DeadpanAnn (old blogger version)

Moving.

2009-03-02T20:18:00.003-06:00

Well, the move is underway. If you have been accessing this site at meanteacherms.blogspot.com, you will need to start using www.deadpanann.com, although deadpanann-deadpanann.blogspot.com will work, I think.

I'm talking to a chick about designing some background/headers for the new place. Until then, it's just another default Blogger template.

It's not perfect, and probably won't even come close for a while since I am getting to know the "new" Blogger. I'm used to making changes to my blog by going directly into the HTML myself. The new Blogger makes it easier to add things and move them around on the page, but I haven't figured out how to change the sizes of certain features. (My blogroll is freakin' huge right now and takes up way too much space in the sidebar for this very reason.) I'll figure it out. Until then, keep reading. That is, unless it's gotten too mundane for you.

I still love you, Anonymous, even though you cut me deep. How's that shit sandwich taste?

Enjoy.

www.deadpanann.com

Yeah, it's got a Hemi.

2009-03-02T09:50:00.007-06:00

And that's all it's got.

In December of '05, Tim bought a 2005 Dodge Magnum brand new, but not before doing tons of research. He checked out every available source of information on every imaginable detail of the vehicles he was interested in. He wanted something semi badass that would perform but get decent gas mileage. It had to look cool, it had to be American, and it had to be big. Dodge claimed that the Magnum had 340 horsepower and 390 lb ft. of torque, which is impressive when you consider that it was also supposed to get 25 mpg hwy and 17 city. It also came with a 7 year 70,000 mile bumper to bumper warranty, according to the dealer. The base price was about $30,000, but you couldn't find a "base" model. Everything on the dealers' lots had the bells and whistles: navigation system, leather, etc., and they were priced somewhere in the neighborhood of $34,000, if memory serves.

Tim hemmed and hawed so long that by the time he settled on the Magnum, it was the end of the model year. He started shopping at dealers in Mississippi and Louisiana, but most of them wouldn't come off the price of a 2005 even though the 2006's were setting on the lot already. He finally found a dealer in West Point, MS who had the exact car he wanted and agreed to sell it for $28,000. They made a deal over the phone and Tim drove to West Point the next day to pick it up.

In the first year alone, the car was in the shop two or three times. There has never been a major problem, but tons of smaller ones. The navigation system stopped working, the transmission started puking fluid, the air conditioner quit, and it turned out that the tires were defective; they wore out at 8,000 miles. The nav system, transmission problem, and a/c were all covered under warranty, and we were invited to join a class action lawsuit against the manufacturer of the tires. On top of that, the car got nowhere near the promised gas mileage, and we would know because Tim tracks it obsessively and calculates the mpg at every fill up. The best he has ever gotten was 20 mpg, and that was on the highway under perfect conditions. It was after a drive from here to Memphis with the cruise control set. Forget the mileage in the city-- it's as low as 12 sometimes, but usually averages around 16. It's hit 17 a few times.

Last week, the speedometer quit working. We also noticed that the back windows were slow to roll up, which makes no friggin' sense because they've probably not been rolled down a dozen times total. Tim took it to the dealer and dropped it off, thinking it should still be under warranty. The dealer he bought it from told him the warranty was good for 7 years of 70k miles. Turns out that too was a lie; the warranty was only for 3 years or 30k miles. It has 31k miles on it, and turned 3 years old in December. The dealer also told us it would be $752 to replace the speedometer, $300+ to fix the window motors, and that it needed a tuneup-- to the tune of another $400. The total was almost $1600 for shit that A) should've been covered by warranty and B) shouldn't have been broken in the first damn place.

When Tim first called the dealer, they told him it would be a week before they could even look at the car. Then after they called with the prognosis, the asshole literally laughed at him when he said it should be under warranty. Tim said, "So you think that shit's funny? Park my car and don't turn a wrench on it. I'm coming to get it." The dude said fine and hung up.

What a bunch of fuckshits! No wonder Chrysler is going under! When someone comes to you to spend $30,000, you can't lie to them about what they're getting and what they can expect of it, then tell them to fuck off when they show up with a problem. You NEVER hear about these sorts of problems with Toyota or Honda or other foreign cars.

As a last resort, Tim called a Chrysler complaint line. At first, the guy told him there was nothing he could do since the car wasn't under warranty. Tim asked him if he thought it was okay that he's had all these problems with the car, discovered that he's been lied to multiple times, and that he was now being told to piss off. The guy said that wasn't his judgment call to make. If it had been me on the phone, I would've told him my thoughts on Chrysler going under.

The guy finally said he'd call the dealer and see what he could do. We expected another response of the "fuck off" variety, but the dealer called back and said that if we paid up front for the repairs of the windows and the speedometer, Chrysler would send us a check for $1,000. We told them to go ahead and do the repairs, but my fear is that this too is another lie. We'll see if the check comes in the mail, but I'm skeptical.

Either way, we're done with Chrysler. And if they go under, it's because they earned it. Good riddance. Next time we buy a car, we won't sacrifice quality for loyalty.

Today is the First Day of the Next Seven Years

2009-02-27T14:15:00.005-06:00

Tim is off work on weekends now, so I have been leaving him with Charlie while I run and get groceries on Saturday mornings. Saturday shopping sucks. The stores are packed, the roads are packed, and the stuff that was on sale for the week has been picked over by then. Plus I feel like I have to hurry because Tim's at home alone with the baby, and no matter how much they love them or how badly they want to help, there's not a man on earth whose butthole does not tighten a bit at the prospect of being left alone with a baby. I decided to go to Mal Wart instead of the grocery store this week because we needed some things that only the Devil's Playground has, like a replacement for the full length mirror that I broke yesterday. This morning while Charlie was napping, I showered and got dressed, made a grocery list, and got everything ready to go so that I could put him in the car and go to Mal Wart as soon as he woke up.

Well, when he woke up, his diaper weighed at least 10 pounds. While I had his feet over his head and was wiping his butt, he pissed on himself. And by "on himself" I mean he sprayed himself in the face, hair, and all over his clothes before I could get a wipey over his winky. I know that I should know better by now and always have Mr. Winky covered, but it's hard to keep it covered while I'm cleaning up poop. He's squirming and I'm trying to keep him from completely covering himself in butt mud. I have to hold his ankles with one hand (to keep him from smearing his socks in it) and wipe with the other, and that doesn't leave any hands for putting the cloth back on Mr. Winky when he squirms this way or that and it falls off. So instead of covering Mr. Winky, I just started trying to make the process as quick as possible.

I wasn't quick enough this time. Not only did he spray himself, but pee puddled under him and there was no way to clean everything up without taking him off the changing table. I grabbed a blanket, spread it out in the floor as well as I could, and moved him down there to clean him up and redress him. Then I cleaned up the changing table and wiped the piss off the furniture and the walls. (I can just imagine what that room must smell like to outside visitors. Between the diaper filled garbage can and the pissed-on walls, it's probably rancid, and I'm just immune to it.)

I got him dressed, announced to him that we were going to the store, and scooped him up out of the floor, still determined to make it to Mal Wart before lunch hour wanderers poured into the streets. Then I realized that his hair was wet, and it wasn't sweat. Shit. I can't take my child to Wal Mart with piss in his hair, even though I briefly considered it. Then I considered trying to wash only his hair in the sink, but that didn't make much sense considering that it was bath day anyway. So I went and changed into a t-shirt and started some bath water.

During his bath, he peed again, but this time he skillfully sprayed yours truly. It hit me in the front of the neck and ran down my chest, into my shirt, and onto my bra. Fantastic.

Half an hour later, Charlie was clean and dressed, I was clean and dressed, and we were ready to go. But by then it was meal time. You don't take a hungry baby anywhere unless you're a glutton for punishment. So I prepared a bottle and we sat down on the couch to eat. When he finished, he burped right away, and I said, "Great, NOW we're leaving!" I put him on my shoulder and carried him to the car seat. When I sat him down, his face, arms, and shirt were covered in spit up, and he had a shit eating grin on his face. I looked down, and sure enough-- the entire front of my shirt was soaked with thick white soymilk spit up. YUM! Screw changing him again, I thought. I just wiped him down and quickly changed my shirt-- for the third time today.

We headed to Wal Mart, and he was perfect the entire time. He likes going to the store because the lights and the signs that hang from the ceiling give him something interesting to look at. As we were being checked out by a young black girl who talked to herself and yawned forty times in the three minutes it took her to check our groceries, Charlie spewed again. I was able to contain it with a little blanket, but that made the fourth castastrophic and/or inconvenient digestive mishap of our day, and it was only noon. Bad luck from the broken mirror?

He seems to feel okay. He has perfected The Squeal, and has been wreaking havoc on my eardrums with it all afternoon.

Mommy's ready for naptime.

Random Thought Whenever

2009-02-24T08:50:00.005-06:00

In case you didn't read it in the comments section of the last post, I'm thinking maybe I'll keep the name DeadpanAnn and just change the subheading. A few good ideas have been offered, but now I am feeling very uncreative for wanting to steal HM's "Mommy has a headache," and am trying to let it inspire something original.

Last Thursday, my mom, sister, nephew, and niece arrived for a visit. My bro-in-law came down the next night. It was a full house, and mommy really did have a headache. It's too bad you're not supposed to beat children. Some of them need it. But then, so do some adults. Don't get me wrong-- I was glad to see all of them. It gets lonely down here at the bottom of the continent. But damn. I guess I've gotten used to the peace and quiet, and peace and quiet are a distant memory with a hyperactive 10 year old boy in the house. I cooked a meal the first night we were here, but threatened to serve Nyquil the second night. I'm trying not to be too judgmental. My little redhead is going to be hell on wheels, I'm sure. I just hope I parent him well. Parent is not only a noun, but also a verb, you know.

Speaking of kids and their stubborn ways, Charlie's hard earned tooth never really came all the way out. It peeked through the skin, just barely, and then stopped. Now he seems to have another one working its way up. It's another bottom tooth, and I think I can see it just under the skin. He's running a low fever and is generally impossible to please, which is unlike Charlie. He's usually quite happy, so it really throws me when he is cranky for days on end.

The illness that Tim and I have had for nearly a month seems to be losing its grip. We have both coughed until our ribs hurt, and I had nausea from all the drainage AND my head has come pretty close to exploding a time or two. It's been getting better the last two days, although I am still coughing a little. I could've used some of that sweet, sweet Histinex that HM is always ~~jonesing for~~ talking about, but my state employee insurance had ended and my new coverage hadn't kicked in yet, so I didn't dare go to the doctor.

Mrs. C, not to be confused with Aunt C, gave me a call yesterday. Mrs. C is the lady who was supposed to babysit Charlie while I went back to work. She was having some major health concerns and told me at the last minute that she couldn't keep him, which gave me the excuse I needed to stay home with him and quit my job. Anyway, last time I talked to her she was afraid that she was about to be diagnosed with ovarian cancer because a CT had shown a giant mass on her lady balls. She had surgery and it turned out to be some rare kind of tumor, but not cancerous. She said she's going to start working again in a couple of weeks and wanted to know what my current situation is. I suppose Asshole License Stealer Principal would laugh if I asked for my job back, so I told her I'm staying home at least for a couple of years, probably longer.

My license is going to expire before I go back to work, so I've got to get my renewal stuff in line. Since I don't have a master's degree, I'm required to have something like 10 CEU's or 6 college hours since the date my license was last renewed. I have taken 3 college hours-- that History of Education class a couple years ago, so I'm just going to take another class to make it 6, then I'll be covered. Hopefully I can get my master's before I go back to work. They'll have to pay me more, renewing my license will be easier, and I'll be qualified to teach at a junior college, should I ever get my chance.

Screw an education degree. It's an easier degree to get than an English degree, but I'm sorry, that shit is boring. I think I want an M.A. in English. If I had that degree, I'm pretty sure I could pick up a summer class or a night class at one of the local junior colleges, and possibly weasel my way into a full time position from there. Those jobs are cake. A friend of mine has been teaching juco since she was like 27, and I can't believe how much easier it is than teaching K-12. It's my dream job, and I want to be able to find one before I completely burn out on the whole teaching thing. It's coming. I like teaching, but I already know I can't do it for 20 years, so I need to have a backup plan. Juco would be a nice one.

I'm going to take a nap before the infant Tylenol wears off and Half Squat starts raising hell.

Change

2009-02-23T15:16:00.005-06:00

A couple of years ago, the new-fangled edition of Blogger was introduced, and I desperately clung to my old Blogger account so I wouldn't have to deal with the changes. Change is not always good, you know. Recently I have attempted to make several adjustments to the look and feel of my blog, only to find that said adjustments were impossible to make to the old version of Blogger. Apparently, if you want to make adjustments, you must first make change.

In April of 2005, I started this here project from my mother's basement. I was going through some major life changes myself at the time. Having recently graduated from college and been fired from my first full time job-- in that order-- I decided to put my English degree to some use and start teaching. In the four years since then, DeadpanAnn has chronicled my life's journey, which has involved lots of changes. I have gone from unemployed basement blogger/wannabe teacher to employed non-basement blogger/actual teacher, from single to married, from childlessness to motherhood, from Nesbit to Yazoo Shitty to Hattiesburg, from teaching "at risk" kids to teaching "smarty pants" kids, from wanting to teach to teaching to being a stay at home mom. You get the picture.

At one point I had a remarkable number of loyal readers, but I was always a little nervous about who might be reading. Then one day I checked StatCounter and saw that someone at the Mississippi Dept of Ed was frequenting the blog, and that was the beginning of the end. I moved several times, and only a few of you managed to keep track. I became increasingly cautious, and the content of my posts became increasingly boring. I stopped caring as much, and the frequency of my posts as well as the quality of the writing has gone downhill. These days I'm sometimes embarrassed of what I've written when I go back and read a post that was never proofread before it was posted. It's moments like that when I consider shutting it down. I used to obsess over making sure my punctuation and grammar were perfect, that I had made the best word choice, and that the overall flow of a post was clear. Maybe a few years of reading 8th graders' essays has conditioned me to overlook more. Whatever it is, it bothers me, and I want it to change. Writing is the only thing I can do well, and here I am sucking at it.

Recently I've been struggling to respark the old flame, but I'm just not feeling it. I think part of my problem is that I'm no longer the bitch I used to be. I'm just not an angry basement blogger anymore, nor am I a teacher blogger at present. I'm more like a mommy blogger right now, and that's okay.

I considered giving it up, but I think the real end of blogging for me is still a ways off in the future. I enjoy writing about the things that happen in my life, however boring or interesting they may be during any given period. At some point, probably around the time I return to the classroom, things will take a turn back to Interestingville and the number of readers will increase again. Until then, a few of you will get some enjoyment out of whatever I do write, and I'll be grateful for the comments, however sparse.

So instead of hanging it up, I'm just going to accept the change and create a new blog. It will have the same address, but a new look, and I am considering a new name as well. The problem is that I can't think of an appropriate name. If you have any suggestions...

I have no idea when I'll do this. I've started to do it several times. Each time, I either changed my mind about the name and/or look I want, or just ran out of time to work on it and ended up scrapping it. I don't have the time to spend hours in front of the computer like I used to, so I need to have most of my ideas in order before I start.

Tomorrow I'll give you a fresh post. Until then, I'll be brainstorming for blog names and hoping you have some suggestions that will inspire me.

This one's for Hillbilly Mom

2009-02-22T13:28:00.001-06:00

How's that for justice??

And here's something just for fun...

Redneck Love

2009-02-17T16:37:00.006-06:00

There's a creepy guy in my bedroom. He has a mullet, tacky gold chain, spiked hair on top, and apparently marinaded in his cologne this morning. No, I haven't found myself a mulleted lover to have redneck sex with while my husband is at work. He's fixing the ceiling. The ceiling that a roofer poked his finger through yesterday while trying to pinpoint the exact location of a roof leak. Said roofer was in the attic, and Tim was directly below him in the back. The roofer was yelling, "I can't find the spot!" Then a finger popped through the ceiling and he yelled, "Found it!" No kidding, Einstein. The roof problem wasn't a major one, thank goodness, and patching the ceiling is taking a lot longer than fixing the leak.

Speaking of redneck love, Valentine's Day was this weekend, and Tim did a good job. He always does. I got a dozen of the prettiest roses imaginable-- I mean they were really, really pretty-- and a ton of chocolate. All of this was presented in a very romantic fashion that I won't go into detail about. My husband rocks. I would even love him if he had a mullet. Probably.

Unplugged.

2009-02-13T09:55:00.002-06:00

Lately the bad news that's out there has been getting to me more than usual. The baby being thrown into the lake, the baby being thrown into a biohazard bag (in the botched abortion), and the nonstop string of doom and gloom headlines regarding the economy and the stupid things being done to fix it are just a few of the things bringing me down. Another kid missing in Florida-- on and on and on, the supply of depressing news just never stops.

I don't know if there's more of it lately or if I'm just more aware of it because of the fact that I'm at home all day now, but it's overwhelming me at the moment and I need to unplug. Last night I watched a new version of a tv show about homicide detectives that I am totally addicted to, and it really, really disturbed me for the first time. I realized that I'm voluntarily taking in other people's bad news as a form of entertainment. Why do that? My life is good. It's better than good, in fact, and I need to be grateful for it. It could change at any moment.

I've decided to turn off the computer and the tv for a few days starting today at noon. I'm going to spend a few days focusing solely on the positive things in life. I'm going to look at my son more and spend more time playing with him. I'm going to go to the library and find the happiest book I can find, and read it while the baby is asleep-- time I would usually spend online or watching the news or other depressing programming. I have a comedy here from Netflix that I'll watch, too. If I get tired of those things, I'll clean my house or find some other constructive activity. I'll figure out what stay-at-home-moms did in the days before internet.

My hope is that I can clear my head and get life back into perspective. I don't see this happening before Tuesday, at least. The would be 4 days, and I will probably go into some type of withdrawal before then, but I'll stay gone as long as it takes.

I have an idea for a new blog, a happy blog, and I will be starting it when I return.

Hypothetical

2009-02-11T17:17:00.006-06:00

I may or may not have taught two of the kids in this video, and they may or may not have been the one in the red and the one in the blue stripes. This may or may not have been THIS YEAR, which would mean that they may or may not be 8th graders. I may or may not also recognize every last one of them from the middle school campus, where they may or may not have been students last year and/or this year.

It's so encouraging when you can see them putting their education to good use.

America = Game Over?

2009-02-11T12:29:00.004-06:00

All this crap about the economy is gettin' me down. No, I don't understand the intricate details of what's going on (I don't think the people at the wheel do, either), but I don't think I need to be an economist to tune in to the fact that we're screwing ourselves. Doubling the national debt in just a few months' time? How can this not ruin us? What happens next time we are attacked? How can we afford to defend ourselves with this kind of debt? Other countries aren't going to keep loaning us money forever. We're going to be dead in the water.

The thing that makes it sting the most is the fact that it wasn't terrorists or other self-proclaimed America haters who did this to us-- it was US who did this to us. Greed, greed, and greed, plain and simple.

This stimulus package isn't going to fix a damn thing. Did you watch Obama's speech the other night? He started the speech by outlining how it could create jobs, etc., and it all sounded very reasonable, very believable. Then one of the reporters pointed out that economists have said it would take much, much more money to really fix the problem, and asked him if that was true. He back paddled like crazy then, saying something to the effect of, "My job is to make sure that THIS money gets spent correctly." To me, it sounded like, "Well, yeah, but this is a great distraction for now and will help me cover MY ass later because nobody can say I didn't do anything."

Every time I see a headline about a bank going to Vegas or giving big bonuses to the very people who put them in this position, I want to shoot someone in the face. Shoot them. In the face. Their defense? "We have to keep our good talent!" WHAT GOOD TALENT? Or "None of THE BAILOUT MONEY was used for these bonuses." SO WHAT if it wasn't the bailout money-- you still took bailout money to keep yourself alive, so why the hell are you spending a single penny on bonuses right now?

What the hell is wrong with these people??? I mean, the greed is incomprehensible!

I don't even know how to write about this because it's so dumbfounding that I can't even collect my thoughts. I'm just blown away by the lack of common sense being displayed by the people who run the country.

We are f*cked, and let's face it-- we deserve to be f*cked for letting these shit heads have so much control.

Sick.

2009-02-09T19:37:00.003-06:00

Last night I started feeling icky, and from 8:30 to about 1:00 a.m. it went downhill to the point that I was spewing from both ends, if ya know what I mean. I took phenergan and lamodil, but it didn't help-- just made me tired, so tired that I could barely keep my eyes open while I was crapping my brains out. This morning my stomach felt a little better but my throat was on fire. My stomach has gotten sick again this afternoon, and my throat is still in flames, and I'm coughing. I spent all day trying to sleep when I could. I'm hoping Charlie doesn't get whatever I have, and that tonight isn't a repeat of last night.

My dad had a heart cath today and they found some trouble. They've put in at least 4 stints, and I'm waiting for a call any minute now with the full word on what was found and what his prognosis looks like.

Clusterf*ck to the Capital

2009-02-08T13:56:00.005-06:00

First, I ran to the photographer's studio, thinking they were just going to show me Charlie's pictures on a computer screen and I would order some kind of package real quick. I didn't even park the car in a real spot-- just kinda pulled it up in front of the door-- because I expected to be out in just a minute or two. It wasn't that quick at all. The lady took me into a back room, put me into a comfy chair and told me to relax, a little screen came down out of a ceiling, the lights dimmed, soft music started playing, and I was presented a beautiful slideshow of all of Charlie's portraits. Wow. The pictures were awesome. I can't wait to post them here.

Forty-five minutes and $320 later, I was headed back to the house to get Charlie and go to the birthday party. When I got back to the house, I realized I had FORGOTTEN TO BUY A GIFT! Ugh! I told Tim I had to run to Wal Mart real quick-- a stuffed toy of some kind would have to do-- and asked him to stay with Charlie a while longer. When I got back with the gift, Charlie was eating. We didn't leave the house until 11:00, and the party started at 11:00.

It was fun. About what you'd expect for a 1 year old's party. She was cute, the other kids were cute, everyone thought Charlie was cute. The whole thing was perfectly cute. A good time was had by all.

At 12:15 I headed back to the house, calling Tim on the way to make sure he would be ready to go as soon as I got there. We managed to get on the road by about 12:35.

We were almost there when I realized that I had packed everything except the bottle and bottle liners. (I use the Playtex Drop-ins.) We left a bottle and nipple at his sister's house last time we were there, so I knew there would be a bottle, but the bottle is useless without liners. Charlie was already starting to fuss for his dinner, and I was freaking out. I didn't want him to come unglued and us not have any way to feed him. Everything I do is aimed at making sure his needs are met before they become so urgent that he feels the need to scream at the top of his lungs, because it drives my blood pressure up and shaves hours off my life every time he does that. Being stuck for an extended period with him screaming and no way to stop it? My own personal hell.

We went through several towns, stopping at every little Mom and Pop pharmacy we saw, plus a few Dollar Generals and Fred's. No dice. Tim had called his sister to make sure the forgotten bottle was still there, and she told us that his niece was on her way to Wal Mart anyway and we should just let her get the liners for us, but I was afraid she would have more errands to run that would keep her gone a while. I was envisioning us sitting in his sister's living room with a screaming, hungry Charlie, waiting for niece to return with the golden ticket. The nearest Wal Mart was going to add about 45 minutes to our trip, but I thought it was worth it to avoid having him come unglued, so that's what we did.

By the time we arrived at his sister's house, we had been driving for over 2 hours and I was in a sour mood.

We dropped Charlie off and headed to Jackson. We drove through Jackson and all the surrounding towns aimlessly for a while, and finally decided to eat dinner at a Mexican restaurant. There's a place called Fernando's in Magee where they serve these giant tacos in deep fried taco shells. They're awesome, and we order them every time we go there. So when we saw a Fernando's in Brandon, we went in and ordered the giant tacos. But they weren't giant, and they weren't awesome. They also gave us both unbearable gas, which super sucked since we were trapped in a car together.

After our less than spectacular dinner, we spent more time driving aimlessly. We drove by a movie theatre but had no desire to see anything that was showing, so we found the richest neighborhood we could find and drove around it for a while, admiring the mansions and fancy cars. Drove across the reservoir. Stopped at a Circuit City to see if we could get any deals in the going-out-of-business sale. (We didn't.) Then we headed back to get Charlie.

All total, we were in the car for over 8 hours. Eight hours of driving, just to go to Jackson and eat crappy Mexican food. What a big, fat, pointless headache! (Or stomachache...) We should have had a plan, I guess.

Maybe it was worth it, even though I don't look forward to driving that much again any time soon. Charlie needs to socialize with people besides me and Tim, and his Aunt and Uncle and everyone else who spent time with him enjoyed it immensely. And Tim and I learned a lot of things: You should always keep bottle liners in the diaper bag just in case, small town pharmacies are being put out of business by Wal Mart and Walgreens for a good reason, even the biggest city in our state is boring as hell, and you should never eat Mexican when you still have hours to drive.

Escaping it all = not worth the trouble.

2009-02-06T20:50:00.006-06:00

Earlier in the week, Tim's sister told us for about the fiftieth time that she would love to keep Charlie sometime, and to just let her know if we ever needed a break. After the last time she said this, I told Tim to take her up on it next time she offered, so he did, and she agreed. She lives 50 miles north of here, and Jackson is only 80 miles north of here, so we planned to drop him off with her and spend some time in Jackson. We didn't particularly want to go to Jackson, but we do want to be Charlie-free for a few hours, so...

Anyway, a friend of mine from work has a daughter who turns 1 tomorrow, and she's having a little birthday party. We were invited weeks ago. I not only agreed to be there, but I said I would bring a veggie tray so the adults would have something to munch on. I'm committed. It starts at 11:00 a.m.

I also have an appointment with the photographer at 9:00 to view Charlie's portraits and place my order.

I also ordered a piece of furniture from Haverty's last week, and have to pick it up tomorrow. (It's just a nightstand; I wasn't paying $80 for delivery.)

I had forgotten all about the baby's birthday party tomorrow. I spent all day today wondering how I was going to try to get the nightstand and make it to the photographer's and still get out of Hattiesburg before noon. Then my friend called me, and I remembered the party. When Tim got home from work, I told him one of us had to go to Wal Mart and get a veggie tray for the birthday party, and that I thought he should stay with Charlie while I go to the photographer's, and he should go get the nightstand while I'm at the party with Charlie.

It suddenly hit us that our "day away" wasn't going to start until the afternoon and that we were going to have to cram everything into the morning hours to make it work.

The whole point was to get away for a few hours, and now we're having to juggle four or five different things to make it happen. We're going to end up spending at least 4 hours driving before it's done, and we don't even know what the hell we're going to do up there. Go out to eat? Go to a movie? It sucks that we have to drive the hour to her house, drop him off, then drive another hour to Jackson-- then turn around and repeat it a few hours later-- just to go to a damn movie or restaurant when we live in a place that has lots of restaurants and a gigantic movie theater. It doesn't matter what we decide to do because we're probably going to hate each other by the time we get to Jackson anyway. We'll be stressed out from rushing around in the morning, and then be locked in a car together for close to two hours. History has proven again and again that this has one guaranteed result: Me saying something snappy to him, and him sulking about it for the rest of the day.

Tim suggested we cancel, then changed his mind after realizing that his sister has probably been looking forward to seeing Charlie all week, and believe me, she has. So that's what my day looks like tomorrow. I'm bending over backwards to get away from it all.

I can not sigh heavily enough to adequately convey my complete and utter dissatisfaction with how this fabulous plan is unfolding.

It's really been hitting me lately how isolated we actually are from the people around us. My sister has tons of friends who she can call to come watch her kids at the drop of a hat. I have lots of acquaintances so I rarely feel lonely, but I have no close friends, and I'm not sure I'd be comfortable asking them to keep him if I did. I've always been a bit of a loner, and now that I'm analyzing myself I think maybe I keep people distant from me because I'm afraid I'm going to inconvenience them or something. Now that Charlie's here, I really need a better support system.

Stinky-poo gets a tooth

2009-02-04T09:46:00.007-06:00

We're having a helluva time here in the McDeadpanAnn household. Charlie's got eczema super bad, including on his face, and he's scratched the hell out of his cheeks and forehead. I try to put little mittens on him before he goes to bed, but they usually come off when he wiggles his hands out from under the blanket I have him swaddled in. I find him the next morning with bloody scratches on his face and the mittens are under the blanket. If I don't swaddle him, he won't fall asleep. I've clipped his fingernails as much as I can. Several people have told me of the miraculous healing powers of various ointments and lotions, but I've had no luck with any of them. They work temporarily to stop the itching, but they wear off by morning.

He's also cutting a tooth, if you can believe that. He's been showing signs of it for a while now, and a few days ago I looked at his bottom gum and there's a white spot where a tooth is pushing its way through the skin. He's having fits with it, too. I'm giving him as much infant Tylenol as I possibly can, and trying not to think about the fact that we'll have to go through this 19 more times before all 20 of his baby teeth are in.

So we're dealing with a scratched up face and the pains of teething, but that's not all. He was having gas so bad that it was waking him up and he was screaming and grunting. The poor thing was inconsolable. I could barely keep him in my arms because he was kicking and flailing in pain. After a few nights of this, I switched him to soy formula, which seems to have helped. He still has gas, but it's not as bad and it's not causing him pain. The downside is that soy farts smell like a possum carcass that has been rotting in a sinkhole in Missouri for three days. Just this morning little Charlie was in the floor in his room playing (actually, he was staring out the window) while I put up his clean clothes and gathered the dirty ones. I noticed a rancid smell-- the smell of rotten eggs, perhaps. I searched the room high and low for the source. I tore the sheet off his mattress, dug through the dirty clothes hamper sniffing each piece as I went, and changed the liner in the garbage can next to the changing table, but the smell remained. Then I leaned down to play with Charlie, and just as my nose hairs started to curl up I discovered that the odor was emanating from his ass area. His diaper was clean. Soy farts linger, apparently.

I don't know if I can take him in public. People will think I'm the worst mother of all time with my bloody faced, angry baby who smells like rotten eggs!

To top it all off, his first appointment with the photographer was yesterday. (We're taking him at 3, 6, 9, and 12 months.) I searched all over the internet and all over town for the perfect outfit, and ended up finding one at an overpriced baby boutique in Oak Grove at the very last minute. I was afraid he was going to scratch his face up before the pictures, so starting about a week ago I started trimming his nails daily, put the tightest pair of mittens I could find on him, put Neosporin on his face to heal the couple of scratches he had, and even put hydrocortisone on his face at night. Within a couple of days, all the scratches were healed, and I thought we were home free. His sweet little angel face was going to be perfect for his pictures. Woke up yesterday-- the day of the pictures-- and he had three or four fresh scratches right in the center of his forehead. It almost looked like Charles Manson's swastika.

There goes my bid for Mother of the Year.

Douchebag of the Month-- January

2009-02-01T14:19:00.004-06:00

Every time I see a picture of Blagojevich, two questions come to mind: 1) Has the world ever seen a bigger douche? and 2) Where is his upper lip?

I know this is old news, but bear with me. I'm just now getting around to this. I have been so inspired by the unfettered douchebaggery of (now former) Gov. Blagojevich that I've decided to start paying tribute to all the douchebags of the world, or at least the ones who make the news, once monthly, though I don't know that I can follow up this month's winner with anything that won't pale in comparison.

Blagojevich is douchebaggery incarnate. He is the very epitome of crooked politics, and I think he may very well be mentally ill.

Not only did he attempt to sell Obama's senate seat, but he also:

-Refused to give assistance to a children's hospital because they didn't help with his fundraising efforts.

-Tried to get fundraising money in exchange for road contracts.

-Refused to help a newspaper in the sale of a ballfield (don't really know what that's about) unless they fired employees of theirs who were critical of him.

-Kept a straight face while repeating, on every talk show that would have him, "I've done nothing wrong," when there are recordings of him saying: "I've got this thing and its (expletive) golden. And I'm just not giving it up for (expletive) nothing. I'm not gonna do it."

and the icing on the cake...

-He was elected because he promised to clean up after their previous Governor, who is currently in prison. Ha!

I also think it's interesting that Obama said he never had contact with Blag, but before he had the chance to put the shush on it, his advisor was quoted as saying that he had been in contact with him. Of course the media ignored that, kind of like they mostly ignored the fact that Obama endorsed this Blago guy twice. Instead, they focused on reporting the later statement Obama's guy released saying that he was mistaken in saying that Obama was in contact with Blago, and adding that, "There is no indication that the President-elect had any involvement."

So exactly how many more shady characters does Obama have ties to, but no involvement with?? Time will tell. The big O is going to get caught doing something eventually. He is too close to too many shady fuckers to make it 4 years in office without some kind of scandal. Of course, he won't be held accountable for it because that would depend too much on the media's willingness to report the ugly truths about him, and I don't think they will. They focused so much energy on getting him elected that it would kill their own credibility. So instead of reporting on Obama's wrongs, I predict they'll be serving up lots of other people to the scandal hungry public on a silver douchebag platter.

Silly Face

2009-01-30T17:19:00.002-06:00

Doctors. They're assholes.

2009-01-29T10:43:00.005-06:00

Yesterday I met a psychic pediatrician. He knew what Charlie had before he ever saw him! When he walked into the room, he already had an information sheet on the common cold in his hand. At least he did check Charlie's ears before he handed it to me, but he'd definitely already decided that it wasn't an ear infection before he looked. He said that just because he's pulling his ear that doesn't mean it's his ear that's hurting him, because a baby his age can't localize pain very well. He had something, though, because his temp got up to 100.2 and stayed around 100 for a couple of days, so he decided it was a cold and told me to come back if his temperature got up to 101 or if he seemed to get much worse.

Before leaving the room, he thought it was necessary to explain to me why the common cold didn't require antibiotics. I didn't ask for antibiotics. I didn't mention antibiotics. I didn't ask for any medications at all. I understand the difference between a virus and an infection. Do I just look slow, or do doctors enjoy insulting people's intelligence? He is not Charlie's regular doctor. If he was, he would've STOPPED being his doctor after that.

Charlie doesn't have a cold. He's had no cold symptoms. I think he might be working on a tooth. Whatever. It really doesn't matter to me what he has or had as long as he's okay, and he is.

I'm just pissed that I had to pay $78 for that bullsheet.

My Tough Cookie

2009-01-27T16:52:00.003-06:00

I think Charlie might be one of those kids who gets sick but doesn't fuss about it much.

He's been grabbing at his left ear for the last 3-4 days. At first I thought he was just grabbing it the way he grabs everything else, which seems to be beyond his control. His little hands just grab things randomly, you know? But he's been doing it a lot more. He wasn't fussing or anything, and when I examined his ear I saw that the skin on it was really dry. Maybe he's just itchy, I figured, so I put some aquaphor on it. This morning he took a longer nap than usual, and when he got up he was screaming for no apparent reason. He started screaming when I laid him in my lap to feed him, and he wouldn't take his bottle. He did this yesterday too. I couldn't figure out what could possibly be wrong. I thought maybe the formula was too hot, but it was fine. I just had to hold him for a while to calm him down, then he finally did take his food. It was weird.

Now, it's been a lot of years since I had an ear infection, but the thing I remember most about it is being up all night because lying down was agonizing. The fluid in my ears would slosh when I leaned back, so I wanted to sit up. Aside from him grabbing his ear, this is the only clue I got that he might have an ear infection.

He took another unusually long nap this afternoon, and was fussy about lying down again when it was time to eat. After he ate and spent about an hour staring into space, my worrying was renewed again and I decided to take his temp. It's 100.2, and I took it the old fashioned way, so I'm sure it's accurate. I gave him some Tylenol and made him an appointment to see the doc tomorrow morning. I'm going to check his temp in an hour and see if it's gone down, and I'm going to keep checking it all night. His little butthole will just have to get used to it until I'm satisfied that he's okay.

I know I'm a rookie at this mother stuff, but I would've expected an ear infection to be accompanied by a lot more screaming and fussing than I've seen so far. The only other thing going on with him is that he's got a rash on his skin that is getting worse. We'll find out what all of this is about tomorrow, I guess.

I halfway expect the doctor to give me the "anxious new momma" treatment.

Guess who.

2009-01-24T21:11:00.002-06:00

I'm glad this picture exists so I can look back years from now and still remember how tired I was when Charlie was just a little tater tot.

And this one so I can remember how he liked to scratch the crap out of his face. You should see it right now. There are five decent sized scratches down his forehead. Yes, I've trimmed his nails. So much that I don't know how it's possible for him to scratch himself. And yes I've tried treating the itchiness that makes him do it in the first place. I don't want him to wear the little baby mittens any more than necessary because he needs to learn how to do things with his hands. Anyway...

And this one, so I can remember what things look like when you've been drinking. A lot.

Charlie with Grandpa--

He loves his Cookie Monster. CM laughs hysterically while rolling around on the floor grabbing his belly. It's pretty cute.

The Great Escape

2009-01-23T13:57:00.004-06:00

My parents called Sunday night and said they wanted to come visit. Normally when they call and say they want to come visit, a few weeks go by before it actually happens, but not this time. They got here Tuesday. (It would've been Monday if my dad hadn't been procrastinating.) So since Tuesday, I've only done about half the amount of Mommy work that I normally do, thanks to my mom. She even got up and took care of the middle-of-the-night feeding Wednesday night. I felt guilty though, and couldn't sleep, and still woke up when he did, so I may as well have just done it myself. That pretty much sums up how I feel anytime someone does something Charlie-related for me: I should've just done it myself.

Tim and I went to the movies yesterday for the first time in months. We saw Gran Torino. The acting left something to be desired-- especially the Asian characters. Clint Eastwood's character was over the top, and there was a lot of watching him talk to himself and growl at kids for getting on his lawn. It was also sprinkled with a liberal amount of racial epithets. Old fashioned ones, too, like "gooks" and "spooks." But overall it was a good movie. The story was good. I give it a thumbs up.

We went to the 2:20 showing, so we were out at 4:20. We had planned to go eat somewhere before going home, but we weren't hungry yet, so we went to Best Buy to look at televisions. We're looking for a 42 or 47 inch LCD, and are zeroing in on a specific Samsung. The Circuit City here is going out of business, so we were thinking we'd buy one there, but their "going out of business sale" is a joke so far. We were thinking it'd be nice to watch the Super Bowl on a new tv, but it's looking like it'll be longer before we get one. We did get a good deal on a stand with a swivel thing on it.

After tv shopping we did go eat. It was disappointing, but only because we weren't really in the mood for it and only went because we hadn't had the chance in months and might not get another opportunity for a while. This was the first time we've left the house together without Charlie since he was born. What we really wanted to do was have some we're-finally-alone sex, but we're too cheap to get a hotel room that we're only going to use for a few hours. And we figured my parents might catch on if we came home still hungry with our eyes glazed over and our clothes and hair all ruffled.

Charlie's been fussy lately. I've finally weaned him off breastmilk and he's on formula 100% as of today. It's been a gradual transition, so I don't think the formula is what's got him fussy. It could be, but he's been on it for a long time now, just in smaller amounts, and he was still getting some breastmilk. I don't know what the deal is. He's been on this weird sleeping and eating schedule too. He wants to eat way too often, and he stopped sleeping through most of the night. After about three weeks of only getting up once (and sometimes not getting up at all) he's back to getting up twice. I'm too tired to obsess and worry over it. He'll go back to normal soon enough I guess. Things tend not to stay the same with him for long.

I'm pretty sure that having my mom here to spoil him didn't help things, but it was worth it just to get away for a few hours.

New Momma Blues

2009-01-19T12:55:00.007-06:00

Let me tell you about my morning. It was a doozy.

Charlie had physical therapy at 8:15, and since we are normally just coming to life around that time, the day had to start a little earlier than usual. I'm getting pretty good at juggling all the things that must be done before we can get out the door, but we were still running a little late by the time we pulled into the parking lot at the Hattiesburg Clinic. Before we left the house, I dressed him in an adorable outfit. It was a white shirt with a puppy on it, and it had long sleeves with brown and blue stripes. The pants matched the sleeves. I also took care to comb his hair and make sure he smelled like heaven, because who doesn't like a sweet little boy who smells like heaven?

As soon as I pulled into the lot and put the car in park, I heard him let go a poop of the liquid variety. No big deal. I picked him up, grabbed the diaper bag, and headed for the first changing-table-equipped bathroom I could find inside the building. Got him to the bathroom and got everything laid out on the changing station, where I discovered that the poop had gotten all up the back of his outfit. Fan freakin' tastic. This is the same thing that happened in Goodies the other day.

It's a major, major pain to deal with a really bad diaper situation in a public place. You've got to balance the baby while getting out the blanket to spread across the germ-infested changing station because they never, ever have any of the liners stocked, and once that's spread out you can put the kid down, but you better keep a hand on him! The sign says so! Then you've gotta reach into the bag, which is precariously perched on top of a garbage can, and retrieve a diaper and the wipes. Then find a spot to rest the diaper and wipes where the (now flailing and possibly screaming) young 'un won't kick them off into the floor. Then take off your jacket and hang it somewhere, just in case, roll up your sleeves, and then start the business of changing the poopy diaper. You have to do all this while dealing with the judgmental stares of whoever else happens to be in the bathroom with you-- and whether it's an older, more experienced mom or a childless, carefree 20 something, it's uncomfortable. The young girls twist their faces in horror, not knowing that it's their future they're looking at, and older, more experienced moms always like to walk by and say, "Oh, I remember those days!" to which I always want to respond, NO I DON'T THINK YOU DO, cause if you really remembered what this is like you wouldn't be smiling at me! You'd be helping! Stop jabbering and GET ME A TOWEL, LADY!

Okay, so I finally got him changed and cleaned up, got everything packed back into the diaper bag, and was holding him when he suddenly started tossing his cookies. It wasn't like he was really throwing up, I mean he didn't spew it out like projectile or anything. He just sorta hiccuped and then a LARGE amount of his breakfast sorta spilled out in a few little spurts. All over him, all over my shirt, all over my (brand new) shoes, and all over the floor. I started scrambling for a cloth, which was buried under the blanket and everything else in the diaper bag, and in the meantime he kept puking. Every time he would hiccup, some breakfast would spurt out. Oh, and let me add that a very impatient lady was banging on the door of the bathroom this WHOLE FREAKING TIME. Nothing like a little banging on the door to tip the scales from Really, Really Stressful to Unfreakinbearable. I finally said, "GIVE ME A MINUTE, I've got a sick baby!"

Sooooo I eventually gave up on really getting either of us clean. Since the lady waiting on the bathroom was so impatient, I figured she could clean the floors up herself if they bothered her. It took us about 3 minutes to completely destroy that bathroom! I thought about calling to cancel his PT, but hell, we'd come this far, right? I mean, yes, the pristine angel I left the house with was now a stinking mess, but I was already in the building. So I decided to just go. I can't be the first lady to show up somewhere with a smelly baby and covered in puke, right?? RIGHT??

When we got into the elevator, an older lady started talking to the baby and making faces at him. She reached up-- and this was golden, people-- she reached up and playfully pinched his little arm---which she didn't notice was covered in puke. She pulled her hand back, and when she got out of the elevator she was holding her hand away from her like it had radioactive material on it or something. Remember these days, lady!?? REMEMBER???

Anyway, Charlie is normally a really happy baby, but he does NOT like this physical therapy. They have to stretch his neck, and it hurts him. I think it might be hurting me worse, I'm not sure. It's very hard. So he was fine until they did that, then he lost his mind, and he screamed and screamed. I don't have the words to adequately describe the stress level. It was really claustrophobic in that little room, and it was hot, and my contacts were dry, and I was covered in puke, and the baby was screaming, and I couldn't concentrate on what the therapist was saying to me. At one point she said, "Are you okay? Am I making you nervous or something?" I wanted to say, "No, YOU aren't making me nervous, everything else about this situation is!" I think she asked that because I was rubbing my eyes, because my contacts were so damn dry, but it made me feel very self conscious.

Then she continued working with Charlie and making me do various things with Charlie, all while he was screaming. I wasn't really concentrating. I was just waiting for it to be over. I kept having the thought that I can't do this anymore-- that I just wanted to grab him and leave and never go back or do any of the painful exercises again. I kept having the feeling that I'm supposed to make this stop for him. Then I would realize that I can't do that, that we have to keep doing this, and I don't have a choice and neither does he.

I guess it showed on my face, because the therapist kept telling me that I'm doing everything right and that this problem is not my fault and that his neck seems a little better already, and telling me that I have to keep doing these exercises with him at home. No matter how she reassured me, I was just ready for this visit to be done, and so was Charlie. He screamed until she opened the door to the little room we were in. As soon as he saw that door open, he stopped. The little bugger must've known we were about to leave because suddenly all was right with the world-- except that I was as frazzled as I've ever been.

It's been a long time since I was a smoker, but I could've taken one down in two puffs this morning.

It took me a couple of hours to regroup after we got home. Everyone says it doesn't get better, that you just learn how to deal with it. I don't know how people deal when they have 2 young ones, but one can wear me out.

I take my birth control a little more carefully these days.

Yankee Racist

2009-01-17T19:32:00.005-06:00

ARTICLE

Jackson, Mississippi - A Wisconsin man was arrested on Friday in Mississippi after authorities said he threatened on the internet to kill president-elect Barack Obama.

Steven Joseph Christopher, 42, was taken into custody by the Secret Service in Brookhaven, Mississippi, and charged with threatening to assassinate Obama for what he claimed was "the country's own good", federal prosecutors said. The criminal complaint was sealed until Christopher's appearance in federal court.

Why did this asshole have to come to Mississippi to threaten to kill the first black president? It would've been a lot better for our image if "Jackson, Mississippi" wasn't tacked onto the front of this article. Did he think he'd find supporters here? Or do the racists of the world just think that all hate crimes have to be born in Mississippi?

How long until the media stops mentioning that he was from Wisconsin and just starts referring to "the big fat black-people-hating-racist who was arrested in Mississippi"?

I hope that nobody kills Obama, or tries to kill Obama. You know why? I have two reasons, and neither of them has anything to do with me giving a damn about Obama.

1. Things are bad enough right now, and if this hoohah can deliver on a fraction of what he's promised, we'll all be better off. If he gets killed, we're effed.

2. It would start a race war. I live in a state that is 40% black, so I really don't want any part of that.

I haven't seen all the coverage on this incident, but from what Tim says he saw, this guy was mentally ill, yelling about the end of the world and how everyone had to move to Florida to survive. Nobody has explained why he was in Mississippi.

I don't know what's had me on a warpath about this kind of thing lately, but I'm letting it go. For now.

Random Thought WTFEVER

2009-01-16T17:58:00.004-06:00

I fried up some catfish for lunch, and I'm frying up the rest of it for dinner. I love catfish. Fried. And dipped in a liberal amount of tartar sauce. Just doing my part to keep Mississippi fat.

I woke up this morning with a very sore left foot. How does one injure one's foot during one's sleep? Was I hiking in my sleep-- while wearing inappropriate footwear?? It's reeaalllly sore! I mean, I'm limping here, people!

Pookie, aka The Darkness, aka the demon cat from hell woke me up three times last night with various demands. It was very cold outside, so I didn't want to throw him out at first. The second time he got me up, I tried, but he hid under the pool table and I was too sleepy to get on my hands and knees and drag him out by his tail. The third time, I just cussed really loudly until Tim got up and dealt with it. Two middle-of-the-night cat related incidents is my limit, especially when Charlie is getting up every 3 hours for some reason instead of sleeping for 5 or 6 through the night like he was a week or two ago.

Maybe my foot is sore from all the walking around the house I did in the middle of the night while chasing the stupid cat. Did I kick something and not remember it?

Tim started working in a different pharmacy. Same hospital, different pharmacy. Now he's working in the employee pharmacy. That's right. They have a whole pharmacy just for their employees and their families. It's like a retail job except that he only has to deal with one insurance company, and they're not nearly as busy. His schedule kicks ass-- Tuesday through Friday, 7:00 to 5:00. But I can't figure out why he's been leaving here at 6:00 a.m. and not getting home until 6:30. I suspect he's doing that annoying go-the-extra-mile thing he likes to do even though nobody respects him for it and it brings him nothing but pain. Either that or he's having an affair with some pharmacy slut-puppy. It's probably the extra mile thing.

I am really baffled as to how I injured my foot during my sleep.

The politically incorrect kitchen cleaning project is 90% complete. I got the main stuff cleaned out and organized. I have a garbage bag full of tupperware rejects, which is a lot less than I expected to have. There were so many mixing bowls and storage bowls that I haven't got enough room for all of them, even the ones that do have lids. There are 13 storage bowls of various shapes and sizes still setting on the counter because I'm trying to think of who might could use them.

And I say the project is only 90% complete because there are still a couple of cabinets that I didn't get to, like the space under the kitchen sink. It's packed full of half empty bottles of random cleaning sprays, and the floor of it is just filthy. There's also a cabinet next to the stove that I haven't tackled yet. Saw some mouse turds in there, too, dammit. I hate dealing with mouse turds. My mouth waters because they make me afraid to swallow just in case a rat turd somehow ended up in my mouth. I have to wash my hands every two minutes and visit the trash can just as often to spit out the excess un-swallow-able saliva. Everything that comes out of a mouse turd cabinet has to be washed thoroughly, then the shelves have to be vacuumed, sprayed, wiped, Lysoled, and covered with some kind of liner. This particular cabinet is a big space where we store things we rarely use, like the George Foreman grill. I dread cleaning the things that are stored under there, because they can't be run through the dishwasher like tupperware can. This means lots of contact with items that have had contact with the mouse who has left his mouse turds for me to swallow. So I'm putting it off. Ninety percent is pretty good, right?

Right.

Tim's home, and there's some catfish to be eaten, so peace and catfish grease.

Checkmate, bitch!

2009-01-13T14:11:00.003-06:00

I've been released from my teaching contract, or at least it's been recommended to the board, which will meet on it tonight. Seems the principal had a change of heart after I contacted the Superintendent.

Funny how that works, isn't it?

I'm glad I never lost my shit and called him any one of the names that I wanted to call him. I seriously wanted to at least tell him I thought he was being a jerk, but I was very professional. I'm learning, people, I'm learning!

Dealing with bureaucrats is like a chess match. His move, my move, his move, my move...

I am clearly the superior intellect, don't you think?

Don't answer that.

Random Thought Whenever

2009-01-12T17:30:00.004-06:00

I got a lot done on the politically incorrect kitchen cleaning project today. I vacuumed under the shelves and pulled out all the freaking linoleum the previous owners put down instead of shelf liners. Then I sprayed the shelves with Lysol, let it air out, and then put down real liners. I only got this done on about half the lower cabinets, but it's a good start. I started running loads of tupperware and lids yesterday, and I think I got all of them finished today. Tomorrow I will start trying to match parts up. Mismatches are going to the trash. I haven't even thrown anything away yet, and I feel better already.

Charlie had a physical therapy appointment this morning. I suspected he had torticollis because of how he tilts his head to one side all the time. I brought this up to the pediatrician last week, and he said if he has it, it's a mild case. He made us a PT appointment to be evaluated. The physical therapist, a spunky older lady named Bernice, said he does have it and needs PT once a week for a while. She said it was a mild case, and she expects it to be corrected without very many visits. I learned some exercises that I have to do with him 4 times a day. He doesn't love them, but it's not that bad. He tolerates it for a few minutes before he gets fussy. Poor guy.

If you don't know what torticollis is, here's a link. It basically just means that the muscle on one side of his neck is tighter than the other, and needs to be stretched and strengthened. It can be a sign of more serious problems, but he seems to have been born with it and it's probably because of how he was positioned in the womb.

Here are the pics of Charlie, which were requested by JAC. Thank you for requesting them, by the way. I've been dying to post more, but I know that pics of other people's kids are generally, how you sayyyy...not interesting.

I think Charlie is The Exception to that rule, don't you?

I went to get my belongings from my classroom Friday. The principal insisted that we "conference" before I go to the classroom. The "conference" involved him basically saying things he had already said before, but in front of a witness this time. He then had the witness-- the assistant principal with whom I actually have a good relationship because she's not a piece of shit like some other certain principals-- escort me to my room, wait while I collected my things, and then escort me off campus like I was gonna steal something. Like there's something TO steal. I mean, what was I going to take? Some dry erase markers? THAT I BOUGHT??

It was insulting. I've probably given as much of my personal money and belongings to that place as any dishonest teacher ever stole from it. In fact, I left a book shelf and a computer cart there, along with all of my posters, a handful of books, and basically every office supply I owned (staplers, tape dispensers, labels, file folder, etc.) The AP assured me she would make sure they go to the teacher who gets my old job, or, if that teacher's got plenty of stuff, to a new teacher next year. I know how it was when I started out. It will likely be a few years before I go back to the classroom, and I will probably have no problem replacing those items. No need for them to sit in our garage collecting dust until then. Just like there was no need to treat me like a thief.

I requested a hearing before the school board. Haven't heard back. They're having a meeting tomorrow night. I left a voicemail for and also emailed the Asst. Superintendent today and asked for some info to see if I should go, but haven't heard back from him. I'm not holding my breath for the phone to ring.

I don't miss the stress or the paperwork or being treated like I'm the cause of all of society's ills, but I miss my kids. I miss their antics. I miss them making me laugh and me making them laugh. I miss the satisfaction I felt at the end of a long, hard day.

Right now life is kind of boring, but the upside is that the next few years are sure to yield lots of good blogging material. A young 'un probably provides even more to talk about than teaching, especially once I got normal classes and no longer had the, uhh, "high risk" students. Smart kids aren't nearly as helpful with this blogging thing. "Chitlin's is for Thanksgiving" has probably never been uttered in an accelerated English class.

So sad.

Ann's Politically Incorrect Kitchen Cleaning Project

2009-01-11T09:36:00.003-06:00

That last one was the 666th post.

A couple days ago I started to make vegetable enchiladas, which required me to chop up some vegetables. After realizing that we had 3 food processors but not enough parts to any ONE of them that I could actually use it, I got pissed and decided to clean out the cabinets. That was convenient, since I had pulled everything out of them while searching for gadget parts. I did not like what I found.

There's a whole row of cabinets that have become the catch-all area of the kitchen. When there's a storage container with no lid, or a lid with no container, or a mixing bowl that's so huge it can't fit in the cabinet where I keep the other mixing bowls, or a giant basket that is used to lower foods into the giant turkey fryer, those things get shoved under the catch-all cabinet. It's a huge amount of space that's basically being wasted.

I'm about to start a very politically incorrect house cleaning project. If you don't fit in, you're being thrown away. If you need a mate and don't have a mate, you're not welcome here. If you have a flaw of any type, you're trash to me. If you look funny, smell funny, or are otherwise unusual, there will be no equal rights for you, my queer friend. If you can't stay where I put you and insist on sliding out of the cabinet every time I open the door, you're landfill bound. If I don't like the way you LOOK, you're history!

I'm cleaning house, people. I'm tired of having so much crap that I can't find the crap I need when I need it. I'm tired of "cleaning" really meaning "moving one pile of crap to another place temporarily." Tim thinks he's going to stop me from throwing things away, but I'm not asking his opinion on how I take care of the kitchen anymore. If it's my job, it's my job. We have more stuff than we could ever possibly use-- especially if none of the tupperware has lids, one food chopper has no blade and the other two have no lids, and the other 90% of the "stuff" consists of random parts to gadgets I didn't know we had because we didn't need them in the first place. There's so much stuff in there that I could throw 75% of it away and he'd never notice.

So that's what I'm doing today, and that, my friends, is why I don't have time to write a post about the fact that Mississippi passed Texas for the highest teen pregnancy rate, even though I have some thoughts on it. (The main thought being that it's embarrassing and it sucks for us and that some people need to start parenting their teenagers a little better.) Actually, I think I just said everything I wanted to say on that topic.

Charlie's Stats

2009-01-08T10:09:00.003-06:00

Yesterday was Charlie's 2 month checkup. He weighs 14 lbs and 4 oz. No kiddin'. He's 24 inches long. The doc said that places him in the 95th percentile for weight, and the 90th for height.

Everything else was perfect. He has cradle cap pretty bad, and I found out how to treat it, which is good because it's really gross. He also may have a touch of torticolis, but the doc said that IF he does have it, it's very mild. He's going to be evaluated by a physical therapist Monday morning just in case. They'll probably just give us some exercises to do at home.

He got his first round of vaccinations, which included 3 shots and an oral vaccine. He sucked down the oral one without a problem. Then the nurse was talking to him and he was cooing and smiling at her, and then she committed the ultimate betrayal and he lost his shit. It was awful. I've never heard him scream like that. He started screaming on shot number one and it killed me that she had to pop him not once more, but twice. It obviously hurt pretty badly, and I teared up a little. After it was over and I picked him up, he just buried his face on my chest and cried and cried. After a few minutes, he got over it, and has been fine ever since. He's a little fussy and more tired than usual, but that's about it.

Bitch, meet 'Tard. 'Tard, Bitch.

2009-01-06T21:29:00.008-06:00

An old friend of mine liked to say that the most annoying situations are those in which someone else thinks you're stupid because they are stupid. Okay, maybe that's kinda stupid in itself, but I'll tell you a story that illustrates it perfectly.

You may recall the situation that took place with the yard boy a month or two ago. NOoo? Okay, here's a quick review.

A friend's son agreed to rake up the pine straw AND REMOVE IT FROM THE YARD. The deal with $130 for him to rake it up and haul it off in his truck. I didn't care where he hauled it; I just wanted it out of the yard.

The first sign that the arrangement might not go through came twenty minutes after he got here, when he faked a sudden and severe illness. I knew right away that he didn't want to do the job when he saw how hard it was going to be, so I gave him the opportunity to back out. In fact, I opened the door and invited him to back out of it, but he insisted that he wanted to do the job. So a few days later, he returned, raked for a few hours, and then came and told me that he had nowhere to haul the straw to so I could just burn it myself. He said it so matter-of-factly, like he hadn't been offered x number of dollars to get rid of it. The main reason we hired him was to get rid of it. I can rake it up and burn it myself, if that's what I want done. I hired him to GET IT OUT OF THE YARD. (Burning it was not an option. We live in town, and that's a lot of pine straw, and pine straw burns for a very long time. Burning 3 acres of pine straw would be a week long job, and probably result in something unspeakable since it would be so hard to control such a fire.) So when the kid came and told me he wasn't going to do the job we agreed on, I more or less said that this was not acceptable, and that I had no intention of giving him $130 if I was still going to have a yard full of pine straw. He said he'd finish it. Then he disappeared, and I haven't heard from him since.

Maybe I'm being presumptuous, but I don't think anyone can find fault in how I responded to the kid. You don't agree to do a job, decide you're not going to do all of it, and still expect the same compensation. (Unless, of course, you're a "Millennial.")

So that's what happened. His mother, who was a good friend of mine, hasn't called me since. I didn't know if she was pissed at me or if she thought I was pissed at her, and I'll admit that it's been bothering me a little. I'd hate to lose a friend over something like that, so last night I decided to give her a call and try to put things right.

I don't know what response I expected. I guess part of me expected her to apologize for her son's irresponsible behavior, or to say she understood where I was coming from. It would've been acceptable to me if we hadn't addressed the origin of the conflict at all, and instead just acted like nothing had ever happened. Pretty much any response would've been fine. Any response except the one I got, that is.

When she answered I asked how she was doing, then said something like, "I don't know if you're mad at me or if you think I'm mad at you, but I'm not, and I've been thinking about you and would hate for us to stop speaking over something silly."

Her response? "Aww that's okay, sug, I ain't mad at ya." (Yeah she's kinda country. Picture Dale's wife from King of the Hill.) "We just figgerd you's having some kinda hormonal thang and thought I'd back off and give you some space since you was being such a bitch and all."

WHA-WHA--WHAT? WWWWWHHHHAAAAATTT???

Now, you would think I would get pissed, but I didn't. In fact, I laughed. I literally laughed because I could not believe the level of ridiculousness I had opened myself up to by making this phone call. I mean, really. What kind of ignoramus calls you a bitch for not paying her son to not do a job he insisted he wanted to do?

When I stopped the awkward laughing, I sat there in silence with my jaw on the floor while she went on for a minute about how she just figured I needed some time to sort through whatever it was I was dealing with, etc., etc., etc.

God help me, it felt like something from a Seinfeld episode.

I didn't say anything. As much as I bitch when I am DeadpanAnn, the real life Ann doesn't thrive on conflict. At least not conflicts with the people I care about. I hope that doesn't break your heart, dear reader, but let's face it-- life's too short. (Institutions are another story, I suppose. I get off on railing against institutions.) I was just glad that we were over the hump and could move forward with our friendship, such that it is, even though it now feels more than a little dysfunctional. So in the end, I think I managed not to sigh heavily enough into her ear to tip her off that I thought she was full of shit-- not that she's real quick to pick up clues. The conversation switched pretty quickly to something that was going on in her amazing redneck world, and the friendship was saved.

It's strange. I felt better after talking to her even though she totally blamed me for the entire thing when it was so very clear that it resulted from her and/or her son's stupidity. I guess sometimes if you care about someone, you just have to take them for who they are, even if they are incomprehensibly retarded, but believe that YOU are the retarded one.

We're both retarded, obviously. She's retarded for thinking I'm a bitch, and I'm retarded for playing along. But hey, I still have someone to go get coffee with, and most days I need that more than I need to not be thought of as a bitch.

Waiting.

2009-01-05T12:08:00.007-06:00

**Update at the bottom, 4:11 p.m.**

Today is the day that I would have returned to work. Remember what happened when I told my boss I would not be returning? I'll give you the Cliff's Notes real quick:

I foolishly shared my intentions with a staff member at central office before notifiying the principal. I did this only to prevent payroll from paying me ahead of time for days I had no intention of working.

The payroll troll called the principal and notified him before I had the chance. I was actively trying to get in touch with him when this happened.

The principal, upon being notified by someone other than ME, got pissed, said he would not recommend that I be released from my contract, and that the board would petition the state department to revoke my license for a year. Fvcking GREAT!

Miraculously, I managed to remain calm while he threatened me. I called my union representative, who told me to write a very professional letter to him to formally request that he recommend that I be released from the contract, and to include in the letter details that demonstrate that my inability to return wasn't my fault, etc., etc.

I wrote the letter and hand delivered it to the principal that day. His tone had softened, and he said he would let me out of the contract if he could find someone to replace me. He said he'd let me know.

I waited.

Four days later, he called me. This was 1:30 p.m. on December 19-- the last day of school before Christmas break. He told me that he had sent me a certified letter with his response to my letter. He also told me to bring all the district property that I had up to the school before 3:00 that day.

I met his request within an hour even though I had Charlie in tow and it was more than a little inconvenient to be given less than 2 hours notice that I needed to load all that stuff up and take it to him.

Okay. That brings you up to date. I've done everything that has been asked of me. As of today, I still haven't received his letter. The post office here in Petal said they haven't received it or attempted to deliver it, but that they can track it down and tell me where it is if I can get the number associated with the letter.

For some reason, I have the feeling that he didn't send any letter. This morning I emailed the principal and told him I haven't received his letter. It would be nice to know where I stand. I know I've inconvenienced them, but they could at least be as straightforward with me as I was with them. I asked him to give me the information I need as soon as possible.

Still waiting.

** Update, 4:11 p.m. **

Shortly after I posted this, I received an email from the principal. In short, it said that he would not recommend my release and that if I didn't come to work TODAY I would be cited for "failure to report to work" and "contract abandonment." Thing is, I didn't get that letter until TODAY. He claimed it was sent as certified mail on Dec. 19, but the USPS disagrees and he hasn't provided anything to prove them wrong, so...

Anyway, there's a lot more I would just love to spill on this here blog, but it'd probably be wiser for me to stop discussing it online. You never know who's reading, and I don't want to show all my cards. I've requested a hearing before the board, and someone from the union is going to represent me.

Chatter

2009-01-03T10:16:00.002-06:00

Charlie suddenly started jabbering A LOT. It's the cutest thing I've ever heard. He's been in the best mood for the last two days, smiling and even laughing a little, making ga ga noises, and basically just turning me into a blob of goo in his presence.

Breastmilk Haiku

2009-01-02T03:40:00.003-06:00

The breast pump groans on,
stretches nipples like taffy.
Charlie, be grateful!

Nothing changes on New Year's Day

2009-01-01T15:48:00.002-06:00

Happy New Year. We didn't do anything special-- we haven't in years-- but we stayed up until after 1:00 a.m. and watched a guy jump a motorcycle onto the roof of Caesar's Palace. For lunch we ate cabbage and black eyed peas and hog jowls along with some meatloaf, and then I took a nap. I had to get up early because a certain little man got up early, and I have felt like a blob all day.

I'm going back to bed.

There's no justice in the world!

2008-12-30T10:21:00.003-06:00

If you were to visit my house right now, you'd have a hard time getting in the door because there is a mountain of trash right outside the laundry room, next to the pool table. It's been there for about five days now. It's not stinky trash, mind you-- no turkey carcasses, empty milk jugs, or other sources of stank. Just Christmas paper, boxes, etc. And the reason it's inside the house instead of out in the big trash can is that the big can is full, and the trash doesn't run until tomorrow morning. See, this is what smart people do. Instead of putting the trash out on the ground by the road WHERE THE DOGS CAN GET TO IT, smart people keep it in a safe place-- a garage, a laundry room, or under a pool table-- until closer to time for the garbage to run.

My neighbors are not smart people. Not even close. These freaking idiots piled bags of trash outside of their cans-- and their trash bags did have turkey carcasses in them. Why not just lead the dog to the pile of garbage and stick his nose in it? You may as well. No dog can resist a turkey carcass.

Day before yesterday, all this garbage ended up in our yard. I can't explain to you how great the amount of trash was. We have three acres and it covered a very large portion of our yard. The only reason I didn't shoot someone in the face is because I'm pretty sure it was my dog who did the chewing and spreading and tearing up, if the fact that we saw him running down the street with a 2 liter bottle in his mouth is any clue. Anyway, Tim went out there in the rain and bagged it all up and put it back out by the neighbors' cans. He then took our dog and put him back up, but he got out again and two hours later the trash was right back on the yard. Tim bagged it up again, but not before saying some words I have never heard before. (What's a "shitwig"??) It was five 35 gallon bags full of turkey bones and wrapping paper and broken Christmas ornaments. This time, he put it in the back of our truck so the dog couldn't undo all his work once again. Smart.

But then yesterday morning another neighbor put out more garbage, and guess where that ended up? Right. And this time Tim was at work, so I got the pleasure of picking it up myself. There was also a huge pile in the neighbor's yard, and I went over and picked that up too. Since I'm 99% sure my dog was the one who did it, I figured it would be the neighborly thing to do, even though they are dumbasses for putting it out so early in the first place.

I learned a lot about my neighbors while picking up their trash. More specifically, I learned a lot about their diets. I can't figure out how there's any justice in the world when I am fatter than these people. They live off of Ward's, McDonald's, white bread, peanut butter, canned chili, and gumballs. There was no evidence that they ever consume anything besides fast food and snack food, and I am easily 50 pounds heavier than the heaviest person over there. Bitches.

Once the trash was up (again) I locked the dog up. Not in the regular fence-- in his crate. I'm sure I've mentioned before that we have one of those electric fences that is supposed to shock the dog when he crosses the wire. The fence is working fine; we just have a super determined tough ass dog. Tim even bought an extra receiver and built a special collar that has two extra strength shockers-- both set to "kill"-- and the dog still runs through the fence. The female stays right where she belongs, but the male will not be denied. He was fine until another male dog started roaming the neighborhood, coming into his yard, pissing in his water bowl, etc., and then he decided he had to be free. We haven't been able to keep him up since then.

I don't know what we're going to do. Yesterday I would've taken him to the pound if the back of the truck hadn't been full of trash. Part of me thinks I should load him up and take him today, but another part of me says I should load up the other male dog-- the one who doesn't belong to us but roams freely. His owners are making no effort to keep him locked up.

Shitwigs!

Charlie loves the ceiling fan

2008-12-27T17:26:00.001-06:00

Charlie's got a lumpy head

2008-12-27T09:58:00.002-06:00

Charlie's head is starting to freak us out. For a while, I've been noticing a flat spot on one side. He always turns his head to the right, and he sleeps on the right side of his head. Yes, I've tried turning him onto his left side, but he still turns his head around to the right. He can turn his head to the left, but he never turns it all the way. I'm worried that there's something wrong with his neck and it's keeping him from turning it to the left. I noticed this when he was teeny tiny, but only recently started worrying about it when I realized that it was making his head flat. Now, in addition to the flat spot on the right side of his head, I see that the front of his head has sort of a bulge on it on the right side. It's like his right side of his forehead pokes out a little more than the left, like he has screwed it up from sleeping on that side.

I've started propping him up when he sleeps to force him off of that side of his head, so maybe it'll go back to normal. I don't want my kid's head to be screwed up.

Merry Christmas, y'all

2008-12-25T22:08:00.002-06:00

For your holiday entertainment, check this out. I love the VW sleigh!

You may know that I have always felt a strange fondness for goats. I don't know why. Maybe because I'm a Capricorn, or maybe because the stubby legged little creatures are just plain cute, but I like goats. If you ever lose me in a petting zoo, look for the goats. I could just pet their little goat heads all day. This is even stranger if you know that I was repeatedly attacked by a mean goat on my grandfather's dairy farm when I was a kid. I spent more than one sweaty summer day being hoofed in the chest by that mean ass goat-- when I wasn't busy running from Uncle William, who was always armed with a fully loaded pooper scooper, asking if I wanted a bite.

If we ever build our dream house on 100 acres, I will have some goats.

That said, I found a great blog today. People, I give you Nanny Goats in Panties.

Charlie's First Christmas

2008-12-24T09:37:00.005-06:00

When I got back last night, Tim had cleaned the entire house, had scented candles going, had the lights dimmed, the tree lit up, and he had bought and wrapped a bunch of presents for me and Charlie and put them under our little tree. I think he was trying to seduce me. Unfortunately, I lost consciousness as soon as the baby went to sleep. It was a nice birthday present though.

That's right. Yesterday was the first anniversary of my 29th birthday. Which...sorta means...that I'm...uh...you know..how you say, no longer in my twenties.

There.

Now. In an effort to shift to a cheerier topic, I present to you a picture of my mom's Chihuahua, Festus.

As soon as I walked in the door at my parents' house Sunday, I rushed to the bedroom with the breast pump because my girls were about to explode. I had no sooner gotten the thing going when I heard someone come in the front door. The dogs went to yapping, and then I heard the one sound that can turn my stomach. No, it's not the sound of someone vomiting, or of children being beaten, or of a kitten's head being squished under a car tire. It was Aunt C's screeching voice, doing the caw caw cawwing that she does to announce herself when she enters a place, as if the scent of Pomeranian poop, body odor, and cigarettes had not crept under the door and announced her arrival as soon as she pulled into the driveway.

They were in the living room for a few minutes-- I could hear them, of course, because no matter what room you're in at my mom's house, you can hear everything that's going on in every other room. They were playing with the most annoying toy ever created-- a Christmas tree that dances and sings (LOUDLY) while the lights blink. My grandmother got it for Charlie. One of them gets something like that every year, and carries it around showing it off like it's the coolest thing ever invented. Like nobody else has ever seen a loud ass dancing Christmas tree, ever, but they're all dying to, and will be impressed that she managed to snag such a treasure.

WTF????

As soon as the dancing tree cut off, I heard my grandmother ask where I was, and Mom told her I was pumping. Then I heard footsteps coming down the hallway toward my door. I already knew who it was, and looked to see if the door was locked. Annnnnd of course it was not. Hell, I'm lucky there was a door there. (If you read this blog in its earliest days, you know why.) Anyway, the door flung open and in popped the head of the beast. I said, "I'll be out in just a minute." She said, "It's just me." (Just me? What was she thinking? Like there are relatives who enjoy the special privilege of seeing me hooked up to a breast pump? No, nobody is allowed to see that, and if there was some special club, she wouldn't be in it!) I said, "I will be out. In just. A minute." Now, a normal person would shut the door at that point, but not Aunt C. Instead she just stood there staring at my nipples being pulled by the contraption, and said, "That fascinates me."

I didn't even have a response for that, but a sound left my body. It was a combination of a grunt and a desperate sigh. It was the sound that comes out when you want to cuss but are too weirded out to form words. She finally left and shut the door. I'm not sure what I would've said if she hadn't finally taken the hint.

My sister and her crew arrived a little later, and we had our usual Christmas festivities. A big meal, lots of pictures, stories, screaming and laughing kids, etc. And don't forget everyone's favorite Christmas tradition-- watching me cringe when Aunt C comes to hug me. I hate to admit it, but she didn't smell that bad this year, and once the booby watching incident was over, I was less annoyed with her than I normally am.

Maybe I was just too busy trying to make sure nobody dropped Charlie on his little head. Considering the fact that he was being passed back and forth between my father (who isn't supposed to hold anything heavier than a phone book until his neck heals), my niece (who is 6 years old and thought he was a baby doll), and my grandmother (who is 87 and senile) him getting dropped seemed like a real possibility.

He didn't, though. Here are some pics of Charlie not being dropped.

So far, Charlie's first Christmas has been pretty good. We're going to open presents here on Christmas morning before Tim goes to work, and then we'll have go see Tim's side of the family on the 26th. I'm not worried about any of them dropping him, but I'm pretty sure his camera-happy sister is going to burn Charlie's corneas with her damn flash. Maybe I can find him some cool shades to wear.

A trip.

2008-12-22T13:05:00.004-06:00

I do not recommend traveling more than 2 or 3 hours alone with a 7 week old, and I'll never do it again no matter how guilty my relatives make me feel. Yesterday Charlie and I left the house at 9:30. He slept all the way to Grenada, which is only about an hour and a half south of our destination. I had to stop and change and feed him, which I did at a McDonald's. I changed him in their bathroom, then fed him in the back seat of the car.

It took about half an hour for him to eat because his food was cold and he wasn't very enthusiastic about it. He fell asleep instantly after he ate, and I put him back in the car seat. I was getting ready to get back on the road when I realized that I did not have my purse. I had left it in the bathroom stall over half an hour earlier. It had everything in it. My cell phone, check book, debit card, a bunch of Wal Mart gift cards, and about $300 in cash. I normally don't carry more than $100 or so, but Tim was kind of paranoid and insisted that I take more cash. And hey, who am I to question his judgment? He's the man of the house. The leader of the family. The husband to whom the Bible commands me to submit. And he was shoving $300 at me, which always helps me remember all that shit about submission.

Back to the story. It had been over half an hour, it was lunch time, the place was packed, and I knew I was screwed. Surely someone had left with the purse, or at least its contents. Oh, my blood was boiling. I was already preparing to stand on a chair in the lobby of the McDonald's and give a short but very loud and angry speech about karma before storming out. I ran back into the bathroom, and someone was in the stall. I knocked and asked the person if there was a purse in there, and she said yes. So I waited. She was dropping a stinky bomb, so I stood there planning my speech. When she finally came out, I went in but there was no purse! I said, "There's no purse in there!" and she just looked at me. Freaking retard!

I went back to the lobby and asked a girl behind the counter if anyone had turned it in, and she pointed down to the end of the counter. It was setting there by a register. Thank God, and everything was still in it too! So to the person who found the purse in the bathroom stall at the Grenada McDonald's yesterday, I thank you. My husband thanks you. My son thanks you. My dooooooooooooooog thanks you!

Tomorrow (or maybe later today) I will have a short Aunt C story for you.

We are not irrelevant.

2008-12-19T18:27:00.004-06:00

Obama short on Southerners in Cabinet appointments

Aww, Prez, don't be hatin'!! I'm sure there's at least one Southerner who can stop clinging to their guns and religion long enough to do a job! After all, everyone in Chicago is a former Southerner!

"The South accounted for nearly half of the 22 states Obama lost to Republican John McCain on Election Day. Still, Obama won surprise victories in North Carolina and Virginia. Democrats also won key congressional races in other Southern states, including Alabama and Mississippi, renewing hopes that the party can spread its success if it pays closer attention to the region.

Obama's most recent Democratic predecessor, Bill Clinton of Arkansas, did that in part by littering his Cabinet with fellow Southerners and mobilizing them to promote the party's agenda in the region."

Tale of the Lazy Yard Boy

2008-12-18T19:56:00.006-06:00

Four days ago, I mentioned to a friend that we wanted someone to get rid of the pine straw and leaves in our yard, and asked if she knew anyone who wanted to make $100. She said her 16 year old son wanted to do it. I told her to tell him it was a big job, would take a whole day or maybe two, would put some blisters on his hands, and that I wanted it done right. He still wanted the job.

When he got here, the first thing he did after looking over the yard (which he'd seen before, btw) was say he wanted $150 instead of $100. Turd. So I told him I'd give him $130, and he agreed. I went inside, and he went to raking. Thirty minutes later, he knocked on the door and said he wasn't feeling well and wanted to go home. Then I didn't hear from him for 4 days, so I thought he wasn't coming back. To be honest, the whole getting sick thirty minutes into the job thing reeked of this is more work than I thought it would be and now I want out of it.

Last night, his mother called and said he'd be back this morning. I told her he didn't have to do it if he didn't want to. She said, "He said he wants to do it." Then this morning, she called and asked if he could just burn the pine straw instead of hauling it off. I told her no, because I'd already tried that. Pine straw seems like it would burn quickly, but it doesn't, as I found out one day about 2 months ago. I set fire to a very small pile of straw, and it burned for hours. Every time I thought it was out, I'd rake over it to spread it out and it'd flame back up. It just burned and burned. I couldn't imagine the kid setting fire to ALL the pine straw that was out there, because it was 3 acres worth. He'd either have three dozen little fires burning allllll day long (and leaving 3 dozen little burn spots in my yard) or he'd have one giant, out-of-control fire that would burn allllll day long, and no doubt keep him out there longer than he wanted to be out there. So anyway, I told her that, and she said they were gonna see if a farm supply near here wanted to buy the straw by the truck load.

The kid went out there and raked until about 2:00 p.m., then came and knocked on the door. He said, "I don't have anywhere to take this straw, so I'm just gonna leave it and you can burn it."

Uh, I think not, bubba.

I said, "I thought you were going to get rid of it." He said, "I don't have anywhere to take it so my mom just told me to tell you to burn it."

A thousand things flew through my mind, starting with, "I'm not paying your MOM," and ending with, "Well if you did half the job you're only getting half the money." Since I was feeling a vein bulge in my neck, I decided to think it over before giving my official response. I shut the door and sat on the couch.

Since he deferred to his mother, I decided to call her. I told her that if he wasn't going to haul the stuff off like I wanted, he should've said so before I agreed on a price. I told her I wasn't going to spend $130 to still have a yard full of pine straw. She said they'd take care of it.

Next time I looked out the window, the kid was gone, and I haven't seen him since.

I can't think of a title for this that doesn't sound completely corny, so screw it.

2008-12-17T18:50:00.005-06:00

Today I went to the English department's Christmas party, and afterwards I was able to go into a few classes and talk to my now-former students. I told them that it looks like I'm not going to be coming back in January, told them why, and told them that I wanted to come back but can't. It was sad. A lot of them spoke up and said they really wanted me to come back and had been looking forward to it. A few got up and hugged me. Several cried. I broke down and wept like a child.

It was hard. Harder than I thought it would be. But I'm glad I had the chance to tell them myself, and even though I second guessed my decision the whole way home, I know I'm doing the right thing. I have to be, right?

I put up with a lot of crap and more than a few kids who wouldn't have pissed on me if I'd caught fire before I got to the point where I would actually be missed. It's hard to walk away from it mid-year, and I hope I don't have to start completely over when I go back in a few years.

Talkin'

2008-12-16T21:21:00.001-06:00

Nightmare in the Morning

2008-12-15T15:27:00.005-06:00

I submitted my resignation letter at work this morning, but thanks to a meddling payroll clerk, all hell broke loose before I had the chance to talk to my principal.

First of all, let me back up to Friday. The woman I had arrangements with to keep Charlie called me and said she wouldn't be able to keep him because she's been having some serious health problems. As I've said, I was considering not going back anyway, but I was waiting to hear from the babysitter. When she told me she couldn't take him, that sealed the deal.

So this morning I typed up a letter of resignation. I emailed my principal and asked him to tell me what time I could come by and meet with him; I said I needed to talk to him as soon as possible. My intention was to go resign in person and try to do damage control. He's a military guy, and I didn't expect him to be warm and fuzzy about it, so I wanted to be careful in how I presented this decision to him.

Shortly after I sent the email, the phone rang and it was a payroll clerk from the central office. Since I was out of sick days, I had NO check coming this month. She said they were going to prorate the days left on my contract so that I could get paid. Since I knew I wasn't going back, I didn't want them to cut me a check for days that I know I'm not going to work. I can just imagine the trouble that would cause, so I told her not to do it. I told her I wasn't coming back, and I told her that I hadn't had the chance to talk to Dr. Principal about it yet, but was going to talk to him this afternoon.

Fast forward ten minutes. I was literally sitting at the computer with my email open, waiting for the principal to tell me what time I could come meet with him. The phone rings again, and it's the principal. The stupid payroll bitch called him and told him I was quitting! GREAT.

He said he'd heard from the central office that I wasn't coming back. I told him that was true, but that I was hoping to talk to him about it, and I explained that I told the payroll clerk before I told him because I was trying to prevent them from paying me, and that I was trying to get in touch with him, etc.

He asked why I was quitting, and I told him about the babysitter situation. He immediately said, "Well I want you to know up front that I will not recommend that you be released from your contract." He went on to talk about how the board would be petitioning the state department to revoke my license, and then stopped to say, "Were you aware that this would be the consequence of quitting mid-year??" I told him that I was aware that it could be the consequence. I told him that I was doing what I had to do, and I'd just have to take the repercussions as they come.

Shortly after that, he finally checked his freakin' email and wrote me back. He told me to give him my request in writing. I assumed he was talking about my resignation letter.

I called the AFT representative at my school to ask if she knew what my options were. Surely I could go before the board myself if he refused to recommend releasing me from my contract, and I wanted to find out how to approach the situation. Should I call the superintendent or what? The local rep referred me to the state rep, and twenty minutes later I was on the phone with the state union president. Kudos to the AFT! I'm glad I switched to them from MAE. The MAE would've tied me down in red tape and nothing would've been done. (For you non-teachers, I am talking about teacher unions that I pay to be on my side.)

The president of the AFT told me to write a super professional letter detailing why I was leaving and saying that it was beyond my control, etc., and to formally request that he let me out of my contract, and to cc the letter to her. So I did.

Two hours later, I had finally managed to get showered and dressed and get Charlie loaded in the car. When I got to the school, baby in tow, the principal had changed his tone considerably. I gave him both letters, and he said that he would recommend that they release me from the contract if he can find a replacement teacher. Apparently, the girl who's been subbing for me this whole time isn't someone they want to keep.

I think it'll work out.

While I was there, several teachers who happened to be in the office held Charlie and passed him around. I also saw several of my students. They were so excited to see me; they hugged me and said they were looking forward to me coming back. That was rough.

I'm planning to go to the English Department Christmas party this Wednesday to say goodbye to my friends, and I'm hoping to be able to talk to the kids then. When a teacher quits, especially mid-year, they always think they've run them off. They take it personally. I don't know if it's that way everywhere, but I think these kids are more sensitive because they're harder to work with, and they know they have run teachers off. I've always told them they'd never run me off, and I want to make sure they know that me leaving has nothing to do with them, and that I'd like to have my cake and eat it too, but can't.

This sucks, but I still think it's the right thing. I don't think I should put Charlie in daycare so that I can go to a job that I don't have to have. It's too bad he can't just go to work with me every day.

GOLD!

2008-12-10T22:20:00.004-06:00

In response to my recent post, "Stupid in So Many Ways," which was about a crazy high school student who claimed to be channeling God, or the debble, or whatever, our much-loved (and oh-so-pretty) Hillbilly Mom rubbed it in a little that Missouri's hillbillies are (ostensibly) smarter than Mississippi's. She did follow that up by acknowledging that she'd probably eat those words soon, and I said a quick prayer that she would.

People, there is a God.

Alleged Missouri burglar found stuck in chimney

ST. LOUIS (AP) -- Santa aside, that trip down the chimney doesn't work so well after all.
So a man in St. Louis found out early Wednesday. Police say he was a burglar, and he was arrested after a harrowing three hours inside the chimney of a business.

Authorities were called at 3 a.m. to a pawn shop, where the man was wedged in the chimney, unable to move. After about three hours, rescuers were able to knock away bricks and free him.

He was taken to a hospital for evaluation. The man's name has not been released.

Gold, I say.

In other news, it's snowing in Mississippi tonight, so our own hillbillies will probably make the news tomorrow when people start driving. Tornadoes yesterday, snow today. Go figger.

File under "General Bitchery"

2008-12-09T23:17:00.002-06:00

There's really bad weather in Mississippi tonight. According to Jim Cantore, who just confirmed his douchebaggery by referring to the town of Magee ("mu-GEE") as "Maggie," these storms totally jacked up Yazoo Shitty. Proof that God hates the Delta.

Anyway, we have been hearing about this weather for two days now. Tonight around 7:00, the watches and warnings started popping up on our t.v., ending my quest to get into the bed at some time in the next hour or two. Since then, I've been watching reports of people being trapped in their screwed up houses in towns west of here, anxiously waiting for the shit to hit the fan in my own front yard. At 8:00, it was going to be an hour. An hour later, it was going to be an hour after that. Now it's 11:30, and they're saying it's not going to be here until 3:00 a.m.

Guess that great night of sleep I got last night is even-Stevening itself out, isn't it?

What makes you drool and is better than sex?

2008-12-09T14:48:00.005-06:00

People, I found it. At least I think I found it. And it was so simple, so easy. What have I found, you ask? The pathway to a night of sleep, my friend. The pathway to a night of sleep.

::a yellow light fills the room, and angels are heard singing::

Formula.

Yeah, I know. I said I didn't want to give him any. But then I heard that formula stays in their stomachs longer, thereby giving the sleepy mother a chance to get some rest between feedings, so I said f*ck it, give the boy some formula! And I did. I gave him a bottle of formula right before bed. And he slept. And I slept. I slept for four hours. And it was...it was...it was orgasmic. Except that orgasms usually involve being awake. Usually.

Whatever. You know what I'm saying-- the sense of satisfaction was comparable.

I need a cigarette.

Stupid for So Many Reasons

2008-12-06T09:56:00.003-06:00

First, you must watch the video. Don't worry, it's only 2 minutes long, and so worth it.

http://www.wapt.com/video/18208761/index.html

I don't know about you, but when I picture this kid "speaking in tongues," one thing comes to my mind-- the day in 9th grade when my friend Tony faked a seizure in study hall. It was great, I mean he really sold it. Girls were crying, the coach jumped up and ran over to him-- it was so worth the punishment that followed. One would think that faking a demonic possession would be handled much in the same way as Tony's faked seizure-- with a few swings of the football coach's paddle. Instead, it made the nightly freakin' news. Guess there's not much happening in Pelahatchie.

I have no idea where Pelahatchie is, and I'm pretty familiar with our fine state, so it's got to be tiny. After all, a town of any size would have more important things to report, not to mention a lower concentration of fucktards.

Okay, so a girl goes to school and starts talking in a monster voice, telling her classmates when and how they would die, etc. A bunch of the kids freak out and start taking Bibles to school to ward off the demons. How stupid do you have to be to believe that this girl was really and truly possessed by a demon? Look at her. If a spirit-- be it evil or good-- was going to use a human to communicate with us, would it choose Lashundra Clanton of Pelahatchie, Mississippi? Doubt it. Yet her stupid hillbilly classmates were so convinced that they brought Bibles to school. That's the best part of this-- they all showed up with their Bibles and held a devotional! What're they gonna do-- a freakin' exorcism? You know they're a bunch of Baptists, so that doesn't even make sense.

I don't know what reaction the teachers and school officials had when this happened at school, but they apparently didn't think much of it. If it happened in my class, I know what I would've done-- I would've thrown her out. Immediately. And I promise you, it wouldn't have happened 3 days in a row. I'd love to have more details. Was she in class? Study hall? Gym? Lunch? Was she in the same class each of the three days? That'd be good to know. Some class environments might be more conducive to communicating with the spirit world than others, after all. For example, if the Music Theory teacher has a habit of leaving the class alone while he stands in the hallway finding reasons to not do his job, you might have more time to get possessed by a demon than you would in, say, Math, where the teacher is not only present, but also in control of his or her classroom. I'm just saying. Maybe we should find out which teacher is opening the gateways to hell.

Here's the part that pisses me off. Both of the parents in the video-- the girl's mother and the father of the boy who took his Bible to school-- both criticize the school officials for how they handled the situation. The girl's mom seemed truly shocked that, "They said they didn't know what to do, they didn't know how to handle the problem! I mean, you know, they really didn't come up with a solution!"

What slackers! They need to organize a committee to prepare just in case this happens again! Every school should have a Demonic Possession Response Team on standby at all times! What were they thinking??

The other parent in the video-- the father of one of the kids who took his Bible to school-- was upset that the school didn't notify parents of this incident, and that, "Instead, he had to learn about it from the kids."

Just think about the mentality of someone who's pissed that the school didn't notify them of this. What the hell does he imagine the people who run the school are doing all day long?? He says it disrupted class and they should've been notified. Maybe I've been slacking on my job all this time. I had no idea that I was supposed to notify parents every time class is disrupted. Shit. I'm gonna need to switch to the unlimited plan!

Hi, Mr. Jones. This is Mrs. McTimslastname from Your Kid's High School, and I'm just calling to notify you that one of our children faked a demonic possession at lunch today. Yeah, a lot of the students were really traumatized, and we've got counselors available for them. We just didn't want you to have to hear this news from your son or daughter. Best it comes from us. And while I've got you on the phone, I also need to inform you that Tony faked a seizure in study hall, Johnny farted in English, Bobby threw a spit wad during the assembly, some boys smoked a joint in the bathroom between 4th and 5th periods, and someone stuck a "Kick Me" sign on the Home Ec teacher's back. We're still investigating that one.

I can't believe this hasn't been made fun of on a cable news show yet. You know, kinda like the time the fine people of Mobile, Alabama believed that a leprechaun was hanging out in a tree somewhere in the 'hood. I think that made Talk Soup, didn't it?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nda_OSWeyn8

Best line in that video: "WHERE DA GOLD AT!?" It's no "Chitlin's is for Thanksgiving," but still good.

Back to the demonic possession story. Stupid for so many reasons. Let's count 'em, shall we?
1. The kids believed it.
2. They took Bibles to school to ward off the demon.
3. The student claimed God was speaking through her, and her mother says God is using her to speak to the kids at her school.
4. News reporters actually showed up, and this was aired on the nightly news.
5. The only point of controversy for the people of Pelahatchie was NOT which psych ward to send Lashundra Clanton too, or how long she should be suspended for disrupting class, no. The only thing people can think of to talk about? Whether it was God or the debble speaking.

Much like Hillbilly Mom said about Missouri's wife killing satellite installer guy, I wish this had happened somewhere else.

Handsome.

2008-12-04T21:15:00.001-06:00

Random Thought Whenever

2008-12-03T11:24:00.006-06:00

*My dad had surgery on his neck last week. He had a ruptured something or other, and they replaced it with a dead guy's neck bone. Mom says he's doing fine. Now my sister is the only one of our immediate family who hasn't had surgery this year, but there are still more than 3 weeks left, so she'd better be careful.

**Even years are good, and odd years are bad. Remember 2005? I got fired from my job on January 4th, and it was down hill from there. Tim's mom died, Hurricane Katrina hit, I spent the first half of the year in my mom's basement and the second half in Yazoo Shitty. That was one mean year. The worst of my life so far. The good-bad pattern has been rather consistent since then, with 06 being better and 07 being worse, so I'm mourning the end of 2008 and anxiously waiting to see what horrors lie around the bend for 2009.

***We finally bought a new dining room table today. It's pretty sweet. It's a counter height table, it's square but has rounded edges that pop up to make it round (and bigger). It's big enough for 4 chairs without the rounded leaves up, and big enough for 8 with them up. We bought 6 chairs. It's got a built-in granite lazy susan and a really cool storage thing underneath it. I'll post pictures when it gets delivered. Or you could just click here.

****We took Charlie on his first trip into public. He went to the furniture store with us. We knew what we wanted, so we weren't in there long, and I figured there couldn't be many grabby people in a furniture store in the middle of the day on a Wednesday. I hear horror stories about people being accosted by grabbers when they take their babies out in public. I may break some old lady's arm if it reached for my baby, which is the #2 reason I have vowed not to take him out before he's officially considered old enough to have a decent immune system. (The #1 reason would be all the bugs floating around that could potentially kill a tiny baby.) Fortunately, there weren't any grabbers, and the salesman just peered in through the little window on top of the stroller, so I was able to get my new furniture and get back home without catching any assault charges.

*****A coworker/semi-boss from work called me today. I didn't answer, but she left a message inviting me to the English Department's Christmas party. Isn't that sweet? I was flattered that they actually called to make sure I knew about it. It almost makes me feel bad about the fact that I'm seriously considering not going back in January. I reckon I'll be going to the party if Tim's off work, and I think he is.

******Speaking of the changes to come in January, I spoke with the babysitter yesterday. I needed to make sure we're still on, for one thing, because she and her husband have both been having some serious health problems lately. I also wanted to find out where she planned to let Charlie sleep when he's there, because I didn't see a crib anywhere. Turns out she buys all her new babies a play pen to sleep in. That's cool. I just needed her to set my mind at ease, because I was imagining her putting him down on her bed, and that won't work. Ryan's other grandmother (not my mom) put him down on her bed when he was little, and if someone hadn't gone in to check on him he would've died. The young'un had managed to roll over and get his face mashed into the thick blankets, and he was blue when they found him.

*******My only doubt about going back to work is how we will feed Charlie. Mrs. Babysitter was telling me that a lot of people will feed formula during the day and breast feed at night. But I don't want to feed formula at all before he's 3 months old at least, preferably 6 months old, and I can't pump out enough milk ahead of time to send enough to the babysitter's with him. At this point I'm only producing what he needs, and it's not available before it's needed, so I can't pump it out ahead of time because it's just not there yet. And there's the little problem of the fact that Mr. Charles loves the booby. It's not just the contents of the booby that he wants, but also the booby itself. Breastmilk through a bottle will fill his belly, but he'll still cry for more until he gets the actual boob. He'll latch on there for a minute or two, not really consuming anything but just nursing for the comfort of it I guess, and then he'll be okay.

He doesn't do this every time we feed him from a bottle-- in fact, it's rare-- but when he does, there's no satisfying him until he gets the boob. He did it this morning. My dear, sweet husband got up with him so I could get some rest. Tim gave him his regular 4 ounces of pre-pumped breastmilk from a bottle, but Charlie wouldn't stop crying, even with a full belly. Tim changed him, swaddled him, checked every possible thing that could be wrong with him, and couldn't get him to stop crying. Finally, after a long time of trying, Tim came to me, defeated. I couldn't find anything wrong with him, either. When all else fails, give him a booby, right? So that's what I did. His tense little body instantly relaxed, and he was happy after two minutes of nursing. He couldn't have been hungry, and he didn't consume much milk, if any. He just wanted to latch onto a boob, and then he was good.

********So what's gonna happen when me and my boobs go back to work?? I know he'll get over it after a few days, but with him only being 2 months old then, I don't think I should take the boobs away yet. He'll still be young enough that I think a little booby attachment is perfectly normal. It's probably even a good thing, and I don't want to tear him away just yet. And I sure as hell don't want to feed him formula-- not in the daytime or the night time or ever, thank you. I don't know a single formula-fed kid who didn't have a host of health issues.

You just can't beat boobies.

Things I've Learned

2008-11-30T21:31:00.004-06:00

Charlie gets cuter every day. I'm pretty sure he smiled at me today, and it wasn't gas.

My house will never be really clean again. I just don't have time or energy for it.

Hemorrhoids can strike when you least expect them. I won't elaborate on this one.

It does get better. Last night he slept for six consecutive hours-- and so did I!

Egg Nog has so much fat in it that drinking just a little bit will make you sleepy. Or maybe I was just sleepy.

My son is a world class farter. World class.

If you disconnect from the outside world and stay disconnected for a while, dates and times cease to hold meaning for you.

A husband will bitch and moan about the no-sex-for-six-weeks rule, but he will not go pick up a birth control prescription in time for it to kick in before the end of the sex embargo.

I'm probably gonna be knocked up again within a year. Not an idea that appeals to me at all. If that happens, I'll probably start putting something special in the egg nog.

Thanksgiving

2008-11-29T10:58:00.002-06:00

Yesterday we had our family Thanksgiving get-together at sister-in-law #1's house. It was the first decent home-cooked meal we've had since my mom left three weeks ago. Delicious. I enjoyed it immensely.

What I did not enjoy was the fit Charlie threw last night when we got home. Mr. I've Been Held All Day Why Am I Not Being Held Now Pick Me Up Or I Will Never Stop Screaming Ever Ever Ever is a little bit predictable when it comes to how he'll behave after an afternoon with family members. It's really amazing to me how every little experience he has throughout the day has such a major impact on him, and because of this fact, I'm beginning to doubt that I will return to work in January.

Four-Play (the meme)

2008-11-27T09:52:00.003-06:00

Since I am bored and I'm having a hard time thinking of anything non-baby related to blog about, I stole this from Redneck Diva.

Four places that I go to over and over:

work (at least before maternity leave)
Wal Mart
the kitchen
the nursery

Four people who e-mail me (regularly):

sister-in-law #1
sister-in-law #2
sister
Dad

Four of my favorite places to eat:

sister-in-law #1's house
El Rancho
Sakura (Japanese)
Mom and Dad's (not my parents' house, but the restaurant in Petal)

Four places I would rather be right now:

shopping
eating out
in the shower
maybe even WORK

Four TV shows I watch over and over:

The Soup
The Shield
COPS
MSNBC's Lockup

Four unusual things in the room I’m in:

A breast pump
A kitty condo
A weird baby play mat thing that appears to be missing some parts
A VCR

Four concerts I’ve been to:

Bob Dylan
Willie Nelson
Wilco
Drive by Truckers, before they sucked

Four things on my calendar:

Charlie's next doctor's appointment-- January 7
MY next (and last!) doctor's appointment-- December 12
My birthday, December 23
The day I go back to work-- January 5

Four fears:

Heights
Cancer
Not doing something meaningful with my life
Being broadsided by another vehicle at an intersection. (Don't ask why, but the image of being obliterated at an intersection plays through my head at least five times a day, and I've never been one of those nervous drivers-- this didn't start until probably a year ago.)

Four unusual things in my purse or wallet:

Neosporin
Suckers that say "It's a Boy!"
A bunch of Wal Mart gift cards
a jump drive

Four chores I hate doing:

Cleaning Tim's toilet
Folding clothes
Picking up things that other people leave lying around when they very easily could've picked them up if they just GAVE A DAMN
Taking out the garbage, especially when it gets really full

Four favorite animals:

Goats
Boxers (the dog)
Cows
Kittens

Four speed dials on my cell phone:

Tim's cell
Tim's work
Mom
Brenda

Four places I have called home:

Nesbit, MS
Memphis, TN
Yazoo Shitty, MS
Hattiesburg, MS

Four websites (not blogs) I visit:

ebay
a website where locals share info (and talk shit to each other)
Ivillage
my employer's website

Four people who have been in my car:

Tim
Charlie
my friend Rhonda
that might actually be it...guess I'm not much of a chauffer

Four things I am wearing:

glasses
shirt
sweat pants
underwear

Four things I am looking forward to:

Taking a shower when Charlie falls asleep
My next meal when Charlie falls asleep
Charlie falling asleep
My next trip out of the house

Four favorite types of candy:

Snickers
Hershey's
Twix
Milky Way

Four sports teams you like:

New York Giants (Go Eli)
New Orleans Saints
Anyone who beats the Jets and/or sacks Favre a lot
Southern Miss Golden Eagles

Four things found in your fridge:

Leftover red beans and rice
Uncooked pork chops that Tim is going to grill tonight
Three week old pitcher of tea
a bunch of other inedible crap

Four rituals (not just a task) you do every day:

Make coffee
Check email
As soon as Charlie is old enough to go out more, I will resume the ritual of driving SOMEWHERE every day, even if I have no destination

Four things currently within reach:

Laptop
Car seat
Baby blanket
Empty coffee cup

Four things you know how to cook:

Kickass Lasagna
Chicken Spaghetti
Homemade Pizza
Salmon Cake Thingies

It's not that I can't sleep...

2008-11-26T00:16:00.002-06:00

...it's that I can't relax.

Over the last several days, I have realized that I actually do have time to sleep enough to keep from being a zombie. Charlie sleeps up to 4 hours at a time, sometimes even longer if I'm lucky. If I could sleep during those long stretches, I'd be good. But I can't sleep because I can't relax, and that's because you never know which of his naps is a long one, and which is a short one. There is no predictability. When he lies down to sleep, it might be five hours before he's up again...or it might be thirty minutes. So when I try to steal a nap, I'm on alert. I usually can't doze off because every sound I hear makes my eyes pop wide open. Was that Charlie? Is he up? Is he about to start crying? Common sense says to just ignore it until he does start crying, or until I know for a fact that he is, indeed, awake and demanding my attention. But it doesn't work that way. If I wait until he's crying, dealing with him is harder. It's so much easier if I can anticipate his needs and be ready to meet them instantly. Offering him food before he gets hungry to the point of being pissed at the world is a lot easier than feeding him once he's throwing a fit. The same goes for changing his diaper, giving him a pacifier, or just picking him up to hold him. I can't sleep because I'm trying to anticipate his needs, but I can't really anticipate his needs because every time I think I've figured out a pattern to them, he throws me a curveball.

Take now for example. It's past midnight. He ate his last meal at 10:00, and has been awake since then. Normally, he'd be asleep right now, and so would I, but I think someone sprinkled some crack on his pacifier, because he's literally been moving nonstop for the last hour and a half. He'll start to doze off, then wake himself up and be wide eyed and wiggling for another half hour. I laid in bed listening to him kick the sides of the bassinet for a while, then decided it would be easier to just get up with him and let him work some of the energy out. I wonder if they make baby Nyquil.

I'm kidding about the baby Nyquil. Sort of.

My son, the prankster

2008-11-24T09:43:00.002-06:00

Charlie pulled a mean joke on me this morning. He woke up at 7:00, fussing. It had only been 2 hours since he last ate, so I gave him some gas drops, which I always do first thing in the morning because that seems to be when he fusses with gas. I also changed his poopy diaper, swaddled him tightly, and then put him back to bed. But he wasn't having it. He kicked, he fussed, he spit his binky out so angrily that it landed at his feet. After putting him off for half an hour, I finally fed him, even though it wasn't time. He seemed content after booby time, then dozed off. I put him back to bed. As soon as I did, he woke up, and started whining again. I begged him for one more hour of sleep, but he wouldn't listen. So at 8:00, I got up with him.

As soon as we were walking down the hallway toward the living room, he was thrilled. He started smiling, which warmed my heart so well that I almost didn't need a cup of coffee to get going. Little did I know that the little booger was smiling because I had taken the bait.

I put him in his carseat on the couch, covered him with a little blanket, and headed to the kitchen. Four minutes later, I was back with my cup of coffee--- the one, cherished cup of coffee that I allow myself to have, so that the young 'un doesn't get too much caffeine. I made it extra strong today.

Coffee time has become something of a routine for me and Charlie. He sits in his carseat next to me and gazes contentedly while I sip the first half of my cup of coffee. About halfway through my coffee, he wants to be held. He usually gets the hiccups around this time, so I pick him up and let him lie on my chest while I pat him on the back. Normally, he just calms down and then goes back to his carseat where he chills out for another hour or so. We usually listen to music and talk a little bit during this time. By the time I get back to my cup of coffee, it's cold, so I only get half a cup each morning.

But not today. No, that wasn't part of his plan. Today he let me finish the entire cup before he wanted to be held. And instead of staying up for another hour, this morning he went straight back to sleep during back-rubbing-hiccup-soothing time.

Lemme run ya back through that again. At 8:00, I was leaning over his bassinet, bags under my eyes, having had about 4 hours of sleep total-- begging, pleading with him to give me one more hour of sleep. I promised him ice cream, petting zoos, and trips to Toys R Us. No deal. So at 8:05, I was walking down the hallway with him, thinking we were up for the day. And at 8:30, he was asleep again, having let me finish the entire cup of coffee.

Since then I've been sitting on the couch, wired for 220, while he and Tim sleep peacefully.

Prankster.

Diary of a Sleepy Momma

2008-11-22T18:45:00.004-06:00

Charlie is awesome. This post has nothing to do with his awesomeness-- in fact, I'm about to bitch about his incessant sleepeatpooping, but I just thought I'd remind you that he is indeed awesome.

Today I learned why I'm even more exhausted than usual. I learned that three weeks of age is the typical time for a growth spurt, and three week old babies eat every 2 hours during a growth spurt. Every. Two. Hours. We were up to about 4 hours, so this sudden jump back to eating every 2 hours feels unfair. Cruel, even. He went from 2 middle of the night feedings to 3 or 4. Every time I hear him cry during the night, all I can think is Already?

This morning at 4:00, I'm pretty sure I fell asleep for a few minutes while feeding him. He was back in bed again by 4:30, but woke up again at 5:00, having pooped his pants and wiggled out of his swaddle, and then he woke up again at 6:00 for his next meal. Then again at 8, and so forth. At 10:00, I gave up trying to sleep, and have been up all day. I didn't even take my 3:00 nap today. It would take me probably 20 minutes to fall asleep, and then I'd only get an hour and a half of actual sleep, and it just didn't seem worth it. Normally I don't take any time to fall asleep, but these days my mind is always racing. I don't know if it's hormones or anxiety or both, but I find myself lying with my eyes wide open thinking about all sorts of things-- what if the babysitter is really an evil witch who eats babies? I don't remember her showing me where he would sleep. What if she puts him on a regular bed and he rolls over and suffocates? Should I go back to work at all? How will I breastfeed him if I do go back? Won't I miss teaching if I don't go back? Will they suspend my license for a year if I don't finish my contract? What will I say to my boss if I quit? Will it help Charlie to have me home at this age, or should I wait until he's older to stop working? I wonder if that diaper rash hurts him as bad as it hurts me. He seemed to like his first few baths, so I wonder why he threw such a fit during his bath yesterday. Why am I still awake? He's gonna be up soon. My boobs hurt. I wish formula was good for babies, but I'd never stop worrying that it was made by some American hating Chinese baby poison factory. Shit, is he up already? --when I could and should be stealing a few minutes of sleep.

It's 7:15, and my little booby loving angel is stirring. I'm definitely going to bed after this feeding.

BLAH!

2008-11-20T15:07:00.003-06:00

If you don't get postpartum depression because of hormonal changes, you'll sure as hell get it after being locked up in the house for weeks on end. F*ck I'm bored!!! It's making me irritable, too. I walked to the mailbox earlier today, and it was like an adventure. The sun nearly burned my corneas, it's been so long since I've been in direct sunlight. I've got to get out of this house soon for something other than a doctor's appointment, or I'm gonna lose it.

Tim has been gone all day, and I'm jealous. His motorcycle screwed up, so he loaded it onto the trailer and took it to the Harley dealership in Jackson. He's on his way back now. I think I'm going to go for a ride when he gets back. To where I don't know, but I'm going somewhere.

Eh, who am I kidding? I'll probably be asleep by the time he gets back.

Yesterday was Charlie's two week checkup. They said the goal is always for the baby to get back to his/her birth weight within two weeks, so we were hoping he'd be back to 8 lbs 14 oz. The little chunk was 9 lbs 12 oz!!! He weighed 8 lbs 14 oz when he was born, had gotten down to 8 lbs 4 oz when he left the hospital, and was 8 lbs 8 oz at his two day checkup. So since November 5, he's gained 1 pound and 4 ounces! I knew he was growing because he can barely fit into his newborn size diapers anymore. I can squeeze him into them, and will continue to do so just to keep from having to throw/give them away, but the size 1's fit better.

My boy's growing up. :sniff sniff: Next thing you know, he'll only talk to me when he wants my money or my car.

The pediatrician said not to take him anywhere, especially around other kids, until he's had his first round of vaccinations. That's not until January 7, which sorta kills my plans to take him to my mom's for Christmas. I was thinking about taking him anyway, but considering how my loving family members responded when I told them what the doctor said, I'm currently leaning more towards telling them to suck it.

The birth announcements that I ordered on tinyprints.com came in today, and they look like crap. The picture is too dark. I paid $10 extra to have a proof emailed to me so this wouldn't happen. The proof looked good, but the actual cards are too dark. I just talked to their customer service department, and they're going to lighten the photo some more and reprint them for free. That's nice, but the photo being dark isn't the only problem. The paper isn't the best quality, and the overall product just seems cheap. It wasn't cheap, though. I should get the reprints by next week. Who wants to bet this bunch is just as craptacular? Now who wants to bet I wouldn't even care so much if I hadn't been locked up in this house for the last 20 days??

Now I know why housewives do so many prescription drugs. I could use a fvckit pill right now.

My Life of Leisure

2008-11-18T13:09:00.004-06:00

Did you know that when you have a newborn you get to sleep until noon? It's true. I can also eat whatever I want, and nap every few hours, and sit on the couch most of the time. Of course, this leisurely lifestyle comes with a few strings attached.

I slept til noon today. From 10:30 a.m. 'til noon, that is. But let's back up, oh, twelve hours or so. I tried to nap at 6:00 yesterday, but my loving husband came in from wiring the brake lights of a trailer to get me to stand out in the driveway and tell him whether all the lights were working when he turned on the blinkers. Yeah. He woke me up for that. Woke me up even though he knows we have a 2 week old and I'm sleeping when I can. I had just started to drift off when he barged in, too. When I finally got back into bed, I was too pissed off to sleep. Then at 6:30, Charlie woke up. So scratch the 6:00 p.m. cat nap.

From 6:30 to 8:30, I was feeding, bathing, and entertaining Charlie. At 8:30 he dozed off. I think I ate dinner. I'm sure I ate something at some point, but I can't remember what I ate or when. At 10:50, he woke up hungry. I fed him, changed him, etc., then put him back to bed around 11:30.

I went to bed. By the grace of God, Charlie slept until 4:00 a.m. That's the longest he's ever gone between feedings, and the longest stretch of sleep I've had in 16 days. When I got up to take care of him at 4:00, Tim was still up. He couldn't sleep. I'm thinking maybe it was KARMA for waking me up from my 6:00 nap! HA!

Tim wanted to feed Charlie this time, so I warmed up a bottle of breastmilk and gave it to him. Here's the deal, though. When you're breastfeeding, there are no breaks. Just because my husband is handling a feeding doesn't mean I'm off the hook. I still have two boobs full of milk, and that stuff's got to come out on a regular basis. So while Tim is feeding Charlie the milk I pumped earlier in the day, I'm sitting right there next to them, pumping what Charlie would be eating if I were the one handling the feeding. The only benefit to this is that it's quicker. He'll eat the same amount of breastmilk from a bottle in 15 minutes that it takes him about 30 to get from the breast, and I can pump the same amount out in about 10 minutes. This works out nicely for me, as long as I can finish pumping and get outta dodge before Tim finishes feeding Charlie the bottle, for after the bottle comes diaper changing time! As long as I can get out of sight before diaper time, Tim handles it, and I can go back to bed. He's not a very good swaddler, though, so I usually have to get back up after diaper time to reswaddle Charlie so he'll fall asleep. If he's not swaddled, his arms start flailing and he wakes up in a rage.

Okay, so back to the last 12 hours of my life of leisure. I pumped from 4:00 to about 4:20. My memory is foggy, but I think Tim handled the diaper changing and the swaddling, and I went back to bed. Or maybe I got up and swaddled him and put him to bed-- I can't remember. At some point I did get to bed, and I slept until 7:00 a.m., when Charlie woke up again. Man, this was a rough one. He was in the bassinet two feet from my head, and when he started making noise I sooooooo didn't want to wake up. I had to pry my eyelids apart and hold them open for a few minutes before my brain caught up with the cold reality.

Speaking of cold, IT WAS, but my little man was sweating in his onesie. He can sweat through a shirt quicker than his daddy. It's weird. Sometimes I let him sleep naked-- just in his diaper and swaddled in a light blanket, but it was cold last night, so I dressed him for bed. I guess he's better off naked.

Anyway, he got up at 7:00 a.m. He ate. He pooped. He peed. I changed him. I put him back to bed. He protested. I thought he was gassy, and I put him in bed with me and rubbed his belly for a while. He pooped again. I changed him again. He nodded off. I put him back to bed. He woke up again and started crying and grunting. I rubbed his belly some more. He then did the "rooting" thing where he tries to latch onto anything that sticks out a little. By this time, it was 9:30, so I fed him again. He finally fell back asleep around 10:00, and I followed soon thereafter. I slept until noon, and have been up since then. He stayed asleep until 2:00.

Since then we've had one feeding, which Tim handled because I was out in the driveway having a showdown with the carseat. I came inside just in time to hear Tim in the back room changing Charlie's diaper. I knew he was changing him because he was singing "Senor Poopy Pants" to him. All of a sudden, I heard a loud, wet...well, fart. An explosive one. And productive, too. Tim yelled, "Oohhhhh NNNnooooooo!" I started laughing, and got up to go help. I've been the victim of Charlie's mid-diaper-change-projectile-poop and it's really hard to contain once it gets started unless you've got an extra pair of hands. Just as I was getting up to go help, I heard Tim say, "Guess we'll be washing that blanket!" Then the fireworks started again. Every time we thought we had the disaster contained, Charlie did something else. We were pooped on multiple times, and he did the piss-across-the-room thing that little baby boys are so notorious for. We finally got him cleaned up and in a fresh diaper, and I got everything cleaned up. It must've taken 20 minutes.

Strangely, this was the best part of my day so far. How can you not laugh? Just when I get so exhausted that my sense of humor is starting to wear thin, Charlie blows mud all over his daddy and makes it allllll worthwhile!

After the diaper change from hell, Charlie was up for a couple of hours. During those two hours, his stomach was upset. He puked, which he's never done before. I don't know if I ate something that he didn't like or what, but he didn't have a fever and he seems to be better for now. Since he spewed up his 2:00 meal, he was hungry again at 3:30, so I fed him.

That brings us to now. I started this post at 1:09 and wrote it a little at a time, so if it's less than coherent, that's why. It's 4:05. I'm about to go take a shower and get dressed, though I'm not sure why.

Random Thought Whenever

2008-11-16T15:30:00.002-06:00

This first paragraph might gross you out if you're the easily grossed out kind. Remember two weeks ago when that madman sliced a hole in my stomach and yanked a baby out of it? Remember that? Well that hole is giving me some trouble. I had my 2 week follow up appointment this past Thursday, and he said that there was a nasty red spot in the middle of it, but just to leave it alone. Then yesterday I noticed that the incision had bled a little, which it AIN'T supposed to be doing at this point. Then today the left side of it started aching, and I made Tim look at it really closely since I can't really get a close look myself, and he said it looked like it had come open-- or maybe it was just inflamed-- he didn't know what was going on, but he said it didn't look good. Then a few hours after Tim's inspection of the left side, the right side started aching. I haven't made him inspect it yet. I'm fairly certain something awful is going on down there. I don't have a fever, but I'm sick to my stomach, maybe just because the thought of having an infected incision in my gut is kinda, well, gut wrenching.

It's been over a week since I've taken any pain medication, but I'm seriously considering popping a couple of pills right now.

Speaking of pain medication, if you ever have major surgery and the doctor tries to send you home with Tylox, insist on something else. They gave me Percocet in the hospital, and that stuff kicked ass. It not only made me not hurt-- it made me feel really good, like I could do anything I wanted. Like I hadn't even had surgery. That feeling usually only lasted for about an hour after taking it, and then I paid the price for moving around too much, but still-- what a great hour. When I was discharged, they took away my sweet, sweet Percocet, and replaced it with Tylox. Tylox takes the edge off-- KINDA-- and that's all I can say for it. I took it for about 4 days after getting home, but after that I swore it off. I knew that Charlie had to be getting a certain amount of it through breastmilk, and it just wasn't worth exposing him to it when it wasn't really helping me anyway.

Pookie seems to be adjusting to Charlie's arrival, finally. The day we brought him home, we put him in the bassinet in the living room. Pookie jumped up onto the coffee table, stood on his hind legs, and peered over into the bassinet. About that time, Charlie started to cry. Pookie threw his ears back, tucked his tail, and ran. We didn't see him for three days. He finally got hungry enough to forgive us, but he was only coming inside to eat. Then a few days ago, while Charlie was asleep in the nursery, Pookie came and curled up in my lap. I guess I'm forgiven. Maybe he'll make nice with Charlie when he gets a little bit bigger. I've heard that some cats run away when a baby arrives in the home. At least Pookie hasn't hit the road yet.

If it's too good to be true...

2008-11-15T15:10:00.001-06:00

We need a new dining room table. The one we've got has all kinds of faded places on it, and there are no matching chairs. The chairs we do have are wobbly and old, from some hand-me-down set that Tim's had for an eternity. I won't sit in them-- I use the metal folding chairs. It's really embarrassing when people come over. So yeah. We really need a new dining room set. We've known this for a long time, but it's just one of those things you can put off because it doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. Well, we wanted to get it before Charlie was born, but we didn't. And we wanted to get it before Thanksgiving, but I doubt that's gonna happen. We don't want to take Charlie out, so we can't go to the furniture store together, and I don't trust Tim to pick out something on his own. He will talk himself into buying something we don't really want just because it's cheaper, and then I'll have a brand new table and chairs that I don't like, and it'll be years before I can finally replace it. I'm not willing to risk it.

Well, Tim is always browsing Craig's List, and two days ago he found an ad for an antique mahogany table and chairs with a matching buffet. It had belonged to the seller's grandmother, who lived in California, and had been in storage in Laurel, MS for some time. The only picture she had of it showed only one little corner of the table, but it looked okay. After talking to the seller on the phone, we made arrangements to meet her at the storage place in Laurel, which is a 35 minute drive up the interstate.

I wasn't a huge fan of the idea of loading up Charlie and all of the many baby related items that we now have to travel with, but I thought if this furniture was what the lady claimed, it might be a sweet opportunity to get something really nice. So we loaded up Charlie and all the Charlie paraphernalia, and drove to Laurel...where we were sorely disappointed to find that this crazy bitch had the nerve to ask $1,000 for a woe-out old raggedy ass table. Yeah, it was mahogany, and yeah, it was probably very nice eighty years ago. But it ain't nice now. The chairs were even worse. God they were awful. They had burgundy cushions on them. Horrendous. I had followed the lady into the storage unit first while Tim waited in the car with Charlie. It took me about 2.3 seconds to decide we didn't want it, so I told her I was going to go get Tim. I got back in the car and told him it was a piece of shit and I didn't want it. He went to look for himself, and he couldn't believe what a pile of crap it all was.

We might've given her $250 for both the table and hutch with the chairs. Maybe. MAYBE. But she wanted $1450 for the whole set. It's like she was charging extra for the sentimental value it held for her. Why are people stupid? In this case, the better question might be Why do people think WE are stupid? Fourteen hundred and fifty dollars? Really?

I still need a dining room table.

Thirty Pounds in Thirty Minutes

2008-11-13T17:16:00.002-06:00

Ask me about my thirty pounds in thirty minutes weight loss plan! That's how much I lost. Okay, so it's been almost two weeks since I had the baby, so I have no way of knowing that I lost it all right away. But as of today I've lost 30 pounds. I weigh the exact same thing today as I weighed before getting pregnant. That doesn't exactly make me a supermodel, but it does make me less of a fat ass. Maybe if I keep breastfeeding a while I'll keep losing.

Quickie

2008-11-12T14:57:00.003-06:00

Tim's sister, niece, niece's roommate, nephew, and nephew's girlfriend came over yesterday afternoon to visit Charlie. They spent about 3 1/2 hours holding him while he slept, and last night he decided to go apeshit when we put him to bed. I'm not 100% convinced that it was because he was held all afternoon, but he did the same thing the day my sister held him a lot and the day Tim's other sister held him a lot. Last night he had some gas, and he seemed to calm down once I gave him some Mylicon, so maybe it wasn't their fault. Maybe. But I'm still imposing a new Charlie-holding policy. No more than one hour of continuous holding at a time. They can adore him while he swings, or while he chills in his car seat. Anyone who wants to argue will be cordially invited to spend the night dealing with the aftermath.

Today I got a good nap. It was better than sex.

Blame it on the hormones.

2008-11-09T21:40:00.003-06:00

I'm a wee bit sick and damn tired of relatives.

First, my mother stayed from the day Charlie was born until Wednesday or Thursday. It was nice to have her around for the first few days because I was in serious pain, and she cooked and kept the house from falling apart when I was unable to bend over to pull up my own panties, much less cook dinner. Then she left, and my sister and bro-in-law came for the weekend. They're low maintenance visitors. Then they left and my sister-in-law and brother-in-law came by today for a few hours. Tim's niece has been calling, setting a time to come, then cancelling at the last minute for three days now, as has his other sister. It's frustrating to spend the afternoon thinking someone's coming only to have them change their mind at the last minute. I have to time feedings and naps and what not so that I won't be starting to feed him just as someone rolls up to visit. It takes like 45 minutes to feed him.

Today Tim's sister held him for two straight hours, and tonight he was being pissy because he now thinks he ought to be able to sleep in someone's arms instead of in his crib. I'm sure it'll be the same way whenever Niece finally shows up and spends the entire damn afternoon holding him.

Basically, I just want people to stay the hell away and keep their germy hands off my baby. It does no good to put a gigantic bottle of Germ-X on the coffee table. People can't take a damn hint, and then they get offended if you ask them to wash their hands.

People are stupid and I hate them.

You know you want more Charlie

2008-11-06T20:54:00.002-06:00

Charlie smiled for us a little tonight.

Here he is with Mimaw.

And me. I finally allow a pic of myself to appear here, and it's me sans bra, clothing, makeup, hair, or even contacts. But Charlie makes up for it.

He's always got the most serious looks on his face.

Here he is, working up a good poop.

Charlie is here.

2008-11-04T19:25:00.005-06:00

Charles Levi McWilliams
November 1, 2008
8 lbs, 14 oz, 20.25 inches

After the doctor changed his mind and Tim called back and insisted that we get the show on the road, we went to the hospital Saturday at 1:00. I was having contractions and horrible back pains, but not dilating. The next two hours were hell. Tim's sisters showed up five minutes after we arrived at the hospital, even though we had told them that we had no idea what would happen when we got there and that we would call them when we had a definite plan-- and even though I had made it clear months ago that I did not want anyone but my husband and my mother in the room while I was in labor. All that, and I still had to lie there on a table having my clothes pulled up over my head and walking down the hall with my ass hanging out while the family hovered around me.

To make it better, the nurse who was taking care of me was an incompetent space cadet. She said she hardly ever works-- I think she works when they need her and she feels like it. She couldn't find anything, couldn't figure out the tubing on the iv, blew two veins while trying to put in my iv, and basically spent 2 hours making me even more nervous than I already was. The doctor finally came in, checked me, and said that an induction would probably not work because I was too closed for him to break my water. He said there was another girl down the hall who was in pre-term labor with twins, and he needed to make sure she was safe before he went into surgery with me, so my surgery would be around 6:00. It was 3:30 at that time, so we settled in and prepared to wait a couple more hours.

Five minutes later, Space Cadet rushed in and said the doctor had changed his mind and wanted to get my surgery done first. She began giving me all the drugs and getting me ready for surgery. Then she came up to the side of the bed with an electric razor in her hand and said she was going to shave me. I said, "Shave my stomach?" She said yes. Then she shaved me. But. Um. She didn't shave just my stomach, y'all. If you get my drift. I was shocked and appalled! I thought that was an outdated practice, and I did ask her why it was done. She said something about reducing the risk of infection, and went right on about her business of turning my lady bits into Lolitaville.

Once I was successfully transformed into pedophile bait, they wheeled my bed to the O.R. Tim followed behind, but had to wait outside while I was prepped. When they got to the entrance of the actual operating room, there was a black nurse in there by herself, and she was dancing. I can't remember if there was music or not, but there was most definitely a dancing nurse. She wasn't just bopping her head or getting into some music, but she was dancing-- I mean pop lock and droppin' it! I expected her to stop and compose herself when we came up to the door, but she didn't; she just looked me dead in the eye and kept right on rockin'. For a moment I thought maybe I was hallucinating from all the drugs. It was very surreal.

Finally, they wheeled me into the room. It was just me, Space Cadet, Dancing Nurse, and the anesthesiologist. He reminded me of Big Gay Al. He repeatedly assured me he was gonna take good care of me and it was just gonna be fabulouuuuuuus!

Putting in the spinal, however, was anything but fabulous. I can't even bear to relive it here. Just be prepared for it to suck ass if you ever have to have it done. I'll leave it at that.

I had asked the doctor how high up the numbness would go, and he'd told me it would be from the nipples down. They said I'd be able to move my arms and touch the baby when they brought him around, but I guess the stuff worked a little too well, because just a few minutes after getting the spinal, I was completely numb from the nose down. This made me feel like I couldn't breathe, because I couldn't move my chest. I started to freak out, but the doctor told me I was moving enough oxygen. That didn't convince me. All I knew was that I was paralyzed and gasping for air. The guy kept telling me that I was okay. They spread me out on the table and put up the big blue screen and everything, and then a nurse rushed into the O.R. and told my doctor he was needed immediately in room 28. He jumped up and rushed out. I assumed room 28 was where the preterm twins were. About five minutes later, he came rushing back in the door with a nurse, and she said, "We need to do this one quickly!"

Fantastic. I'm spread out naked on a table, paralyzed, gasping for air, scared out of my mind, and now they're going to rush through this. Just great. I think if I hadn't been paralyzed, I would've gotten up and ran screaming from the hospital at that point.

They finally called Tim in. He asked if I was okay. I could barely talk, because everything was so numb, even in my face. I managed to tell him I couldn't breathe, and the anesthesiologist explained to him that they were watching my oxygen and that I was getting enough, etc. Then I guess they started the surgery. It was not the beautiful process you see on Discovery Health channel. It was violent. There was lots of tugging and pulling. My arms flopped off the table several times. It took about ten minutes, and then I heard the doctor say, "He's got a big head. We made the right decision here." Then more tugging, then a little cry, then a pause, then a big cry! Tim jumped up and went to the other side of the screen where I couldn't see anything.

A few minutes later, Tim came over with Charlie in his arms. I couldn't see him-- I could only see a tiny little piece of his face. Then Tim moved part of the little blanket out of the way and I saw him. All I could think was that he was so pretty. I guess I expected him to be kinda haggard looking after the journey or something, but he wasn't. He was pretty.

Then Tim and the nurse left the room with him. I don't know how long it took them to close me up, but soon I was being moved from the table to my bed again. They nearly dropped me while moving me back to the bed, by the way. Space Cadet and Dancing Nurse got a little ahead of the anesthesiologist, who was charged with the all important task of not dropping my head and shoulders onto the floor.

They took me back into my same room, but nobody was in there. As soon as we stopped rolling, the ceiling went to spinning. It turned out that my blood pressure was insanely low. I didn't know where everyone else was, but I laid alone in that room watching the ceiling spin and listening to some kind of alarm go off every time it took my blood pressure, which was every few minutes.

Anyway, they gave me some pain medicine as soon as the baby was out, so the rest of the night was very foggy. Tim finally walked in with the baby and said that everyone was chomping at the bit to hold him, but I had made it very clear that heads would roll if anyone besides Tim held him before me, so he wanted to let me spend a few minutes holding him before anyone else. He tried to hand him to me, but I couldn't take him because I still couldn't feel my arms. The nurse told him I shouldn't hold him until my blood pressure came back up. He just held him up to me for a few minutes and I tried to take him all in but I was doped.

Soon, the room was flooded with relatives. I told Tim to go ahead and let them hold him since I couldn't, and I barely got the words out of my mouth before Charlie was being passed around. I had to lie there for 6 hours without sitting up straight or moving, but I did manage to hold him a little bit before my time was officially up.

We got to leave Monday night at 5:00. The last few days have been long, but we've got the coolest baby in the history of babies, so it's worth it.

Birthday?

2008-11-01T05:44:00.003-06:00

Last night Tim and I went out on a date, since I might be having a baby today. We'll know something at 8:01, hopefully.

What I didn't know about piss

2008-10-29T21:25:00.004-06:00

Tonight I went to the hospital thinking that my water might possibly have broken, but it hadn't after all. It turns out I can piss all over myself without even feeling the need to piss first, having the feeling that I am pissing as it's happening, OR having the feeling that I have just pissed once it's over. The nurse at the hospital said the baby probably bumped my kidney or something.

They put a monitor on me and watched my contractions and the baby's heart rate for a couple of hours. It was weird. I had these little contractions, which I've been having for days now if not weeks, but I had some that I couldn't even feel. I could also see the baby's heart rate, and you could hear him bumping into the monitor when he moved. He was very active while I was there. The nurse said we'd better get some sleep now because he's a wild one. I think he's gonna be a crazy redhead. After punching the monitor for a while, he calmed down. Then I sneezed, and he flipped out a little. Maybe I'm mean, but I found that funny. Poor baby. Tim said, "If that scared him, he must have some long nights with the way you've been snoring. He's probably scared to come out cause he thinks there's a monster out here." Butthole.

The baby will be here by the end of the day Saturday one way or another. Unfortunately, my cervix is still locked up tighter than Fort Knox, so it's starting to look like it's gonna be a c-section. I'm still not happy about the prospect of the surgery, but I'm less opposed to it every day. This morning when I woke up, I couldn't move. I was on my left side, and my neck was in a funny position, and my joints were so stiff and sore. I couldn't lift my head off my arm, and I couldn't lift my right leg enough to sit up. After a minute or so of inching my way into a normal position, I decided that I would agree to a c-section at that very moment if one were being offered. I realize that sleep will be rare once the baby's here, but at least when I do get the chance to sleep, maybe it won't involve waking up in pain.

Contractions, Politics

2008-10-28T05:34:00.003-06:00

Yesterday morning I had two strong contractions right after I woke up, but then nothing. Tim and I ate eggplant parmesan, took a bumpy ride, etc. Then late yesterday afternoon I started having mild ones again. These were closer together, but still not strong enough or close enough to warrant a trip to labor and delivery. This morning I had two really strong ones as soon as I woke up again. I don't know what's up with the early morning contractions, but I wish they wouldn't go away. Maybe if I don't go into real labor before my next appointment, these contractions might at least be doing something to make induction possible and reduce my chances of being SLICED OPEN. Have I mentioned that I don't want a c-section?

We bought a chair from Ashley's a few days ago, and we've got to go pick it up today. It's a rocker/recliner that I'm hoping to put in the nursery. While Tim's getting that today, I'm supposed to talk to a breastfeeding lady.

I'm so sick of all this political crap. We went and cast our absentee votes yesterday at the courthouse, and we may never vote the regular way again. This was much easier. There was no line, no pushy bald-headed lady in an abandoned fire station, no standing there waiting while they search the million pages of the voter roll for your name. We just walked in, gave them our names, they pulled them up on a computer, handed us a good, old-fashioned paper ballot, and left us alone to do our part to hopefully keep Obama's good for nothing ass out of the White House. I don't see any way for this election to end well. There's not a way for this election to end well. I just hope McCain gets elected instead of Obama, because I think he will do less damage, or at least not turn us into a damn socialist state.

If McCain could just get in there and manage to not die for four years, maybe something better will come along in 2012. Like Hillary Clinton. Or the end of the world. Whichever.

Messianic Pretensions

2008-10-26T04:57:00.001-06:00

I'm glad I took time to read this. I've copied the second half of the article here. For the full thing, click the link below.

From http://www.realclearpolitics.com/articles/2008/10/messianic_pretensions.html

McCain is a man of action and accomplishment, Obama a man of "charisma" and pretty words, whose only real accomplishment has been his remarkable self-advancement. And Obama's policy outlook, so far as it can be discerned from the usual electoral pronouncements, consists of the same snake oil the pre-Clinton Democrats had been selling continuously since they chained the Great Society to America's ankle: that is, a constantly expanding Nanny State. I am hardly reassured by Obama's last-lap rhetorical reassurances: you don't send a man to Washington with a trillion dollars of candy-shop promises on medicare, education, government job-creation, "spreading the wealth" -- especially when the economy has just tanked.

I wish that were the worst I could say about the man, who has survived nearly two years of campaigning for President without serious cross-examination from either the media or his media-chastened opponents. A man who, should he win the election and serve one term, will have been President of the United States longer than he has held any steady job.

In my world, you don't humour a politician who presents "Change," "Unity," and especially, "Hope," as hypnotic mantras, with the power of enchantment over very large crowds. And you especially don't humour such a politician at a time when both country and world are unstable, and hard decisions will have to be made.

Deeper than this: Obama has presented himself from the start as a messianic, "transformational" leader -- and thus played deceitfully with ideas that belong to religion and not politics. That he has done this so successfully is a mark of the degree to which the U.S. itself, like the rest of the western world, has lost its purchase on the Christian religion. Powerful religious impulses have been spilt, secularized.

In this climate, people tend to be maniacally opposed to the sin to which they are not tempted: to giving Christ control over the things that are Caesar's. But they are blind to the sin to which they are hugely tempted: giving Caesar control over the things that are Christ's.

"Faith, hope, and charity" are Christ's things. They apply, properly, outside time -- to a "futurity" that is not of this world. They must not be applied to any earthly utopia. A Caesar who appropriates otherworldly virtues, is riding upon very dangerous illusions. Follow him into dreamland, and you'll be lucky to wake up.

Countdown.

2008-10-24T18:45:00.005-05:00

Well, I'm still pregnant, my baby is still a giant, and my doctor is still hellbent on slicing me open like a damn pig. He doesn't want me to go more than a few days past my due date (next Friday) and he doesn't want to try to induce unless I begin to dilate this week. He said it would just lead to a c-section anyway unless I'm dilated some before trying to induce, so he'd rather "just nip it in the bud."

Sounds convenient. For him.

So he's going out of town for the seventy eleventh time since I got knocked up, and I have an appointment with his partner again. It's kind of a relief, honestly, because her hands are so very small. Maybe her tiny little fingers will judge my cervix to be a little less SLAMMED SHUT and a little more likely to cooperate. The plan is to check again next Thursday and see if anything's changed. If so, they'll try to induce, and if not, they'll do a c-section. He's on call Saturday and I'm supposed to call him that morning either way. He seemed to think it could happen fairly quickly after that-- from the way he talked, I think it might even happen the same day.

I'm skeered.

Life's Lessons...from someone stupid enough to learn 'em the hard way

2008-10-23T23:31:00.002-05:00

Don't eat a chili dog at the South Mississippi Fair. F*ck. What am I saying? Don't GO to the South Mississippi Fair! I hadn't been to a fair in probably 10 years, and the last one I went to was the one in Memphis, which was way bigger. Same crap, just more of it. Anyway, with Ryan being in town I thought it'd be fun to take him. He's been bored, and it's been getting kind of crowded in the house today. (See my previous post.) I thought going to the fair would give him something to remember from this trip besides the vein bulging in Uncle Tim's forehead.

So we went. We hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, and we planned to indulge in some fair food. I really wanted everything I saw, but deep down I wanted none of it. So I decided to keep it simple. Chili dog. A classic.

As the illegal alien spooned the chili out of the little silver pan thingy, I thought it looked a little caked onto the pan, which seemed odd considering that the fair had only been open for an hour. That chili looked like it'd been setting there on a warmer for longer than an hour. But f*ck it. I'd already paid my $3, and the chili was goin' on the dog. Ryan also had some of the questionable canned chili. His was served up on top of the "deluxe nachos."

It wasn't bad...going down. Unfortunately, Ryan blew chili chunks as soon as we got home, and I've been fighting it back for an hour now. There have also been some explosive fireworks in the bathroom. I'm definitely gonna need to add a new can of Oust to the shopping list, and let's just say that the Beaudreaux's Butt Paste may get opened before the baby arrives. Yar!

Why We're Having Nyquil for Dinner

2008-10-23T13:34:00.003-05:00

My mom is in town, and she brought Ryan, my 9 year old nephew who's a lot more needy for attention than I remembered. I thought kids were supposed to be able to entertain themselves for hours with an Xbox and an endless supply of chocolate milk and Doritos.

I hope my inability to be patient with him isn't an indication of what kind of parent I'm going to be because I'm about to hang him from a door hook by his underwear and just leave the house. Geezis.

Come on, contractions!

2008-10-20T01:30:00.002-05:00

Duty started early tonight, I guess. Maybe it was the 2+ hour nap I took this afternoon, the fact that I'm nauseated for no apparent reason, or maybe it's because I can't get THIS out of my head, but I can't sleep.

I can't stop thinking that I'm going to end up with a c-section, so I started doing some research. Do you realize all the shit you can't do after the surgery-- and how long it takes before you're back to normal??? A few surprising things I've found:

You can't drive for 3-6 weeks. THREE TO SIX WEEKS without driving? That's never gonna happen.

During abdominal surgery, gas can get trapped inside you and you're miserable until it passes, which doesn't happen quickly or without medical assistance. Oh, and if this happens to you, you can't eat regular food again until it's out. Two things I don't like: things being stuck in my ass, and not being able to eat what I want.

You have to stay in the hospital for 3 days afterwards. When I go visit my mother in my hometown I don't stay for 3 days! Not only do I not want to be anywhere other than my bed three nights in a row, but I don't want to be separated from my new baby for three days! Yes, I know they will bring him in there to me, but damn. I want to get home and get on our routine. And I don't want to be tending to stitches/staples in my gut while I do it.

You can't stand upright for a while. If you try, you can hurt your muscles worse and take longer to recover. Like opposable thumbs, standing upright is a pretty basic part of being human. Being stripped of this ability just seems...I don't know...dehumanizing?

You will need assistance in the shower, especially for the first few days. What am I? A hundred and seven years old? WTF?? I don't want anyone helping me shower-- not even my husband. And I don't want to wait six weeks before I can sit in a tub of water again. That's part of my nightly ritual. I don't like it when my rituals are interfered with, especially ones that relate to hygiene!

Catheter until further notice. Enough said.

I'm sorry, but being cut into layer by layer like a hog, having a baby yanked out ass first, being stapled shut, then being hunched over, unable to even sit up straight or go take a piss in the toilet for three days minimum while my husband and mother and whatever relatives come out of the woodwork are passing the baby around like a sack of potatoes sounds like flat out torture to me. Going home and being unable to do for myself for 3 to 6 weeks, maybe longer, sounds like even worse torture.

I get angry when I consider that I may not be able to avoid this. I can't stomach the idea of not being able to do what I need to do with the baby as soon as he's born. I hate the thought of not being able to hold him right away, or not being able to get up and take care of him in the middle of the night because I've been sliced open and can't get out of bed quickly enough to beat my mother to his bedside. Worse than that? I hate...no, I abhor the thought of other people doing these motherly duties in my place. The thought makes me sick. I want the family members to come see the baby, oooh and ahhh and then take their fat, helpful asses back home and let me start doing my job. Send food and cards, but don't try to be my kid's mom. It will provoke a jealousy the likes of which they are not prepared to confront, and I don't need to be able to sit upright in order to fire a pistol, or at least some angry words, although I don't suppose it'd be real smart to shoot and/or run off the help if you can't stand upright, would it? See my predicament?

When I was a kid, I remember adults warning us to stay away from the animals when they'd just had babies. It was so tempting to approach a horse and her new colt, or a cow with a wobbly legged calf. I was once absolutely forbidden to go near a neighbor's garage because their less than friendly dog had just unloaded a litter of pups in there. (Of course I forgot, went too close to the garage, and got my ass bit.) Anyway, the adults told us that female animals were sometimes protective of their new babies, so we should keep a distance for a while. I always thought those new mothers were cold hearted bitches for keeping us away from those cute babies. Now I totally get it.

I'm not afraid anyone's gonna hurt my kid. I'm just afraid that if I have to have surgery to get him out, I won't be able to do all the things I've envisioned myself doing. And if there's one thing that pregnancy has taught me, it's that I'm a wimp. I used to think I was somewhat tough, but now I know better. Don't tell anyone, but I'm a walking vagina. Throughout the last nine months, I have noticed and mentally documented every pain, every ache. I can tell you exactly what I was feeling week by week from Week 6 to Present. Major abdominal surgery is not for me.

Tomorrow, I start trying to get this boy out. If you're looking for me, I'm at the track, walking.

Big Boy's Impending Arrival, and Momma's Less Than Enlightened Friends

2008-10-17T23:43:00.003-05:00

The doctor said I'm soon to be "between a rock and a hard place." Today marks the end of the 38th week of my pregnancy, and according to this morning's ultrasound, the baby weighs 8 lbs 4 oz NOW. I'm not even due for 2 weeks, and he should gain about a pound between now and then. My body has done none of the things that typically indicate that labor is approaching, so inducing right now is out of the question because it would almost certainly end in a c-section. He said "9 pound babies happen all the time" and he's sure I can deliver him as long as he doesn't get much bigger than that.

On the way home from work today, I texted a friend of mine and told her what they said the baby weighs. She responded, "Damn. You're gonna be stretched out."

What the hell? Is it just me, or is that THE worst thing she could've said? Really. It has to be THE worst possible response, not to mention untrue and just plain...trashy. How many synapses have to NOT fire in someone's head for them to utter something so damn thoughtless and ignorant?

This comment came from the same friend who believes that drinking unchecked amounts of caffeine, ignoring your diet, and smoking (cigarettes and pot) during pregnancy are all safe, but that lifting your arms above your head will wrap the cord around the baby's neck and choke it to death in the womb. When she made this comment, I tried to consider the source but couldn't help but get a little pissed off anyway. At first I thought maybe I should just not tell anyone else what they said about the baby's size if this was the kind of response I could expect, but then I decided to bitch about the comment instead.

So kiss my ass, haters and ignoramuses! My vagina's future is bright!

One good thing that came from this morning's appointment was that I realized my doctor is willing to do whatever I tell him I want to do. He said, "I'm here to do whatever you want, within reason." He went on to say that if I wanted to try to induce now, we could, but that he thought it would result in me being in the hospital for two days making little to no progress and ending up with a c-section. Then he said he thinks it's best to wait and see what happens in the next week or two. I agreed, but I take a lot of comfort in knowing that if it gets unbearably uncomfortable or goes on too long, all I have to do is speak up, and it'll be over one way or another.

Test Duty

2008-10-15T18:13:00.003-05:00

This week has sucked. There was district testing yesterday and today, and there will be more tomorrow. They give the kids a practice version of the state test in October and I guess they compare it to the scores at the end of the year. Maybe they just do this to torture us for all I know.

Anyway, district testing means that you get your fourth period class at 8:30 in the morning. They test until everyone's done-- around 10:30, which is near the beginning of 3rd period-- but they don't ring the bell and send them on to 3rd period. That would be good, since I'm off third period. Noooooo. Instead, they just make us hold them. Actually, what they do is pretend that there are still students testing somewhere on campus, so we have to stay in "test mode," but everyone thinks that's horse shit. Where are these extraordinarily slow testers? Oh, wait, I taught them last year. They do exist. Nevermind.

Anyway, fourth period starts at 11:20, and they come over the intercom and say, "We will now resume our regular schedule!" They say it with enthusiasm, like something's changing, like you're finally free, like you can now move forward into better, more exciting things. But in the ~~trenches~~ classrooms, the kids look up at the teacher with a cautious hope in their eyes, and then someone says, "What period is this?" And I have to say, "This is the beginning of fourth," and then they all groan really, really loudly as it sinks in that they're stuck there for another hour. I momentarily consider faking contractions so I can leave, then go back to looking for ways to waste another hour without killing any one of the 25 children who've been wearing on my nerves since 8:30.

So yeah. I'm 2 days into a 3 day tour of District-testingville. Brutal.

Friday's my last day. I can't wait. I don't even have to go the full day on Friday because my doctor's appointment is at 9:10, and I don't go in until after the appointment. I'm having an ultrasound, so I'm hoping it takes forrrrreeeevvvvvveerrrrrrrrr and I can miss about half the day. That would rock.

I started out this school year with a strong Dedicated Teacher thing going. Sadly, it's been weakened by never ending heartburn, swollen feet, and backaches from hell. Oh, and there was that meeting with the principal where he basically laid all the students' failures at my feet and drilled me for ten minutes about what I was doing about it, and found problems with everything I said even though I'd clearly been doing more for the students than the students were doing for the students. Not cool, and not exactly what you'd think they'd want to do to teachers who are honestly trying to do everything right. That one event took a giant bite out of my Dedicated Teacher vibe. They should think about morale more before they beat us over the head without regard for what we're doing right.

As for my dedication and giveadamn, maybe it'll somehow get revived between now and the time I return from maternity leave. Or maybe I'll be so desperate to escape the house that work actually sounds like fun.

The Babysitter

2008-10-12T18:30:00.003-05:00

Today I finally met the woman who will be caring for my child when I return to work in January. I was supposed to meet her weeks ago, but then the whole thing happened with Tim and the hospital, and last weekend was super busy, so I just went today without Tim.

The lady's nice. She's younger than I thought-- about 50. I had imagined her closer to 60, for some reason. She and her husband live in a huge doublewide trailer in the middle of what amounts to a field. Since I had never met her, I had no idea whether she was going to come to the door with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth or what, then when she gave me directions to her house I realized that it's in an area notorious for being a little...umm...white trash-ish. Then she said, "Look for the doublewide out in the field," and, well, I confess that some stereotypes came to mind, and I got a little worried.

Fortunately, it was the biggest and nicest trailer I've ever been in. Nicer than my house, frankly-- or at least cleaner and with better furniture. Her gigantic field of a yard is way sweeter, too, and she has a little garden. There was no cigarette smoking going on, and she looked like a Sunday School teacher.

She told me about how she keeps the kids on a schedule that they follow every day, and I really like that. They only watch tv for a short time every day, and I definitely like that, even though my kid will be so young that he won't be doing anything other than sleeping most of the time he's there. You know what I'm saying. A routine that involves very little tv watching is ideal, in my opinion. I wouldn't want to pay her $100 a week to sit on her ass while the kids' brains are being rotted out in front of the tv or a Play Station all day long.

I didn't think to ask where she plans to let him sleep. I didn't see a crib or bassinet. I hope she's not planning to put him in her bed. Maybe I should call and ask about that. Ryan nearly suffocated once when his other grandmother (not my mom) put him to sleep on a regular bed. Someone went in to check on him, and he was completely blue and limp. My kid's not gonna be left on anything other than a regular crib.

My ultrasound is this Friday, and I'm hoping the doctor will want to induce labor soon after that. He keeps saying the baby is big for his due date. Lately, people have been telling me I look like I'm having twins. It went from "You don't even look pregnant!" to "Are you sure it's only one baby??" This is my last week of work, so the sooner after Friday, the better.

Speaking of my last week of work, I have 8 weeks of lesson plans to write. I'd better get on that.

Think. THEN vote.

2008-10-09T22:01:00.003-05:00

This is pretty good if you can overlook his annoying gestures long enough to listen to his point.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KxhYampIl7A

Something Finally Revolves Around ME

2008-10-09T06:22:00.003-05:00

I forgot to submit my 9 weeks test and answer sheets for copying yesterday, so I'm sitting here watching the 200-300 pages soak up the ink in my personal printer. I also forgot to make sure I had some clean clothes for work today, so I'm washing clothes too. Clothing is a little short right now, what with me being my own planet and all.

For a long time, I was concerned about not looking pregnant. Not anymore. I would ask Tim if I looked pregnant, and he'd say, "Yeah, sure." That never sounded convincing enough, so I would press on.

So I don't really look pregnant?
Yeah I can tell you're pregnant.
But other people might not?
They should.
So what you're really saying is that I'm so fat that I can successfully hide an 8 month old fetus.
[Tim begins bashing head against wall.]

Last night, the conversation went like this:

Do I look pregnant now?
Yes.
Like, super pregnant?
Yeah, super pregnant--- Pregnant beyond belief!
Pregnant beyond your wildest pregnant dreams?
Ann, you're so pregnant, smaller pregnant women are in orbit around you!

And then I laughed so hard I peed on myself a little. Okay, a lot. It was strangely satisfying. Being compared to a planet, that is, not peeing on myself.

Insomniac on Duty

2008-10-04T04:08:00.004-05:00

I guess Hillbilly Mom finally had to get some sleep, because I'm apparently on duty. See, the world is not safe without one of us watching over it. I get the 3:00 a.m. to 5:00 a.m. watch while HM catches some z's. Or maybe Tim just woke me up when he came to bed at 2 freakin' 30 after spending all night watching a werewolf movie. He probably sat here drinking Diet Coke during the entire thing, which would explain why he tossed and turned until I woke up at 3:15, then he tried to act like my tossing and turning was keeping him up. Hello, mister! I went to bed at 9:00! I finally got tired of lying wide awake and listening to him sigh heavily in my general direction, so I decided to get up. Now he's snorin', so maybe it was my fault after all.

We have a baby shower to go to today. His sisters insisted on throwing us a shower, except it's not so much a shower as it is an organized gathering for people to gawk at us. I'm sorry, but if the men are invited, I don't count it as a shower. They've rented out the American Legion and invited half the county. I don't know any of these people-- just a handful-- and am getting flashbacks of the wedding reception we were given in his hometown two weeks after the wedding. Three hours of standing around in uncomfortable shoes, forcing myself to smile and hug old ladies I'd never seen before. Old ladies who might be offended that I won't remember them this go 'round even though they gave us casserole dishes and such last time.

God. I dread having to open all the presents, hold up all the little blue outfits and pretend to be as amazed with the fiftieth as I was with the first. But worse than that, I dread the damn thank you cards this will force me to write.

And yes, I fully understand that I am an ungrateful bitch for being so burdened by the fact that people want to throw us a party so they can give us stuff. I know. I'm grateful. I'm just also very tired. Tired in general, tired of planning, tired of waiting, tired of being pregnant, tired of people I don't know smiling at me excitedly. I don't know what to say to people. What do they want me to say when they ask how I feel? I want to say, "How the hell do you think?"

I should be happy. We have everything we need, or at least we think we have everything we need. Of course, the crib isn't here yet, even though I ordered it from Wal Mart.com over two weeks ago. It took it that long to get from Palestine, TX to Brookhaven, MS, and is now apparently setting on a truck in Jackson. The official status, according to the website, is that it left Jackson yesterday at noon and is "in route to store." Uhhh, NO. It only takes 2 hours to get from Jackson to Petal, and that's if you're dragging your ass. So it's NOT still in route. Maybe it's there and they haven't updated the tracking info yet. I could've gone and picked it up myself in the time it's taking them.

The changing table that we ordered with it has been in the stock room of the local Wal Mart for over a week. It's probably been getting kicked around the whole time, but we wanted to pick them both up at the same time instead of making two trips. Practically every customer review on the website said that their ordered items had missing or broken pieces. I'm gonna be pissed the eff off if I have to send this thing back with broken pieces. You can't just walk into a store and get a crib. The only ones anyone has in stock are either the cheapest ones out there, or the most expensive ones out there. We're more middle-of-the-road kinda people. I see no reason to put my baby to sleep in something that cost $99 and looks like it might fall apart at any moment, but I'm not going to spend $500 on a crib either. That is innnnnn SANE.

Well, my watch duty ends in 9 minutes. Think I'll duck out early.

Nerves.

2008-10-02T06:22:00.003-05:00

Today I have a doctor's appointment. This is the day they'll start checking my baby gateway (ok, it's called a cervix) to see if the little booger is doing anything at all to suggest that he's getting close to ready. On one hand, I'm dreading it, because I had to have my cervix checked that time that I pulled my ligaments while dealing with the dogs, and it was very painful. At the same time, I want to know what's happening, if anything.

I hope there's some progress, because if I'm dilated at all they're going to do an ultrasound really soon to see how big he is. The doctor keeps saying he's bigger than normal. I'm sure I know how far along I am, so I think he's just big because I've made no effort to avoid the sweet, sweet carbohydrates that I've been craving for the last 6 months. Either that or there's just a lot of fluid and they're worrying for nothing. They say as they get bigger, they can't punch you as hard because they run out of room. Well, he's not having any trouble with that. Last night he kicked me so hard in the top of my ribs that my boob bounced up and damn near fwapped me in the face. I'm serious. If it had happened at work, it would've been highly embarrassing. I would be forever known as the teacher with the jumping boobs. That kind of thing leads me to believe that he's not as crowded as they think, and maybe I'm measuring big for some other reason.

They're also apparently going to do some kind of test today. I'm not sure what it's for (group b strep?) because I wasn't really listening until they said, "...swab of your rectum." Good grief! That certainly got my attention.

See what I mean?? THIS is what we should be telling kids in sex education classes to prevent pregnancy. Hand out condoms, but try to use the phrase "swab of your rectum" in the process. I promise you, teen pregnancy will decrease.

I'll update later on what the doc says. Right now I need to go shower. Very, very thoroughly.

Teachers Who Blog

2008-10-01T05:53:00.000-05:00

http://www.usnews.com/articles/education/k-12/2008/09/19/in-search-of-support-teachers-turn-to-blogging.html

Poem

2008-09-28T16:36:00.000-05:00

This Is Just To Say

by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Tired of being tired

2008-09-28T11:24:00.004-05:00

I'm tired of waking up at 3:00 a.m. to pee, then not being able to fall back asleep until 5:00. A coworker swears that this means the baby will be up during those hours once he's born. I have noticed that he's wiggling around a lot during these two hour middle of the night insomnia fests, but I hope my coworker is wrong. I mean, if I have to get up to feed him, that's fine. I've mentally prepared myself for that. But should he be up for 2 hours? C'mon. How long does it take to change a diaper, suck some milk out of, you know, something, and fall back asleep? An hour max, right? Right??

I'm tired of complaining. I mean, you know you've been complaining a lot when YOU are tired of YOUR complaining.

I wish I had a lawn chair, a cooler of ice, a twelve pack of beer, and no responsibilities whatsoever. I guess those days are over. Oh well. It's not like I didn't have more than my fair share of them.

I hate everyone.

2008-09-28T04:42:00.001-05:00

That's it. I hate the fucking world.

Ann Busts a Gut

2008-09-25T20:40:00.003-05:00

I have a freakin' hernia. I knew something wasn't right when I pulled myself to an upright position from lying down and saw a softball sized and shaped wad of something poke out of the center of my belly. Another clue was that it hurt like hell, and that it got worse when I would walk, even for short distances sometimes.

Knowing that freakish things happen to pregnant bodies, I didn't worry too much. I asked the doctor about it today. He had me lie down then sit up while he pushed on my belly and asked if it hurt. Um, yes, it hurt. He said it's really common to have a hernia during pregnancy because the abdominal muscles are pulled apart anyway, and that there's really no need to worry. It'll probably "fix itself" after I have the baby, and there's no reason to do anything to fix it before then.

Okay. If he says so. But I have to say, I'm just as skeptical that my guts are going to magically un-protrude from my abdominal wall as I am that all the pushing of labor isn't going to make it worse. I'll keep my mouth shut for now and assume medical school taught him something, even though my recent experiences with medical professionals have knocked a major dent in my confidence in them.

Overheard in the Junior High

2008-09-23T18:23:00.003-05:00

I don't know if this qualifies for Overheard in the Junior High, since it was said to me, but I haven't done an Overheard post in a long time, so whatever.

A more appropriate title for this one might be "Things Students Say That Make Their Teacher's Heads Nearly Explode."

Student: Mrs. Ann, do you know yo baby daddy?
Me: How could I not know him? I'm having a baby with him, aren't I?
Student: Well you could not know him cause my auntie have twins by a man and she don't even know his name cause he up and runned off and left her and she raisin' dem by hahsef now dat a real independent woman right der!

I wanted to say, "Well maybe your aunt shouldn't f*ck people whose names she does not know." But that would've been at least as inappropriate as what the student said, so I bit my tongue. I didn't respond at all. I didn't even bash my head into the wall. I just made a mental note to move "prepare the handbaskets" up a few spaces on my to-do list.

No rest for the pregnant

2008-09-23T06:05:00.003-05:00

I have been in the worst mood for the last two days. I think it's because I'm never comfortable anymore. Most nights, I wake up 1 or 2 times to pee. The other night I woke up 6 times. SIX TIMES, people! Last night (and every other night in recent memory) I have been waking up throughout the night not to pee, but to find a more comfortable position. One that doesn't exist, apparently.

During the day, my back aches constantly. Sometimes I get this shooting pain down my right leg that could almost take me to the ground. It starts in my back above my butt, goes through my butt, and down my leg. I have been told this is the result of the baby being on something called the sciatic nerve. It's a bitch, I tell you.

Don't get me started on how big my belly has gotten, the never ending heartburn that continues to get worse and worse, the feet that never stop hurting, or-- this is my favorite-- the fact that now when I stand up it feels like something is about to fall out of my lower regions. That's got to be one of the most disturbing sensations. Not painful, necessarily, just disturbing. Yesterday I called the doctor's office to ask about it, and the nurse told me to get used to it. They more or less said there's nothing for me to worry about as long as I'm not having contractions less than 5 minutes apart and as long as the baby is moving. And he's moving, believe me. Sometimes it looks like I've got a gerbil in my shirt.

I'm just ready for him to come out here so I can ~~pass him off to his daddy and go take a nap~~ see his beautiful face.

Forrest General is Trying to Kill My Husband

2008-09-21T22:30:00.002-05:00

All this started with a head cold. Next thing you know, they're telling Tim he's had a recent heart attack and failed to notice it. Seven hours later he was being admitted to the hospital, having spent 5 hours in the ER WHERE HE WAS GIVEN THE WRONG MEDICATION and then diagnosed with a pulmonary embolism. Two days and a shit ton of tests later, they reveal that either this embolism magically disintegrated within 24 hours or was never there to begin with. Guess which one I'm leaning towards?

They finally discharged him after around 48 hours in the hospital, after deciding that it was all for nothing to begin with, and told him he'd still need to have something called a cardiac cta done a week later because they still didn't know what was causing the blip on his EKG. In other words, they sent him home with a big question to ponder: Is there something wrong with your heart, or is it just another one of our fuckups? So he spent five days obsessing over this, wondering if something's wrong with his heart, and wishing they could hurry up and get this shit explained already-- preferably without misdiagnosing him or giving him the wrong medicine again.

So Friday finally rolls around, and Tim goes in for this heart test. First, they spent a long, long time trying to find a good enough vein to inject the dye. This apparently has to be done through a vein really, really close to the heart, but nobody can ever find a vein on Tim, especially in places where they'd be hard to find on anyone, like the top of the arm. So after he'd been there a couple of hours and they grew weary of sticking him, they called in a guy with an ultrasound machine to find a vein deep in his arm. They numbed him with lidocaine and did something called a micropuncture, which is where they stick a gigantic needle in you to find a vein that's really deep, then stick a catheter into it. I wasn't there to see it, but it sounded more like a medieval torture practice than something you'd expect to encounter in a 21st century hospital just to inject some freaking dye for a CT.

So they finally get this big ass thing stuck in him, then decide that his heart rate is too high. Mine would be too after all that, I'm sure. Then-- THEN the nurse decides to ask the question, "Have you had any caffeine in the last 12 hours?" Nobody had told Tim NOT to drink any caffeine, and he didn't think about it, so of course he drank his customary Diet Coke that morning. Because of that, they told him they couldn't do the test that day. So three hours after arriving-- after being poked and stuck and numbed and stuck some more-- they decide to ask the question they should've asked before he ever made it past the front desk, and end up pulling the giant needle out of him and sending him home to wait for FIVE MORE DAYS.

Oh yeah, they did give him a $10 gift certificate to the hospital canteen for his inconvenience. As Tim said, "I guess I won't be buying any cokes with it."

Bastards. Incompetent, piece of shit, bastard coated bastards with bastard filling.

Ann wakes up grumpy, with a vision to save the world.

2008-09-19T04:52:00.004-05:00

When did adults start letting children make major decisions, or asking for the children's permission to make one for them? This boggles my wee little brain.

Yesterday I spent an hour in a conference with a parent, her daughter, the counselor, all the kid's other teachers, and the SPED advisor. The child transferred into our school this year, and because her records were late in arriving the counselor didn't realize she was SPED and required special services. So she put her into our pod, which is an accelerated pod. There are general classes in our pod, but no inclusion teachers, and for you non-teachers, when a kid has an IEP like this kid does, we are legally obligated to provide certain services according to whatever her plan says. For example, someone is supposed to read the test questions aloud to this kid, we have to modify tests for her to make them shorter, she needs modified classroom assignments, etc. Well, in our pod we don't have inclusion teachers to do all that stuff, so it would fall to the regular classroom teachers and she would be the only kid in the entire pod receiving the services. It would really, really be difficult to pull it off. And of course I can be sued if I fail to document how I did these things, so you can see why I might want them to send the kid to a class where there's someone on staff specifically to do this kind of thing.

When the counselor found her mistake and tried to move the kid to where she needed to be, the kid threw a fit, and the mother hesitated as a result. So we spent an hour yesterday all huddled around these two, explaining why this is important, and trying to get the parent to agree to do it. But the parent was looking to the kid, as if for permission, every time she wanted to open her mouth and speak. It was maddening.

After half an hour of resistance on the child/mother's part (they seemed to be one in the same, after all), the other teachers started backing off and giving in. I could tell that's where they were headed because they started saying things like, "You COULD make it over here, but you'd have to really reach deep inside yourself and work hard." They were telling her she'd have to go home and spend extra time working, etc.

I called bullshit. I'm sorry, but even the most optimistic part of me can't believe she could make it. She reads on an elementary level-- a low elementary level. And she's supposed to "reach deep inside" and overcome that? Really? Then why didn't she just "reach deep inside" and learn to read when she was in 3rd grade??? We could talk all day about how she could go home and work extra hard, but the facts are that: A) extra work doesn't overcome a learning disability, especially extra work at home with a mother who is no more educated than the child, and B) so far she's failed to turn in a single regular assignment-- so forget doing anything above and beyond.

She has a learning disability. It's not her fault, but this feel good bullshit isn't going to address the problem. And if I seemed like a cold hard bitch for pissing on everyone's nipple rubbing party, I'm sorry, but you can't expect me to pretend that this was the answer. Not in a world where I am held more accountable for the child's progress than she is. Not in a world where my name is printed next to her test score and then published in the newspaper and everywhere else for the world to use as a measuring stick of my skills as a teacher. NnnnO. So I told her I that I understood how hard it was going to be for her to change classes, but that making this difficult decision now was going to prevent her some pain in the near future. I told her that if she could get up the courage to take this painful step now, it would show a lot of maturity because it's what's best for her, blah blah blah. The parent finally said, "She's gonna hafta go over there then."

THANK YOU. And again I ask you: When did adults stop making decisions about what's best for their kids? When did we start leaving that to the kids themselves? When did we start asking for their permission? COME ON. If this had been when I was in school, I wouldn't have been consulted! My ass would've shown up to school one day and been handed a new schedule, and that would've been the end of it! No conference necessary! I'm not saying I wouldn't have thrown a fit, or that my mother wouldn't have felt bad. I would've raised hell, and my mother would've been upset-- probably with the school for making the mistake in the first place as well as just being upset at watching me go through something that sucked. But it is what it is. I guess the parent finally came around to that, but it sure took a lot of steering.

This incident is just a snapshot of the big picture of what's happening in our schools. We're expected to "raise the standards" and "expect more of the kids" and all that crap. We're supposed to be getting them onto grade level, etc., but we can't do anything that upsets the children because we might injure their fragile self esteem. We need to cut the bullsh*t and do what's best for these kids whether it feels good or not.

A lot of people would strongly disagree with me on this, and some of them would say that I don't believe in the kids. I say they don't believe in them. They're thinking short-term; I'm thinking long-term. I don't think we give them enough credit. Kids are resilient. Past generations have withstood everything these kids have to deal with and then some, and came out just fine if not better. I personally know people who grew up sh*t poor with no daddy and became very strong, successful adults, so you can't tell me that being sh*t poor with no daddy invariably leads to a life of welfare or crime or misery. The only difference is that they don't feel sorry for themselves for the cards they were dealt, and I think the only problem with today's kids is that we feel sorry for them. They don't have good families, or they don't have any money or whatever, or some other part of their life is less than perfect. We see that and instantly want to make another part of their life as easy as possible. We cushion it for them, and in doing so we fail to help them gain strength. We give them excuses that allow them to not try.

We're doing them a disservice.

Rant over. I have to go make some copies.

Did I mention that my head hurts?

2008-09-17T20:04:00.002-05:00

What a horrible week so far. I didn't write lesson plans this weekend because I was at the hospital with Tim the whole time, so I have been coming up with plans early every morning. Something about winging it-- or coming up with a definite plan at 5 in the morning-- makes for long days.

My seventh period has been f*cking horrible. I really underestimated their evilness before. Yesterday when I took up homework, only 4 kids had it. I later discovered that two of them cheated on it, so I gave them zeros. But that came later. When I saw that only 4 kids had the work, I let those 4 use the class period to work on yet another assignment that was due TODAY, and I spent the class period doing the not-done-homework with the other 20 slackers. Then today when I asked them to turn in the second assignment, the very ones I gave the materials and time to work on it yesterday gave me excuses that said, "I didn't have time," and "I wasn't here." What the fuck? You weren't here? No shit, Sherlock! Your ass was in the library- where I sent you with materials to do THIS PROJECT.

My head damn near exploded. I mean, seriously, I felt it get close to exploding.

Yesterday I stayed at work until 6:00 just calling parents of kids in that class and putting their many, many zeros into the gradebook and documenting every phone call, email, etc. Then after none of them had the assignment today, I almost lost it-- specifically on the two cheaters who I unwittingly rewarded for cheating only to have them slap me in the face with "I didn't have time" when I asked for the assignment I gave them time to do.

God. My head hurts.

Long Weekend

2008-09-14T16:52:00.005-05:00

Tim called in to work Friday, which he has never done in the 20 years that he's been employed. He had a bad cold, so he wanted to get some medicine. He also needed to see a doc to get some old rx's refilled, and he may or may not have been planning to go purchase a certain motorcycle after going to the doc.

He didn't make it that far. Once he got to the doctor, everything went downhill fast. His BP was higher than normal, so the doc wanted to do an EKG, just as a precaution, and it showed something abnormal. So they took some blood to check his heart enzymes, and that showed something abnormal too. So thinking that he'd either recently had a heart attack or may have been having a mild one right then, they sent him to the ER.

He got to the ER at 3:00, and I showed up at 4:00, as soon as I got off work. They pulled the same enzymes again and checked his BP, which was still high. The doctor ordered a shot of a drug to bring down his BP. In the meantime, he said he didn't think Tim was having a heart attack right then but they wanted to wait to see the enzymes and try to figure out why his EKG was weird. We waited for the shot for his BP, and about an hour later a nurse came in and said she was giving him a shot of Lovonox. This is a strong blood thinner that is normally only given to heart attack patients or pulmonary embolism patients, so Tim asked the nurse why he was getting it. She said, "I don't know, I guess they're just being careful."

Another forty five minutes passed, and in walked a different RN and the doctor. The RN introduced herself and said, "We need to talk." She had some paperwork in her hand. She told us that the doctor had ordered a drug to bring down his BP and that the nurse had misread the order and given him the Lovonox as an error. This nurse was the head nurse or whatever, and she was there to do damage control. Well, Tim wasn't upset about it because he knew that one dose of the drug wasn't going to hurt him. My only comment was that as long as it wasn't going to hurt him, nothing would be said about it unless it showed up on a bill.

The doctor went on to say that the cardiac enzymes were closer to normal now and that they were going to send Tim home and have him follow up with a cardiologist. I said, "What about that EKG reading? Has he had a heart attack at some point in the past and we didn't know?" The doc flipped back to it and decided that something was wrong with it, then said, "What if we just do a CT of your chest just in case there's a clot causing this?" We agreed, and they did the CT.

Another hour later (we're on about hour 8 now, if you're wondering) the doctor came in, shut the door, and said, "God does exist." Umkay. We just stared at him. It was late. We were tired. Get to the point, doc. He then said, "You have a blood clot in your lung. Fortunately, you've already gotten the first shot of Lovonox to treat it." He went on to say that they would admit him and dissolve the clot slowly, etc.

We sat there for a while, reeling from what he'd just told us. A pulmonary embolism, as Tim pointed out, is rarely found in time to save someone's life. It's usually found during an autopsy. It was bizarre that he had one and hadn't had any severe shortness of breath or similar symptoms. But even more bizarre was the fact that he had been given the drug to treat it more than 3 hours before anyone knew he had a clot by accident.

The next day the pulmonologist came in and said that the clot was small and "in a good place." They started doing a bunch of other tests which took all of yesterday and this morning, and a second scan of his lungs showed that there was no PE present as of yesterday afternoon. The pulmonologist came back and said that it was definitely not there now and that it had either been dissolved by the Lovonox and other blood thinners, or had been misdiagnosed in the first place, possibly as a result of the dye not spreading evenly through his lungs before the first CT. So either there really was a miracle, or the people at the hospital are incompetent beyond belief. Either way, we're choosing to take it as a wake-up call to make some lifestyle and attitude changes. The timing couldn't be better for that, what with our baby being 5 weeks away from arriving.

Tim was discharged around lunch time today, and has to go back to a doc later this week because they never figured out why that EKG was abnormal to begin with. Hopefully when he goes, they won't diagnose him with having a brain aneurysm and send him to the hospital for three days.

Va-jay-jay

2008-09-09T20:47:00.003-05:00

This is the stupidest word ever, and if I hear it/see it one more time, I'm going to speak up against the stupidity. Shit, people! Just call it a vagina!

Three-fer: Childbirth class. Aunt C Update. Mom's a Biker.

2008-09-07T07:37:00.006-05:00

The childbirth class wasn't as blog worthy as I had hoped. The lady who taught it was likeable, and the subject matter-- and even the way it was presented-- was entirely predictable. (Drugs are good, epidurals are your friend, absolutely nothing unsafe ever takes place in a maternity ward, let the nurse do her job, and remember that doctors know best.) The only things that stood out were a few other students, and even they weren't really anything special. We did watch an entertaining video, and a big, tough-looking black dude seated next to us took a break from texting on his cell phone long enough to gag at the part when the woman in the video pushed out the placenta. (It was nasty.)

Probably the most memorable moment was the look on Tim's face when the lady said, "It's time for you to be packing your bag for the hospital." Kinda hit home, I guess.

After the class was over, we got the tour of their maternity ward, which consisted of being lead to a birthing room where we stood around and looked for about five minutes. Everything takes place in one room from the minute you arrive to the time you leave with your bundle of screaming joy. They even do all the medical procedures on the baby right there in your room-- everything except circumcision. There is no nursery; there is a "baby lounge," where the baby can be taken if you need a break.

The room is pretty big, but Tim pointed out that they listed off about 10 different people who will be present with trays of equipment when the big moment comes, so it may get crowded for a while. The bed I'm supposed to sleep in looks uncomfortable as hell. I can only hope they keep the dope flowing freely enough after the birth for me to be able to sleep. Tim's got to sleep in a chair. Ha! I may grant him permission to go home and nap if he's good. After all, one of us should probably be well rested when we get home with the baby. There's a big jacuzzi tub in the bathroom. They say that's nice to soak in after the event, but I don't know if I can ever be convinced that it's clean enough for me to put my naked, bleeding ass in.

After we left, we decided it was time to go buy a crib, finally. We had found one at Wal Mart that we thought would do the trick, and all we needed to do was go get it and put it together, right? Wrong. The only cribs they had in stock at any of the three Wal Marts was the cheapest crib you can imagine. I wouldn't put my kid's teddy bear to sleep in something so flimsy. After looking online at several websites recommended to me by a friend, I realized that non-Wal-Mart cribs are insanely overpriced, and Wal Mart has tons that are really cute and affordable. They will also ship most of them to the store for free. So today I'm going to narrow it down to three to five options. Maybe we will have a poll on which one I should get. Let the people decide, I say.

In other news, Aunt C is continuing her latest campaign in c*ntdom. Her latest move was to remove everyone else in the family from the list of people who are allowed to use those airline tickets. You know, the ones my grandmother gets for free because my grandfather retired from American forty years ago. It's a super shitty move on her part, especially since they're not hers to withhold, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let her know I care. The only reason she did it is because that is the ONLY thing she could use as a power play. Everyone else in the family has basically refused to bail her out of her latest predicament, which makes us all assholes from her point of view. If people decide to make a big deal out of her latest move, I say she wins. I say we ignore her. Having someone like Aunt C in the family is like having herpes. It can stay quiet for so long that you forget it's there, but every once in a while it flares up and becomes a giant pain in the ass. Oh, and there's no cure. Not that I have herpes, mind you. But Aunt C might.

In still other news, my mother, who just turned 58 on Monday, broke a rib and tore a gigantic chunk of meat out of her leg yesterday. She was riding a motorcycle. I don't know if I have mentioned this before or not, but my dad bought himself and my mother each motorcycles recently. Mom has no desire to ride, but since Dad's suddenly into it she's giving it a shot. This is the second time she's turned hers over; she just got scraped up a little the first time. I'm not real keen on the idea of my mom getting killed on a motorcycle that she didn't care to ride in the first place, so I'm hoping this injury will mark the end of her biker days.

Nothin' like the real thing

2008-09-04T19:01:00.004-05:00

No substitute can do my job the way I can do my job. When I walked into my room this morning, it took me about two seconds of looking around to get good and pissed off. A poster was torn off the wall, books were in the floor, chairs were turned over, some magazines were missing, some things that were stored in boxes on private shelves were strewn about the room, English binders that are supposed to be stored in specific containers were everywhere, papers on the floor, a garbage can was overturned....

How shitty of a sub do you have to be, really? I mean exactly how little control does a person have over a class when they're tearing posters off the walls and turning over trash cans!? There have been days in my teaching career-- especially that unforgettable first year-- when I came closer to being duct taped to a chair than I care to admit. I've had lots of days that end with them running out of the room and me standing around staring at destruction but being too busy thanking God they were gone to bother pushing the chairs back up to the tables. Hell, the little f*ckers locked me out of the room TWICE on my third day of being a teacher. So yeah, my classes have been out of control. Yet I've never had a poster torn off the wall in my presence, nor have I ever had a child turn over the garbage can into the floor.

If this had happened in the Delta, it wouldn't have surprised me. In fact it did happen every time I was absent. If this had happened last year, it wouldn't have surprised me. I would've been disappointed, but I could see it happening. But this group is better than that. Even though my 7th period class (who was the last one to leave yesterday and no doubt created most of the mess) is the worst one I have, they're still better than that.

Everyone I saw today commented on how out of control the class was yesterday. The teacher next door said they were insanely loud, and that he had peeked through the window to see kids throwing sunflower seeds and going wild. A teacher in another adjoining room said they were so loud she had to come in twice. It was no surprise that the teachers who work nearby heard the chaos, but get this-- the freakin' SECRETARY told me how horrible they were! The SECRETARY! She apparently called down there and the phone was answered by a student (major no-no) who wouldn't put the teacher on the phone.

WHERE THE HELL WAS THE TEACHER!?

It was a male sub, too, and everyone always thinks that men will have more control. HA!

I emailed detailed instructions on classwork for them to do yesterday, along with a homework assignment. The sub was supposed to take the work up. There's a pile of something there, but I have yet to look through it to see who actually did it. I will. And they will be graded. Oh yes, they will be graded! MUWAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!

.....tehehehehwuuAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!

RNC

2008-09-04T06:27:00.001-05:00

Sarah Palin kicks ass.

That is all.

Showered.

2008-09-03T12:01:00.003-05:00

Today I skipped out on work because I was up all night with the Tijuana Trots and a backache from hell. Too much information for you? Okay, I'll tell you about my baby shower instead.

First of all, it rocked that so many people showed up. Most of my aunts (the cool ones, not the c*nty one) showed up along with a few close family friends. There were probably as many people at the shower as there were at my wedding, which is either really cool or really depressing, depending on how you look at it. I'm still a little bitter about the whole nobody showing up to the wedding thing. Assholes. I could've saved my money and had the same end result at the courthouse.

Anyway, back to the shower. Lots of people showed up, everyone had fun, and they showered me with lots and lots and lots of gifts. It rocked. We already have more stuff than we need (or at least I think we do) and there are still at least 2 more showers in the near future-- one at work, and one with Tim's side of the family.

I already had most of the big items, like a high chair, a bouncy thingie, a walker thingie, a mat for the floor where you let them play thingie, a bassinet, car seats, etc. One of my friends gave me tons of stuff that is still practically new, and another friend sold me lots of other stuff on the low low. So I already had a high chair but one of my aunts gave me a new one. I think I'm going to take it back to Wal Mart and trade it for diapers or something. Another aunt also gave me a bouncy thingie. I don't know what we're going to do with that yet, but I think I already have a similar bouncy thingie. I don't know WHAT I have, to be honest. Two rooms of my house are filled with stuff. Stuff that I can't even identify.

This Saturday is our childbirth class. I can barely even type that without giggling, because I'm sure it's going to yield some blogging material. Anyway, after we learn about whatever we're going to learn about, we're finally going to buy the crib, and I'll spend the rest of the weekend setting up the nursery, washing baby clothes, and trying to figure out what the various multi colored plastic doo dads are for.

Between now and then I guess I'll have to go back to work, assuming the trots don't come back.

Found it.

2008-09-01T20:14:00.003-05:00

This is what I was talking about. Maybe it's only entertaining if you share my hatred.

[DeadpanAnn] A Work of Fiction. Very disturbing fiction. 11/6/06

Once upon a time in Mississippi there lived an ugly old hag who was known to her family members as Aunt C*nt. Fifty-nine years of life had done Aunt C's body no favors. Her face was wrinkled and saggy, and her lips were creased from many years of chain smoking. Her dentures were yellow-- not the kind of yellow teeth that you'd see on your average unhygienic redneck, but bright yellow, like the warning lights that flash in front of school zones on the highway. Her poorly managed diabetes had left her corpse-colored legs scabbed and scarred. Aunt C's many years of carrying around lots of extra weight left her belly saggy and soft, like her old, neglected breasts-- breasts that had not been touched by a man since 1978, when she divorced her second husband of six months after learning that he had given her herpes.

Aunt C's mother, "Gramma," lived to be very old, and Aunt C lived with her in a little shack. She also had a brother named Grant, a daughter named Manipulatina, or "Tina" for short, and two nieces, Payback Patty and Karma. Gramma's husband, Grandpa, died in 1987, and left Gramma a large sum of life insurance money. Grandpa had been a heavy drinker and an abusive asshole, but he at least had the wisdom and foresight to know that Aunt C would try to take the money from Gramma, and one of the last things he said to Grant was that he wanted him to make sure that didn't happen, and that Aunt C didn't manipulate Gramma into supporting her for the rest of her life. But shortly after Grandpa's death, Gramma told Grant to mind his own business. Grant had done all he could to keep his promise to his dad, but without his mother's cooperation he could do nothing to help her, so he stopped trying.

Gramma had never been a very smart woman, and now in her seventh decade of life she was even less equipped to protect herself from her predatory daughter. Within just a couple of years, Aunt C had taken most of Gramma's money. She invested some on a house in the Memphis ghetto, then took some more to buy it out of foreclosure two times. She also purchased a string of bunk used cars from a guy named Walley, and spent lots of money on fine dining at such sophisticated establishments as Danver's and Poncho's.

Aunt C and Gramma occasionally asked Grant for financial advice, but never did anything he suggested. When Gramma was 80 years old, she placed a large amount of what was left of her money a 10-year cd, against his advice. Grant knew that the 80 year old woman would never live to see the money again, and he tried to tell Aunt C that but Aunt C told Gramma to ignore Grant's advice. She knew that if Gramma never spent the money she might have the chance to spend it herself. That day, while they were talking about finances, Gramma decided that she should reassure Grant that she still had something put away for him. Gramma told him that her little shack house would be his one day. Grant was not excited, but figured at least Aunt C wouldn't be able to get the house and trade it for tickets to mid-south wrestling, as she had done with her father's gold watch. That had been just one of her atrocious acts.

One day when Payback Patty was 14 years old, she and Aunt C had a huge argument. Patty’s parents had left her there for the weekend, and Aunt C refused to take her to her softball game as she had promised Patty’s parents she would. They argued in the front yard until Aunt C grabbed the girl by her hair and beat her in the face until her metal braces were entangled in the flesh of her cheeks and her mouth filled with blood. Since that day, Patty had longed for the opportunity to bitch-slap the old hag. She had never forgotten the cruelty in Aunt C's eyes, or the smell of decay from her clenched yellow teeth.

The beating had exposed a layer of Patty that nobody had seen before. She was now capable of revenge for its own sake. Seeing the emerging dark side in his daughter, Grant warned her to keep her temper, and not to even think about revenge, but Patty knew that one day she would have it. One day she'd be an adult, and Grant's warning would mean nothing. Also, Gramma wouldn't be there to be ashamed of her little grand daughter. Payback Patty knew that Aunt C's outrageous behavior would one day provide her with the one thing she needed--- justification.
The years passed, and Gramma aged. All of her money was gone, and Aunt C had long ago lost her house in the ghetto and moved back in with her under the pretense of providing care. In reality, Aunt C was only serving herself. Aunt C ran a puppy mill, breeding Pomeranians and selling them for $300 each to stupid people in front of Wal-Mart. She brought her many dogs with her, despite Gramma's severe allergies. She even made the old woman move out of the room she had slept in for so many years and into the smaller of the two bedrooms, so that Aunt C could have a room big enough to accommodate the California king size bed she had just rented from Rent-A-Room.

With Gramma's social security checks, payments from her dead husband's pension, Aunt C's retirement, and a paid-for house, life should've been gravy, but it was not. Aunt C frequently asked Grant for financial help. She even tried to get him to give her some land he had owned for a long time, claiming that this one last favor would solve all of her financial problems and be the last thing she ever asked for. Grant's wife, Vicious V, would not allow it.

One night Aunt C was asleep in her big bed, surrounded by Pomeranians. Her flabby neck was partially blocking her airway, and she was snoring loudly. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and dog crap filled the air. Aunt C was dreaming about winning a lifetime supply of cigarettes when her peace was suddenly interrupted by the subconscious realization that Gramma would very soon die. She suddenly sat straight up in her giant bed, covered in sweat and herpes ointment, and started calculating as she had done so many nights before. The old hag knew that she would be in trouble when the old lady was gone. Having squandered her own inheritance and most of her brother's, and having lost her own house, she had nothing left. The very house she was living in had been promised to Grant, who she felt certain would not be very charitable towards her in her time of need. In the dark, Aunt C stroked the matted fur of a black Pomeranian, and began to scheme.

By morning, the hag had devised her newest plan. It was a classic redneck plan. Aunt C's daughter, Manipula Tina, lived with her husband and kids in a house out in the country. Even though her husband didn't like Aunt C, she convinced him that she needed to be nearer to them so that they could help her care for Gramma, who was becoming more of a burden every day. Tina and her husband were persuaded to allow her to put a trailer on their land about 100 yards away from their house. Aunt C and Gramma would live in the trailer for the rest of Gramma's days, and Aunt C's heavy burden would be lifted by all the help Tina would be able to provide. She would also have a place to live after the old woman's death.

To make it work, Aunt C would need Grant's blessing, because the shack had been promised to him. She told him that he would get half of the profits from the sale of the shack. Grant knew he was getting the shaft, but he had never wanted to argue over what his still-living mother would give him as inheritance. The shack wasn't worth any money, but it was on several acres of land in a desirable location.

One day an old man made Gramma an offer for the house she had lived in, raised her kids in, and gone senile in. She accepted. Grant thought this was going to be a good thing because Gramma really seemed to want to move. She liked the idea of being near Tina and two of her great grandchildren. Also, at this point in his life, having perhaps granted one wish too many, Grant could use the money. Things were falling into place. Aunt C had acquired a trailer and made arrangements for it to be moved, and other preparations for moving day were underway. But before the sale could be completed, the buyer was suddenly killed in a tragic car accident.
It was months later before another buyer came along. Gramma's Alzheimer's worsened, and so did the selfishness of Aunt C's scheme. Why should she settle for half when she could have the whole? She spent the next several weeks telling Gramma that it would be best to let her handle the money from the sale, including Grant's half. The senile old woman put up little resistance. One day very near the closing date of the property sale, Aunt C was on the phone with Karma, who she told about the new deal. Karma expressed satisfaction, and said that she thought her father would also be happy. "Oh," Aunt C*nt interjected, "now I don't know what Gramma is planning to do with the money. I don't know that he's going to get half now, or if she's made other plans. You know, she's so stubborn I can't talk her into doing anything rational." During the long pause that followed, Karma recalled the many cynical comments of her mother and her sister, and realized that they had been exactly right. There was no good in Aunt C, as she had wanted to believe. She was actually going to suck the old lady bone dry, no matter who she had to lie to or screw over in the process. Finally, Karma replied with a flat "Okay." Sensing her disgust, Aunt C told her that she had better not say anything to Grant, or else she would "get slapped."

At that very moment, somewhere far away, Payback Patty's ear lobes turned hot pink. She knew instinctively that Aunt C had finally crossed the line she'd wanted the old hag to cross for so very long. It was time.

Two hours later, Patty pulled into the driveway in front of the new trailer and parked her car next to a white pickup truck. The tailgate of the truck was open, and on it there were a few tools, some duct tape, and a pet taxi. She picked up a large, rusty flathead screwdriver and clenched it tightly in her right hand. Aunt C was inside alone setting up dog crates in the living room, and was startled by the sound of footsteps on the wooden steps that lead to the trailer's doorway until she saw that it was only Patty, who was always showing up unannounced to visit Gramma. "Hey there, darlin’!" the fake old bitch exclaimed. "How's it goin?" Payback Patty said, and Aunt C turned back around to face the stack of crates. "Just fixin' my sweeties a place to sleep."
Payback Patty raised the screwdriver above her head and with all of her might she brought it down into the old hag's back. Aunt C fell forward, sending the stack of dog crates crashing to the linoleum floor. A dozen Pomeranians scattered out of the trailer. The hag grunted and then gasped. Patty pulled the bloody screwdriver out, and blood trickled from the wound. She pounded it into her again, between the shoulder blades this time, and then let go. The old hag screamed once, but her scream didn't express pain so much as it did pure surprise. Patty grabbed her slumped body by the shoulders and violently pulled her around so she could see her face. Aunt C's body slowly slid down until she was on the floor with her back against the wall. The red tip of the screwdriver protruded from her chest, and she looked down at it in horror, and then looked back to her niece. The old hag's mouth was gaping open; her false teeth had come loose and were sliding down her chin in a stream of bloody saliva.

"I know an orthodontist who'll fix that," Patty said, and wiped her bloody hand on her jeans. Aunt C's glasses were on her chest, and her eyes were filled with fear and shock, just as Patty's had been while the old hag held her by the hair and pounded her face again and again, fourteen years earlier. The hag gasped, and then let out a short, loud, half-scream half-grunt, like a person might make if they were punched in the stomach. Patty looked around the room for another weapon, and found an old wooden chair. She lifted it with both hands and pulled it back to the side like a baseball bat, steadied herself with her left foot and then bashed the old lady in the head with it, knocking her face down onto the floor, unconscious and bleeding even more profusely now.

Payback Patty dropped what was left of the chair. She leaned against the wall across from the hag, watching her back rise and fall. She noticed three skinny red Pomeranians standing in the doorway, one behind the other. The tallest one tentatively entered the room and approached the pile of dying flesh on the floor. He began sniffing the pool of blood around Aunt C's head, and then began to quickly lap it up with his little pink tongue. The other two dogs soon came to his side, and began to search the scene for signs of food. Aunt C's back had stopped rising and falling, and the pool of blood around her head had finally stopped getting bigger. A dog crawled onto her back, and began to tug at the flesh around one of the large holes the screwdriver had made. "What sweeties."

Karma became a real estate agent, and sold Gramma's property for twice the original offer. Grant received all of the money that was left. He paid off his debts and used the rest to put Gramma into a posh retirement home, where she spent the rest of her days knitting sweaters and believing herself to be the Queen of England before she died peacefully one night in her sleep. Payback Patty was questioned by police, but never arrested. She developed a strange phobia of dogs and now lives with her true love somewhere in Mississippi.

Drama at my Momma's

2008-09-01T19:42:00.003-05:00

After calling the Mississippi Highway Patrol and being informed that both sides of I-55 were flowing northbound, I decided to stay up here. After all, going home sorta requires me to use the southbound lane.

So I was fortunate enough to still be around when some new family drama unfolded. It's about Aunt C. You know. My favorite aunt. For those of you not familiar with the history here, C stands for C*nt, and I have a lifetime of reasons for hating her. I once wrote a little short story about her and published it here on the blog, but I can't find it right now. I can't remember the title of the post or when it was written, and it may even have been on a previous blog. I've had several, and the old ones are floating out there in cyberspace somewhere. Anyway, the story ends with me murdering her with a screwdriver, and then her nine thousand pet Pomeranians eat her corpse. Real highbrow fiction. Some of my best work ever.

To sum up the Aunt C drama, she lied and said that their house caught fire and they were kicked out by the fire department. (She's been trying to find a way to move out of there for two years now, but apparently nobody wants to buy a house that is saturated with dog piss. Who knew?) So she and Gramma moved into Aunt C's daughter's house with her, her two kids, and her husband. And I'm sure that from the moment they moved in, Aunt C started with her usual insufferable bullshit. Her son in law happened to be off work because of an injury, and after tolerating her for about a month, he kicked her ass out earlier this week! Hahahahahaaah! So we just found out about it a couple of days ago, and now Aunt C and Gramma are back in the house that was never really uninhabitable to begin with (or at least no less inhabitable than it has been for the last 20 years), and she started calling people and trying to put them on guilt trips, claiming that they had no food, no electricity, etc. Well, my sister and I went over there Saturday evening to take them some food. We stopped and got them two big barbecue plates. When we got there, they were fine. Some wires in the kitchen apparently did start smoking, and there's currently no power in that one room, but they've got one of those larger mini fridges, and it's packed full of drinks and food. Aunt C sure as hell has her pc set up in the bedroom that she kicked my gramma out of, so they're doing well enough to have a phone line and internet service. There's a lot more to the back story than what I've described, but there's not space enough on the web for me to outline the details of all Aunt C's mistakes. One key detail is that she arranged her retirement payout so that she got a lot of money up front, and the amount she gets per month went way, way down when she turned 62, which just happened a month or so ago. So now she has only a few hundred dollars coming in every month. (Yeah, and meanwhile she's trying to sell my grandmother's house and take on a payment on a trailer?? WTF?)

Today when my dad and mom went over there to check on them, she went into drama queen mode and basically put on a childish little act. She's painted herself into a corner and now that she's stuck there, she's lashing out at everyone. It's everyone's fault, you see. It all goes back to her feeling sorry for herself, and she's furious that nobody else will play along. She's been screwing my grandmother over for years (squandered thousands upon thousands of dollars etc.) and everything about her life that sucks only sucks because she worked very hard and put in some serious effort towards MAKING it suck. My family members have been sitting around discussing "what to do with the situation." I say f*ck 'em. They made this bed themselves. They didn't see anything wrong with it until the sun started to set. Now I say sleep tight, dumbass. Their argument is that you can't let my grandmother suffer because of my aunt. There's some truth to that, of course, but my grandmother has been a willing participant in this clusterf*ck as long as it's been going on, so I don't even have that much sympathy for her. Still, she IS 86 years old, and unlike Aunt C she's not able bodied enough to go get a job and take care of herself. So I'd be happy to help her, and I will help her if I have the opportunity. But Aunt C? That bitch can go hungry, and I won't lose any sleep over it. If I'm lying awake at night thinking about her, you can bet your ass the only thought going through my mind is, Should I have used the chainsaw instead of the screwdriver?

If anyone remembers the title of that post, let me know. I know it's out there somewhere.

I'm going home tomorrow morning, and I'll spend the rest of the day throwing together lesson plans and scrambling to get my FMLA forms filled out by the doctor.

Gustav, you bastard!

2008-08-31T09:03:00.002-05:00

I don't know what to do. I'm at my mother's house at the moment, a safe 400 miles north of the coast. However, my home and my husband and my job are 300 miles south of here, a not so safe 80 miles north of the coast. Guess where I'd rather be? Okay, okay, I know there's no place like home....except when Katrina 2.0 is on the way, and then there's no place like your mother's home 300 miles north of home.

:sighhhhhhhhhh:

I feel like a coward. Maybe I should hop in the car and go home so at least there will be someone there to throw down towels if the chimney leaks again like it did in Katrina (not that the towels helped, mind you) or to take care of the dogs, who may have to be left outside if I'm not there. Tim works at the hospital, and has been told that he probably won't be allowed to leave for a minimum of 48 hours after the storm hits. So if he's at work for two days straight, the dogs can't be left in their crates in the laundry room that entire time. But if they're outside and 150 mph winds come through, they may not be happy. But I don't WANNNNAAA go home and be 8 months pregnant with no electricity or water just so the dogs will be able to stay inside. I wanna stay up here and be 8 months pregnant WITH electricity and hot water.

I wasn't in Hattiesburg during Katrina. I was employed in the Delta that year, remember? So I was in a fishing cabin in the middle of the woods somewhere in Yazoo County-- far north of the coast, and it still sucked. I had all the shutters closed on the cabin, and every time I peeped out, all I could see was a 3 foot high layer of fog traveling across the top of the lake at high speed, and trees leaned over to kiss the ground. It looked like the end of the world, and sounded like it too. Trees were snapping and hitting the ground left and right, and I just knew one was going to crash through on me at any minute. One particularly massive tree split down the middle and fell, and that was a sound I can't even describe. It lasted about 45 seconds, and I swear you could feel it when it hit the ground. Of course, when I finally got to go outside the next day, I saw that it had landed about 25 feet from where I was sitting at the time, so that makes sense. Not one tree hit my humble abode during the storm, which was a true miracle. On all four sides of the cabin, there were fallen trees. I couldn't even drive out of my driveway because of all of them. As far as I could see around me, fallen trees, but none hit my house.

Tim was at home, and he said it was so scary that there were several times he's sure he would've jumped in his truck and tried to leave town if the truck hadn't been broken down. (We had been up here the previous weekend, and as soon as he rolled back into the driveway in Hattiesburg his truck died.) Tim's calm during weather, so if he was scared enough that he really wanted to get the hell out, I can't imagine how bad it must've been. I'm NOT calm during bad weather. I may have seriously come unglued. I can't even medicate myself this time.

I don't wanna go.

He just called and told me he now expects to be off work during the storm, so there will be someone there. I still feel guilty for not wanting to go home. I should be there with him in case it gets bad and I can't get in touch afterwards.

Dammit.

My mother's birthday is tomorrow and I'm taking her to lunch today at 1:00. After that, I'll make a decision. I was leaning towards staying up here until Tim said he'll be at home. I'll feel safer being there as long as he's there with me.

On a brighter note, I totally racked up yesterday at the baby shower. You can't even walk down the hallway right now for the gift bags. A lot of people showed up, and I think every single one of them gave me a bag that had at least 3 or 4 different gifts in it. One of my aunts handmade some cute little burp cloths with embroidered stuff on them, another made a quilt, and one gave me a high chair. Another gave me a cool bouncy chair thing. I already had a high chair and a bouncy chair, but that's not the point. The point is that they hooked me up with sweet stuff. And everyone was so giddy! It wasn't like that at my wedding shower at all. People love babies, don't they?

As everyone was leaving, they each kept saying, "Good luck." That really made it hit home that next time I see them, I'll have a baby. Did you get that? A baby. A miniature person who depends completely on ME to meet all his needs.

Poor thing.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

2008-08-30T13:05:00.001-05:00

The next person who tells me I don't look pregnant is getting a knuckle sandwich. I don't care what is actually MEANT by such a statement; all I know is that to me it sounds like, "God, you're so damn fat that nobody can even tell you're nearly 8 months pregnant! That's FAT! Like SUPER FAT!"

I'm telling you. Knuckle sandwich.

McCain-Who?

2008-08-30T06:16:00.004-05:00

McCain picked a woman. Cool. So who the hell is she, anyway? So far, the media has attempted to answer that question by showing pictures of her fishing and doing stuff outside and what not. She's a badass, apparently. I'm not sure how this will work out now though. At first, I thought it was brilliant because now all the people who don't want to vote for Obama have another minority to vote for, and that way you don't have to be a racist or whatever. Either way you go, you're going for "change" in a way. But Tim made the point that there are still a lot of old white guys who only want to vote for other old white guys, and now they may not vote at all. That only sucks if you DON'T like Obama. And I don't. He's good at reading someone else's speeches off a teleprompter. And at dodging difficult votes, which is something he did an average of 50 times per year in the senate. Empty. Suit.

My baby shower is in 7 1/2 hours and I've got a 4 1/2 hour drive and some laundry to do before I can leave. I would bitch about having to drive up there today and back down here tomorrow, but I just found out that a close friend of our family has driven over from Texas just to give me a gift. That totally ruins my bitchportunity, doesn't it?