Confessions of a Rotten Correspondent

two months of excuses - part one

2009-08-20T00:02:00.000-06:00

In typical fashion, I've taken something that looks bad enough by itself and made it worse by dragging my feet. Procrastination isn't something that normally turns up on my (getting longer by the day) fault list, but perhaps I need to re-examine that. I've turned a lot of my personal lists upside down this summer, so it would stand to reason that not everything will be a "positive". Oh, well. It is what it is, and even though I'm afraid you're all going to find my reasoning kind of flimsy, I hope you'll maybe cut me a little slack this one (two? three?) time(s). Even if not for any reason other than the fact that I'm asking really nicely. It's not much, but it's all I've got.

Trust me. It has been that kind of a summer.

My first clue was my wholly unexpected reaction to two of my three kids being gone. One was away for a month and the other for about two weeks between two different trips. I stressed mightily for weeks leading up to their departures and worried that I would be a basket case the whole time they were gone. That was my expectation anyway, and, based on previous experiences, I had no reason to think it would go any other way. So with fear and trepidation I put them each on a plane and headed home to have a nervous breakdown.

I can't remember a time in my life when I've had more fun.

If this summer had a key word to it, one simple tag to describe the whole damn thing, it would be timing. Timing has affected every single aspect of the last few months - for better, for worse, for right, for wrong...for real. The marquis boxing match of the summer featured the heavyweights of Timing vs. Control, and although the fight went the full nine rounds it ended with a pretty spectacular knock-out. I'm not sure anyone believes that a control freak can really change her spots, but I'm officially laying down the gauntlet. I bow to the power of timing, in a way I never would have before. Sometimes the fight just isn't even worth it. And let me tell you right now...that's a hell of a lesson to learn at my age.

My kids left town right about the time that I mentally reached the end of my (self-imposed) year of hiding out. Since January 2008 I've gone to work and come straight home. I've kept food on the table and dog bowls full. I've done the kid things I needed to do and avoided the rest. I've done the dishes and the laundry and not much else. I'm still not sure why I felt I had to retreat entirely, but that's exactly what I did. I've turned down social invitations, I've turned down friends, I've turned down men, I've turned down life. I was ready to start living again.

And this is exactly where the timing stars start to collide.

I got some 'splainin to do

2009-08-03T12:37:00.003-06:00

I'll be back in a day or two. I promise. With the full scoop of news.

I'm afraid you're all going to find it very...anti-climactic.

hair flips and giggles

2009-07-02T00:02:00.000-06:00

Something really strange happened here last night and I'm still a little freaked out by it. There was a girl. A really stinking cute girl. In my house. Sitting about two inches from Sasquatch in front of the computer. And about every two minutes or so she would flip back her hair and giggle.

Sweet Jesus. It took seventeen years, but the day has come. The party is over.

My friend Laurie came to pick me up for Tuesday night volleyball and headed toward the bathroom as soon as she walked in. I stood mutely in the living room as she headed past the room they were in, watching as his second mother started to call out a cheery "hey, Sasquatch". She stopped dead in her tracks, looked back at me (still standing paralyzed in the living room) and headed straight to the laundry room - the furthest away room - to quietly have a stroke. I met her there, accompanied by the sound of giggling, and we engaged in a manic mime routine that all boiled down to one pertinent question - WTF?

It didn't get any better when we got to volleyball.

"You know they're totally having sex right now, don't you?"

"Have you had the condom talk lately?"

"Funny. You don't look old enough to be a grandma".

"You want me to go sneak in the back door and see what they're doing?"

It was a long ninety minutes.

Today I talked to him about it, knowing full well it was going to be damn near impossible.

"So," I said casually, "she's really just a friend?"

"Uh huh," said he.

"Not a girlfriend, eh?"

"She has a boyfriend," he said. "I've told you that".

"You told me a few months ago that she had a boyfriend. Things change," I replied.

"Well," he said woodenly, "she still has him".

Ah. My boy is in waiting game hell. Now I get it.

"So she's not your girlfriend?"

"Nope"

"Is there anyone you're interested in?"

"Nope"

"Would you tell me if you were?"

"Yep"

"Would you really?"

He looked at me and shot a grin that has become lately become quite fetching. I've seen the way teenage girls look at him, and even though it makes my life flash in front of my eyes, I totally get why.

"Maybe".

I understand that when they're seventeen you have to take every bone they throw you, and I get that I've been lucky that it's taken this long to happen. But all night I kept hearing the sound of teenage giggling in my dreams...

And I know it's just a matter of time.

candle time

2009-06-22T00:02:00.000-06:00

Please join me in sending birthday wishes to LFG today. Otherwise known as Larry (his real name) and my confidante, buddy, alter ego and sometimes whipping post for well over half of my life. (Sometimes I'm the whip and sometimes I'm the post. Sometimes he talks such circles around me that I'm not really sure what the hell I am. I'm sure he'd say the same. About the talking circles anyway.)

This is one of those "milestone" birthdays, and one which I, thankfully, will not reach for another two years. Not that milestones are bad, exactly. It's just that I've reached my milestone quota for the last year and am not accepting any new applications until January 1st of next year. In the meantime I'm perfectly happy to sit back and comment on other people's milestone moments. That's just the kind of gal I am.

I have to say that in reading comments over the last few weeks - as you've all gotten to see us go at each other - that I really love the idea of co-writing a post with him. Maybe a He Said/She Said type thing - describe your relationship in a hundred words or less. No? A thousand? Possibly? (As he said to me a couple of weeks ago while reading a (really long) email that I wrote - "Damn, you're long winded. I don't think I could write that much if I was getting paid by the word.")

Well, we all know I can. Without being paid a cent. And I bet he could too.

Wouldn't that be fun?

on track

2009-06-19T00:02:00.000-06:00

Sometimes you understand that you're turning the corner as you actually do it. And then there are times when you're a mile down the road and you realize that you don't even remember turning the corner. It's just nowhere to be seen in your rear view mirror - not that you're really looking anyway. The road ahead looks much more interesting.

And that's where I'm at. Where I've been for the last several months, as a matter of fact. The last post-marital blow up was, indeed, the final straw, solidified the end of May by one last typical FX trick - a trick that didn't even get a rise out of me, so little did I care. May I take this opportunity to say how thrilled I am that the only reaction these things bring out in me anymore is the sort of bemused detachment that one might feel watching The Jerry Springer Show? I'm even more thrilled that I'm seated in the audience and not sitting center stage. Those lights are hot and they always make my mascara run.

My counseling session tonight was just a little on the brutal side, and the themes that came up aren't new at all. What is new is that I'm finally ready to do something about them - have, actually been doing something about them. This is the Summer of the Shrinking Comfort Zone, and, rather that kick and scream as I have before, I'm biting the bullet and just doing it. All my kicking and screaming in the past haven't changed a damn thing, so why not just shut up and get on with it?

One kid gone for a month.

Another leaving tomorrow for the first of two trips.

My relatively new realization that sitting at home on the nights the kids aren't here isn't the best idea. So, kicking and screaming, I've stepped outside of my box, forced myself to engage,even during times the kids are here. I've gone past the point where hiding from the world is helping me, and finally get that I need to bust out.

Last weekend was a perfect example. Multiple things stacked on Friday night. Ran like crazy Saturday with out of town friends. A beer driven bitch bash straight out of a chick flick Saturday night. Of course on Sunday I collapsed, but at least I got out into the world and made nice.

It may not be obvious to everyone that I've turned that corner. But it sure is to me.

the valium diaries

2009-06-16T00:02:00.000-06:00

Thirty six hours.

In thirty six hours, Surfer Dude is off on the camp adventure of a lifetime. For four weeks.

Thirty six hours.

In thirty six hours, I'm going to make Girl, Interrupted look like the Brady Bunch. For four weeks.

I've calculated how many days Gumby is going to be gone, too. Between spending time at the lake with the grandparents and going to visit his best friend in Texas and the days in between that he'll spend with his dad, I feel like I'll not be seeing him much at all until we go to California the middle of July. I'll spare you all the hourly countdown - for now - but when he goes, they're both gone. And that leaves me with Sasquatch, who, in typical teenage fashion, isn't home much at all.

What the HELL am I going to do with all this free time????

fighting fires

2009-06-15T00:02:00.000-06:00

Picture this.

An elderly - and quite demented - gentleman, who evidently had retreated back into his boyhood fantasy of being a fireman. A nurse - sweet, kind, and wholly unsuspecting - who walked into his room to give him a warm blanket. Out of the goodness of her heart, I might add. Whereupon he whipped out his "fire hose" and doused her - but good - as she dodged, ducked, dipped, dived and dodged, trying (futilely) to escape the seemingly bottomless water tank.

Her mantra - as she skidded out of the room - sounded just a little demented itself. "It's the only sterile bodily fluid, it's the only sterile bodily fluid, it's the only sterile bodily fluid..."

Gee. And I thought I was only a shit magnet.

well, this is different...

2009-06-12T00:02:00.001-06:00

I'm really sorry. I'm not mad. Or sulking. Honest.

It's just that after a year and a half of being blindsided by negative things, I've finally experienced some positive blindsiding. Out of fricking nowhere. And I have absolutely no idea of how to deal with it...

20 questions

2009-06-05T00:02:00.000-06:00

Alright, I'm admitting it. I've boxed myself into a corner.

I'm not writing about my kids - because I've done a lot of that lately.

I'm not writing about work - because I feel like I've gone to that well once too often in recent weeks.

I'm not writing about angst, anger, revenge, karma, payback or any of those other things - because I'm just not in that place anymore.

I'm not writing about the day to day battles that we all face - because they never go away anyway.

I'm not writing about the factions that I strive to never make feel that I write about them - because, let's face it...some people still care far too much about what I say. Que sera sera.

I'm not writing for my future, my dreams, my suddenly evolving- and wholly unexpected- fantasies. Because it's not "safe".

So the question becomes this...if I can't say what I want to on my blog...what's the point?

pass the bag

2009-06-04T00:02:00.001-06:00

I bought plane tickets today for Surfer Dude to go to camp. For a month. In another state.

Tomorrow - as soon as I can find a non-stop flight - I'll be buying tickets for Gumby to visit his best friend's family in Texas. For ten days. In another state. Oh, wait. I already said that.

Sasquatch is almost never at home during the summer, dropping by only to empty both the fridge and my wallet.

For a woman who spends most of her non-working hours in the vicinity of her kids, I just found myself with a whole lotta "me time" this summer.

I think I'm going to be sick.

I could have danced all night...

2009-06-02T00:02:00.000-06:00

What does any self respecting trauma junkie do after a grueling twelve hour shift in the ER?

Well, she does her Fire/Medical ride-along, of course. Designed to give ER staff a better understanding of what goes on "pre-hospital", we're now required to do four hours of time with the paramedics as they respond to calls. I didn't want to give up any precious hours on a day off, so I stacked mine after a regular shift. This could have been really bad, but I lucked out and got the busiest station in town - and an amazing and nurse friendly team to boot. Our town combines fire and medical, which means that if a fire had come along I could have gone out on that run too. Alas, no fires, but can I just say how very much I enjoyed the paramedic end of it? There's something about barrelling down the road at some god-forsaken speed, sirens blasting and cars scattering as fast as possible in your path to satisfy the most blatant adrenaline cravings.

Damn. I may be falling over exhausted, but that was a blast.

branching out

2009-06-01T00:02:00.001-06:00

This is going to be a very interesting summer.

My folks get here in about a week and a half for a visit, and then in July we'll go home for a couple of weeks. There are not words to say how much I am looking forward to that.

One of my kids has the chance to spend a month out of state in a once in a lifetime opportunity. It's not a done deal yet, but he wants to go, and in spite of my angst I simply cannot say no. I want to, but I can't.

One of them has been invited to spend some time with his best friend in yet another state. I've been dragging my feet on making the plans (chalk it up to still more angst), but the time has come to put on my big girl panties and just do it. I know he'll have a blast. It's me I'm worried about.

One of them is actually contemplating getting a job - in between that summer school session that completely snuck up on him and his physics challenged brain. I wish him luck with this "job", since his list of requirements could conceivably prove daunting to any potential employer. The notion that he would have to be there on time and trained is puzzling to him, and I fully expect that his "dream job" of the summer is going to translate into holding his hand out for cash at the Bank of Mom. Silly rabbit.

All three of them are grappling (with varying degrees of success and no small amount of humor) with their father's very last minute announcement that he is moving in with his girlfriend in less than a week.

And me? Well, now there's a story. Freaked out about the idea of my kids being gone. Worried over the usual summer logistics. Excited about out of town visitors and trips away. Completely over anything the FX does or doesn't do - except as it relates to my children. Pondering the idea of some actual time for me. With a couple of projects of my own up my sleeve. And a very unexpected outlook on the world.

Oh, my god...has the sky always been this blue?

the master plan

2009-05-29T00:02:00.001-06:00

Like almost everyone else these days, my hospital is in the throes of cutting all kinds of "extra" costs. Our department, like all the others, has a census to meet, and if we don't see the number of patients we're budgeted to, then bad things may start happening - like not filling positions when staff leave and other things too awful to contemplate. It's a balancing act. How many people can you see on a daily basis and still have staff standing at the end of the shift?

It was a little slow at first today, which was a good thing for us but a bad thing for the census. My boss, whom I'm repeatedly on record as adoring, walked through the unit to take a peek. Not good. We needed people. Lots and lots of people. People crawling out of the woodwork. The sicker and needier the better. We needed to be overwhelmed, running for daylight, praying for our own deaths. And there was only one way to do it.

My boss approached the charge nurse and said the magic words.

"You need to put RC in triage."

Presto. The census was not only met...it was exceeded.

Such is the power of a shit magnet.

I made it through the rain

2009-05-27T00:02:00.000-06:00

I didn't cry. Oh, I teared up a bit (or a lot), but there was no witnessed spillage, which was a good thing because I was the only one among my friends to bring kleenex and I quickly ran short. Nothing at all like the bloodbath that was Gumby's Sixth Grade graduation last year. That, my friends, was brutal.

As much as I've made about this being the end of an era, I think part of my fear came from the memories of last year. It wasn't just their teacher - the same one this year - having to turn her back to the audience because she was crying so hard. It wasn't just that I cried buckets that night, both in the auditorium and once I got home. It wasn't even the unbelievable sweetness of Surfer Dude when he saw how emotional I was. No, it wasn't really any of those things. It was uncertainty, it was stress, it was an almost paralyzing fear. I sat there and watched Gumby graduate, knowing that in a matter of days my husband would be moving out and I would be on my own for the first time in twenty something years. I was terrified, and I vividly remember thinking, "If I can just make it through until Surfer Dude graduates, it will be okay. In a year I'll be in a much better place. In a year my life will be good."

And all of those things are true. Every morning when I wake up I say a little thank you for where I am today. Every night before I go to sleep I run through my gratitude list, and always on there is the fact that I am where I am now and not where I was then.(And by then, I don't just mean last Spring). There aren't enough riches in the world to make me go back to where we were then, and I'm quite certain I'm not the only one to feel this way. Even my kids seem calm and in a good place.

So tonight when I felt the tears starting, I inexplicably broke into a smile. Even though I had teased Sasquatch, threatening to use his shirt as a tissue if the waterworks started, I stayed relatively at ease through the entire process. I sat in a row with my two non-graduating kids (whom I had forced to come) and their father, surrounded by friends, and focused on all the amazing possibilities.

It's not an ending at all. It's all just starting.

it's all elementary

2009-05-26T00:02:00.001-06:00

Things are crazy busy here right now, so I'm being a big old blog slacker. Nothing is wrong - quite the contrary - it just seems like time is doing nutty things. Like moving at hyper speed, for one.

My kids are down to one and two days of school, depending on the kid. Tonight we have a Sixth Grade graduation that is going to be a bawl fest all around, and I'm already trying to steel myself for it. This is for the same kid who just laid down in my bed and asked me to sing him to sleep with his favorite lullaby from when he was tiny. I snuggled up to him and sang (badly, as usual), trying to reconcile the thought of an itty bitty baby with this huge twelve year old in my arms. He fell asleep quickly and I briefly considered getting a jump start on the bawl fest, but I resisted. I have a bad feeling that once the tears start, there's going to be hell to pay getting them to stop. It's the end of the elementary school years, the end of an era...the beginning of so much more.

Next year I'll have a high school senior. God help us all.

Send me strength. I'm going to need it.

brace for the cure

2009-05-22T00:02:00.000-06:00

You can't cure stupid.

You can manage it, you can educate it, you can even, if pushed too far, ignore it completely. But you can't cure it. It's a terminal condition. Apparently quite contagious. And far, far too widespread.

The patient had woken up with a headache and taken "a handful" of aspirin in response.

But wait a minute, said the doc, you're violently allergic to aspirin. It says so on all of your medical records.

Well sure, answered the patient, but this wasn't name brand aspirin. It was the generic.

want ads - part two

2009-05-21T00:02:00.000-06:00

When it rains, it pours.

Imagine reading your child's suicide note. Imagine how you would feel as they apologized for how they felt they had let you down, apologized for how they wish things could be different, how they wished they were a better, stronger person, told you things would be better now - now that they weren't here anymore to mess things up for you and the rest of the family.

Imagine looking over an itemized list of their belongings, with notes jotted in the margins as to who they would like to receive what. A detailed set of instructions as to what music they want played at their funeral, and, while they're at it, where they would like their ashes scattered. Imagine page after page of details, everything from bank account numbers to internet passwords. All left carefully addressed to you in the sincere belief that they would not be needing any of it anymore.

Now imagine holding all of this in your hand as you stand outside the glass door leading to the room your child is in. Your very much alive child, saved by the unexpected return of a roommate, saved from their hell bent determination to stop the screaming in their own head. Is your child grateful for the reprieve? No. Your child turns to the nurse at their bedside and says quite clearly that this isn't over just yet.

The nurse is chilled by the deadness in their eyes. She looks over at the parent, standing slumped by the door, tries to catch their eye and convey some sort of mom empathy. They look up from the floor and she meets their gaze squarely.

And wishes she had never looked beyond the patient.

lucky numbers

2009-05-20T00:02:00.002-06:00

I bought a lottery ticket on Saturday, and while this may not sound like such a big deal, for me it's really out of character. To tell the truth I bought five of them - all on one Powerball ticket. $5 was the total cost. 150 million was the potential payoff. And what did I get out of it?

Well, about 72 hours worth of fantasy, at least as it stands now. I still haven't checked to see if I've won, because I'm having such a good time spending my imaginary winnings in my head. Oh, I know I haven't won the big prize, because our local paper would have gone ballistic over the news of the winning ticket being sold in our town, but who knows? Maybe I won something smaller? Enough to buy a week's worth of groceries? A small Mediterranean island? Something in between?

As much as I love the chance to mentally spend money that isn't mine, I hate to throw hard earned cash down the toilet. And let's face it - the lottery is one great big toilet. It's like Vegas with worse odds, so it would take something crazy to make me buy even one ticket, much less five.

A couple of friends and I went to Open Houses on Saturday, and ended up running into another friend in the process. One of the houses that was open was one we've been curious about for quite a while, and this was the first weekend it was open to the public. I think half the town was there, and we were all saying some version of

I WANT THIS HOUSE. BADLY.

I wanted it enough that I went straight to the Kwik Shop and bought five Powerball quick picks. God knows, that's what it would take. (It was much simpler than my friend Laurie's plan for three families to buy the house together and live there semi-commune style. On the plus side, I'm sure there's a reality series there somewhere. One with a big paycheck attached.)

Judging by the lack of newspaper headlines, I may have to let the house go. But I might wait a day or so before I dash my hopes completely.

What would you buy a lottery ticket for?

help wanted

2009-05-19T00:02:00.000-06:00

It's time to change careers. Or at the very least to never triage again. Ever.

Today I pulled a dead baby out of a car.

Yes, you read that right.

I. Pulled. A. Dead. Baby. Out. Of. A. Car.

While her mom screamed frantically at me to save her child.

While I took one look and knew it was already too late.

As I ran full-speed into the trauma room cradling the baby in my arms.

And participated in a balls to the wall full blown pediatric code.

Just on the off chance that we were wrong.

All of us.

We weren't.

It's time to change careers. Or at the very least to never triage again.

Ever.

add as friend

2009-05-18T00:02:00.000-06:00

Ah, the internet. Can't live without it, but it sure can make things interesting sometimes.

I now have two people that I'm close to who are both leaving their husbands for someone from their past that they've reconnected with on Facebook. Neither one of them were in untroubled marriages, neither one of them felt loved, or desired, or even appreciated. But, for the sake of the kids - seven between them - they stuck it out, marked time with a man they no longer wanted to be with, told themselves that dreaming of a better future was pointless.

Until...

Enter Prince Charming. Complete with white horse and escape route. Someone who knew (and even loved) them in a simpler time, before kids and stretch marks and money woes and career setbacks and husbands who were woefully deficient in...well, everything. Someone who loved them before life stomped the optimism out of them, and are able, with a word or a recalled story to take them straight back to that happier time.

Pretty tempting, no?

I'd be lying if I said I was never tempted by someone else in my marriage. To be perfectly honest, I spent most of my marriage tempted by other people, although I never gave in to that temptation. I always thought I was a terrible person, until the marriage counselor we saw put it in perspective. With a marriage as disconnected as yours, he said, I'd be more surprised if you weren't tempted by everyone who walked by. When your marriage isn't firing on even a single cylinder, you need a pretty active fantasy life just to get through the day. And while I get that wholeheartedly, I still think that the chasm between a fantasy life and actually picking up and leaving for that fantasy is huge.

One of these women is a really good friend and one is someone I love dearly. I want this to work out for them, want it to be everything they want it to be. One of them (the really good friend) left when the "fantasy" relationship became physical, and unfortunately for her when she asked my opinion on this she got it. (It's a good thing she loves me for my honesty. Too bad we can't say the same thing for my tact.) The other one (the one I love dearly) is trying to do the right thing and leave before anything actually "happens", but she's still got a really hard road ahead of her.

I'm all about the fantasy thing, and I do believe in lasting love, do believe in soul mates, am finally beginning to believe in happily ever after again.

But I'd be lying if I said this whole thing didn't make me really nervous.

yeah...right...

2009-05-15T00:02:00.000-06:00

Who: You

What: One fun thing you plan to do.

When: This weekend.

Where: Anywhere you want to.

Why: Why not?

I'll start. This weekend is brought to you by Surfer Dude's soccer tournament. First game was tonight and we got handed our shorts. Second game tomorrow night, and I'm afraid we'll be repeating the shorts routine. Third (and fourth if we qualify...rub a lamp) game(s) Saturday. Team party Saturday night.

But the real highlight of my weekend? My baby turns 12 on Sunday.

O.M.G.

What fun things are on your agenda this weekend?

it's pinch myself time

2009-05-14T00:02:00.000-06:00

Every now and then something happens that gives me hope for the future. Today was one of those days.

Sasquatch has, as I feared, been having trouble catching the bus to school in the morning. Surely some of it is summer fever, but with frightening regularity, I get a call at work or hear him stomp in the front door with one of his patented excuses. This is the favorite -

"The bus came ridiculously early." (Translation: I was late and it was on time.)

But lately I've also been hearing a lot of this -

"I was standing right there and the bus went right past me." (Translation: Who the hell knows?)

The first couple of times I heard that I quite honestly didn't believe him. But when I kept hearing the same thing - especially when I was at work and helpless to do anything about it - I told him that he needed to call the bus company and complain. He wouldn't do it. Said he was the only person at that bus stop and the driver would know he was the one complaining. If I pushed it he pretty much exploded on me. Then I got the always calming Sasquatch platitude - "Don't worry, Mom. It's fine." (Usually said when it's clearly not fine at all.)

But today it happened again, and as he walked back in the door I could hear him talking to someone. It was the bus company, and he came into my room as he stated his case calmly. Said he had been standing right there and the driver had gone straight past him. He didn't blow up and he didn't back down. In the end, they sent another (smaller) bus to pick him up to make his connection, since evidently this driver has a history of this exact same thing. And lo and behold, he got to school on time - and in a decent mood. (This also demonstrates a lot about mass transit in our town, but that's a whole other story.)

I told him I was really proud of him, because I knew that he had stepped out of his comfort zone big time. And that he had handled it perfectly and without drama. And gotten to school independently and on time to boot.

Could the kid actually be growing up?

not much more you can say

2009-05-13T00:02:00.004-06:00

Perfect post for a (late) Bunco night. Thanks for sending it this way, Aims.

WOMAN'S POEM:

Before I lay me down to sleep,
I pray for a man who's not a creep,
one who's handsome, smart and strong.
One who loves to listen long,
one who thinks before he speaks,
one who'll call, not wait for weeks.
I pray he's rich and self-employed,
and when I spend, won't be annoyed.
Pull out my chair and hold my hand.
Massage my feet and help me stand.
Oh send a king to make me queen.
A man who loves to cook and clean.
I pray this man will love no other.
And relish visits with my mother.

MAN'S POEM:

I pray for a deaf-mute gymnast nymphomaniac with big tits who owns a bar on a golf course,
and loves to send me fishing and drinking.

This doesn't rhyme and I don't give a shit.

memory lane

2009-05-12T00:02:00.000-06:00

Maybe it was Mother's Day, maybe it was something my Aunt Dinah wrote yesterday, but I've been thinking of my grandmother all day today. There are a lot of directions my brain can go in when I get her stuck in my head, and today was no exception. Sometimes I think about the road trips from Michigan to Alabama, journeys that I'm convinced helped turn me into the road trip junkie that I am to this day. Then again there's the card games. My grandparents were voracious card players, and I was tossing my coins into the poker pot from a pretty young age. Sitting on my screened in back porch cradling a cold beer makes me think of her, too. I spent a lot of my youth hanging out on a front or back porch with them, although my drink of choice in those days was a bottle of Coke instead of the strong stuff.

She used to say that everything bad that happened to me happened when she was taking care of me. There was the fishing hook stuck in my hand, the time I fell out of a car when it rounded a corner right by my dad's store, and, in an amazing predictor of my future coordination, the time I got my head stuck when I hit the power window button as my head was hanging out the car window. She was a worrywart to begin with, but I think I made it a lot worse. Scratch that. I know I made it a lot worse.

But inevitably I go back to the food. Oh my god could my grandmother cook. Biscuits and gravy every morning for breakfast. Fried chicken. Homemade onion rings. Something she called skillet toast which I ate by the plateful. She did a banana pudding that could make you cry. And every time I would go to visit she would make my very favorite thing - a marinated broccoli and dill salad that gives me goosebumps just thinking about it. She gave me the recipe before she died, and I've made it a few times, but somehow it just doesn't taste the same. I'm a pretty decent cook, but for some reason I have no luck cooking anything that I associate with her. It always tastes just the slightest bit off.

But tonight I was grilling burgers and roasting potatoes. Corn was cooking on the stove, and almost without thinking I started making a cucumber and onion refrigerator pickle that she often had in the fridge. I used to eat it until I felt queasy. Just the process of slicing the veggies and putting it all together in the bowl made me feel like she was right there with me. And when Sasquatch came in and attacked the bowl I had to smile. I told him - like she had told me - that they needed to sit for a while before we ate them. And - like me years ago - he kept eating them anyway, telling me they tasted just fine the way they were.

In her own words, that would have tickled her to death.

just keep my cup full

2009-05-11T00:02:00.000-06:00

I've realized this weekend that I should trade in my Registered Nursing license for a Certified Drunk Man's Negotiator certificate. All weekend long, but most particularly in the early morning hours of my shifts, I've dealt with the drunk, stupid and unlucky crowd. The fact that this happens in the morning, before I'm fully caffeinated, is a very bad thing.

This came home full force when one of my patients threw enough of a hissy fit to go smoke that I finally ended up walking across the street with him so he could puff away outside of the "no smoke zone". I'm tall, but he had at least 6 inches and a hundred pounds on me, and as he regaled me with stories of doing prison time for assault and battery, I realized to my horror that I had led him to the wrong spot and that I was totally off the security surveillance camera radar. I couldn't get him to move, so I rationalized. Oh, well, thought I, at least I'm by the ambulance bay, and if he tries anything one of the rigs coming in will see it. Or a cop. The cop cars come the exact same way. But no. Not a squad car or ambulance in sight. The television image of the cop/nurse/medic alliance actually has a hell of a lot of truth to it, and I knew that someone would save my butt if necessary. Only problem was that there was no one there to even see my butt in the event it should need saving.

My drunk and huge guy finally finished his cigarettes and agreed to go back into the unit. And I don't know if the combination of alcohol and nicotine finally caught up with him or what, but he then proceeded to proposition every single woman he saw until I finally got him shipped out to where he needed to go. Called them "hot" and "honey" and asked them if they'd "like a piece of this". He leered and carried on over every female in range. Except me. Me he called ma'am and then shook my hand to thank me as he left.

At the time I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be flattered or insulted. Actually, I'm still not sure. It's a rough thing when even a drunk and indiscriminate guy doesn't hit on you. Especially when he just propostioned the male lab tech with the long hair and shapely behind. (And little did he know that that just might have been his best chance at some action all day.)

Oh, well. At least he kept his pants on, unlike my first patient of his ilk. And he never asked me to check out his "hidden tattoo" either. Thank god. There was nowhere near enough coffee in my system for that.

Weekends are interesting. Holiday weekends are even more so. Some days there just isn't enough caffeine in the world.

it's about time

2009-05-09T00:02:00.000-06:00

Surfer Dude woke up this morning feeling fine, with not a hint of a puke bucket in his future. Woo hoo. It was a big relief for a lot of reasons, believe me. Just one more thing around here that has really started to look up in the last week or so.

My sense of calm and optimism has returned in spades as more fascinating pieces of life fall into place. Even a big "curve ball" that is about to be thrown at me is no real curve ball at all. I'm well aware of what is about to happen. Would it be wrong to say that I'm actually enjoying the thought of watching evolution in action? Firsthand? I've been the bug for the last couple of months, but in the last few days I've morphed into the windshield. It's a nice change. Amazing what clear karma can produce if you just give it a chance.

What do you mean I'm talking in riddles? What else did you expect during a three in a row stretch at work?

Well?

why us?

2009-05-08T00:02:00.000-06:00

Oh, lord.

We just got back a little while ago from Surfer Dude's band performance, a show he's been really stressed out about. It went beautifully and he did a terrific job as the only baritone on the whole stage.

But...

He has just crawled in my bed saying he feels sick as a dog and that he thinks he's going to puke. Let me just say this straight out. The kid is a puker. Gumby is pathologically afraid of anything even resembling vomit and runs screaming from the room whenever SD holds his belly. Can I tell you that this is not a good combination?

I'm scheduled to start three in a row at work tomorrow. Someone asked me to change a day for a kid related reason (theirs) and I did, knowing I have to juggle around kid schedules too, especially at the end of the school year. But right before he fell into an uneasy slumber he said,

"Please promise me that if I throw up you'll call in sick tomorrow."

I have six sick days to my name and five of them will be used for our California trip in July. I almost never use my PTO days for me, as any mother will attest. I use them when my kids are sick. But damn, I hate being down to one day. So what did I say?

"Of course, honey. If you're sick I'll call in."

So now we wait...

the man list - part one

2009-05-07T00:02:00.000-06:00

I'm making a list.

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time this won't surprise you one bit. I'm a lister from way back, and like the good OCD/organizer/compulsive person that I am, my lists get me through the day. I like it that way. Never underestimate a good list - that's my motto.

This list is a little different. It's going to be ongoing and possibly kind of fluid. Some of the things on the list will be carved in stone and some will run the risk of changing depending on my mood. It's going to be very interesting (or a laugh your ass off kind of experience) to see how this plays out in the real world. That's okay. I've got plenty of time.

I'm designing the perfect guy. Or at least close enough to make me happy. For that time down the road when I actually feel like dealing with one of them again in that kind of way. It's a list of what I want, what I need, and what I absolutely won't put up with. Call it a Wish List, if you will.

And the first item on the list is...I want a guy who is practical. A guy who can fix things. A guy whose first response is "No problem" vs. "Oh, it can't be done". A guy who sees something broken and actually deals with it instead of walking past it repeatedly and hoping it goes away. I want a Can Do type instead of a No Can Do type. This is a carved in stone requirement. Is this asking too much?

No? I didn't think so either.

What's on your list?

don't touch me with those feet

2009-05-06T00:02:00.001-06:00

The sound of Surfer Dude spewing eleven year old invective is wafting down the hall toward my bedroom. He's in a snit, undies completely in a bunch, totally convinced that he has the most unreasonable mother on the planet. The fact that Gumby is poking him just for the heck of it isn't helping, but SD is so mad at me he's almost not even noticing that his brother is tormenting him.

Wow. What could I possibly have done to the kid now? What horrible, awful, control-freaky, unreasonable, totally out of left field thing have I come up with this time?

I made him shower. With soap. I am a devil, aren't I?

I drove the pick-up leg of the soccer carpool, and when the three pre-teen boys got in my backseat after ninety minutes of practicing in a warm rain, I thought I was going to die. Not only were they covered in mud, but you could almost taste the stench. And, it must be said, most of it was emanating from my kid. He has a world class shower aversion and is convinced that the festering smell under his arms is kind of cool to scare the girls with.

I've been waiting patiently for years for him to grow out of this, but it isn't happening yet. I think Sasquatch was a little older when he decided all on his own that he needed a shower a day, and while I really don't want to look too hard at his motivation I sure do appreciate the end result. Gumby is straddling the two, not resisting too hard, but not volunteering eagerly either. Maybe it's because SD is the most athletic, but the kid is ripe a good portion of the time. His socks alone defy description, and whenever any of this is pointed out his pride is palpable. Everyone needs a hobby and his is deliberately smelling bad.

And the muttering still coming from his room? Is because he's clean. And shampooed. (Uh oh. Forgot to smell his head to double check that. Crap. Scratch shampooed.) Oh, well. He's clean. And that makes me very happy indeed.

At least until Child Protective Services shows up at my door to see what I've done to the poor kid this time.

cinco de mayo - swine style

2009-05-05T00:02:00.000-06:00

I have about had it up to here with the swine flu.

Not to sound callous or anything, but those two words are the quickest way imaginable lately to drive any medical professional up the Crazy River. The hype, the hysteria, the hypochondriacs with bacon on their breath. It's bad. It's really bad. And it's getting worse.

I'm a hypochondriac myself, sad to admit, but I've lost count of the people who have come in who are convinced they have the swine flu. One or two of them even have an applicable symptom. The rest of them have either been to Mexico lately, eaten in a Mexican restaurant or are able to find Mexico on a world map. One woman told me that she had been to Cancun on vacation (four months ago) and then had coughed a few times that morning. Well, hell. Call the ICU and save me a bed. After further questioning it came out that this gal was a two pack a day smoker and hadn't had a cough free day in twenty years. "Yeah," she said, "but it's the way I'm coughing."

Flu season sucks. Always. And, as many people have pointed out, thousands of people in the US alone die each year of the flu. Almost by definition the flu is respiratory, although people interchange it all the time with "the stomach flu". Well, technically the stomach flu is just a virus, a "bug", but the real flu can - and does - turn ugly fast. Last year was a brutal flu season, providing us with more "oh, my god" moments in the ER than I like to remember. Is this any worse? Not compared to some of the indelible images I have stuck in my head from last year. Not yet, anyway.

Then, to add insult to injury, is the never ending list of precautions and new standards we have to follow. The worst of these, in my opinion, is the goggles. We now have our very own pairs of special droplet resistant goggles that we have to wear in triage. So not only do I have to do all the triage crap I normally do, and deal with all the hypochondriacs that are pouring out of the woodwork, but now I have to do it in these horrible goggles that make me look like Jeff Goldblum in The Fly. Today, as first line providers, we all got shots to protect against secondary flu symptoms, and those damn shots have frozen up the deltoid muscles of every nurse from here to Puerta Vallarta. Even my Bugs Bunny bandaid doesn't help. Every time I reach up to adjust my Fly goggles my arm cramps up and refuses to move. Every patient who sits down in triage looks at the goggles and freaks. "Oh, my god, it's worse than you people are admitting to. Why else would you be wearing those?" Every time I look in the mirror I freak. "Oh, my god, when did I turn into Jeff Goldblum and how did my eyes get so BIG?" You just can't win.

One of our docs and I bravely marched to get our shots together. I offered to hold his hand if he was a fraidy cat. He suggested something else I could hold instead. I might possibly have called him a pig (among other things). I forget my exact words. This doc and I go round and round on a regular basis. Too bad for me that I adore him, but it's hard to believe he kisses his mother with that mouth.

Swine are definitely among us. Swine flu? I'm still not convinced.

multi-Fbombs in paragraph 8

2009-05-04T00:02:00.000-06:00

I had stopped watching Dallas by the time this particular episode aired, but the howls of outrage from loyal viewers were loud enough to catch my attention. Evidently after an entire season of soap opera craziness about Bobby Ewing being dead, they were now going to write off the whole thing as a dream sequence and pretend like it never happened. Maybe their ratings went down, maybe the contract negotiations worked out for their actors after all, maybe they simply thought what the hell, but the bottom line is that they just went ahead and took the whole damn thing back. Can you imagine? The nerve! You can't just take something like that back, can you?

Yes. Yes, you can. Isn't that weird?

My disappearing act in the last week has been completely necessary to my mental health, absolutely crucial in getting some things worked out in my own head. I've always known that I would come out of this divorce a stronger, more self-reliant person, but I had no idea of how that all actually worked. It's one of those things that you don't understand until you're in it. And even then it takes a lot of time and effort to actually figure out. But when things started to fall in place earlier last month, it set off a chain reaction that really threw me. I reacted in ways that are very out of character, and in ways that really confused me. I know who I am, and I know what my point of view is. And now, after a week and a half of intense soul searching, I think I know how to present it. And to whom.

A little more than a year ago, I wrote this post, asking people for opinions on which direction to take this blog. The verdict was clear at that time. We want to go with you on this journey. We don't want you to write fluff when there are more serious things on your mind. So over the last year I've written a lot of stuff about my marriage and my divorce and my kids and all the things that have been in the forefront of my mind. And I know for a fact that some of you are sick to death of hearing about it. I know that there is a faction out there that thinks I've become bitter and whiny and basically lost both my sense of humor and my mojo in one fell swoop. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hurt by that opinion, but I can see where it could come from. I'm not the person I was a year ago, certainly not the person I was two years ago. When life throws you a great big curve ball, the best people manage to change and adapt. For the better. It would not say positive things about me if I were just carrying on with my life as if the last year never happened. The underlying person hasn't changed, but my world view sure has. How could it not?

But the absolutely incredible thing for me over the last year has been the universal element of what I've been going through. When my mother wryly said Welcome to the Club last Spring, I had no idea of what all that entailed, but I've found out. I can't express what a relief it has been as I've grappled with various issues to realize that this same shit is happening everywhere, and in frighteningly familiar ways. It comes across in comments, it comes in emails and IM chats and phone calls - there are a hell of a lot of us who already have or are still in the process of navigating these same waters and we tell amazingly similar stories. It's like David Letterman doing Stupid Ex-Husband tricks. You think yours is bad? Honey, I can top that! And then they DO! Incredible. Who knew?

It also seems to me that it may look like I spend most of my time ruminating about the end of my marriage, which simply isn't the case. I hate to bring this up, but here goes. A few road bumps notwithstanding, I am the happiest I've ever been in my entire adult life. My only regret is that we didn't do this years ago. And...I work full-time in a fairly demanding job. I have three kids who run me ragged. Three dogs who think they're all that. A 122 year old house that is actively trying to kill me - in more ways than one. I have friends, I have hobbies, I have meals to cook, bills to pay and toilets to clean. In short, I have a pretty full life. This blog, much as I love it, maybe touches on 5% of that life. All of you who have blogs know this. There's only so much you can write about on a regular basis. The rest just doesn't fit in.

So where am I going with all of this? What is my own particular Bobby Ewing moment? Well, to start with I'm opening up the blog publicly again. I have a few reasons for this, including the fact that I just want to. But the main one is this. Making it private never felt authentic, never felt like me. I did it because I didn't want my ex to be able to access my thoughts, didn't want him to think he had any insight into what I did or didn't do, even as he insisted he didn't read MY blog to hear about ME. So much has shifted in the prairie tidal wave of the last few weeks and I say what I'm about to say with open heart and clear mind.

Fuck him. If he chooses to he can read my thoughts all day long, but he can't touch me. Fuck him again. The reason that I vented in my "personal" blog was to be able to keep that anger out of our at the time civil relationship. Fuck him a third time. I refuse to give him the power - through his words or his actions - to impact something I love as much as I love doing this blog. And fuck him once more while I'm at it. Because I don't ever have to worry again about what he thinks. Fuck him one last time. Because I'm done.

And now... (finally)...

on with our regularly scheduled programming.

whaddya mean it's not Monday?

2009-04-29T00:02:00.000-06:00

This is the Real Simple Thought of the Day today. And for some reason, I feel like it could have been written just for me...

Confusion is the welcome mat at the door of creativity.

Did I miss the part about a time frame?

we interrupt this blog...

2009-04-25T00:02:00.000-06:00

Just a short note to say that I'm taking the weekend off of posting. It's my long weekend at work for starters, and although hopefully I'll get a lot of blog fodder out of it, it's still, well, long. But my main reason has nothing to do with work. It's me. I'm really struggling right now, and in spite of all of my best efforts just can't seem to pull myself out of it. I need a little bit of space to figure some things out, or at least to slap myself around a time or two.

Back on Monday. Hope you all have a great weekend.

time flies...and other mysteries

2009-04-24T00:02:00.000-06:00

Surfer Dude was student of the day at his elementary school today, an honor that each student gets once during the academic year. They get to bring in their treasures from home and put them in a display case by the front entrance, so all of the other students can ooh and aah and make them feel like the Big Kid on Campus. This morning we carefully took the box full of his special stuff to school and arranged it neatly in the case, Surfer Dude hovering closely to make sure it was all done to his specification. When we were finished, he took one last look, gave me a hug, a kiss and an "I love you mama", and then flew up the stairs to his classroom to start his special day.

It didn't hit me until I was dismantling the display at the end of the day that this was my last go-round with this in elementary school. Surfer Dude is in sixth grade, and with right around four weeks of school left in the year, is already looking at Gumby's junior high with a proprietary eye. I've had at least one kid in elementary school since Sasquatch started in 1997, and it's a really disquieting thought to realize that we are just about at the end of an era. Time flies, all right, and when kids are involved it moves at warp speed. Sasquatch will be a high school senior next year- and the year after if his grades don't improve. How did that happen?

I'm not one of those moms who tearfully laments the baby days and wishes for a house full of toddlers again. With three boys five and under I barely got through the day the first time, and really don't have the inclination to do it again. But you can't escape the fact that my kids are growing up, and even though for the most part I'm okay with this, sometimes it feels more immediate than others.

When they were little my favorite part of the day was when they were bathed and powdered and cozily in their pajamas. There was genuine contentment in those times. Another day survived, fat little well-fed bellies tucked into terrycloth sleepers, a glass of chardonnay with my name on it. Everyone was present and accounted for, healthy and sound. I slept really well in those days, partly because I was chronically sleep deprived, but also because in about three minutes I could make the rounds and make sure all was well with my brood.

I remember the Christmas I was hugely pregnant with Sasquatch and my mom, the FX and I went to Alabama to spend the holiday with my mom's family. At one point my grandmother gazed around her house, looked at her two daughters and three grandchildren, and she sighed this big huge sigh of contentment. "I just love it," she said, "when you're all here and I know you're all safe." I knew jack about the maternal feeling then and thought she was overstating her case, but I get it now. Oh god, do I get it.

The younger boys are gone every other weekend and Sasquatch is rarely seen on any weekend. He comes home to touch base, raid the fridge and change clothes, but that's about it. It's very rare these days for all of us to be home to eat dinner together. Everyone has their own activities and plans, and my house for the most part resembles the airspace above LAX, with people coming and going at all times and in all directions. The nights when everyone is home and accounted for are few and far between, and I love every single one of them. I have a feeling they're going to become even more rare as the years go by.

I've been out of school for years, and yet I still think of Spring as the time of endings and Fall as the time of beginnings. Next Fall will be a doozy around here. And the Fall after that - the college Fall - well, I can't even go there. Not quite yet.

After all, I've still got four weeks of elementary school left.

why ask why?

2009-04-23T00:02:00.000-06:00

Could someone please explain to me how it is that you can go to the gym three or four times a week for months, getting to the point where you can run five miles straight with absolutely no problem, but then, when you can't go for two weeks, you're almost back to square one?

How is this possible? Is my body trying to tell me something?

Maybe I should just pop open a bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, flop down on the couch and say the heck with it?

I'm going to have to think about that.

arc three/unexpectedly free

2009-04-22T00:02:00.002-06:00

I learned a lot about myself during that conversation.

Some of the things I learned from me:

It's not that I fault the FX for being human and reading my blog even though he swore not to. It's that one of the things that has kept me going the last year is the idea that the he has had absolutely no access to my thoughts or feelings. I've got a great poker face and for the most part don't engage in conversation with him. This is all, unfortunately, moot when all he has to do is boot up his computer to climb inside my brain. It's too bad he's a liar, but that's not exactly news. Strike One.

I'm almost less upset that he was reading it than about the fact that he had completely forgotten that he had promised me he wouldn't. Even though I told him at the time that it was really important to me, it had totally slipped his mind. Once again, a perfect illustration of our marriage. Strike Two.

I realized that I'm a lot more like my dad sometimes than I really want to admit. My dad could cut people off cold - and without a backwards look. When he was done, he was done. I always thought that was cold and unfeeling. But that was before I was done. Strike Three. You're out.

Some of the things I learned from the FX:

I am hopelessly stuck in the past, destined to repeat past behaviors indefinitely. When I get my act together and put the work into myself like he has, maybe I'll be able to move forward.

I'm narcicissistic and self-absorbed and it all has to be about me. The blog is a perfect example, and so is the fact that I always have to be right in every situation. My favorite thing, for example, is to not warn him that bad things may happen if he does (or doesn't do) certain things, just so if/when he fails I can tell him "I told you so".

The fact that he is in a "very serious relationship" and I'm not even dating is just more evidence that I'm the damaged goods here and he's the one who has finally gotten the wonderful relationship that he deserves.

I could go on, but really...why bother? Surely you get the point.

As long as he's in the hot throes of a new relationship he really could care less what I have to say. About anything. My feelings and needs are completely irrelevant to his life, and everything I say or do reinforces his image of himself as the put upon good guy. It takes a lot of work to get a relationship off the ground, and his relationships with everyone else were just going to have to take a back seat. I could care less about letting him in on my needs, but I mistakenly thought that after twenty four years together my feelings might still mean something to him. Stupid me.
What the hell was I thinking?

About five minutes into raving about his new girlfriend, about how she supported him in all his endeavors, how she let him be him, and allowed him to be free to pursue his own hobbies and interests, how she understood that he was "a work in progress" and that she "was there for him" at all times, and even that they "took care of each other", he told me that he had never expected to be in this serious a relationship this quickly. You can't choose, he said, when you meet someone. Then he asked me if I was seeing anyone. Pre-blog reading I would have told him it was none of his business, but that seemed kind of stupid now. If he's been reading then he already knows what my story is. I figured the hell with it and went with the truth.

"No, I'm not," I said. "Ask me why".

"Okay," he said. "Why?"

"Because I think you came out of our marriage with a much higher opinion of human nature than I did," I answered. "And if you shoot down anyone who asks you out, you can virtually guarantee that you won't meet someone who will turn serious too fast."

I wasn't done.

"You know what absolutely kills me?" I asked. "It's the idea that you fucked all four of us over completely with your selfishness and 'I'm the top priority here' attitude and you're the one who gets the happy ending. And you can rationalize all day long that you were completely blameless in our marriage because you've somehow managed to fall into a relationship that lets you feel like you're a good deserving person who just happened to spend twenty years with a castrating bitch like me."

The blog was a keg of dynamite, too. He insisted that he only read it to see what was going on with the kids. I said that was ridiculous, since I made a point of always keeping him abreast of kid happenings. Then he made the "You were a much better writer before you threw yourself a pity party" comment, which absolutely enraged me. On so many levels. "Well, which is it?" I asked. "Any posts where you might get the pity party idea aren't posts where kid events would be mentioned. So what's the truth? Did you just read the "pity party" posts to get off on my pain and anger? We already know you're a liar. Could you be just a little sadistic, too?And, by the way, if you were only in it "for the kids" how come you never called to check up on them when I wrote that they were having a hard time?" I also pointed out that the fact that he had to keep up with my writing indicated to me that he might not be as emotionally detached as he claims to be, an idea that he contradicted mightily.

There was more, but I'll spare you. It seemed that every time either one of us opened our mouths we drew blood, and we weren't going for small veins either. It was artery time, and eventually I felt like I had bled enough.

"You know what?", I said, "You just aren't good for me. In any way. And I know this is a really stupid thing to say considering that we've been divorced for six months, but I'm done. I'm completely done dealing with you. From here on out we discuss the kids and the house and that's it. I have nothing more to say to you and this will be the very last conversation like this that we will ever have. You can't hurt me anymore. I'm finished with you".

We ended the conversation right there. And in spite of the fact that I had, in the heat of battle, given him that glimpse of myself that I don't want him to have, it felt really good. Like a clean start in a way. I walked away from it knowing that we were both way beyond each other's reach. And that that was a very, very good thing.

I don't have to like him and I don't have to deal with him on anything other than my terms. I don't have to let him dictate my life and screw with my feelings and my kids. I will support the kids in every way I can, but I won't be the middle man anymore. He's on his own, and I sincerely hope he is smart enough to realize what he's thisclose to losing.

It has also become apparent to me with dazzling clarity that in spite of everything I've thought in the last year...I haven't lost anything valuable at all. And that it's time to let go and move on.

I'm ready.

arc two/almost through

2009-04-21T00:02:00.001-06:00

My finger hesitated over the send button on my email, but no matter how much I hated to hit it, it had to be done. It was the Tuesday after Easter and all of my kids were still dragging. Gumby had spent most of Monday lying lethargically on the couch and Surfer Dude and Sasquatch were still uncharacteristically quiet. I didn't want to get into this with the FX, didn't want to have a conversation with him in any way, shape or form, but my conscience was screaming. My kids were hurting. The reason was clear. I had to confront the cause. This was the email I sent -

Per his request, I'm making an appointment for Gumby to see a therapist. I'm obviously going through your insurance, so you may see paperwork on that. Yesterday was the third Monday in a row that he woke up too "sick" to go to school after his weekend with you and we have to get to the bottom of this. I'll let you know when the appointments are when I know. Unfortunately, it's not just Gumby. I'm extremely hesitant to get into any of the rest of this with you, but for the greater good of our children I'm (very reluctantly) giving it one more shot. I had honestly hoped - after our heart to heart in the driveway - that you understood what I was saying, but it's obvious that you either don't, don't want to, or are somehow living within the delusion that you are. Whatever the reason, it's not working. For any of your children. If you have any desire to discuss this, you know where I am. If you feel you're doing fine with the way things are going, then by all means carry on. I've heard you tell me too many times that I'm influencing the kids and projecting my emotions onto them, but I need to be very explicit with you here. If you truly believe that this is all my doing, you are carrying your trademark denial to new heights. And all of you will lose. I won't do this again, FX. You're on your own from here on out.

My phone rang twenty minutes later. Guess who?

I don't know what it is with me and the FX and phone calls, but we seem to be far more comfortable saying what's really on our minds when we're not face to face. Much like the conversation we had last summer that finally broached some kind of understanding between us, this was a long conversation. 153 minutes, if you want to believe the timer on my cell phone. Unlike the conversation last summer, this discussion lobbed cherry bombs at our oh so tenuous bonds, and, at least from my point of view, effectively destroyed any chance of the divorce relationship I had hoped to be part of. It started out civil and with both of us attempting to be accommodating. It ended up as a gloves off brawl where things were said that can never be taken back, never be forgiven. It was 153 minutes toward the end, and by the time the ride was over I was shaking and exhausted. On paper our relationship ended October 17, 2008 when our divorce was final. In actuality it ended two days after Easter 2009 when the emotional dams burst, and the ensuing flood washed away every trace of respect and empathy we had.

I addressed the issue of Easter and the girlfriend first and, as I had expected, got nowhere. I told him all about what had happened when the boys got home, leaving out the impersonation routine because I thought that would be flat out cruel to pass on. I pointed out to him that the boys see him every other weekend and would like to be able to spend some time just with him. I said, yet again, that he ought to be able to manage his love life in the twelve days out of fourteen that he doesn't have the kids. I told him - honestly - that the kids seemed to like his girlfriend, and had nothing but nice things to say about her. (I have no problem with her. My problem is entirely with him.) But that doesn't erase the fact that they want to spend time with their dad being themselves, not paraded around as some kind of accessory to make dad look better with the chicks. If he wants a poodle, he can go buy one. That's not what my kid go over there on weekends for. Well. That's not what my kids want to go over there on weekends for.

The girlfriend has grown kids and, judging from the food she cooks and schleps over to the FX's house for him and the boys, has quite the maternal streak. I asked him if he had ever considered changing his plans on Easter when everything went to hell in a handbasket. What about, I asked, if when you and Sasquatch realized you had your wires completely crossed, you asked your girlfriend if you could just change plans and have a boy's day instead. She could have headed home and the four of them could have hung out and celebrated dad's birthday. If she is one zillionth as fabulous as he continues to tell me she is, something tells me she would have understood. The idea had never occurred to him, which doesn't really surprise me. He's a big picture guy, you see, and the details often escape him, particularly when they impact other people more than they impact him.

We shifted out of that and onto the next thing I wanted to bring up.

"Are you still reading my blog?" I asked.

"No," he answered immediately. "I'm not."

Someone less used to the way he communicates would have let that go, but I've been down this particular road before. You have to ask very specific questions, allowing as little wiggle room as possible, to get a straight answer.

"When is the last time you read it?" I asked.

"About three weeks ago," he said. "I stopped reading when you called me a narcissist for getting involved with (the gf) so quickly."

I was about to open my mouth to bring up a) that he'd have to get a little more specific than that and b) the fact that he had promised me that he would stop reading last Spring when he continued.

"Ironic, actually," he said, "that you would call me narcissistic on your blog. Seriously. How narcissistic can you get?"

I took a deep breath and peeled off my gloves. This was about to get ugly.

arc one/almost done

2009-04-20T00:02:00.001-06:00

I've never been overly impressed with the FX's ability to be efficient, but I'm guessing I may have to rethink that one. He really managed to outdo himself on Easter, by any standard you care to apply. In the period of about two minutes flat he managed to convince all three of his children that his girlfriend was more important to him than they were. And judging by their reactions to this, I think he's facing a real uphill battle to regain ground.

This episode is important on so many levels - the children obviously foremost - but for me it was the trigger that led to the end. In spite of my promise to myself to shut up and lay low, I just couldn't, and believe me when I tell you that I paid the price. My children, however, took the brunt. At first I would have said one child in particular, but a week later I'm not at all sure about that. The devastation was fairly equally distributed.

That was the day that the boys were going to celebrate the FX's birthday, the day they had been looking forward to. The younger ones had been with him since Friday night, Sasquatch had been in and out at home, with plans to meet up with them all on Sunday morning. Saturday at soccer Gumby had said something to me about their plans for the next day, plans which included an IMAX film about half an hour away. As soon as I heard this, I knew the girlfriend would be going, since this theater is right in her neck of the woods. Sasquatch is the only one who has never met her, partly by his own design. At home later, just Sasquatch and I, I asked him who all was going to the movies on Sunday.

"Just dad and me and the boys," he replied.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Positive, " he said. "Why?"

"Just curious, " I answered. "Surely dad would let you know ahead of time if his girlfriend was going with you."

"Of course he would," Sasquatch replied. "Dad would never trick me like that."

And there we left it.

I had just finished my Easter potluck lunch at work when I got a phone call from a sobbing Sasquatch. The kid was beside himself, talking in hiccupy spurts, breaking into fresh tears every couple of words. We all know he drives me to the brink of insanity at times with his attitude, but not this time. His pain was palpable. And this was the story he told.

He had spent the night at a friend's house (one of my best friend's sons), and had gotten a call that the FX would pick him up there and then head out to the movie. What he wasn't expecting was to be picked up in the girlfriend's car, with his dad driving, and the girlfriend riding shotgun. They stopped at a store to buy some snacks for the movie, and the younger boys went in with the girlfriend. Sasquatch took that opportunity to tell his father that he wasn't going with them and that he wanted to be taken home immediately. The FX asked why, claimed that he had told Sasquatch ahead of time that the gf would be coming along. His exact words, according to Sasquatch were "I told you it was just going to be us." Sasquatch said they had a very different definition of "us" , and then told the FX flat out that he didn't appreciate the way this had all come about. I'm imagining he was fighting back tears even then, but I don't know this for a fact.

Okay. So some wires were crossed. Neither one of them can communicate for beans on a good day. Maybe he did tell him. Maybe he didn't. This was still (sort of) salvagable, if handled properly. All it would take was a lot of finesse and some changing of plans.

It didn't happen. The FX told Sasquatch that he was really sorry, that he was sure he had told him - and then he drove him home and headed off to the movies with the younger boys and the girlfriend. Sasquatch was devastated. It took me fifteen minutes on the phone to calm him down. Then I called my friend Laurie to enlist her help. We have a ritual on Easter, families we always get together with. This year, for the first time ever, I was working and the boys were scheduled to be with their dad. A quick phone call later, it was arranged that Laurie's family would pick Sasquatch up on their way to the festivities and he would spend his Easter the way he always did -surrounded by fabulous extended family.

I did a slow burn for the rest of the day, and when I got home minutes after the FX and the gf had dropped off the younger boys, I went up to my room to cool off. I had a brief word with Sasquatch to assess his mood, which was quiet but okay, and then I sat on my bed and tried to breathe. Minutes later Surfer Dude and Gumby came up to chat about their day and their weekend.

"Sasquatch is still pretty upset," Gumby said.

"I know he is, " I answered.

"Did you hear what happened?" Surfer Dude asked.

"I did," I replied. "How are you two with it?"

Two blank faces looked at me. Two shrugs. No answer. I'd never before noticed how the two of them have become this kind of united front lately. Two boys. One persona.

"Listen, " I said. "You know you can always talk to me if you're upset. You can always talk to Sasquatch. He's always there. So is dad. You can always talk to dad, too."

Then they both looked at me and laughed.

"Right," they said. "Sure we can talk to dad. Just like this."

And then, so help me god, they launched into the most dead on imitation of the FX you can imagine, caught him squarely in the act of attempting to listen and take part in a conversation, but not quite succeeding. In about thirty seconds, they nailed him. It was eerie. When they were done, they looked at each other and chuckled. It was clearly not the first time they had performed their two man show for each other. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It was a really tough call. In the end, I went with neither.

"So what's your point?" I asked. "You don't feel like you can talk to dad?"

"Oh, come on mom," they said. "We just smile and do what we're told."

"Why would you do that?" I answered, outraged. "Why in the world don't you tell dad what you really think? What you really feel?"

They shrugged.

"We just don't," they answered. "It's easier that way."

"So are you saying you just nod and smile like puppets?" I continued.

"Pretty much," they said. "Goodnight."

And off they went to bed.

The next morning Gumby woke up clutching his stomach and crying. Said he felt terrible and asked if he could stay home from school. I checked him out carefully. He really did look kind of crappy, so I told him to lay down and take it easy.

A while later I dropped Surfer Dude off at school. As he got out of the car he turned to me and said in a very off-hand way,

"Have you noticed that every Monday after we're at dad's house Gumby is sick?"

And as I watched him walk into the school all I could think was...

Oh, my god. He's right.

now I get it

2009-04-18T00:02:00.000-06:00

We're taking a little breather today before it gets kind of dark around here for a day or two. After the darkness, it's going to get light - nice, bright, sunny light. And with any luck, it's going to stay that way. For a good long time. I'm ready for daylight. It's been dark long enough.

I've said this before and I'll say it again, but the learning curves of divorce are really interesting. When you go looking for an answer you're very likely to still be standing on the curb six hours later, with not an insight to be found. But sometimes the cylinders all fall into place with no warning, and you're clutching a wall to stay upright as the ramifications of it all wash over you. It's been one of those weeks, all right. It took me sixteen months from the first time I was made aware of my ex's discontent, but this week I finally hit bottom. All of my good intentions, all of the behaviors I held dear...all by the wayside, in puffs of hot volcanic ash and swirls of smug deception. This week, for the first time, I was finally pushed too far.

This week, for the first time, I finally broke free.

It all came down to one simple little misconception I was laboring under. Not a completely unrealistic notion, especially considering that I was married for 21 years, but not a really likely one either. Now where I got this idea I can't honestly tell you, unless there was a sale at the Human Decency Store and I saw an ad somewhere. Barring that, it came from my own preconceived idea of what a "good" divorce should be, and maybe even what good people should be.

My mistake was thinking that the FX would give a shit about my feelings in any way, shape or form. To be fair, this idea came about during the Great Wishy Washy Spring of 2008, when he would alternately rage at me for ruining his life and then hold me tight and tell me we'd get through this. It was reinforced over and over again, in many ways, up until fairly recently. We didn't necessarily like each other much, but we played nice and even put on smiley faces with little difficulty when we had to. It had almost become comfortable, at least for me.

Well, things change. I realized with a bang this week that it's impossible to have a decent, honorable divorce when you didn't have a decent, honorable marriage. I understood with startling clarity that my feelings are absolutely a non-factor in the FX's life. And I finally, finally, grasped that I can talk all day long about issues we still have and it doesn't make a damned bit of difference, because whenever I talked about our issues when we were married it never got me anywhere either.

And so I did a few things. Just for me.

I decided that from here on out we will discuss the kids and the house and that's all.

I relieved myself of the responsibility of being middle man between the kids and their dad. This is not a relationship I can fix. My input will no longer be offered, even when requested. If the kids ask, obviously that's totally different.

I allowed myself to be angry over certain things. But I also encouraged myself to let it go.

I gave myself permission to not care one whit for his feelings either. This was the easiest of the lot, and the quickest one to get the hang of.

As ah-hah moments go, it was right up there at the top of the list.

I can't believe it took me that long.

Sometimes I can be a little...slow.

has it really only been five days?

2009-04-17T00:02:00.000-06:00

You would not be wrong if you sensed a cataclysmic shift in my little world in the last few days, and the fact that you had to log in to read this is but one little piece of proof. I've had a hell of a year this week, and it's going to take a while to get into. But rest assured that I will get into it. It's not going to be an easy story to tell, but I have a sneaking hunch it's going to have a happy ending. And that alone is worth a post.

But let's get some business out of the way first. Right off the bat I have to thank all of you for the wonderful emails and various other types of correspondence. You'll never know how much it means to me. It's not an exaggeration to say that in the heat of the moment I came perilously close to just throwing in the towel, but I couldn't take that final step. I simply couldn't do it. Keeping going is a risk, but I'm willing to take it.

And here's why. I strongly doubt that the FX would have gone to the trouble to create a name for himself in order to read this. Not impossible, but highly unlikely. (And, if I may add, for a truly hilarious reason.) As for my buddy Anonymous, your guess is as good as mine. A lot of requests came from lurkers who never comment, and even though most of them rang quite true there were a couple that set some alarms off in my head. A few of them I even emailed back, but here's the thing. The internet is set up for anonymity, and this is doubly true if you're dealing with someone with some computer knowledge, which I am. If they want in, they'll find a way to do it.

My bottom line? If the big A is here...oh, well. I'm not terribly concerned by it. I have a feeling that I'm dealing with a "The enemy of my enemy is my friend" situation and, to be perfectly frank, I don't give a damn. So there.

Now, having said that, I'm blocking anonymous comments, or at least I'm trying to. I'd really appreciate it if comments could be easily identified with their writer, although I know some people have trouble commenting on their own accounts. If you have to be ID'd as anonymous, could you please (in the body of the comment) say who you are? Just as common courtesy? So we can all get to know each other?

I'm not trying to be a pill, but I have several stat counters and site trackers loaded on this blog... and I have a delete button, which I'm not afraid to use. If the iffy comments start back up - especially if I can track them down as specifically as I can - I most certainly will. I have absolutely no problem with the content in those comments, it's the coy hiding in the shadows that I object to. Please - feel free at any time to point out any and all character and personality flaws of mine that you have issues with. I can take it. Really. I've had a lot of practice this week.

Alright! Are we ready to roll?

sorry...

2009-04-16T00:02:00.000-06:00

This is going to take one more day to get going.

the party's over

2009-04-15T00:02:00.003-06:00

Starting Thursday April 16th, RC is going private. I hate to do it, but I have absolutely NO choice. And this has nothing whatsoever to do with Anonymous. The FX admitted today that he's been reading all along and then summed up all my pain and anger by saying, "You're a much better writer when you're not having yourself a pity party."

Send me your email address if you want to have access. rottencorrespondent@gmail.com.
I guess they cap you at 100 readers, so I don't know how that's going to work, but I suppose we'll see.

For once...I'm speechless.

I'm way more trouble than I'm worth

2009-04-14T00:02:00.003-06:00

A big Thank You to everyone who commented on yesterday's post. I appreciate all the love and input, and will let you know what the plan is as soon as I figure it out. Another big round of applause to the people who have had to deal with my series of "issues" over the last week or so. You know who you are and I hope you know how much you've helped. There has been genuine clarity achieved in the last few days, and some of the insights have been more than worth the wait.

I have a head cold, a raw throat from venting and a sticking space bar, so I think I'm going to keep this short and call it a night.

Don't touch that dial. Tomorrow's another day.

one-two-three

2009-04-13T00:02:00.005-06:00

You know how people will say to you "I have good news and I have bad news. Which do you want first?" It's an interesting psychological question, much like the glass being half full or half empty. The one you pick says so much about you.

Me myself, I prefer the bad news first. Sucker punch me, but then finish it with something good. End on a high note. Give me some hope, some illusion. That's all I ask.

So in that vein, I have a question for you. Which do you want first? The good news or the bad news? No preference? Well, alright then...

The Bad News: I'm inches away from giving up this blog. Seriously. The reasons I started it for originally have changed hugely, and I think it's more than fair to say that this blog - and the wonderful friends who follow it - have been a huge part in my getting through this last year. But things have obviously gotten weird. I don't trust the FX to remember his name from day to day and I seem to have picked up a reader who knows me but doesn't want to admit they know me and blah blah blah blah. It just feels weird. And for something that has felt so good, has brought me so much joy...I just don't know. I just don't know.

Then there's the other factor. Ideally, all this "spew" out of my mouth should go in the book. Truly. Today alone was a chapter. The things that came out of my children's mouths-all of them- when they came home from their "dad" weekend blew me out of the water. And not in a good way. The fact that he continues to not see when they are putting on a good face absolutely astounds me. I've run interference for years. It's not my job anymore. It seems instead that my job is to pick up the pieces when they get home. Thank god, I'm up to that.

And on the subject of a book? Well. I don't always have the highest opinion of my abilities, and that's a given. But the FX knows about this whole book idea, and all he could say was " Knowing the way you write...could you at least dedicate it to me? And thank me for my contribution? " Because here's the thing. I'm finding revenge to be the best motivator in the world. Don't get mad. Get even. Living well is the best revenge. Just do it. You may call them cliches. At the moment I just call them incentive.

The Good News: I'm not ready to leave all of you yet. You are all too dear to me. I've just got to figure out a way to make it happen. You may not see this as good news. But for those of you still reading...I'm working on it.

And in a side note: Anonymous, I'm 90% sure I know who you are. And if my hunch is right, the fact that the FX gave you my blog site is particularly funny considering what happened next. I don't consider that you are looking to screw me, since you could have done that long ago. And you seem, in your own convoluted way, to be ever so sympathetic. So. What is the real motivation? Hmmm. I have my own ideas. But. Let's start with this. I never really thought you were the girlfriend, because even someone as fucking stupid as the FX would never in a million years give the gf any insight into his neurotic tendencies. He needs to be the star, remember? I don't exactly give him that billing, and with really good reason. So I don't think he'll ever be passing my blog address along to her, although, since she seems to be a genuinely nice person, I'm a little tempted myself. Facebook, you know. You can find anyone. It's amazing. Save her a lot of heartbreak. And here's a thought. I understand that you may not want to go public with this, but you could email me. rottencorrespondent@gmail.com. Man up. Or woman up. It doesn't have to be for public consumption. I would really like to know who you are. Stop hiding behind anonymous.

Because in the end, doesn't that lower you to his level?

Oh, and PS. Peter. I know you're still pissed at me, but isn't this what friends are all about? I could really use some help here. Trust me on this.

it just keeps getting better

2009-04-12T00:02:00.002-06:00

No girlfriend at soccer today. Just one more thing to put on the To Do List.

And I seem to have a particularly cranky anonymous commenter, who, interestingly enough lives in my very own town. Or at least comments from there. And seems to have quite the pro-FX bent. Hmmm.

May you live in interesting times...

I am NOT in the MOOD

2009-04-11T00:02:00.002-06:00

Well, well, well.

I'm thinking I won't be meeting the girlfriend after all, because I do believe that the FX has been reading my blog...and adjusting his schedule to reflect that. Perhaps what slipped out of his mouth tonight as I dropped kids off was accidental, but I think not. I think the man is still reading my blog.

Why in the world would you be interested in little ol' me and my opinion, she asked? If you're looking for a camera pointing at your virtues, you're really in the wrong place. And please remember, as you court those who worship you blindly...that I know what lies under that civilized veneer.

You might want to stop reading. NOW.

the magma diaries

2009-04-10T00:02:00.002-06:00

Reading your comments after a day at work and a school orchestra performance, I feel like I need to clarify two things. Just for the sake of being on the same page.

#1. It IS written in our divorce agreement that the FX is responsible for half of the upkeep of the house. His name is on the mortgage, his credit is on the line, and he signed off on this without a blink in his frantic attempt to become a free man. The problem is the way it's written. When we sell the house, before we split any profits, he has to do two things. First, he has to reimburse me for half of any work I've put into the house that I've paid for. Second, he has to reimburse me for half of all the mortgage payments I've made since he moved out last June. On paper, and in a better economy, you could say he got screwed, although I would dispute that mightily. (I had plenty of opportunity to screw him and I chose to take the high road. Some days I wonder why.) In reality, and in the financial world we live in, this is going to work for him, because it removes any motivation he may or may not have to sell the house at the largest possible profit. Why bother if the lion's share of that profit will go to me? And if, god forbid, we have to sell the house at a loss, in a perverse way he comes out ahead. Knowing him as I do, in this instance he thinks he's got me backed into a corner. Pity he's never given my brain half the respect it deserves. That may possibly come back to take a chunk out of his posterior at some later date. It all depends on how he handles it. Because, really...I'm not half as stupid as I look.

#2. I don't depend on him for anything. Period. I wouldn't ask him for help if my head was on fire and there was a water shortage. I have no false illusions of him rescuing me, or even attempting to look like a nice guy anymore. We've moved past his guilt and solidly into the "The money I'm paying you is now interfering with my new social life" phase. He still continues to try with his children, and I have to be grateful for that. That may be all he's capable of, but it will be enough for me. I may be furious and he may be self-absorbed, but at the end of the day it's still about the kids. And they seem damn well adjusted. So somehow, we're both doing something right. That has to be enough. It just has to.

Oh, wait. Three things. That wasn't a picture my basement yesterday. That was a google pic. My basement is far worse.

Alright, back to the story.

So I was already pissed going into last weekend, which was too bad, because it was a loaded weekend. Last Saturday would have been our 22nd wedding anniversary. (No presents, please. Just boycott independent films for a year as a personal favor to me.) And then Sunday was his birthday. And his damn birthday opened yet another can of stinking worms.

Long story short: Last year, during that awful pre-moving out stage, the kids all forgot his birthday. This isn't really anything against him - they're just clueless. I didn't really give a shit that they forgot it and just let it go. This, evidently, hurt his feelings and he asked me if we could please, in the future, remind the kids about upcoming "special days". He then demonstrated his superiority over me by having them make me breakfast for Mother's Day, and going to the supermarket himself and buying me a pair of black velour sleep pants in size 3X and then having the kids present them to me - with the 2/$10 price tag still attached. Oh, man, don't you just live for moments like that? I could fit my whole body in one leg, price tag and all. Brings a sentimental tear to my eye, even now.

Even so, I've been making sure the kids knew about his upcoming birthday. Several weeks ago, I called him to discuss Sasquatch and asked him to make sure to talk to the kids about what they were going to do for his birthday. The kids were wanting to do something on his exact birthday, but I was a little leery of encouraging that, worrying that he might be planning something a little more adult in nature. He said he wasn't even sure he was going to be in town for his birthday and that he and the kids would work it out that weekend.

When the kids got home from their weekend the subject had never come up, and as far as I was concerned, I was done. I'd done more than my fair share on this already and I figured the rest was up to him. His birthday fell on my weekend with the kids, but I had already told them that whatever they wanted to do with him was absolutely fine with me. But there were issues. Gumby had a two day academic field trip. And one of his best friends was having his all day birthday party/sleepover the actual day of the FX's birthday. Gumby asked my opinion, and I said he should call his dad because I still didn't know if he was even going to be around. Or available. I said if you all want to, why can't you celebrate dad's birthday next week when you're already with him for the whole weekend?

So Gumby called him and the FX said that was just fine and they left it like that. But. Surfer Dude was mad because even though he had also been invited to this birthday party, he said he'd rather spend the day with his dad on his birthday. I said if he felt that way he should call his dad and let him know that. I've got to tell you, that wasn't easy to say, but I felt it was the fair thing to do. Because I had no idea what his birthday plans were. Maybe he'd be sad that he wasn't with his kids. Maybe the party would be the new girlfriend and a can of whipped cream. Maybe he really was going out of town. Who the hell knew? But SD had that stubborn little look on his face and I had to encourage him to follow through.

That was really stupid on my part.

I watched from the next room as the FX shot him down. Surfer Dude's shoulders slumped and his voice lowered on the phone. When he finished he came up to me with abnormally bright eyes and a really defiant look on his face and said, "Dad thinks it would be better if we all celebrated his birthday at the same time next weekend." And then he stomped up to his room and slammed the door.

All righty then.

Now I'm the first to admit that this is a classic case of Damned if you do, Damned if you don't. Maybe the FX was trying to be considerate. Maybe he was trying to make all the boys happy. Maybe he was trying to be a 2009 Flexible Dad. Or maybe he was just clearing the evening to get laid. With a clear conscience. But I knew how bad SD wanted to go to the other birthday party. I knew what he had just tried to do. And I knew what his father had - for whatever reason - denied him. My blood, already sitting at a rolling boil, became just a little more heated.

And that's basically where I've sat. Magma. Mt. St. RC. Oh, I've let it out in various ways. I had a long playground chat with one of my dear friends who happens to be male. And divorced. And a mutual friend of both myself and the FX if truth be told, although I've honestly always thought of him more as my friend and he doesn't deny this. (Here's balls for you. When he was leaving me, the FX brought this guy's name up and suggested we get together. The two of you seem, he explained, to understand each other really well.) Well, that playground chat - with someone I trust implicitly - coincided almost exactly with my hitting the absolute end of my rope and I completely and totally blew. For a solid ninety minutes I blew, and if there was a secret or skeleton, no matter how despicable or humiliating, in the FX's closet, I threw it on the table. My mouth was possessed by a demon and I wouldn't have stopped it if I could have. I was enraged. By the end, I was exhausted. And it felt good. There's nothing like trashing an ex to give you a sense of well-being and renewed vigor. It's like a day spa without the calming music and 200 calorie meals.

And that brings us to today. Wait. Let's go back to last night. Sasquatch and I had a knock-down drag out fight over personal responsibility. In typical form he tried to turn it around and make it my fault. I went ballistic. This is his father's trick and I've had enough of it. He continued to dodge, divert and deflect and I marvelled at the cruelty of the genetic pool. We did not end on good terms, he and I.

Then this morning at work I got a call from the FX who had gotten roped into Sasquatch's web. Hook, line and sinker. I won't bore you with the story because this damn post is too long already, but bottom line is that Sasquatch is using the FX's own tricks against him, and what's worse, the FX is so a) self-absorbed, b) oblivious, c) shockingly without any self-awareness, that he doesn't even see that he's doing it. I made sure to point it out, just for the greater good. And then I said this,

"The thing is, he's gotten your ability to take a tiny kernel of truth and bury it in a huge mound of bullshit. He can twist the facts all day long. This way he can delude himself that he's telling the truth and then he can deflect all the responsibility onto someone else. And in the process, he can completely kid himself about the fact that he's a bald faced liar."

He did not like hearing that. I, on the other hand, rather enjoyed saying it. And in spite of the fact that we sat within three feet of each other at Gumby's orchestra performance tonight...

I don't feel mad at all at the moment. And it's a good thing, because if I can read the man at all - and read between the lines of what he's unable to communicate - I think I get to meet the girlfriend at Surfer Dude's soccer game on Saturday.

This could be really good. Don't you think?

I think we've moved out of the guilt phase

2009-04-09T00:02:00.004-06:00

I've been fighting this for weeks but it has finally happened. I've hit a wall. A big one. And from the way I feel, the wall hit back. Harder. I feel paralyzed, where every move is like walking through molasses. All I want to do is sleep and hide out. Well, there are other things I want to do, but unfortunately there are laws.

To make it even worse, I'm in magma territory again. I'm furious. At the FX. For something that happened almost two weeks ago, and yet my anger just keeps growing. My periods of hating his guts come a lot less frequently than they used to, but they make up for it in intensity. And, as usual, it involves one of my two hot buttons: the kids and the house. Actually, this time it involves both.

It all started with a funky smell in the house. The weird thing was that the smell kept moving. First we'd smell it in the computer room downstairs, and then it would be in my bedroom upstairs. Gumby was convinced it was a dead mouse and I kept searching for a well-hidden doggie pile. No results on either end. The stench got worse, and finally I was forced to concede that the only place we hadn't checked was the basement. On a Friday afternoon, Surfer Dude and I braved it and headed down to look.

There's no way to adequately describe how perfectly horrendous my basement is. First you open a trap door in the laundry room. Then you have to contort yourself like an Olympic gymnast because the stairs are backwards, and have a wall at the head of them. The walls lining the stairs are crumbling limestone littered with spider carcasses. When you get to the basement itself, it gets even worse. Three rooms, each more dank than the last, lit by two bare pull cord lightbulbs. Surfer Dude made it halfway down the stairs and called it a day. I didn't have that option, unfortunately, although I sure wished I did.

My fear was that there was some kind of plumbing leak down there or that the basement had somehow flooded and the water was rank. So when I came to the first room and saw a dry floor I was relieved. Second room - dry floor. The third room is down a small step and when you enter, it's into pitch black until you can get to the pull cord. (Do not ask about a flashlight. I have three boys, remember? I've hidden more flashlights than I can count, and for some reason they're never there when I go looking for them.) Well, when I got the light on the only thing I saw was a small puddle of murky water on the floor - and it smelled foul. Nothing about the puddle indicated sewage. There were no drains near it, no pipes that I could see - just some standing water. And not much of it. There's a window in that room that leaks and it had rained pretty hard the week before, so my thought was that some water had gotten into the room and gotten stagnant, leading to the smell.

At this point I did my head in the sand routine and went back upstairs, relieved that the problem didn't seem bad, and hoping that as the puddle dried up it would smell better. Yeah, yeah, I know - rub a lamp. Hope springs eternal and all that jazz. When I took the kids to spend their weekend with the FX a little later, I mentioned it to him, and asked him if he would mind checking it out when he took the kids home Sunday night if he was able to still smell it. He said he would and that's where we left it.

That was Friday night, and Saturday morning I started three days in a row at work. Late morning, I got a phone call from the FX. It went something like this:

FX: YOU have a problem.

RC: What do you mean?

FX: I just took Sasquatch home and when I opened the door the smell was unbelievable. I went downstairs and you have a basement full of sewage. There's toilet paper and other disgusting stuff floating around the back room.

RC: But I was just down there and it was a little puddle. And there was nothing at all that looked like sewage.

FX: Well, there is now. YOU need to get someone to come and look at that NOW.

RC (imagining her small savings acccount - the one that enables her to sleep at night - flying away at warp speed): Alright, well, let's talk about this for a second. This could potentially be the first big house expense that comes up post-divorce. How do you think we should handle this financially?

FX: Well, how do YOU think we should handle this financially?

RC: Well, I think 50/50 would be fair.

FX (chuckling): Well, it may be fair, but I'M never going to see any money out of that house. Why should I pay anything toward keeping it up?

RC: speechless

FX: Let's talk about this later, okay? Just get someone out there to look at it.

RC: Do you not understand how badly I want out from underneath this house? Do you not see that it's taking every bit of the child support just to keep us in this house? How am I supposed to do the work we need to do to sell it on my own? And FYI - your children LIVE in that house.

FX: I'm not talking about this now. Just get someone out there to look at it.

And there we left it.

But wait. Sasquatch was having a birthday sleepover that night, with anywhere from 15 to 20 boys coming over. I didn't know where this "sewage" was coming from, and I certainly couldn't take the chance of having a houseful of people to possibly make it worse. Or breathe the fumes. I called him to tell him that I was going to try to get Kevin (aka Man of the Year) out to look at the basement, but that I had absolutely no idea if he would be able to get to it or not, and that if I couldn't do that, we were going to have to reschedule his party. Good Lord. The kid went off on me. This was the only date he could do it. It was all planned. I was only doing this to ruin his birthday. What the FX had started...he finished.

When I got off the phone I laid my head on the counter in the nurses station and wept. With about eight people around me who had heard both conversations and had absolutely no idea of what to do. I'm not a whiner at work. And I certainly don't cry. Within minutes I had a fresh Diet Pepsi in one hand and a Butterfinger bar in the other while everyone scurried around to take care of my patients. My charge nurse came over and gave me a shoulder massage. I picked up the phone and called Kevin.

Who dropped everything he was doing, left his family on his one day off and headed out into the pouring rain to figure out what the hell was going on in my Silence of the Lambs basement. As soon as I heard his voice on the phone, I swear to god my blood pressure went down fifty points. And when he told me not to worry and that he would take care of it, I actually stopped crying and believed him.

Bottom line? A misplaced downspout was sending rain pouring into my basement, explaining why the FX saw more water Saturday than I did Friday. However, there wasn't much more water down there and there was no sign whatsoever of sewage. It was just water that was picking up something funky (including a mouse carcass or two) off of the 120 year old floor and, as Kevin so delicately put it "activating some nasty smells". He fixed the downspout while he was there and checked out all the plumbing and drains. All clear.

They let me leave work early and I went down there with a forty pound box of kitty litter and some bleach. I spread the kitty litter around, let it absorb and then scooped it all up into a five gallon bucket. Carted that to the trash, sprayed most of a bottle of Febreze and we've been scent free ever since. My feeling of accomplishment was huge. Sasqutch felt so bad about his behavior that he actually offered to help - all on his own.

And the FX? Has no idea of the outcome and has not said a word about it since. Why should he? It's not his problem. Right?

to be continued

flat on the couch

2009-04-08T00:02:00.003-06:00

I've done it again. I've totally sidetracked myself. Once more.

In absolute honesty, I really had no intention of digging up all the Michigan dirt just yet. It's such a loaded topic for me, so confused and conflicted, a hodgepodge of emotions that will never have any resolution. There will never be official closure for this and I'm fully aware of that. My dad died - very suddenly - in August 2002. My step-mother and I haven't spoken in almost 16 years. And I have four half-siblings whom I don't talk to. We aren't mad. We don't not get along. We just don't talk. Some days this breaks my heart. Some days it doesn't bother me at all. But most days I just accept that this is the way things are.

Surely the culture clash had something to do with it, but I don't think that's the whole story. I think that both my dad and my step-mother would have benefited by perhaps marrying more nurturing types of people than they themselves were. Yin and yang. Balance and counterbalance. My step-mother really wasn't evil, or even cruel. She was just terminally self-absorbed, and this carried over into everything she did. She was also very young when they got married. My dad loved his children deeply and wanted the very best for them. He was just clueless as to how to actually interact with them. They were not a good match in any way except for the ability to throw money around the greater Detroit area. And the inevitable divorce, when Sasquatch was a baby, blew the roof off the building. Permanently.

What saved me was my mother. Always. That she was able to get out of the marriage at all is a testament to her guts. He fought the divorce. He fought her for custody. (He didn't want me. He just didn't want to lose.) When she wanted to leave the state and go to California, he fought her on that. And every summer when she put me on the plane to Michigan, it was with trepidation at what was ahead. But I didn't help my cause at all. I had really good friends in my dad's neighborhood and we kept in touch all year. I couldn't wait to get back to see them and reconnect. My maternal grandparents were right there too, and I spent a lot of time with them when I was there, which I loved. I would always shoo away my mom's worries and downplay some of the things that happened so as not to upset her. We talked constantly, and I always knew that any time I wanted to leave and go home I could. But he was my dad, after all. And it's usually in a kid's best interest to have a relationship with the non-custodial parent, right? At least that's what all the books say.

I'd like be able to say that I don't know where all these memories are coming from right now, but I'm well aware of the reason. I married my dad. And that puts me in a tough spot. On the one hand, it makes me crazy that I fell into that trap after bitching about my dad my entire life. On the other hand, it makes me hyper vigilant where my kids are concerned, because I was that kid. And on the third hand I think this partly explains my to the bone exhaustion the last couple of weeks. I'm forcing myself to go places emotionally that I've always been afraid to visit. It's a promise I've made to myself. I won't let the scab heal until the tissue underneath is healthy. And while it would certainly be more fun to jump headfirst into another relationship to keep from having to be too introspective, I think it's a horrible mistake. Sometimes the past has to be dealt with before you can move forward in any kind of a positive, non-selfish way. I'm dealing with it, but it's kicking my ass. I feel...beaten. On a daily basis. I've retreated into my little cave and I know it. I just can't help it.

The Michigan stories will continue, but in my usual half-cocked way. I promise to tell the whole story. Stick around - it'll take awhile.

But for now, here are two little vignettes that are both, in their own way, extremely telling. One tells on my dad, but the other one points straight at me.

The first scenario is one summer when I got back to Michigan, and asked my dad when we were going to see his parents, who had been living there for about five years at that point. He had managed to get everyone in the family who wanted to move over to the US, and I looked forward to seeing my paternal grandparents in the summer. My dad looked at me kind of puzzled, and said "Didn't I tell you that they both died this winter?"

The second one baffles me. Oh, I get the deep psychological implications and all, but the mechanics of it absolutely confound me. When I was learning to talk, my dad spoke to me in Arabic (and Chaldean), in addition to English. (Part of that was an attempt to shut out my mother, but I refuse to sidetrack myself again here.) I was fluent enough in Arabic that when we moved to California, the state certified me as bilingual. During the summers there I spoke what I call "kid Arabic", where I could tell you to sit down, shut up and chew with your mouth closed, but for the most part my second language went the way of a lot of second languages. Unused, unpracticed...forgotten. I can think of maybe ten things I can say right now in Arabic - and half of them are swear words. But at my dad's funeral, my favorite aunt pointed out to me that people were speaking to me in Arabic and I was answering them (perfectly) in English. Well, this can't be, because I haven't had anyone speak Arabic to me in thirty years, and I certainly wouldn't have a clue as to how to respond if they did. I told my aunt (in English) that she was hallucinating and then she pulled in another aunt who backed up her story. So. Evidently this language is still in there. Buried so deep I can't even touch it. Gee. Wonder what that could mean?

lots of boring backstory

2009-04-07T00:02:00.003-06:00

My dad was married to my mom when he met the woman who would become my step-mother. He was friends with her father, and ended up hiring her as a cashier at one of his grocery stores. As part of a very tightly knit group of immigrants to the US, this was a bunch of people who stuck together all the way. They worked together, the bought businesses together, they socialized together - it went well beyond insular and tipped into incestuous. They were not, to put it mildly, a group that particularly liked outsiders.

Which was my mom. My dad came to Detroit from Kirkuk, Iraq by way of Britain. The eldest son, his job - explicitly laid out on the table - was to get both of his parents and his eight siblings to the US. Along the way, he was supposed to make a boatload of money, marry a good obedient Chaldean girl and have lots of Chaldean babies. He was certainly not supposed to marry a strong-willed eighteen year old American woman who came to Detroit via Alabama, a woman who was well aware of the definition of the word obedient, but didn't necessarily find the concept relevant to her own life.

My mom you've all read about. A lot. My dad, not so much. If this was a movie treatment, I'd describe him this way: Brilliant, sarcastic, funny man who from the time he was a toddler was second in command only to his father in the family hierarchy. Mathematical genius who could have had a full ride at Cambridge, but instead had to come to the US and bag groceries. Generous with his money, stingy with his time. Always had to look like the top dog, and could talk anyone into anything - and I mean anything. Tall, dark, quite handsome, with almost black hair and eyes and pale olive skin. Sexist beyond belief. A true narcissist, he legitimately believed that he was always right, and when anyone dared tread on this belief would, quite simply, cut them out of his life without a backward glance.

The marriage, obviously, didn't last, but it did produce me. And only me. I've forgotten how many times my mom was pregnant, but it was quite a few. One stillbirth, numerous miscarriages...and me. Six weeks premature, a girl instead of the much revered first boy, and half American to boot. They stayed married until I was (I think) six, when, during an argument my dad hit my mom across the face. Not his brightest idea. She picked up a lamp, cracked him across the head with it, and while he was at the hospital getting stitches we moved out. Two years (and much drama) later, the divorce was final, my mom had gotten custody, and we headed out to California to live happily ever after.

Re-enter my step-mother. Now she swore, up until the very last time I spoke to her in 1993, that she and my dad had never gotten together until after his divorce was final. My mom (and her family) say that was a bunch of hooey and that my SM had been plotting her way into the picture for quite a while before they even split up. Whatever the truth (although I'm firmly in my mom's camp here - big surprise), at the end of my first school year in California my dad took a long look at dealing with a nine year old on his own all summer and did the only logical thing he could think of. He married her. Over the violent objections of her parents, who, although they had started out as his friends, had some serious issues with him. The fact that he was ten years older wasn't a problem, but he was divorced. And had a kid. Who had an American mom. Good lord. It was enough to send any good Catholic to confession. Permanently.

The Chaldean culture is a culture that takes its weddings very seriously. Very, very seriously. The fact that they had to elope in Vegas was probably not the best start. (So much of my dad's life starts a downhill slide in Vegas, so the irony of this has never failed to amuse me.) No family present, no wedding gifts, no priest. Just the gaudiest wedding ring this side of Married to the Mob - a $10,000 (in 1970) umpteen carat marquise cut diamond set that could blind you from across town. (My step-mother had very expensive tastes. When the FX and I got married and I was still thrilled with my quarter carat diamond engagement ring, she flicked it with her fingernail and said "I have twenty of those in a bracelet - and it looks too cheap to even wear." "Yes," I replied sweetly, "but I like my husband.")

Over the years I had learned to fight back and stick up for myself. God knows, my dad wasn't going to do it for me.

and waiting for ghosts...

2009-04-06T00:02:00.003-06:00

When I spent summers at my dad's house in Michigan when I was younger, I spent a lot of time babysitting. I was nine when he remarried, and since my step-mother popped out a kid a year for the next three years, there was plenty of babysitting to be done. I don't, to be perfectly honest, remember ever being asked if I wanted to babysit. It was just assumed that I would. And so I did.

In addition to there being plenty of kids in need of watching, there was also ample opportunity to do the watching. My step-mother did not like being home, and spent as little time there as she could get away with. My dad was always at one of the supermarkets he owned, but as soon as he got home from work they would dress up and head out pronto. For one summer after the next, this was the basic schedule:

10 am: My dad would get up for work, shave, have a cup of tea and hit the road. My step-mother was usually right behind him getting up, but she didn't move quite as fast. She would sit and smoke cigarettes while she drank her coffee and woke up. The kids would be crawling all over her, since they'd been up for hours already. (Watched by guess who?)

11 am: She would make a huge pot of food for dinner and then retreat to her bathroom to fix herself up. Soon, she'd reappear in full make-up, four inch heels and designer clothes, wafting Joy behind her. At this point she would head out to meet friends to shop, lunch, play cards or spend the day at the manicurist/hairdresser.

6 pm: Pleading exhaustion, she would come in from her afternoon out and head into her bedroom to take a little nap. Sometimes, she would sleep on the living room sofa so she'd "be spending time with the kids", but it was always important for me to keep the kids as quiet as possible so she could sleep. A woman needs her rest, you know.

8 pm: She'd hang with the kids for a while watching tv and then we'd give them baths and get them ready for bed. They didn't go to bed - they just got ready for bed. All clean and pajama'd they simply continued on with the mayhem they'd been causing all day. At about this time, we'd call my dad with the grocery list of what we needed, so he could bring it home with him.

10 pm: My dad would come in from work, carrying the boxes of food we had requested, and the requisite shopping bag full of candy. I mean a grocery bag sized bag of candy. The kids would tear into it as he and my step-mother headed back into their bedroom to get ready for The Social Hour: Round Two. Soon they would waltz through in formal wear - floor length sequin dresses for her - suit and tie for him - air kiss the kids and head out the door again.

4 am: They would come home, smelling of cigarettes and good scotch, and collapse into bed.

Repeat a minimum of five times a week. For years. Or until my dad lost all of his money, which is a whole other story.

For me the most poignant moment of this entire schedule was when they both left the house at night. The kids were still wide awake, sticky and on a sugar high. And I would have the same surge of adrenaline and fear that I always did when they left. I was terrified to be "alone" in their house after dark, scared to death of being there most of the night with no adults around. They had a big ranch style house that was comprised of huge open spaces and vast walls of windows. The neighbors were far enough away that they wouldn't hear you even if you screamed, and for reasons I've never quite figured out, that particular house always scared the bejeezus out of me. Even as an adult I hated that house. Nothing bad had ever happened there, so I don't know where it came from. Well. Plenty happened there. Just nothing like that.

The house had an interesting story behind it, at least to a wildly imaginative teenager. It was a builder's house, and the man who built it spent the better part of two years designing and building it to his family's specifications. It was a lovely house, I'll give it that. Well, the big day finally came and they moved in. And moved out the very next day. Put it on the market the week after that. Sold it to my dad almost immediately.

And no one ever knew why.

I, of course, was convinced the house was haunted, even though there was never a shred of proof or evidence. It was certainly a house of bad luck, what with two of their babies dying, my sister almost drowning and my father going bankrupt. But as a teenager I wasn't so concerned with bad luck. I had more immediate fears. As I laid on the sofa in the family room waiting for them to get home, I kept wondering why the original owners moved out after just one night. What was right around the corner that I couldn't see? What was that noise? And why, oh why, couldn't they ever stay home? Just for a night. That was all I asked. Just one night to catch up on my sleep. And give my imagination the evening off.

I waited in vain.

all the technology in the world...

2009-04-04T00:02:00.003-06:00

We all got new phones last week. This hadn't actually been part of the plan, but circumstances kind of worked against me and I gave in. Some of the circumstances even worked for me, to tell the truth, so giving in wasn't as miserable as it could have been. Surfer Dude's phone going through the washing machine - and the potential cost to replace it - was the last straw and a really amazing employee discount was the carrot.

I broke down and got myself a "smart phone", which has quickly become my default brain. Who knew you could manage a calendar on both your computer and your phone simultaneously? (Only the millions of people who aren't as technologically challenged as I am.) Who knew that you could sit in your car and check your email? Or post a status update on Facebook? Not me, that's for sure. I even gave in and got unlimited texting, which has led to my children sitting on the same sofa and texting each other inecessently. I've freely admitted that my kids have phones for my benefit, since I like to be able to get them on the horn when I want them. We all know I'm paranoid, and it makes me happy to know they're reachabe. We went with the bells and whistles plan, and thanks to my employee discount are paying bargain basement prices. What the hell, I figured. If you're going to be "connected" and "in touch", might as well go whole hog.

But.

There's always a but, isn't there? I've hit some kind of a wall this week and can barely keep myself awake at the moment, so every time my phone pings at me to let me know I have a new message, I just stare at it helplessly. I haven't posted on Facebook in over a week, my emails and messages are piling up - including some I really want to respond to - and I just sit there paralyzed. I'm getting to the gym and wrangling my kids. Other than that, I'm absolutely useless. This has got to stop. Soon.

And here I sit, looking longingly at my bed, waiting on not one, but two children to contact me somehow, anyhow - text, phone, carrier pigeon - to let me know what their plans are and how their school overnighter is going...and nothing. I've texted, I've called, I've paced, I've worried myself into a lather. Nothing. The phones aren't being answered and neither are the texts. The fact that Sasquatch hasn't called isn't really surprising, and I know where he is (or at least where he's supposed to be), but Gumby is throwing me off kilter. He's texted me off and on all day, and now, when he knows he's supposed to check in - nothing. I'd like to say it's not like him, but he did get the genetic absent minded gene. I just have the worrywart gene.

Gee. I sure am glad I've made it so easy for us all to stay in touch.

*************************************************************************************
Update: Sasquatch is home - with an uncharged phone and a cheesy apology. Still no word from Gumby. Grrr.

when worlds collide

2009-04-03T00:02:00.002-06:00

The work world: A fairly calm day until the very end, resulting in staying late to get caught up. It was almost 7:30 when I finally left. As of today (barring getting called in for any on-call shifts), I'm off for six days. God, am I ready for this.

The mom world: A kid going away on his first school trip (an academic competition) - a trip that never got mentioned (to me at least) until this past week. (This is the same kid who came home gleeful that he had made the tennis team, but hadn't given me the paperwork earlier - the paper work that had to be notarized before he could play. The next day. Oh, yeah, and the doctor's physical that he needed like, yesterday.) He's clearly got both the brains and the drive. The organization is another issue.

The real world: Packing suitcases, making a sack lunch, getting cash, charging phones and iPods, downloading some music for the drive, running through the supermarket because we were inexplicably out of salsa, slinging dinner on the table (tacos), running through the supermarket again to honor a donut request for tomorrow morning on the bus, tracking down Sasquatch...all set to the tune of a ticking clock.

The blog world: Not tonight. I'm pooped.

heartbreak and stereotypes

2009-04-02T00:02:00.002-06:00

One of my nurse friends, who is going through a divorce, is relying heavily on appointments with her therapist at the moment. She's the one initiating the divorce, the one totally upsetting the apple cart, the one who is feeling the wrath of virtually every family member she and her (soon to be ex) husband have. She is a woman outnumbered, and it's starting to take its toll. Never mind that her husband actively started this process with his wandering eye (soon followed by other parts)...he's playing the innocent victim.

It all starts with the way he's behaving. In a word, he's behaving quite badly. He's thrown major fits in front of the kids, begged and pleaded with her for hours on end, called everyone he could think of (including her mother) in an attempt to get her to change her mind, attached himself to her with velcro and cried to anyone who would listen for months. When none of that worked, he escalated it, threatening to hurt himself if she left him. Well, she did leave him and he didn't hurt himself, but it was pretty stressful there for a while.

Another casual friend, married longer than the FX and I, actually attempted suicide recently when her husband said he was leaving her. Coincidentally, she's a nurse too, and her stability (both in job and temperament) has enabled her husband to do the Peter Pan routine for the better part of his adult life. She's held everything together while he follows his dream. Now he's found his dream...and she's not in it.

I bring up these two separate stories for a couple of reasons. One is the response of the people who got left. I've clearly spent my life with the wrong person, because the idea of killing myself over the FX never, never occurred to me. Sure, it sucked. Yes, it was a brutal year and the residual effects are still very much with me. But suicide? Over a man? Are you kidding me? There's only three men in the world who mean that much to me - and I gave birth to them.

Also not happening in my life is the whole begging and pleading business. I'm the first to admit that I'm stubborn, and I've realized over the last year that my pride can be a real sticking point, but the day I beg someone to stay with me will be...almost impossible to imagine. From that point of view, I made it very easy for the FX to leave, since I have no interest in being with someone who doesn't want to be with me. What's the point in that? And where's the joy?

The second point is something that my friend's therapist said to her yesterday. She was venting about her husband's behavior and the therapist made the comment that it all came down to personality. Nurses are caregivers, he said, who nurture compulsively and have a burning need to take care of everything for those they love. And the large percentage of them, he continued, are in relationships with narcicissts who have to be the center of someone's universe, who have a burning need to be taken care of and are unable to nurture themselves in any way. It's like two pieces of a puzzle, he explained, and until you figure out how dysfunctional it is, you'll just keep being attracted to the same type partner forever.

Wow. Just frickin' wow.

I know a lot of nurses read this and I'm very curious to hear their take on this. Do you think this is true, and if so does it apply to your life? Did you outgrow this little trap or are you still in it? Or do you think it's just flat out BS? Would this apply to other "nurturing" fields too? Teachers? Social workers?

It's not something I'd ever really thought of in those terms, but I got it immediately. And I have to say that it sums up my life perfectly. And the lives of the other two nurses above, for that matter.

Now the question is - how to make sure to not repeat that particular pattern.

really not a good day

2009-03-31T00:02:00.005-06:00

The sun'll come out tomorrow

Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow

There'll be sun...

It's possible that today I saw the worst thing I've ever seen in my nursing career, and considering my work experiences that's really saying something. I can't even begin to process it. I don't even know where to begin. I simply cannot go there.

Sweet Jesus.

the gratitude files

2009-03-30T00:02:00.002-06:00

My house is still standing.

And completely minus any funky smells emanating from the Silence of the Lambs basement.

The dogs are a little twitchy from last night's teenager overload, but muddling through with the help of lots of Milk Bones.

All my kids are home - snoring softly in their beds.

Mom and Stu are back tomorrow for one more night before they head home.

We had a lovely, calm, drama free weekend in the ER. No joke. We really did. None of us believed it, but it was true. (Except for that pocket full of narcotics I accidentally brought home. Oops. Live and learn.)

And I have a week off right around the corner. To stay in town and get some things done - peaceful like. Run, write, relax. Surfer Dude's soccer season kick-off. Gumby's first ever tennis tournament. Sasquatch's birthday dinner tomorrow night with the grandparents.

Life is good. I'll take it.

may you lead an interesting life...

2009-03-29T00:02:00.002-06:00

As I write this I have ten sixteen and seventeen year old boys downstairs celebrating Sasquatch's birthday. There are televisions set up with video games and my dining room table is surrounded by Magic players. If I had a dollar for every bag of chips and containers of french onion dip scattered through my kitchen, I could retire.

The lingering smell of the "sewage leak" in my basement is much diminished, partly due to my spending one of the more unpleasant hours of my life dealing with it. I'll write more about this when I'm strong enough, but in the meantime here are the two most relevant facts about this very unexpected surprise.

#1. I may not have cried at work once during my entire separation/divorce, but I sure did today.

#2. I nominate our friend Kevin as Man of the Year. And on his much deserved award will be engraved the words that melted my heart today..."I'll take care of it". Or "I'll be right there". Take your choice. Nirvana. I don't care how independent or self-sufficient you are, a man who can take care of business - out of the goodness of his heart no less - is worth his weight in platinum. Nominations are closed. We have a winner.

And this was Day One of three at work. It's a good thing I bought beer yesterday.

you might be an ER nurse if...

2009-03-28T00:02:00.002-06:00

This is an oldie but goodie that's been making the rounds for years. I certainly didn't write it, although I have posted it once...way back when.

It sure is perfect as I head into the brutal longest work stretch of my monthly schedule - and look longingly at my warm, snuggly bed. To make it even better, we're expected to get slammed with snow tonight and tomorrow, and to an ER nurse that just means a bunch of pinhead sledders running into trees. Add in the combination of March Madness and alcohol, and I feel a good time weekend coming on. Let the festivities begin.

You might be an ER nurse if -

Discussing dismemberment over a gourmet meal seems perfectly normal to you

You have the bladder capacity of five people and the flat feet of Fred Flintstone

You can identify the positive teeth to tattoo ratio

You believe in aerial spraying of Prozac

You disbelieve 90% of what you are told and 75% of what you see

You say “great veins” when looking at a total stranger

Your favorite hallucinogenic is exhaustion

You think caffeine should be available in IV form

You have ever restrained someone and it was not a sexual experience

Your idea of gambling is an alcohol level pool instead of a football pool

Your immune system is so well developed that it has been known to attack squirrels in the backyard

You’ve ever had a patient with a nose ring, a tongue ring and a pierced eyebrow tell you they were afraid of shots

And my personal favorite…

You might be an ER nurse if your shoes have ever been seized and quarantined by either the Centers for Disease Control, OSHA, the EPA or the Nuclear Regulatory Commission.

the comment that wasn't

2009-03-27T00:02:00.002-06:00

Thank you all for your comments, compliments and constructive criticisms on yesterday's post. I have read them over several times and tried every one of them on for size. When it comes time to fiddle and tweak I will definitely keep them in mind. (Man, I can't wait to fiddle and tweak. That's the fun part.) I tried all day long to get on the computer and respond to them one by one, but it unexpectedly turned into one of "those" days, and a lot that I had really planned to do got left by the roadside. Oh, well. There's always tomorrow, right? I'm sure tomorrow will be calmer. Right? Right?

One of the things that occurred to me reading your comments was that I need to brush up on my fiction writing terms, among other things. Maybe go out and buy a bunch of books on how it's really done. See, I have no fiction writing experience - a fact which is probably obvious. I know journalism (in the way you do when you have a degree but have never worked in the field - which is not at all), but I am flying by the seat of my pants with this fiction business. I don't know the lingo, I'm not aware of rules I'm ignorantly breaking, and I'm sure there's a whole protocol that I'm bypassing completely because I don't even know it exists. Add in the fact that I'm totally aware that I can hit three different tenses in one sentence and you've got trouble.

So here's my plan, in completely non-writer terms, and I hope I can explain this the way I want to. The post from yesterday is the very beginning of the book. The book will cover a year (give or take) and move forward along the lines of how my last year has progressed as far as the divorce and all. As the plot (such as it is) advances, I'm also moving our relationship and marriage along from the very beginning - in a sort of abbreviated flashback way. (I hate to make this comparison - yet again- but the format at least is very much like Heartburn, which starts when she finds out her husband is having an affair and ends when she leaves him. In between you get her whole life story.) In that vein, just for kicks and giggles, I'm also throwing a lot of nursing stuff/Hollywood stuff/and my own kind of unique upbringing into the mix. I almost hesitate to call it "fiction", although I will just for the freedom of imagination that label will give me. I fully plan to invent a real live "chick flick" ending, but the details of it keep eluding me. It'll come, I promise. I do love me a chick flick.

Basically, it's my life, with the emphasis being on the last year or so. I'm awfully used to my life - it being the only one I know - so I'm always a little surprised when people think there's anything particularly compelling about it. But as even I admit, I've got some interesting stories to tell. This is one of them. Actually, this is all of them rolled into one.

Kind of like meat loaf. With a happy ending. And no heartburn.

work in progress

2009-03-26T00:02:00.002-06:00

Today this blog turns two years old. When I wrote my first post on March 26, 2007 I was living a very different life than I am now. So what better time to talk about that life a little bit more?

This is the beginning of the book I'm writing. Some of you may have seen it before and it's virtually unchanged, since I'm trying really hard to knock out a first draft before I go back and start my compulsive tweaking. I'd really love to know what you think. Is this a book you'd keep reading?

In the end, really, it was all a lie. I suspected it at the time and couldn’t prove it, but as time went on it all fell into place, one puzzle piece at a time. You’d think the fact that I knew it was all a farce would have softened the punch a little, but it didn’t. It made it worse, to tell the truth. If there’s a rattlesnake coiled up two feet away from you that is looking in your direction and the person who supposedly loves you assures you it’s only a corn snake and it won’t hurt you, you don’t worry as much. And this is your first mistake.

See, what happened was this. My husband sat me down one day out of the blue and said these words to me:

“We have to fix our marriage or end it.”

He had that look on his face he gets when he’s put something off for a long time and really doesn’t want to face it, like the time he took over paying the bills and accidentally paid the gas bill four times but forgot to pay the electric. It was pitch black in the house when he was trying to explain the situation to me, but I knew the look was there. It’s a look I’ve grown accustomed to over the course of twenty years. It’s the look that says “I’ve screwed up but I’m going to find a way to make it your fault.”

That was actually written into our marriage contract, the clause about everything being my fault. I don’t remember the exact wording, but it was something to the effect that he had retained the law firm of Dodge, Divert and Deflect to keep him from ever expressing an opinion one way or another and when I had no choice but to make a decision, it would then be held against me forever in the emotional equivalent of Marco Polo. (Remember Marco Polo? As a real California kid, I grew up playing this pool hide and seek game. You swim blindly underwater trying to tag people who can see you coming the whole time. Every now and then – when you’re desperate – you come up for air and yell “Marco!” and they answer “Polo!”, ostensibly to tell you where they are, but then they move away as quickly as they can and you keep swimming hopefully toward them until you drown. Because you never catch them. They always get away. That’s the way the game is set up.)

This all ran through my head sitting at my kitchen table hearing what I took as an ultimatum coming out of my husband’s mouth. Fix it or end it? Could he be a little more specific? What exactly was it that he thought was broken? The kids were all in the other room, so I knew he was speaking to me. He was still talking. At least his lips appeared to be moving. He reached out and took hold of my hand, as a few of the times he’d had this particular look on his face flashed through my mind.

There was the time he’d sworn he had made the car payment on time and then I caught him frantically trying to do it on-line before I noticed. The time he insisted he’d stuck to his low-carb diet, yet had part of a jelly donut smeared on the outer corner of his lip. Or how about when he was an hour late picking me up from the airport and blamed it on the traffic, only for me to find out later that he hadn’t even left the house for the thirty minute drive until ten minutes after my plane had landed?

“I’m at the point in my life,” he was saying, “where I’m really looking at where I am and where I want to go. I love you, and I want us to stay married, but I want to make it better. I want to have a different kind of marriage than we do. I want us to be closer and do more things together. You're the woman I want to grow old with, so I’m really ready to put the time and effort into making this the best possible marriage it can be. I’m willing if you are”.

And that’s when I knew he was leaving me.

thought for the day

2009-03-25T00:02:00.003-06:00

Unlikely T-shirt on one of our well known (and sometimes violent) paranoid schizophrenics:

I have many personalities and none of them like YOU.

There was a lively debate about this after the patient walked down the hall. Was it a bit of really sly group home humor? A passive aggressive gift from someone who figured they wouldn't "get" it, so it was kind of a joke on them? A warning to tread carefully? Or just the sign of an awfully well adjusted mental health patient who figured that humor was one of the best defenses? A way to embrace your diagnosis, as it were?

What do you think?

okay, so I know this is pointless...

2009-03-24T00:02:00.002-06:00

Anyone else play the Revisionist History game? It goes like this...

"If I could go back and change something - anything - in my life, what would it be? Which one thing could change the entire course of my destiny?"

This is a problematic game when you have kids you adore, because you always have to add in the mental caveat that no matter where you end up in your life you'd have the same kids, which is impossible, of course, because it takes two specific people to make a specific kid and if you're rearranging your life in such a way as to make one of them, um, non-existent then it doesn't really make much sense. But that doesn't matter. You can change any one thing you want, but the kids stay. It's the unwritten Mommy Rule.

(And here's a small thought, while I'm discussing making certain people non-existent. Why, when I've gotten both the apologies and the closure I wanted, why, when I'm more grateful by the day that I don't have to put up with crap that drove me nuts and made me feel completely insignificant for years, why, when I can't help but see that he's finally trying to step up to the plate for his kids - in the best way he's capable of - why am I still so pissed off at the man? It still continues to come in waves, totally unexpected when it arrives and not missed at all when it leaves. I tried to ask a divorced male friend about it today at work, but he lost me when he told me not to be surprised if the FX and I end up in bed at some point just for old time's sake. I told him that I'd gnaw off my own foot before that happened (and his too while I was at it for even putting that mental picture in my head to start with), and the conversation kind of went downhill from there. I've felt a little sick to my stomach all day since that, but I have only myself to blame. I should never have asked in the first place.)

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Introspection. Revision. The mythical ability to go back and change the past. The problem is, the more you think about it the less tempting it looks. Because one change in the past can change so many things in the present, both good and bad. Would you still have met the people who are so important to you? Could your life have somehow gone down the tubes? What if you made a different choice and it made your life worse? Then what? (A pointless question, because how would you even know?) It's like quicksand...the further in you go the more it shifts. And it can be very hard to keep your balance when you start thinking it through.

I think if I had to make one change it would be this: I would have gone to UCLA like I was supposed to instead of the school where I ultimately met the FX. For lots of reasons, extending far beyond him, this has been a real regret of mine as I've looked back, completely excepting the other day when I watched them get handed their shorts in a real piece of March Madness brutality and thanked my lucky stars that they were only my imaginary alma mater.

If this post does nothing else, it should at least illustrate the spaghetti piles in my head at the moment, the piles I'm unravelling one by one. This may (or may not) be the only time in my entire life that overthinking may (or may not) actually be a good thing.

fantasy land

2009-03-23T00:02:00.003-06:00

I want a day - a mere 24 hours - where I can say whatever I want without having to worry about what anyone thinks. A day where I don't have to be polite or understanding or supportive or anything. A day where I wouldn't have to worry about looking petty or vengeful or difficult. A day where I don't have to be the good mother or the compliant employee or the agreeable ex-wife.

I want a day - a mere 24 hours - where I can just let 'er rip and let the devil take the hindmost. I want to be a woman without a filter for one short, delicious period, and I can guarantee you that I'd make very good use of the time allotted.

Is this too much to ask?

so this is what relaxation feels like

2009-03-20T00:02:00.003-06:00

Between working my regular schedule, having the kids out on Spring Break and Mom and Stu being here, I'm not finding a lot of time for blogging at the moment. I could fight this and slam my head into the computer to come up with something to write about, or I could accept the fact that I need a couple of days to just hang out and relax. I hear relaxing is good. I think I read that in a fortune cookie once.

So in light of this, I'm taking the weekend off. Of everything, actually. No work scheduled, no pressing chores, nothing that absolutely has to be done. Wow. I'll bet I could get used to this. I'd certainly like the opportunity to try. There will be bon bons in my future. I'm going to insist on it.

I'll be back Sunday or Monday - all frisky and full of vinegar. In the meantime... I hope you all have a fabulous weekend. I'm sure hoping to.

at a loss...

2009-03-19T00:02:00.002-06:00

Damn it.

Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT.

this is why I hate being a nurse

2009-03-18T00:02:00.002-06:00

I love Liam Neeson.

The voice, the face, the accent, the intelligence, the whole package. Love him, love him, love him.

And I have watched from afar as this man I adore has made a life for himself with a woman he is obviously captivated with. A woman at least his equal - and maybe more. So today when I fired up my computer and saw that Natasha Richardson had been "critically injured" in a skiing accident, it got my attention. I like celebrity gossip as much as the next person, but it always feels like it's from a distance. This one felt a little too real.

A lot of my romantic fantasies come from Hollywood, as my love of Chick Flicks should prove. But it was a line from Neeson that I will always remember. Talking about Richardson, he said that she touched places in his soul he didn't even know existed, hit buttons he didn't even know he had. And even though I was appalled that anyone would choose to be married the day of the Wimbledon Finals, I've always followed their marriage closely. I know Hollywood is all about illusion, but these two sure do seem to be the real deal.

So tonight I'm following this story as it unfolds on the internet and my heart is doing a really slow and painful contraction. My own personal experience isn't helping much, since I have lots of mental pictures of people in the same situation stuck in my head. Working in a Trauma ICU will do that to you. I've seen firsthand so many times how things can change just like that - and it's terrifying. You never get over that randomness. Never. From the details coming out it sure sounds like a bleed - which can resolve itself easily or be absolutely catastrophic. It's all luck of the draw.

I don't often find myself in a position where I do my own version of praying for someone I don't even know. But tonight I think I just might.

the downside of time travel

2009-03-17T00:02:00.003-06:00

I'm having a really hard time with this book I'm trying to write. And while I think there are several reasons for this (three kids, full-time job, extremely needy house), the real problem is what I've come to call the Alternate Universe Dilemma.

Which is this...

I'm at such a nice place in my life. There's legitimate happiness and a real peace. But going back a year (or two or twenty) does unpleasant things to both my blood pressure and my sense of well-being. In short, in pisses me off, which then leaves me in a kind of funk for the rest of the day. A lot of the stuff in the past that is vital to the story I'm trying to tell is pretty painful to revisit, but it absolutely has to be done. I don't have a story without it. I try and tell myself that this is my own down and dirty version of therapy - just pour those emotions out on paper and feel cleansed at the end. Maybe.

But on the other hand, I don't want to wait to write this. Already my memory is blurred. I've had to go back to the many, many emails, journals, IMs and blog posts of the time to reconstruct what my brain is already leaving behind. If I wait much longer it may be too far gone. It's also getting increasingly difficult to hit the right mood. It needs to be written from the pain and anger of then - not the self-realization and awareness of now. And what if I wait ten years and still find that the process of looking back on all this crap is still painful - even then? Then what?

I ask myself these questions when I reluctantly leave the serenity of my 2009 life and deliberately make myself go back to 2008 or 1998 or 1990 or any one of the many years in between that were fraught with angst. I do this to myself, because I really believe that what could potentially come out of this process might be a redemption of sorts. I can see the T-shirt in my mind. I was in this marriage for twenty years and all I got out of it was this lousy book. (Or I was in this lousy marriage for twenty years and all I got out of it was this book. Your call.) I'm not being literal. I know I got more out of it than that, but right now that idea is a big motivator. The triggers that fuel this process continue to fascinate me.

Fuel being an operative word here. Because mostly I feel all fired up to get 'er done...but some days it's like going down in flames.

does this mean I'm growing up?

2009-03-16T00:02:00.002-06:00

A sure sign that I'm getting smarter as I get older:

This past week was an interesting one on the health front.

A. I was sick.

B. I only ran three times - and just nine miles total.

C. The last seven days have been food laden. A nachos and beer after-work get together. A mexican potluck at work today. A tray of baklava in the break room. Chipotle cheese mashed potatoes for dinner last night. The list goes on.

D. A scale that hasn't budged.

Used to be these things would throw me into a tizzy and I'd just say the heck with it and throw in the towel. I'm a pro at this type of rationalization - "Oh, well, I blew that week, so why even bother anymore?" But I'm not going that route this time. Yes, it's been an off week. Yes, it's hard to run when you can't breathe. Yes, I ate my first ice cream sandwich of the entire year today - and dang, was it good.

And yes, life goes on and I intend to live it. There's no point in being skinny and healthy if you don't live a little. There's always next week. (Or not, since my Mom and Stu get here Tuesday for a visit and I always seem to eat like a cow whenever they're here.) Okay then, I'll try something really radical. I'll go with moderation...and having a good time.

I couldn't do that in my twenties, or even my thirties. I was strictly an all or nothing kind of gal. But now it's finally sunk in that you really can inch your way to what you want...

...and actually have fun on the trip.

more drama than trauma

2009-03-15T00:02:00.002-06:00

One of my patients today - drunk off his heinie - evidently woke up feeling dramatic this morning, because everything he did was drama, drama, drama. I, unfortunately, woke up dreaming of a drama free zone, so the two of us were mismatched from the start. Add in that he's a frequent flier and that 90% of my patients today were intoxicated and belligerent, and it was just bad all around. This is not a story typical of my behavior, but I plead lack of oxygen to my brain based on the fact that I still can't breathe. If my patients can rationalize everything, then darn it, so can I.

I was on my way in to start his IV when he told me that he apologized in advance, but that he had been known to knock nurses into the wall when they stuck him, but that it was a completely involuntary thing and he couldn't help himself in the slightest, so if he hurt me when I hit the wall he was sorry.

Like I said, he and I were on opposite pages from the very start. This is not a good subject at the moment since one of our doctors was attacked this week right in front of several of us, triggering a terrifying take down, an all hospital code and many, many men in blue uniforms. This doc is young, tall and built like an ox. If it could happen to him...

I gave my patient the evil eye as soon as he finished his little speech, since I could practically see him choosing which wall to "accidentally" knock me into. And I told him that I apologized in advance, but that if any part of my body hit any part of a wall, I could guarantee him that his ass would hit a jail cell about fifteen minutes later. It's called assault, I continued, and being drunk and stupid doesn't let you off the hook, so you might want to concentrate real hard on those "involuntary" urges.

And lo and behold, he did. Sometimes the Nurse Ratched approach is the only one worth even trying. It makes me feel terrible to be that way. But not as terrible as hitting a wall.

the Ah-Hah moment strikes again

2009-03-14T00:02:00.003-06:00

I'm sick. I never get sick. And on the scale of positively rotten patients, I'm very near the top. Luckily I got one of the docs at work to write me a scrip for some antibiotics before it got too bad, so I think I'm on the downhill side of it. I hope so anyway. I'd forgotten how much I like being able to breathe. It's the small things in life that make it worthwhile.

I slept a fair amount today, which I think helped. I do some of my best thinking in those floaty moments in between being awake and asleep, and today was no exception. Then when I woke up I got to test out some of my thinking on my buddy Laurie, in a marathon country drive/bilateral vent session. Actually, to be fair I completely forgot to bring up the first one, so caught up were we in the other, but here you go anyway...

#1. I've finally realized (and totally seen the humor of) the irony of my being suddenly obsessed with running at the same time that my hormones have seemingly woken up with a vengeance from a twenty year siesta. Gee. You think there might be a connection? Can you spell S-U-B-L-I-M-A-T-E?? I guess until I feel ready to do something about it I'll just keep on running. I may need to invest in a sturdy pair of shoes.

#2. The one that completely negates #1. I can't do this and I've finally realized it. As you may have all guessed, something happened that kind of rocked my world...and not in a good way. This had nothing to do with me directly, but the nuances and big picture cut me to the core. So I'm reverting back to my long held theory about me and romantic love. I'm just not cut out for it. As much as I want desperately to have that deep connection with another human being, I'm too scared to give it a shot. I'm too scared to open myself up enough to even think about giving it a shot. It seems to me that very bad things happen when people love too much, so I am now officially removing myself from the game. Checkmate. The Queen has left the board.

I guess it's just as well that hot tax guy never called after all.

a friend's prayer

2009-03-13T00:02:00.004-06:00

Dear God,

Every now and then you throw something my way at work that makes me weep with gratitude at how my life has turned out. Today may have been the grand-daddy of those days, but my own personal relief is spattered with indescribable fury...and waves of nausea for the indescribable pain of those who seemingly have so much more to lose than I ever did.

Please take care of those who are incapable at the moment of protecting themselves or those they love. Please allow them to step outside of their anguish - if only for a moment - and take in all else the world has to offer. Please let them see a child's smile as a lifeline, a sunny day as a promise, a door closing as another one opening.

Thank you God, from the bottom of my heart, for this not being me, for never coming even remotely close. And please help me to erase the mental pictures that are dancing in my brain. Please. My heart is scorched by so much pain. I simply cannot bear it.

I've been holding it in all day. I think I'm finally ready to curl up in a ball and sob. Thanks for listening.

Amen.

scarred by shellfish

2009-03-12T00:02:00.004-06:00

Every now and then something happens in my life that makes me itch to sit down and blog about it. Immediately. And most of the time I do just that. But sometimes it can be a little tricky, since I really do try to keep this a relatively vanilla blog. Oh, I know I cuss too much, and I talk about hot pinheaded men (who still haven't called), but even so I'd like to think it stays relatively family friendly around here. So this particular episode has been a real challenge, and it's been perplexing me all day. I'm ready to give it a shot, but I have to be very upfront about this. I have absolutely no idea how this is going to fly - and it could get ugly. I'm really in uncharted territory here.

This story starts (and ends) with shrimp. Any kind of shrimp - scampi, cocktail, tempura, grilled, whatever. As long as it's shrimp, we're good to go. Well, we're not good to go, but someone is, and for the sake of our story that's all that matters.

One of our Bunco Babes is a riot. Well, actually a lot of the Bunco Babes are riots, but in this particular shrimp story we're going to focus in on one. She's a little tiny thing, but she carries a big presence. (She also drops in here from time to time, so if my body is found drifting ashore after I post this you'll know where to look first). She's free spirited and a little wild and crazy - a dancing queen with long Stevie Nicks hair. This gal and her much older husband separated and divorced right before the FX and I started having trouble, but the critical difference (to my mind at least) was that the whole thing was her idea. To say we were all stunned is an understatement. Almost no one saw it coming, but she had been unhappy for a long time and one day she just said enough. In spite of the fact that I love her to pieces, I had some real issues with her when this all happened, because the same thing was going on in my life, but the things she was saying to me about her marriage were almost word for word what the FX was saying to me about ours. It all got worked out, but it was a little funky there for a bit.

But that was a year ago, and things are very different now. Me, you know about. Her? Well, her life is really, really good. She's happy, successful and has been blissfully involved with a new guy for a good many months now. They seem very happy together, and we're all happy for them. Now you're all caught up on the back story.

It's time to introduce the shrimp.

I honestly can't remember exactly how it came up, but at some point last night, apropos of absolutely nothing, she casually volunteered that as long as her new boy had shrimp on his plate there would never be the need for Viagra in his life. Or hers. She's known for dropping these little bombs, so we all took it in stride - at least to start with. However, she was hell bent on elaborating, and soon - very soon - she had everyone's attention. Seems that recently, after a shrimp dinner with her man, she had a night where she, uh, found Jesus. Loudly and rapturously. Ten times. In one night.

Ten. Times. In. One. Night. She swore up and down it was the absolute truth. We believed her. Maybe it was the Cheshire cat grin on her face as she declared that she was "making up for lost time" from a marriage that hadn't been doing it for her for a long time. Maybe it was the nitty gritty details we could have done without. Whatever it was, she certainly had center stage.

Someone needs to tell the Shrimp Advisory Board about this, because this is an ad campaign just waiting to happen. On a big scale. Imagine the marketing ploys that could be used. Of course, the pharmaceutical companies would have a cow, but it wouldn't matter. It's a depressed economy, to be sure, but some things are relatively recession proof. And if you can save ten bucks on one Viagra just by throwing some shrimp on the barbie...well, why not? Something tells me that if you're a guy you could even talk your woman into cooking the shrimp for you. I'm just sayin'...

The after effects of this little scene carried on into today. One of the Bunco Babes is on a mission to find a shrimp "substitute" that she can feed her husband within Jewish dietary guidelines. (I facebooked her husband and told him to pick up some shrimp on the way home from work anyway. I figured she might be willing to overlook that whole religious thing just this once. As a social experiment, of course).

This same gal started today off with an offer to buy me as much shrimp as I wanted. I replied that I'm minus a shrimp eater at the moment, but I appreciated the offer nevertheless. And surely it's a testament to my hormonally driven self at the moment, but I've had shrimp on the brain all day long.

And not a grill in sight.

do I look indecisive to you?

2009-03-11T00:02:00.002-06:00

One of these months I'm going to write my post before I go to Bunco, so that when I get home really late it's all ready to go. Better still, I'll schedule it on Blogger so it posts itself at an assigned time and I don't have to worry about it at all.

This won't be the month. Not even close.

So since it's midnight and I'm about to turn into a pumpkin - with nothing at all interesting to say - how about I ask for opinions? And just to shake things up a little bit, I promise not to use the words "tax", "pinhead" or "hot" even once. Okay? We'll go for a different kind of opinion today. Just to give you all a break. God knows you deserve it.

Here's the question - there's a local race here the middle of April, and in addition to a half marathon course, there's also a 5K and a 10K. (As a little aside, I am NOT the one who brought up the idea of running the 10K. Honest). But...I think it's kind of an interesting idea - in a boil yourself in oil sort of way. Anyway, I can't decide which one to do. The 5K would be fun and I could try to improve my time. It would be less stress and less training. But the 10K could be a pretty interesting challenge, although I'm not entirely sure why I feel the need to test myself again in that way so soon.

Any thoughts? 5 or 10...pick your poison.

cupid bites the dust

2009-03-10T00:02:00.002-06:00

Life really is funny, isn't it?

On the one hand, my more age appropriate would- be suitor has really picked up his game a lot. It has become impossible to misinterpret his intentions - for anyone involved. This has become very problematic for me, because I really do like this guy - I just can't see myself in a relationship with him. He obviously feels differently, and, in spite of what anyone may say about me, I'm not a person who enjoys hurting other people. It was kind of fun to screw with him when I thought he was just messing with me, but now that I see he's got something invested in this it just makes me feel pretty awful. The relationship gods really are sadistic little buggers. Why is it always about timing and hormones?

On the other hand, to be perfectly honest, I've been pretty up front all around about not being interested in any relationship at all. The fact that I took a lust driven detour last week is just a fluke, because besides that one notable exception, I still have no real interest at all. My interest in the one notable exception is, however, still piqued beyond what is probably good for me. And that's too bad, because I can tell you right now that this won't end well.

I called him last week. Thursday, to be exact. Under the auspices of wanting an estimate for some work in my Victorian Landfill. Now I will grant you that I did my overly accommodating routine as I left the message - "I know you're really busy with your seasonal job and there's absolutely no hurry, just whenever you get a chance give me a call"...blah blah blah...just a considerate "business call". And I still haven't heard back from him. Five days later. He could be dead. He could be tied to a chair in some third world IRS office. He could have had a horrible accident with a table saw. He could have dropped his cell phone into the toilet before he retrieved the message.

Or he could just not plan on calling. For whatever reason. And I certainly don't intend to leave him another message, so the picture starts looking a little bleak at the moment. Sigh. Just when it started to get interesting.

It's enough to make you want to box Cupid's ears.

well, I DO live in a college town

2009-03-09T00:02:00.003-06:00

This has been the first weekend I've had in a long time that actually felt like a "real" weekend. And, since I'm writing this late on a Sunday evening, the past tense makes me a little sad. On top of that is the fact that I hate this particular time change, which all adds up to a grumpy end of the weekend mood. (I love the fact that it stays light so much later. I just hate the idea that when my alarm goes off at zero dark thirty it feels even earlier than it should. I am not a morning person, and yet I have a job that expects me to be wide awake and competent at 6:45 am. This is either funny or tragic, depending on how little sleep I've gotten.)

I think the theme this weekend was friends and beer. Seriously. Friday night saw me hanging with a friend I don't get to hang with much, which is too bad because I love him to bits. We sat and chatted for hours while the kids ran around crazy and we drank his beer. (Not too much, since the run was the next morning.) Saturday found me on two different sets of friend's porches while we soaked up the sunshine (and later a violent thunderstorm), dissected the behavior of errant tax men and drank beer. (The younger boys were with their dad, and Sasquatch was off being sixteen, so I could.) And Sunday ended with a three family impromptu dinner out where the kids played pool and the adults gossiped and...drank beer. I do like beer. But I like hanging with my friends even more.

My stress inclination has always been to hide out, and I feel like I spent most of last year hiding out. By the time I felt ready to emerge this year I'd kind of backed myself into a corner with my solitude. So I've really been trying to make an effort to engage lately. I know my friends love me. I know I love them. Now it's time to get off my butt and get back into circulation. I'm ready.

Bloated, but ready.

race day

2009-03-08T00:02:00.002-06:00

For something that kept waking me up last night in a sweaty panic, the 5k today went pretty well. I got up early, had some coffee and half a bagel and headed out. Surfer Dude and one of his friends went with me, and by the time we got to the starting place, the crowds were spilling into the street. We met up with all of my fellow ER workers and compared rotten nights of sleep. Evidently the stress bug was going around, and it was hitting us all pretty hard.

The weather was great. Warm and, since we were running on a river levee, windy. When the crowd of people in front of me started moving at the start, I popped in my earbuds and tried to calm down. SD and his friend were at my side, SD being completely bent on beating me to the finish. We wished each other luck. And then we were off.

The thing that amazed me the most was how easily I fell into my groove, and how quickly I did what I always do when I run. I zoned out, my mind a million miles away. I ran the first half with my gym buddy, but then when we made the half-way turn we split up. I kept passing and being passed by SD and his friend, but the last time I really saw them was when I was on the way back and they were still heading to the halfway point. Before I knew it, we were climbing the final hill to the finish. I saw the giant stopclock to my left and the crowd of people cheering as the runners crossed the finish line. It was an amazing feeling to cross that line, and to realize that I took five minutes off my gym running time. It was even more amazing to realize that I'd finished at all.

SD passed me right before the end, gloating and beaming simultaneously. (He's been telling everyone who will listen that he stomped his "old mother" today, but I have it on good authority from a friend that he got confused and turned around toward the finish at the one mile marker and not the half-way point. Whatever. It's obviously important to him that he "beat" me. I was just happy that he went and did it with me at all, although if I have to hear about "old mother" again, I may do a little stomping of my own).

And at the end? We all clustered together and congratulated each other and continued on with the teamwork and comraderie that gets us through the work day. Until one person said, You know...there's a 10K late next month. We should give that a shot. If we can do this, why can't we do that?

Uh oh. Just one more reason why I'm glad I'm not Type A.

why don't you say what you're REALLY thinking??

2009-03-07T00:02:00.002-06:00

It has been brought to my attention that I'm a Type A personality.

I was shocked, to tell the truth, since I've always considered myself firmly in the laid back, go with the flow, Type B crowd. Oh, alright, maybe I wasn't exactly shocked, since I have recognized in the past that I could possibly be a little Type A from time to time. Okay, okay, perhaps I have noticed that from time to time I can be a little anal, a little compulsive...a little rigid. But the thing that - in my mind at least - kept me from tipping into the Type A column was a complete lack of any kind of competitive nature. To my way of thinking Type A equals a competitive drive and the need to somehow do better than the other guy, whoever that poor shmuck may be. And since I never felt that way I was able to rationalize the rest of it away.

But when my friend Stacey pointed out today that the only thing I'm missing is a scarlet A emblazoned on my forehead, I took notice. I wasn't happy about it, but I took notice. Good lord. Could this be true?

I'll have to think this through a little more, but I can't do it now. This 5K race is starting in ten hours, as I write this, and I need my sleep. The inclination to psych myself out is huge, but I'm trying to resist it. It's a 5K for the love of god. It's not a marathon. I run more than 3.2 miles on a regular basis. I just don't do it in a crowd, with a stop clock going, or surrounded by a whole bunch of Type A people from work who all think they're going to kick some serious co-worker butt.

It's a good thing I don't think like that, because that would make me Type A. Right?

notes to the teacher

2009-03-06T00:02:00.002-06:00

Dear High School Attendance Officer,

Thank you for your concern regarding Sasquatch and his tardiness issues. Despite the faint note of disbelief in your voice when you called me, I am well aware of the situation and am taking measures at home to ensure that he makes it to first period on time from here on out.

The first thing I have to do is buy a new dryer.

For reasons unknown to me, the child insists on starting a load of his laundry every school night at approximately 11 pm. Then, since he is falling asleep on his feet, he sets two alarms to wake him up early enough to put his clothes in the dryer before school. In the morning, he proceeds to sleep through both alarms, only waking up when I go into his room to ask why he isn't out of bed yet. If he is unable to talk me into going downstairs to put his clothes in the dryer, he drags himself out of bed and does it himself, grumbling loudly under his breath about uncooperative parents.

This is inevitably followed fifteen minutes later by the announcement that he is going to miss his bus because his clothes are still wet, followed immediately by him spewing abuse on the dryer for taking longer than a quarter of an hour to dry a "full load" - aka a pair of cargo pants, a pair of boxers and a t-shirt.

Just so you know how seriously I take these attendance issues, I thought you might like to follow along on a typical exchange.

Mom: Why can't you wear something else?
Sasquatch: Because these are the clothes I want to wear.

Mom: Why do you always wait so late to wash your clothes?
Sasquatch: It's okay, Mom. Don't worry about it.

Mom: Have you not figured out yet that this isn't working the way you want it to?
Sasquatch: Stupid dryer. It doesn't work. And stupid alarms. They never go off the way they're supposed to.

Mom: Your alarms went off fine. They woke up everyone in the house but you.
Sasquatch: No, they didn't. I would have heard them.

Repeat on a daily basis until one of you cracks.

I'm very sorry to involve you in our nightmare. Look at the bright side. The end of the school year is only two and a half months away.

I'm sure I'll be hearing from you again before then.

Sincerely,

Sasquatch's Mom

head meets pillow

2009-03-05T00:02:00.002-06:00

One of our docs told me today that our ER is now busier than the regional trauma center an hour or so down the road - my old stomping grounds, as a matter of fact. I couldn't believe that, and said so, but he was on sure ground. He started pulling out facts and by the end of the discussion I realized that he was telling the whole, crazy truth. I was horrified, but I believed him.

I don't know why I'm surprised. We used to work hard, but at a tolerable pace. Now we just flat out run for twelve hours in a row. Lately we're always packed, always overflowing into the waiting room, always accompanied by the sounds of the medics calling in report on the patients they're bringing in any second. Our staff is working sick a lot of the time, because we're so busy that people feel guilty about calling in - even when they really should. Considering what we get exposed to on a daily basis, it would be shocking if we didn't get sick. And all it takes is a few days of running at this pace when you're sick and should be home in bed to make you even sicker for even longer...and nothing in the world you can do about it. When my co-workers finally face the fact that they're falling over it takes a lot more than one day off to get them back up to snuff. The people I work with are fabulous. It's the pace that's gonna kill me.

This is all a long winded way of saying that I've got nothing tonight. The brain drain has done me in.I've just finished the longest run of my schedule. Three straight, one off, one on. Four days on out of five. And now...

Four days off.

Back to the regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.

what was I thinking? take 36

2009-03-04T00:02:00.004-06:00

Oh, god.

This 5K race that I signed up for in some kind of fugue state is in four days. I think I'm gonna be sick. Seriously. What was I thinking?

On the plus side, it has brought out the inner jock of half the department. We all used to stand around and talk about what there was to eat back in the break room, but now we talk about training schedules and how far we ran the day before and how bad our feet hurt. Oh yeah, and who's going to crash and burn on race day and not even make it to the finish line. For a laid back bunch of people we've got some seriously Type A crap going on. Someone pulled up a half marathon course on the internet the other day and said Well, if you can do a 5K...

On the minus side, I'm trying to figure out which of my friends I trust enough to use the defibrillator on me when I collapse in a heap just the wrong side of the finish line. I'm up to running 5 miles, but something tells me that the conditions of an actual "event" will make the 3.2 mile course feel more like 20. Is it too late to sign up for the 2 mile Fun Walk? Is it too late to just skip the whole blasted thing and go straight for the green beer?

I don't feel so good.

1-2-3-

2009-03-03T00:02:00.004-06:00

While there were certainly lowlights, there were also some funny highlights of this three day work run. Just like the days themselves, the experiences this weekend were all over the map.

My boss struck first. During my review she had asked if there was any criticism or anything I wanted to bring up about her or her management style. We all know how I feel about the woman, so the only thing I could think of to complain about was the fact that her bottomless candy jar had no Reese's Peanut Butter Cups - my personal favorite. She said, "You know, I've always wondered if Administration even reads these things" and typed it into my official review. And when I came in Saturday, my cubby was full of Peanut Butter Cups. It was an auspicious - and caloric - beginning.

The final score was 2 to 1. We got spanked 2 days and had 1 nice one. Luckily, the middle day was the slow one, so we could regroup a little bit, but by Monday afternoon I was threatening to shoot out the tires on all the ambulances so they'd have to stop doing runs. People were laughing until they realized just how serious I was. I spent 12 hours in triage on Saturday. It never slowed down enough to pull me out. On Sunday I was walking toward triage to go out to the waiting room and one of the docs yelled out to ask me where I was going. I said the waiting room and he said, "Good. If you were heading out to triage I'd have had to break both of your legs. Anything to keep you out of there." Nice. That's Nurse Shit Magnet to you, Doctor.

Then on Sunday I had yet another in a string of cute young thang paramedic students following me around all day. They're with us mostly to work on their IV skills, so that's what we primarily focus on. On his first attempt with me he missed, because this woman had lousy veins. He looked at me with that deer in the headlights look that I remember so well - needle still hanging out of this gals arm - and asked me to take over. So I did. I pulled the needle most of the way out and went at it from a different angle - and a little deeper. I guess it was a little more aggressive than he'd seen before because he just blurted out "Oh, my god!", and then had to scramble big time when the patient looked at him with a WTF? expression on her face. Luckily, my hitting her vein at roughly the same time distracted her. Next guy we had also had rotten veins, but I let my student try anyway. No go. I tried. No go. Used to be this would freak me out. Now it just makes me mad. In the end I managed to get a line going in a teeny tiny little vein on this guy's thumb, a feat that ensured I walked around with my head too big for my britches all day long. My favorite doctor was working all weekend too, and when he saw that IV he told me that I had bigger balls than he did. Awww. My co-workers say the sweetest things, don't they?

All in all it was okay. Long, but okay. Peanut butter cups make anything bearable.

heads I win...tails I lose

2009-03-02T00:02:00.002-06:00

If I'd have been home today, I would have written this all in the comments section of my last post. But since I wasn't, I won't. I'll just turn a comment response into a real live (albeit short) post. Don't expect a lot from me tonight. I'm just trying to get through one more day of work and then allow myself to fall over in a discombobulated heap.

Even with a couple of people changing their answers, it's pretty clear that the overwhelming vote was to Call The Man. Even I could see which way the wind was blowing. I don't want anyone to feel any pressure to give me the perfect answer. I'm a big girl, and in spite of my Majority Rules comment, I'm going to give a lot of weight to what my gut is telling me first and foremost. But some people brought up a few things that could be interesting to look into a little further.

Laurie asked for more information. Did I get vibes? Did he seem nice? And the answer is...I don't know. About the vibes anyway. He seemed to be a nice guy. I'm way past the point in my life where I see any attraction in anything other than nice. It's hard to tell about vibes because he was at work. Most people - especially when they're working with paying customers - tend to be nice. Now having said that, I certainly felt that we were both flirting - in a very understated way. That doesn't necessarily mean anything, since I'm a terrible flirt most of the time without even meaning to be. (Note to self: Work on that). She also mentioned that hot people aren't always too nice, which is absolutely true. But here's the thing. My own personal "type" isn't a type that the whole world finds hot. I like quirky, I have a weakness for geeks and I'm bored silly by classically good looking. Now having said that, no one would call this man a dog.

Did I answer the question? No? I didn't think so, either.

Then there was Devon. Make a list, she said. Excellent suggestion. So here's the one off the top of my head.

Pros:

It could be fun.

I could really like him.

Cons:

He might be a jerk.

It could be fun.

I could really like him.

He might not be at all interested.

What would my kids say?

It could ruin my whole image of myself as a spinster for the rest of my life.

I haven't been on a date since Madonna was a pup.

Well. That's a little lopsided, isn't it?

And then there's Frances. The problem here is that I agree totally with the core of what she's saying. He knows where I am. Hell, he had his hands all over my financial panties for an hour. He has two of my phone numbers and an email address. I fall back onto the work dilemma, though, since if it were me I wouldn't call someone I'd met on my job and ask them out. If they got offended or something, that could be problematic. On the other hand, he's handing out business cards for his own business on this job, which I find a little odd, if you want to know the truth.

There's another factor at play here, too. Maybe what I need the most right now is the fantasy. The possibilities. The opportunity to walk around with a goofy ass smile on my face just because I can't help it. Maybe the next time I see him I won't be moved at all. Maybe this is my safe way to work through some of this stuff as a kind of trial run. Maybe the fantasy really is better than the reality.

I can't see that calling him to give me an estimate on fixing something would make me look like I was chasing him. But there is the curiosity factor. Left to his own, would he make a move? Would he even want to?

It was funny, actually, how it worked out in the first place. The day I met him was a frantic day of too many things scheduled. I had gone to the gym to run and had kind of half planned to throw on a hoodie over my workout clothes and pull my hair back into a ponytail and go straight to do my taxes from the gym. But I talked myself out of it because I'm trying to not look like a schlub any more than I have to. So I came home, showered, put on decent clothes (including a new shirt that I adore), put on make-up AND perfume, and just generally tried to get myself into the best mood I could to tackle a daunting day. Not my usual routine, to be sure. Usually I'm a hoodie and ponytail kind of gal. Kind of an odd time to pull out the put together act...at least in hindsight.

Oh, well. It's all just as clear as mud, isn't it? And not even short like I promised.

Maybe a good night of sleep will help.

I am out of my godforsaken mind...

2009-03-01T00:02:00.004-06:00

Okay. Majority rules.

I knew for a fact - since he told me- that hot tax fix it guy was going to be out of town this weekend. Skiing. In Colorado. Sounds good, no?

But as of Monday, he'll be back

So here's my question. Do I call him? Find some fix-it job to do? Or do I chalk it up to hormones gone mad on my part? Should I treat this whole thing as the joke I'm dying to...

Or not? I've not responded physically like this in 20 years... I'm just sayin'...

Majority rules. You guys call it.

Game on.

fingers and toes crossed

2009-02-28T00:02:00.003-06:00

With my new schedule I only have one three day in a row stretch and it starts Saturday - today. Used to be, in my old job, that the day before three in a row was a complete loss because I dreaded the next day so badly. That's not the case anymore, thank goodness, and the day before the work run starts is just another day. A pretty good one, even.

The younger boys are with their dad for the weekend, Sasquatch is out and about with his friends, and I had the whole night tonight to get to a few things that I haven't been able to do with kids around. It has been a really nice evening, but now it's time to get to sleep and rest up for tomorrow.

What are the odds of my good luck streak continuing?

the triage queen strikes again

2009-02-27T00:02:00.002-06:00

The Internet is a really interesting thing. And while for the most part the Internet greatly adds to my quality of life, there are times it gets a little odd.

Case in point:

The FX spent last night in the cardiac evaluation unit of my hospital. He called me yesterday to tell me he was having chest pains and to ask my advice on what to do. I asked him a few questions and then told him that my advice was to Go Straight To The ER. He didn't want to do that. I asked him a few more questions and then repeated the Go Straight To The ER advice. He clung to the heartburn theory. I told him to take some Mylanta and if it didn't get any better ASAP to Go Straight To The ER, or, if he still felt stubborn, to go have an EKG done at our doctor's office at the very least. He took both the Mylanta and the EKG advice, and then called me later leaving the doctor's office to tell me that the doctor had told him to Go Straight To The ER. Jeez. It's not like this was the first chest pain I've ever seen. I'm about at the point where I can triage in my sleep.

Bottom line - he called me at ten last night to tell me that they were admitting him for observation. Labs and EKG looked okay, but he's got some crappy risk factors and some health issues that are not in his favor. He called me from his room, on his cell phone, with his laptop by his side.

And this is where the weirdness started. For the entire duration of our marriage, I was the one who communicated. I kept in touch with his family, I bought his mother's birthday and Mother's Day gifts, I called to let people know when anything especially good (or bad) happened. Even when we lived thirty minutes away from them, I was the one who took the kids to visit, and I was the one who built really solid relationships with his family - relationships I am assured continue to this day, despite the change in our marital status. As his mother said to me last week, "I'm almost 70 years old. You are my daughter. I'm not about to shake things up now." As happy as I was to hear that, it put me in a very weird spot last night.

See, I really felt that it was his responsibility to let his family know what was going on. Not mine. His. I told the kids, because Surfer Dude put on his big bionic snooping ears while we were on the phone at one point and I had to come clean. But the rest of his family - no matter how dear to me - needed to be told by him, as far as I was concerned. He had his phone. He had his laptop. California is two hours behind us. He had the means and he had opportunity.

And he didn't utilize either. But he did post a status update on Facebook, which his sister saw. (This is the sister who is the closest thing to a sister I'll ever have. And she and I are on the same page about virtually everything FX related). She then told his mom who posted her own status update, saying basically how fricking dysfunctional is this, that I have to hear this on Facebook? His sister and I then exchanged private messages where I said, Hey, I love you all to bits, but this is HIS responsibility. (The whole Facebook thing is weird to start with. Two of his sisters just joined, and they pulled his mom in. They all three friended me, which is great. But they also all three friended him, which is weird. It's a thin line in terms of privacy between the FX and I and I'm not sure what I think of it. When his mom sent me a friendship request, I accepted it, but made sure she knew that I might say things about her son from time to time that she might not be thrilled with).

He's fine, anyway. No cardiac issues, just a more pressing need to address some health problems he has been in deep denial over. And I'm sure he's talked to his mom by now and all is well. But I spent part of today feeling like I should feel guilty that I didn't take care of this for him and then feeling bad because I couldn't even make myself feel guilty about it. It's not my job anymore. He's a big boy. He can run interference for himself.

One little note before I move on - and this has absolutely nothing to do with the Internet in any way, shape or form. I do believe that the FX is a much nicer and more trusting person than I am. Either that or he's self-absorbed to the point of being comatose. Because if the situation had been reversed, there would have been no way in hell you would have gotten me into that ER. I would've driven to the next hospital thirty minutes over, because I don't think he fully understood what hostile territory he was venturing into. I'm not saying his medical care wasn't top notch. But these are the people who have seen me coping on a day in and day out basis over the last year, the people who have become a huge part of my life, and let me just say that he doesn't have many fans there. When I mentioned to my boss during my review that he had called asking for advice on his chest pain, she said "What did you tell him to do? Eat a hot dog and go mow the lawn?"

Back to the Internet, I've wondered today how we ever gathered information in the dark ages pre-web. I tried an experiment today. I casually asked a couple of people if they knew hot tax fix-it guy, including one of my friends who I was sure would. She didn't. But now she wants to meet him too. Sigh. (This is not a huge town, but it's not tiny, either). I'm leery of asking too many people since a) it's not my style and b) I'd be guaranteed a big ol' butt bite somehow. So I got on-line, and in about fifteen minutes nailed down the info I wanted.

In the right age range.

Single. And looking.

And a picture proving that my eyes were working just fine yesterday even as my lungs struggled for air.

Gotta love those open social websites.

Damn the Internet.

is it warm in here, or is it me?

2009-02-26T00:02:00.002-06:00

This was not a day I was particularly looking forward to. There were too many meetings, too much uncertainty, too much interaction with the FX in a forced civility sort of way. Surfer Dude's school conference was looking to be a no-stress situation, but the first tax filing post divorce was a little unnerving, especially with splitting kid deductions and mortgage interest and all those other fun things that are guaranteed to make peacefully divorced people squabble. In the end, nothing at all today worked out the way it was supposed to. Odd thing is that virtually everything came out better. Whoa. April Fools Day is a month off. What gives?

First off was the guy who did my taxes. Damn. The man was hot. And exactly my type. Not that I'm looking, mind you. But I do have a type. Not that it matters, mind you. But if I was looking and it did matter, he was my type. To a Tee. He even laughed at my jokes (and not my gross income). Hot tax man got even hotter when it turned out that he has his own handyman/house repair business, and he whipped out a card and said, "I'm hoping you want one of these."

Well, hell, I know he's only drumming up business, but damn. Have I mentioned the man was hot? Would he look even hotter patching plaster? Repairing staircase spindles? Replacing the light fixture in the computer room that the FX pulled out a year and a half ago and couldn't figure out how to get back in?

Is it warm in here, or is it me?

Then there was my annual performance review at work, which went so well that I almost felt like I was being Punk'd. I guess handing out twenties to all the charge nurses really does help. When my boss read back some of the peer reviews I honestly thought for a minute that I might burst into tears, but I didn't. I don't want to look all puffy in the eyes if hot tax fix-it guy finds an error on my return and out of the goodness of his heart decides to hand deliver it and give me an estimate on my foundation at the same time. Be prepared, that's my motto.

Off to Surfer Dude's conference, which produced a bright, shiny row of A's. And a teacher who is determined to place him in advanced math and English classes next year in Junior High. Now, I have experience with the gifted English classes from my older two kids, but math? In this family? Maybe the Punk'd crew was following me all day? Could there be any other explanation for this?

In between these things, I ran four miles, had a lovely, sunbathed catch-up chat with a dear friend on the playground while our boys ran around taking advantage of a gorgeous warm day, shuttled Gumby and Sasquatch all over town, and finally collapsed in front of the television with SD and a Strawberry Blonde beer - my new favorite.

It may not have been the quietest "day off", but it sure had its moments.

I cannot tell a lie

2009-02-25T00:02:00.004-06:00

What kind of a pinhead schedules the appointment with the tax guy, her annual job performance review and her youngest kid's parent/teacher conference all within a five hour period?

And then has to spend the night before frantically rounding up necessary paperwork for both the tax guy and her boss?

Any guesses?

it's raining eggs

2009-02-24T00:02:00.002-06:00

Surfer Dude and a couple of his friends are members of the brand new Engineering Club at their Elementary School, and last week there was a competition held at the college right up the road. They all entered in a couple of categories, but the Egg Drop was the one that made the biggest splash -at least around here.

I'm sure you're all familiar with the Egg Drop. You take an egg and rig it into some kind of contraption that keeps the egg from breaking when you drop it from a certain height. Early last week there were four boys in my house in feverish preparation for the event. They each showed up on my doorstep clutching a dozen eggs and then disappeared into SD's bedroom to work out the kinks. They were engrossed, they were diligent...they were quiet. I chalked the silence up to an overactive sixth grade work ethic and went about my business.

That was my first mistake.

I was in the kitchen putting dinner together when I heard the sound of something hitting the patio outside with a big gushy splat. When I stuck my head out the back door to check it out, I almost got beaned by an egg hurtling way too fast toward the brick patio. I looked up briefly and then jumped back into the safety of the doorway as it began to rain eggs all around me. Four boy's heads peered out of the only screenless window in Gumby's room and watched intently, hoping (futiley) that one of the eggs landed intact. Meanwhile, three dogs peered intently out of the open screen door and as if they were one, bolted out for a little pre-Easter egg collection. I have mentioned they're Labs, right? Before I could get them rounded up, they had each wolfed down more than their fair share of raw eggs. Pieces of eggshell clinging to their muzzles, I corralled them in the house and went to have a word with the Egg Beaters. They sat upstairs, dejected. Forty eight eggs dropped and forty eight eggs broken. It didn't look like this was going to be such a hot event for them, although no complaints were heard from the canine corner.

Forty eight hours later, cleaning up yet another doggie present from the double ended GI Upset Store, I thought they should change the name of the event. The Egg Drop didn't do it much justice. It wasn't a fear of broken eggs that kept us from walking barefooted through a dark room without turning on a light.

Is Cause and Effect even an engineering term?

also known as the Southern Default Brain

2009-02-23T00:02:00.003-06:00

Okay, this is the last one - I swear. I even pinkie swear. With peanut butter fudge and maraschino cherries on top. I mean it this time. I thought I was done, until I read something that made me change my mind.

This is an awful story, and I'm just as horrified by it as the next guy, but it really strikes a note with me in light of recent events. An eleven year old boy in Pennsylvania has been accused of shooting and killing his father's pregnant fiancee as she slept in the house they all shared, along with her two children from a previous relationship. Various family members have been quoted as saying that there had been jealousy issues in the past, and some have even claimed that the boy had actually threatened to harm the girlfriend. And what does his dad have to say about all of this?

According to the defense attorney assigned to the child, the father is "a mess" and "had no indication that his son had a problem with [the fiancee]. He's in a state of actual shock and disbelief."

Why am I not surprised?

I'm not making light of his shock and grief. This whole thing is a god-awful tragedy and it's probably going to get even worse in days to come. Something tells me (based on too many days brainstorming with the Social Workers lately at work) that there are some seriously funky family dynamics at play here. But how is it that so many other family members knew there was a problem and the dad had no clue? Was he really that ignorant, or was he so preoccupied with keeping his Southern Default Brain satisfied that he couldn't be bothered to pay attention to his own child's emotions?

This is not a rhetorical question. How the hell does something like this happen?

I know men who are amazing fathers. Men who are totally tuned into their kids and what they're feeling and needing. Men who have no problem putting their kid's needs in front of their own. But I have to say, in total honesty, that these men are by far the minority. A whole stinking bunch of them are just clueless when it comes to their own children. They're so busy looking out for Number One that they forget all about Mini Me. No doubt I'm a little sensitive to this right now, but how could you not be just outraged by this story?

And in the same vein, but with a 180 degree twist, I humbly admit to all of you who commented that you're totally, absolutely right and I need to let go of the whole idea of a lost 21 years. Of course they weren't lost. I wouldn't be the person I am without the experience, I wouldn't have the perspective and world view that I have, and most importantly, I wouldn't have the three overgrown rugrats that make my heart go pitter pat on a regular basis. I have to get over this notion, and I will. It's all part of the process, but I'm sure I'll get there. I've already got a pretty good start.

I took my new Shuffle running today and forgot that I had loaded on this song that I loved way back in the 80's. And as I kind of zoned out and ran, I thought that this song did a pretty good job of saying what I have so much trouble spitting out. (And how about those 80's music videos, huh?)

And now, I'm done. I promise.

blah blah blah

2009-02-22T00:02:00.003-06:00

I'm all talked out.

It feels like all week I've either been talking or thinking about talking or writing about talking...I'm tired of the sound of my own voice. And I know I can't be alone.

Don't answer that. Just enjoy the break.

floodgates

2009-02-20T00:02:00.005-06:00

Rather than do an immediate Mt. St. Helen's impersonation, I met my friend Stacey for some emergency lattes while we hashed this out. The kids were at home (MY home) with their dad, and I was climbing higher on my anger scale by the second. I'm not one of those people who believes that anger is a bad emotion, but I do fully understand the thin line between productive anger and volcanic eruption. I was aiming for the middle ground, but I was missing. I was all magma. And that wasn't going to get me where I needed to be.

Because here's the fine line. All of my justifiable anger, all of my legitimate and reasonable issues, could, if one chose to look at it this way, be chalked up to jealousy. Jealousy of the new girlfriend. Jealousy that he had someone and I didn't. Jealousy that he had "moved on" while I was still "locked in the past". I had to find a way to say what I wanted to say without making him feel that I was doing this because I wanted him back, that I missed him, that I was feeling left out. I knew the true story behind those ideas and I somehow had to convey it to him.

But how?

I knew one thing. I was tired of pussy footing around the whole issue. It was (again, for the love of god), like the floodgates had opened and I would not rest until this was on the table. I went home to take Gumby to a drama class, and as I was getting ready to leave, I asked the FX to come along with me. For the ride. I don't think I said it in a terribly nice tone, for what it's worth, but he agreed and climbed in the car. He knew something was up, but couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was a three minute drive to drop Gumby off. My mind was on auto-pilot in preparation.

Gumby had not been out of the car thirty seconds when I played my opening card.

"I have two things for you - a question and a favor", I said.

He looked at me guilessly and said, "Okay, go ahead."

So I did.

The question shouldn't be a surprise. Why did you feel it was necessary to tell the kids about your new relationship at this stage of the game? Well, let me rephrase that. It may not be a surprise to anyone reading this blog, but it sure seemed to be to him. He was silent for quite a little bit before he answered. And while I don't think a lot of his reasoning, it's not really out in left field for him. In a nutshell, he and the gf have been hanging out mostly in the town where she lives. They want to be able to hang out here without the fear of accidentally running into the kids or their friends and freaking them out when they see Dad holding hands with a woman they don't know. He figured it was better to give them a heads up.

I told him how upset I was that they had all come home stressed out after he had told them, and said that I really believed it might have been smarter to keep it under his hat for awhile longer. Told him that I had spent two days doing damage control and cleaning up his messes. He said they hadn't seemed at all stressed out when he talked to them., and that they all seemed to take it in stride. That's when my (ahem) floodgates opened.

"You know why they didn't seem stressed with you?" I asked. "It's because they are afraid to show you how they really feel. They put on a good face with you all the time because they don't want to upset you. You left our marriage with almost no warning, and they're terrified that you're going to leave them too. What do you think they're going to do when you tell them something like this? Tell you they don't want to talk it? Or just smile and not rock the boat?"

There was more. A lot more. I pulled no punches on the fact that he was on the verge of totally blowing his relationships with his children. Told him that he was going to have to be especially careful with his new situation that the kids didn't feel like they were coming in second place. Pretty much everything kid related that I'd been wanting to say for quite a while got laid right out. There was no sugarcoating whatsoever on my part, nor was there any exaggeration. By the time I was done he looked a little sick. Fine. If that's what it takes, that's what it takes. We ended up having a long and hopefully productive talk about steps he needs to take with them, and then he really surprised me by thanking me. I know it wasn't easy to be so blunt about this, he said, and I want you to know that I really appreciate it. You can show me that you appreciate it, I replied, by doing what it takes to make it better. I know you want to be a good dad. Now just go and do it.

And then we came to the favor.

I want you to stop treating me like a friend, I said. That's the favor. I'm not your friend. I'm your ex-wife, and if we didn't have three children together we probably wouldn't have anything to do with each other. His face was assuming that stunned look again, but I kept right on going. I don't want to chat on the phone, I really don't care about your day unless the kids are with you, I'm not interested in your new relationship or the fact that you've just now told me you think it could be a long-term thing. We were friends once, but we won't be friends again until you do two things. First, you'd need to apologize to me for the absolutely despicable way you treated me all year last year. And second, you'd need to be able to look me in the face and accept responsibility for all of the ways you destroyed this marriage while blaming it all on me. I want specifics. Man up. I've said this before, I'll say it again. I don't hate you that you wanted out of the marriage. I hate you for making it all my fault. Until you accept your share of the blame, I really have nothing more to say to you.

And to my absolute amazement, he apologized. Said of course it wasn't all your fault, accepted more than the lion's share of responsibility and stated once more that he just hadn't known how to handle the whole situation. This turned into a conversation in which I was able to say a large percentage of the things I'd been formulating in my head for a year, and the two of us had a really decent talk about our marriage and our lives. We sat in my driveway for over an hour while my children quietly starved to death waiting for dinner inside.

We had one of these discussions last July, and I mistakenly thought that one talk like that would be enough to clear the air, but I realize now that I was looking at it the wrong way. I was looking at the divorce talks as one big clear the air type of eruption, but it's more like a bunch of zits. You get them, they come to a head, you pop the suckers and you move on. There's a whole bunch of them, but they don't have to be huge. They just have to be dealt with. One way or another.

And the whole jealousy issue? Very early in the conversation I brought it up, and he almost cut me off with a snort. I don't think for a second that you're jealous, he said. Why would you be? You've already told me that you've been miserable for years.

It's true. I have told him that. And I meant it, too. We were just not good for each other, not right for each other, too different, too much the same. I'm happy, he told me. And I want you to be happy too. Oh, but I am, I said. You have no idea how happy I am with my life. But there's this one thought that pops up sometimes...

You can't imagine what I would give to be laying in my bed crying myself to sleep all night because I miss you so much. So lonely I could die. Sobbing because I wanted the marriage back so bad. Because that would mean that I hadn't thrown 21 years of my life away on something I don't even miss.

I'm sorry, he said. I wish I could give you 21 years back. I had no idea you'd been that sad for that long.

But in the game of blame, I have no one but myself to blame for that.

riding the wave

2009-02-20T00:02:00.004-06:00

This night has totally gotten away from me, and I'm not entirely sure how. But it has, and I'm going to have to leave the latest installment of my own personal General Hospital for tomorrow's post. I have too much to say to do a rush job and I'll botch it for sure tonight.

In the meantime, thank you all more than I can say for the wonderful comments, emails and other assorted forms of communication regarding the last week's posts. It may have been a roller coaster...but I never felt like I was on the ride alone.

this post is for stacey...thank you for talking me down

2009-02-19T00:02:00.002-06:00

So the roller coaster continues.

If anyone out there is interested in writing the definitive book on divorce, please dedicate at least one chapter to the Roller Coaster. More would probably be better, but at least address it somehow. It's the black fly in the Chardonnay of divorce, and very few people warned me about it.

All emotions are good in their own way and all emotions are valid. Don't you agree? Now - that said - I've had a really rough 24 hours. And it all came down to one emotion. Anger. From me. Lots and lots of it.

I've spent the last day going over my mental checklist.

Am I having ambivalent feelings about the divorce? No. Check.

Am I unhappy with the life I have now? No. Check.

Would I want to go back to the marriage we had? Hell, no. Check.

Am I upset that the FX has a girlfriend? No. Check.

Am I mad that I had to do damage control with my kids this week? Yes. Check.

Wait a minute. What was that mad word? Because I feel a lot more of that coming on. Mad. I am mad. Furious. Livid. But in a quiet and controlled kind of way. No head spinning or glass breaking. No yelling or screaming. Not necessary. I'm far more dangerous when I'm quiet.

I'm sure you're all getting really tired of my Ah Ha moments, but I had another one yesterday. A big one. I'm not mad that the FX is moving on. I'm mad that he's moving on with a clear conscience. I'm mad that he's moving on never once having acknowledged that he was an absolute and total shit to me most of last year. I'm mad that I never got to do my final summation in which I got to tell him exactly what I thought about the whole thing. It just moved too fast. First I was blindsided, then I was frantically kissing butt to stay in the game, then I knew it was over and I started pulling back and then it really was over. All in the course of eight or nine weeks.

When you're in a relationship and you have a fight, you get the chance to explain yourself when you make up. You get to say "good point" or "that was really uncalled for" and all of those things. But when you're fighting like mad for your marriage, you don't get that chance. You start choosing your words very, very carefully. (And wasn't it Erica Jong in Fear of Flying who said that people always try harder to save loveless marriages? I can't remember what her reason was, but I'm not about to argue with her conclusion). But I had listened to some of the most amazing things coming out of the mouth of this man I had been married to for so long, and they all were some variation of the same statement - "RC, this is all YOUR fault". And now, this same man wanted to be "my friend". He wanted to sit and chat over coffee. He wanted to keep me up to date on the office politics that had always bored me silly to start with. He wanted to have me ask about his day. Well, I don't know about you, but my friends don't treat me like that. They wouldn't be my friends if they did. And now, with no effort whatsoever made to even attempt to clean up the mess he had made here, he was off to do it again somewhere else. I just snapped.

I was sitting in my dining room trying not to explode when there was a knock on my front door. And lo and behold, there stood the FX to help Surfer Dude with a science project. He thought I was at work and I never knew SD had asked him over. We eyed each other warily.

And all of a sudden I realized that there was no way in hell I could carry this anger around for another day.

mind over matter

2009-02-18T00:02:00.002-06:00

This exercise thing is going way better than I would have hoped. I was thinking about it today as a way to keep myself motivated, and this is the scoreboard so far.

Twelve pounds down - and redistributed somehow.

I'm up to running three and a half miles at a time, and it's actually not been bad. I'm slow, but I get there. Three days a week I meet a friend at the gym and we keep each other honest. It's also good because we're switching up what we do, which keeps me from getting bored.

My ankle is doing great. Thank god. The first day I ran, I iced it and popped a handful of Ibuprofen but it never even twinged. I'm still hyper vigilant, but it hasn't been a bit of an issue.

The big one is that I just feel better. More energy, calmer, sleep like a rock. These are all very good things.

The first weekend in March I'm running a St. Patrick's Day 5K with a lot of co-workers as a charity fundraiser. It's the first organized run I've ever done, and I'm still not quite sure how I got roped into it. I'd never realized how Type A some of the people I work with are, and there's a lot of pride on the line here. There are a bunch of us who are just hoping and praying that we can drag our sorry bodies over the finish line in less than ten hours. On the other hand, any race that ends in a bar can't be all bad. Green beer and all.

Today I did a one hour power weightlifting class that makes me shake with fear at the thought of getting out of bed tomorrow morning. This will not be pretty. It's already ugly tonight. Where the hell did I put the Ibuprofen?

This is the physical - and final - component of the emotional cleanse I've been immersed in for the last year. All the bad crap has been raised to the surface, and now all I have to do is flush it completely out of my system. For good. Every drop of sweat is healing in an oddly profound way. I feel like a million bucks.

Until tomorrow morning.

give me a frickin' break

2009-02-17T00:02:00.004-06:00

Just because I'm not bothered by something doesn't mean that I don't want to know the motivation behind it. And even though I have made a concerted effort the last year or so to not over- think things, I'm still curious about this one.

I'm talking about the FX and his new girlfriend, of course. But before I get into the rest of the story, I have to go back and fill in a detail I left out earlier, because in the interest of getting to the meat of the story, I chose to not put the veggies and potatoes on the plate. (This takes on added significance when you factor in that I really don't like meat, but I digress). The detail is this -

The reason he told me this, said he, is that he wanted my opinion and advice on how to a) tell the kids about this gal and b) get them all together in a stress-free kind of manner. It's moments like these that make me grateful for the poker face I've cultivated all my life, because without it I'm afraid I may have hurt his oh so considerate feelings a smite. My answer was short and to the point. You're on your own, said I. This is something we're each going to have to work out for ourselves. I don't have the magic answer and even if I did I'm not sure I'd share. I am, as you have repeatedly pointed out to me, not your mother. The only thing I did say was that I thought if he told the kids he should make sure they knew that I knew, so they wouldn't feel like they were having to keep secrets from me.

That's where we left it. Oh, he had to tell me all about her and ask me about my love life and make chit chat like we were friends or something, but the reason for this charming little catch up session was already on the table. So there you are. The end.

But.

I can't help but wonder why? Why is he doing this? What is the ultimate goal, the hidden purpose? Why does he want the kids in on this? And this is the direction my thoughts keep going off in. First off they've only been going out a couple of months. (And I believe this, for reasons I don't really want to get into now). Second off, he only has the kids every other weekend, and even that has been getting shortened as the kids are asking me if they can go there Saturday morning instead of Friday night. Third, they've only been going out a couple of months. Oh, wait. I already said that. Never mind.

If we had split custody I could understand it. If the kids were with him seven days out of fourteen and he was in the heady throes of getting a new relationship off the ground, I can see the point of telling them about it. I wouldn't do it if it were me, but I can see where some people would. But if you're seeing your kids one or two nights out of fourteen, can you not take care of your love life in the other twelve or thirteen? Do you really want to spend the few nights you have with your kids on a "date"? And what if it doesn't work out? Then what? Will you make sure they meet every woman you go to a movie with? Why is this necessary to their lives?

Then there's the option that he believes that this gal is the one, the Steven to his Spielberg. That he wants them to start in immediately on the happy integrated family routine. (She does have kids, but they're "grown", whatever that means). I sit somewhere between awe and horror at this thought, with a heavy right shift. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that his major preoccupation has been trying to find someone to be with, rather than doing a little introspection about his issues - the issues that two separate therapists assured him would follow him from one relationship to the next unless he sucked it up and addressed his problems. Perhaps I'm still smarting from being told repeatedly that I single-handedly killed the marriage with all my issues, but there's a little part of me that hopes this gal has a clue of what she's getting into. I know for a fact that he's quite presentable on paper. I have the paper to prove it.

I even, out of the goodness of my heart, started a little mental list for her. Ten Things You Should Know About Him. A minute or two later, I had to upgrade it to Twenty, because that's how I am with these lists. As a matter of fact, I've integrated my love of lists into this book I'm writing that is kicking my butt. I shouldn't complain, because every time I think I'm running into a wall, I just keep getting more material thrown my way. Anyway, these lists started with one I wrote last Spring. I couldn't write it now because I'm just not in that place anymore, but if I do say so myself, my Ten Things I Won't Miss About You List (quickly upgraded to Twenty), may be the best piece of writing I've ever done, in an Alannis Morissette You Oughta Know kind of way. You wouldn't be wrong if you imagined a fair amount of overlap in the Things You Should Know/Things I Won't Miss lists. Of course she isn't asking for my advice like he is, but here's a freebie just because I'm nice that way. Absent minded men who misplace everything they touch should never be allowed to take erotic pictures of their women. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

If you're sensing a little hostility seeping through my words, you're right. All three of my kids came home last night very subdued after having this news sprung on them. One of them has been stomping around the house, snarly and surly, one refuses to even admit he heard it, and one looked at me really tentatively and asked if I'd heard about Dad's news. I said I had, and asked what he thought about it. Yikes. And that's all I'm going to say about that. Empathetic dad that he is, has he called to check in on them to see how they're doing after his little sound bite? Come on. What do you think?

Where the hell was I? Oh, yeah. Sorry. I sidetracked myself.

Why did he feel he needed this on the table? Who has something to gain here? Possibly the woman is pushing for this for her own reasons, but it's hard to imagine why. The kids, in my opinion, have nothing to gain by this. I'm simply a bystander to this particular car wreck, except for that pesky little bit about my children's psyches and the newfound need to patch them up. And that leaves the FX. What does he have to gain from this?

It's taken me four days, but I think I've finally figured it out. No, scratch that. I'm pretty damn sure I've figured it out. And I'm not being coy, but I'm going to wait just a bit before I write about it, because I want to see how this plays out. Sometimes I think he still checks in here just because he can, and even though I think that's a pathetic thought, I can't rule it out. I'm not tipping my hand on this one.

Even during the last days of our marriage when we loathed everything about each other, he was still forced to admit that I knew him inside and out, knew what made him tick and why. And if I'm right about this - and I am - he doesn't even know he's doing it. He certainly hasn't gotten as far as the why.

And I think that's a little...sad.

swing shift

2009-02-16T00:02:00.002-06:00

There are all kinds of different shifts at my job, but for the most part they're either day shifts or night shifts. 7-7 is the standard in nursing - either 7 am to 7 pm or vice versa - but the ER runs more varied shifts than the regular floor. There are noon to midnights shifts, 3 pm to 3 am shifts and so on. Whatever your internal clock, there's a shift for you.

I have always worked the day shift, if not always the 7 am to 7 pm, at least close. I don't do nights very well, and would never willingly choose to work nights. This is unfortunate, because most hospitals pay a huge shift differential for nights, but the way I look at it is that if I get fired for falling asleep on the job or accidentally killing someone, the shift differential won't make much difference anyway.

Night shift has always fascinated me, though - in terms of sheer logistics. Do they always sleep during the day and stay up all night? Even on their days off? Or do they switch back to a "normal" schedule as soon as they have a day off? Different people do it different ways, but I'm always curious how they make it work.

But even though they may work all night, one of the things about nursing is that you tend to work the same shift all the time. It used to be that they would have to rotate between days and nights, but not anymore. If you're hired for days, you stay on days. Same for nights. Some of the PRN people may go back and forth, but that's their choice, not a demand. In a situation like this, it seems to me, it being your choice and not foisted on you would be huge.

The doctors, however, don't have this option. They work all different shifts on a regular basis. And this is what made me think of this today. One of our docs worked all day Saturday with us, but then came back to start his Sunday shift a few hours before we all went home for the day. So he worked roughly 8 am to 8 pm Saturday and then came back Sunday at 5 pm for a twelve hour shift. They basically self- schedule, so he did this to himself, but still. When do you sleep on that schedule? If you sleep normally Saturday night then you'll end up having a 24+ hour day on Sunday. How do you skew that schedule so you don't fall over mid-shift? It really intrigues me, being that I turn into a pumpkin at midnight no matter what fun thing may be around the corner. (Or as fun as you can get at work, anyway).

Anybody out there worked night shifts? Swing shift? Any variation on the above? And if so, how did you manage it? Fill me in. Because I just can't imagine.

doll parts

2009-02-15T00:02:00.002-06:00

Hypothetically speaking...

If you go into an ER and notice your doctor sitting at his work station with a life sized blow-up doll at his side - smiling at him adoringly-

would you think that the rest of the unit really know how to pick a birthday gift?

or would you just go to another hospital?

what a difference a year makes

2009-02-14T00:02:00.002-06:00

Valentine's Day has never really been my holiday, so it wasn't exactly something that could be totally ruined for me. Even so, last year was a doozy. That was the day I was pushed so far in our "marriage" counseling session that I threw in the towel and said I wanted a divorce. It took me a few hours to calm down and remember the promise I had made to myself - that if the FX wanted out that badly, he'd have to be the one to man up and do it. I wouldn't do it for him. And I didn't.

So when he chose today to tell me that he's been seeing someone for the last few months, it didn't come as any kind of surprise. Truth to tell, I'd have thought it would've happened a lot sooner. He's a man with a strong need for an audience, and it was pretty clear that he'd keep looking until he found one. I wish him luck, and hope that this past year has been as incredible a growing experience for him as it has for me. At the very least, I hope he's been able to clearly see the negative and destructive behaviors that he brought to the table in our relationship, since if you can't see something you're far more likely to repeat it. I've spent the last year being introspective in spite of the pain it caused, and would like to think I'm on solid ground with this train of thought.

But even thought I knew this announcement was coming, I still spent the rest of the day waiting for the sucker punch feeling to my belly that I somehow felt should happen. The feeling of loss. The feeling of jealousy. The feeling of betrayal. All the things I felt I should feel, based on what I have no idea. Aren't those feelings the norm?

Um. Evidently not. Or maybe I'm not normal. Who knows? All I know is that this has caused not the tiniest ripple in my calm, not upset my emotional boat in the slightest. My mood is virtually unchanged from the last several months - I feel almost giddy with anticipation of the future, and don't think I've ever been this mellow in my entire life.

Damn. Maybe Celine Dion was on to something after all.

photographs and memories

2009-02-13T00:02:00.003-06:00

One of the women at work has been out for a week tending to her really sick mother. This co-worker is in her early 50's, and had to drop everything on a dime when her mom had an unexpected medical emergency. Luckily, the mom came through, and today my co-worker came in carrying a small folder like a priceless treasure. Inside the folder were photos.

She showed them around and explained each one. I looked at the faded, sepia toned shot of her and her mom and wondered. Her mom is clearly, traditionally Asian. My friend, while having a hint of the same features, also has a very deep olive complexion and kind of wiry hair. I asked about her dad, and was amazed when she simply said that she didn't know. Her mother would never talk about it. I'm lucky, she said, that I even got these pictures out of her. It's taken me a long time just to get these. One of these days, she continued, I'll find out about my dad. But not today.

I know I should have kept my mouth shut, but I just couldn't. Doesn't that kill you?, I asked. Not knowing something that important? Well, sure, she replied. But my mom has never been willing to talk about it, and I never could figure out a way to force the issue. She started leafing through the photos. This is my half-sister, she said. She's a few years older than me. I looked at the picture and casually asked what her sister's name was. I don't know, she replied simply. My mom doesn't want to talk about it and I can't remember. I haven't seen her since we came to the US when I was six. She stayed with her dad. You were six?, I asked. Well, she said, that's what the papers say. But I think they were falsified and I'm really a few years older.

My inner control freak was having a very quiet meltdown. You mean you don't really know how old you are?, I asked. Well, it's not even just that, she answered. My birthday is in the winter, but I clearly remember celebrating it during the summer when I was a kid. I think, she continued, that when they changed the papers they changed my birthday. But what about your mom?, I asked. Surely she knows when your birthday is. Yeah, she answered, I'm sure she does. But it isn't something she's ever wanted to talk about. She doesn't understand why we can't just let things be.

This gal at work has had a difficult life, but came out just fine. She raised three kids on her own and made a very nice life for all of them. She's always upbeat and has a terrific sense of both self and humor. But I kept watching her all day, unable to get this thought out of my head...

How can you know who you are if you don't really know who you are?

in the pink

2009-02-12T00:02:00.002-06:00

So I've broken my new vow of thriftiness already.

It lasted three days.

Here's the story in a nutshell. I've been meeting a friend at the gym and have been really dedicated to exercising. But even better, I finally got up the nerve to start running again. Last week I ran a mile straight, fretting about my ankle the entire time. It never even hurt a bit, then or later. Day before yesterday I was up to two miles at a clip and I could have gone more - it felt that good. I was never even out of breath. (I realize that this is a far cry from my marathon ambitions, but a girls gotta start somewhere).

But right before that two mile run, I popped in my earbuds and went to pick an upbeat motivational song, and my (relatively) new iPod died right there on the spot. It just froze on the song it was playing - Alannis Morissette if anyone is interested - only it wasn't playing it at all, it was just stopped. I fiddled and I swore and I may have even begged a little, but no luck. It was a goner. And since I'd bought it used on eBay, my warranty options were...nonexistent.

Now the dilemma began. Should I just pop the $50 for a little piddly iPod shuffle to get me through my workouts? Should I suck it up and run sans music? Should I take a friend up on the offer to borrow his iPod, hoping it didn't fall under the spell of iPod death that pervades Casa RC? (Just last week, Sasquatch dropped his video iPod into the toilet accidentally. You may have all heard the wails. One more reason to not wear cargo pants. I'm just sayin'). For a full 24 hours I agonized. I would (and do) spend it on my kids in a heartbeat. Why could I not justify spending it on myself?

Today after the gym, my car seemed to be driving itself to Target, in spite of all of my protestations to the contrary. And before you knew it, I was the proud owner of a wicked hot pink iPod shuffle, a pink so violent that it virtually guarantees that none of my boys will accidentally "borrow it". I wanted the green, but I wasn't born yesterday. I drove home marvelling that something that small could be that fricking expensive. (This tells you how many diamonds I've had in my life).

My late iPod was belly up on the kitchen counter, and I glared at it as I plopped my Target bag down. Walking past it, I gave it a violent poke with my finger just because I felt like it.

And it turned back on. And has worked perfectly ever since. Son of a biscuit eater. It's my very own conspiracy theory.

I'm keeping the shuffle anyway. It's little and it's cute and it's pink. There's not anywhere near enough pink in my life. But mostly I'm keeping it because if I just spent $50 to keep running...I'd better keep running.

I'm too cheap not to.