Permanent Re-Assessment, with a Twist

Being so ill has had me reassess so many things in my life.  Work, family time, the energy I put out.  And my ever-changing health has re-prioritized just about everything.  Image has become a side-note. But the quest for shiny-new-fabulousness?  Not gone.  Worse, really.

Since I can't possibly bring home another pair of boots without risking a massive Sky King defection (at least until, oh June-ish?), I have to find other things to keep my attention.  Shiny new wonderfulness.  But since I'm not the size I want to be, it can't be clothing-I cannot justify expensively altered, well-fitting clothing in the double digits.  So, I need other things to keep my interest.

Change.  New fabulous hair (appointment booked, and I might just have an opinion about what I want this time, which shocked the shit out of my stylist) is on the docket.  Maybe some bright red, maybe some side-swept bangs.  Who knows.   Until my appointment, I had to do something.

So, I got a nose ring.  I guess actually a piercing, because it's a turquoise stud, very tiny, in my left nostril.  I love it, I'm glad I did it.  I have always wanted one, but worked with kids, and it was usually frowned upon.  Then, when I began to run my own place, I felt it was not appropriate, like blue hair, and full sleeve tattoos.  Things I like, but didn't feel were appropriate as a Girl Scout leader, or Child Care Runner-Person.

 I'm over it. The piercing didn't hurt like I thought, and all my antibiotics made sure it healed quite nicely.

Lacking funds these days, (can you say, "out-of-pocket medical expenses"?), I had to find things that give me that "new boots" feel, without the "new boots" cost.  So, I worked on revamping my blog.  I didn't quite relate to the Fearless Fibro Warrior much, but changing a name is like moving your business-it always slows things down.  So, I shortened to FFW (a little like FFL, without the sex), made a VERY PROFESSIONAL awesome logo (insert sarcastic eye roll here), and reworked my front page.  See?  Shiny new boots.  Without the new boots.  Hey, wait.....

My next thing?  I've been thinking about it.  For a while---like, 6 months? A new tattoo.

I've always been a, "tattoos should be hide-able" kind of gal.  Not for others, but for me.  I established this philosophy when I wanted to be a high-falutin' Children's Advocate, or Lobbyist, or Children's Lawyer, or "Shit-Ton of Money Maker, or some other important heel-wearing bullshit. 

I'm high-falutin', don't get me wrong.  My husband and I own a business that has managed to feed us and our kids for almost 5 years. 

But there's something about having control over part of my body that is empowering to me.  Something that makes me not care so much about a visible tattoo.  Something that makes me want to be able to explain how bad-ass I am, without wearing an "I am Badass" shirt.

Believe me, I don't have much control.  And as a recovering control freak, this is huge, to be able to let go. 

But I have.  And I feel that I need to do something.  Something big.

So I'm perusing Google images, being a creative motherfucker.  And I'm trying to convince my 12-year-old to sketch something out for me.  Lime green-ish, ribbon-y, maybe with a spoon thrown in. 

And, I want it on my right wrist.  Yep, visible.  Watch out, people.  So, I came up with my own sketch on MS Paint.  It needs a little refining, though.

That's an arm...

 

I'm damn proud of me (even if my art skills are slightly pathetic).  I have come a long way, changed so much.  Learned to accept my reality, my situation.  And I want a souvenir of my quest, a reminder of how far I've come.

And my 12-year-old boy is standing in my way being a snotty brat, refusing to design a tattoo.  Screw him, pass the tequila.  I got this.

Dumping Our Kids Off

So much of our innocence has been lost.  As a nation, we have become a a paranoid group of helicopter parents.  We stalk our own children, wrapping them in bubble wrap, trying in vain to prevent any injury-physical or emotional-at the risk of retarding their development.
 Its gotten so bad, parents can't even dump their demon spawn in a casino arcade for several hours. For shame.  I learned many valuable lessons in dark closet like arcades.

When I was young, we didn't have much money.  We played cards and did puzzles, and looked forward to Saturday morning cartoon fests, shoveling Sugar Smacks into our faces.  That's right, Sugar Smacks. They are now called Honey Smacks. I have no idea if there is any actual honey in them, I just know there's 15 grams of sugar per 3/4 Cup.

For vacations, we visited family in Reno and Vegas.  This meant all you can eat buffets, sleeping on sofas, and getting dumped in seedy arcades for hours. Anyone that lived anywhere near a casino in the 70's and 80's know exactly what I'm saying.  This is how it went:

Grown-up: here's a roll of quarters.  See you in 2 hours.  Make 'em last.
Me:..........

20 minutes later, I was trying to make friends that had more quarters, searching under games for an errant quarter, and wishing I was better at pinball so I could win a free game.  I'm pretty sure most of my wrist issues came from this early and rampant exposure to pinball.

I would make friends with the other random kids hanging out, and we would make up things to do, games to play.  We would walk circles in the mind-numbing carpet patterns.  We would try to look pathetic to each grown-up that came by.  But the only grown-ups that came by were there to drop their kids of with some godforsaken quarters.

Our biggest adventures were to find a bathroom, and to try to get our parents' attention without getting yelled at by an employee for being to close to the gaming area.

Those arcades were some dank depressing places.

Circus Circus was the cream of the arcade crop-tons of games, shitloads of kids, prizes.  But they must have had shitty slots, because my parents had to be feeling pretty damn generous to brave that hell hole.

Typically, it was local places, like a place we called Carl's Scumbag-it was fairly seedy.  Or Baldini's, that gave out a six-pack for every 4-of-a-kind.  We came home with cases-Cases-of diet Pepsi and Keystone.

But now, we are too paranoid. if you listen to the media, children are snatched from our arms, ripped from our homes, by the dozens.  Thank you, Media, for ruining us all.

The actuality of the situation is that more than 60% of children that are killed each year are killed by their biological parents.  Yes, strangers do horrible things.  But the facts are, our children aren't as at risk as we would be led to believe, unless it's the risk of being over-parented.

This is especially timely today, when I wanted to ditch 6 kids, and bond with my traveling friends over the loss of money at the blackjack tables.  Instead, I had to go with one friend, while the other two parents built up credits to ditch US the next day.  Total suckage.

At least I got a few watered down rum n' cokes out of the deal.

Spring Break Yo-Self

New insurance is on the horizon (start date of May 1, y'all!) and I am happy as a fat kid locked in the Hostess factory.   Mmmm, snackcakes.

Where was I?

Oh yes.  Insurance.  I am switching to a PPO, and will have a pretty small out-of-pocket max.  And!  And, they said that some injectibles (IV antibiotics) can be covered.  This is HUGE!!!

All this, and my regular doc tested me for all kinds of stuff:

I do NOT have syphilis.
I DO have Lyme Disease-oh, the horror.
I'm not anemic.
No prostate cancer.

That's 75% good news, which equates out to a C average.  First time I've been average, I can pretty much guarantee.

To celebrate, we are bringing an unnatural number of kids to the snow.

The good news is, one of my friends said she's concerned about the amount of wine she's bringing over state lines-she thinks she needs a permit. She may just be my favorite person ever.

Too many kids + shit tons of wine = perfect Spring Break.