady: Ok great. What is your policy on
bullying and violence? I stopped taking my daughter to her a home day care because there was another child, aged 2.5 that would viciously attack her. </div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053376">
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053376">
Me: (WTF????? Viciously attack? Are we talking full WWE moves? Or, some sort of random violence thing where there was zero supervision? Or, is this mom referring to a scratch or bite from a peer? My inner CRAZY ALERT in bangin' like crazy---who gives this information over email?)</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053376">
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053376">
Instead, I wrote: </div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053376">
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0">
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<td _yuid="yui_3_1_1_9_135543523053333" valign="top"><div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053381">
Zero-tolerance policies do very little
to curtail undesirable behaviors, and as a learning facility, we work very hard
to help teach children appropriate responses to all situations, social or
otherwise. </div>
<div>
While I understand that you have a very personal reason for feeling black
and white on this issue, I have never, in 20 years, felt the need to dis-enroll a
child over a behavior we ultimately will be able to assist with curtailing or
eliminating. </div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
Perhaps a one-on-one care situation
would better suit your needs.</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
(I DID type it angry though.)</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
Crazy Lady: Yes I do have a personal reason and it's not against hitting, kicking, or biting
which I know can be eliminated through socialization and behavior modification
techniques. My daughter's eyeballs were severely cut from continuous scratching
and gouging which thankfully didn't damage her vision. That is the type of
violence that I will not tolerate. Thank you for your time. </div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
Wow. Okay. I GET that she has a very strange, specific, negative experience in her history with care. I DO get it. But, here is why this person is not right for us:</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
</div>
<ol>
<li><div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
People that go into this kind of depth with a stranger are made of crazy. They leave gooey crazy trails everywhere they go. They often tell you things in line at the grocery store, better left for close confidants: ".....so that is why I still buy adult diapers! SUCH a good idea, right???" I don't have time for the numerous meetings this parent will initiate. Most will surround whether her little angel is getting exactly 23.4% of the teacher's undivided attention, or why she got less corn at lunchtime. Drama? Already stocked up, thanks.</div>
</li>
<li><div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
Typically, parents come in for a tour. Especially people that work 2 blocks away and have been offered the opportunity to pop in at lunch really quick. Why is all this happening over email? </div>
</li>
<li><div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
Zero Tolerance? Mkay. No. We are dealing with children from the age of 6 weeks. They spend up to 12 hours a day with me and my staff. We are not waiting for little Susie to pull someone's hair a second time, then kicking them to the curb because of a "behavior management" issue. Kids bite. Hit. Scratch. Push. Poke. Use projectiles. Truly, they are rotten little animals, that need guidance (I really DO say this with a shit-ton of love in my heart, REALLY). All these things are undesirable, but also "teachable moments". I have NEVER, in 20 years, dis-enrolled a child for "bad behavior". Kids do all these things for a reason. Sometimes we just don't know what that reason is. We WILL, however, do our best to figure it out, and work with the family to curtail it. It's a learning experience, for all of us.</div>
</li>
</ol>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
I GET that bullying is bad-it's awful, bad things happen, sometimes administrators ignore serious incidents. But this is Pre-school. Toddlers do not have the capacity to intimidate, coerce, or abuse others (Unless spit-up is a form of abuse. Actually, now I may have to rethink my policy...) Toddlers don't make shivs out of plastic-covered safety spoons, in order to get more graham crackers, or a better spot in the sandbox. Toddlers don't push their friends up against the slide and say, "If you don't give me that paintbrush, I will make SURE your mom has more than one piece of you to pick up later today". </div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
These are young children, trying to learn social rules, striving to communicate ultimately without hair-pulling or biting. They are testing limits, working to establish connections, and work through their days as little scientists. They enjoy making things happen. And pulling someone's hair makes something happen. Your peer cries, a tall person will give you an unhappy face. It's a process. Ultimately, most children learn the results are not enjoyable, and the action will end. </div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
This is what we do. We do not go into any relationship with a family, anticipating the need to have a "Zero Tolerance" policy about anything. Each child is unique. <br />
<br />
Yes, we have bullies in the world. People that use coercion to get a desired result. People that use humiliation to get what they want. People that treat others like shit, to bring them down to their level. I know it's a problem. But in order to truly be labelled a bully, there needs to be intent. Maybe I am silly, maybe I know nothing about children (although all the fancy paper on my office wall says otherwise). But as Mr. Rogers as my witness, I do not believe I will ever be in a situation where I feel that a child, under the age of 6, has even the capacity to bully. Additionally, we work with children to help them achieve all the desired results for each age and stage---this includes NOT using coercion to get the last pink crayon. Problem-solving is taught, children are encouraged to work their problems out, with each other, knowing a helping adult is nearby. When there is conflict, a solution that pleases all parties (at least to some extent) is usually reached. That's just how learning to be human works, folks.<br />
<br />
So, No, CrazyLady. We DO NOT have a Zero Tolerance Policy on bullying. We do, however, have a Zero-Tolerance policy on crazy. I have forwarded your wait-list to my least-favorite competitor. You're welcome.</div>
<div _yuid="yui_3_1_1_2_135543523053379">
</div>
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FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-4893381760269056742013-01-03T22:26:00.001-08:002013-01-03T22:26:15.224-08:00Pathetic ApologiesYes, I'm still alive.<br />
<br />
I'm happy, on the mend in most areas, and just got home from a giant road trip.<br />
<br />
I have lots to tell you, including my efforts (successful, by the way) of cramming an entire year's worth of gravy consumption into three days.<br />
<br />
But I am sleepy, and need to decompress. <br />
<br />
I will write soon.<br />
<br />
Until then, enjoy this picture of gravy:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhML2qIpGj6W2CLVUzIRi0F6iGlCt3RAKbN7k48JbCQCEVVGoK_zm-M1jUqBWsWP7bdPpxr_9ZNuWimiSp5n-AzpOfq_4LmURzwdgfNdQCHmh4pt5lit3Wieror8vhQtPR5ZSCxjbB0ktY/s1600/gravy+tastrophe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhML2qIpGj6W2CLVUzIRi0F6iGlCt3RAKbN7k48JbCQCEVVGoK_zm-M1jUqBWsWP7bdPpxr_9ZNuWimiSp5n-AzpOfq_4LmURzwdgfNdQCHmh4pt5lit3Wieror8vhQtPR5ZSCxjbB0ktY/s320/gravy+tastrophe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
BTW, this is:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>buttery yummy biscuits, cut open, laid out on a platter. Not a plate. A FUCKING platter.</li>
<li>heaped with sliced, fried and seasoned taters</li>
<li>covered with chicken-fried steak (somehow, I ate it, thinking it was chicken. Clearly, I was not in my right mind, as I DID order 12 pounds of breakfast food)</li>
<li>smothered in melty cheese</li>
<li>enveloped by some crazy-ass egg-ham-sausage-cheese mixture</li>
<li>enrobed in grilled onions</li>
<li>topped with about a gallon of sausage gravy </li>
</ul>
<br />
I survived. <br />
<br />
Barely.<br />
FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-69068130684109466022012-12-05T08:45:00.001-08:002012-12-05T08:45:45.677-08:00Pinterest Turned My Daughter Into A SaladEveryone thinks that Pinterest is just this amazing place where people go to get ideas for awesome gifts, crafts, and recipes. <br />
<br />
But there is a dark side.<br />
<br />
For instance:<br />
<br />
I got caught up in the whole, "Make shit at home and save thousands of dollars each year!" craze. Laundry soap (but I couldn't get the kids to grate bars of soap, so that one was a fail), jar labels for bulk items (I got too fancy and they faded from the sunshine coming through the kitchen window---stupid sunshine), copycat handsoap (I got the measurements wrong and there was a microwave catastrophe that my husband can't seem to LET GO). <br />
<br />
So everyone was concerned when I said that I wanted to make my own shaving cream. But, I was out, and the man stuff is too minty for my delicate ladyparts. And, I had a shelf full of extra toiletries that had failed me in one way or another. So off to the pantry I went.<br />
<br />
I found this pin:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl40Crsb2kDFMhVWnWi_Bh-MhnsTD4fMOiRzRe_BtrwLW-kAMb-ZTArGhwnw8FWqMg2CAtDqxQ0-WA7gzkOEpGtQQDW6NLgpco-PMsaMS5g_joR5fBmQE6wK0RvnvkNNB-49MkxTSvhFI/s1600/shave+cream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl40Crsb2kDFMhVWnWi_Bh-MhnsTD4fMOiRzRe_BtrwLW-kAMb-ZTArGhwnw8FWqMg2CAtDqxQ0-WA7gzkOEpGtQQDW6NLgpco-PMsaMS5g_joR5fBmQE6wK0RvnvkNNB-49MkxTSvhFI/s320/shave+cream.jpg" width="232" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.homemademamas.net/2012/07/homemade-shave-cream.html">LINK</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Basically, you add a bunch of stuff like lotion, conditioner, soap, and oil to an old container. I'm sure there are specific measurements, but really, it's just a way to get goop on my legs so that I can shave months' worth of hair from them---does it really matter?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And I didn't have baby oil, because it is an EVIL petrochemical, so I used some grapeseed oil from when I<a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2011/12/tuesday-tutorial.html"> tried to make salt scrubs last year</a>. The grapeseed oil smells very salad-y. But it's for shaving my legs, and it was being mixed with 5 other scent-y things, so whatev.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
BUT THEY FORGOT THE LAST STEP. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The last step would be "Label it, so when your 8-year-old uses your shower because the teenage made their gross, she will know it is NOT CONDITIONER".</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Instead, Princess came out, and I remarked, did you brush your hair out---as I ran my fingers through it, pulling tangles apart. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
She said, "Yeah, but it was crappy conditioner. It smells like salad. And it doesn't work very well". </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Now, Princess has a history of having issues with hair product. The last time she really read a bottle label, she came running out of the shower, concerned about whether she should be using product for "fine" or "coarse" hair. I assured her it was all marketing, and it was all pretty much the same. So her hair product discrimination skills are low. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I leaned in, took a whiff. It smelled suspiciously like a mess of competing fruity scents, with an undercurrent of salad. Very MUCH like my homemade shaving cream. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Fuck you, Pinterest.</div>
FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-47233963720447928952012-11-28T12:24:00.001-08:002012-11-28T12:24:22.649-08:00The One Where I'm Too Old For This ShitMy brother is 8 years younger than me.<br />
<br />
Also, he does not have a bunch of health problems.<br />
<br />
So being a younger thirtysomething, he goes out. Like, at night. When other people are out, also. Apparently, it's a "thing".<br />
<br />
I vaguely remember this type of activity from when I was younger.<br />
<br />
He came to town for Thanksgiving, and wanted to go see a cover band that we love: The Spazmatics. They are an 80's cover band dressed as nerds. We have seen them live locally quite a few times, and my bro has seen them TONS of times. It's a good show, I know all the songs, the guys are funny, so I enjoy going out to see them. Or at least, I USED TO enjoy going out to see them.<br />
<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/VwC5C39LN-A?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
But being 40 has put a damper on my swag. Also, having health problems that make sleeping elusive, being on a strict meds and detox schedule, and being tired constantly has put a kink in my tail. My feet hurt too much to stand or dance for long (thank you, Bartonella), so when I hear, "live band", my first concern is whether there will be comfortable seating. 40, going on 80.<br />
<br />
So I was hesitant to say "yes". But like the awesome Big Sis I am, I sucked it up, and went. Even as a Designated Driver.<br />
<br />
We drove. And drove and drove and drove. Because they were playing at an Indian Casino, Cache Creek. So the location was almost an hour and a half away. We left right around my normal bedtime. I felt like a little girl that got to stay up late for something special, like a drive-in movie, or an all-night drive to Disneyland.<br />
<br />
Stifling yawns, I warned my passengers (after we were on the road and I had control over the vehicle) that I would <i>maybe</i> stay for the first half. They were happy to have a sober ride with a badass minivan, so they did not argue.<br />
<br />
We got there, with 3 minutes before the show was set to begin.<br />
<br />
Things do not start on time in the world of Nightlife. I guess because they have had all day to get behind. So this meant that I had some time to convince the Blackjack dealers I needed new tires for the Swagger Wagon. I worked that table like a stripper with 9 kids to feed. When I was up half a Michelin, I meandered over to the comfy chairs in the lounge. Did I mention the chairs were cushy? Comfy? Gloriously soft and accepting of my tired ass? :::swoon:::<br />
<br />
I got a beverage to blend in with the cool kids----a Seabreeze. Except that I'm old, and no one knows how to make a Seabreeze any more. You'd think I was Don Draper, asking for a damned Old Fashioned. IT'S VODKA, CRAN, AND GRAPEFRUIT, PEOPLE! Instead, I sipped a VERY RED vodka-cran-with-lyme. Which is fine, because it was more cranberry than vodka, so it was practically medicinal. No UTIs for me.<br />
<br />
And then, I danced! I brought back my GoGos dance moves. Which fit in better than I expected. It didn't even have to be "ironic". <br />
<br />
But Sky King was worried about me. Being out with Normal Adults At Night, and all. We texted for a bit:<br />
<br />
SK: Took you long enough to get there.<br />
<br />
Me: It's DEEP!<br />
<br />
SK: Obvs. Have fun, keep your bro out of trouble.<br />
<br />
Me: I will do my best.<br />
<br />
<br />
Hey, Progress!!! You trust ME to not get into a fight!<br />
<br />
SK: Yeah, Fun Aimee seems to be shelved, so I worry less.<br />
<br />
:::this is the part where I feel responsible, and sorry for myself, missing Fun Aimee and all the potential altercations and hangovers that go with her:::<br />
<br />
So I sang til my throat ached, and danced 3 whole songs. In between, I worked on my kids' college funds. UPDATE: Things AREN'T looking good for college. Maybe a scholarship for sarcasm will be en vogue by then.<br />
<br />
I forgot the types that go out late at night, hammer-drunk, dancing in public.<br />
<br />
There are the Drunk Chicks. They tend to congregate in large groups. Herds, if you will. They yell, "WooHoo!!!" a lot, and make you dance with them. They are persistent. And they feel accomplished if they can remember your name, song to song. It goes like this:<br />
<br />
(all caps because it's too fucking loud there)<br />
<br />
DRUNK CHICKS: COME DANCE WITH US! IT'S "COME ON EILEEN!"<br />
<br />
ME: NO, I'M GOOD.<br />
<br />
DC: IT'LL BE FUN. AIMEE, RIGHT? C'MON, AIMEE!!!! DANCE WITH US!!!!<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I did NOT have to drink a drink bought by him. But likely
only because I left by midnight. I was not wanting to be in his cologne
orbit. is went on. All night. I relented once in a while. They tried to give me their tequilla shots bought by some stranger. Either they were close to puking, or wanted to make sure they hadn't been roofied. Even though I hear that <a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2012/08/hunter-s-thompson-and-me.html">Roofies help with sleep issues, </a>I declined.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, to my right, there was a man with more gold chains than hair. Originally, I was all, "Dude, who's the creepy old guy?". Then, I decided, "Man, forty looks awful on some people". it was a sad revelation. In a sea of sad revelations.<br />
<br />
Finally, there was Side Pony Chick. This chick has issues, which seem to be solved with kitten sweatshirts and Mudslides. She dances like she has nothing to lose. And her hair is a testament to her desire to put out the "I don't care about life anymore" vibes. Don't be fooled by her smiles. Always remember you are still in a bar in an Indian Casino. This chick will give you diseases that have been mostly eradicated through better hygiene and life choices----smallpox, The Plague, scurvy. <br />
<br />
I finally escaped the night with less than a $40 loss at the tables (sorry, Harvard) and up two drunks. We meandered down the road til fuller bladders prevailed, and found respite at the haven of all Drunk Havens, Denny's.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGr5R0F9rDjcg5-qqwW9X0qXej-eC_bPNuzJY0RF2mFti7nOLqLCER0WpjxbsNHlk1wdeY0c6bwpRBzaYwM4lmM2hnou2OIY0fP2TVlGD_7YuONfqIe5LmvDUqnxuZ1XTLJ7kxFLZwM1U/s1600/2012-11-24_01-13-40_322.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGr5R0F9rDjcg5-qqwW9X0qXej-eC_bPNuzJY0RF2mFti7nOLqLCER0WpjxbsNHlk1wdeY0c6bwpRBzaYwM4lmM2hnou2OIY0fP2TVlGD_7YuONfqIe5LmvDUqnxuZ1XTLJ7kxFLZwM1U/s320/2012-11-24_01-13-40_322.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Only drunk people could possibly order this</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Then, we finally pulled into the drive<span style="font-size: small;">way. I was home! I survived! The kids were still alive! (Can I just say how glorious it is, to have a 13 year old, that will feed and water the 8 year old? GLORIOUS<span style="font-size: small;">.)</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Princess left me a sweet note:</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieXhpsDQggwK31YWszXXYGuWDGkzspUZ3KqMNTt-ASW_j9XKTtH45HrMbjI_OlOfzcAFQiLnFGRgizlho3b3Xychl3-1vRdrD1LXMi5F36nc2ANPpVhZU5lBtQFfCigCBLP4xHzhTjgJA/s1600/princess+tiles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieXhpsDQggwK31YWszXXYGuWDGkzspUZ3KqMNTt-ASW_j9XKTtH45HrMbjI_OlOfzcAFQiLnFGRgizlho3b3Xychl3-1vRdrD1LXMi5F36nc2ANPpVhZU5lBtQFfCigCBLP4xHzhTjgJA/s320/princess+tiles.jpg" width="320" /> </a></div>
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It says, "Avery loves you mom and dad. O and sarah you still o me ten dollers babie sitting chicoe"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Apparently, she said she had babysat the dog, Chico. And she concluded that babysitters get paid. Ten dollars seemed fair. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
All in all, she might not need college. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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Which works out well for everyone.</div>
FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-58390104446657313782012-11-23T09:31:00.003-08:002012-11-23T09:31:46.539-08:00The One Where I KNEW He Was "The One"I have always strongly suspected that Sky King was the best guy for me. He has shown me, so many many times. he <a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2011/10/back-fat.html">looks out for my back fat</a>, he has read my blog and <a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2011/12/coping-through-holiday-season.html">booked amazing hotel rooms overlooking Union Square in San Francisco</a> just to please me despite his aversion to crowds of snotty people, and generally been by my side through thick, thicker, and thickest.<br />
<br />
But last night, late Thanksgiving Evening, after turkey, gravy and pie, he had my back, yet again. This was our text convo:<br />
<br />
Me: Shit's getting REAL at the Target. Someone just cut. It got ugly. Please go to Home Depot, we need tarps, a shovel, and 50 lbs of Lyme.<br />
<br />
SK: On my way<br />
<br />
Me: I always knew you had my back. You *might* want to grab my passport too, just in case.<br />
<br />
SK: Go bag already packed, along with the emergency cash. We are good to go.<br />
<br />
Me: I LOVE YOU BABY!! (ala Natural Born Killers)<br />
<br />
<br />
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Me, and Sky King. 180 pounds ago. Mostly mine.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
See? I heart him, SO DAMN HARD.FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-4362114552851767032012-11-19T05:00:00.000-08:002012-11-19T05:00:00.694-08:00Epiphanies, Vol 1You know when you are going through life, blissfully ignorant, and then you have some MAJOR revelation that leads you to see the world differently than you ever have before, and it skews the way you will look at life forever?<br />
<br />
Well, that happened to me, just the other day.<br />
<br />
We were watching Billy the Exterminator, on A&E. Maybe because they are crazy. Maybe because of our <a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2012/10/our-new-pet-or-thing-living-under-house.html">recent problems with skunk</a>s. I dunno. But I am <i>drawn</i>. <br />
<br />
I realized something profound. Big Bill and Donnie are not his parents. It must have been some sort of strange adoption process, I gotta admit. But, through my keen observational skills, I have deduced who his natural parents are.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMnlPudeIKyDLSSGzVw6TdS3SY1yJTRyjluvBg35RJcpjlbIPiEFr38zBFl574TCVjknh-39AbvkJnkdhoNH02sRel5YhNzL4TrvcO8M5zl9dd-LYGH_TMj5gbKJuSl6xfyVrIbbXRQ28/s1600/Kate-Gosselin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMnlPudeIKyDLSSGzVw6TdS3SY1yJTRyjluvBg35RJcpjlbIPiEFr38zBFl574TCVjknh-39AbvkJnkdhoNH02sRel5YhNzL4TrvcO8M5zl9dd-LYGH_TMj5gbKJuSl6xfyVrIbbXRQ28/s320/Kate-Gosselin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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PLUS</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSnvOpux9zhSlycHiQM6UrhClG754_wzC5nFA4bF_CUzVgfayjHaj9O_UJ_i9UMDz-qZqXyu2m9L3mqiKfnyN5ETkRgC3H7gPzXxuxU6VZA2QSINtm-ITyzHxG48_-feXvNKYrmfparA/s1600/cyrus_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSnvOpux9zhSlycHiQM6UrhClG754_wzC5nFA4bF_CUzVgfayjHaj9O_UJ_i9UMDz-qZqXyu2m9L3mqiKfnyN5ETkRgC3H7gPzXxuxU6VZA2QSINtm-ITyzHxG48_-feXvNKYrmfparA/s320/cyrus_3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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EQUALS</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOFQ8IiJvjAbNTKFL9497vq_H09zALLjj3azZwGxjBftNopr0Qm6E45Qq7E9_cNGLkvqa-j9gBIv16ejn1G0xGXq04_Nl1aegIuninAQzhAGIpjE104lqxx4d8vQOuBjhvMyLY69yYMvg/s1600/billy+exterm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOFQ8IiJvjAbNTKFL9497vq_H09zALLjj3azZwGxjBftNopr0Qm6E45Qq7E9_cNGLkvqa-j9gBIv16ejn1G0xGXq04_Nl1aegIuninAQzhAGIpjE104lqxx4d8vQOuBjhvMyLY69yYMvg/s1600/billy+exterm.jpg" /></a></div>
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Oh. And I have a sneaking suspicion that the sunglasses are there to disguise the fact that he is reading cue cards. Poorly. Always. </div>
<div>
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<div>
Billy---way to turn a shit job into a show. You probably get tons of tail because of your exposure. And, I bet some of that tail is female. Maybe even human. Kudos, Bro.</div>
FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-6241987369023351892012-11-17T09:59:00.002-08:002012-11-17T09:59:21.354-08:00Mom Of The YearMany of you already know what an amazing compilation of fabulous parenting decisions I embody. You all marvel at my ability to avoid swear words until they ignore my request to get in the car the 5th time. (Truly, I have the patience of a saint.) Many of you frequently stop me in the street, to ask why I don't begin drinking earlier in the day. And you all look at the wonderful children I have produced and raised to perfection, not unlike people marvel at the Sistine Chapel. I get it----I rock.<br />
<br />
But did you know that I also bring a wealth of daily practical knowledge to my children, that they just don't get in school? I also encourage communication and social development, through a wide range of methodologies.<br />
<br />
Here, let me show you:<br />
<br />
A few days back, I was a helper in my daughter's class. That morning, she needed a water bottle to take to school. The cabinet we keep them in was bare, so I looked to the sink. There I found the collapsible ones (you know, the ones that <i>could</i> double as flasks that are light, collapsible and contain nothing that sets off metal detectors at stadiums?) that we had taken to Maui (we had used them for Mai Tais at the beach) and I noticed they seemed to be sand-free. This, to the untrained, implied that the cleanliness level of the water bottle was acceptable.I filled that sucker up with water, being an awesome mom that wanted her beautiful daughter to be hydrated.<br />
<br />
Later that day, I sauntered into my child's Montessori classroom, with bags of goodies for their class party.<br />
<br />
Princess sought me out immediately, with big hugs, as she usually does. I, of course, relished the moment.<br />
<br />
She looked up at me with her earnest big brown eyes, and said, "Mommy? My water tastes like wine. Next time, could you give me a water bottle that doesn't have alcohol in it?" <br />
<br />
Fortunately, only 3 teachers and 2 other parents heard. And some kids. Frankly, I'm glad I missed "share time" that morning.<br />
<br />
Later, when we didn't have any way to open the sparkling cider bottles, everyone knew to come to me. My car? Fully stocked with all the beverage-opening implements you could imagine.<br />
<br />
It's like I'm a Girl Scout for alcoholics---always prepared for a party.<br />
<br />
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<br />FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-11489107864172211092012-11-16T05:00:00.000-08:002012-11-16T05:00:04.211-08:00Mall Jail, Part 3<a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2012/11/mall-jail-part-1.html"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">For part <span style="font-size: x-small;">1</span>, click here</span></i></a><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2012/11/mall-jail-part-2.html">For part 2, click here </a></span></i><br />
<br />
So, here's the boys' perspective:<br />
<br />
The boys were minding
their own business, when they were hankering for a corn dog. Who could
blame them? The sweet, corn-y goodness that Hotdog on a Stick churns
out? Could make angels cry. Seriously. <br />
<br />
But, they were drunk.
Shitfaced on Bacardi 151, slurped from an Aquafina bottle or two. in a
mall, where impressionable children hang, with their corndog-buying
mommies. Oh, and sexist jokes about women? Not appreciated.<br />
<br />
So after they were ejected? P realized he would not be meeting up with the ladies, as planned. And we are some scary bitches. So, he left SK on the curb outside the mall, and went back in real quick to buy a sucking-up gift to please his lady, that is going to be pissed when they pull a no-show.<br />
<br />
SK? He thought the best place for him was in P's Jeep. So he staggered through the parking lot, moving from bumper to bumper, looking for a Jeep to crawl into. Dear God, WHY wasn't YouTube invented yet? Can you even IMAGINE some drunk motherfucker, barely able to walk, bumper surfing? And then, what if he had FOUND a Jeep? Who knows where he could have ended up.<br />
<br />
He finds his way back to the front of the Mall, and sits on a curb, hoping someone with upright capability will find him.<br />
<br />
But then, the tummy gets to gurglin. It also <i>ma</i>y have been, oh, 110 degrees. In the Midwest. So, SK does the only smart thing---he leans back, and very discreetly begins to vomit into a hedge.<br />
<br />
At some point, the retching gets so involved, he has to completely abandon decorum. He is open legged, resting his elbows on his knees, vomiting on his own shoes. Repeatedly. Soon, he feels a presence. he looks up, and there are about 8 Mall Cops, shading the sun.<br />
<br />
Just then, P comes out of the Mall, with a peace offering for his lady. The Mall Cops say, "Hey! Aren't you the guy we just kicked out of the Mall?"<br />
<br />
Things, obviously, went downhill, culminating with their Mall Jail Experience.<br />
<br />
Tulsa
PD had them in detention, with the Mall Cops chomping at the bit for
serious charges. P was scathing, spewing profanities towards the Mall Cops, but the model of
respect toward TPD.<br />
<br />
The Mall Cops had gotten their Mall Cop Supervisor involved, and he was trying to get to the bottom of this mess. He had two twenty-somethings, handcuffed, shitfaced, in his office. One was actively barfing into a metal wastebasket. After a spell, he spoke to SK.<br />
<br />
"Boy, I am sick and tired of talking to a waste basket. Sit up!"<br />
<br />
SK slowly pulled his head out of the bucket, did a self-assessment. He was acutely aware that the little demons spinning his brain inside his head at an alarming rate worked exponentially faster when he was upright. So with dramatic pause, SK uttered, "this ain't happenin'" and back into the bucket he went, until it was time to be released.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, TPD took over, while the Mall Cops swished their flashlights in the hallway.<br />
<br />
Seems they were telling some jokes, of the sexist variety, in the Food Court. Either the Lemonade Girl got huffy, or a mom with kids snitched. Either way, security was called, and the boys were ushered to the nearest exit. <br />
<br />
:::Mall Jail, both boys handcuffed. SK's head in wastebasket:::<br />
<br />
TPD: So, what was the joke you told, that got you in so much trouble?<br />
P: As you can see, sir, we are in quite a bit of trouble, I'd rather not repeat it<br />
TPD: C'mon now, son. I like a good joke as much as the next guy. And I just can't imagine what you said, that started all this trouble.<br />
P: Sir, as I have said before, I would much rather not share, and avoid additional trouble.<br />
TPD: Tell you what-I won't hold it against you.<br />
<br />
:::sigh:::<br />
<br />
P: Okay. "what's the useless piece of skin around the vagina?" "The woman".<br />
<br />
(TPD about lost his damn mind, laughing so hard. You see, he was a bit put off being dragged out to the Mall, along with 7 or 8 or his buddies, all for a couple drunk and disorderlies. So his patience with the Mall Cops? Thinner than a comb-over in the wind. But, the Mall Cops were so pissed with P's mouth, TPD felt they had to do SOMETHING. At this point, TPD was trying to figure out how to get these two drunks home, without having to drag them to real jail, while still placating a bunch of underpaid over-important flashlight holders.)<br />
<br />
Once all the details were hammered out, both boys signed off on trespassing, as well as a 6 month Mall ban. (Really? Banning two men from a Mall? Seriously? The only people that hurt was me, and S. And maybe future corndog sales.)<br />
<br />
The boys were released to me and S, and we schlepped their asses back to the house, for MOST of us to get ready for work. P was the bartender----that's what they do best, work shitfaced. But SK? He was done. DONE. As in, lay him on the sofa with a towel below his mouth, face down, so he doesn't aspirate on his own vomit kind of done. Then, send a barely functioning drunk by the house a few times, to make sure he's still breathing.<br />
<br />
P wasn't done being belligerent, yet. Here's the deal. While we were driving back to the place to get ready for work, I was less than thrilled with Mr. Almost-blew-his-education. I had not been joking when I mentioned that an alcohol violation would ruin his career. It would end it. Airlines do not hire pilots with alcohol offenses. At all. So, our entire time in Tulsa, far from family and friends? Would have been a waste. Combined with HUGE student loans. I was, shall I say, non-plussed. And P chastised me for my lack of support of my man.<br />
<br />
P: Why are you being such a bitch??? You should learn to be supportive, to stand by your man, when he needs you.<br />
Me: Are you fucking kidding me right now? I am VERY supportive, I called his work, told them he was too busy vomiting in the Mall Security Office to call in sick to work, and NO, I did not mention that his particular brand of food poisoning was Bacardi-inspired. I did NOT mention that, instead of getting ready for work, he was narrowly avoiding arrest. And you're questioning my ability to stand by my man? IF he survives this day, it will be because I was too busy working two jobs to support his ass instead of choking his damn neck, while he is passed out on your couch rather than contributing to our bills. So, the next time you want to question my devotion, my dedication? Go fuck yourself, instead.<br />
<br />
It kept going, the entire time we were getting ready for work, mostly yelling from room to room, him questioning my dedication to my man, me explaining in vivid detail how incredibly stupid I thought they both were. <br />
<br />
SK distinctly remembers one very small point of this day. He remembers hearing P chastise me. He remembers thinking, "Dude, you rock. Thanks for standing by me. But P? You're gonna lose."<br />
<br />
Me? I got the perfect revenge: I married SK. And, I started this blog. Next time you see him? Ask if he wants a shot of 151.<br />
<br />
<br />FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-27861187057033738442012-11-08T05:00:00.000-08:002012-11-12T21:49:53.684-08:00Mall Jail, Part 2<a href="http://fearlessfibrowarrior.blogspot.com/2012/11/mall-jail-part-1.html"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>For Part 1, click here </i></span></a><br />
<br />
<br />
So there we are, thumbing through this giant book, trying to figure out what in God's name the Mall Security area would be listed under. We finally figure it out, and this is what they say:<br />
<br />
Mall Cops: Yes, they are here. They are in custody and TPD* is on the way. You might wanna hurry.<br />
<br />
<i>*TPD= Tulsa Police Department. Not good.</i><br />
<br />
We jump in S's new car, and haul ass over to the Mall.<br />
<br />
Now, this is Tulsa's biggest Mall. It's huge-there's like, 5 anchor stores. When we zoomed off, we had no idea where in the hell we were headed. We entered the vast parking lot, not sure where to begin. Fortunately, the Mall Cops had their lights in full Panic Mode.<br />
<br />
We zeroed in on the quite large congregation of people. Before S could fully stop, I jump out of the car, swinging my 25 pound purse like a medieval flail. (I'll wait while you look that one up.)<br />
<br />
As I walk up, I see that there are roughly 10 Mall Cops, surrounding one loud guy (P) and one pathetic guy, standing in a puddle of his own vomit. All I hear is P spouting off:<br />
"Here come our wives, and they're gonna kick ALL your asses".<br />
<br />
I walk up, apparently exuding enough heat that I get everyone's attention really quickly. All heads turn toward me. I say:<br />
You, (to P), you need to shut the fuck up. You all (to the Mall Cops, and now a few members of TPD) need to be patient while I work this shit out. You (SK), I can't even fucking look at you. You are a mess.<br />
<br />
At this point, they seem to assign a 500 pound Tulsa's Finest to corral the crazy. <br />
<br />
By this time, S has joined up with us, and the Mall Cops are arguing what to do with SK. Standing has not been kind to him, and the Boys in Blue were getting sick of being his legs. There was some talk of EMSA (the guys that give very generous $400 trips to the ER). I spoke up pretty damn quick: "Umm, no, he's fine. SK, get your shit together, you have no insurance. You are poor. You need to stand." This seems to help matters. The convo turns to how to get SK into their designated Mall Jail. No one really wants to take responsibility for the drunk puker, for obvious reasons.<br />
<br />
"Well, he can't walk through the mall, he can't hardly walk. And, I don't want him puking inside the mall".<br />
"I'm not putting him in my car, I just washed it".<br />
"He can't go in mine, either."<br />
"I guess we could put him in the back of the Bronco".<br />
<br />
So there is Sky King, loaded, handcuffed, into the back of a Bronco, being driven around to the Mall Jail access. <br />
<br />
That's right. They have a Mall Jail. Apparently, this type of stuff happens enough that they have a place for it. Color me relieved, that we are dealing with Mall Felon Professionals.<br />
<br />
We follow them around the mall, and the boys are ushered in. We are left outside with a few of the TPD guys, who chat us up.<br />
<br />
I'm waxing poetic on the merits of being with a juvenile delinquent that finds getting shitty at the Mall socially acceptable behavior. I must have really been gaining some serious steam. At one point, a very large, very tall cop says to me, "it's not that big a deal, you should calm down." Umm, regardless of the amount of ammo on your hip? Don't tell me to calm down. I counter with, "Calm down? Are you fucking kidding me? He's 23, in flight school, living in Tulsa ONLY to go to school to become a pilot, and he gets so shitfaced he offends an entire goddamn mall, and ANY alcohol violation ends the career he's spending $50,000 trying to obtain? And you want me to calm down? You're high." Then, I went back to swearing and pacing, pacing and swearing. Also, trying to figure out what to do about the job SK won't be showing up at. <br />
<br />
He saw WAY more humor in this whole situation than I did.<br />
<br />
And it was touch and go, given the amount of trouble they caused. Turns out, they were charged with trespassing, and the Mall Cops wanted even more charges brought up.<br />
<br />
Tip of the Day: When people have detained you and
handcuffed you, do not be rude. Do not tell them your girlfriend/wife
could kick your ass, and don't sign your violations with a flourish-y
"fuck you". Turns out, they get a bit sensitive. And, they piss and
moan to the Real Cops, to press charges.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I had to call his work. Not because I'm thoughtful. Fuck that---rent was due. I didn't need Sky King blowing his job over this. So, being awesome, I called them, and said, "SK is at the Mall, and got sick. He threw up all over, and is now in Mall Security. He won't be making his shift tonight". This was met with, "He will need to call in, himself". I responded with, "Listen, I'm trying to be awesome, telling you he won't be in. He won't be calling you, until he has left security. I will give him your message."<br />
<br />
See? I wasn't going to lie. BUT, I wasn't going to throw his golden-egg laying ass under the bus, either. (Golden egg? Who am I kidding? We were scraping by, already with huge student loan payments, and he was a part-time server. More like, Golden Nit). <br />
<br />
Want the boys' perspective?<br />
<br />
Stay tuned.<br />
<br />FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-61024905807569215522012-11-05T05:00:00.000-08:002012-11-05T05:00:13.585-08:00Mall Jail, Part 1<i>NOTE: Those of you in RL maybe already know this story. Or, if you don't, you TOTALLY SHOULD. It's like, classic FFW and Sky King. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Those of you that read me for my funny banter, and hijinks? You will totally crush on me even more than you do already. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Those of you that read me for health stuff? You get a break today. You're welcome. And, I mention proper positioning for someone who you fear might aspirate their own vomit, which is kind of health-related, so there's that.</i><br />
<br />
It all began, way back when, in a wonderful little town called Tulsa OK.<br />
<br />
Sky King had left me, to pursue a career in aviation-he wanted to become a pilot. And, instead of waiting for me to finish college so we could adventure off together, he broke my heart, left me for the Midwest, and told me we "should see other people". THAT is for another post, and maybe an ABC After-school Special. <br />
<br />
I was undeterred. Being a fully committed stalker even at the ripe young age of 23, I finished my degree a year later, and had to choose between the Bible Belt, and a whirlwind trip through Europe with a friend. I did what any 23 year old would do. I used the information as a weapon. <br />
<br />
I thought about how amazing it would be to start in Greece, working our way through Europe, following the growing seasons from January through Fall, I even went so far as to go to a bookstore and buy a book* on how to live as a cute young thing, travelling through Europe, working as little as possible. Lemme tell ya, it was looking good. I was spunky and outgoing, with a nice rack. Things were going to go WELL in Europe.<br />
<br />
<i>*Note: this was way back when it took 33 minutes to download one pornographic image, so Waldenbooks was The Place To Be.</i><br />
<br />
I called Sky King, who was (supposedly) totally cool with our "seeing other people" arrangement:<br />
<br />
Me: Hey! How are things? Seeing anyone?<br />
Him: Not really. <br />
Me: Cool. Me neither, too much.<br />
Him: Yeah. What's up?<br />
Me: Oh, that's right, I have totally exciting news! Michelle and I, you know that chick from work? We are thinking about going to Europe, right after I graduate, and work our way around, following the harvest seasons. We will start in Greece, and then move north when the weather clears up. It's going to be totally amazing!!!<br />
Him: Oh. That sounds......cool, I guess.<br />
Me: Yep! And I will send you postcards from all over, with pics from all the places I've been!!<br />
<br />
:::two days later:::<br />
<br />
Him: Hey. I was thinking, would you like to move to Tulsa after graduation? And, from now on, be exclusive? Like, NOT see other people? <br />
Me: OK....Sounds great!<br />
<br />
<br />
So to recap: Sky King, scared to death I was going to be wined and dined, and romanced by droves of European awesomeness, complete with sexy accents. He did what the average American male tends to do-he panicked. Me? I just merely presented him with my exciting new after-graduation plan.<br />
<br />
:::fast-forward about a year and a half:::<br />
<br />
We are living together, in Tulsa. I have graduated with a degree that is borderline useless, leading me to a life of wiping babies' asses for all eternity. But being all badass and smart and shit, I took a job as a social worker with the State of Oklahoma. However, I also needed to eat, so I took a night job, serving cocktails at a local pool hall (truly, it sounds seedier than it was. We wore tuxedo shirts, I swear).<br />
<br />
Anywho, we all hung out at that pool hall after-hours. Sky King worked as a food server at a local seafood restaurant, and all the servers would come over to the pool hall til closing. Then we would sop up the liquor in our stomachs with grease, at the local diner, conveniently open at 3 am.<br />
<br />
Some days, we even started the day off at the bar. We would hang out early, have a few drinks.<br />
<br />
This one particular day, we were hanging out at the bar, drinking beers and doing shooters (rattlesnakes, if I'm not mistaken). Someone said, "Hey! Let's go to the mall!" Which of course, is a brilliant idea.<br />
<br />
The girls jumped in S's new car, the boys said something about heading to the State store, and were off in P's jeep.<br />
<br />
For those of you that live in less restrictive, less depraved states, the "State store" meant "State-run Liquor Store". In Oklahoma, you buy all your liquor, including the really crazy shit like Everclear and Bacardi 151, at the State store. Being from California, where we can buy liquor at the same place we get our porn, I didn't really pay attention to that comment. I wish I had. <br />
<br />
So we all head over to the mall, planning to meet up with the boys outside of the Food Court, with plenty of time to head to P & S's place to get ready for work. <br />
<br />
You may be thinking, "why are they at a bar, drinking, when they have to work?" The answer to that is, don't worry. We were drinking at like, 10 am, and no one had to be at work til at least 6 pm that night. We had PLENTY of time to work that shit out. I thought.<br />
<br />
The girls and I, we meandered and perused, probably bought shit we have since not paid off, I can't really remember. Because the rest of the day was about to get REAL.<br />
<br />
We headed toward the food court---No boys. Except Mike. He was there. He had been with P and SK, and he did not look well. He looked concerned.<br />
<br />
Us: what's up? Where are the boys?<br />
Mike: All I know is, I was on my way out of GameStop, and Mall Security was on their way in.<br />
Me: Why? Is that bad? What happened?<br />
<br />
Mike: :::shuffling of feet, as he realizes that S and I are some scary bitches:::<br />
Well, you see, they might have been just a little drunk. And there was a situation at Hotdog On A Stick. They were asked to leave.<br />
Us: Wait, they only had a beer and a shot each. How did they get so drunk?<br />
Mike: Well, before we got to the Mall, we hit the State store, and filled an Aquafina bottle with 151. Maybe two bottles. I dunno. But anyways, they were pretty trashed, and they were telling jokes and making fun of the Hotdog On A Stick girls' hats.<br />
<br />
From here, we booked out of the food court, looking for our guys. We really had no idea where to go, so we wandered aimlessly. But apparently frantically enough to garner the attention of a security guard. He came up to us, asking if we needed help.<br />
<br />
Mall Cop Dude: Can I help you?<br />
<br />
Us: We need help. We lost some people.<br />
MCD: :::concerned::: What are their ages?<br />
Us: 23, and 25.<br />
<br />
MCD: OH. They went that way, after we kicked them out of the Mall. :::walking away, disgusted:::<br />
<br />
We booked it toward the exit he gestured toward. Nothing, nada.<br />
<br />
This is when we realize it is coming up on the time we should be getting ready for work, so we head back to P and S's, thinking the guys are there, getting ready.<br />
<br />
We were wrong.<br />
<br />
Did you know it is incredibly difficult to get a hold of the people that would actually handle Mall security issues? Did you also know that Malls have little min-jails, to keep people that need keeping? We didn't, either.<br />
<br />
<i>Stay tuned for more! </i><br />
<br />FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8396212983068595186.post-91281059682958564332012-11-03T05:00:00.000-07:002012-11-03T05:00:00.634-07:00Dr. Google And MeHey.<br />
<br />
Do you do that thing, where something goes wrong, and you Google your symptoms?<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNz6T4kFbIjGtTf7kdL2u0D4Y5WrnD5aFXjbAgHcbVvu6ycTui4YIb50EopTplZMyKSDFeYejFPtndbpBHU3JkHXJRF0EAX8HOHXe45qYQp3fdhHTBHxeTq9EtsgUQK7bGzeZNxQSx2Y/s1600/dr+google.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNz6T4kFbIjGtTf7kdL2u0D4Y5WrnD5aFXjbAgHcbVvu6ycTui4YIb50EopTplZMyKSDFeYejFPtndbpBHU3JkHXJRF0EAX8HOHXe45qYQp3fdhHTBHxeTq9EtsgUQK7bGzeZNxQSx2Y/s320/dr+google.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Then you come across a website that maybe puts all those symptoms into a list of conditions to read about, and you go through each one, reading them over to see what fits, what might be your deal?<br />
<br />
Then, you come across something you don't like, like the phrase, "can lead to death", or "may result in renal failure" or some other horrible shitstorm you want no part of, so you click away really fast, certain that that is not what you have, possibly living in denial?<br />
<br />
Or, alternately, you go on your merry way, oblivious of the fact that you have become a symptom-obsessed nutjob, living online, diagnosing shit you have no business diagnosing, when you should be out, enjoying the life you have <strike>left</strike>?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
No?<br />
<br />
<br />
Yeah, me neither.FFWhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02739370421071042112noreply@blogger.com0