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.

Greetings From Vail, Colorado!

In July of 2007 Teddy Bear and I buried my dad in Grand Junction, Colorado while Chicken was visiting his father in Virginia. We decided then that we would travel back to Grand Junction with Chicken at some point in the future so he could see his grandfather's resting place. After I got pregnant, Teddy Bear thought that Chicken's spring break of 2009 (happening right now) would be a great time to visit Gramps. Egg would be two-ish months old (perfect for a road trip! HA HA HA) and the weather would be nice (HARDY HAR HAR) and several other ridiculous reasons that I currently can't think of in my pain stupor. HELLO FIBROMYALGIA!!! I totally fucking missed you SO MUCH.

I may possibly sound bitter but actually this trip has worked out marvelously. When we told TB's father that we wanted to visit Grand Junction, he said that there might be a way we could use a week of a time share that he owned. The time share is one of those time-banking, various places type so he searched around and found that Vail was available during Chicken's spring break. (I really want to capitalize Spring Break. Why?) Although we don't ski at all for any reason, we ended up with a week in Vail, Colorado at no cost. SWEET!!

Funny story about Vail. Chicken and I were in a sporting goods store buying a snowy-type jacket for him. The cashier asked where we were going and we replied, "Vail." She looked confused and asked, "Vail Lake?" Which is located in Southern California. Not in the mountains. Not anywhere that a reasonable person would wear a big thick snow jacket ever. Fucking dumbass.

Back to our trip. Although we are currently in Vail, our first stop to eat was in St. George, Utah. Where Chicken left his cell phone in a Denney's, and then we saw a billboard offering help to those trapped in polygamy. We also saw a billboard in Utah stating that "Don't hit pedestrians, it can change your life." Uh? Really? In Salt Lake Valley we visited a few of TB's relatives so they could meet Egg. We even had breakfast with Bad Grandma. I must post about her next. She is awesomely BAAAAAD. Hence the title.

An aside: you know how packages that are sealed get all bloaty and threaten to explode when you bring them up to high elevation? Do boobs count as sealed packages? Because mine are all ARGH and UMPH and POOF!!! and make a big fucking mess all over the bed and in Walmart and my shirt is drenched. My supply was happily calmed and normal and it is back to being all fucked off again. At least Egg is old enough now to take the extra flowage in stride.

During the first leg of our trip to Salt Lake I somehow mentioned Rim Jobs to Chicken and then refused to explain them to him. So he was forced by his middle schooler's brain to ask over and over again "What's a rim job? Huh? Huh? A rim job? What is it?" It was all kinds of awesome in the car and now Chicken is just a little smarter than he was before this adventure began.

We stopped at a gas station that advertised a Waterfall Urinal. Seriously. TB even took pictures to prove it. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a urinal. A waterfall urinal. The women's bathroom had nothing so cool.In the second picture you can even see his stream. He took a picture OF HIS STREAM.

Then we stopped in the middle of the desert to soothe and feed Egg when my bladder decided it was uncomfortably full. I haven't peed in the great outdoors in years and it was AWESOME. Chicken was so impressed by the pee spot that he took a picture of it.

(I was peeing outside his car door and he had NO IDEA what I was doing until I was done. It was an added bonus. HA HA I'm outside your door peeing on the ground!) The cool wind blowing on my Lady Bits felt so damn good I think I may take up peeing in my backyard. But only when Crazy Neighbor Lady is looking over the fence. She needs more inappropriate Sam peeing in her life. I just realized that I posted pictures of my pee AND TB's pee. For all the Innernets to see. Just another day at Sam's Stories, huh?

Last short story and then I must leave you until my hands aren't screaming in pain from the typing. We all were in a Super! Walmart when my boobies exploded and I purchased some disposable nursing pads while Chicken, Egg, and TB shopped for supplies. When I returned to the cart containing a sleeping Egg, TB and Chicken were in an aisle and not within eyeshot of Egg. As in TEDDY BEAR WAS NOT WATCHING THE BABY. IN FUCKING WALMART. BABY LEFT UNATTENDED BEEP BEEP BEEP HOLY FUCK ME OMG. So I did what any reason mother would do: I stole the baby. About a minute later I received a phone call from TB where he pretended valiently not to be FREAKING THE FUCK OUT ABOUT LOSING TEH BABY!!!11!! He is never doing that again. WIN!

Next post: Bad Grandma talks about her va-jay-jay at breakfast and I shit my brains out at the cemetary and try to use the word awesome fewer times. Maybe.

38 Weeks

Still pregnant. Still sick. Tired of contractions. Update on Egg's blog. If you comment over there, be sure NOT to mention any other blogs (like this one?) or I can't publish your comment. My family does not know about Sam's Stories and I like it that way.

In other business, I got carded at the grocery store the other day. TB was purchasing some alcohol and she asked to see my ID. HA HA HA. That was awesome.

The anniversary of my dad's death was yesterday. It has been three years. What the fuck, Dad? I miss you.

I'm going back to bed.

So Yeah And Then There Was The Penis Pump

I said in a previous post that I no longer feel like death. Technically, this is true. However, I feel like complete shit most of the time. I am one of those ungrateful bitches that whines about how horrible pregnancy is and blah blah blah. I suppose when my previous pregnancies were pretty fucking fantastic this whole difficulty with eating and drinking EVERYTHING plus having a shit-ton of trouble sleeping is making me fussy. Today Chicken informed me that I should get fixed after having this baby because I am a whiny bitch when pregnant and he is not interested in going through another one with me. One would be shocked and appalled but FUCK ME if he isn't right. I can't believe that Teddy Bear hasn't said, "Fuck this" and left yet. I would leave me if I could. I suck.

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In other news, I ignored the whole preggo thing when I went to the fair with my mom, Chicken, and Jesus the other day. Then I got home and read the comment/listened to voice mail from Eliza and realized that twisted minds think alike. Tomorrow I am having lunch with her and my godmother (for their June bdays) and part of me wants to tell then. She won't be as visibly pissed in front of the godmother.

I received a voice mail from my mother yesterday. Apparently H2's stepfather passed away. The man was abusive (to his wife, mentally) and an asshole behind closed doors. I am not sad. I am happy that H2's mother is finally free of him. My mom recommended I attend the service this week and I have no urge to do so.

In other people dying news, my father's best friend passed away last week. I can't believe they are both gone now. They were a terrible twosome, best friends for 30+ years. He leaves two daughters (my age), and six grandchildren with one on the way. He wasn't even sixty years old.

Andre Part II

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

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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...

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.

Endings

When I buried my father's ashes in Colorado over the summer, I requested that a picture be sent to me when the headstone finally arrived. I received this in my inbox today.

Sorry for the shoddy MS Paint work, I didn't feel like putting a whole lot of time into it.

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On a lighter note, I saw a big truck today on the freeway with a sign in the rear window that read:

No Fat Bitch's

This guy PAID to have someone put fucked-off grammar on his truck. He was really proud of himself when he noticed Ewe Girl and I trying to take a picture and laughing. He didn't realize we were laughing at his dumb ass.

The Virgin River

The continuing story of my road trip to bury my father... In these pictures we were going through the Virgin River Pass, which happens to be my favorite part of the trip between San Diego, CA and St. George, UT. The journey is about 30 miles cut through the mountain pass with the river a constant companion. The colors are remarkable, as are the rock formations. Of course, the actual driving of the windy road at semi-ridiculous speeds is my joy. I love that stretch of Interstate 15! As always, click on any picture to get the higher resolution goodness!

We noticed a small fire in the moutains, and I begged TB to get some shots. Thank you my Sweet!

Out of the Virgin River Pass, and on to Utah!

And just because I love you all so much, here's a satellite hybrid map of the area for you to enjoy!

You, you and YOU!

To all of you, the lurkers and the frequent commentors and everyone in between, Thank You! I'm home safe and sound AND I have a job (I think). I'll be posting more tomorrow, but for now please know that all the virtual hugs are appreciated. Two "real life" friends contacted me just to be fabulous friends, another friend or two wished me well before the trip. One person in particular didn't contact me at all. She knew what I was doing and when, but didn't say a word. My feelings are a bit hurt by this, because even if you're busy with life, it only takes a second to call/text/email and give support. Stupid fucking people. *sigh*(If you're reading this blog-it's not you I'm bitching about I promise)

On a good note, burying my father was wonderful. Teary, weepy and so good for the soul. After holding on to his ashes for the last year and a half, it was time to honor his request to be buried in Colorado. I feel closure and healed and like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. My dad is buried in a beautiful cemetery with a babbling stream and ponds filled with frogs and cattails and a huge fish. We walked around and took lots of pictures and I just felt at peace about everything, finally.

Near the cemetery is a train depot, with active trains going in and out of town. My dad LOVED trains, so this was just the icing on the cake for me. It is good knowing that his ashes are resting in such a perfect place for him.

Over the next week I'll be posting pictures both past and present. I learned things over the long weekend that I want to share.

Posting From Colorado

My father was laid to rest today in Grand Junction, Colorado. We expect the headstone to arrive in 3-4 months. Teddy Bear and I are slowly heading back to California, and we should be home by Sunday night. Thanks for all the good wishes and such.

Road Trip

Tired of seeing my nekkid ass yet? I didn't think so! Well, I'm off to Grand Junction. Colorado on Thursday to bury my father in his hometown. I'll be back on Sunday evening. I may post on the road, it depends on how I feel. Wish me luck and send good thoughts my way please, I'm trying not to be a crying wreck but this really sucks ass.

Drugs, Life and Rest in Peace

It seems like I've been talking a lot about drugs lately. To some, it may seem that I'm a proponent of massive drug use for recreational fun and games. Actually, I'm not. I'm a proponent of drug use for recreation just like some people will have a beer or three with friends. Things like an occasional vicodin or smoking a bowl are fine with me. I see no difference between that and alcohol. They're all drugs, only some are more socially acceptable.

A few posts back I showed a picture of my prescription drug stash. Although 5% of me thinks "FABULOUS! PAINKILLERS! WHEEEEE!" the rest of me is saddened. I take Rx drugs for my asthma, my allergies, my anxiety/depression, my pain, my energy level and to sleep. Most of it is FMS-related. If I could pop a vicodin or tramadol to get a buzz once in a while I would be happy as a clam at high tide. Which, if you are curious, is the full expression. "Happy as a clam" by itself has no meaning, but a clam at high tide is a happy one, indeed. (Clam digging is done at low tide) Back to my story.

I don't take vicodin or tramadol or anything else at this point in my life to get high. I take them to function and I hate it. I've added some natural vitamins and supplements in the hopes of reducing the more harmful drugs, but at this point there are layers and layers of drugs and side effects and drugs to counter the side effects and sometimes at night I wonder to myself, "Am I lost in all this? Who am I, really? Without any drugs, who is Sam?"

A major part of the problem is that I'm in a bad place right now mentally. I've been out of work since the beginning of March. While Chicken loves me being at home and I love being there when he walks home from school, not working equals not paying off the debt I have accrued. And... no babies for Sam until my debt is greatly reduced. What? That tick-tock you just heard? That was my biological clock telling me my next birthday is number 34.

Also, Teddy Bear and I are heading to Grand Junction, Colorado in three weeks to bury my father. Before he died, we talked about his wishes and he wanted to be cremated and buried in the Veteran's State Cemetery in his home town. Although I could have let the funeral home ship his cremains to Colorado, I wanted to bring him myself. I want to visit his home town and hopefully meet cousins that I didn't know existed. I find myself a year and a half after his death picking out a headstone and making arrangements and it's all so horrible.

Which leads back to the drugs. FMS is very, extremely, terribly linked to your state of mind. Stress and depression worsen symptoms, which worsen depression, which creates a downward cycle of suckage. I want off the meds, I want a job, I want to stop crying over my father. I want to take a vicodin to go WHEEEE!! and not to stop the throbbing pain. I want a baby. Is there a world where all those things can happen? I hope so.

PS Funny post below. Sorry for the melancholy.

Bits of Fluff

Well yesterday sucked rather huge donkey balls in my opinion. Chicken had a splendid day, however I spent much of it in bed miserable/crying. My resolution for next Father's Day is to NOT be in the throes of PMS while trying not to miss my father terribly. The two do not mix well, shaken or stirred.

My father's senior picture, class of 1960. TB took one look at that picture and said, "No, you don't look anything like your dad" in his most sarcastic tone of voice.


In better news, last week my Chicken finished elementary school. In August he will become a big, bad sixth grader in middle school. I can only hope and pray that he is not scarred by middle school the way that most of us were. Goddamn that period of time sucks ass.

Ready for a short Chicken story? Yeah, I knew you would be! Well TB's stepbrother just spent a little time in a place we like to call prison. He got out yesterday, Chicken flew to Quantico, Virginia today, so the two missed meeting each other. Chicken knows that Stepbro came home a few months ago only to wind up back in the pokey within two weeks. He's not violent or anything, he just has a love affair with meth that is a tad unhealthy and tends to make him do stupid things. Like driving a motorcycle while high on meth and using his phone to text a friend. One trip to the emergency room later, Stepbro's knee will never be the same and his bike was totaled. Can't blame a guy for taking multi-tasking to the extreme, can you?

I jest, but yes I understand that for some people drugs are a serious problem and can result in very bad things happening to innocent people. That's not the point of this story. I just realized that you needed background because what are Sam's Stories without a fuck ton of digression?

So...Stepbro is stuck out in the middle of buttfuck Eqypt without transportation or the Internets at the moment. He texts TB :Hi it's Stepbro. Bring ME PORN!" Being the loving brother that TB is, he starts transferring a gig of porn onto a thumb drive for his porn-deprived brother. He also briefly considers loading up a bunch of gay porn because he's just fucked up that way and that's one of many reasons why I love him.

How does this relate to Chicken? Chicken called me as his plane was taxiing (is that how it's spelled?) to the terminal in Washington D.C. and I told him that Stepbro texted TB. I asked Chicken what three words he thought were texted after the "Hi it's Stepbro"... his answer "I'm in jail" HAHAHAHA When I tried to tell Chicken what the message really was, he was having trouble hearing me, he thought I said "corn" instead of "porn". Can you imagine a 10 year old on a plane saying "corn? he wanted corn? oh PORN! I get it, he wanted PORN!" I love my kid so much, I don't know what I am going to do without him this summer. Which reminds me, Chicken's new school gives actual grades (A,B,C,D,F) instead of random number and shit for grades. On the last day of school I get his first real report card. Straight A's bitches!!!

I Miss Him

One year ago today I lost my father. I think I am starting to heal. More to come...