Absence makes....

you feel like the shittiest friend ever, not fonder.

So, granted, I've had my head up my ass for about a year now, but really pulled the rocks on, overtop the ass, for the last 3 months. I have more than enough self-pity and self-loathing to share with all that are near and dear to me, but instead, chose not to inflict myself upon others, if it could be at all helped.

I started meds about a month ago, feeling better. Not quite right yet (who the hell is, though, for that matter?), but getting there. Maybe. Maybe? Who knows, but it's better than it was.

I know it makes little sense to those that haven't dealt with this kind of thing, but it is disconcertingly easy for me to disconnect. Just shut down, function enough to make it through the day, crack a few snide jokes with the kidlets, and then nothing. There is nothing left over. Feels like someone took a melon baller to my personality. Oh, but left that last, desperate dollop of "holy shit, I just cannot handle feeling this way FOREVER".

So, to those of you, and you all know who you are, whose phone calls I've ducked, messages I have not returned, and generally treated like shit on my shoe, I miss you desperately, I do. There just isn't enough of me to go around, that is healthy and whole, that I can afford to give it to anyone but the boyos, and myself right now, which makes me feel like the shittiest, most self-centered asshole ever, who is a dickhead of a friend, but that's how it is right now.

happy fucking ho-ho-holidays

RIP Anne...

"The here and now is all we have, and if we play it right it's all we'll need"

...any day now.

discouraged, disgruntled, but with an air of whimsy: Drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

I'm a dying man, and I don't know what for...

The days are beginning to bleed together,
as they once did.
Young, fresh pink skin
fresh no longer
hangs in gray folds, sick and tired,
like the rest of her.
Back then, the blood flowed in rivers,
rivulets of ruby drops
mixing with the wax in the voodoo spells of youth,
"Pleas just make this stop"
becomes,
"Please, just let it start"
the old ways,the only known paths,
eventually become too worn down and dank.
Just the first walk around the block
brings a miasma of pathetic misery,
blanketing the lungs with it's foggy soot,
breathing becomes just too much fucking effort,
even though every cell knows that just not an option.
What does an old animal do, when all the self-preserving instincts go dead,
soiled by too many years of faking it,
as if the flight instinct fled
with the ring of tissues elasticity years ago?
Feet cemented in dirt soaked in old blood,
transgressions past
The tang of metal in the air
drums beating familiar rhythms,
calling the beginning of the dance
purity and control long gone
blood begging to be released,
let free,
the pulse joins the drums
hammering at the skull, begging
for just a taste of the past.

"What could I say to you

that would be of value,

except that perhaps you seek too much,

that as a result of your seeking

you cannot find."

It's pretty bad when even old Hermann Hesse makes more sense than I do, right now.

*sigh*

Ch-ch-Check it out....

www.bitchenstitchen.com


d

I've no idea...

why the HTML code is completely fucked, in the post about 4 down, where I go all rabid-momma-dog on some writer chick.

I'm opinionated, not technologically-savvy.

d

Pete!

Repeat!

Sorry.

d

"I'm a winner!

...but I sure am hungry!"


http://tv.msn.com/tv/article.aspx?news=228463>1=7703

Cheeseburgers for everyone! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

"I'm a winner!

...but I sure am hungry!"

http://tv.msn.com/tv/article.aspx?news=228463>1=7703

cheeseburgers for EVERYONE! Drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Oh yes. There's a little something for everyone!

Oh my.

There's this broad, named Amy Sohn, who, apparently, writes a column called "Mating" in New York magazine. Since she's successfully navigated the "mating" aspect, she's decided that what the world needs now, is no, not another folk singer (ten bonus points if you can Name! That! Tune!), but a fun little rant about how, SAHM, are...evil.

Seriously.

The snarky comments in italics are mine.

http://www.amysohn.com/askamy/2006/summer06.htm


Summer Â’06

Hey There,

I have updated this site at long last. Having a kid makes you neglect the most important things but now that my daughter is close to a YEAR, I am getting back into the swing of things again. It has been a hectic fall and spring – I have been off from New York magazine and instead writing TV pilots, which has been a pretty fun ride. Right now I am working on one for Lifetime, which I think would make an amazing show if it ever gets on the air. It’s based on a self-help/humor book and I’m coming up with characters and stories for it.

A YEAR? REALLY? NO KIDDING? A "pretty fun ride"? Your skill with words just sets me all a-tingle.

In the winter I wrote pilots for UPN and ABC, which was an amazing learning experience even though UPN merged with the WB and didnÂ’t make my pilot, and ABC instead shot a pilot for something with a very similar theme instead of mine. (They didn't pick that one up either.) It was exhausting doing all this while having a newborn but hey, they canÂ’t rearrange pitching season to coincide with my childbirth.

Well why not? Your obvious talent, not-withstanding.

I have been spending a lot of time talking about and practicing motherhood, which is variously entertaining and mind numbing. I mean, both talking about it and practicing it are both pretty mind numbing. Here in my neighborhood, Park Slope, I am constantly encountering insane stay at home moms (SAHMs). And I have come to the all too un-PC conclusion that stay-at-home motherhood, despite the way our culture lionizes it, is bad for the child and bad for the mom. And bad for society. ItÂ’s just plain bad.

Mind-numbing, just in case you missed that, in PROFESSIONAL-WRITER'S-WHO-LOVE CAPS-BUT-NOT-PUNCTUATION-SCHOOL. Bad mommas! Bad ladies, who are raising their own children! Bad! All the perks we throw at these chicks, who sit around all day, watching their maids clean up their house, while collecting Social Security checks, while booking appointments with their plastic surgeons, since it's covered until their health-care plans.

Most of the SAHMs I know are really miserable. The working moms I know hate their jobs and hate working but they’re not miserable in the kind of extreme and neurotic, soul crippling, Zoloft inducing Yellow Wallpaper-type way the SAHMs are. When you spend all day with a baby you go a little crazy and I don’t think the SAHMs realize how crazy they are. All these college-educated smart women who once had opinions about things and read the newspaper now can only talk about poop and pancakes with kale and Veggie Bootie and natural Cheerios versus regular ones. My husband and I go to this playground called the Tot Lot near our house and we nicknamed it “Compare and Despair” because all any of the mothers talk about is, “Is she crawling? Is she walking? Oh my goodness, she has so much hair/so many teeth. She’s so tall/long/verbal/expressive.” It starts with “How old?” and then from “How old?” they get into what their kid is doing versus what your kid is doing versus what all kids should be doing and after half an hour of this you’re ready to stay inside for the rest of the summer. They sit around all day watching other babies play and worrying about their own baby’s development. This is a lot like watching paint dry.

I can only assume, that a poll was taken? Now, were only SAHM's who actually have yellow wallpaper included in the study, or were those that had gone for the ivory, or the daring red, included as well? Now, if you're smart, but not college-educated, do they count? "How old is she?" as a conversation starter, anyone? It beats opening with " Damn your boobs are huge, are you breastfeeding?". I'm curious as to how long she actually eavesdrops on the conversation. How does she know it doesn't move on from, "Your daughter is bigger than mine", to "Girl, I'm beat! I was making porn movies all day yesterday, in the Motel 8 around the corner!"?

One day I went to the tot lot with my daughter. I took her out and had plopped her by a play structure when behind me I heard two women talking. “Some babies never crawl,” I heard the one say to the other reassuringly. I picked up my kid and we left. That was it. I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t stand to be near it even though neither of these women was talking to me.

That stupid bitch! Who does she think she is? A doctor? Fuck that woman with the slow ass baby. If I'd have been there, I'd have turned around and told her that her baby was a fucking retard, and that maybe, if she'd stop chit-chatting with other stupid-ass, well-meaning (note the hyphens, y'all), bad SAHM's at the local Tot Lot, she stop letting the little shithead eat paint chips, and just commit his drooling, good-for-nothing ass to a state home. Start over, I say!

By virtue of what these mothers do all day, they become obsessed with baby care. They don't "have time" to read the paper or read a book. They don't "have time" to go out and see a movie alone or see friends or go to a museum or have an original thought. So instead they talk about what obsesses them: baby shit, the Britax Boulevard versus the Graco Snugride, the Techno XT versus the Volo, the flushable diapers versus cloth.

she stays home with her daugher, so she is aware of the ins-and-outs of being a SAHM...oh wait. That's right. I've been a SAHM for, oh...eleven years now. I've never had a nanny, or daycare, shit, not even a reliable sitter on a regular basis. Yet, somehow, someway...I've managed to have exactly 4, orginal thoughts. The latest one being, that I'd like to drive to NY, and drop in on a certain Tot Lot. I've managed to start a few business, though all are part-time, depending on what my week looks like. I've volunteered for the Green Party in my state, I've manned tables for NARAL at local festivals. I've even baked casseroles for a local soup kitchen. I read more than is probably healthy, and last summer, even made it all the way through a Karl Marx collection, thought I'm convinced that my brain tried to crawl it's way out of my head while I was sleeping, at one point, to avoid having to finish it. I was even a member of a local art gallery, and have visited other local galleries, without actually being on a field trip. However, when I'm at the park with my kid, and run across another mother, who seems like she might be cool, I don't generally open with, "So, you own guns, or do drugs?", even though it's information I'd like to have. Start with the easy shit, so that, if, a minute or two into the conversation, the other parent begins to prattle on, about how Dionne Warwick's psychics like, TOTALLY predicted that she was gonna have 3 boys, I can extricate myself, quickly. I'd also like to add, that even though, I've on occasion I've butterflied skin, removed splinters, and applied ice packs, I do not feel qualified, to make broad statements about how doctors, by virtue of what they do all day, must be disturbed. Because? I'M NOT ONE.

But the worst part of all of this is that the babies/children pick up on all of this neurotic energy and grow up to be really disturbed individuals, totally incapable of making decisions on their own. They donÂ’t play with other kids; they just play with Mom. They donÂ’t learn how to solve problems on their own or fall on their ass or all the things theyÂ’re supposed to learn because Mom is constantly shielding them from danger. Of course this is all a big generalization but in general, this is what I observe.

Oh, please tell me this means that her mother was a SAHM. It would explain so much. Neurotic energy? You mean, like having a kid, but not really wanting to be a parent? By viewing your child as a mind-numbing chore, that, like, totally cuts into your spa time? By shielding from danger, is that a reference to, keeping the sharp shiny things out of reach? Keeping them from skateboarding down the highway? If all the mothers are so busy, talking to the other mothers,Disposable virtues of cloth, vs. disposable diapers, how are they have time to be their child's only playmate? Are they playing legos, while passing notes back and forth to the other mothers, like in 6th period study hall, in middle school, so there will be no way that their children will be cross-contaminated with the other mother's offspring? Just curious.

As a result of all this danger shielding, Mom is exhausted and depleted and brain-dead, canÂ’t talk about anything but baby stuff with her husband, resents her husband for working even though heÂ’s got to do it to support her choice to be an SAHM, and then feels guilty if she considers going back to work because somebody drilled it into her brain-dead skull that working mothers are evil. I donÂ’t know who the somebody is. I really donÂ’t. These are not Republican women I am describing here. These are Park Slope women.

"Sorry honey. I had to stop the boys from playing in traffic again today, so I'm just exhausted, depleted and brain-dead. I totally resent you bringing home that paycheck, even though I know you hate your job, and resent ME for being the one on my ass, eating bonbons, I mean, stopping Timmy from drinking lye, I mean, whatever, what the fuck? You're the only bastard who gets ADULT time.". I especially love the part where the SAHM is brain-dead, but only in so far as it means that she views working women as evil. The part where, she mentions that the only conversations she manages to eavesdrop on, involve these mother's children, leaves me curious as to how she knows they're not republicans. Do they all have name tags, with their names, ages, children's pertinent info, and political affliation on them?

I suspect it is the husbands who discourage them from working. Because it’s the social equivalent of taking Viagra. “What does your wife do for a living?” asks Jeff, the squash partner at the Racquet Club.

“Oh, she’s at home with our son,” says Michael, and then boasts.

If a man can afford to have a non-working wife, he must be making really good money. So his wife wins him status. It also makes her much more fuckable. It conjures an image of a sexy, yoga-butted (to quote Ralph GardnerÂ’s New York article on the topic a few years ago), domestic diva who serves him a martini every night, keeps a clean house, and still has time to do Pilates.

Seriously? The more I read, the angier I get. Which is really saying something, as we've established, in earlier postings, I'm rather angry to begin with, LOL. I know quite a few SAHM, and none of their husbands play squash, or belong to a country club. Because, if he did, we'd have to kill him, then serve him to the police officer, investigating his disapearance, as meatballs.

If you are a college-educated woman with a child, you should outsource your child care. Childcare is not really as hard as it’s cracked up to be. Hand him a pot and spoon and the kid is happy. Childcare should be the province of immigrant women trying to get a leg up. I do not believe it is not “better for the child” to be with his mother. I believe it is better for the child to have a mother with some modicum of a life – whether it’s volunteering, graduate degree, or part-time work.


In our family, we have a Tibetan nanny 2 full days a week and Jake and I split the rest. Our kid is adaptable because sheÂ’s around lots of different people. There is nothing that only I can do for her. When sheÂ’s sick and upset we hire our sitter for an extra night and by the time she leaves our kid is better. ThatÂ’s how good she is. We pay up the wazoo for the child care, especially since itÂ’s only part time. We love our sitter so much we just bought her cable. But I believe this is a far better option than having one of us (Jake or me) commit to being a full-time stay-at-home parent. Our brains would explode. We would resent the other one no matter what. Our kid would be seriously screwed up and we would go into a financial sinkhole.

Yes. Because she has such a good chance of becoming a well-adjusted adult.


So am I angry and defensive because I am the primary wage earner in my family? I don’t think so. Do I secretly envy these women who can wile away their day in the playground without worrying about money? Maybe a little. I envy their leisure. And there is leisure in there, even if they will all tell you it’s nonstop work. It’s leisure when you can take a 2-hour nap with your baby every day. It’s leisure when you can sit an outdoor café with other mothers having a 2-hour lunch.

I have time to "wile away" my day, without worrying about money? Leisure? Chick, you've got no idea. Seriously. I offer, if you've got the clit for it, come spend a day with me. I haven't had a two hour lunch...ever. What's the point? If you're going to spend two hours sitting around a table, at least spend it drinking, not eating. My baby takes a two hour nap? My baby is five. I couldn't get him to take a two-hour nap, if I had my Tibetian nanny duct-tape him to his bed.

But give me a week to live the way they do (which IÂ’ve done from time to time) and by the end I am thanking my lucky stars that I work. You can only eat at Moutarde so many times, propping an infant on your knee and eating with one hand before you think, IÂ’d rather be on the roof of Soho House alone getting a tan. Speaking of which, how about this idea: Brooklyn House? IÂ’m thinking of taking over the Montauk Club and turning it into a private club for Brooklyn Bohos. Indie rock concerts, a sun deck, and ON-SITE CHILD CARE staffed solely by Tibetans.

I have tried to find others who are against stay-at-home motherhood but I feel I am alone in my disdain for choice feminism. I do not believe stay-at-home mothers are feminists. They are sending us way, way back. They are the reason all these kids are on Ritalin. They are the reason young adults are depressed. The reason the average college student talks to his parents 20 times a week.

Or, alternately, they're the ones who talk down the kid on the roof of her college dorm, who is fucking strangers, and ingesting drugs, in an attempt to get her parents to notice that she's successon. Not an obstruction on her mother's highway ramp to sucess. What kind of message does that send a kid? "Sorry baby, but momma's gFeminism a tan, fuck your recital, let the nanny take you". Feminisim, is about CHOICE. It's not an excuse to judge others life choices. I think you're a worthless peice of shit, and a sorry excuse for a woman, let alone a criminally-negligent parent. However, I would not make a judgement on whether or not, your life, and your choices, make you a feminist, or not. How much does it say, that, in order for you to live your life, in the way you've chosen, you feel the need to not only denigrate other women's choices, but to attempt to recruit others to your side?

There are a few web sites like mothersmovement.org and some others but they seem to be devoted to validating the “work” of stay-at-home mothers, saying how important it is, yadda yadda yadda. Child care is an important job but it need not be done by the mother!! There is one woman who wrote an essay about this for the American Prospect, Linda Hirshman, but it is thin and a bit out of touch. I mean, quoting Heartburn? Come on.

Question: If you've no interest in raising a child, why bother giving birth to one? One of the advantages, to all those feminists, is that, women today, have a choice, to remain childless, if they so desire, and if they do want a child, or children, to chose the when/where of it. What give birth to a creature, you've no interest in? I'm baffled by it, truly, along with feeling heartily sorry for this chick's kid. Poor little thing. I think it was Jackie O, who said something to the effect of, "If you bungle raising your children, I don't think whatever else you do well matters very much." Children are actually children, for just a short amount of time. what kind of life-lessons are you teaching your child, I mean, is the nanny, teaching your child?

That is the end of my rant. I would turn this into a million-dollar book proposal if I could but I donÂ’t think thereÂ’s enough to sustain 500 pages. Still, I wouldnÂ’t mind going head to head on Fox with that twiglike evil shiksa Ann Coulter.

Darlin', something tells me that you and Coulter will get a chance to hang out. Karma, perhaps, or even hell, if that's what you belive in.

Keep your eye out for something by me in an upcoming issue of New York on a topic related to parenting. IÂ’ll post the link when itÂ’s up.

Oh, I'm sure you will, Amy. If nothing else, the little thing you squished out, gives you something to write about. Even if it is,how much you hate having to actually raise her.

Amy

Bring it, bitch. Drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Go tell Bill to kiss yo'mutha'fuckin' ass...

Please.

(who says I have no manners?)

http://prochoiceaction.org/campaign/sen_ccpa_0706/wies6ni2ztnk7td?

Mother by choice: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Here we go 'round...

..The mulberry fucking bush.

So, after another brief sojourn to another, shall-remain-unnamed blog site, where I found myself fending off people who I apparently knew in high school, looking me up. WTF? I didn't like you then, why assume things have changed in the 13 years (Lordisa, I'm fucking OLD) since we graduated? Anyway, my 14 year old niece looking me up was the kicker. I'm all for honesty in relationships, but I cannot comfortably drop the "fuckmotherfuckerfuckshitFIRE" bombs, where I know there is a good shot she'll see it. Besides, I'm sure I've used up any free passes on the potty mouth train, in her actual presence.

I swear, I will NEVER do this shit to my kids. I'll find new, and inventive ways to totally fuck with them.

Again, the president of Bob-Land came by the house 2 days ago. I've recently started my own business, because, if I don't have at least 3 things too many to do in a day, I'm not happy. Long story, or, at least, slightly shorter, I'm sewing, and some of the material I'm using, has skulls on it. Apparently, my mother, instead of being thrilled that I've started a business, and that I'm actually sewing, which, 2 christmas's ago, the fact that I DIDN'T sew, when "It's not like I didn't teach you how to, you know", took center stage in the long list of all the ways I've been a disappointment, is "terribly upset with you".

Part of me wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, get out, and if she's got something to say, she can say it herself, cuz, she's like, totally, being a butthead, and is no longer invited to my birthday party, but, the masochist gossip monger in me, just had to know, especially since I thought I'd been on my best behavior lately, staying out of the line of fire.

But see, that is where the crazy bitch gets you. I think, that things have been a bit better, we talk occasionally, and it's not stilted and awkward, so I think, "Hey! Things are cordial, if not downright friendly!". Every time. I fall for it everytime. As soon as we move past the superficial shit, and by that, I mean, anything more personal than, "It's hot today", I'm screwed.

Apparently, my choice of fabrics, has her, once again, convinced I'm going to hell, without even the courtesy of a handbasket.

I almost, almost lost my temper. By that, I mean, I didn't walk out the back door, and tell him to be gone by the time I came back in, and keep the crazy bitch away from me. I did, however, drop quite a few, "What the fucking hell? She's lost her damn mind, AGAIN!", and then, followed it with a crack about moving furniture around in the basement, so as to provide enough room for a symmetrical pentagram, in which to sacrifice the goats.

When the fuck, does this merry-to-round END? I'm starting to think, when one of us is dead. I am so frustrated by the fact there just doesn't seem to be a way to fix this, other than me having a lobotomy. I am me. She is, crazy, I mean, her. The two are just oil and water. I am a decent person. Yes, I have a potty mouth, I'm not always patient, have a tendency to spend too much money, and I really like smelly cheese, but overall, I'm an OK gal. I'm funny, occasionally, well-read, and, according to my husband, when asked why he married me, "fun to hang out with", LOL.

She stopped by today, to pick up my oldest son, her barely-disguised favorite kid in the world, for a sleepover, and couldn't have been less friendly. Not rude, never that, at least, not on major holidays, but just...*sigh*. You could actually see the heavy cloud of disappointment hanging over her head. I'll never win, I know that, and that is actually OK by me. I just wish that I could remember this game, because while I seem to occasionally forget we're playing, but she never does.

EVER.

..and bless those of us willing to share potatoes...

...there is a reason that I have had the same bestest friend, since the first day of ninth grade.

'Cuz she ROCKS, that's why.

After finishing the post below, I locked myself in the bathroom, and fell to pieces. So, I did the only thing, any self-respecting adult, locked in a bathroom, with a phone, a cigarette, a lighter, and snot running down her face, can do.

I called my best friend, with whom, I share a potato.

The potato bit, is a long standing, inside joke, that I'm not sharing at the moment.

To quote Le Tigre..."nanny nanny, nanny nanny boo boo".

...just because I can.

She has always been there for me, when it really mattered. She's held my hair for me, while I've thrown up, and then I've returned the favor. Sometimes, even in the same night, LOL. Words cannot begin to describe the love I have for this awesome chick. She rocks my world, on a regular basis, just by showing up, yk?

So, after the obligatory pep talk, she moved right into a charming tidbit, about how, 12 years after the original loan, 3 years after the last court date, where she got a judgment in her favor, she's tracked down my former roommate, and filed the court papers to have her salary garnished. Turns out, she works as a realtor with the same company, that HER realtor, who is listing her house, does.

Karma is a bitch, LOL.

She will be getting married in the fall (my friend, not karma), and her daughter will be born in about 2 months. IN the meantime, she just happens to be buying my cousin's house, right around the corner from me. How rockin' is THAT?

She may not always understand me, and vice versa, but damn, is that girl always around when I need a potato.

"Put on your shit kickers and kick some SHIT" drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

I will *NOT* freak out...

...I will NOT freak the fuck out...

oh wait.

I'm making a truly admirable attempt, at least, in my book, not to completely lose my SHIT.

When I was 18, my cousin, Rachel, was diagnosed with a brain tumor. She was the only girl cousin I had, and I just adored her. She was only 6 when she was diagnosed, and 7 years, and 2 weeks old, when she died, after an agonizing year of surgeries and treatments. I can honestly say, I've never been the same. At that moment, when my father knocked on my apartment door, and told me that she died, while I was changing from work, to go sit with her, like I did a few times a week, my world view shifted.

No longer, was bad shit, the stuff that happened to other people. Babies die. Kids die. Not just in sudden accidents. They get sick, and die. As in, no doctor, no treatment, no surgery, can prevent it.

I totally, not to put too fine a point on it, lost my SHIT. The weeks afterwards are kind of a blur, in all honesty. I drank, drugged, and cut my way through one of the most horrifying times of my life. Even my club buddies were scared, by how out of control I was. How do you DEAL with something like that? How do you come to terms with that?

Now, fast forward, 11 years later, to the phone call I got from my sister-in-law this morning. My nephew, who is 5 months older than my youngest son, has a lump on his neck. She took him 2 weeks ago, to get it checked out by our pediatrician. He told her to come back in two weeks, if it hadn't gone away. IT could just be from a cold. This morning, is the end of week two. It's almost doubled in size. He has to go for blood work tomorrow, there is a possibility, that it's leukemia, or another childhood cancer.

I hear the words, coming out of her mouth, and suddenly, I'm not a 30 year old mother of 3 kids, with a silly, crazy, happy life, but a scared, 18 year old kid, who just can NOT do this again. I barely survived it the first time. I cannot watch another kid I love DIE. I just don't have it in me. How fucking chicken shit is THAT?

We have no information to work with yet, we'll get results of his blood work on Monday, hopefully. My sister in law, is freaking out, understandably. She's depending on me, to help her through this. I honestly don't know if I can. I'm sitting here, typing this, just barely holding absolute panic at bay. I can barely catch my breath, at the mere suggestion that I walk this road with yet another family member and their beloved child. What the hell am I gonna do, if I actually have to walk it?

I got no answers. Not one.

From a girl, who thinks she knows it all, that's saying something.

just barely. drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Ha ha! I'm not cleaning the gar-a-ge....

WHO
Who is your best friend? Amy
Who do you like? That\'s a little vague, don\'t you think?
Who is your mom? a born-again zealot, but she sure does love me.
Who owns your house? The bank. Except for the little concrete pad that the trash cans sit on. THAT we own, baby.
Who bought you the clothes your wearing? Me.
Who is at your house? My kids, and my lovah
Who loves you? Who doesn\'t, baby?
Who said hey to you today? The lady at the convenience store I bought milk in this morning.
Who are you talking to right now? Um, no one. I\'m typing, remember?
Who was your ex-boy/girlfriend? A bunch of psychos that are either A) in jail B) rehab C) or legally cannot come within 100 yards of me. I sure can pick \'em
WHAT
What town do you live in? Baltimore, and it rocks
What are your pet peeves? people not using turn signals, the religous right.
What are you wearing? \"Draft the Bush Twins\" shirt, jeans, and black hightop converse
What do your teeth look like? sharp and pointy. *growl*
What are you doing in an hour? working on a glass mosaic
What is your middle name? Rebecca
What is your deepest secret? Seriously, you think I\'m going to post it on the internet?
What are you doing tomorrow? Writing for a few hours, then taking my oldest to the state park for a birthday party
What is your boy/girlfriends middle name? Wesley. Yeah, I know.
What is in this for you? An avoidance tactic. I\'m supposed to be outside, helping to clean out the garage.
What is your favorite thing(s) to do? Write.
What are you sitting on? My ass, which happens to be in a chair
WHERE
Where are you at right now? In my office
Where were you at at 12 noon today? Um, it\'s only 11:35 AM here.
Where is your toothbrush at? In the bathroom. Where SHOULD it be?
Where do you sleep? In my bed.
Where do you live? In my house (this is getting fun)
Where were you at at 7pm yesterday? On my couch, with my sick 8 year old, watching Chicken Little. I want a Herby
Where is your boy/girl friend? Um, outside cleaning the garage, LOL.
Where are your parents? Beats me. Here\'s hoping they don\'t show up here today.
Where did you put your bookbag? On the wrought iron rack by the front door, which is actually where it belongs. Go figure
Where do you keep your socks? In my husband\'s drawer.
WHEN
When was your first kiss? Kindergarten. Patrick Arnold, under the table in Library, when we were supposed to be watching a film
When are you getting a job? I have one. In fact, I have about 4. Being your own boss ROCKS
When will you grow up? Hopefully never, but I think it\'s catching up to me.
When are you going to call your friend? So what, now I only have one friend?
When did you get home last night? I never left, LOL.
When did you graduate? 93
When are you going to stop taking surveys? Never, if it means I don\'t have to help clean out the garage.
When was the last time you had a fruit smoothie? I\'m not sure, but I\'m comfortable with, \"it was a long time ago\" answer
When are you getting married? Shit, I\'m never getting married again. If this gets fucked up, I\'m OUT.
WHY
Why are you taking this? Seriously? Pay attention. SO I DON\'T HAVE TO HELP CLEAN OUT THE GARAGE
Why are you weird? I\'m not WEIRD. I\'m eccentric.
Why are you wearing what your wearing right now? Because it\'s finally warm enough to break out all my really cool t-shirts. Oh, and it was clean, and on the top of the pile.
Why dont you have friends? Hey, screw you buddy! First I only have one, now I have NONE? Eat me.
Why cant you get a boy/girl friend? My husband is kind of a dick that way.
Why do you live where your at? Because I love this town, and I dig my house.
HOW
How do you fix your hair? Right now, it\'s growing, for my best friend\'s rennisance wedding in the fall, but normally, it\'s short and spikey in the back, long on the sides, no bangs.
How are the kids? Aidan\'s sick, but Caleb and Lucien are good.
How many hours do you spend on the computer? Depends on my day.
How many TV shows do you watch? Once again, depends on my day
How did you find this survey? A friend (told you I had some, fucker) sent it to me
How do you like it so far? Not too shabby, for a time-killer
How do you make sharpies? Beats me. I just buy mine
How many sharpies do you own? About 10
How often do you say I love you? Frequently. It should be said often, and sincerely

Would you, could you, in a car?

Would You Survey Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com Would you eat a bug? No. *shudder* Would you bungee jump? Yup. Would you hang glide? Yup. I may hurl, but I\'d do it. Would you kill someone? Absolutely. Hurt one of my kids, and you\'d better pray the cops catch you before I do. Would you kiss someone of the same sex? Been there, done that. Would you parachute from a plane? Sure. Would you walk on hot coals? I\'ve always wanted to learn to do that, and eat fire Would you be a vegitarian? I was for a few years. My commitment isn\'t what it should be Would you instant message a stranger? LMAO, I already have, through the miracles of mis-dialing. He speaks no english, that hasn\'t stopped him from calling me about 4 times Would you sing karaoke? Sure, why not? I subject strangers in their cars that have their windows rolled down at stoplights to it anyway. How much worse could it be drunk? Would you run a red light? I am a law-abiding citizen. Shut up. I\'m sticking to my story Would you shoplift? I used to, when I was a teenager. Now, no. Would you dye your hair blue? It was actually blue about 5 months ago. Now it\'s red and black Would you be on survivor No. I don\'t like sand, dirt, bugs, or snakes Would you wear make-up in public? Uh, I do every day. Don\'t get between me and my black eyeliner Would you not wear make-up in public? Only if I HAVE to. Would you cheat on a test? Depends on how important it was Would you make someone cry? On purpose? Would you date someone more than 10 years older than you? Depends. If my husband and I didn\'t work out, I wouldn\'t date until the boys were grown. Just my personal thing. Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com

All you wanted to know, and MORE!

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Favorites Survey Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com Number 13 Color green Day Friday Month December Song Tainted Love Food mashed potatoes and strawberries. Just not together Sport No Drink Knob Creek Candy sixlets Ice Cream I actually don\'t like ice cream, unless it\'s soft serve. I dig sherbert though Season Fall Band Can\'t pick just one. Le Tigre is way up there, though, as are the Gits Movie Again, can\'t really pick just one, but Strange Days and Donnie Darko are high on the list Website Post Secret Animal Tigers Item of Clothing My \"Dissent is Patriotic\" black tee Word fuck Place other than my house, downtown Baltimore Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com

All About Me Survey Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com I Am da momma I Want a pony I Have a really cool old house I Wish for a pony I Hate people other than me, who have ponies I Fear bugs I Hear Dance Disaster Movement. I Search for fairies I Wonder where the dragons are hiding I Regret not having finished my degree yet I Love books and coffee. Not necessarily in that order I Ache when I think about Rachel I Always love I Usually read I Am Not patient, or even-tempered I Dance badly, but alot I Sing not quite as badly as I dance, and LOUDLY I Never say never. It seems silly to pen yourself in like that. I Rarely hook I Cry alone I Am Not Always kind I Lose just about everthing, about twice a day I'm Confused who isn\'t? I Need a pony I Should buy a pony, and put it in my garage Take This Survey at Quizopolis.com

Cranky say Grow up!

Cranky.

Crankycrankycrankycrankyasamuthafucka.

I can't begin to compare the level of frustration I'm sporting this morning, to anything. My similies and metaphors are broken.

I'm spinning in rather dizzing circles, over and over and OVER again, and have yet to figure out how to get the fuck OFF this particular ride.

Why is it, when we're little, we assume that everything will be fine, when we are "GROWN UP"?

Being a grown up SUCKS.

Ambassador from the Land of Weird...

..I am not.

I am not, your opportunity to inquire about how much tattoos cost, how many I have, if you may see them, and if they hurt, while on a field trip with my son.

I am not, your chance to find out how exactly all us "freaks" get our hair to be multiple colors at the same time.

I am not your friend, I am a fellow parent on a school field trip, with my 4 year old son, to the local train museum. I am there to spend time with the Fruit of My Loins, not to answer your questions about the stickers on the back of the Machine Of Evil, (which, incidentally, how do you know which car is MINE??), or debate whether or not, Emily the Strange, constitutes anime.

I am not the local attraction at the carnival, and frankly y'all, if I'm your barometer of weird, you need to get out more.

The question was posed....

...just when, exactly, is it acceptable, to correct another person's child?

My immediate thoughts were, "whenever the little asshole is being a shithead".

Not very mature, but bear with me.

I am well aware that I am not what "normal" motherhood, supposedly looks like. I have tattoos that number in the double digit range, a few piercings, am almost abnormally fond of black clothing and black eyeliner, and feel naked without boots on. However, I have been da'momma for almost 11 years now. If I can be bothered to teach my children good manners, "Please" and "Thank you", in between sacrificing chickens in my basement, the least you can do, is correct your little goddamn enormous seven-year-old future felon of America, when he's sent my 4 year old sprawling, since he was silly enough not to realize that huge ass doughboys, don't HAVE to wait in line.

I am so damn tired of other parents, and this applies across the board, mothers and fathers are equally to blame, not teaching their children basic people skills. If one more little asshole bangs her charming, child-size shopping cart into the back of my leg, while her mother chats on her cell phone, in line in the store, I just may completely lose it, and have to be pulled out of the store in a straight jacket, screaming, "YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO SAY EXCUSE ME, AND IT ISN'T POLITE TO BE AN ASSHOLE!".

When did we decide that "please", "thank you", and "excuse me", were obsolete? Why is it, that basic grammar skills escape us? I, who cannot begin to claim the "Grammar Queen" title, still know enough, to teach my children, it's "please MAY I", not "please CAN I".

Why is it, that the parents who pay the least amount of attention to their child's behavior, are the loudest, most obnoxious ones when someone else takes the time to correct them, seeing as how they've managed to draw blood?

Control your little shitheads already! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

And the Award for Understatement of the Year (so far)...

...goes to Republican Bob Taft (Ohio)..."This is hindsight, but it was a mistake to bury FEMA under the Department of Homeland Security".

Republicans, they think too, just slower than the rest of us! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

A greeting, from the island of germs!

I've actually reached a new, personal-best record.

4 doctor visits, in 5 days. This, of course, spans the weekend, and does not include the 1/2 hour I spent on the phone with the doctor, on the only day we didn't actually go into the office.

I am of the opinion, as I have excellent health insurance, that frequent-fliers, of the pediatrician office, should get some perks. I'm not knocking the parent that only comes in two or three times a year. I'm just sayin', that those of us that are on a first name basis with all the staff, who, actually recognize our voice before we identify ourselves, when calling to make an appointment, should be rewarded.

I have, single-handedly, put at least one of the doctors children through college, as well as paid off the doctor's student loans. If you visit sub shops, you get a little coupon, entitling you to a free sub, after so many purchases. As my doctors make about $50, every time I drag one of my germy booger heads into their offices, how 'bout a little kickback?

I'm not asking for much. Maybe a "Frequent Visitors" parking spot, located right near the elevator, as opposed to the back of the damn lot, where I end up having to park, and then lug in sick child, plus whatever extras I happen to have joining the germ soup, that day. Or, perhaps a special waiting room, preferable roped off with velvet cord, that has real books, instead of 27 copies of "Parenting", and "Your Baby" magazines, perhaps some coffee and tea as well.

"I'd like to make an appointment for my son today"

"Ah, Mrs. Blockston, we have an 11:30 opening, which should put you here, just in time for fresh coffee and muffins".

I hardly think, it's too much to ask.

lysol away! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Step away from the snack dip,

party's over.

Pity party, that is...

oh, grow UP already! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

No Lid = Sonic Boom

It's amazing to me, how the little things really do matter.

I've been having a bit of an attitude problem lately. Shocking, of course to those around me, as my even-keeled nature is known for miles around, LOL. I haven't been able to really put my finger on what exactly, has me so tied up in cranky knots.

This morning, I was in a pretty good mood, getting the kids dressed and out the door, to hit the grocery store, leaving Doug behind to nurse a wicked hangover in peace and quiet. Then, I went to fetch my coffee mug, to take with me.

No lid. No where to be found.

Putting away the dishes is the one task I've pretty much managed to farm out to other laborers in my house. However, this means, that finding any sort of gadget, lid, or basically, anything that is not a bowl, plate, or cup, is a 10 minute process. I've been very clear, about my mug, and my lid. I love my coffee. I cannot function without my coffee, and I adore my mug.

I totally lost my SHIT. I ranted, raved, screamed, cursed, and generally threw a gigantic temper tantrum (mark this one down, for when my children begin therapy, I'm sure it will come up). I put the kids in the car, drove 1/2 to the store, realized I was just irrationally angry, turned around, dropped off the children, and took off.

At that moment, I could totally relate to those people that just get in their cars, and roll the fuck OUT.

After driving around for about 1/2 an hour, I think I pinpointed just *what* has been bothering me.

It may sound silly, but something tells me, that any woman, who is either married, or has children, just may be able to relate.

I am a work-at-home-mom. I stay home with my children, while providing day care to two of my friend's children, as well as being a Mary Kay consultant (don't spread that around, you'll ruin my street cred, LOL), run a part-time ebay business, and have been working on some freelance work as well. I'm a really busy gal. I also cook dinner 4 nights a week, as in, homecooked, and hot dogs don't count. Since the New Year, I've been actually doing really well with my time management goals, and the house has not only been relatively mess-free, but clean as well.

If I'm spending more time (well, more effectively spending time, I suppose is a better way to phrase that), I don't think that it is entirely out of the realm of realistic expectations, to have others that, you know, live in this house, to pick up after themselves. Now, by this, I do not mean I expect my 4 year old, to do the dishes, or scrub the floors. I do, however, expect that when people, including the other tall person that lives here, to put their laundry in the hamper, not on the floor, next to the hamper. I expect people to throw their own trash away, put their dirty dishes in the sink, and, if something is on the floor, not to step over it, but rather, to bend over, and pick it up.

Now, this may seem a digression, but bear with me. On Valentine's Day, which I generally think is a crap holiday, since it doesn't seem very special to me, to celebrate love on the same day of the year, as everyone else, I really, really, REALLY, wanted to go to the Visionary Art Museum, one of my favorite places in the world, anyway, for the Post Secret Exhibit, since the creator would also be there, until 6. My wanting to go, had nothing to do with it being Valentine's Day, it just happened to be the only day that the creator would be there. The timing didn't work out. I get that. It's hard to arrange an outing, on a Tuesday, a work and school night, much less, one that has to occur before dinner time.

The thing that bothered me, is that there was absolutely NO effort. None. In looking back, I cannot remember the last time, that someone in this house, made any sort of an effort, to do something, just because *I* wanted it done.

This brings me back to the coffee mug lid, and the housework. I've finally realized, that the reason I've been so tense, cranky, and generally unpleasant to live with for the last two weeks, has a lot to do with the fact, that I just don't feel like *I* matter.

I know my husband loves me. I do. I also know that my children love me. I also realize how incredibly lucky I am, to have such a fantastic family, a solid marriage, and healthy children. It would just be nice, to be reminded, perhaps twice a damn year, that I matter to them. That my needs and desires, at least make the list, occasionally, of things they are willing to think about, and perhaps act upon.

My husband wants to go to Atlantic City for his birthday. Not my thing. Not at ALL. I can't think of just about anything I'd rather do less, besides an colonoscopy. Yet, I've planned a weekend trip for his birthday weekend, arranged the babysitting, talked to our best friends about going with us (they are), and have spent a few hours, researching the different hotels and casinos.

It would never occur to him, to do the same for me. In looking back, Doug has arranged babysitting, twice. That's two times, in eleven years of marriage. The first time, I told him I wanted him to take me on a date, and he had a week to set it up, and find a sitter, and the second, he was horny, so he dropped the kids off at his parents for an hour. I don't want it to seem as if I am inappreciative of these efforts, especially the last one, since I'm always up for child-free nookie, LOL.

I just don't feel as if anyone gives a shit, about things that are important to me, unless I'm yelling, or crying. The thing that is currently, really pissing me off, is that I feel GUILTY about feeling this way! I feel as if perhaps, I'm being unrealistic, and selfish. After all, men are, obviously different than women. I have a husband with a great job, who is a wonderful father, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, really DOES love me.

I just wish that how I felt, and the things that I want, made enough of an imprint, on the people that I love the best, that they would consider them, and occasionally, act upon them. Even if it's just twice a damn year.

Guilt trips, no travel agent required! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Say hello to my little friend! My bestest friend, in the whole world, is having a baby. I think she looks like *me*.

it's a girl! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Now, I'm sure...

...that when most people say, "I've had a shitty week", they're speaking metaphorically.

I, however, have the distinction, of being able to use that sentence, in a very literal way this past week.

I took a very long, very hot shower, for about 40 minutes on Tuesday night.

At 10 PM, Doug goes down to the basement, where his throne room is set up, immediately comes back upstairs, curious as to why there is water in the basement, out past the couches.

This baffles me as well, especially considering, I was half asleep.

Turns out, it was not the washing machine, or the utility sink. There was a nice big clog, in the main line, causing the..... (I'm building up the suspense here, LOL)....

...toilet in the basement, to, quite literally, explode, with all the water from my long, hot, shower, all over the floor, along with all the waste, from the previous day's, toilet flushes.

For the next day, there were no safe drains, no flushing of toilets, no washing of dishes.

There were, however, turds that had to scooped out of the 1-2 inches of water (the floor on 2/3 of the basement is concrete, and about 100 years old, so not completely level), with the pool skimmer.

Renting the snake, was yet another learning experience. I have an old home. The first house we purchased was another older home, which we rennovated. I'm a rather handy gal, if I do say so myself. So, I walk into the local Home Depot, and tell them I need to rent the longest snake they have. Howdy Doody, tells me, "We have a 75-footer".

I then tell him, I'm going to check elsewhere, I need a 100 foot snake, it's a main line clog.

Him: "We've got a hundred footer (I loathe that word, footer, BTW), if that's what you're looking for.

No. Really, I just wanted to quiz you?

He then proceeds to ask me, "What kind of car are you driving?"

I tell him, I have the Machine of Evil parked outside, and it's a minivan.

He then points to my neice and nephew, who I had with me, and says...."Okay, because you know you can't leave them here, right?"

Seriously?

Is this a question that actually needs to be answered?

"Really? I thought this was more of a 'swap out' kind of place, as opposed to a tool rental. I leave you the kids, take the machine, and when I'm done, I just bring it back, and you give me the kids. No?"

After all of this, I pull the van around to the front, where he argues with me, about my ability to lift the snake into the van. I'm 5'10". I'm not a tiny person. Finally, I just shut up, and backed away, whereupon, he proceeded to almost drop it on his foot, LOL. I just looked at him, and said "You know, it's not going to carry itself out of my car, up my front porch steps, and down into my basement. Eventually, I will be picking the thing up. Perhaps now would be a good time for me to start?"

He graciously allowed me to help him.

Flush away! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Far be it from me...

to criticize another person's parenting skills...

Oh, wait.

That's exactly what I'm going to do.

Having never been pursued by the paparazzi, since, apparently, getting your children to school on time, every morning of the school year, garners no awards, or accolades (especially from those same children, who inherited their mother's morning people skills), I've never known how scary it must be, to have your every move, videotaped, or photographed. It has to be more than annoying, to have your every grocery receipt published, your trips to the gas station bathroom, tabloid fodder (but seriously, you can get flip flops for like $2.50 from Old Navy), your every move tracked.

However.

There is, just no way, in my own little pea-brain, I've found a way, to be remotely sympathetic, to Britney Spears. I've never been a fan, can't stand her singing (if you even want to call that warbling she does, singing), but in the past two years, she's gone from being a moderately annoying pop celebrity, to being a trainwreck. I find myself wanting to just *shake* the crap out of her. All that changed, the minute I saw the pictures of her driving, on a HIGHWAY, with her infant son, on her damn lap.

What the FUCK?

"I'm being aggressively pursued by people, enough so that I'm scared for my well-being, so I'll just snuggle up my infant on my lap, and hop on the freeway, so as to avoid them".

I'm blown away, by not only her lack of understanding, of just how dangerous that really is, but the local authorities choosing not to press charges.

If I can garner, not one, but two, "Failure to come to a complete stop at a stop sign" tickets, on basically deserted streets, how can they *not* write her a ticket, make her take a damn parenting class, or, even more appropriately, have a little sit down with the parents of a child lost in a car accident? Especially considering, they've got a picture of the crime in action?

Reality check @ Drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

I'd like to say

that I'd die if you left me,
but we both know,
that just isn't true.

Because, that's not what I do.
I don't fall apart
I don't pick up the pieces
I just leave them behind.

I'd like to tell you that you are the world to me
but I know, deep down,
that just isn't true.
The world is bigger than both me, and you.

What I can tell you
is that your eyes,
they change colors,
according to your mood,
and that you make this funny noise,
that only I hear, when you chew your food.

I sure would miss that.

Happy Birthday! Clean the bathroom, would you?

I think I aged a year, this past week, not Aidan, LOL.

My sunny, funny middle child, turned 8 last Saturday! He had a wonderful birthday...I hope.

The thing about birthday parties, actually being on the birthday? How can I do my usual completely and totally anal melt-down, over the state of the house, and decide an hour before people arrive that really, the molding around the bottom of the walls, really needs a second scrubbing, if I have to make sure that one of the kids has a great birthday?

Birthday are a BIG deal, around here. HUGE. I have an entire week, myself. Except for my last birthday, The One We Will NOT Name. I grew up in a home, where my mother homecooked meals, EVERY night. It was a very exciting day, when we would get to eat fish sticks, mac and cheese, and green beans, on the occasional Saturday night for dinner. While cooking away, she also managed to have a totally and completely spotless house (seriously, I swear, it looked like a damn model home), and (this one is the kicker), SEWED ALL OF OUR CLOTHES. Seriously. Dresses, skirts, blouses, t-shirts, even JEANS.

Let's just say, that's a tough yardstick to have laying around. Though, in my case, you're more likely to find it laying in the middle of my lawn, after one of the kids have taken it outside to play with, and never brought back into the house.

I find myself eyeing up my house, with a drill sargent's eye, taking in where the cats have played "let's climb the wall", using their claws, usually only making it halfway up, before just kind of sliding down. Because really, why just let go, when you can leave little kitty claw marks all the way down the wall?

Say what you will, my cats are not under achivers.

As are my children, considering I found the "hiding" spot for boogers. None will confess as to whose boogers they actually are, which I find slightly comforting. I don't think I really want to know, who is wiping them on the wall, right beside the molding, in the upstairs bathroom.

I'm afraid it may be the large one, and then I'll have to divorce him.

I'm...

tired.

I just thought y'all should know.

zzzzzzz: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Momma, don't let your babies, grow up to be....

gay, repressed cowboys...

*sigh*

Jen and I went to see Brokeback Mountain, figured that this way, we wouldn't have to, A: find sitters for the sprats, and B: defend a beautiful love story, to two men, who, while they may be comfortable in their manhood, revert to middle school boys, who think it's funny to wipe snot on a seat.

It was beautiful. It was SAD.

Jen, however, lost her SHIT, she started sniffling, then it progressed to hands on the face, to full-on, shaking in her seat, making noises, sobbing. It was a lovely movie, I highly recommend it. Heath Ledger, and Jake Gyllenhaal's performances were astounding, especially given that in every other movie I've seen Jake in, I can't shake the image of Frank's head in the mirror, in Donnie Darko, LOL.

It makes me sad, for all the people who end up, so disconnected, from that which they really want, in life, because of society's conventions, or fear of what others will think. Why *do* we care so much for other's thoughts? As if our self-worth can be measured by a stranger's second glance, or friend's opinions of our mates, outfit, house, or life choice? Why do we spend so much damn time, trying to just be "normal"? I would love to say that I never fall into that trap, but I do. I suppose it's human nature. I'm just glad, that it's never cost me, a life of happiness with the person I truly love.

Because, he's upstairs, very much, NOT wiping boogers on seats.

waste no time: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

You know that thing I said yesterday?

Ignore it.

I fucking hate it.

I actually have to psch myself up, to get out of my chair tonight.

Billy Blanks is an ASSHOLE.

Shhh!

Don't spread this around or nuthin', but I think, that I just may...

be enjoying exercise.

ruining my street cred on Krispy Kreme Lane: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

All Hail the powers of inconsistency!

For their powers are mighty!

I swear. If I live to be 100, I will NEVER be able to fathom my mother's motives.

The last time we saw each other, she was freaking out about not knowing which drawer I keep my kitchen utensils in. Seriously. As if, not knowing where I store my sporks, is a metaphor for our relationship. Which, granted, blows, but sporks? C'mon.

The last time I talked to her on the phone it was:

Me: "hey mom"

Her: "hang on, I'll get your father"

My father dropped in earlier this week, where I was treated to a rather lengthy treaty, on how all things in the World of Bob, suck. The end of which, was...'Just to give you a heads up, your mom is PISSED at you".

Me: "Why?"

Him: "I dunno."

How informative.

So, when my cell rang this evening, and I read the display, I seriously thought about not answering. Then, I thought, "you know what? BRING IT ON SISTA!"

Her: "HI!!"

Me: "Um..hi." (What the fuck?)

Her: "So, 8:40 tomorrow morning. You can just drop the boys at my house!"

Me: "um, okay."

Her: "It's much nicer, now that they changed the morning service time, it lets you sleep a little later."

Me: "uh, yeah, it does. Sleep is nice. It's good. Everyone loves sleep"... it was as if a sheepdog momentarily took over my brain.

Her: "Okay babe, you have fun tonight, and I'll see you when you come pick up the boys tomorrow afternoon. Bye!"

WHAT THE HOLY FUCKING HELL?

See, normally, we follow a routine. We start the board at "You are so totally fun to hang out with!"..this leads to: "Now that we are hanging out, how about I beat you with a bible?? Doesn't that sound like FUN?!?!?!?! This, invariably leads to the weepy: "Why won't you trust me? I know what I'm talking about! I would rather that you hated me, and loved him (him, being god)" phase. Then we leap on over into Frosty disappointment-land. From there, you head around the block to: "You know what, I RAISED YOU BETTER THAN THIS! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER".

Now, she's skipping steps in a game we've been playing for years.

Apparently, she DOES have something left to teach me.

*sigh* drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Delurk, dammit!

I may be setting myself up, for colossal disappointment here, but it's come to my attention that someone in blogger land, has appointed this week, as de-lurk week.

So, any and all, who read blogs, on a regular basis, read them occasionally, or you know, just, read, are hereby, commanded (okay, requested?) to delurk yo' ass, and leave a comment, on those blogs. So, humor me. It's been a rough week.

Even, if it's a big, fat, YOU SUCK.

Who decides these things, anyway? drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Okay, SERIOUSLY??

I'm frustrated.

Actually, I don't think that frustrated, covers it.

I spoke to my youngest son's teacher today. He's 4 1/2, with a will of iron, and a control freak to boot. This is the kid, who, as a toddler, would scream to get out of his crib in the morning, and when you'd go to pick him up, he'd drop like a stone, and cling to the bars. So, I'd then leave the room, wait a few minutes, and try again.

Rinse and repeat.

Some mornings, it would take an hour just to get him out of the damn crib.

He's a challenge. As well as excellent birth control.

I adore him. I do, he's funny, and can charm your socks off, when he's not being so infuriatingly difficult, that you'd like to strangle him with your socks.

Now, I had spoken with his teacher, a lovely woman, named Mrs. Baker, last week, about his progress. The first time we met his teacher, he performed. In rare, and humiliating form. My husband had some sort of freaky virus that had given him headaches, so sudden and severe, that we had spent the whole weekend in the hospital, while they tried to figure out if it wasn't an aneurysm, or a stroke. So, Momma operating on about...4 hours sleep, in a 48 hour period, and Lucien, who smells weakness the way a bloodhound senses...well, blood, I guess, performed. He twirled, he wouldn't sit in the chair, he whined, he slumped, he like to got strangled by his own mother, who, fortunately, was too tired to summon the upper-body strength .

Now, after this less-than-stellar introduction, he actually settled in quite nicely, enjoys school, listens well, etc. He's a good kid. You just have to prove that you are, in fact, the boss of him.

So, last week, she calls to tell me that she's concerned. He's inconsistent, with what he knows. Somedays he can pick his name off the board, others, he can't. Somedays he knows his colors (one of my other son's is colorblind, so this was a concern with Lucien), and other days he doesn't. Then...she says the magic words.

"When I'm working with him, one-on-one, he'll say to me, that he doesn't want to do this anymore."

*TA-DA*

I explained to her that she was going to have to prove to him, that it was in his best interest to work with her, and do his best, because I know for a fact that the little crapper knows ALL of his colors, and can pick his name out of a line-up. He just didn't want to.

She said that she was still concerned about his fine motor skills, so she was going to have the school OT, take a look, and do a quick eval, to see what her thoughts were.

I know the school OT, she works with Aidan, my 8 year old, who is dyslexic.

She met with Lucien today, and then Mrs. Baker called me...Apparently, given the family history (after Aidan's diagnosis, we discovered that virtually all of the men, on my mother's side of the family, are dyslexic, both my uncles, 2 out of 3 great-uncles, etc.), and what she saw today, she has some major concerns, and wants to do a full evaluation. The upshot of the conversation, was when his teacher told me that after informing him, that if he didn't finish up his work, when they're working together, he wasn't allowed to go play at ALL, he suddenly had a whole new skill set, LOL.

However, he's having trouble with directionals.

fuckmotherfuckerfuckshitFIRE.

That is exactly how Aidan first presented. I don't want this for him. I didn't want it for Aidan. Selfishly, I wonder how much more this will take out of me. Aidan is doing really well, thriving, even. His tutoring has helped immensely, he's almost at grade level, and is starting to enjoy reading, even if it is, just a tiny bit.

But, he tutors for an hour and a half, twice a week. Between that, sports for both older boys, how the hell am I going to find time, to have Lucien tutored as well??

I realize, I'm borrowing trouble. Nothing definitive. No way to know. If it even is the case, that's what moms DO. They do what needs to be done, so their children can thrive.

But damn.

I thought, at some point, I'd have enough of my own life, my own time, to finish my degree before 40. Like 40 is all that unreasonable of a goal?

But I don't WANT to be the grown-up! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

You're a doctor, not a detective, dammit!

Oh, how I love all things, Quincy.

He was my first crush, and will always have a place in my heart...

There's just something about the way he calls his long-suffering galpal, Lee, "Honey", so much, that I actually thought that was her name, his wild gestures, his ability to write out prescriptions on bar napkins, how he's ALWAYS right...

*sigh*

Long live, Jack Klugman.

Bring me proof! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

"No pain, no gain"

Were his last words, eyewitnesses on the scene reported.

Apparently, while his wife, walking gamely, if extremely slowly, up the steps, to tuck in their children, after two straight days of kickboxing, he made the tactical mistake of saying, "No pain, no gain!", while shoving a 5 ounce hershey bar, in his perpetually thin, face.

Amazingly, she found not only the strength to move at an alarmingly fast pace, but to choke him to death.

She'll be acquitted.

"and step left, that's right, lift your arms at an unnatural angle to your torso, while kicking forward with the left leg, and sideways with the right! Just two more!"

*BANG* drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

When state delegates have too much time on their hands...

You get crap like THIS:

http://leg1.state.va.us/cgi-bin/legp504.exe?061+sum+HB187

I'm vehemently pro-choice, I make no bones about it. It's *my* body, it's *my* choice, and neither you, your neighbor, or anyone else for that matter, gets a damn say.

But, SERIOUSLY? This is worth the time and money of our elected officials? Delegate Bob is the same manly man, who attempted to pass a law, about a year ago, that would have required, that's right, REQUIRED, women to report miscarriages to their local law enforcement officials, within 12 hours. Under penalties of actual jail time ( http://democracyforvirginia.typepad.com/democracy_for_virginia/2005/01/legislative_sen.html ).

Seriously.

Because the blob in my toilet is any of your fucking BUSINESS?

I've had a miscarriage. It wasn't fun, it wasn't pretty, and it wasn't anyone's business but mine, and my husbands.

P-E-R-I-O-D

But, I digress.

I get it. He's pro-life. However, apparently, all those poor little cells, waiting to find a nice, warm, snuggly uterus to climb into, that there is a movement within the pro-life community to adopt (once again, not teasing: http://www.nightlight.org/snowflakeslanding.asp), are not valuable enough, to go to an unmarried woman.

I'm awed by the hubris.

put THAT in your pipe and smoke it: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Take my word for it. Really.

You need The Donna's new CD.

Seriously.

Worth every penny, and that's not something I say about most CD's which have buttloads (see! Still no "profanities") of filler crap.

Cry and beg for mercy: drreid-blockston@cavtel.net

Now, normally, I'd be the first one to call these a crock...

...of poo (I've been chastised for the prolific use of profanity in my entries, so there's your token). However, this year, I've actually made up a list of so-called "New Year's Resolutions". Now, since I'm inclined to think that most resolutions are just fun things you toss out while toasting on New Year's Eve: "This year, I'm going to lose weight, stop smoking, stop banging my secretary, volunteer at the soup kitchen, go to church every Sunday, AND cure cancer! Another round?"

However, as much as I've bitched, and moaned, and drug my damn feet about turning 30 this year, it's been, dare I say...liberating?

I'm a grown-up now.

a grown-up.

Now, you may read that and say, "But you've been married for over 10 years, have 3 kids, 3 cats, a dog, and a mortgage! How is that not being a grown-up?"

My answer?

Beats me. It just didn't really feel like being a real, live, adult. As opposed to being a dead adult, LOL. Seriously though, I sort of fell into my life, so to speak. Biology dictated (along with some Jim Beam), the creation of my first-born. That huffed the train on down the "yeah, I'll marry you", track, he insisted that we buy a house, even though I didn't think we could afford it, he's the one that busted his ass, and now makes a great living. I...stayed at home, popped out a few more sprats, currently in the process of attempting to raise them to be at least marginally normal adults, started about 4 SAH jobs (all of which I still have, thank you). I've yet to finish college, though I've finally settled on a degree...life just seemed as if it was living me, not the other way around, you catch?

So, in the spirit of a real, live, grown-up, I decided that New Years was as good a time as any, to make some life, resolutions. So, here they are, in all their attainable-if-I-get-my-shit-together, glory.

1-I will work out on a regular basis.

To explain that one, I used to be fat. I mean, FAT. Not like, need a forklift to get out the door fat, but big. I lost about 70 pounds, and I'm a fairly normal weight now, though I'd still love to lose about 20 pounds, but that is not what this resolution is about. I carry my weight in my midsection (however, I feel compelled to add, I have KILLER legs, LOL). My father is a brittle diabetic. I, don't want me, none o'dat. With my genetic history, and the way I carry my weight, I'm more likely to develop it. So, this isn't about looking good in a bathing suit, it's just about being more sensible, and getting more exercise, on a regular basis.

2-I will finally learn how to knit. To that end, I bought myself a little starter kit, and a nice roll ( wait, skein?), of pretty black yarn, and will attempt a scarf. If I ever figure out how to post pictures on here, I'll post the probably, laughable attempt. I tried to start it last night, but got distracted by all the pictures of the models, in their ever-so-lovely matching sweater vests, with big 80's hair, and frosty pink lipstick. My husband, could not see the humor, as I cracked the hell up. My friend Jen, however, like to peed herself when I showed her, LOL. Really, they're great pictures. The poses are lovely. I digress.

3-I will take a class, for real college credit. Even if it's the pathetic, "math for losers who can't help their 5th grade son, with his math homework" class, that is only worth about 1/2 a credit. I also feel compelled to add, that he is in GT math classes.

4-I will write, diligently, at least every other day, and make at least marginal progress on the damn book (and there's no cussing in it! Well, not much, LOL) I've been working on for about...10 years? No, just 9. I think. Even if it's crap, it's progressive crap.

5-I will pin down the damn artist to help me finish the layout of the children's book I wrote (that one, really doesn't have any profanity, of any type. I swear.). The book has been done for 2 years, just been dicking around with picking an artist, layout, etc.

6-I will flay my fingers, at least twice a month, on my guitar, on which, I can play a wicked, "Old McDonald had a Farm", but that's about it.

7-I will find books that Aidan (my 8 year old, who is dyslexic) enjoys to read on his own. His reading is so much damn better, it's not the constant struggle it used to be. He's beginning to discover how great books can be. It is so over-the-top important to me, to impart a love of books to him. I love my husband, but damn if I'm not totally having an affair with the written word.

8-I will figure out a way to make a fondant that doesn't taste like elmer's glue, rolled out on a cake. Seriously, that stuff tastes like shit.

I think that's about it. Oh wait. One more. We're adopting a person at the nursing home that I worked in as a teen. It was a disgusting job, but I met the most fascinating women there! It's small, run by polish nuns (literally, from Poland), the convent is on the grounds. I want the kids to have that same opportunity.

I'm not sure that's really a resolution though.

I really wanted one that said I got to eat more cake, but, I'm thinking that directly counteracts the first one, so I crossed it off the list.

Eat me! drreid-blockston@cavtel.net