Rain, Rain, Go The Fuck Away

Note: It just rained. My body is fucking killing me. I took two darvocets. The following writing I cannot be held responsible for in any way including a lack of spelling skills, grammar issues, run-on sentences, and general fuckery of the English language.

1) Watching Bones and a character just used the term, "bump uglies." Seriously? Did I hear that right? On network television they used bump uglies? Also, spell check says that I spelled "uglies" right the first time but not the second or third and I cannot see the difference. Moving on...

2) Recently I have had a spambot issue on an old post of mine. The first time I was a little irritated, but it reminded me that a lot of my older stuff is still missing pictures from when I was in the teaching credential program and removed all of the photos that showed my darling face. So, put the picture back in and left it at that. Or so I thought. The fucking spambots came and commented again. And again. It seemed a little tacky to me. You see, the post is Posting From Colorado, where I announce that I buried my dad that day and show a picture of me at his grave. Seriously rude, right?

I finally realized that I can close comments on that post alone, did so, and now the problem is over. I think. You might be tempted to recommend that I turn on comment verification, but I already explained my issues with that ridiculousness.

The End

Back To School, Sam Style

Back to school always kicks my ass, and it is even worse when Chicken arrives back in California on a Friday night with two days to get ready before school starts. Chicken began eighth grade at a new school, and it was exciting, nerve-racking, and expensive. PE uniforms, PTSA memberships, blah blah just write the fucking check already, lady!

I try to get involved in Chicken's school. It helps to know other parents, teachers, and the administrators, especially when your kid is a damn procrastinating smarty pants. I find that volunteering to help out the PTSA in some way gets me in the door. This year I offered to help at the school's book fair. There I met the PTSA president and a few other ladies. I offered my tech services and was asked to come to a meeting the following week. (I swear this is going somewhere)

Monday I drove to San Diego to visit my friend Tobiwan. He was in town and we spent a chunk of the sweltering day together. It has been 100+ degrees for a week or more. I had to race back to Chicken's school in order to make the meeting on time. I show up and ask the front desk ladies where the restroom is, and rush in to pee. I am balancing Egg on my lap, trying not to drop him or pee on myself. I manage to get my pants back on and hobble to the sink when Chicken's principal comes into the bathroom.

"Hi! Are you going on campus or are you staying in the office area?" asks Mrs. Principal

I told her that I was going to a PTSA meeting on campus.

"Oh! Well you have to meet the dress code to go on campus," says Mrs. Principal brightly.

"..."

"I have a shirt in my office I could lend you," she cheerily informs me.

Mrs. Principal jaunts off to her office while I attempt to wash my hands without dropping Egg, while contemplating the conversation that just took place.

I just got dress-coded. At my son's middle school. DRESS-CODED. By the Principal. On the eleventh day of the school year. Me. Too mortified to be pissed off, I wander through the halls of the administrative building looking for the principal's office. I find her, and she has an extra large polo shirt for me to wear. I put the shirt on over my super-slutty top and slink to the PTSA meeting, where I announce that I am late due to being dress-coded by the principal. There is nothing like being new and singled out for a dress code infraction to impress the other mommies! Go Sam!!

In case you were wondering, I was wearing this top:

Yep. A nursing tank top. While carrying my nursling. For shame! Except I wear mine more loosely than the dummy. Apparently the problem was the straps. They must be two inches wide to be in line with the dress code. *sigh* Typically I wear a little short-sleeved sweater with it, but as it was 106 degrees outside I was FUCKING HOT and wore only the tank top. And because I'm a total whore, that's why.

Texting and A Question or Two

On Saturday I actually left the house with a girlfriend and went to a nearby outlet mall for a tiny bit of baby shopping. I think I have to admit that previous to this trip far I had purchased one (1) outfit for Egg and nothing else. I'm 8 months along. I think I have issues. But more on that later! (la la la denial!!)I had an interesting text conversation with Chicken while shopping, the beginning of which read like this:

Chicken: Holy Fuck!
Sam: eh?
Chicken: My dad is a dick!
Sam: ...

As it turns out, Chicken was told by one of his step-sisters (she's 12ish) that his father had an affair over the summer. His wife found out via phone records and the affair was with a co-worker in an area several hours away. I didn't get all the details because the whole conversation was through texting and I was too shocked and appalled to figure out if I should call him. I haven't talked to him today, but I will tomorrow. One of the things that is banging around in my head is this: Is it appropriate to tell the children when one of the parents cheats on the other? And not just telling them that there was adultery, but the who and the how and whatever else the kids know? That bothers me a bit, and how does this effect the way the children feel about their father/step-father since the marriage is still intact? And please do not tell me that the 4 year old knows. I would vomit.

The other thing that chaps my hide is that Chicken was supposed to visit his dad over the summer but his dad couldn't get his "schedule" together in a way that would allow Chicken to visit. Was his scheduling difficulty due to the fact that he was fucking someone other than his wife? Because that really sucks ass. Of course I won't discuss this part with Chicken. He doesn't need to have that shit in his head. But he also probably doesn't need to know about his dad's affair last summer. So tell me, what would you do? What is appropriate here?

I Love The Innernets...

...and hate the real world. Yesterday I saw a father watching his daughter play on the escalator in the mall. She was about three steps down and was attempting to go UP the DOWN escalator. I am guessing that she was about five or six years old. As she struggled to hop up the wrong way her father had the older brother (about eight or nine years old) go onto the escalator THE WRONG WAY and attempt to pull her to the top. While the father watched from a vantage point where he had no physical access to either child. The two children made it safely to the top of the DOWN escalator and I held back the urge to kick the living shit of the father.

People in Walmart make me crazy, too. I was attempting to look at something in a particular aisle where this woman, her cart, and her three children were milling about. I patiently parked my cart out of the way of everyone else in the aisle and waited. And then waited some more. Eventually she looked up and said, "Oh, do you want to get by?" I smiled and nodded and was perfectly pleasant as I pushed my cart down the aisle. At this point in my life (minimal medication and maximum hormones) I am very non-confrontational in public. I am afraid that if I open my mouth I am going to fucking lose my collective shit. Er, lose my shit more I suppose would be more accurate.

Are you familiar with people that need anti-anxiety medication (or any brain meds) and they go on it and feel great and then think to themselves, "Self, I am perfectly fine. I do not need medication." So they go off the medication and are stunned when they are totally fucking anxious? Yeah, that's not me so much. I like feeling like a normal person. However, I had forgotten some of the more fun and exciting parts of anxiety. Which, by the way is a super great gift from the fibromyalgia gods. Thanks! Recently I was reminded of how not fun it is to drive while anxious. No, I'm not putting myself or others in danger. Sheesh! I just have some reservations about parking in a spot to my right. I second guess myself and my inner anxious monologue sounds something like this, "Is there enough room? Are you sure? A huge truck just pulled out but are you SURE the little Honda will fit in that spot? Maybe the truck can bend space and time and fit but I don't know if you can do it. How about a bigger spot? Like the one two miles away in your driveway?"

This is where I have to (again) weigh the costs and benefits of taking my measly amount of Celexa every other day. I'm still able to DO things, I just prefer to be able to park like a person that has been driving for almost twenty years. Is my discomfort worth any possible risks? What about how my discomfort impacts Adrienne Stephanie? GAH! No wonder I hate people. My tolerance for interaction is currently at a very low level. Which brings me back to lovin' the innernets. You all rock my world. Thank you for giving me a little piece of sanity in this world.

PS. ANNA IT IS NOT A FUCKING WIG. DON'T MAKE ME DEDICATE A POST TO THE BEAUTY OF YOUR CURLY HAIR. I WILL TAKE YOU DOWN.

Chicken ROX

My Chicken went to the park to hang out with some friends that I am a little unsure of at this point. I'll tell you more on that later. But today, I received a phone call from him that there was a 9th grade girl in the park with two twenty-something males and they were smoking pot together. Chicken and his friends were worried about the girl. One of his friends used to know the girl and they didn't know what to do. So Chicken called me for help. *swoon* My kid is awesome. We talked for a few minutes and then I asked him if he wanted me to call the cops. Chicken was relieved and replied, "Yes please!" I called the local police department and they are sending someone out right now.

I really don't care if consenting ADULTS smoke pot but I remember being a young girl hanging out with older guys and it is not a path I'd send anyone else down. Also- don't pass a bowl around where my 11-year old and his friends can watch. Okay? Go home and smoke out there. Or sit in your car. Leave the teener girls alone. If they want to smoke pot with their teener friends, so be it. But there is no reason to get little girls high. Well, there is a reason but in the grand ole state of California you have to be 18 to consent motherfucker.

Newbies

For those of you that are newish to Sam's Stories, I thought I'd clear a thing or two up that I noticed in the comments. First, the miscarriage happened 13 years and two husbands ago. Yep, I get around. Second, I can't fucking remember what the second thing was...shit. I do have a complaint, however. I am pissed at Blogger for sucking huge donkey dick when it comes to uploading pictures lately. I have a post completely written, just waiting for your amusement. However, Blogger does not think that I need pictures. Fucker.

*minor pregnant bitching below*

I've been feeling crappy lately and having the most difficult time explaining the hauntingly familiar feeling. Until yesterday when I realized that I feel hung over. Not the ZOMG barf-festival, but the feeling dehydrated, wanting to drink a lot of water but having it not settle well, tired and cranky. I've been hungry but nothing sounds good and only limited quantities of food make my stomach happy. My pain level from the fibromyalgia is much better, not in the realm of "hey I'm a normal fucking person" but livable. I have done some research and apparently the hormone relaxin is increased by tenfold during pregnancy and this hormone is responsible for a host of really awesome things. Like the super cool preggo nails and hair, relaxed muscles, and better sleep.

My sleeping has gone from bad to worse, partially a result of removing sleeping pills from my diet and also general preggo stuff. If I wasn't pregnant the lack of sleep would have ramped up my pain levels to the point where I wouldn't be getting out a bed at all. So, you win some, you lose some. According to the innernets, relaxin has been used to treat fibromyalgia. I'm going to ask my specialist when I see him this week because that would rock.

As soon as Blogger allows me to upload pictures I will publish the post in which I get my ass kicked by a Toyota Camry in The (speedy little convertible with a new door handle) Car.

PS My word for the week is PenisLicker. I use it in lieu of someone's given name. Gender or orientation does not matter when one is a PenisLicker. For example, "Hey PenisLicker, whatcha doin?"

Eat Mor Chicken

Chicken has the Migo phone from Verizon Wireless and really wants to upgrade to a "big boy" phone. I won't bore you with all the lame details of the fucking clusterfuck that had to take place to make this happen, so let's just say that Teddy Bear had to battle with Verizon about making the upgrade. At one point Teddy Bear strode out to the garage and his voice began to take on the "don't fuck with me tone" that we all know and love. Chicken said:

"When Teddy Bear goes into his man cave, the guy on the other line does not come out."

True that, motherfucker.


*Picture from Blogography.com*

Bank of America Finale

I just cannot must the strength to properly finish the Bank of America post, so I will have to make do with my old friend, The Bullet and my bestest bloggy friend, The Picture. I hope you don't mind too much. Where the story left off, it was January 2, 2008 and the first stupid woman at BofA had "accidentally" hung up on me after explaining that the $1400 payment on my zero balance card was my mistake. OMG.

January 2, 2008

• I call again, and again and again. Transferred, call drops, "computers don't make mistakes ma'am"
• After 2 1/1 hours I get to a nice man that fixes most of my problem, he stays on the line while he transfers me to someone that finishes it all up
• The money should be transferred to my Washing Mutual checking account ASAP
• I will receive a letter explaining the error so WaMu doesn't charge me for the overdraft of my account.
• I go to WaMu and talk with a warm body there, she waives the fee as I do not EVER bounce checks.
  
• I rock. She rocks. Go WaMu!
  
• I am appeased, but I am still closing the credit card account.

January 7, 2008

• I receive an electronic transfer of $1400.00 into my checking account. Better late than never?
• I have not received the letter from BofA in the mail.

January 8, 2008

• I call BofA to cancel my credit card account
• I am told by the representative that I have a pending transaction for the amount of $1400.00, hence I owe them $1400
• I explain the situation
• She is stupid, I am transferred
• I am told that my bank returned the initial $1400.00
• My bank did not.
• I am told that I have to fax proof that the $1400 went through.
• I am pissed.
• I call back to talk to someone else that might be more cooperative.
• I get the same story, but this guy says I have to fax BOTH sides of my bank statement as proof of the $1400 being paid
• I inform him that I don't get bank statements in the mail (who does that anymore? Let us please think of the TREES people!)
• He is not convinced that the NSF letter will work. We part ways unsatisfied.
• I spent 1 hour on the phone. Then I write a letter, fax cover, and have TB fax it all at work.

January 10, 2008

• TB walks to the mailbox and brings home the mail. I am puzzled by this, because he never used to get the mail. He's been doing it a lot lately. Hmmm....
• This is in the mail:

• What the FUCK?! Seriously? They mailed me a check AND put the $1400 in my checking account and DUH?!
• I call BofA when I can see clearly through the haze of PISSED THE FUCK OFF
• By the way, I am totally nice on the phone to these people whether they deserve it or not
• The manager I speak with actually understands what I am saying
• I tell her to cancel the check because I am not getting off my ass to send it back
• She apologizes for the fuck ups
• I ask WTF happened and WHY and WTF?
• She has no answer, but says she will send me a $50 gift card of my choice...I pick Amazon.com
• She reports that everything will clear out in five business day and then I may call and cancel my card
• I hang up, wondering if the letter and the gift card will end up in the same place-in my dreams

I spent approximately 4 hours on the phone, plus time writing/faxing/stressing for a bank error that should have been fixed properly the first time. I will not be doing any business with Bank of America again. This was not a matter of one person doing a bad job. This was fucking from one hole to another and then back again. Isn't there some sort of etiquette rule about that? Anyway, stay away from Bank of America if you value your time and peace of mind.

---

• My driver's license says "Blue"
• Teddy Bear says that my eyes are more blue than the picture shows, but they are not true blue
• I think they should be called hazel
• I blame the eye color randomness on my mother
• She said I was "blonde" as a child, too
• I guess "hazel" and "brown" don't sound as cool
  
• I am not blogging right now, I am studying for my CSET

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.

Bank of America Part I

This morning I was sleeping soundly in my happy little bed with my new electric blanket and dreaming of glad tidings and a new year full to the brim of puppies and snowflakes. Or something like that. I was awakened by the shrill irritation that is my new land line. I didn't ask for a home phone, I didn't want a home phone (okay maybe a little bit but shhh!) and now it had the fucking gall to RING. I detest the sound of ringing phones. It is horrid and dreadful and usually means that someone wants something or needs to say something or I have to (God forbid) DO something. So I keep my phone on vibrate and encourage the practice in others. Few people even know I have a home phone, and of course I have to go and tell the whole fucking Internets. *sigh* This has nothing, whatsoever to do with this post, except for the fact that I received a phone call this morning that woke me from my pleasant slumber.

Teddy Bear was on the line, stressed and stressing. It seems that my checking account was overdrawn by a tidy sum due to an error by Bank of America. What? Which bank was that? Oh, that is right, Bank of America. Please note this for your future banking needs. Stay away from B of A. Far, far away. Let's begin with a little back story, okay?

Over the past three months I paid off my Bank of America credit card. I had carried a balance for far too long and we (Teddy Bear) worked diligently to get out (my) ass out of debt. I paid the bulk of it, found that there was a stupid interest charge, paid it, and then another interest charge on the interest charge. The last payment was $2.05. I paid all the payments (as I always do) online, and then entered them into Quicken. I have a thing for Quicken. It makes my heart a flutter and my knees weak. Every transaction goes into Quicken. Pack of gum? Check! House payment? Check! So imagine my surprise when Teddy Bear wakes me up at the fuckall time of 9am to tell me that Bank of America had withdrawn $1400.00 from my checking account. (I must say, in my overdrawn defense that I only keep a bit of spending money in my checking account at any given time, and some day I shall post more on the crazy money ways of the TB and myself.)

Back to 9am this morning. Checking account: negative. Chicken: making Mommy a pot of decaf coffee. Mommy: on hold with Bank of America on two separate lines. Because on one line I had called ABC phone number and on the other XYZ phone number and I was waiting to see which would pick up first. At the same time TB is calling my bank (the holder of my checking account and NOT B of A) and I was online checking my Bank of America account. Which had a -$1400.00 balance because DUH they had just taken +$1400 and added it to my zero balance credit card and that equals negative fourteen hundred in the credit card world. (Um, Eliza, please skip this whole thing if you haven't already puked from the cornucopia of numbers.)

Where was I? Oh yes. On hold. For 24 minutes. Yesterday being a holiday and all, everyone needed to call Bank of America. If you are getting tired of reading "Bank of America" please understand that I am trying to put this thought into your brain: stay the fuck away from them. So... I talk to a woman from B of A and she tells me that I must have made a mistake, no problem, everyone makes mistakes, and they can wire me the money. It will arrive by mail in 10-14 business days. I pick my jaw up off the floor and attempt to explain to her FUCKING STUPID ASS that "wiring money" does not mean printing a paper check and putting it in the mail. THE MAIL. I requested that she put someone else on the phone, someone that can help me because I was not going to limp away. Figuratively or literally. She informed me that no one can help, it was not their mistake and that I could be transferred to Online Banking because it was an online transaction. I submitted to the transfer and then "CLICK" the bitch dropped the call.

To Be Continued...

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

The Newish Old Deal

Options

I would like to interact more with my bloggy readers. You have two choices:

A.If you comment on my post and it comes from your email account then I will reply to it from samsstories@gmail.com. If your comment comes via "noreply-comment@blogger.com" you will not get a response. Don't you want a response? I know you do. You totally want it. I've tried saying this before with no response from you damn people but I'm doing it again because I feel bad that I do not respond to you, my favorite commenting peeps.

B. Blogger has a new option where you can ask to have future comments on a post emailed to you. That way I can reply in the comments and you will receive it that way. However, you will receive ALL comments on the post in your mailbox.

Fucking pick an option people. Just! Pick! An! Option!

10 Years Younger

Have you ever seen the show Ten Years Younger? They take a person that is in dire need of some renovation, do a teeth whitening, facial peel, hair cut and color, makeup, wardrobe and BAM! they look ten years younger. Well, ladies and gentlemen, today that happened to me. Except I just showed up to school and commented to a fellow student that I graduated from school five years ago and she said "oh, high school?" and I said "uh.......... (cue internal monologue)

*Oh my GAWD does she think I'm 23? 'Cause that's what age graduating from high school five years ago would make me. What the fuck? Do I want to look THAT young? I don't know if that's a good thing or not. That would make me a person that was fucking (literally) at eleven or twelve to have a baby at just shy of thirteen and holy fuck that's kind of gross. I don't think I like this at all.*

So that's what happened on my first day of school. Oh, and don't forget that my school is nicknamed "CSU Stair Master" as opposed to the official CSU San Marcos due to the fuckall lot of stairs. I parked in a parking lot located in a different hemisphere and then had to walk up and down so many flights of stairs that my thighs felt like Jello at the end of the day. Did you know that "jello" is incorrect according to the powers that be behind Google spell check? Hmph.

Also, two of my classes (the only two I have attended thus far) have an online component that involves a discussion group. It is very similar to a big ole blog, but you have to use your grammar skills and shit. Without saying "shit" and other slang terms. You're actually EXPECTED to comment and I so dearly want to say the following things:

• Honey, alot is TWO WORDS
• Use spell check
• Read what you just wrote.
  
• Now read it again.
• Yes, it sucks. Check for errors please.

I'm not sure how these people have progressed through at least 2 years of college and some of them have Bachelor's degrees and some will be teaching your children. YOUR children. No wonder our education system is shit.

In another school setting, Chicken is promoted to Advanced Band. This is good and bad. Good, because he will likely have to work to keep up with his 7th and 8th grade classmates and I believe at least one class should challenge him. Bad, because he started out the year in Beginning Band (Monday) and was switched yesterday (Wednesday). He was switched because his teacher asked if anyone had previous experience with their instrument. He raised his hand and POOF! he was switched. Well...what happened to the letter I sent to his band teacher at the end of 5th grade? The one that indicated that Chicken had school and private tutoring experience. The one I took the time to write because I didn't want my son to have only ONE class with his best friend and then have that taken away on his third day of middle school. Yeah, that's the one, fuckwad. In addition to the aforementioned bitch slaps, you don't need to call any of your students "sweetie" or "sweetheart", especially when one of those students is my SON. Just because he looks like me and has longish hair and everyone mistakes him for a girl doesn't mean you can switch his class to a 7th and 8th grade dominated setting and then CALL HIM SWEETIE YOU ASSHOLE.

Back to teaching from the perspective of a parent that is going to school to teach...one of my classmates posted an introduction that included things like:

• Technology is scary
• I don't understand how to use my I-pod

Well little lady, lemme tell ya a thing or two! It's iPod and it is supposedly one of the most user-friendly pieces of technology that you will have the opportunity to hold in your hand. Also, you're in a technology AND teaching class. Might want to partially master English or technology or sumtin. Maybe.

Total off the subject rant but still partially on the subject of school: If you partied so hard the night before the first day of school that the person standing next to you in the elevator can smell the booze oozing from your pores, you might want to sit down and think a bit about school. And your brain. And how I'm old and cranky and too tired to party the night before school starts.