Confessions of a Coal Miner's Granddaughter

Scared

2009-11-12T00:00:00.001-05:00

As he rode his tricycle out of the driveway and into the middle of the cul-de-sac, my heart stopped. He was out of our driveway and in the danger zone. I couldn't protect him out there. But I need to learn to let go. I can't postpone this. I can't just think Oh, well, he'll leave for college/job/world travel in sixteen years. I'll think about letting go then. No. I need to do it in increments. Today? Cul-de-sac. Tomorrow, next street up. Next week? I don't fucking know, we'll think about that when we get there. But right now, I need to get over my fear. It's just a cul-de-sac at 10:30 in the morning. No one is out at this time of day. Everyone in the neighborhood is either at work or at school or hunkered down in their houses, making beds and folding laundry. No one is even thinking about getting in their cars. It's safe. It's OK. I can do this. I can let go. I know he can turn away and forge his own path because there he goes, trucking up the street on his Radio Flyer tricycle like he owns the joint. If he owns this cul-de-sac at 2-1/2, then he'll own the world by the time he's 30. I have to give him those wings. I have to allow him to fly and not hold him back for selfish reasons. I shouldn't keep him in the driveway just because of some hormonal issue causing me to fear a cavernous, empty house in 16 years. Ty-man and I will have plenty to talk about when that time comes. I'm sure we'll be at the Cracker Barrel gabbing away over our low-fat grilled teriyaki chicken. We won't be like those other "empty nesters" who have nothing to say to one another because the only things holding them together were carting the kids to football games, band camp, and chess club.

And then, I thought, Screw it. Three times to the center of the cul-de-sac is enough. That boy has to come back into the driveway. Because every mother has her limits, you know? And that was mine.

Sticks and Stones

2009-11-11T00:00:00.002-05:00

Words rule my life, as they do all our lives. We speak to one another, we text, we blog, write, Twitter, all of it. Whether misspelled, misshapen, misspoken, they are there, thrown, hurtled, and passed gently as whispers. They assail me everyday and yet I find that my personal dictionary is dried-up, my larynx closed, my frontal lobe quiet. We're talking parched Earth here, people.

In the past seven months, I've used my words as weapons. Yes, the keyboard is mightier than the sword. Words have been flung at me with the force of a machine gun and I've weathered the assault with biting, cutting verbiage of my own. Oh, yeah, I've driven down that road and left a dusty wake of nastiness behind me and here at the end, I find myself unable to utter a simple declarative sentence.

In the past four years, I've used my words to teach, correct, yell, tell stories, and soothe hurt feelings. My children constantly call for Mama, they jabber about their days and holler when wronged. They expect me to have the answers to all of their questions and I just don't have them right now. It's too much, to be responsible for teaching them everything. I'm wrung out. I don't have it in me to give out one more Say 'Excuse me!' when you burp. or Apologize to your sister. or I love you.

I speak only when spoken to. I don't respond to e-mails or comments. My answers are short and sweet and my questions stay unspoken. I just can't find the words to express how I'm feeling. I read, I absorb, I listen and watch, but my language centers have hit pause and I'm not quite sure how to get back to the beginning when the words flowed without a jumble.

I need quiet, rest, no one depending on me or any decisions I have to make. I dream of being still, of answering to no one. But all of that is impossible.

So I guess I'll just wait for the words to come.

Shine

2009-11-06T00:00:00.002-05:00

Your hair is so shiny, she said. Straight hair shines, but curly hair doesn't because light only reflects off of flat surfaces. I wish my hair shined.

Well, Miss Britt, who gives a rat's ass if your hair shines? Because you, you shine plenty. Curly hair or straight. No matter our skin, smiles, hearts, laughs through happiness and pain, our way with words, the never ending kindness, sweetness, or beliefs. We all shine, don't we?

Love all you shimmering, shining ladies.
(Oh, OK. All you happy, sweet, syrupy, shiny, Canadian guys, too.)

(PS My apologies for the commercial. YouTube won't allow embedding of this video so I had to go elsewhere. Grrrrr.)

Shawn Mullins - Shimmer (Official Music Video). Watch more top selected videos about: Shawn_Mullins

Marc Singer and the Visitors are My Heroes

2009-11-04T00:00:00.000-05:00

Did any of you watch V last night? I didn't. My TiVo did. We were at a concert. Star Wars in Concert, to be exact.* I will be watching it tonight so shut it! I don't want to know!

Way back when this blog started, I wrote a post about the original V series. It was my Kevin Smith-esque rant about the Visitors. I re-post it for you now. I know. You're thrilled beyond words. You're welcome. And, yeah, that's Marc Singer right there. Mouth watering, you say? You're welcome again.

Supposedly, when the Visitors came to Earth, they came in 50 mother ships, each ship carrying about 6,500 aliens. That makes for 325,000 aliens total on Earth, not all of them soldiers. That means, a mere 325,000 aliens versus 6,000,000,000 (that's right, as in b) humans. Hmmmm, I think we could kick their butts in numbers alone. Now, putting those ships together costs money, right? Supposedly their planet and eco-system are dying and they need our natural resources to fix that problem. They're at war with several other alien species and need us for food and cannon fodder. OK, taking into account that these 50 mother ships are each 3.2 km in circumference and 900 feet tall, I would say 50 of those suckers would cost a pretty penny. In addition to that, each ship has three fusion (that right, fusion not fission) nuclear reactors to provide power, propulsion, and a wicked self-destruct mechanism. Again, lots of Benjamins. So, they've taken away 325,000 of their people (people that could have helped to fight their wars) and spent an incalculable amount of money on these 50 ships to get to Earth. Not only is their planet dying, but they've now screwed their economy with all the ship construction going on! Hello! Why not spend the cash on figuring out ways to turn around their eco-system? I mean, come on, it's not like water is some special chemical compound that requires 10 different rare elements. You need hydrogen (the most plentiful element in the universe) and oxygen. That's it! Figure it out!

Also, the Visitors are openly hostile toward Earth scientists. Early in the series, scientists begin to either disappear or become brainwashed, presumably because the Visitors don't want their secret found out by these scientists and then leaked to the public. The secret, of course, is that they're 6-foot tall walking, talking iguanas. This doesn't make sense to me. Wouldn't you rather take out the military arms of each country? I would be more worried about Navy SEALS, the Army Rangers, the "black ops" CIA agents, the Israeli army who uses Krav Maga to kick serious ass, the armed Columbian drug runners, and members of the NRA. Wouldn't you rather get rid of these people instead of going after a bunch of geeky scientist who could beat you at Trivial Pursuit, but not so good at hand-to-hand combat? Just a thought.

* GEEEEEEK!!!!

Dialog, Part 27

2009-11-03T00:00:00.002-05:00

Bubba: I love my Scarlet Macaw*! She's such a sweet person!

Me: She is sweet, but she's not a person.

Bubba: ?

Me: Scarlet Macaws are birds. You are a person.

Bubba: No, I Bubba.

Me: Yes, you're Bubba, but you're also a person. Just like I'm a person, Papa is a person, Nana is a person, Grandma is a person.

Bubba: No, I Bubba. I a handsome devil like my Papa**.

Me: Snorting and doubled over Yes, darlin', yes you are!

* It's a resin figurine hanging in the kids' bathroom. It gets kissed and loved on. A lot.
** He has a graphic t-shirt from Old Navy that has that printed on the front. He's quite proud of it. Obviously.

Asshole

2009-10-29T00:00:00.001-04:00

I tried so hard to be good. I really did. I spent most of the HOA meeting facing the cynics, thoughtfully telling them what I felt and knew to be true, glancing at the Ty-man for strength, and looking for those few homeowners I knew supported us. Every time the bully said something ridiculous, I would look down at the 2010 budget, clench my fists, look at my husband, and bite the inside of my mouth.

I performed in the drama. I yet again voted no for the volunteer nominee for a fifth director. I listened to detractors make snide comments about Jodi and myself. But we stuck with it. We conducted business, approved the 2010 budget, made valid points, asked thoughtful questions, and conducted ourselves with dignity.

I explained my actions and reasons for voting as I did to the community. Many shook their heads in disbelief. And then I said it.

I think what would be really healthy for this community is if all four board members resigned and a completely new board were to be elected by you.

They applauded. The room erupted. And the bully? Speechless. Especially when Stacey, someone the bully thought to be on his side, agreed with us and presented a paper she had prepared for all of us to sign.

Our property manager is checking with our lawyer as to what our next steps need to be, but by November 15th, I will be off the board, Jodi will be off, Stacey will be gone, and Larry? The bully? History. The crowd, the peer pressure, the number of people in that room, pressing on all of us, forced Larry to begrudgingly agree to sign the resignation paper. It was a moment of sheer triumph, to see the bully get his just desserts.

Then we adjourned to executive session. The crowd was gone. My Ty-man was driving back to the house. And Larry lit into Jodi over some nonsensical piece of business that was serving only to belittle her and make him feel big.

And I lost it.

What came out of my mouth resembled the following (punctuated with jabbing fingers, a backing-up property manager, the gathering of my bags, the slamming of doors, and lots of Jerry Springer-type shouting):

Larry, this is nonsense! ACP is no longer our pool company! Why does any of this matter? No, you shut up! I'm tired of you! I hate you! We had every right to send that e-mail to the residents this morning! We had every right to tell our side of the story! Because you have told horrible lies about Jodi and myself to the community! Yes you have! You're a nasty person and you have said horrible things about me to people I don't even know and you don't even know me! Leave me alone! I can't wait until this is all over! I can't wait to never have to look at your face ever again! I don't ever want to talk to you! Look at you! See your e-mails! Don't talk to me! Don't talk about my family! Don't come to my house! Don't talk about me ever again! This is ridiculous!

By this point, Jodi was up and packing up her things. Our property manager was cowering. And Stacey? No idea. I was halfway to the door when ridiculous! came out of my mouth and Larry said What was that word?

Lost it again.

Ridiculous! I shouted, Here's another word for you, Larry! How about ASSHOLE! Here's another one. SONOFABITCH! BASTARD!!!

Upon the screeching of bastard, I was out the door, shouting at the top of my lungs. Turns out, Larry was baiting me, getting the whole thing on tape. But you know what? Whatever. I'm done. I got what I wanted. He's off the board, he's disgraced, and I called him a few names.

And my fellow residents? They now know not to fuck with me.

God, I'm glad it's over.

Safe, But Not Sound

2009-10-28T00:00:00.002-04:00

We're home.

And I'm not pleased.

We had a fabulous time in Orlando. We partied. We spent time with family. We got our geek on.

And the whole time, all I could think was When I get home, I have to face the bully. I have to face neighbors who don't know me but feel free to speak ill of me. I have to sit through an ugly meeting, a nasty situation, and grit my teeth, and act civil, and be nice to these people who have enjoyed the drama of the last month at my expense.

Each time I hugged and laughed with friends, I wished they lived in my community.

Every time I kissed a family member, it was with sadness because they live there while I'm here.

As we got into our car yesterday to leave Florida, all I wanted to do was run to the home of the loved-one closest to me and hide.

Tonight, I'll be clenching my teeth, gripping my seat, and looking at the Ty-man in the back of the room, shivering with nervousness, anger, and adrenaline.

Wishing to be with the people I love.

Welcome to the Painful Jungle

2009-10-27T00:00:00.001-04:00

Seriously, people. These videos are everywhere. I sang twice at Avitable's Halloween party and wouldn't you know it, both performances are now immortalized forever on YouTube.

Trust me, this is four minutes and 38 seconds of pain. Guns 'N Roses pain. Axl Rose? Your job is secure.

Click here for the direct link.

I swear, this is it. No more karoke videos of me.

That I know of.

PS Audio NSFW. Use headphones. Hee hee!

Baby Got Back, Take 2

2009-10-25T00:00:00.002-04:00

Yes. Yes. Me and Sir Mix-A-Lot struck again:

With the assistance of Miss Britt and Mommy Melee.

Avitaween RAWKED!

PS I should really be banned from karaoke.

PPS When I'm drunk.

A Long Time Ago...

2009-10-22T00:00:00.003-04:00

... In a Galaxy Far, Far Away...

AVITABLE'S HALLOWEEN PARTY 2009 - INVADED!

The call was sent out and heard by bloggers far and near, from Alderaan to Tatooine, Coruscant to Kashyyyk. We were told to converge on the holiest of holies.

Orlando, Florida.

To the home of Adam Heath Avitable, Jedi Knight turned Dark Lord of the Sith. That we should come and witness the new seat of the Empire.

The message told us to gather on Saturday, October 24, 2009, for the Halloween party to end all Halloween parties. To drink the sacrificial wine. To spill the sacrificial blood. To eat the sacrificial burritos.

And to finally meet all those mysterious avatars we've been staring at online for years.

So, it is with great reverence, respect, and, well, EXCITEMENT, that I inform you that the Ty-man and I are currently driving to said destination as we blog.

Yes, please feel free to follow my Twitter feed and/or Flickr account as I attempt to regale you (while wearing Stormtrooper gloves) with 140-character-long-stories and shitty-iPhone-camera-pictures during the party in question.

Or, you can just check back here on ~~Monday~~ ~~Tuesday~~ sometime next week and get the full scoop on who dressed as what, who puked on who, what we sang, and what the seat of the Empire really looks like.

Blog you later!

Twitterdiculous

2009-10-19T00:00:00.001-04:00

I tweeted:

HOA bully and husband of the HOA pres just got into an altercation at the local Wolf Camera. Moving to Bora Bora. Don't try to find me.

And Ritz Camera followed me.

I tweeted:

Excitement! Heading off to investigate an historic Roswell home. Later!

And Spiced Right BBQ followed me.

I tweeted:

My husband is MAKING me watch "Corvette Summer." Go ahead. IMDB that shit. I dare you. I may be fetal before it's all over.

And Corvette Recycling followed me.

I tweeted:

I may or may not have humped my Bissell Spot Bot just now.

And Bissell followed me.

Boy, I'll bet they're pissed.

Kirk Fights Dirty and Vader Spits

2009-10-14T00:00:00.001-04:00

I wrote this article a month ago for my Community Sherpa gig. Bow and worship. Or run screaming. Whatev.

You know you’ve wondered about it, in the dark of night, when the deep recesses of your brain are working overtime after six hours of reality TV. What have you wondered, you might ask? Well, I’ll tell you.

Star Wars vs. Star Trek.

Oh, come on. It’s the epic battle we’ve all salivated to see that Gene Roddenberry and George Lucas never saw fit to bring to the big screen. Can’t you just see it with picture-perfect HD clarity? The USS Enterprise (NCC-1701 of course)battles the Death Star. Captain Kirk dukes it out with Darth Vader. Spock battles wits with Emperor Palpatine. Luke Skywalker matches his lightsaber with Sulu’s rapier while Uhura and Leia compare hair styles and we mustn’t forget to compare the mad engineer skills of Chewbacca to Scotty. As human beings we must, nay, we are compelled to analyze the two most epic science fiction stories of all time and set them as rivals against one another.

It’s an argument that will never be resolved and one that rests on the opinion of whomever is doing the arguing, but we can certainly imagine the fisticuffs exchanged between the tall, imposing, armor-clad Vader and the yep-his-shirt-is-ripped-again Kirk. Sure, Vader commands the power of The Force at his fingertips but he doesn’t have the moxie, the contempt for finesse that Kirk exudes. Please, the man is all brawn and no subtlety. He may not beat Vader but he’ll certainly make his helmet spin.

You know the most compelling competition to watch would be Chewie in the guts of the Millenium Falcon and Scotty elbow-deep in the Enterprise’s warp core. I can hear the competition referee now, Gentlemen! There is an Imperial Star Destroyer/Klingon Bird of Prey coming up fast! Your hyperdrive/warp core is on the fritz! Fix it before they fire on you! And… go! I’m not sure who would win that contest. It would probably be a very close tie with Scotty muttering in his thick Scottish brogue and lamenting about his “wee bairns” while Chewbacca menacingly waves a wrench to the tune of Wookie wails. Regardless of who wins, you know they’d end up sharing not only a bottle of single malt Scotch whiskey, but stories of miracle repairs, as well.

We all have our opinions of which story would win the contest. It all depends on if you’re a Trekkie or a Jedi. Whatever your sci-fi leanings, in the end it’s more fun to contemplate the story, rather than the ending. Wouldn’t you like to know what happened prior to Spock’s defeat at the flicker of Palpatine’s Force lightning or just how Uhura ended up with Leia cinnamon buns?

I know I would.

Making Friends

2009-10-12T00:00:00.001-04:00

Have you ever watched kids make friends? It's fascinating. They just run up to one another and say HI! and find an instant commonality in their toys, what they're wearing, their parents, whatever, and they play, smile, laugh, and they're friends. That's it. That's all it takes.

Can you imagine if we, as adults, made friends like kids?

Scene: Busy NYC street. 9AM

Man 1: Wow! Hi! I like your briefcase!
Man 2: Yeah! Thanks! Oh look! You've got one just like mine!
Man 1: Isn't that awesome? Where do you work?
Man 2: I work on Wall Street!
Man 1: My dad worked on Wall Street! We should have lunch together!
Man 2: We should! I like bananas! Do you have a Grandma?
Man 1: My Grandma made banana bread! We should have bananas for lunch!
Man 2: Will you come to my house for a party?
Man 1: A party?!? I love parties! Will there be cake?
Man 2: Lots of cake! With sprinkles! You should come!

Scene: Hair salon

Woman 1: OMG! You use the pink curlers, too?
Woman 2: I do! I love the pink curlers! They're so great!
Woman 1: I love them too! Do you go to the tea shop?
Woman 2: There's a tea shop? I love tea! Mango is my favorite.
Woman 1: Mine too! Except mango made me throw up so now I like tangerine!
Woman 2: We should totally go together!
Woman 1: Yeah! And we should get some suckers! I love suckers!
Woman 2: Oh, did you see my pink shoes? I love pink.
Woman 1: Me, too. I have pink shoes, too! We should be friends!
Woman 2: OK!

Isn't it sad that we let things like what we're wearing, what we weigh, our skin color, our political beliefs, our religions, our assumptions, get in the way of the friendships we have yet to make and may never make? Kids have it so easy. There's nothing standing in their way.

Except us.

Hide and Seek

2009-10-09T00:00:00.003-04:00

I keep a pretty low profile. In living my daily life, I don't go out of my way to make new friends*. I keep to myself. I'm happy at home, happy with the friends I have, happy that I can choose to fake a decent amount of French so that I don't have to talk to people I don't know. I mean, I foolishly volunteered for my HOA Board and see where that got me?

It's all about avoidance.

I don't do a lot with the twins' Montessori school. I mean, I donate canned goods, provide snacks when asked, attend parent-teacher conferences, and such. But attend social functions? With parents of the kids who attend said school? No. Nu-uh. Nada. Can't make me. If my kids are friends with those kids? Great. Doesn't mean I have to be friends with their parents. I'm sure they're all nice people, I just don't want to go there. I inevitably say something inappropriate, or they find out I'm a big geek who spends most of her time with her head in the clouds, or they say something that makes me want to choke them and then every time we're in a social situation all I can think about is a slow, painful, bloody death and that's inconvenient when I'm trying to nod my head, smile, and say Yep! Sure! I know just what you mean! That Sarah Palin sure is a corker!

And yet, no matter how much I keep my head down, they still find me.

Take, for example, Annie's mom. Annie's mom lives two miles from us. Annie's mom wants to start carpooling. Annie doesn't need a car seat, so Annie's mom no longer owns any car seats. Our twins are too small to ride in a car without a car seat. Annie goes to school until 2:30 every week day. The twins get out at 12:30. Annie's mom has called me twice. Are you seeing a pattern here? Yeah, me too.

Annie's mom wants us to shuffle Annie. We get no benefit from this since Annie's mom has no car seats and doesn't pick up her kid until later in the day. Either that or Annie's mom is a moron and just cannot see that 1+1=nofrakkingwayi'mdoingthis

How in the hell do these people find me? Do I have Please Rope Me Into Stupid Shit! stamped on my forehead?

Lord, help.

Makes me just want to constantly do this:
*Except for you guys. When it comes to making friends on the Internet? I seem to be pretty savvy at it. You are all awesome and if we could all just screen everybody on the Internet and decide before ever meeting them face-to-face if we like the person's tweets, Crackbook status updates, and political blog choices, the world would be a happier, smile-ier place. Dang nab it.

The Journey

2009-10-07T00:00:00.001-04:00

The sky was overcast and the cool, wet breeze caressed our cheeks. The Gator's wheels crunched the acorns, branches, and leaves that had fallen on the trail. Miss-Miss held tight to the safety handle, standing proud on the passenger side, breaking every safety rule in the book. Bubba sat in the passenger seat, scrutinizing everything passing our path. J-man sat on my lap and "helped" steer, tightly clutching his toy to his chest. As the Gator labored down the hill, breaks squealing, me death-gripping the wheel, Miss-Miss patted the small vehicle and said You can do it, Gator. You can do it.

We made it to the bottom and the kids excitedly chattered about the noise of the water rushing over the rocks, the creek, the trail, the leaves, and the Gator. They had talked about this epic ride for a week, a summer, and here we were, on the Gator, savoring the fall air and the company of one another.

Pulling up to the first waterfall, I parked and shut off our four-wheeled friend, and we toddered down to the pavilion to get the best view of Mother Nature's fountain. We were there for all of two seconds when J-man turned and said Can we go back to the Gator now?

Now? NOW?!? But we just got there! Why would you want to leave now? Look at the waterfall! Look at God's majesty, carving rocks, and the land, cooling the air and misting and looking pretty and... and...

Mama, he said calmly, can we go back to the Gator now?

I sighed, unable to see why he would want to leave. This is my favorite spot anywhere. This waterfall helps me think when I can't, calm when I can't, smile when I can't. I wanted the kids to love this waterfall the way I love it. I didn't want to leave it, I wanted to savor it. I had been waiting for this moment all day. I sighed in frustration and as we trudged up the hill, back to the offending vehicle, I realized the lesson my youngest was trying to impart to me.

The journey is more important than the destination.

Why am I always so intent on getting to wherever it is I'm going? I hate long drives, I despise waiting in line, and I get so frustrated biding my time when the kids creep along. Why am I in a rush to get to 6PM/Friday/Halloween/my next Caribbean trip? When I'm in a rush to get where I'm going, I forget to stop and listen to the crunching of leaves under my feet, to feel the breeze on my face, to see the smiles my children give me, and yes, to even smell the poop. All of it. Because let's face it, the last stop for all of us is death. If I hurry up for everything else, I'm speeding to my ultimate demise and that is something to be avoided.

So, I'm not going to worry about the waterfall, or the next birthday/vacation/holiday/whatever. All of it will get here eventually. I'm going to attempt to stop and smell the spilled milk, pick up the errant Cheerio, and listen for the laughter, because my journey between these way stations of life is far, far more important than the place I'll end up.

Open Letter 12

2009-10-02T00:00:00.001-04:00

Dear Crackbook:
Please. Stop suggesting friends to me. I get it. If I'm connected to the same 20,000 bloggers who are also friends with Marvin Finklestein in west Tennessee, then OK. Fine. Suggest him. But seriously, quit suggesting that I connect with Scott Jamerson, fellow Black Eagle and the focus of much of my teenage angst, as a Crackbook friend. I didn't like him in high school, so why the hell would I want to exchange pleasantries/pictures/Hey how're yous?!? on the Internet? He was a football player, a "popular" and he beat me out for student body president.

Seriously.

Unless you want my digital foot up your electronic ass, then cease and desist immediately.

Scott Jamerson. You can do better than that. Ppppffffttttthhhhhzzzzz!

Kiss, kiss,
Drum Major Heather

Dear Fellow Subdivision Residents and Property Management Company:
I didn't know any of you assholes prior to this ridiculous HOA Board gig and I can't wait until February when I can ignore all of you again.

Kiss my ass,
Director Heather

Dear Blog Friends Who Are Hurting:
Ladies? I love you all. So damned much.

Hugs and stuff,
Heather

Dear America:
I am rolling my eyes. ROLLING, people! This is just nonsense. All of it. The left, the right, the He said/She said, it all lacks one thing. Common friggin' sense.

Oh, and term limits. That too.

I pledge allegiance to the United States of Whatever,
Heather, Proud citizen since February 6, 1972

Caged Bird

2009-09-30T00:00:00.001-04:00

Fluttering.
Stuttering.
Beating.
My wings strike the cage.
I fight.
Hard.
Against the entrapment
of my own making.

Why do I do this?
Fight for nothing.
Fight against an
immovable force.

I stop.
Give up.
What's the point?
Fatigue becomes
Concrete.
Done.

The fight ends.

The cage door opens.

But I can't move.

The irony.

Above

2009-09-28T00:00:00.000-04:00

So many times, I try to rise above frustrating situations, to stay out of the fray. I look down my nose at the ridiculousness of it all and scorn those who are in the middle, battling it out. But through all of my I'm-so-above-this BS, I'm...

wishing
dreaming
wanting

to beat the shit out of somebody. I want to bloody noses and punch sneering faces. I wanna slap a mofo so hard that his ears ring.

My blood boils, my ire rises, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in protest of being held back and away from the fight.

I put on this facade of calm-cool-collected and yet, if you look closely, you'll see my jaw moving. And you'll realize that my teeth are grinding one another to dust, because it's taking every ounce of kinetic energy to quell the potential.

The potential for violence.

Speculum Speculations

2009-09-25T00:00:00.004-04:00

Absolute truths realized during one's yearly "please put your feet in the stirrups" appointment:

An afternoon without kids is still a wondrous thing even if it involves a Pap smear.
Vaginal sonograms really, truly suck. Like, seriously? What kind of twisted, messed-up individual came up with this?
When the phlebotomist says It's not veins that roll, it's people who miss, you realize that she's not just another blood sucker, but a sage whose opinion on the performance of other phlebotomists in one's past is really a commentary on life in general. Go ahead, use it in any form: It's not (nouns) that (verb), it's people who miss. Profound.
That seeing Dr. Nezhat once a year just isn't enough. Because he's not just my doctor, he's a friend and the man who made our children possible. So, NATUI, Dr. Nezhat has mandated that I accompany you to all your future appointments. Mr. NATUI is no longer allowed to come. In fact, I'm thinking we just need to schedule our appointments for the same day each year, because the friends who get vaginal sonograms together stay together.
The possibility of surgery*, during which three very uncomfortable-sounding things will be done to my womanly bits, has me grinning and cringing. Grinning because of the week or so off from kids. Cringing because, um, ouch?

Thank goodness those appointments only come once a year. More than that? Willies.

*Said surgery isn't for something life-threatening. It's to keep me healthy and our family at five and no more.

Behemoth

2009-09-23T00:00:00.001-04:00

Our nine-year-old GE Profile refrigerator started it's long, slow walk toward its ultimate demise earlier this month. It all began with mushy chicken tenders from the freezer and ended with a room-temperature jug of milk just after Labor Day weekend. We shook our heads, emptied its shelves, and turned it off, planning its replacement from amongst the stunning collection at our local Lowe's. It sat forlorn and empty, devoid of everything except its collection of magnets and children's artwork. It was a simple fridge, nothing special. It cooled and froze. It dealt with having its two doors slammed, milk spilled, and vegetables spoiled. It held it all and took it all and one day, two weeks ago, decided it had had enough and left this world for...

Oh, Christ, who'm I kidding? It was a frakking refrigerator and we were giddy to have the chance to upgrade. Observe:

Samsung. 29 cubic feet. Let me say that again. Twenty. nine. cubic. feet. of storage. For milk. Frozen pizzas. Yogurt. CDC biological experiments that will someday cure cancer/HIV/the common cold/reality TV and not at all resembling liquid lettuce. Twenty-nine cubic feet of glory. Plus? Check out the numbered red circles:

1. Albert Einstein. Physicist. Genius. Fridge God.

2. Miss Britt people. Miss frakking Britt! On my fridge! Giving me the stink-eye every time I reach in for the left over Girl Scout cookies/birthday cake/ice cream. She's a goddess.

3. My bare feet. Don't stare too long or you might run screaming.

And remember that saying idle hands are the devil's workshop? Yeah. How 'bout A blank fridge is Satan's food storage. I believe that a lack of magnets is the work of Beelzebub.

The best part about the 29-cubic-feet of awesomeness now squatting in my kitchen?

The light. On the inside. It's not just white, it's like bluish-white. A heavenly salvation-white. And it doesn't just turn on. It's like a fade-on, getting brighter as the doors open. Check it.

It's the fridge built by Greys. And it's all mine. Quit drooling.

Ranty

2009-09-22T00:00:00.002-04:00

There is a person I'm connected to on Facebook who decided to trash all men the other night with the following status update:

Why do most of the guys in my life have to suck so bad? I'm so glad A* didn't turn out to be a little boy.

Wow. What a great attitude. Let's just throw my four- and two-year-old sons to the wolves before they've even had a chance to date. Why don't we just go ahead and chuck Ty-man and Ian and John and Adam and ClintSteveMikeBrettJordanBob into that mix, great guys who don't deserve to be folded into the "guys suck" pile. That attitude? That one up there? That is such a cop out. Yep. Let's blame it all on the men. None of what happens to us ladies is our fault. Not at all. It's all the fault of our boyfriends/husbands/ex-husbands/lovers. Most definitely.

Now, I will admit that there are men out there who are just mean, nasty, heartless, and evil, that no matter what their mamas did they were going to be mean, nasty, heartless, and evil. But other than that small handful? I call total, complete, and utter bullshit. If a man has never been taught how to properly treat a woman, then he's never going to get it right. And if you, dear female Facebook user, keep dating and marrying and surrounding yourself with said loser men, then some of the blame lies with you. How does the old saying go... fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me? So, dear Facebook friend, instead of whining about the men in your life being rotten and expressing your joy that your daughter isn't male? Why don't you instead say, Wow, I have issues and I keep seeking out the wrong men. I've been married and divorced twice in my short 35 years and I'm obviously doing something wrong. Rather than seek out those male personalities that I consistently look for and who constantly hurt me for one reason or another, why don't I look for someone different who might actually be good for me? And if you come to that conclusion, dear one? Then maybe there will be a chance for you to be happy and for your daughter to not make the same mistakes as you.

And maybe you'll quit lumping my toddler sons, and every other male I love and cherish, into the wrongs committed on you by men you should have never sought out after learning what to avoid the first time.

*Whew.*

Now, I'll just step off my soap box and go soak in some Calgon.

*A would be her toddler daughter.

Worn Out Math

2009-09-18T00:00:00.001-04:00

5 hours of sleep Wednesday night
+ 2 fussy kids during said Wednesday night
+ 3 pickup truck loads of my Mom's stuff I moved yesterday morning
+ gazillion times I ran up and down the stairs of Mom's apartment to move said stuff
+ 2 kids to doctor for 4-year well visits and vaccines yesterday afternoon
+ 1 kid to doctor for flu vaccine
+ 2 tired, frazzled parents also needing flu vaccines
+ 3 hours in the doctor's office
- 6 combined hours the kids didn't nap due to being in said doctor's office
+ 13 vaccinations total between all five of us (5 flu, 2 polio, 2 chickenpox, 2 DTP, 2 MMR)

All raised to the n^th power where n = the number of times said kids fussed due to lack of sleep and sore injection sites.

Equals no frappin' blog post.

Have a good weekend, fellow citizens of the PRB.

No, They Are Not Triplets

2009-09-17T00:00:00.002-04:00

For the twins' first birthday, Teri gave me a t-shirt with the title Yes, They Are Twins displaying sarcastic bullet points answering the annoying, personal questions people ask when they see a mother with twins.

Now, with these three being so close in age, I've come up with a new bullet list. It's too long for a t-shirt, but I'm thinking of printing up a brochure and handing it out when anyone asks Are they triplets?

No, my children are not triplets, but two of them are twins and the other is 20 months younger than the twins.

Irish triplets? Do you even know the history of the term Irish triplets? Because you just basically called me stupid, unable to plan, and a sex fiend. Gee. Thanks.*

I'll give you $100 if you guess which ones are the twins.

OK. I won't give you anything because you just called me a ho in a roundabout way and anyway you're going to guess that the boys are twins and you're wrong. It's my taller son and my daughter.

Yes. Yes. The twins are identical. My daughter was born a boy, but the circumcision went pear-shaped and we decided to raise him as a her. Lucky for us, he/she likes pink.

Yes, I was being sarcastic again. Boy/girl twins cannot be identical. It's a biological impossibility. Kind of like you walking upright.

Why are you asking how far apart they were? How far apart were your bowel movements this week? Oh, that's personal? Well, then don't ask about how quickly humans came out of my vagina and I won't ask you about the regularity of your colon.

What the hell are artificial twins? Why would you ask that? Are you saying my twins are imaginary? That all of this is an illusion? Wow. I've been screwed. Oh, you wanted to know if I got pregnant through in-vitro or some other method. Did you have a bowel movement today via ex-lax or sweet potatoes? WHAT?!?

Oh, sure. I have all the time in the world. Please, do tell me about your cousin's-brother's-wife's-sister's-nephew's twin girls. Or those triplets you once saw at Wal-Mart that were in their 80s and all wearing square dance dresses during their day out from the convalescent home. I have all day. No, I don't need to get home in 20 minutes to cook dinner. Not at all.

Yes, my hands are full. No, of course you aren't the 9-millionth person to say that to me. Thanks for the reminder.

And that is my public service announcement for the day. You're welcome.

*My mother-in-law calls her grandkids Irish triplets and I let her because she's family and she's cute when she does it.

Four Years Ago Today

2009-09-16T00:00:00.007-04:00

Four years and four days ago today, while pregnant with you, Miss-Miss and Bubba, I was told my blood pressure was dangerously high. I was immediately placed in the hospital for observation.

Four years ago today, my OB told me he was inducing labor because my blood pressure wasn't coming down and my body and your bodies were going haywire. And so, my sweet ones, our adventures began.

Four years ago today, at 4:12 PM, you were born, Miss-Miss. You were impatient. Four hours after being administered pitocin, my wussy self begged for an epidural and as I was given said epidural, you decided you'd had enough. You, my sweet girl, wanted to make a grand entrance. After ten minutes of trying to convince the nurses that My daughter is coming out! and said nurses scoffing It's your first pregnancy. Your daughter is not coming out. and finally checking just to shut me up they declared She's at 10 cm! and all Hell broke loose. Before I could blink and take a deep breath, both of your grandmothers and friends were replaced with your Papa, two warming tables, two neonatologists, more nurses than I could count, my OB, and a mid-wife. Suddenly, there you were. All four pounds, six ounces of you. My beautiful daughter.

As I was looking across the room at my sweet girl, I was vaguely aware of my OB saying OK, Heather, I'm going to reach in and get Bubba's foot. Yeah. Reach in. That made me flinch, too, even through the epidural. And before either of us knew what was happening, I contracted and instead of my OB grabbing your foot, he grabbed your scrotum. Bubba, honey, that was in no way planned. Not an auspicious beginning at 4:16 PM. No wonder all four pounds and 10 ounces of you squalled. My handsome son.

I had just washed my hair that morning, the first time in four days. The magnesium sulfate made me feverish and hot and I had already cried over the craziness and wonderment of meeting the two of you for the first time. So my first picture with you both leaves me looking like the Heat Miser from The Year Without a Santa Claus.

Two days later, you were both still in the NICU, too tiny to eat on your own. I was still on the magnesium sulfate (read: worst muscle relaxant EVER) and was so loopy, that I decided to name my ever-present I.V. pump "George." I hadn't been able to hold you since your births (because the magnesium made me so weak the doctors worried I would drop you) and I was itching to get my hands on you.

Your poor Papa was exhausted. He was trying to take care of me and spend as much time as possible with the two of you. He visited the NICU whenever he could, changing your diapers, feeding and burping you. Snuggling you. All the things I couldn't do.

Finally, on that second day, I was able to hold you both. Not just stroke your heads. I could finally cuddle you. Except I was still so tired and weak.

Three days after your births, I was discharged, but you were going to stay in the hospital for another 17 days, getting bigger and learning how to eat and breathe simultaneously while I recovered and gained strength. Every day, I visited you. I was so worried that if I missed a day, you would forget what I smelled like, what I sounded like, that we wouldn't bond.

And for 20 days, you snuggled each other, slept, ate, grew, and learned how to suck down eight bottles of formula each day.

And three years and 345 days ago, you came home.

And our house of two became a home of four.

And here we are. Four years later. Miss-Miss, you're a beautiful young lady, full of life, laughter, and curls. Bubba, you're such a handsome little boy who makes me laugh and gives me unsolicited hugs. And with J-man, we're a party of five.

Happy 4th Birthday, my sweet twins! These four years have been awesome and incredible and I can't wait to see what the future holds for us!

So Now I'm an Anthropologist

2009-09-15T00:00:00.001-04:00

Strip malls are a microcosm of American life. Seriously. You show me a strip mall and the stores contained within it and I can tell you what the people living in the immediate vicinity do for a living, what they're like, how they vote, etc. If your strip mall has a dry cleaners, a fast food store, and a 24-hour pharmacy then your area consists of white collar suburbanites.

Damn, I'm good. Right?

And then there's this strip mall just two miles from my house:

(Embiggen to see the store signs. I'll wait.)

Essentially, it's a tow company, tattoo shop, pawn shop, and bridal/formal wear.

To me, this screams Dang! My Oldsmobile Cutlass done quit on me again! I gotta get it towed! Wait, while I'm here, I'll just stop into the tat shop and get some ink. Maybe I'll get my girl's name on my one o' my guns! And speakin' of guns, I gotta get in that pawn shop and pick me up a Remington. Wal-Mart's too pricey and huntin' season's around the corner. And since I got my girl inked on my arm, I guess it's time for us to make Junior a legal member of the family. I'll tell Sugar Booger to get down here and pick her out a weddin' dress. Hell, I think we can swing it if it ain't more than $30.

Yep, when I see this strip mall ten times a week during my trips to and from the twins' school, I picture rednecks, with old, tired American cars, pawning anything and everything they own to get inked and get hitched.

Sometimes my neighbors scare me.