Fucking Babies, Man

Right after Egg was born, TB and I discussed having another baby as soon as humanly possible. Because babies are yummy and awesome and we were both high on baby fumes. When we came down a few months later, we realized that although we loved the shit out of Egg, we were fucking tired. Straight on the heels of that realization, we used our legendary math skills to determine a few bumming facts:

• Chicken is 12 years and 3 months older than Egg
• When Chicken is 18 and in his freshman year of college Egg will be in first grade. Or kindergarten. Whatever. It's late and I'm tired.
• It is likely that Chicken will no longer live in our home full time during his college years and he better get the fuck outta dodge after he graduates.
• We are basically raising two only children, or as close as one can get and not actually have two only children. Which is impossible, technically.
• We don't want Egg to grow up without a sibling that is nearish to his age.

This means we need to have another baby. We talked about it and thought that two plus years was a good space between kids, hypothetically. We did not want a fall birthday. This meant that we would want to get pregnant late spring or early summer. Which sounded great on paper, but the two of us were terrified and not ready in the least. And of a month and a half ago, my body wasn't even fertile. See: breastfeeding around the clock and no ovulation.

With my first visit from Aunt Flo, it looked like things could happen in a few months. And my only thought was, "FUCK NO." I'm not ready. TB isn't ready. And then I got an awesome haircut and some good advice that we really needed to hear but were too fucking stupid to figure out on our own: You shouldn't have Baby B to make Baby A happy. Or in my hair stylist's world: "Don't get another puppy as a playmate for the puppy you already own. You might end up resenting the poor thing. Get a puppy because you want one, and for no other reason." How is it that advice from someone that has three different colors in her hair (like blue!) and no children woke us the fuck up?

But it did. I love babies. I love Egg and Chicken. Some day I might want another baby. That day might be too late for my aging reproductive system, but I am okay with that reality. Right now, my husband spends at least four hours driving to and from work every day. He gets up at 3:30am five days a week. I'm still getting up at least twice every night to nurse Egg. Parenting a teenager has its own challenges, and we are both stretched to capacity. So we're waiting until the thought of having another baby sounds wonderful to us. I hope it's not too late, but I know that now is too early. What do you think? What has worked for your family (if you have one)? What about your hypothetical family? I want to know! Does this sound stupid? Why are all three cats staring at me? Damn. It's 11 o' clock. I'm going to bed.

I Miss My Dad

Four years ago my dad died. I'm making his chili for the first time today. It has taken me too long to get to this point, where I can make his chili and it will be more good memories than painful goodbyes. I am finally at the point where I can read his recipe and think, "Dad, 2# Beans unsoaked is NOT sufficient information. What KIND of beans? And who measures water in POUNDS?" *sigh* I miss you, dad.

Links

This page is a partial list of the blogs in my life. The category Mah Peeps is for the people that have been around here the most, the longest, or that I have the most contact with on a regular basis. In The Flesh is for bloggers that are personal friends of mine from beyond the blog world, or people that I have met through blogging. Fertility Minded is for those struggling with fertility issues. Big Girl Undies are the more popular blogs that don't (in my mind) fit into any of the above categories. I have so many more in my Google Reader that need to go into this page. I will continue to update as I have time.

Thanks,

Sam
updated September 3, 2009

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Mah Peeps

• Anne Nahm
• Are You Kidding Me?
• Bad News Blonde
• Creating Motherhood
• Dr. The Blog
• The Evolution of Jeremiah
• Faster Pussycat...Type! Type!
• Gerben says what?
• Gorillabuns
• Hecticmom-Completely Undone
• It's About Making Babies
• I Really Should Be Working
• I Want To Be A Mommy
• Isle Be Here
• Gus Greeper
• Learning To Breathe
• Mater Factit
• Mid Life Mama
• Missed Conceptions
• The New Girl
• Osbasso
• Problem Girl
• Random Musings of My Life
• The Redneck Diva
• The Road Less Traveled
• Sheen V's Place
• Shooting-A-Bird
• Soul Bliss
• Southern Domestic Goddess
• Supah Mama
• Swistle
• TMImagery
• The Torn Pages
• Veritably Bare
• What Is Better Than This

In The Flesh

• Anna Land
• Blogus Ignoramus
• Dating Dummy
• Regular Ramblings
• Such is Life
• They Belong To Us

Fertility Minded

• After Words
• A Little Pregnant
• Barren Mare
• Doctor Mama
• Flotsam
• Here Be Hippogriffs
• It's Not A Clown Car
• Mission: Impossible
• The Modernity Ward
• Sarah Solitaire
• So Close
• Stirrup Queens and Sperm Palace Jesters

Big Girl Undies

• All & Sundry
• amalah
• Ask Moxie
• The Bloggess
• Boobs, Injuries and Dr. Pepper
• Dooce
• Her Bad Mother
• Motherhood Uncensored
• Not That You Asked
• Post Secret

Cathi
I dedicate this page to Cathi from Canada. Although she doesn't have a blog, and I have never met her, she will always be one of "Mah Peeps". You're the best, Cathi!

Friends Don't Leave Friends Hanging In The Middle Of a Birth Story

Except I'm not a friend. Or am I? In between the birthday party last Thursday that I helped my real-life friend throw for her 1 year old, driving to central California on Friday to visit family and Saturday's meet-up with a bloggy friend I had some time to think. Oh, and another bloggy friend was supposed to be there, but got sick. Of course, at this point, all friends mentioned thus far included myself are sick. That fucking sucks. Maybe the intarwebs are getting us sick?

Back to the thinking. What makes someone a friend? My friend from Thursday lives about an hour away from me, and yet she just met Egg for the first time. I've only met her son twice and he is a year old. But, we talk online regularly and have known each other for almost ten years. We met the old-fashioned way, through spouses and work. Are we friends just because some of that time has been in person or because we knew each other before we had blogs?

My friend from Saturday I've never met before but we have talked online, on the phone (a little bit, I hate the fucking phone), and exchanged gifts over the years of our friendship. I know what is going on in her life more than most of my "real" friends. When does a person go from being "a friend inside the computer" to just a friend? When we have their phone number? When they know our names? When we meet them face to face and assure ourselves that they are not a twelve year old boy? What do you think? I'd like to know...

Wait A Fucking Minute

This post has been rattling around my mostly empty brain for months and I just cannot let it disturb my beauty sleep for one more fucking night. My GAWD I just keep thinking and thinking when it isn't even the most interesting or important topic to anyone. Fuck. Then I figure that I am about to irritate all 2.7 of my readers with this crap so I don't write it. Then I go to bed and think about it some more. Therefore, I fucking give up. I am writing this shit and getting it over with right the fuck now.

May I introduce: My Weight, The Slightly Shorter Version But Still Entirely Too Damn Long

I started out my pregnancy with Egg at 135 pounds. By four weeks along, also known as when I missed my period, I weighed 140 pounds. This is REALLY BIG for me, in case you were wondering. I'm 5'4" when I stand up really tall and I am small boned. By 8 weeks into my pregnancy I was back at 135 pounds. At 37 weeks (or so) I was at 147 pounds. I got sick and dropped back down to 145 pounds. The day I went into labor I weighed 145 pounds. (Yes, there is a labor and delivery story in my head bugging me, too. You'll get it. Just be patient.)

So! 145 pound Sam delivers a 7 pound 7 ounce baby plus whatever else comes out of my cooterus during my hospital stay. I come home about 30 hours after delivering Egg and smugly step on the scale because I AM A FUCKING IDIOT. Also? Who lets a one day postpartum woman step on a fucking scale? Stupid fucking idiots, that's who. Wanna guess how much I weighed? Exactly the same. THE SAME. I pushed a 7lb 7oz baby out of my fucking hoo haw and probably a placenta or twelve and I FUCKING WEIGHED THE SAME. What. The. Fuckity. Fuck?! It boggles the tiny little mind I posess to this day.

Now, I understand that medication blah blah IV blah blah bloating etc. but really? The same weight? Not a pound less or more. The same. It kills me. Then I started producing milk like some dairy cow all hopped up on hormones, Egg drinks like a champ and within two weeks I was at 128lbs. The breastfeeding hunger consumed me and my attitude about food changed completely. You see, by the end of my pregnancy I hated food. I looked at fat people and thought, "How the fuck did you get so damn fat? Food is nasty shit and you ate so much you got fat." After two weeks of not being pregnant this attitude had changed and I was starting to wonder how any of us don't weight 650lbs because fuck me food is good shit.

My total hatred of chocolate disappeared within hours of giving birth. I had TB raiding the snack machines at the hospital because I couldn't wait for my first breakfast after popping out Egg at 6am. I was so damn hungry. Today, at five months and change post partum, I'm hanging out at 131 pounds. Still more than I should weigh for my build, but I have massive titties and a baby to feed. I'm still hungry, but it isn't an all-consuming need at this point. Egg now weighs about 17 pounds and as long as he continues to nurse I could give a shit about what I weigh. I'll worry about that when Egg is weaned and I'm not trying to provide calories for two people.

The End

P.S. You do realize the titties from the sunburned post are only that big because I'm nursing Egg, right?

Pssssst!

It's my birthday! I'm 35 today, or as Chicken likes to say, "Advanced Maternal Age." He's an asshole sometimes. I've taught him well.

Baby Magic Tender Love

When I was a cute little girl I modeled a bit. This weekend I went through some boxes with old dolls in them and found this treat from 1978:

Side panels

Front of the box

Back of the box-what I look like as a cartoon!

I'm guessing that sunblock wasn't cool in the 70's, because I only get that color after MUCH time in the sun. Go Mom! Tan the shit out of your four-year old if it brings in the bank, huh?

Vote No on Proposition 8

Today I am six months pregnant. Do you know what is more important than that? Voting NO on proposition 8 if you live in California. Because everyone deserves to get married. If you can't vote, give.

Image from Looky Daddy.

Going To Hell Any Minute Now

I joined Facebook. I'm pretty sure I said I would never join even if my very soul depended upon it. Fuuuuuck I'm doomed. Now I have a problem...if I invite the blog world to be my Facebook friend that means that the tiny shred of anonymity I have cultivated here is gone. I'd also hate for one or two real life people to find me on Facebook and then end up at my blog. How do I go about doing this Oh Great Readers of Mine? I need assvice please n thank you.

House Hunting Tips 101-599

1. Bring a pregnant woman with you when viewing a house that is not brand new. She will be able to smell piss (human, cat, and dog varieties) in the carpet from a mile away. This goes for dog smell, too.

2. If you are the seller, make sure your overweight elderly neighbor doesn't sit on his front porch half naked and stare at prospective buyers with his cranky old wife at his side.

3. If you are the seller, make sure your twenty-something neighbor doesn't spend the whole time a prospective buyer is at the home riding his tiny dirt bike in front of the house, doing wheelies and general douchebaggery without a helmet.

4. If you are house hunting in a foreclosure market, be prepared for some crazy ass shit. For example:

A) Viewing a house that is lacking any appliances, door knobs, light switches, A/C controls, ceiling fans, doorbells, mirrors, etc. They fucking took the door knobs. In every door. Who the fuck takes the door knobs?

B) Viewing a house that has a doggie door cut into a closet through the wall to the outside under a shelf in a corner. I wish I had a camera for that one.

C) Viewing a house that "needs some paint" when a demolition crew is more applicable.

D) Walking out of a house and wondering if the neighbors knew how fucked up the previous homeowners were.

We've seen a lot of random shit this week. The housing market has tanked and many people bought houses beyond their means on shaky mortgages. This means a shit-ton of foreclosures, low prices, and a lot of sifting through the debris for a golden ticket. The "cash for keys" options has resulted in some of the houses being left in good condition. This is where the homeowners are offered a perk in order to leave the house peacefully and in good order. It is hard for me to understand the fucking disaster some of these homeowners left behind, showing long term neglect and just plain nasty living.

I noticed something while viewing houses. A few houses were in decent condition and yet gave me such a bad feeling that I could not possibly live in them. Chicken described it as a claustrophobic feeling, he said the houses seemed to close in on him. One was bad enough that even Teddy Bear left the house feeling unsettled. It makes me wonder what happened in these houses to leave such an imprint. On the other hand one house felt like home, while another one felt completely neutral. It was strange.

Have you ever been in a place where you felt like something bad wrong went down? Or like there was something hanging out there that you couldn't see? I've been in a few places like that, but this week was the most strong I've felt in a long time. Maybe it is the hormones, or maybe the houses were especially fucked up because the foreclosure tore the family apart. I don't know. It gives me the creeps.

Some Serious Shit

Some of my dear readers have wondered what the fuck is wrong with my ass. Although I have posted all about killing bathrooms hither and yon, I don't believe I have explained the issue satisfactorily. I have battled poop for longer than I can remember. When I was six months old I attempted to take a poop and wound up with twin scars from a double hernia. The post that explains the situation in a little more detail (with pictures!) is here. No, my belly does not look like that anymore, and hasn't for a few years. That is what I looked like at 115-120 lbs.

I believe I suffer from Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). I spoke with my doctor about it at one point maybe six or seven years ago and he slapped the diagnosis on me along with a hearty, "Sorry, can't do anything for you." At the time, there were medications for IBS sufferers on either end of the spectrum, the chronic constipation and the chronic diarrhea. In my case they had nothing. What was wrong with my bowels, you ask? I get constipated until at some point my body says, "Fuck this shit!" and I have massive diarrhea. Occasionally the cramps that accompany the diarrhea are so bad that I start throwing up, likely a combination of pain and my body being so fed up with the pollution that any usable exit is utilized.

My symptons have been mostly under control for the past five years with my gluten-free diet. The magnesium that I have been taking has combatted the effects of medication that make a normal person constipated and I have been fairly happy with my ass. I expected that going off all the medication and getting pregnant would mean a reduction in the amount of magnesium needed and happier bowels all around. Nope. I had conveniently forgotten that the most horrific bowel issues in my life (excepting the double hernia incident) have been while pregnant.

The cycle length of "no poop- OMG poop!" has been helped by the magnesium, however I am still struggling. At this point it looks like the cycle is lasting about a week. Just about the time where I am thinking, "I haven't been shitting enough lately" I am starting to notice an unpleasant feeling in my bowels and then running to the bathroom for an extended visit. I am afraid of taking too much magnesium and spending every day in the bathroom, so at this point it is a trial and error clusterfuck of guesswork.

Why am I writing about my ass in lurid detail? Two reasons:

1. Someone might read this and say, "Hey! That sounds like my ass! Maybe I shall seek help/eliminate an allergen from my diet/cry a little for our twin bowel issues."

2. Someone might read this and say. "Hey! That sounds like XYZ and I have THE CURE. You should do ABC and you will have a happy ass forevermore."

Because, at the end of the day, no one wants their life to be ruled by an asshole.

Full of It

Apparently my body thinks that 1/2 hour after I eat lunch is the perfect time for emergency evacuation. While I have heard that a healthy system will need to eliminate within an hour of eating, my body normally does not work that way. One would think, "YAY POOP!!" because pooping is one of my favorite things, but in certain situations pooping is a little...less than optimal. Yesterday I was in the scrapbook section of Walmart clutching my $10 gift card in my greedy little hands when the need struck. Luckily, there was a bathroom super close and although I fucking killed it there was a plentitude of stench that preceeded my visit.

Today, I was at a small, local scrapbook store. Do you see a trend here? *shut up Anna and let me scrapbook* I was happy, full of food, looking for this and that when OMG my tummy rumbled. Now, let me set the stage. I am in a small store. There is one bathroom and one employee and NO ONE ELSE in the store. I have to take a monster shit and it is not going to be pretty. I am too far from home and I have a basket with scrappy stuff in it. I head to the bathroom.

The first visit wasn't too bad. The second one was a little more intense but doable. The third visit to the poor, tired bathroom was a little frightening and involved three or four flushes. You know the toilets that are really full of water and the water rises a bit as it is flushes? They are super scary when you've just deposited the equivalant of a medium-sized goat after it is has been through a blender on liquify. This is when praying types start muttering pleas of mercy to their god(s). Luckily everything ended up where it was supposed to and I made it through without incident.

The moral of this story? Be prepared to shit my brains out after lunch and plan accordingly.

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I am watching a Project Runway rerun and they are making dresses with flowers and plants. One of the contestants said, "I've got a pile of green and the only thing I want to do with it right now is smoke it." You go girl.

I Gots Me A Hairscut

Have you ever thought to yourself, "Self, I wonder what Sam looks like when Teddy Bear is taking a picture of her and he is in his boxers and his package flops out?" Now you know. You are quite welcome! By the way, I got my hair cut today. It hasn't been this short in more than a decade. I haven't felt this cute in FOREVER. Hey-look at me! I feel cute!! Also? I seem to be in possession of a RACK. At least what qualifies as a rack in my world. I was thinking that going much shorter with my hair would give me an air of maturity. Mail's bride called me a pixie. FAIL. However, I look so damn cute that I don't care. Just call me the Queen of Modesty. You don't have to curtsy. Unless you really want to and it gives me a better view of your rack.

Calling It Quits

On June 5, 2005 I quit smoking cigarettes and I am still clean three years later, bitches!

Damn Meme

Longtime readers know how I feel about memes. However, Thanksgiving Mom gets a free pass because I think she's cool. And, she is sending me a book. Yay book! I refuse to tag anyone, however if you decide to take on this meme-leave a comment and I promise to read your meme AND leave you a fascinating comment on your blog. Make sure you tell me which category of bloggy person you fall under (read the directions at the bottom for clarification) I will not throw feces at you, metaphorically or literally when I visit your blog. Unless you appear to be in dire need of some fresh fecal matter. Then I'll take one for the time. Oh! I also deleted a few questions because it's my blog and I'm a narcissist.

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Favorite person (outside family): Dude. Don't even tell me that he's not a person. He's a fucking person, he just has a short stature and body hair issues.

Favorite food: How about funnel cake? I can't eat it but OMFG good funnel cake is WAY better than mediocre sex.

Quirks about you: Hmmm...I am fairly sure that I am one big Quirk, but for the sake of brevity I hate it when dish soap builds up around the cap of the dish soap bottle.

How would the person who loves you most describe you in ten words or less? I am going to make Teddy Bear answer this in the comments.

Any regrets in life? I regret giving up my son for adoption.

Favorite Charity/Cause: I have issues with charities, which are succinctly illustrated by the handy dandy Lowest-Ranked Charities graph I uploaded for your viewing convenience. I would rather do good deeds on a smaller scale than contribute to a charity that may or may not be helping people.

Something you cannot get enough of? Thai tea snow bubbles with boba from Tapioca Express.

Worst job you have ever had? I worked at a rotisserie chicken place where the manager and an employee made fun of my not super huge rack. They would compare it to pre-teen girls that would come into the restaurant. I fucking hated it.

What job would you pay NOT to have? Anything involving sales.

Guilty Pleasure: Caffeine-free Coke. YUM.

Got any confessions? I was over H3.2 long before I left him.

If you HAD to spend $1,000 on YOURSELF, how would you spend it? At Nordstrom on clothes. Duh!

Favorite thing about your house? That it is a house, more specifically a single family home that I live in with my family. I am grateful to have it.

Least favorite thing about your house? That we will need to move to have enough room for a new family member.

One thing you are good at? I give an awesome blow job.

If you could change something about your circumstances, what? I wish I didn't have fibromyalgia.

Who would you like to meet someday? My bloggy friends that I have not met. (I stole this one from Thanksgiving Mom) Oh, and Clint Eastwood a few decades ago. RAWR!

What makes you feel sexy? Dressing up from head to toe and having TB give me that look.

Who is your real life hero? My husband. The way that he takes care of me is amazing. I don't mean financially (although he does that, too) but he fills in all the gaps caused by my fibromyalgia plus a few more.

What is the hardest part of your job? Not being physically capable of having a full-time job means the paychecks suck ass.

When are you most relaxed? In bed with my half of the electric blanket on high, a book or my laptop and a cold drink (water, soy milk, soda) beside me.

What stresses you out? Um...stress? Shit...my bowels stress me out. The OMG I have to: take a horrible shit, fart while getting a massage in a small room, etc. Which I suppose is linked closely to the whole stupid not eating wheat issue, because if my diet is PERFECT my tummy is happier and my ass smells better. Today I realized that if I am a bad person in this life and reincarnation exists I will come back as a Pomeranian with intestinal issues. I cannot imagine having that much ass hair and being that close to the ground.

What can you not live without? Burt's Bees lip balm. I typically have three or more tubes at any given time because cracked, bloody lips are gross. Also, my Dude. I'm not going to talk about humans because like many other normal human beings I am really fond of my family. But Dude? He's the most awesome cat in the history of cats. Ask Gus, she'll back me up on this.

Do you agree or disagree with the recent article that reported that blogs are authored by narcissists? Well that is just stupid. I agree that people that write articles attempting to pigeonhole a diverse group of people are assholes.

Why do you blog? In the beginning, I had quit smoking, my Chicken was at his father's for the summer and I needed something to fill the gap. Now? Writing is therapeutic for me and I enjoy the social aspect. Since I am physically broken I don't get to do things like hiking and skiing and whatever active people do. Blogging is my hobby, my link to the world when I hurt too much to participate and my creative outlet.


Rules:
1. Answer the questions
2. Link back to whoever tagged you
3. Tag eight bloggers to do the same, 2 from each category:
a. New/newer bloggers
b. Bloggy friends
c. Bloggers you would like to get to know better
d. Bloggers you don not think will respond, but you hope will.

My Obsession

For a long time I have been a wee bit involved with reading infertility (IF) blogs. My dear husband doesn't understand or approve, but I have my reasons. I think that he viewed it as a way to worry about what could happen when we started trying, but that wasn't it at all. I have lusted for another baby since before Chicken was out of diapers. My baby lust has resulted in a few random things, one of which is the Dude. Chicken was 6 years old and OMFG I wanted a baby and it just wasn't in the cards. So I adopted a cat. Luckily, Dude has allowed me to treat him like my baby, up to and including dressing him up on occasion. Dude is very patient and spends much of him time sleeping on me, sometimes on my head. I love it and it helps take the baby crazies away a little.

Back to IF blogs-reading about women trying to have babies soothed me, because at least they were TRYING. When they succeeded I could silently applaud and when they failed I cried with them. I was vicariously trying to conceive (TTC) through these blogs, and a small bit of me could understand the pain.

My latest obsession has been reading about the adoption triad. For those of you not up on the latest lingo, the triad includes the Adoptive parents, the Birth (or First) parents and the child. I have only posted about my adoption story once, but I am mentally working on the issue. My feelings have changed greatly in the last few years as I have gotten to a place in my life where I can open up the past and poke at it a bit. It is painful, gut-wrenching, and devastating but I am trying to get to the point where I can blog about it.

This is all a long-winded way to explain what has been going on in my head lately, as well as the changes to my sidebar. I've added and moved and deleted links, plus introduced new categories. I am going to continue to fiddle around with my template, and I have a new request from My Brand of Crazy for a purdy blog so my creative juices are a flowing. If I have fucked up your blog link/deleted you/did something else stupid like forgotten you entirely leave me a comment or something.

Annnnnnd... I am thinking about going to the dark(er) side and signing up with Twitter-but for a good cause. You know how I fuss occasionally about replying to comments and such? What if I use Twitter exclusively as a means to reply to you and your comments?

The Evils of Television

How to tell when you are a wee bit fucked up:

You are watching How I Met Your Mother and think to yourself "I totally need to crimp my hair."

It's My Birthday

Brain Is Done

I was wading through the Innernets last night when I clicked on a link unintentionally. Immediately I hit "Ctrl Z" in a futile attempt to undo my click. Duh!

Chicken caught me eating a Hershey's chocolate bar yesterday morning before school. He looked at the chocolate, at me guiltily shoving it in my mouth and said, "PMSing, huh?" Fucking kid always has to be right. Asshole.

For those of you wondering what my semester schedule looks like (please just humor me on this one, okay?) here it is in all its glory:

Weeks 1-8
Four days per week in college classroom (part of the day spent tutoring 4th graders)
One day per week in a second-grade class doing Observation and Participation (otherwise known as O&P)

Weeks 9-16
Five days a week in the same second-grade classroom doing Beginning Student Teaching.

Yes, you got that right. A full semester of graduate-level courses in eight weeks. At least I have two weeks off for Spring Break between weeks 9 and 10, and then the WHOLE SUMMER OFF before doing it all over again. The only difference is that the Beginning Student Teaching is replaced by Advanced Student Teaching. And then, sometime in December of 2008 I will be done. Until I get another hare-brained idea and go back to school again.

Hanker For A Hunk

If you have no fucking clue where this public service announcement (PSA) came from, you're either too young (like Teddy Bear) or too old (like Anna? *pokes the bear*). I found this on There's Weenie Juice on my Cookie today and I couldn't resist sharing.

Worst Example

How not to teach your child good study habits:

• Worry about passing the CSET for my teaching credential
• Pay $210 ($70 per subtest)
• Procrastinate studying
• Bitch, moan and whine about studying
• Do very little studying
• Seriously consider not showing up for the exam to prevent the emotional distress caused by five hours of failing miserably
• Take it and hope for the best
• Pass all three tests because I fucking ROCK and not because it is a model of appropriate behavior
  

You Totally Suck

Dear Innernets,

Today I started watching the show Weeds with my dear Teddy Bear who procured seasons one and two for me. I would just like to say Fuck you! innernets for not telling me about this show. If you were my friend, you would have said, "Sam, there is this show that you would undoubtedly love. It is called Weeds. You can see it on Showtime." I would have graciously thanked you and went off on my merry way to watch a splendidly, dirty, funny-assed show and been happy. But no, you didn't even once think of me as you watched with gleeful tears in your eyes. You suck.

Love,

Sam

I Defined Myself

Warning: This post comes from the mind of someone that should be sound asleep. Therefore, any insanity (real or imagined) perceived during the reading of this post should be ignored completely. Also, all bets are off when it comes to spelling, language use, grammar, and whatever else I fuck up.

Also-someone asked if I let Chicken read my blog, especially when I am talking about my dead boyfriend. Or something like that? Yes and No. It is not accessible from his computer, so if I want to share a post with him I do. I do not share things like dead boyfriends with him at this point, because he is 11. I share things from my life when I feel they are relevant in his world. He thinks Kurt Cobain died from a drug overdose. I'll not correct him, and he'll eventually learn otherwise. To sum it up, I protect my child from the very things that my mother FAILED to protect me from over and over again.

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For many, many years I defined myself by the tragedies that I had endured. It was a checklist that I went over in my head, sometimes noting that I had not suffered a house fire. But abuse at the hands of my mother? Check. Abuse at the hands of her boyfriends? Check. Run-in with random douchebag child molester? Check. Rape(s)? Check. Alcoholics in the house? Check. Drug addicts living in the house? Check. Divorced parents-the least of my worries? Check. Distant father for most of my life? Check. Emotionally devoid mother? Check. Emotionally battered by my peers? Check. Dead boyfriend? Check. Unintended pregnancy? Check. Almost everyone deserts me because pregnant chicks are not hot? Check. Bad marriages? Check. Bad divorces? Check. Out of control drug habit? Check. Reckless consumption of everything to drown out the pain? Check.

I could go on, but I'd likely just bore you all. The point is that I felt that I was these tragedies. They defined me. It was like I was at the bottom of a well that was built brick-by-brick with my sorrowful life. One could not get to me without first having to pass by all the pain and the damage it did to my psyche. Recently, while having dinner with my real life friend LD2, she mentioned that she did not know that I had given a child up for adoption until she read it on the blog. At first I was embarrassed, because I have known her for years. But then later I thought about it more deeply. And realized that I had grown.

Now, it is as if there are small buildings that carry my memories of the bad times. They are within reach, but unless I call upon them they are silent and invisible. They are rooted to the solid ground of my being, but they do not define me. They are a small part of who I am today, what makes me "Sam." I may be quirky and anti-social, foul-mouthed and verbose, but I am not what happened to me anymore. And that feels so good.

I believe the therapy that I have recently begun has awakened that knowledge within me. I believe that the act of sitting down once a week and thinking and talking only about me, and what is inside of me had lead me to continue to probe when I am not on the couch. This is the benefit of therapy for me. It makes me stop and look at myself. And I am proud of what I see.

I Spy With My Little Eye...

A Half-Nekkid Thursday post! So what color are my eyes? Teddy Bear's are soft brown, Chicken's are very blue, and mine are...

For more Half-Nekkidness, visit Osbasso, the King of Nekkid!

Andre Part II

I'm very tired, so this post may need some revision in the morning.

---

The paramedics worked on Andre and took him away. He was life-flighted to the nearest hospital and was pronounced during the flight. I knew that he was dead, I had no hopes of visiting him in the hospital. He was gone.

The cops arrived at some point and took over the scene. This included questioning of the witnesses. Still drunk, I was sat in the back of the police car for an endless barrage of questioning. At one point, sick with grief and horror I lost my collective shit. I yelled "Okay fine! You want to hear what happened? I did it. I fired the gun from the couch, it bounced off the sliding glass window, bounced off the file cabinet, bounced off the refrigerator and then went into Andre's head. That's how it happened. Are you happy now? You know, I never understood why people hated cops. And now I know." The interview was over.

I went to a friend's house and stayed for a few days, unable to come home to the scene of the crime, so to speak. When my father finally told me that I had to come home, I dreaded being in that house, in that kitchen. Here is where I have to add a little "Sam's Backstory" for you...

My beloved father was an alcoholic for most of his life. He was the type that drank a pot of coffee in the morning, and when it was done he opened his first beer of the day. He continued to drink until he went to bed. I saw him drunk once during the time I lived with him. He was the most mellow man I have ever known, and probably drank due to undiagnosed anxiety. (Which was later diagnosed and treated.) This does not excuse his behavior, but does explain it. My father was fairly dead, emotionally while he was drinking. When he later stopped drinking, he started to show "appropriate" emotional responses for most things. In the death of Andre, his attitude and responses were crap. /backstory

I came back home to another horror, only this time I was sober. The kitchen had be mostly cleaned while I was gone, but there was considerable work still to be done. The notes left by the police officers were still on the file cabinet and I will never forget the one that was noted "brain matter" with a number. The others were mostly "blood splatter" and the like. There were small spots of blood on the cabinets, along the baseboards, in the cracks of the floor... it looked fine from a distance, but it needed a good scrubbing. And because my dad viewed me as the cause of the mess because I brought Andre in our home, it was my job to clean up the kitchen.

Did you know that the littlest spots of dried blood take a very long time to clean up? I used a bucket of clean water and a sponge, and cleaned that kitchen for an eternity. Every spot on the floor turned into a pink puddle when I applied water. I hated my father that day, for making me relive the horror spot after bloody spot. I had nightmares for years after, where the original pools of blood would reappear again and again. It is difficult to convey what broke inside me that day, scrubbing up the last splatters of blood that once was a part of Andre. I see the notes that the cops left, the red water on the floor, all the horror is still there after 18 years.

To Be Continued...

Pause

Well, Teddy Bear and I are alone on a rainy Sunday afternoon and we decide to watch a movie together. TB has recently procured a few films and we started to watch Iwo Jima. I am a huge Clint Eastwood fan, TB got the movie specifically for me, and I was excited to watch the film. About an hour into the film I started to feel a little...bad. You see, normally I can deal with graphic violence on television but lately I have been processing a little bit of FUN! and GAMES! from my past. (See post below or just take my word for it.) Letters from Iwo Jima was not the best pick for me, personally. I got to the point where the Japanese soldiers begin to blow themselves to shit with hand grenades to give "glory to the Emperor" and I had to call a stop to the entertainment. TB put in the next movie, which I wisely pulled up on Imdb and looked up the parental guide information. I'm not in the mood for blood and gore today, and I'd like to give an old-fashioned "shout out" to Imdb for saving me some grief.

Teddy Bear's next four picks were on the Top 10 list of blah blah and he thought we would enjoy them. Let's see what they were, shall we? I have included part of the violence description from Imdb and links to the parental guides.

3:10 To Yuma: A wounded man is covered in blood, and a doctor inserts a pliers-like instrument into the patient's chest and brings out a bullet while the patient groans (blood spills down the patient's shirtfront and the scene ends).

Eastern Promises: Infrequent, but incredibly graphic violence. During the fight, he puts a curved dagger behind and mans head and slams his head back against it, the man screams and convolts as the dagger enters his brain. Another man is stabbed in the chest, but he is still alive and the nude man has to finish him off by stabbing him in the eye (a pool of blood quickly forms under his head.) In the film's first five minutes a mobster has his throat sawed through with a razor. Two men cut the throat of a young man while he is urinating, you cannot see what happened until the man removes his scarf, revealing a large gash and blood pours out like a fountain.

The Kingdom: The film opens with a suicide bombing of innocent civilians. There is frequent, often graphic scenes of violence throughout the film. There is brutal beatings(a man getting dragged around and punched repeatedly, marks of blood are seen on his face and neck later and a man is seen getting tortured early in the film.), plus people being shot in several different ways(head, chest, stomach, etc.).

Atonement: There are a scenes containing images of war victims and wounds, some soldiers have eyes missing, some are missing arms or legs, and there is a man with a visible hole in his head, showing the damaged flesh and matted blood.

That last sentence left me in almost tears with the WTF?! factor. TB and I were laughing our asses off because at the end of the day, what else can you do? I will finish up my Bank of America and Andre posts soon and hopefully get both of the topics out of my brain.

Andre Part I

For the past few weeks I have been seeing a shrink, the kind that you talk to about your feelings as opposed to the kind that writes in illegible print on a teeny tiny pad of paper that you clasp to your heart and then RUN LIKE FUCKING HELL to the pharmacy before it melts in your hands. Because at the end of the day, pharmaceuticals pretty much make my life almost worth living. Add in a kid and a husband and BLOODY HELL I must go on with this worthless farce of a fucking life.

Please note that I am blogging while, let's face it, heavily medicated right now, with the kinds of medication that allow me to both sleep and blog and then forget about the blogging until the morning when I read my latest entry and think to my self "Self, what the FUCK were you thinking last night? Some of those sentences end in prepositions and I believe three of those words aren't even English at all. And did you really tell the Innernets all that? Really? Wow. You must have been storing that shit up. Best make a new category for that one." Like "Your shit is irrevocably FUCKED UP" or, as the shrink said today "Your mother has: no empathy, no mothering skills, is an empty hole and THANK BABY JESUS and his father that she had her uterus removed six months after giving birth to you." Maybe I"ll just label it "My Childhood" no, that's too bland. Too vanilla. How about "Some Fucked Up Shit"? Yes, that sounds grand. I will it to be done.

Are you ready for the post? Wait-first you must know that my shrink is an older lady. One that has lived through stage five gillion lung cancer and is still listening to people complain about shitty childhoods. She takes notes while listening to me whine about stupid shit on big yellow legal pads. It's fun. You should try it! Oh, the story...FINE. I'll tell the fucking story. I've been holding out on you. I'm a bitch that way. Note: If you are not in the mood to read something that is sad/tragic/holy fuck, I would move on to Cute Overload! :). Seriously. This is some bad shit, even for Sam's Stories Standards.

---

I began dating Andre on the eighth day of August in 1988. I was 14, he was 17. He was fairly messed up boy, his father enjoyed drinking and then whipping Andre with a belt and he had scars across half of his back. His mother just cowered in a corner and drank quietly. I tried to help Andre, to fix his hurts and get him on a better track in his life. I tried to take care of him, to love him and make everything okay. In return he loved me and abused me, helped me and tormented me. It was the only way he knew to love. As a child I had seen much worse in the relationships between my mother and her various men, although it was a miserable way to live I didn't know any better.

Six months into our relationship my mother shipped me off to live with my father, a man a barely knew that lived 1 1/2 hours away. My relationship with Andre stumbled and continued, he got a motorcycle and came to visit often. Our relationship was off and on, and during one of the "off" times he raped me. Afterward, in the shower I wanted to scrap out my insides. I felt so disgusting and vile. I hated my body. Andre explained to me, "But you were so beautiful I couldn't help myself." I laughed bitterly. It wasn't the first time it had happened to me, but it was the first time Andre had done it.

Another time we were staying the night at his friend's house in a sketchy park of Oceanside. I don't remember if we were on or off at the time, but I did remember not wanting to have sex with him. He bought some liquor and proceeded to push me to get really drunk. I still didn't want to have sex with him. He picked me up and put me in a corner and every time I dozed off he held my head up by grabbing me under the chin. If he couldn't get laid, then I wasn't going to get to sleep. At one point he picked me up and put me outside the house (in the middle of the night in a bad neighborhood in my nightgown) and locked the door. Eventually he let me back into the house. I laid down and tried to go to sleep, but every time I feel asleep he started touching me sexually. I ended up being awake all night. It was (at the time) the longest night of my life. He terrorized me. A lot of the summer of 1989 is a blur to me.

Andre's life began to spin out of control during that summer. He stole a truck, attempted to use the credit cards he found in it and was arrested. They released him on his own recognizance until his next court date. At that time he was likely going to jail. He decided to come visit me for a week before his court date, his last "hurrah" before serving his sentence. He stayed with a male friend of mine as my father wouldn't let him crash at my house, but the three of us partied and hung out for a week. Teri was in his mid twenties, Andre was 18 now and I was 15. We drank and drank and drank some more, cruised about town and partied with the locals. It was fun. My one year anniversary with Andre was during this time, and although we were not dating we were somewhat together, just not sexually.

On the day after our "anniversary" (8-9-89), Andre urged Teri and I to play quarters with him. I had never played, therefore I sucked ass. Therefore I got WASTED. Teri was a pro, so he was sober. I only know this because Teri stated at the beginning of the game that he would not be drinking anything due to his rock star skills with quarters. I have no idea how sober/trashed Andre was at the end of our quarters game. All I know is that I walked out of the kitchen, laid down on my dad's couch and planned to PTFO (pass the fuck out). Teri sat beside me on the couch, and the room spun a bit.

The next thing I remember was hearing Teri say something like "Oh shit he's got a gun" and then a REALLY loud noise that sounded suspiciously like a gunshot in close quarters. I had spent enough time out shooting with my father that when the acrid smell of gunpowder hit my nose I knew someone had fired one of my father's guns. He kept many in the house, and several loaded as we lived in a very rural area. I jumped up and found Andre lying on my kitchen floor. Terri scrambled to call 9-1-1. I heard this terrible screaming and then I realized it was me. Andre had shot himself in the right temple with a .357 Magnum revolver loaded with hollow points. (If you know what hollow points are designed to do, I don't need to tell you much more. If you don't know, I'll not describe it here.) The blood coming out of his head reminded me of a garden house turned on full blast, while a trickle of blood was coming out of the other side of his head. I looked into his eyes, the beautiful brown eyes that I had loved and hated and I knew he was gone. His eyes were empty, he was dead.

To Be Continued...

New Year's Resolutions

I'm not the type to make resolutions and keep them, so generally I don't even bother with them. Of course, you will probably look back at my archives and find year after year of hopeful resolutions because I am a total ass and I have little to no memory. Let's not think about that, okay? Forgotten! Whee!

1. Get good and knocked up. Preferably by Teddy Bear.
2. Finish my Teaching Credential program (totally doable if my body cooperates, the program starts this month and ends mid December 2008)
3. Improve the quality and quantity of my sex life. Preferably with Teddy Bear. I am not complaining as much as recognizing that my FMS impacts my sex life in a very bad way.
4. Find some way of taming the shrew that is my FMS. Behind the scenes I have been stealthily investigating some alternative medicine that I will soon (maybe?) be discussing here.
5. Blog about the fifteen million things that are in my head that I need to get OUT, OUT OUT!! Including my infamous trip to Doolittleville, USA.
6. Lame mommy alert!! Finish journaling older scrapbooks.

That is all I have for now, I might update as I think of more things. I think I'll keep this post on top for a while just to nudge me in the right direction. Have any suggestions for additional resolutions? What are you resolving to do or not do this year?

Fuck YEAH!

Guess who got admitted to California State University, San Marcos' Multiple Subject Teaching Credential Program starting January 2008?

Totally Freaked Out

My husband wants to vote for Ron Paul and this freaks the shit out of me. I am not a political animal, and this is not a political blog. But I cannot sit still and not lose my shit when my husband is willing to support a candidate that is staunchly pro-life. Even if everything else about Ron Paul is fucking rainbows and unicorns, I cannot back someone that would happily take my freedom to choose away from me. In a 2001 writing, Ron Paul states, "As a pro-life obstetrician-gynecologist, I am steadfastly opposed to abortion." (Source) I love babies. I love babies even when they are little bitty bits of fluff with nicknames like "blasty" because eventually they will turn into full-fledged human beings. But sometimes people find themselves in fucked situations and we NEED to have the ability to choose whether or not to continue a pregnancy. I have posted on this topic before, and my feelings and background have not changed. Yes, I got unexpectedly pregnant with my first child before I was 21. Yes, I could have had an abortion but I CHOSE not to have one. Yes, giving up my son for adoption sucked more than anything before or since that day. But I had a choice and I want to always have that choice. I cannot and will not vote for someone that would take that from me. Nope. Not ever.
/rant

Too Hip To Be Square

Does the title make me old? I feel young today, not because I am carefree and flitting about like a happy fairy high on fairy dust but because I am looking at how long I will likely live in pain. I went to the chiropractor today, as I do every week, to get a massage and adjustment. Without the 1/2 hour massage I am so stiff that adjusting me is nearly impossible, and sometimes I am still too stiff afterward to do much good. I asked the chiropractor about my hip pain, I wanted a clue as to when he thought my hip would be happy again. He gave me a 50/50 chance of it being pain-free within a year, and if it is not within a year it will likely never stop hurting.

The pain from my hip is greater than the rest of my pain, so even on days that the FMS is not totally fucking me up the hip is there taunting me. Teddy Bear assures me that we will find a way to fix it, and I want to believe him. I really do. But right now I am having a minor crisis and it is hard to believe in anything.

I have had FMS for at least seven years, but due to the insanity of life I have attempted to ignore it. I did not get an "official" diagnosis until this year. I was hoping that it would just go away, and I was afraid that after seeing doctors and trying this and that and the other I would realize that I was stuck in this body of suck and it would be so fucking hard to deal with, much easier to stick my head in the sand. Damn that sentence was long.

Now I know and I am looking at my life looming before me and wondering how I can take so many years of pain and it exhausts me. I am wallowing in it. Eliza was talking about stages of grief, and I feel like I am just starting to grieve my former life. Like Eliza, I am realizing that my best years of health are gone, and that just sucks so much. Yes, I am lucky. My husband is so wonderful and supportive, my son is a pain in the ass but I love him so much. I have a house and a car and a cat that cuddles with me. I do not have to work.

The problem is that I want to work. I want to be productive and useful to society and to my family. I want to make dinner every night and have the energy to go on dates with my husband, to go out and do something physical (like riding bikes or jogging?) with my son. I want just one day without any pain. I want to do things.

I have decided, with the help of my friends and my husband, to not start the teaching credential program next semester. I just cannot physically do it right now. I will start substitute teaching in January, as often as my body lets me. I am hoping to get a gauge of how much I can do, and right now my gauge is saying that full-time school is not doable. I might decide to start in the fall, but I don't know. I don't know if I will ever be able to teach full-time, I might just substitute when I can. If that is what I ultimately do, what good will a credential do? I am going to talk to my advisor at school and tell her I am withdrawing my application for spring semester.

Although it feels like failure, part of me is so relieved. The thought of school next semester was overwhelming. I love school but my body says "Fuck no!" and I can't attend school without my body. I have even gotten to the point of having to stand in class occasionally. Because my hip screams at me when I sit for too long, and then my FMS screams because standing just takes so much energy. I am well and truly fucked.

I am going to find a shrink this week. I haven't had much luck with shrinks since my favorite one moved to North (or South?) Carolina back in 1999 or 2000, but I have this gaping hole in my schedule and I figure it can't hurt anything.

On the good side of things, after my recent vomit-fest here about my father I feel like the pain of his death has lessened a bit. I know that I will always have times where it comes out of nowhere and kicks my ass, but it feels somewhat healed right now. Just in time for me to complain about feeling like shit.

I starting taking darvocet for the nighttime pain because vicodin keeps me up for hours. It's not the greatest pain killer, but I am stoned enough that I don't really care that I am in pain. And no, I'm not taking it every night. I have to keep the nights I get drunk and blog free so my liver doesn't up and leave me. This sucks. Also, it might be good to note that I am currently enjoying the bliss of darvocet and therefore am not to be held liable for any and all rambling, including overuse of commas and poor grammar and run-on sentences.

Oh, another thing. I am going to be contributing to a web zine soon and I am not sure whether I want to write under my blog name or my real name. Any thoughts?

Some More Drunken Stuff

Recently, I was at Redneck Diva's place and read that she was refraining from saying "fuck" or a derivative of fuck due to being "good" and advertisers frowning on the extensive usage of Fuck, fucking, and fucktard. Or something like that. Did you know that Google spell check toolbar recognizes "Fuck" and "fucking" but not "fucktard" as words? Or "toolbar"? It is odd, and yes I am still drunk. (See previous post)

So, back to Redneck Diva... I thought about advertising and blogging and self-censorship and said, "Self, I know that you are a whore, so why not whore out to advertisers on your blog. Even Eliza said that you were a whore at the altar, and of course with three marriages to date she was right, but why not the money (paltry) from advertising?" I thought long and hard about it, thought about penises, because, duh, long and hard! but I decided something important for me. Something that I had been getting around to with the blogging about my father and the dying. When I revised my template to the NEW and GREAT one that it currently boasts, I removed my Site Meter. Not on purpose, mind you. Just an oversight. But when I realized it, I did not take the time to put it back on my blog. It was the first step to just not caring about the traffic. Don't get me wrong, I am a comment whore. I love my frequent commenters and get all warm and fuzzy when they visit. But I need to blog because it serves a purpose for me. I get to vent, I get to save my thoughts and feelings for the future, and I get to write. I like to write. Not in the "I want to be a writer when I grow up" way but just in a soothing, creative sort of manner. Damn, I need to end this paragraph.

Did I make my point? No, I guess I didn't. I won't have advertisers on this blog unless they pay me A LOT. Two things to notice there. First, "A lot" is two fucking words, people. Not one. NEVER ONE WORD. Also, I am a whore. But a very expensive whore. So I won't put out for a lunch date or a dinner here and there. You pay me a LOT and I will do whatever you ask. Well, I will probably cheat and have another blog where I say "fuck" all day long. Because that is my mission in life.

My name is Sam. And I say "fuck." A lot.

Why Is The Peacock Green?

Hi. I am drunk. Drunk and blogging and soon to hit the "Publish" button. So now is my time to type all the things that I would not be inclined to say sober. Or ever. Here is my list:

1. The NBC peacock logo thingy? It is green. All green. What the fuck is that about?
2. I have a new friend. Like, I actually talk to her on the phone friend. One of my in real life friends said "What the fuck? You are too sick to deal with the friends you have. Why would you go and make another friend?" To which I said, "She lives in another state. It requires not physical effort to be her friend." Unless, of course, you count the fact that I am flying to see her this summer be damned the costs.
3. Fuck. Stupid Teddy Bear interrupted my train of drunken thought and now I forgot what I was going to blog next. OH! I remember!
4. I found out tonight that my husband does not know how to type. I mean, he can type, and with the quickness, but not PROPERLY. He wanders across the keyboard like a drunken Sam. Me. Ha!
5. A friend of Teddy Bear's and his fiance (congrats!) are getting married. Duh, hence the fiance thing. Well, we have a problem. See, the friend is also friends with H3.2. Remember him? He is still nursing his wounds from the breakup of Summer 06 and cannot bear the thought of me or TB. And we are all invited. So, I decided that in the best interest of myself, that I should look DAMN FUCKING HOT at the wedding. Chicken and Teddy Bear thought that I should stuff my bra to look extra buxom. Ha!
6. My Chicken is failing his Advisement class. AKA homeroom. And Language Arts. He is actually failing just about every class when it comes to his homework grade. And he hid his report card for a month. Luckily (I think) he is super smart and with his test/classwork scores he averages out to a B or B+. But the lying? And hiding? My God I think I have a middle-schooler on my hands. And it is taking all the energy I have. Which is fabulous birth control. I am exhausted.
7. The Chicken. It requires two numbers because he is making me crazy. And I grounded the shit out of him. And he is making up every assignment regardless of the credit his teachers give him. I do not trust him anymore and I am so sad. Growing up sucks.
8. My arm is fucking killing me from holding it up to type and TB wants to watch Scrubs. I am having a horrible body week. I want a new body.
9. I don't appreciate TB enough. He is so kind and takes care of me and wonderful and loves me and I am grateful but I don't ACT grateful and I should. I think this whole "married three times" thing is working. The third time. I love my husband.
10. Yes, I totally love my husband. It should be its own number.

~Sam

My Dad, Part III

My father died and there was this in between time where I wasn't sure if he was truly gone. Have you ever watched someone die? One moment he was there, I felt him there and the next he was gone. You see people on television hugging dead bodies of loved ones but as soon as it was clear to me that my father was gone, I wanted nothing to do with his body. He wasn't there anymore, he even looked different. It felt unreal, seeing this body that was my father but now was just a body, empty.

I took care of the necessary stuff at the hospice place, packed my overnight bag up and got into my rented Hyundai Santa Fe. As a rule, I do not like any Hyundai, however I enjoyed this one quite a bit. I know that may sound strange, but I have a thing about cars and I feel truly comfortable in a select few. I liked that car a lot. Of course, it wasn't a 2007 (05 or 06?) but it was nice. It was a strange comfort for me during that time that I do not understand. Anyway, it handled well and that became important to the days ahead.

If you remember, I was in the Salt Lake, Utah area and it was January 11, 2006. Snow had been threatening since I landed at the airport early the previous day. Part of me thinks that my father died, when up to heaven and said, "God, you give my daughter some damned snow. She needs it." As I drove away from my father's body, knowing that I would never see him again, it began to snow. How I love the snow. It snowed and I wanted a cigarette so badly that I could taste it. I had quit smoking six months before and vowed to my father, on his deathbed, that I would never smoke again. Even though the death of your parent seems like a pretty good excuse to fall off the wagon, I drove straight home. To my father's house.

I felt my father in the car with me, and when we returned to the house I knew that he was there. (I believe I told part of this story in another post, but I do not care to look it up. Right now, this is what I need to talk about and that is that. I need this.) My father (his spirit or soul or whatever you do or do not believe) was right there with me. I took out the sleeping bag that my dad kept at the house for me and I curled up on the floor in front of his computer. I heard a small creak in my father's room and felt that he was hanging out in there, just to bring me comfort. So I wouldn't feel so alone.

Spending the night in my father's house was so hard. I could smell him and I was surrounded by his things. Some things took me back to childhood, they had been around longer than me. My father worked as a mechanic for a million years, first on nuclear subs during the Vietnam War era, then on cars for decades. I will always associate the smell of cars and grease with my father. I have a picture of me as a baby, probably about 1 year old and I am turning a tidy pile of clean shop towels into a crazy mess. They smelled so good, like my dad. I don't know if I had ever felt so alone in my life. There was no one else, no cousins or siblings or aunts or fucking anyone. Just me. My father's only child, I am the third generation only child on the paternal side. It makes for a marked absence of family members. I'm sure everyone has experienced or heard about a death happening and the vultures in the family swooping down and beginning a whole lot of shit over the poor dead person's belongings. This time, there was only me.


My current boyfriend (H3.2) flew out to help me with the remainder of the mountain of duties ahead of me. In less than one week I had notified everyone, had my dad cremated, completely boxed up or threw out everything that my father owned, scrubbed the house until it shone, closed all of his accounts, picked up my father's ashes, put the old 1970 Chevy truck on a trailer hooked up to the biggest fucking Uhaul truck and headed back to California. I got back in town at about 3am, knowing that I had to work (my Nanny job) at 6am. I parked the Uhaul, got into my Honda and drove to Baby Z's house. I slept in the car for two hours and then began my shift.

I realized much, much later that I had not given myself time to mourn. Not to say that I did not cry, but I didn't get the time to sit back and feel the loss. Now, almost two years later I find myself wondering why my FMS has been such a ragged bitch to me. Gee, I had some control over my FMS, it wasn't horrible, and then my father dies over a period of ten years (Chicken's whole life) and the fibro says "FUCK YOU!" at the end. (By the way, stress is bad for FMS if you didn't catch that before)

This both makes me feel stupid-why didn't I put the two together before? And sad because I don't know how to quite stop the hurting. It is getting better. But I miss my daddy.

My Dad, Part II

I held my father's hand. I talked to him. He continued to breathe raggedly, the oxygen mask on his face. I tried to memorize what he looked like, what he sounded like, what was happening. I knew that these would be my last memories of him.

Eventually I asked the nurses if I could stay the night. The chair in the bedroom turned into a tiny twin bed. One nurse brought me McDonalds and I ate greedily. I showered in the bathroom that was attached to my father's room, quickly so that I wasn't gone if something were to happen. I held my father's hand, I continued to talk to him. Although he never responded I tell myself that he knew I was there for him. When I laid down in my tiny bed I attempted to sleep. I was comforted by the snoring sound of my father breathing. I knew as long as I could hear him breathing that he was alive.

My father started pausing longer between breaths, and every time I held my breath, waiting, listening. The night passed and I slept fitfully. In the morning I called the Reverend that my father had been conversing with for several months. She was part of the home health care team, and she would visit my father and talk to him. He made a deal with her, she could come as long as she didn't preach to him. She asked him if she should come every two weeks after the first meeting. He said that every week would be fine. She had won him over. I knew about this because he had told me in an email. I did not talk to my father often toward the end of his life, talking required breath and energy while typing required just one finger if you were my father. I have all of his emails.

I called the Reverend and she came. I don't know why I needed her, but her presence comforted me. I suppose that my Catholic upbringing is more sturdy than I thought, because it didn't seem proper for my father to pass without a priest there for him. Even if she wasn't Catholic, even if my father was agnostic and stubborn, I needed her there.

We talked all day. We talked to my father and I told stories, all the stories I had for my father. Stories that he didn't know, and ones he was there to live through. I told the story of my firstborn son, the one I gave up for adoption. My father was the only family member that supported me through it. I told funny drunken stories, sad stories, and I just kept talking. I was celebrating my father's life with him, holding his hand, laughing and then sobbing and laughing again.

Toward the end of the day, the primary hospice nurse came in and was confused by the oxygen mask on my father's face. He was due for his antibiotics and the nurse started to get upset about what was going on with her patient and I was confused. The nurses conferred for a moment, they talked with the Reverend and then finally explained to me what was happening.

I knew that my father was dying, but he had been dying for so long. Initially the nurses had said that he could last for days or weeks and now I got the truth from the primary hospice nurse. The oxygen mask was keeping him alive, and when it was removed, he would die. As his only daughter, his only child, his only family, I had to make the choice to take away his oxygen.

I thought about it. I wanted him to stay. I wanted another night, another week, I wanted more, just a little more. And then I remembered watching someone else dying, and saying to myself, "When the time comes for my father to die, I will not selfishly keep him here to make me feel better, I will let him go. I will end his suffering." I could not make him struggle for every breathe another night. I could not do this to my father just because I wanted him to stay.

I asked the Reverend to say some words over my father, and she apologized to him before she started, saying: "I am doing this at your daughter's request because she loves you" and she prayed.

I took the mask off my father's face and put it down. Instantly his breathing turned from loud grasping breathes to soft, smooth breathing like I have not heard him breathe in years. I held his hand. He continued to breathe, his face was peaceful, he was relaxed and I cried silently while I held his hand. Within minutes the breathing slowed, slower and slower still and then he was gone. My father was dead.

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There is a little more to come. Thank you, I needed this so much. I needed to sit here and type away and cry with tears just rolling down my face as my husband holds me. It hurts, but I need it. I need to let just a little bit go. My father would not want me to hurt like this for so long. I know.

*To each of you that read this little blog. Thank you for listening and letting me share. Sometimes I feel lonely out here in the Blogosphere, and sometimes you make me feel that I have so much support. I feel like I can do anything with my "peeps" backing me up.

My Dad, Part I

I have needed to write this post since January 11, 2006. For the more quick-witted of you, that day need no more introduction. For the rest, that is the day that my father died. I need to write this post. A small bit of it will be part of the story that my faithful readers already knew, but the rest will new to all of my bloggy friends. And 99% of my friends and family IRL.

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My father smoked and drank for most of his life. For the last 10 years of his life he did not drink. For the last year of his life he did not smoke. He had chronic bronchitis for as long as I can remember. When Chicken was a baby he was diagnosed with COPD, specifically Emphysema.

My father died slowly for so long it was unbearable for me. Many days I wished that it all could end, the suffering, the pain. The agonizing breath after breath. All the drugs, all the side effects. Towards the end, the haze of constant morphine provided by the hospice nurses. He was well-loved and well taken care of, but it was agony for me to let my father die.

I received a phone call from one of the hospice nurses that my father had been in bed all day long and was mostly unresponsive. She was afraid that he would get up in his weakened condition and fall. My father did not want to spend the rest of his days in a nursing home, and so we weighed the decision carefully. We also knew that he was on his third or fourth cycle of antibiotics and that he was getting weaker and weaker. His time was running out. I gave the nurse authorization to take my father to a hospice care center for the night, to keep an eye on him and assess the situation further. I booked a flight for the very next day.

My dad had perked up when the ambulance came to pick him up, and was cheery and as talkative as his limited breath and energy would allow. The nurse put me on the phone and I told him what was going to happen, that I would be there the next day but he had to go somewhere for the night. He did not have the energy or breathe to reply in a word, but he made a sound that I knew meant "Okay, I will see you tomorrow."

The morning of the departure, I received a phone call from my father's nurse. "I have bad news I am afraid," she said. My heart plummeted. "Your father fell in the hospice center. We think he broke his hip." I told her that I would be there in a few hours.

I flew into Salt Lake City, Utah on a Tuesday afternoon. I picked up a rental car and drove straight to the hospice center. I found out it was actually an Alzheimer's home with a hospice wing, the only thing that was available the previous night. I spoke with my father's nurse. She told me that my father had eaten breakfast with the residents (this made me giggle, all the old senile people with my father!) and then went back to his room. His bed was almost on the ground to make it easier to get in and out of I believe. At lunch time his nurse said, "Stay here and I will be right back with your lunch" and when she came back my father was on the floor.

They believe that he was either trying to reach the bathroom or he misunderstood the nurse and thought he was supposed to walk to have lunch with the others. They gently placed him back on his bed, and noticed that his left leg was not where it should be, his hip had obviously broken.

My father was in good health with the exception of his lungs. He was not yet 65 years old, but all of the steriods he had to take in order to breathe leeched the calcium from his bones. The Osteoarthritis medication he diligently took was not enough to counter the effects of the steriods.

I walked into my father's room. He was laying on the bed (the very close to the ground bed) and his eyes were closed. He had an oxygen mask on and was breathing in deep, ragged breaths that were almost like his loud snoring. I sat on the floor beside him and held his hand.

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Here is where I take a break to cry and mourn. I will continue the story as soon as I can. I need to get it out. I need to heal more of my mind so my body will follow suit. Thank you.

Dinner

Too full to post. We gathered. We ate. If my face gets any rounder it may be mistaken for a basketball. Here's to my 33rd year, may it bring many posts scattered with an abundance of vulgarities.

Prom 1991*

Recently an old friend found me through Classmates dot com. I'd link to them, but I believe they are run by the devil. Not because my friend found me, but because they email you and say things like:

Your very bestest friend in the whole wide world is trying to contact you and aren't you a cheap fucking douche if you don't pony up the minimum payment to get your awesome Gold Star membership so you can talk to the person that you haven't seen in 12+ years. Bitch.

What. Ever. I hate Classmates dot com with a fiery, bloody passion. However, out of all the people in my past that I couldn't give two stinky half-dead rats' asses about, this person is actually one that I've missed over the years. Due to his influence I started listening to punk in high school and saw more than one great show. For the purpose of this blog, I'm calling him Minor Threat. A play on his initials and for those of you in the know, a reference to the punk heritage.

Some of you may be wondering: "What does this have to do with the title?" Well fuckall if I'm not going to tell you. My junior prom was all set to be the greatest ever in the history of proms. I had a beautiful princess dress and my boyfriend had the cutest mohawk. Then my boyfriend dumped me. ME! The one who respected his asinine wish to remain a virgin until he was married. The one who fucked the very next girl he dated. One of my friends. And HE TOOK HER TO PROM!

Now, I wasn't serious about the guy, but finding a last minute date to the prom isn't easy. Even for a girl of my obvious lack of virtue. Guess who saved the day? Minor Threat. He rented a tuxedo, took me to the dance, let me take endless cheesy pictures and then after the dance we parted ways. He didn't even demand a blow job for payment. What a swell guy!

Minor Threat and I lost touch twelve or so years ago. He has FIVE children and one on the way! (Congrats!) When he got in touch with me, one of the first things he bitched about was how hard it is to find someone that keeps changing their name. Well, SOME of us are busy marrying and divorcing and playing "what will my last name be this week?" while OTHERS just shack up with one lovely lady and have a bunch of kids. I think someone just isn't trying hard enough.

Due to my vagina ownership, I have pictures from that fateful prom where Minor Threat took one for the team. I scanned them, sent them off to him for approval and BAM! here they are...


Here comes the Sam...all dressed in WHITE NYLONS WITH BLACK SHOES!!??? OMG!

How cool am I? Come, tell me. 'Cause I know I am the coolest in my Oakley Frogskins and 80's Camaro.

Me and Minor Threat. Isn't it sweet how he's pretending to be my REAL ACTUAL date? Five minutes later he was disinfecting his arm.

If you're wondering, I gave my URL to Minor Threat. I figured it was much easier than emailing back and forth about my boring life. He demanded his own post, and I demanded the right to post pictures. Now we're both happy. Too bad he lives in another state. I'd love to meet his better half and his almost half dozen chicklets. I've seen pictures and they're fucking adorable! Must be from his wife's side. :)

*(pictures removed)

Half-Nekkid Letdown

Well, being the suck-ass that I am, there is no HNT for you guys this week. However, I've been working hard taking pictures with my phone all around town. He's what I found for you today:

I visited Urgent Care today to determine that my 4th case of shingles in the past 10 years is, indeed, shingles. Wow, thanks doc! Now give me drugs. Oh, and thanks for the "Who the fuck get shingles at age 32? For the FOURTH TIME?!" look. Really. I know I'm fucked up. Move on, man.

While walking through the Urgent Care parking lot I noticed this gem hanging out. Perhaps the owner needed further instruction than "Insert into bush".

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Earlier in the day I noticed this AWESOME minivan.
Anna shares my loathing of those damn stick figure families found on minivans and SUVs. I wonder if she's seen these retarded flip-flop families? Does the owner of this van really make her husband wear pink, flowered flip-flops? Sigh.

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For those of you that know shingles are helped out tremendously by stress, I am doing okay. I'm having parental issues (my mother the cunt!!) which are stressing me and I'm working on resolving them. I'm not in the mood to discuss them now, but things will get better. As far as Chicken and Teddy Bear, I'm a happy camper. Things with Teddy Bear are serious. Seriously good and seriously fast and wonderful and WOW the things I will share (but not right now).

Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday everyone!

Half-Nekkid Tubby Pic*

Okay, so technically I'm totally nekkid in this picture. However, you only get to see my purdy mug so that's only half-nekkid. I rarely take baths but this day my body was fucking killing me and a bath actually sounded like a great idea. By the way, this is my first facial without any makeup at all. Totally nekkid!

The "tubby" part has a double meaning. I recently went to the doctors because those fuckers will only refill my meds if I visit once a year. The nurse calculated my BMI and congratulated me on my weight. What the FUCK bitch? I've gained TWELVE pounds. A dozen. What does she say in response to this? "But you've quit smoking and that's soooo great!" Stupid cunt.

Yes, some of you are saying "But Sam, you showed your ass last week and WOW you look great." Yeah, I know. Except for one, small thing. My stomach is a greedy bitch and loves to steal all the weight-gaining glory for herself. Here's the breakdown:

12 pounds gained
8 pounds to stomach
1 pound to breasts
1 pound to thighs
2 pounds that travel around aimlessly waiting to go to the stomach

Again, many of you are sighing and wanting to bitch slap me. Go ahead. I get it. But before you kick me in the clam (thanks Anna!) you should know this:

I weighed ONE pound more when I delivered Chicken into this world. ONE POUND. Oh, and the clothes? Don't fit. My lovely newish suit? Nope. My jeans? Nope. My shorts and skirts and fuckall everything? Nope. Please send one (1) money tree so I can buy clothes that will fit my stomach. /sigh

*picture removed

Dingleberries

1. I hate cherry flavoring. I love fresh cherries.
2. I write left-handed. I can eat with either hand. I do everything else as a righty. Lefty scissors confound me.
3. I am an only child. Like you couldn't tell that already.
4. I swear too much. My first spoken word was fuck. Seriously, ask my dad. (Or... um don't. Cause he's busy doing that whole heaven gig.)
   
5. I'm allergic to my cat and without Flonase I'm miserable.
6. I get along with both of my ex-husbands.
7. I love my Teddy Bear. We got married in April of 2007.
   
8. I love my feet and my toenails are always painted.
9. I really like my fingernails, and they are rarely painted but always manicured.
   
10. I have a bunch of gray hair.
    
11. I'm sarcastic. I can dish it out and respect those that can serve it back to me.
12. My cat isn't very bright, but I don't need a smart cat.
13. I have a BS in business administration. I graduated Cum Laude and shit.
14. I'm really smart but frequently miss really simple things.
15. I love reading, writing and math. I pulled an "A" out of my ass in calculus.
    
16. I sucked at geometry. Proofs were fine, it was the damn shapes that kicked my ass.
17. I'm 1/4 Lebanese. This means I can get a tan and keep it.
18. I'm 3/4 Northern European mutt. This means I have freckles and burn before I tan.
19. I have blue eyes, but not true blue like Chicken's. They are pretty close to hazel.
20. I was a child model. I was a cute kid. I would never let my Chicken model.
21. Sometimes I love cheesy television. I don't have to think when I watch it. My friend Ewe Girl calls it mental masturbation.
    
22. I love food. Thai food, Indian food, Greek food, Afghan food, Japanese food... food is good.
23. I'm not sure if I love sleeping or food more.
24. I hate to walk. I ran cross country in high school, but walking sucks.
25. I've never done LSD or heroin and I never will.
26. Animals and children like me.
27. I'm pro-choice but I don't think I could ever have an abortion.
28. I think adults should be able to marry. Regardless of race, religion or sexual orientation.
29. I drive a 1998 Honda Civic LX. I love it. I plan on driving it into the ground.
30. I don't believe in circumcision.
31. I hate mornings. They should be canceled.
32. The day should start at noon.
    
33. I can't eat wheat, rye, barley or oats. I miss beer and Krispy Kreme a lot. I don't have Celiac disease and yes I"ve been tested.
34. I'm not overly fond of white wine.
35. Coke, not Pespi.
36. I love Party Lite candles.
37. I still wear my Doc Marten boots from 1992.
38. My favorite alcohol is Patron silver.
39. I'v had a crush on Clint Eastwood since I saw The Good, The Bad and The Ugly in third grade.
40. I've never drunk-dialed anyone. I have drunk blogged.
    
41. I have a thing for geeks.
42. I prefer a little meat on my lovers.
43. I miss my dad. He died January 11, 2006.
44. I miss the San Diego of my childhood. And also the San Diego of my adulthood because any San Diego is better than a city in Riverside County.
    
45. I've driven across the US more than once. I love to drive.
46. I hate humidity. It totally fucks up my hair.
47. I lived in Virginia for four years. I was amazed that my grass didn't need sprinklers.
48. I've always wanted to live somewhere that had actual seasons.
49. I hate the desert and love the mountains.
50. I'm a Pisces and I love water.
51. Landing strip.
52. Best compliment I've ever received: "You're a great mom"
53. I'll never forget the first time I saw a booger in Chicken's nose.
54. I have had Fibromyalgia since 2000. It sucks smelly donkey balls.
    
55. I have a few favorite dramas that I cannot live without: Grey's Anatomy, Lost and House.
56. I gave my firstborn son up for adoption in 1994. It almost killed me.
57. I love putting away warm laundry. I hate putting it away when it is cold.
    

Any questions? I'll answer them and add them to my list.