Mah Dirty Bewbies

I yelled at my husband tonight because I am a douche bag*. I am seriously frustrated at just about everything for no apparent good reason. It's probably just the hormones. We need to talk about breastfeeding before I cut someone. Egg is still nursing up a fucking storm, yo*. I finally got my first postpartum period less than two weeks ago. That's right, bitches. Just a few days shy of a whole year of no ragging*. I'm damn happy about that, let me fucking tell you. What that means for those of you that haven't nursed in every possible location in southern California for a year is that Egg is still getting 95% of his daily caloric intake from mah bewbies. And yes, I do realize that for some people,*  nursing full time does not stop their Aunt Flo from visiting. I got lucky, I admit it. On the other hand, I am at the point where I would like for Egg to eat some damn food already. Food that does not come from mah nipples.

My goal in breastfeeding was to nurse until Egg's first birthday. After that I wanted to continue if Egg and I still wanted it. I did not expect to pass Egg's first birthday (Jan. 20) still nursing around the clock, literally. A good night is when Egg wakes up every 3 hours to nurse. I don't even want to talk about a bad night. But the thing is, I don't really mind getting up and feeding him. It takes about ten minutes, he goes right back to sleep and so do I. I still take naps with him in the morning to make up for the loss and generally I am doing okay. A big part of my ability to get up every night is based on how Egg is during the day.

My kid is awesome. He has the best disposition EVAR. People comment everywhere we go on how happy and friendly he is, they surmise that he is a "good" baby. And damn he really is just that. He's happy and chillin' and starting to become funny and totally goofy. It makes it easy to get up at night when your baby is just so damn wonderful all day long. He will crawl off to his room, grab a few books and read to himself. I can see him from the living room, but he is content. By himself. In his room. It has taken Chicken THIRTEEN MOTHERFUCKING YEARS to get to that point. Not that I'm comparing them or anything. *smirks*

Now, I offer Egg food. He got over pureed baby food rather quickly and only eats regular food. Sometimes he will eat a decent amount of food. Sometimes he chews it, seems to enjoy it, and then spits it out. Other times he just isn't interested. If I was so inclined, I suppose I could forcibly wean Egg and the ensuing hunger would push him to eat more and then sleep better with a tummy filled with steak and potatoes. However, I am not really interested in pushing him to eat food on my time line.

If he wants to nurse then I'm going to let him nurse. If that means that I get up every three hours all night long, then that's what I do. I will offer him food and let him go at his own pace. I'll enjoy his sunny personality all day long. Here's what I need from you: any and all suggestions related to nursing, sleep, and food with the following exceptions: I'm not going to let him cry it out at night, I'm not going to wean him before he is ready. I waited so long for Egg and I know that in a heartbeat he'll be a teenager, rolling his eyes at me. (I mean I REALLY know that for a fact.)

I don't mind the getting up at night. I'm just so fucking over people telling me that if he ate more food then he would sleep. Maybe he would, but I'm not going to force it on him. And maybe he wouldn't. Some babies sleep through the night at six weeks old and I bet they aren't eating steak and potatoes for dinner. Or maybe they are and that's what I'm doing wrong. What the fuck do I know?

*I'm looking at you, The New Girl. Not that you're a douche bag. You know what I'm talking about, yo.

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.

Fifi Daisy Ninjamouse

Spring of 2007 we had a snake named Wesson, and we were living with TB's father and step-mom and littlest sister. My FIL and Little SIL are deathly afraid of snakes, so when Wesson went missing we searched high and low and didn't tell anyone that he was gone. Wesson left behind what was to be his meal, a white feeder mouse that cost a dollar. Although he had tried to eat her, even going as far to grab her and coil around her body, she used her ninja powers and escaped death. We decided that any mouse that can ninja out of a certain munching should be allowed to live, and we bought her a cage. For a few months she lived in the garage in a cage, a cage that she was capable of popping out of at any time.

We would find little clues (I'd rather call them clues than mouse shit) that told us where the mouse was going in the garage, but she always came back to her cage. I assumed that one day she would be gone, living in the wilds of suburbia. When week after week passed and still the little ninja mouse remained we named her Fifi Daisy Ninjamouse. Chicken preferred Daisy, I preferred Fifi, and we all agreed on Ninjamouse. Eventually we bought her a nice cage, and when we left my FIL's house she came with us.

Fifi Daisy Ninjamouse was a badass motherfucker. When a cat would bat at the cage she would push out her chest as if to say, "Fuck you, you stupid fucking cat. I survived the coils of a snake and I can kick your balloon-knot ass." During cage cleanings she would go into her ball, rolling around the house. Frequently she would knock the door to her ball open and run out, cats quick behind her. Reina caught her more than once, and we had to pry Fifi out of her mouth. Fifi would turn back, glare at Reina and flip her the bird. Or at least that's what it looked like to me.

In the last month Fifi went from super plump to sadly skinny. She stopped the incessant running on her wheel. I knew that her time was near. We were out of small animal bedding and I just knew that the instant we bought bedding and cleaned her cage she would die. On Sunday we bought bedding, and Chicken put her in the clear ball. She just sat there, not moving. I pulled her out of the ball, and held her in my hand as Chicken continued to clean. She gasped for each breathe, curled up in my hand and shook. Poor girl.

I told Chicken to say his goodbyes, I told TB that the end was near. I held her, talked to her, told her that it was okay and she was safe. Thirty minutes later, she died in my hand. Fifi wasn't a cuddly pet, she didn't do any tricks, but she was a ninja and we loved her. She could have left her cage and walked away at any time, but she chose to stay with us. Goodbye Dear Friend!

Yo, Muthafucka

I really wish I could do something for you all, my bloggy readers of awesomeville. I'm not too big on the hugging, but maybe I can take you out for coffee to show my appreciation? I'll have mine decaf as I'm still nursing up a motherfucking storm, but we'll chat and I'll express how much you totally fucking rule. All of you, with the ruling and such. If you have any big ideas about how I can hand out innernet hand jobs, just let me know!

I meant to get back to you all sooner, but someone decided to get sick (for reals) for the very first time. Egg is two weeks shy of nine months (how the FUCK does time fly like that?) and he has previously only a mild case of yucky nose to his name. This time, he is SICK people. The kind that you can smell when you walk into his room. His ass is en fuego. This is the first time I have looked around at the hordes of dirty cloth diapers and wished for disposable diapers. The kind that don't require the parent to relive that time when you were in the middle of a diaper change and your baby started peeing and you gasped (YAY! Pee = not dehydrated!!) and then he got upset and started to cry and the force of the cry pushed GREEN watery shit out of his butthole (which you had the privilege to watch) all over the diaper cover and beyond in a foot-long streak of green POO. So. Much. Poop.

Tuesday I took him to the doctor because 102+ fever and a shit-ton of nasty green poo had me stressed out and worried. The doctor said "Must give Pedialyte!" and told me to watch out for dehydration, nurse him as much as possible, etc. Apparently, Pedialyte is on Egg's list of Things That Make Me Hurl so now I had a baby that was shitting green, foamy, water and hurling all over me. I decided that throwing up the two drops of Pedialyte plus all the breast milk I made FROM FUCKING SCRATCH, PEOPLE was not going in the direction of dehydration avoidance. I then tried Gatorade (barf) and Sprite (vomit). No dice, yo.

Egg will take breast milk from the source and very thin rice cereal mixed with breast milk. If I make it too think, he pukes. If I give him too much, he pukes. Luckily, I have both those things, but my Lord my bewbies are tired. Did I mention the biting? And the comfort nursing, which I can do ALL DAY if need be but BITING? I've been bit THREE FOUR times today. Yesterday he left dents in my nipple, two little straight lines from his two bottom teeth. I suppose I should be happy that he hasn't drawn blood. Yet.

In the hours since I began this post, I have put Egg to bed. Ninety minutes later he woke up crying, diaper change, attempt at nursing, more diarrhea, diaper change during which he shit MORE. A successful nursing session, another bite to lefty, sound asleep and put to bed again. Two minutes later he puked, unprovoked, a full stomach of milk all over himself, the sheets, etc. Another load of laundry, another nursing session to refill the tummy. He's back in bed now, it's 10:30pm and I am torn between getting into bed and staying up later. The instant I fall asleep he'll be up again. Shit. Literally.

Hey! What an exciting post, huh? Barfing and shitting and boring OH MY. So sorry, better luck next time. Cross your fingers, I hope Egg feels better soon. And stops BITING THE BEWBIES.

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.

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Lazy Assed Blogger

Because I haven't posted this month and I'm a total fucking asshole I am posting an email exchange. Not even new, original material here at Sam's place. However, I have recently returned several emails that were months old, so there's that. And, Egg is six months old today. Can you believe that shit? I'm not sure how it happened, but I have a sitting up baby that interacts with you and plays with eats toys.

In other news, I am house sitting for someone right now. Or animal sitting? Which is the one where you have something furry squirming under your ass making a strangled mewing sound? That one. So the animal I am watching (in his home) is a cat. A terribly lovable cat that I call Rex Roofer. His first name is Rex, and to protect his anonymity I can't tell you his last name. But it isn't Roofer. So Rex Roofer is awesome. He loves me, and purrs and lets me pick him up and cuddle him. He's usually an indoor/outdoor cat, and even when he is outside he comes to me meowing and wanting love.

During this cat sitting gig he is stuck inside. This is pissing him off A LOT. I can tell this by two things: he pissed all over the kitchen rug, and he fucking attacked my left leg tonight when I tried to leave. When I say attacked, I don't mean rubbed up against me purring and meowing with a silky soft touch. I mean he ran up to my leg, grabbed it with his front paws, claws extended and into my flesh while his fucking mouth opened wide and he bit my fucking calf. With his teeth. Drawing a bit of blood in four places if you include the claw marks. Dude. It sucked. I am not wearing shorts over there again. Tomorrow I am wearing an old pair of jeans and possibly bringing Reina with me. Because that bitch hates him.
She sits at the window, waiting for him. When Rex is sighted, she runs from window to window, following him and losing her shit. One night he came up to the front door and I was dumb enough to open it. A white-hot ball of fury named Reina chased poor Rex Roofer's ass down my front walk to the grass and then I'm pretty sure she yelled, "And fucking stay off my lawn, motherfucker!" I'm not sure why she hates him so much, but she's an angry bitch that I wouldn't cross.

Now, for the email exchange that you have been anxiously awaiting for the last two minutes. Unless you're a slow reader. Then ten minutes. Whatever. The first email isn't very funny. But the second is, I promise.

Jenny,

I was reading Good Mom/Bad Mom because I read all of your writing that I can get my greedy little hands on when I noticed that you took a picture of your daughter and niece while at Rosa's. Which is AWESOME because I love Rosa's and had dinner there tonight. Except probably not at your Rosa's because I live in Southern California. You are probably saying, "Big fucking whoop" because there are about 15 Rosa's in Texas. However, there is only ONE Rosa's in California. And I eat there. My baby fucking loves their cups because of the colors and he knows that crack cocaine lives inside them. We call it Diet Coke but he knows better. I have one question for you, if you can answer (please oh please) during your *cough* free time? Okay, never mind. I am a douche canoe. But! I will pose the question and if you should choose to answer, it is up to you. But I will be dying to know the answer and the guilt just may consume you. GUILT! Here it is: Is the ice at YOUR Rosa's as wonderful as the ice at my Rosa's? Because everyone loves it.

Thank you in advance for your awesomeness,

Sam

PS If you were wondering, flexeril does make one loopy and impedes the writing process. Also, I think I should refrain from emailing while relaxed in such a manner.

---

The Response:

I actually traveled 9 hours to get to that Rosa's because I love it so
much and the ice is fucking AMAZING. It's like rabbit poop if the rabbits
were angels.

~Jenny

---

I've never connected rabbit shit to the ice at Rosa's but she got it EXACTLY right. The Bloggess is The man. Or The woman. Whatever. She's so The that she transcends gender.

Procrastination

Procrastination is the beginning of many posts for bloggers I am willing to bet. I am currently procrastinating dealing with PAPERWORK. Oh how I fucking hate dealing with the mound of papers, most of which will end up in recycling anyway. Why they can't get their on their own I have no clue. Papers be gone!

Since we are here enjoying a stolen moment, I'd like to talk about May. Specifically why I only posted one single fucking time in May. Yes, it was partially Egg and taking care of the house, but mostly it was because I had something so big in my head that I couldn't think of anything else. And yet I wasn't sure if I could write about this thing. You know how Dooce once said that eventually the one person that you don't want to read your blog will read it? I was worried about my step-mother-in-law, (we'll call her Smile because I am awesomely creative) reading my blog if I talked about what was happening. And then I finally came to terms with the fact that I needed to talk about it. I need advice and support and whatever you dear readers can provide. Because this shit is driving me nuts.

Teddy Bear has a step-brother that is twenty-five years old and he has a drug problem. The kind of drug problem that lands him in jail more than he is out of jail. He overdoses, drives under the influence, steals, lies, passes out naked in various inappropriate places (seriously, this guy LOVES to get high and nude). His mother (Smile) and step-father (TB's bio dad) support him. He gets money for food, a place to live, a used car every 6 months or so (they get impounded eventually), and had not yet been forced to get a full-time job and clean up his act. He has had issues his whole life. And he has relied on his mother taking care of him his whole life. I don't think he is a bad person, I just think he is missing something that drives people to grow up and be sober.

Most of the time StepBro isn't an issue-he is in jail. But when he is out of jail TB and I avoid going to Smile's house because we don't want to be around him. We managed to do this without pissing Smile off due to creative stories and a bit of old-fashioned lying. We did not want to come out and say, "Sorry! We don't want to be around your son" for fear of royally pissing her off. Well, then Egg was born. And TB's sister came into town to visit Egg. And everyone was invited to have dinner at Smile's house. We said we would certainly be there, until we found out that StepBro was fresh out of jail and at Smile's house. Fuck. We declined. The shit hit the motherfucking fan, and eventually we received a nasty letter from Smile.

We haven't gone to Smile's house since. We have said (through TB's dad) that we won't bring our children there if StepBro is there, and the response is that StepBro is always welcome at Smile's house. TB's dad is currently limited to breakfast on Saturday mornings with us, away from his home with Smile. He has said that Smile will not even look at pictures of Egg, the first grandchild and one that she loved dearly.

So! I need your comments, please n thank you. What do you think about this? TB and I want StepBro to have some number of months of sobriety behind him before we even consider bringing Egg and Chicken around him. In addition, there is a restraining order that states StepBro is not to be with his mother, step-father, or at their house. So the cops could potentially show up and arrest him for violating his probation, a situation that I do not think is one that any child should have to witness. This seriously sucks, people. It makes my head and my heart hurt.

Twatapotamus

My next door neighbor and I are getting along famously. The other day I texted her and called her a "twatapotamus" which is a combination of a pussy and a hippo. A really large pussy that is terribly lazy and floats around in the water eating lettuce. That's my neighbor. I also decided that I hate the word crotch.

I'm sorry that I forgot to post. I was so excited that I posted a real, live, post that I promptly got caught up in reading comments and yelling, "OMG I ARE A BLOGGER!!!1!1" and thus forgot that I promised to post again. Thanks for reminding me that I am LAME.

I watch way too much What Not To Wear. You know how people look at themselves in the secret footage and say, "OMG I didn't know I looked that bad?" Well I had a similar moment the other day when I received this photo from my MIL:
Although my thought was OMGTITS!! I was at a pool party/meet the baby thing in Visalia with my MIL, step-FIL, and various friends and family of that nature. With my titties going RAWR!! I wore the suit because it had the most coverage (HAHAHA) with boy short bottoms and tummy coverage. It only shows one tattoo on my back and is fairly modest. When one doesn't have nursing titties. Ooops.

But, ther than the awesome display of bewbies, isn't the picture so sweet? It was Egg's first time in the pool and he really liked it even though it was on the cool side. That boy really enjoys the water. *sigh* He's my favorite baby. I am trying to put together an Egg post for his blog since I haven't updated there in forever. FAIL.

Wanna see my frog vagina? I know you do!
Isn't it pretty? I have been going through this personal transformation where I am wanting BRIGHT and PRETTY and HAPPY colors around me. I guess it is a reflection of how I am feeling on the inside, huh? I wish my body felt the same way. My body is currently angry, hateful, and sucking ass. I'm trying to ignore it and focus on the good stuff, like SUMMER and TASTY BABY and BLOGGING!

Halp! Mah Chickens Haz Cox!!1!

Remember the chickens? And the chicken vs. bacon video I owe Kaila? Well we seem to have a bit of a problem. I've got too much cock in my house already, and now it seems that 2 out of 3 chickens aren't hens as much as fucking ROOSTERS. *sigh* I need my bloggy peeps to help me out on this one. Does anyone know of a person that would like two wonderful cocks? They are BFF's and spend all day side-by-side. But I can't have them making their cock noises at dawn every day. I'd be willing to drive them to their new home. I just can't cook them up and serve them to Chicken. We are keeping Beck and getting another hen to keep her company. She seems so sad, trailing after the two boys. GAWD. SUX. WAHHHH. Pictures for your amusement. Don't judge teh awesome backyard, it came that way and we are landscaping the front first. It's a jungle back there. A jungle full of COCK.

George!

Beck and Peck

Yet Another Letter

Dear Three Strangers,

Thanks so much for being assholes. When most of the free vagina-owning world is damn excited to see a new baby, you three pretty much suck my ass. I'd like to lump two of you together, because you said the exact same fucking sentiment: "Only XX days old and ALREADY OUT OF THE HOUSE?!?!?!" Well, ladies I have two words for you: "Fuck you." Because I don't remember being given rules about when my baby is ready to leave the house. Due to the fact that my baby is breastfed I cannot leave the house without him. So I either stay home until you deem it appropriate to leave or face your criticism of my parenting.

Guess what? My 12 year old needs to get to school five days a week and for some reason I won't let him drive himself. My car needed to pass a smog inspection by the end of January and the state of California could give a fuck if I was on my way to do it when I decided to take a detour to the hospital and have a baby instead. I have to leave the house to get shit done. I have to take the baby with me. So, in case you missed it the first time: "FUCK YOU."

To the lady that looked me up and down today while pausing at my abdomen and then giving me the death stare: "Fuck you, too." I have absolutely no control over the shape of my body at this point and if it pisses you off that I don't look like I had a baby almost two weeks ago I don't fucking care. Does it make you feel any better that I had to work for every pound gained during my pregnancy and I felt sick after almost every meal? Or how I stressed that I was hurting my baby because I couldn't gain enough weight? How about the metric fucking ton of nasty assed Ensure that I drank to load up on calories? You are a bitter, resentful hag and I can't believe that your emotions were so damn transparent. Get a fucking hold of yourself and stop being such a bitch.

Sincerely,

A Postpartum Woman That Feels a Bit Stabby Today Because You Suck

Grumble

Still knocked up.

Doctor's appointment at 3:45pm today.

Will update later.

Fucking Jinx

Remember how I was talking about being sick and back in the good ole days when bronchitis was my very best friend? I am an asshole and my lungs are making me pay for my transgressions. My OB called in antibiotics today and when TB arrived home with them I could have kissed him. Except I was too busy hacking up green shit. I know that antibiotics are not ideal when pregnant, however my asthma/pneumonia/hospitalization history dictates that I take care of my fucking lungs or they refuse to work. Supposedly, Egg needs oxygen and shit to live and when my lungs don't work, he gets all brain damagy on me. Fucking kids these days, huh?

In the State of The Uterus, my contractions are getting longer and stronger. But not closer together. I am thinking at this point that I am going to continue to dilate and efface and all that shit but not go into full-blown labor until one day I sneeze and Egg falls out of my vagina. Every time that I have the runs I think, "Maybe THIS is it! My body is clearing the way for teh bebe!" And then it turns out that my fibro/IBS hates me and likes me to spend lots of time shitting my brains out. Oh yeah, that again.

Hey? You tired of me bitching yet? Want to hear unbearable cuteness? Chicken was on my bed with Reina the Devil cat perched happily on his chest, purring away when he said, "I wish Egg was here so I could hold him instead." AWWWWWW. And then he went back to being a 12-year old asshole. Like his 34-year old asshole mother.

Fucking Douche Canoe

I went to the doctor today: No change whatsoever. Fucking over competent cervix. I haven't talked much about birthin' previous babies, but this is fairly typical for me. Chicken was induced. He came eleven damn days late. Labor was 15 hours with a shit-ton of pitocin. My first son was three days late, my water broke and then nothing so I was induced. Labor was 25 hours, ended with sky high blood pressure (mine), floundering heart rate (baby), and then an episiotomy from hell and a forceps delivery to avoid an emergency C-section. My pussy hurts just thinking about it. My cervix does not like to dilate. It is a prim flower of modesty.

I would give a more flowery birth story but right now I'm thinking that I will be pregnant forEVER. And I'm fucking tired and cranky and I want to see my kid, dammit. Also? Chicken talks more than any human being on the face of the earth. He talked to me for nine hours straight today. My brain hurts. Send reinforcements.

Theories And Size Isn't Everything

I had my regular OB appointment today, which I expected to take about 5 minutes and be completely uneventful because I am an asshole and live to jinx myself. Two things happened, one expected and the other was a total WHAT THE FUCK?! According to the in-depth ultrasound, Egg is due sooner than expected by a week or two based on size. Now, three things that go with that bit of news: I understand that ultrasounds are not an awesomely accurate predictor of size, I know my dates are not off because I know the exact weekend that I ovulated (we were charting), and lastly TB is a big boy and we've been expecting this baby to be on the big side. No surprise there at all. Baby big = no duh.

Now for the WTF news: Egg is now breech. After months of ultrasounds showing him in the proper position, some time in the last two weeks Egg decided to flip the fuck around. Now, I'm not a medical professional and I forgot to discuss this with my doctor but I have a theory here: remember when my uterus went HOLY FUCK and I was having contractions and I ended up in L&D? I believe that is when Egg was doing his in utero (sp?) escapades. My doctor did say that the large amount of amniotic fluid facilitated the flippage.

At this point, the breech thing is a wait and see. I will have another ultrasound in two weeks to check on Egg's position. If Egg doesn't flip down by week 36 (4 weeks from now) then we will sit down and discuss options. I can't imagine a large AND breech baby is going to have an easy time slip-sliding out of my va-jay-jay. *sigh* This is where I whine and cry, "I DON'T WANNA HAVE A C-SECTION AND YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"

Fucking Rock

You, dear readers fucking ROCK. I just had a very long day and topped it off by hitting something on the damn freeway with my poor car. Chicken and I are 45 minutes north of my house on the 15 and BAM! it does not sound good. I pulled over to find part of my bumper hanging out with my tire. Nice. I manage to tape it into position (because I'm fucking handy like that) and get back on the road, where I notice that I must have sustained exhaust damage because my car sounds a little more burly than any stock Honda Civic should. F.U.C.K. So I'm stressed, driving in the slow lane going 60ish (the speed limit is 70 and thank you seventy hundred cars up my ass, I know I'm going SLOW. MY CAR IS BROKEN FUCK YOU VERY MUCH). Where was I? Oh yes. Upset. Come home. Exhausted. Open up laptop and read my wonderful comments from today. I totally love you guys. Thank you for making me smile, making me laugh, being supportive when my mom sucks ass, and generally just making my day. You fucking rock.

Update: TB took a look under my hood (heh heh), and I cracked my exhaust manifold. Fuuuuuck. For those of you that aren't mechanic types, this is not good. There may be more damage, but that combined with the body damage turns a "Teddy Bear can fix it" into a "how much is my car insurance deductible again?" type of problem. Although I am sure that the two of us can fix it, the time, money and effort involved will exceed my deductible. Even if the monetary cost is slightly lower than the deductible, right now we need to concentrate on finishing the house and preparing for a baby-not working on my fucking car. But guess what? I hit something on the freeway and everyone is okay. *repeat as needed*

Labor & Delivery Visit #1

Yesterday I hit 31 weeks and had a very stressful day which led to me sitting in Teddy Bear's truck crying my fool eyes out while Teddy Bear and Chicken said their goodbyes to my extended family. I would have given my own goodbye but mine would have sounded like, "You fucking suck" which I have heard is frowned upon in polite society.

I traveled to San Diego to visit my mother, her two sisters, one of her brothers, her cousin, her aunt and various cousins. Most of them live out of town/state so it was a nice gathering. I told myself that I would not stress about the food situation and would simply run out to get something Sam friendly (wheat free and lowish carb) when the time for dinner came. Yes, my family seems unable to take my wheaty status into consideration EVER. When the dinner menu was brought up Teddy Bear and I just laughed. Sandwiches, lasagna, raviolis, pizza, kibbe, and salad. For those of you that aren't Lebanese, kibbe is essentially raw lamb, spices, and bulgur wheat. Yes, my mom's family is Lebanese. You might have wondered where my stunning ability to tan hails from, no?

Well, dear readers, the menu choices left me with salad. Fucking salad. Which my mother reiterated no less than four times throughout the afternoon when she caught Teddy Bear and I laughing over the menu. "But SALAD! Don't forget the SALAD! You can eat the SALAD!" she cried. When the time came for dinner, Teddy Bear and I popped over to a local tree-hugger store (Henry's) and found a terribly crappy selection of frozen gluten-free meals. Most of the Henry's that I visit have a much better selection, but whatever. I'm fucking pregnant and hungry. We bring the meal back, heat it up and I eat with my family.

The frozen dinner was 90% white rice and 10% chicken, which meant that I added some cheese, ate all the chicken, a few bites of rice and handed it over to TB. I figured I could eat some salad and not fuck with my blood sugar by gorging on simple carbs. Look at me being responsible! I walk over to the salad, see a box of croutons and poke around in the bowl for a moment. Can't be too careful, right? Guess what I find? CROUTONS! In the FUCKING SALAD! YAY ME! I return to the table, let Teddy Bear know what happened and try to be cool. Stay cool, Sam. Don't worry! You can eat another time! Or you can go cry in the truck!

Guess what I did? I cried and cried and it sucked. Chicken and TB came out to the truck, I cried some more and then they took me home. Or, almost home. Because at some point I started having contractions that left me dizzy, gasping, and grabbing for something to squeeze really hard. And thus we headed for L&D, where I knew that an hour's observation would lead to a complete stop of the contractions and a big ole jug of water to consume. Now I have my very own big ole jug to fill with tasty things like VODKA and TEQUILA or maybe just water.

I got to hear Egg's heartbeat thumpy thumping away, listen to him kick the shit out of the heartrate monitor and lay in an uncomfortable hospitable bed while Chicken tried to amuse me. I also learned that hospitals = very bad memories for Sam and I would like to avoid them at all costs in the future. Remember that time my dad set himself on fire (accidentally) and I spent three weeks in the burn unit with him? Oh. Maybe I forgot to tell you about that one. Next post? Deal.

I Suck And I Don't Even Finish You Off

Have you ever been in a relationship where you know the guy/gal is an asshole/cuntface but you hang in there because you think you might be overreacting/PMSing/etc until one day your best friend says, "Friend, your other half is an asshole cuntface and you need to get the fuck outta there." All of a sudden it hits you that AssholeCuntface is truly a crappy person and even though you KNEW this all along it still stings a bit? That is where I am right now. Except instead of AssholeCuntface I have The Body of Lameness.

I went to my chiropractor last week for the usual massage/adjustment, hobbling in and hobbling out. I don't tend to bitch to my Chiro unless he asks in his subtle way: "WTF happened to you?!" although it is always kind and humorous and with out the word FUCK because he is LDS (Mormon) all the way, yo. This time he asks me how I am doing and I laughed and said that TB was talking about the NEXT baby and I was laughing ho ho ha ha and Dr. Chiro says, "Um, you might want to give your body a rest. If you want another baby I'd look into adoption." This coming from someone that knows my body and is totally pro-baby was like the best friend saying, "Leave AssholeCuntface NOWS."

I know that my body is fuct. I know that every step (literally) hurts. But to have someone say to me "don't do this again" hurts and I'm still reeling from it. When the fibromyalgia hit in 2000 and continued to kick my ass year after year one thing I clung to was my reproductive system. Sure, I wasn't actually using it or anything but SOME DAY! I would carry a baby and it would be grand. My two previous pregnancies were easy and delightful. This one? Not so much. The baby that I've wanted for ten years is hanging out in my cooterus and I am in so much pain. I hate this. I hate that my body is so fucking lame. I am holding onto the fact that in three months I will have a baby. It is the only thing that helps me hobble out of bed in the morning.

Bitchin' Camaro

Her Bad Mother has two blogs. A traditional blog and a blog where people come to anonymously complain about whatever ails them. For the first time ever, Catherine has engineered Betchfest, a glorious time where bloggers swap stories and blogs in a convoluted, no tracking possible manner. Or at least we all hope so! The following Bitch is from anonymous, please shower her with love and affection.

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Sam told me that she is "fairly profane on a regular basis" and so I could betch about anything I wanted to on her blog. So I'm going to betch about sex. Namely, reminding husband that a vibrator is not a fucking light saber. Nice and goddamn easy Mr. Skywalker.

I brought this toy into the marital session because one of the side effects of antidepressants is that you shower. The other side effect is that even though your lady bits smell clean as a whistle you have no desire to use them. So out comes that hot pink, hard plastic vibrator you bought from the mall's gag gift store. (Because if you actually brought out the one that you plugged in husband's nuts would retract.) And you start getting down to business time again.

At first husband's all suspicious of the plastic. Then he realizes that you can now have an orgasm every time that the two of you get it on. Look out. And as time goes by the line between the trembling plastic goodness and his skill as a lover gets blurred. He forgets that it's actually the $14.99 vibe that you got there, and just remembers that you did it. While he was in the bed with you.

Which is awesome. He feels great. You feel great. Everybody feels great. And the neighbors are totally weirded out by the fact that every Friday and Wednesday night this strange vvvvvvvv-va-vvvvvvvvvvvvvv sound emanates from your bedroom window. But then husband's got to get all artsy with the damn thing. Dude. It buzzes. You place it on the spot. Wait a couple of minutes and ba-da-boom. You don't need to twist, jam or rub the thing against my crotch like you're trying to start a fire.

And do you understand how a see saw works? If you press one side down, the other side goes up. So when you see me approaching my wifely moment, throwing your body down on top of me causes the vibrator to lift off of the magic spot. Killing the moment, and making us start over. Then you do it again. So on the third go round I have to pretend like I'm not about to blow when the moment approaches so you don't bruise my crotch bone and stop the fun.

And lastly, additional hands, mouth and so on are more than welcome. I'll bake a cake just to let you know how welcome they all are. But sword fighting the vibrator with your dick is beyond frustrating. I can tell the difference between the vibe and your wiener. Primarily, because as lovely as your cock is, it doesn't vibrate. So trying to pull the old switcheroo midway through isn't going to work. Kay?

This is anonymous right? If you figure out who the author of this sex small talk is, pretty please keep it to yourself. Husband reads email, and reads comments on my blog. If he finds out about this I fear our household will suddenly run out of all AA batteries.

Thanks, and keep on keeping on.

Total Dick Move

Teddy Bear is in Alabama right now. We were talking on the phone when he mentioned plans to have Ruth's Chris for dinner. Fucking asshole. Then he started to ask me for advice regarding taking a nap before dinner. WHAT THE FUCK ASSHOLE?! Like sleeping and Ruth's Chris aren't two of the most awesome things in the world and my ass is stuck driving to my mother's to attend a candle party this evening. I can't even drink to dull the pain, fuckwad. My response to Teddy Bear:

"I would rather you say that you are going to a dirty whore house and get your dick sucked than going to Ruth's Chris after taking a fucking nap you asshole. That would be more acceptable in my opinion."

Fucker.

Wow

I just returned from a dinner at someone's home. Want to know how it went? I'll give you the quote of the evening and you can guess how my stomach feels at this point, okay?

"There is flour in bread crumbs?" (No, I did not eat the bread crumbs, it is a long story and I don't feel like telling all of it.)

I am used to telling people that I can't eat wheat and then they reply, "But it is WHITE bread" and then I sigh and explain that white bread is made with bleached wheat flour. Or I ignore them and carry on because you can only educate people with actively functioning brains. It happens all the time. But how can you explain to someone that there is flour in bread crumbs without bashing your own head against a wall?

My name is Sam and I am intolerant to wheat. And people.

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.

My Body is Lame But in a Good Way

I feel like pregnant shit and my fibromyalgia is again somewhat quiet. YAY! I'm going to wait until Wednesday (my regularly scheduled 1st ob appt) to find out if things are still...alive and such. Until then I am putting my damn head in the sand, clicking my heels together and chanting, "There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's..."

Update, Now With Moar Pussy

(see previsou post if you are thinking to yourself, "what the fuck?")

TB called the doctor's office (because I chickened the fuck out) and spoke with the nurse. She poo pooed my concerns which I am sure only helps my not looking like a crazed pregnant woman, right? They couldn't get me in today and the nearest Urgent Care doesn't have the capability to do an ultrasound. I am NOT hanging out in the ER today. Do you want to know the really helpful comment that the nurse made to my husband? "Well, it is not that uncommon to see a reduction in symptoms during a heat wave when the hormonally crazed pregnant woman becomes a little dehydrated."

So don't worry! EXCEPT I would have no fucking idea if we are having a heat wave because I've been at home on my ass for days and it isn't hot in here. Also? We have plenty of liquids in the house because we're super awesome like that. Therefore, the super helpful nurse advice is a great big fucking non-example. SUPER.

Teddy Bear isn't worried because no bleeding = perfectly fine, right? Ha ha ha. Also, something of interest to those in the know...TB commented last night that the pregnancy book for guys that he is reading (which is a piece of shit in my opinion) doesn't have a section for helping your mate deal with miscarriage. Or anything about miscarriage. Really? Books ignoring miscarriage? NO?!?

So that's that. Oh wait! A funny for you. Chicken had a comment about Riverside County and Temecula that made me cackle. I need me some cackle, people.

"Temecula is the pussy of Riverside County. It's the only good part."

What The Shit

I will be eight weeks on Sunday. How's it going, you ask? Well, here is a breakdown:

Pregnancy symptoms: gone
Fibromyalgia: back in full swing

Tell me this is perfectly normal and that I don't need to freak the fuck out. Oh, nevermind. I have already done the freaking the fuck out. I will be calling the doctor in the morning and politely requesting verification of live and appropriately sized embryo immediately. I just don't feel right, and waiting until next week to go to my regularly scheduled appointment is NOT going to happen. I can't bring Teddy Bear to the first appointment to see a dead baby. I just can't.

Pretty Please with Teddy Bear on Top

Apparently wordpress has this neat-o feature where the day that you get the most blog visits is plastered all the fuck over your personal dashboard under the heading "The Best Day Ever." One would likely get super excited and jump up and down while peeing a little because BEST. DAY. EVAR!!! Except when that day is the day that the innernets is trying to console you because you lost the second of your very new twins. This is a very long-winded way of saying, "Go HERE now" and change a blogger's best day ever.*

*This offer is only valid on May 29, 2008. No refunds will be accepted.

The Dress

Recently Teddy Bear and I spent the weekend in Santa Barbara for a fancy work retreat. I would be meeting many people in TB's company for the first time, as well as some old family friends that I had not yet met. It was important for the two of us to make a good impression. TB wants to continue to do well at his company and follow his father's footsteps as a Big Boss. Yes, this post is really fucking dull but it will get better soon. I promise. Just remember-weekend important.

To get ready for the weekend, I hogtied TB and drug him to Nordstrom to get a nice jacket, shirt, tie, slacks, belt, shoes, etc. We also got haircuts (& color for me), and I got my eyebrows ripped off/waxed. I also found an awesome dress on sale for less than thirty bucks. THIRTY BUCKS!! While at the hotel I had my fingers and toes painted by the nicest girl. We were ready rock out with our cocks out, people. Or, jamming with my clam out. I do not own a cock. You know what I mean.

I returned to the hotel room at 5:30pm. The social hour began at six, followed by dinner at seven. At five minutes before six, with my hair, make-up, special undies, shoes, blah blah blah all ready I reached for my dress hanging in the closet. Except the dress was hiding from me. So I looked a little harder. I had TB look for the dress. And guess fucking what? IT WAS NOT THERE. I had left the dress at home. WHAT THE FUCK?!

I was torn between sitting naked on the bed crying, wearing something totally inappropriate or running around naked screaming. Normally the crying would not be a viable option, however the next day I found out I was pregnant. Duh! Stupid hormones and being a girl. After some whirlwind deliberate I ran to The Nail Girl (in my heels and yes I did throw a shirt and jeans on) and begged her for help. Sweaty, panting and distraught. Her first question was, "Do you want me to run home and get you a dress?" Uh, no crazy chick. Do I look like I feel that entitled? Okay, I guess I look like a nut job.

I wanted a place to find a dress and NOW. Her friend said the magic words, "Oh, there is a Nordstrom on State Street" and I almost went down on her. Well, in retrospect yes, but at the time I was a bit stressed and she wasn't very cute. I hopped in the car with shaky directions and a general idea of where I needed to go. Downtown Santa Barbara on a beautiful Saturday at 6pm. I was fucked.

Did I ever mention how much I hate parking garages? When my dad was in the burn unit in Salt Lake City for several weeks I had to deal with a parking garage every fucking day. I got less nervous about it with the much-needed practice but now instead of making me anxious it reminded me of a very crappy time in my life. Remember the new (to us) car? I haven't driven a manual transmission full time since 1999. Now add the two together, throw in a little OHMYFUCK, a pair of heels and you have Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

I parked, ran up stairs, down stairs, and down a city block. In a heatwave. Luckily I have an amazing sense of direction even though my short-term memory sucks due to the fibro. Don't even ask me how I managed to physically get through it, it must have been the adrenaline. I showed up in the proper department of Nordstrom and found a very nice sales lady who helped me find a dress and purchase it in less than ten minutes. Not just any dress, it was exactly what I was looking for AND it wasn't a fuckton of money AND it fit. I was so damn happy I could have hugged the sales lady. But of course I didn't because I don't like people enough to TOUCH them.

By the way, if you live within driving distance of a Nordstrom and have not experienced the joy of shopping there-you must try it. It is not cheap, but if you are a total dumb ass and cannot pick out clothes to save your life it is worth it. You can show up and say, "I am looking for such and such for this occasion" and they will find it. And then alter it free of charge (if you pay full price,with sale items you have to pay extra), and steam it if applicable. If I could afford to only shop there all the time I would. By the way, the dress was only $138. Not bad for a "oh fuck I need something NOW" dress and much cheaper than a boutique would have been.

I bought the dress, took off the heels and ran back to the car. I didn't get stuck on any one way streets, only broke the speed limit a little bit, and ran one light that was pink, I swear. No, there were no other cars in the area, I wasn't trying to kill anyone. I made it to the dinner about five minutes after seven, looking fantastic, cool, calm, and collected. I was a rockstar.

Of course, Teddy Bear decided that telling a person or twelve that I wasn't at the social hour becuase I was off buying a dress to replace the one I forgot wasn't the most awesome idea. Those people decided it was a good idea to tell other people about the fiasco. Can you imagine walking into a room of two hundred plus people and having a large percentage of them staring at you and checking out your dress? And then commenting on it during any conversation with you for the rest of the night? I was a wee bit mortified. At least I wasn't running around naked and screaming.

Touch A Damn Dick

Dear Fuckers *ahem* Lovely Readers,

I spent MANY seconds updating my template and installing Twitter in order to better serve you, the non-paying customer. However, at this time TWO (2) of you have commented-stifling my ability/desire/what the fucking ever/etc. to respond to you. You suck my ass. All of you. Ass suckers. For your transgressions, I have a video for you to enjoy.


This is what happens when you ask Google to search for "suck ass".

Love,

Sam

Pharmacy

I was at the pharmacy earlier today and I needed to talk to the pharmacist about cutting Lunesta in half. I am weaning myself of most of my medications and Lunesta is one that I have saved until the last friggin' minute. I love sleeping and my FMS sucks my ass when it comes to the ability to sleep. *sob* Oh Lunesta. I big fluffy heart you!

Where was I? I was talking to the pharmacist and my phone vibrated in my pocket. Normally I would ignore it but I was in possession of three sixth-grade boys and I always answer my phone when I am talking care of someone else's monster adorable child. I go to grab my phone and the pharmacist says:

"Oh, it is Teddy Bear calling for you!"

And it was. The pharmacist knows my name and my husband's name on sight. I think I might spend too much time at the pharmacy.

With Sympathy

Teddy Bear is a Dungeons and Dragons enthusiast. I received this comment on my blog today:

Heard today that one of the creators of D&D died. Tell Teddy Bear I am sorry. I am sorry he is such a fucking DORK.

Love,

Anna

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And yes, I am totally fucking swamped with my studies. The suck ass part of my semester ends March 17. Hope to see you then!

Orientation

I went to my COE (College of Education) orientation today and something amazing happened: I received useful information. Yes, I was stunned. Then I came home and purchased over $400 worth of school books. Then I realized that my student loan money was NOT coming and the grant money would cover only books and classes. Normally, that would be a W00T for free tuition and books but NO! this is bad.

I thought I was going to get a little bit of loan money as well, and after finding out that I have to dress like a professional EVERY FUCKING DAY OF FUCKING CLASSES!!! I realized that I am in the middle of a wardrobe crisis. Fuck. I don't want to buy work clothes at this weight. I'm in the stupid in between size that I never stay at and WAAHHHH!

I hereby submit this post for the lamest ever. Please send clothes!

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.

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• 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

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...

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...

Oh Lordy!

I am fairly sure that I would like to be shot now. When I initially scheduled my visit to Doolittleville, USA it was to hang with my Cooter Pal (Teddy Bear coined that very special nickname) and to accompany her to Big University Hospital. This trip was scheduled for an appointment with a Special Doctor for the Very Small Animal AKA Eliza's youngest child. I was to attend this little jaunt for moral support and to help wrangle the Medium Animal (middle child) while Eliza was busy with the youngest.

Well, if that didn't all go to hell and back and then to hell again. Eliza went and got herself the MRSA again and the last few days have been grueling, exhausting, and very necessary. Although I would prefer a visit that included trips to a spa and plenty of naps, I am still glad to be here. My body, however begs to differ with that opinion because HOLY FUCK I am so tired and ouch and tired. The good news? If I can manage to tube feed a 2 year old, take care of a 6, 28 and 3 year old with PDD's I believe that I might be able to manage Chicken and one small newborn child if Teddy Bear and I decide to go that route. And yes, I've included Eliza in that sentence because although she is super great and I am so glad to be with her, health-wise she is FUBAR and in a slight coma off and on this week. Not a true "coma" but one in which she passes the fuck out while eating in her big comfy chair and then is not quite able to be roused for hours at a time.

If any of you read Eliza's blog and think "This girl is batshit crazy AND making shit up because no one has so much shitty shitness in their lives" you would be very wrong. I am too fucking tired to explain it all, but it involves projectile vomiting and a fever at the Big University Hospital courtesy of the Medium Animal. I am so tired. I am pretty sure that upon arriving back in California I will need to go into a slight coma of my own. Thankfully the semester is over and Chicken is fairly self-sustaining.

*No, Tobiwan, Chicken is at home.
**Erin, I am not near you and I don't have a layover near you. I'm flying through Atlanta on the way back. I'm sad, too.

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?

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

Pondering Picnics

I feel like shit. I don't talk about it very much because I try to remain positive and funny and nekkid whenever I can, but holy craptastic I am done. The fibro is kicking my ass up and down and I'm not sure why it is flared up so badly still. I understand that living with the in-laws and job hunt was stressful, but the new house (and did you appreciate the picture I posted of it? No, you didn't! buttholes!) back to school, better finances, possibly new car, possible baby-making in the new year...I should be doing better, right?

But here I am, thinking "How the fuck could I even take care of a baby in this state?" Because the pain is unrelenting and I walk like a zombie I am so stiff and sore. The supplements I take for my brain help, and I am thankful for that. Just now I couldn't remember the word for "zombie" and I asked Teddy Bear "What is the name of the thing that eats brains" and before he answered I remembered it was ZOMBIES! Yay for words.

When I forget to take my brain meds my typing goes to shit. My fingers forget where the letters are, and I type away like normal except the words look like fuckall. How can you forget how to type? I do it every day. I guess it is no different than, "How can you forget the word for 'zombie' when you were just eating brains last week?!"

I've been wandering around the blogosphere lately, and realized that there is something (else) wrong with me and I'm not sure what it is or how to fix it. I have a doctor's appointment on Monday with the Good Specialist so hopefully I can figure some things out with him. For years (or longer? decades?) I have trouble with sensory input. I thought it was simply anxiety, then I thought it was being overly sensitive (hypersensitive?), now I have no clue. Environments that are too "busy" (sight or sound) are totally overwhelming to me. I thought busy stores were overwhelming because PEOPLE! BAD! SCARY! but now I wonder if it is just too much "stuff" for me to handle.

In addition to the sights and sounds, I get too much input from people. It is hard to describe, but when people are feeling something I feel it too. Oh, I have an example: Let's say that you are with two people that are having issues with each other and no one else notices except for you. And you notice it so keenly that they might as well be shouting "I'M TOTALLY PISSED" at each other and it is painful to be around, like a mental assault. Teddy Bear used to think I was totally nuts when I first told him about it, until I started meeting his friends. After we met someone I would describe that person perfectly, with details that I got from the brief meeting. Or one of his family members would say something and I would say "But he/she really means XYZ" and I would be right. Every time.

When Teddy Bear talks to his father about something and then comes to me with the information/advice I can hear his father in his voice. It is creepy when I say "You have been talking to your father" and he says "WTF? Yes, but wtf?" He finally admitted that I just paid more attention, or was more "in tune" with shit that was going on around me. But sometimes I want to make it stop. It is too much for me to handle and maybe that is why my fibro hates me. Maybe I'm internalizing too much input. How can I be blunted to all the stuff I don't need without being blunted to my feelings for my family and ordinary things that I need to notice?

Which leads me to Xanax. I started taking Xanax two-ish years ago knowing that it was very addictive. I have a legal and legitimate prescription, I also took less than was prescribed, I didn't take it to get "wheee" but after two years I knew that my body was addicted and I can't do the baby thing loaded on Xanax. Of course, my environment is much easier to deal with when the Xanax blunts everything. I started to taper slowly off of it and the physical withdrawals sucked (hot/cold flashes, cranky, irritable, BITCHY, overwhelmed) and now I'm done and started back using in emergency, as in "I am going to fucking lose my mind" which I primarily do when I'm PMSing and otherwise I just monitor my situation (stay out of Wal-Mart on the weekends). Sorry for the run-on sentence.

Other than the Celexa, how can I manage the onslaught of sensory stuff? Part of my problem that compounds it is the fibro, which makes many physical, normal sensations (like the feeling of clothing) hurt. Add that to the internal, muscle and joint issues and cluster headaches and I would like to order a new me, please and thank you.

Also, I keep missing Eliza on Gmail chat and it is making me pouty.

Fuckity Fuck Fuckers

I have the most fabulous audio file to share with you all. Most FABULOUS. I stole borrowed it from Eliza at her Doolittle blog. So funny. Ha ha ha. Oh, I guess you want it, huh? Okay, clicky here.

Fire update: Although I was urged to "STOP, DROP AND ROLL" by the aforementioned Eliza, I have not yet begun to burn. The mountain to the south is still looking ominously BAD and SCARY but I am holding fast. I am also stuck the fuck inside the house because the last fires resulted in one Sam entering the yucky hospital with lung badness. And forevermore I shall pay more for health/life insurance because my asthma, once thought to be "just fine but a little fucked off" now is "bad enough to send one to the hospital" and therefore life-threatening and let's charge her quadruple because the Insurance Industry in the U.S. sucks my ever-loving asshole.

Reader's Digest Version: Not on fire.

Fuego!

Some of you know that when I lived in San Diego, the area that I lived in was Rancho Bernardo. You might have seen it on the news today, as the area has been evacuated. My mother (who is still living there) was evacuated at 6:00am this morning with only a change of clothes, makeup, and pictures. Personally, I would have said "Fuck the makeup" but then I'm a minimalistic bird when it comes to makeup. I am safe but stuck in the house, and I will continue to blog, post pictures and video(if I can make the video work for me). My school is shut down so now that midterms are over, I've got a bit of time on my hands.

The winds here are crazy, and this video is tame compared to earlier today and last night.

Oh yay! I've got the video up. I just walked into my backyard and took a quick video of my neighbor's trees. Chicken is in the background yelling "Hello blogland" and asking why it is so cool outside and so fucking hot inside that we had to turn on the air conditioning. I tell him that it is because the house is shut up. /end video

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.

---

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.

Holy Shit I'm Happy!

We're moving, we're moving hurray we're moving! I am so frickin' excited I can barely contain myself. We found an adorable two bedroom house less than a mile from where we are currently living and I just love it. I can't wait to have my own place. Sharing a house with another family (that happens to be your in-laws) isn't the most fun in the best of conditions. As much as I hate moving, this is going to be the first house TB and I have chosen together and I AM SO FREAKING EXCITED I WANT TO START PACKING NOW! We'll be moving around the first of September, and since most of are belongings are packed and in a storage unit, the move should be quite easy. Two bedrooms to pack up, one storage unit to empty and we're in our own home.

We plan on being there for 1-3 years, dependent on two things: When we buy a house and when I pop out a brand new munchkin for everyone to enjoy. The house is in super good condition, near Chicken's middle school (which starts tomorrow) and near all his friends from the neighborhood. The landlord couldn't be more friendly and the previous tenants kept the house immaculate. I love it!!!

Wish my Chicken luck tomorrow, as he enters the horror that is middle school. My poor baby. I wish I could go and kick the asses of everyone that bugs him. Or at least kick them in their little, snotty ankles. Bastards.

More later,

Sam The Nervous Mom The Night Before School Starts