I think I've mentioned, with some regularity, how very ready I am to put 2009 behind me. Without doubt, this has been the most challenging year of my life. Of course I'm not so deluded to expect that the clock will move to 12:01 on January 1st and all will magically be well... but I am just deluded enough to hope that will be the case.
I think I've also mentioned - perhaps with some regularity! - that MSU scares me when he drives. Not always, but often enough to think of it as a constant. It may be the pilot training that allows him to take such a cavalier attitude toward maneuvering through traffic and navigating the roadways, but whatever it is, it doesn't approximate the defensive driving that was pounded into my brain as a new driver (that has stayed with me all this time, mostly because I am certain that everyone else on the road is out to get me). Since I've been injured, he's done most of the driving. I'm sort of a wreck when we get home.
Yesterday, as we zoomed through the ultra-skinny and constantly-in-construction-and-therefore-never-the-same carpool lane on the northbound I-15, MSU was cruising at his normal well-over-the-speed-limit velocity and had assumed his standard position of waaaaaay over to the left. There is no break down lane, there are just two skinny lanes protected on either side by retaining walls. MSU's standard cruising attitude positions the car about six inches from the left retaining wall (2 if the side mirror counts).
I think I've also mentioned that I LOVE my Nimble German Car. I love it beyond all logical reason. Needless to say (I hope), it seriously freaks me out when MSU drives it balls-to-the-wall and six inches from certain destruction.
Back to yesterday, I found myself not just tense, not just slightly ascairt, not just peeved, but downright terrified and sick to my stomach as MSU hung to the left and messed with the heater controls, the radio, his cigarettes, and his lighter. As he took his eyes off the road repeatedly and for several seconds at a time. As he took his hands off the wheel entirely to feel around in his jacket for his phone. I cringed in my seat, eyes dribbling helpless tears, waiting for my Nimble German Car to have its left side mirror ripped off by the retaining wall; or worse, for the front end to bump a slightly erractically placed bulkhead and send us spinning into the other lane, the other retaining wall, the other cars.
When we safely arrived home, I wracked my brain trying to figure out why my reaction had been so intense. The details of yesterday's commute aren't really different from any other day, but my reaction sure was. I allowed my little rodent brain to chew it over as we went to get haircuts for MSU and Z-bo, and continue mulling over dinner.
After a satisfying sushi dinner, complete with a surprise appearance by My Really Stupid Friend (who I am very angry with right now, but enjoyed the surprise anyway) and two large decanters of sake, it finally hit me: I can't take one more thing. Not even one. And I'm so afraid of that One More Thing that any proximity of possibility is enough to strike terror into my heart and soul.
As I pondered this bolt of lightning to the brain, I realized further that it isn't really the One More Thing that I fear... it's what is going to happen to ME should that One More Thing manifest. Because, hey... One More Thing. It is what it is, right? There have been SEVERAL One More Things over the course of this past year, and all of them have been dealt with (some more constructively than others). What's One More Thing on top of all those other Things?
The breaking point, that's what it is. The event horizon. The point of no return. The squaw that stroked the camel's sac, so to speak. The surety that One More Thing would certainly compromise the thin veil of sanity I currently hide behind struck me like a speeding train. And though I don't really know what that means, I know it is real enough to be feared... because I suddenly felt, really FELT, how stretched and frayed that thin tether to reality in my consciousness is. How close I really am to the point where my body, my chemistry, my very cellular structure will orchestrate a hostile takeover for the no-confidence vote of my mind. And so many recent impulses suddenly made sense: reaching for the garish purple-black berries of the nightshade that grows where I take my cigarette breaks, to pluck a few and pop them into my mouth, actually touching one before I realized what I was doing... pausing at the top of the back staircase, marveling at the glittering and deadly cement perfection of it... upping my life insurance policy at open enrollment to three times my annual salary, because more is better. Right?
My consciousness didn't even take note of these events until well into their execution. Nor did my consciousness, until last night, take note of the significance. Which answers a question I've long wondered about: does a crazy person know they're crazy? Apparently not, friends. Good to know, eh?
So hurry up, 12:01 on January 1st 2010. Hurry, please. I need a little magic.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
Excerpt From Actual Conversation Today
Last Saturday night, I injured my wrist trying to do something by myself that I had no business trying to do by myself. Last Sunday, I went to the Emergency Room, where ER staff promptly blew off the immobilize-everything protocol and sent me home with a velcro wrist splint on full duty. Wednesday, I followed up with my Primary Care Manager, who was LIVID at the botched-up ER procedures and referred me to Orthopedics, after completely taking me off duty and prohibiting any use of my left arm whatsoever.
When Orthopedics called me on Friday, they told me that my appointment was for January 21, 2010. I asked to speak to the Charge Nurse, and advised her that the injury is 1) acute, and 2) not immobilized. Magically, an appointment for this morning appeared in the schedule.
When I appeared at Ortho, a cursory clinical evaluation was done on the joint. However, NONE of the newly touted exam methods for diagnosing torn and ruptured ligaments were performed. When I performed one of these on myself to demonstrate, the clinical significance was ignored. One Physician's Assistant looked at the other Physician's Assistant and said, "sounds like a strained muscle." Please keep in mind that I am and have been complaining of ulnar-sided wrist pain, ulnar-sided pain upon any kind of forearm rotation, ulnar displacement, wrist and forearm bone "clicking," and limited range of motion (without pain) on the ulnar side. And in one week of partial immobilization, there has been no improvement.
The following brief-but-stupid conversation ensued:
Me: “So, you think it’s a muscle strain. Wouldn’t I be having less pain at this point if that were the case?”
Them: “No. Strains take a long time to heal. Have you ever strained a hamstring? They take forever.”
Me: “This isn’t a hamstring. It’s not even remotely comparable.”
Them: ::::exchanged looks as if to say ‘stupid civilian’::::
Me after awkward silence: “Okay, then, what next?”
Them: “Wear the splint you were given at the ER for about a week. Then back to normal.”
Me: “The splint hurts to wear. My arm aches at the end of the day. If I go without the splint, I still have pain, but nothing like the pain wearing the splint causes.”
Them: “Oh, that’s because it’s pulling your hand back slightly. We’ll just make you another one.”
Me: “Ok, but am I going to be able to see a surgeon any time soon?”
Them: “Why would you need to do that?”
Me: “Because with rotational movement, my bones are rubbing against each other. Because my symptoms indicate there may be a TFCC rupture/avulsion and/or a UT lateral tear. You can’t see any of this on x-rays and sometimes not even on MRI imaging. Because I’m telling you that my arm doesn’t look right, it doesn’t feel right, and it doesn’t work right.”
Them: “Well, what do YOU want to do?”
Me: “I want an MRI and an appointment with the surgeon.”
Them: “That’s not necessary.”
Me: “Then why did you ask me what I wanted?”
Them: :::::glaring:::::
Me after awkward silence: “Ok, so what about work?”
Them: “Just be careful.”
Me: “Careful? Right now I’m pulled off of full duty with a chit that says “NO LEFT ARM USE.” Are you modifying that to “Just be careful?”
Them: “Do you want a note for work?"
Me: “No, unless you are putting me back on full duty I already have a note. Are you putting me back on full duty?”
Them: “Sure.”
Me: “So it’s okay if I get in a fight or have to take someone down or have to lift heavy files?”
Them: “Well, no. So I guess light duty. Or whatever you call it.”
When I return next week, I will come fully armed and prepared for the battle which will inevitably ensue. Sigh.
When Orthopedics called me on Friday, they told me that my appointment was for January 21, 2010. I asked to speak to the Charge Nurse, and advised her that the injury is 1) acute, and 2) not immobilized. Magically, an appointment for this morning appeared in the schedule.
When I appeared at Ortho, a cursory clinical evaluation was done on the joint. However, NONE of the newly touted exam methods for diagnosing torn and ruptured ligaments were performed. When I performed one of these on myself to demonstrate, the clinical significance was ignored. One Physician's Assistant looked at the other Physician's Assistant and said, "sounds like a strained muscle." Please keep in mind that I am and have been complaining of ulnar-sided wrist pain, ulnar-sided pain upon any kind of forearm rotation, ulnar displacement, wrist and forearm bone "clicking," and limited range of motion (without pain) on the ulnar side. And in one week of partial immobilization, there has been no improvement.
The following brief-but-stupid conversation ensued:
Me: “So, you think it’s a muscle strain. Wouldn’t I be having less pain at this point if that were the case?”
Them: “No. Strains take a long time to heal. Have you ever strained a hamstring? They take forever.”
Me: “This isn’t a hamstring. It’s not even remotely comparable.”
Them: ::::exchanged looks as if to say ‘stupid civilian’::::
Me after awkward silence: “Okay, then, what next?”
Them: “Wear the splint you were given at the ER for about a week. Then back to normal.”
Me: “The splint hurts to wear. My arm aches at the end of the day. If I go without the splint, I still have pain, but nothing like the pain wearing the splint causes.”
Them: “Oh, that’s because it’s pulling your hand back slightly. We’ll just make you another one.”
Me: “Ok, but am I going to be able to see a surgeon any time soon?”
Them: “Why would you need to do that?”
Me: “Because with rotational movement, my bones are rubbing against each other. Because my symptoms indicate there may be a TFCC rupture/avulsion and/or a UT lateral tear. You can’t see any of this on x-rays and sometimes not even on MRI imaging. Because I’m telling you that my arm doesn’t look right, it doesn’t feel right, and it doesn’t work right.”
Them: “Well, what do YOU want to do?”
Me: “I want an MRI and an appointment with the surgeon.”
Them: “That’s not necessary.”
Me: “Then why did you ask me what I wanted?”
Them: :::::glaring:::::
Me after awkward silence: “Ok, so what about work?”
Them: “Just be careful.”
Me: “Careful? Right now I’m pulled off of full duty with a chit that says “NO LEFT ARM USE.” Are you modifying that to “Just be careful?”
Them: “Do you want a note for work?"
Me: “No, unless you are putting me back on full duty I already have a note. Are you putting me back on full duty?”
Them: “Sure.”
Me: “So it’s okay if I get in a fight or have to take someone down or have to lift heavy files?”
Them: “Well, no. So I guess light duty. Or whatever you call it.”
When I return next week, I will come fully armed and prepared for the battle which will inevitably ensue. Sigh.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Today's Letter to MSU - Futile or Fertile? We Shall See.
It’s been bugging me today, so I’m writing to get it off my chest.
Last night, you accused me of being mad at your request to help clean up because my game “was more important.” I said that wasn’t true. Instead of asking me what I WAS mad about, you just kept on in the same vein, each accusation more ludicrous than the last. In reality, it doesn’t really matter because what I was –am – mad about wouldn’t have been an appropriate topic for discussion at the time.
The fact is, you and I have very different priorities. And there are some situations which bring those differences to the forefront. Last night was one of those times.
You wanted me to help you clean up – NOW! – because it was “stressing you out” that Isabeau’s advisor was coming over to the house. The last time you yelled at me – yes, yelled at me – because you were ‘stressed out” was because Church was at our house and you wanted things picked up. You get “stressed out” over people coming into our house and seeing a mess. *I’m* not stressed out about it, but *you* are. In your mind (it appears), it’s an emergency and in your mind (it appears) I’m obligated to help you with it. I disagree with this concept in general, but if you’ll remember, every time you’ve “stressed out” about such a situation, I have helped you deal with it. NOW, just like you expected. You “stress out” about how our house appears to outsiders. You expect me to deal with the situation as well as deal with your stress. And I can’t think of a time when I haven’t, even when it wasn’t convenient or important to me.
In contrast, I was “stressing out” because the washing machine was broken. I was “stressing out” and asking you to call every day for a week. That’s how long it took you to respond to something that was “stressing” ME out.
More to the point, for 20 years – longer! – I’ve been telling you that drinking and driving/riding “stresses me out.” I’ve been telling you that every time you do that, you CONSCIOUSLY place our family in jeopardy. Every time you get fucked up and decide it’s okay for you to ride home, you are EXPLICITLY demonstrating that you don’t give a rat’s ass if you lose your job, if we lose our house, if you lose your marriage, if you lose your life or God forbid take someone else’s. Every time you fail to moderate your own behavior in this regard you tell me that YOU DON’T CARE about me, our family, or our well-being. Knowing this, knowing that you don’t care REALLY “stresses me out.” The worst part is that you KNOW how I feel about this but don’t think it’s important enough to respond to. And when you freak out over a stranger making some sort of arbitrary judgment about the state of our home, I have to suppress a choking fury because you’ve made it so obviously clear that you don’t really care about our home AT ALL. If you did, you wouldn’t consciously choose to put it in jeopardy every fucking weekend.
Strangely enough, you also know that your penchant for lying also “stresses me out,” but this is yet another thing that apparently isn’t a priority for you. You demand that I respond instantaneously to the things that ‘stress you out,” but when it comes to our own trust issues – the very foundation of our marriage! – you’re pretty cavalier about it. Not only have you abjectly refused to address this “stressor,” you actually had the gall to look surprised and even hurt when I noted that it’s easy to be suspicious of you because you haven’t been honest with me about certain things through the entirety of our relationship. Honestly, John… what did you THINK would happen? You didn’t honestly think that constant lying would encourage trust and faith in our relationship, did you? You couldn’t have… because I’ve been telling you differently for, again, over 20 years. So the obvious answer to why you haven’t given a second thought to something you KNOW “stresses me out” over the long term is that you just…don’t… care.
Enter the money situation… something that’s been “stressing me out” since we shifted the responsibility for the finances over to me and has most especially been “stressing me out” for the past year. Try to imagine, given our current circumstances, how “stressful” it must be to budget things so carefully – months in advance – and to be constantly robbing Peter to pay Paul just to get by. Now try to imagine how part of that careful budgeting is your Club dues and other such expenses. Now, imagine how stressful it is to hand these funds over to you – with the express intent that they will be used to pay for these Club expenses – only to be asked for the same amount of money a week later because SOMEHOW the money you were given SPECIFICALLY for that purpose wasn’t USED for that purpose. And finally, imagine how “stressful” it is to hear that you don’t even KNOW where the money went. Not only did you not apply it toward the purpose for which it was budgeted… not only do you now demand more money that has to be taken from something else… but you cannot even offer an accounting of what you did with those funds, hoarded oh-so-carefully, that were intended for an activity that ONLY YOU benefit from. For the coup-de-grace, imagine now how “stressful” it is to listen to you get angry at ME when you can’t account for the money you were given. Imagine how “stressful” it was to hear you state that being given a “budget” that you were responsible for and that all your expenses would come out of was somehow “emasculating” while I’m taking money from other obligations because you can’t seem to meet your responsibilities even when you’re given money EXPRESSLY for that purpose. You KNOW this “stresses me out.” Yet, you refuse to respond.
Perhaps the most tragic – and most telling – of all these “stressors” is your constant harping on me to change our sex life. For some reason, you aren’t able to put the pieces of the puzzle together: I KNOW that you don’t give any kind of priority to me, our family, or our home (as evidenced by your continued irresponsibility with regard to alcohol and money and also by your lackadaisical approach to household problems) and I KNOW that you won’t keep me safe (as evidenced both by the aforementioned irresponsibility and by your refusal to be honest with me), but I am still EXPECTED to give you the kind of intimacy you have in NO WAY earned. You want orgasms from me? Try trust first. You want intimacy from me? Try keeping me safe, try keeping your promises, try putting your FAMILY first instead of just giving us lip service.
You wonder why we have trust issues? This is why. If you’ve wondered why I get angry at being expected to hurry up and respond to your housecleaning emergencies, this is why. If you wonder if it’s fixable, yes it is – with conscious effort. If you wonder why I still stand by you when you refuse to keep me safe, it’s because I love you and know your potential even when you don’t.
Monday, November 16, 2009
The Hardest Part - For Those Yet to Tell
The telling of it was always the hardest part. More terrifying, more humiliating, more horrific than the situation itself, the telling of it was hardest because some things just don't have words.
And the things that do have words, well... the words are so benign. So clinical. So devoid of any real meaning to anyone else but me.
Except for others who have been there. THEY know. They know the inadequacy of the words, they know the stark humiliation in the telling. That's why hardly anyone ever tells.
Telling. Telling Bill to take me to the hospital, please, I'm bleeding for Chrissake and I'm hurt so bad. Him, staring straight ahead at the road, not daring to SEE me just the same way he had refused to HEAR me and now shaking his head and flatly saying no. No, no. I can't, can't you see I can't? They'll kill me.
Telling. Waking my mother to take me to the hospital because that coward wouldn't. Her shriek of horror when she turned on the light. Her tears. Her utter strength when she asked me if I knew what going to the hospital would mean, face carefully arranged in neutrality because she feared the answer I would give. Yes, Mommy. I know. Telling, I have to tell.
Telling. The Emergency Room thankfully empty save for a few sick souls, who feverishly stared at the blood still seeping through my clothing and from my face and head. The triage nurse, who composed her face into a mask of compassion, but wasn't able to hide the contempt in her eyes. Back then, medical personnel didn't have the protocol that they do now, but they had a "rape kit," and as they further poked and prodded at my torn, bloodied, and battered body they asked the same questions over and over: "At what point did this happen (poke)? At what point did this happen (prod)? At what point did this happen (bright light, spread, inspect)?" And with very few exceptions, my answer was always the same: "I don't know." And the doctor, exasperated, "Well, young lady, what DO you remember??" Telling, telling, telling, because I remember biting part of his nose clean off and that's when he hit me in the head with the lamp. I'm sorry, Doctor, after that things are a little hazy.
Telling. I am washed and clothed in a hospital gown, the cuts are sewn and the bones are set, I am given IV antibiotics for the bites and for the torn flesh in my nether region that can't easily be kept clean. The police arrive, a man and a woman, and the telling begins anew. "So, you snuck out of your house to go to this party?" Yes. "Was it planned that you would be the only girl at the party?" No. "Why did you choose that outfit?" I was already dressed. "Where did you get the alcohol?" I don't know where they got it, it was there when I got there. "How well do you know these boys?" I grew up with them. "What did you think was going to happen?" I thought I'd get high, watch some movies, play some pool, and have fun. "You said you felt strange and asked your friend to take you home prior to the incident. When he refused, why didn't you leave anyway?" Sobbing, I don't know, I don't know, I don't fucking know. "Where was your 'friend' while this was happening?" Telling, in barely a whisper at the end, because my bruised throat had swelled so much that I could barely breathe. I don't know. I guess he couldn't hear. "Is your friend going to tell us that you consented to sex with those boys?" He is too afraid of them to even bring me here, so my guess is yes. "Does he have any reason to be afraid?" Yes. And no. But I'm still telling.
Telling. Months later, over and over again because they won't combine the case into one and I give my testimony and am cross-examined in three seperate trials because they all pled not guilty. Telling what I know about each photograph of my body, stark white, red, swollen and purple under the hospital lights. Telling the timeline of the "incident," as everyone called it, with the lone exception of my lawyer. Telling, specifically, as long as I could, because there was a point where there were no faces, only hands and bone and voices and teeth and penetration and pain. Telling, telling, in excruciating detail, in "proper nomenclature," in such formal terms that no rawness could bleed through. Telling, through the judging eyes staring at me. Telling, through the cross-exam. Telling, through my mother's sobbing and through the shouting of one of their fathers. Telling, at sentencing, what I had lost, what I had gained, what was unrecoverable and what was salvaged. Telling, through the look of triumph on one attorney's face when I said that I don't want to hurt anyone, I don't want anyone to go to prison, I only want to know WHY.
Telling in counseling, because that was the sentence I asked for for all three of them. Waiting for them to tell, to give me something, ANYTHING, to make sense of it all, even though at this point it had been over a year. Telling, still so difficult, because there I was again: weak, alone, outnumbered, and hated for something that wasn't my doing at all. Telling, still so painful and still so pointless, because I was vulnerable again to their whim, to their solidarity, to their pack-strength, to their testosterone-filled reasoning.
Telling, with my head down and my voice weak, because the only thing I had really learned from "the incident" and all that came after was that the only shame in being gang-raped and beaten within an inch of my life by three boys I grew up with and had no reason not to trust was in the TELLING of it. Because back then it was still assumed that a woman had it coming by the way she dressed, or by the way she comported herself, or by the company she chose to keep. In my case, I had the fucking trifecta.
Telling my husband, knowing it would change our lives forever. He, oblivious to the brutal and carnal truth of it, insisted, and thus did the telling change our lives forever, not to mention his view of the world in general.
Telling, to our marriage counselor, after being prompted over and over to disclose all memories, big or small, that might be 'getting in the way of our intimacy" and my husband gesturing pointedly at me and stating, almost panicked, "she was gang-raped!" Alas, his hopes of being acquitted of all blame for our marital dysfunction due to my "frigidity and PTSD" were dashed when the counselor advised that I leave the marriage. Telling = shame, yet again.
Telling, again, because I was reminded by someone who was smart enough to keep it to herself until there was no other choice.
For those who have told, I salute your courage and know well the mud you crawled through to ensure justice was done. For those yet to tell, please know that rape investigations are no longer the journey into shame they once were and there are trained and compassionate professionals who can sincerely help you to heal yourself.
For the rest... I hope you never have to make the choice.
And the things that do have words, well... the words are so benign. So clinical. So devoid of any real meaning to anyone else but me.
Except for others who have been there. THEY know. They know the inadequacy of the words, they know the stark humiliation in the telling. That's why hardly anyone ever tells.
Telling. Telling Bill to take me to the hospital, please, I'm bleeding for Chrissake and I'm hurt so bad. Him, staring straight ahead at the road, not daring to SEE me just the same way he had refused to HEAR me and now shaking his head and flatly saying no. No, no. I can't, can't you see I can't? They'll kill me.
Telling. Waking my mother to take me to the hospital because that coward wouldn't. Her shriek of horror when she turned on the light. Her tears. Her utter strength when she asked me if I knew what going to the hospital would mean, face carefully arranged in neutrality because she feared the answer I would give. Yes, Mommy. I know. Telling, I have to tell.
Telling. The Emergency Room thankfully empty save for a few sick souls, who feverishly stared at the blood still seeping through my clothing and from my face and head. The triage nurse, who composed her face into a mask of compassion, but wasn't able to hide the contempt in her eyes. Back then, medical personnel didn't have the protocol that they do now, but they had a "rape kit," and as they further poked and prodded at my torn, bloodied, and battered body they asked the same questions over and over: "At what point did this happen (poke)? At what point did this happen (prod)? At what point did this happen (bright light, spread, inspect)?" And with very few exceptions, my answer was always the same: "I don't know." And the doctor, exasperated, "Well, young lady, what DO you remember??" Telling, telling, telling, because I remember biting part of his nose clean off and that's when he hit me in the head with the lamp. I'm sorry, Doctor, after that things are a little hazy.
Telling. I am washed and clothed in a hospital gown, the cuts are sewn and the bones are set, I am given IV antibiotics for the bites and for the torn flesh in my nether region that can't easily be kept clean. The police arrive, a man and a woman, and the telling begins anew. "So, you snuck out of your house to go to this party?" Yes. "Was it planned that you would be the only girl at the party?" No. "Why did you choose that outfit?" I was already dressed. "Where did you get the alcohol?" I don't know where they got it, it was there when I got there. "How well do you know these boys?" I grew up with them. "What did you think was going to happen?" I thought I'd get high, watch some movies, play some pool, and have fun. "You said you felt strange and asked your friend to take you home prior to the incident. When he refused, why didn't you leave anyway?" Sobbing, I don't know, I don't know, I don't fucking know. "Where was your 'friend' while this was happening?" Telling, in barely a whisper at the end, because my bruised throat had swelled so much that I could barely breathe. I don't know. I guess he couldn't hear. "Is your friend going to tell us that you consented to sex with those boys?" He is too afraid of them to even bring me here, so my guess is yes. "Does he have any reason to be afraid?" Yes. And no. But I'm still telling.
Telling. Months later, over and over again because they won't combine the case into one and I give my testimony and am cross-examined in three seperate trials because they all pled not guilty. Telling what I know about each photograph of my body, stark white, red, swollen and purple under the hospital lights. Telling the timeline of the "incident," as everyone called it, with the lone exception of my lawyer. Telling, specifically, as long as I could, because there was a point where there were no faces, only hands and bone and voices and teeth and penetration and pain. Telling, telling, in excruciating detail, in "proper nomenclature," in such formal terms that no rawness could bleed through. Telling, through the judging eyes staring at me. Telling, through the cross-exam. Telling, through my mother's sobbing and through the shouting of one of their fathers. Telling, at sentencing, what I had lost, what I had gained, what was unrecoverable and what was salvaged. Telling, through the look of triumph on one attorney's face when I said that I don't want to hurt anyone, I don't want anyone to go to prison, I only want to know WHY.
Telling in counseling, because that was the sentence I asked for for all three of them. Waiting for them to tell, to give me something, ANYTHING, to make sense of it all, even though at this point it had been over a year. Telling, still so difficult, because there I was again: weak, alone, outnumbered, and hated for something that wasn't my doing at all. Telling, still so painful and still so pointless, because I was vulnerable again to their whim, to their solidarity, to their pack-strength, to their testosterone-filled reasoning.
Telling, with my head down and my voice weak, because the only thing I had really learned from "the incident" and all that came after was that the only shame in being gang-raped and beaten within an inch of my life by three boys I grew up with and had no reason not to trust was in the TELLING of it. Because back then it was still assumed that a woman had it coming by the way she dressed, or by the way she comported herself, or by the company she chose to keep. In my case, I had the fucking trifecta.
Telling my husband, knowing it would change our lives forever. He, oblivious to the brutal and carnal truth of it, insisted, and thus did the telling change our lives forever, not to mention his view of the world in general.
Telling, to our marriage counselor, after being prompted over and over to disclose all memories, big or small, that might be 'getting in the way of our intimacy" and my husband gesturing pointedly at me and stating, almost panicked, "she was gang-raped!" Alas, his hopes of being acquitted of all blame for our marital dysfunction due to my "frigidity and PTSD" were dashed when the counselor advised that I leave the marriage. Telling = shame, yet again.
Telling, again, because I was reminded by someone who was smart enough to keep it to herself until there was no other choice.
For those who have told, I salute your courage and know well the mud you crawled through to ensure justice was done. For those yet to tell, please know that rape investigations are no longer the journey into shame they once were and there are trained and compassionate professionals who can sincerely help you to heal yourself.
For the rest... I hope you never have to make the choice.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
A Short and Senseless Rant
We got into trouble financially... part of which is my fault directly. Instead of sitting around whining about it and worrying about whether or not we're going to lose our home, I got a second job tending bar at a sports pub. As far as second jobs go, it's relatively easy and the location is close to home. But working until closing really, REALLY sucks because I still have my REGULAR job to get up for. But I feel better doing SOMETHING about our situation and in that sense, the sacrifice is worth it.
We were so worried about our youngest child having to attend the middle school we're zoned for, because our middle daughter barely survived it with her sanity. Our youngest was already at risk for all kinds of school-related problems and we searched for a solution that would meet her needs AND our seriously limited budget. Lo! And Behold! She was accepted into a new charter middle school (not a new program, but a new campus) that seems like a dream come true both academically and socially for her. The only problem is that it's in the next city to the West of us and there is no transportation available. She's much too young to take public transportation that far. So, rather than give up hope, I organized a carpool group. Now, I drive my daughter and three other children to the school M-W-F morning and both ways on the Fridays I'm off work. Round trip from my house to the school and back again is an hour, sometimes more if the traffic is especially bad. On carpool days, I don't get to work until 9:30 am, and have to work until 7 pm. So, on top of having a second job, my regular work day has been extended by two hours (because my day still starts at the same time as before, it just doesn't start AT WORK) and at least 2.5 hours of my days off are spent in the car with carpool duty.
Needless to say, I'm exhausted.
I don't want to extend my little self-pity party longer than it takes to write this, but I REALLY have to mention that I think walking in the door of my home at 8 pm Monday night after a 12 and 1/2 hour day after 4 hours of sleep after a 10 hour night at the bar and expecting to NOT have to MAKE DINNER is reasonable. I have to say that I felt an instant of almost unbearable rage when I walked in to see MSU on the floor watching Monday Night Football and seeing no evidence of any dinner -either prepared or devoured - in sight. I also must admit that when MSU looked up at me from the floor and said, "Hi! Hey, what's for dinner?" I was THIS CLOSE to drawing my weapon and shooting him right there in the living room.
But I didn't. I made dinner so everyone could eat.
But I'm not happy about it. Poor me.
Okay. Rant complete. Moving on.
We were so worried about our youngest child having to attend the middle school we're zoned for, because our middle daughter barely survived it with her sanity. Our youngest was already at risk for all kinds of school-related problems and we searched for a solution that would meet her needs AND our seriously limited budget. Lo! And Behold! She was accepted into a new charter middle school (not a new program, but a new campus) that seems like a dream come true both academically and socially for her. The only problem is that it's in the next city to the West of us and there is no transportation available. She's much too young to take public transportation that far. So, rather than give up hope, I organized a carpool group. Now, I drive my daughter and three other children to the school M-W-F morning and both ways on the Fridays I'm off work. Round trip from my house to the school and back again is an hour, sometimes more if the traffic is especially bad. On carpool days, I don't get to work until 9:30 am, and have to work until 7 pm. So, on top of having a second job, my regular work day has been extended by two hours (because my day still starts at the same time as before, it just doesn't start AT WORK) and at least 2.5 hours of my days off are spent in the car with carpool duty.
Needless to say, I'm exhausted.
I don't want to extend my little self-pity party longer than it takes to write this, but I REALLY have to mention that I think walking in the door of my home at 8 pm Monday night after a 12 and 1/2 hour day after 4 hours of sleep after a 10 hour night at the bar and expecting to NOT have to MAKE DINNER is reasonable. I have to say that I felt an instant of almost unbearable rage when I walked in to see MSU on the floor watching Monday Night Football and seeing no evidence of any dinner -either prepared or devoured - in sight. I also must admit that when MSU looked up at me from the floor and said, "Hi! Hey, what's for dinner?" I was THIS CLOSE to drawing my weapon and shooting him right there in the living room.
But I didn't. I made dinner so everyone could eat.
But I'm not happy about it. Poor me.
Okay. Rant complete. Moving on.
Monday, September 28, 2009
To Err is Human... to Forgive, Ongoing and Ultimately Pointless
The past few weeks have been very strange and very trying for me.
I am NOT perfect. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I have good days and bad days. I make good decisions and I make questionable decisions. I am just as human as everybody else and I am subject to the same desires, whims, and foibles. And when I catch myself being someone other than Who I am and/or Who I Want to Be... I make a new choice. Granted, sometimes I don't catch myself until I've fucked it all up proper... but there is always time to make a new choice. There is always time to re-manifest Who I Am.
Part of Who I Am is a loving and generous person who realizes that EVERYONE makes decisions in their lives in order to fully experience Who They Are. With some, I choose not to share in their experience and/or manifestations. With some, I do. And with those persons with whom I choose to share their experience, I try very hard to love them unconditionally - without limits, without requirements, without hope or expectation. For we are all just souls in pursuit of Who We Are. We are all actively engaged in the process of Being.
So, when I'm hurt by the actions of someone else, I try to experience the hurt and then make a new choice. A new choice that embraces that person's choice to experience themself in THAT particular way, a new choice that reminds me that my emotions are my responsibility alone.
Some people call this decision "forgiveness." Some call it "weakness." And some call it "stupid."
I call it "freedom."
Unfortunately, the past few weeks have shown me, in no uncertain terms, that I am more practiced at this skill than even I thought myself to be. I know this because it's come to my attention that when people do things - seemingly deliberately, but that could just be paranoia - that I feel hurt about, it's always the SAME people and it's pretty much always the SAME kind of thing. And forgiveness is becoming quite tedious in this regard. Sure, it's the path to my emotional freedom... but it seems like the path is only here because I've walked down it SO MANY TIMES. And I have to wonder: do these same people continue to manifest the same decisions that hurt me because they are truly experiencing themselves in this way over and over again? Or are they doing it because they know they can "get away" with it with no emotional repercussions from me?
Just another thing that makes me go, "Hmmmmmmm."
I am NOT perfect. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I have good days and bad days. I make good decisions and I make questionable decisions. I am just as human as everybody else and I am subject to the same desires, whims, and foibles. And when I catch myself being someone other than Who I am and/or Who I Want to Be... I make a new choice. Granted, sometimes I don't catch myself until I've fucked it all up proper... but there is always time to make a new choice. There is always time to re-manifest Who I Am.
Part of Who I Am is a loving and generous person who realizes that EVERYONE makes decisions in their lives in order to fully experience Who They Are. With some, I choose not to share in their experience and/or manifestations. With some, I do. And with those persons with whom I choose to share their experience, I try very hard to love them unconditionally - without limits, without requirements, without hope or expectation. For we are all just souls in pursuit of Who We Are. We are all actively engaged in the process of Being.
So, when I'm hurt by the actions of someone else, I try to experience the hurt and then make a new choice. A new choice that embraces that person's choice to experience themself in THAT particular way, a new choice that reminds me that my emotions are my responsibility alone.
Some people call this decision "forgiveness." Some call it "weakness." And some call it "stupid."
I call it "freedom."
Unfortunately, the past few weeks have shown me, in no uncertain terms, that I am more practiced at this skill than even I thought myself to be. I know this because it's come to my attention that when people do things - seemingly deliberately, but that could just be paranoia - that I feel hurt about, it's always the SAME people and it's pretty much always the SAME kind of thing. And forgiveness is becoming quite tedious in this regard. Sure, it's the path to my emotional freedom... but it seems like the path is only here because I've walked down it SO MANY TIMES. And I have to wonder: do these same people continue to manifest the same decisions that hurt me because they are truly experiencing themselves in this way over and over again? Or are they doing it because they know they can "get away" with it with no emotional repercussions from me?
Just another thing that makes me go, "Hmmmmmmm."
Thursday, September 24, 2009
WWIT?
I was talking to My Really Stupid Friend this morning. Just chatting, really, about this and that. I had originally called him to bitch him out about something, but decided against it by the time he called me back, though was still in the throes of the righteous indignation that had sparked the call. As the conversation wore on, I calmed down more and more... until he mentioned that he had "run into" the subject of all those posts long ago about how stupid my Really Stupid Friend is.
We ALL know that NOBODY just "runs into" somebody like that. As it turns out, he didn't either... she called him. And then he agreed to meet her.
Of course, this has NEVER been any of my business, but the panic and horrific feelings of guilt-by-association almost immediately re-presented themselves to my consciousness. He talked a bit about their brief meeting, and then said...
"As she drove away, I thought to myself, 'what was I thinking?' How did I get in that space in the first place?"
And I said, "Oh my Lord, I know exactly what you're talking about." And then I laughed until I cried.
Oh, if I had a nickel for every time I have asked myself that same question, I could retire right now. But the REAL irony of it all is that he and I share the knowledge of the Emotional Supernova, that mathematical point of despair - or in his case, supreme confidence - that obliterates EVERYTHING, leaving nothing that existed before undestroyed. Sitting smack-dab in the middle of the totally new construction that emerged out of the utter annhiliation of everything-that-was and then asking one's self "what was I thinking?" has to be the epitome of postmodern observational angst.
And realizing that something or someone that, at one time, was important enough to be the catalyst that fueled a universal explosion is NOW someone I'd barely glance at on the street (much less willingly destroy everything in my life for) must be the epitome of regret.
We ALL know that NOBODY just "runs into" somebody like that. As it turns out, he didn't either... she called him. And then he agreed to meet her.
Of course, this has NEVER been any of my business, but the panic and horrific feelings of guilt-by-association almost immediately re-presented themselves to my consciousness. He talked a bit about their brief meeting, and then said...
"As she drove away, I thought to myself, 'what was I thinking?' How did I get in that space in the first place?"
And I said, "Oh my Lord, I know exactly what you're talking about." And then I laughed until I cried.
Oh, if I had a nickel for every time I have asked myself that same question, I could retire right now. But the REAL irony of it all is that he and I share the knowledge of the Emotional Supernova, that mathematical point of despair - or in his case, supreme confidence - that obliterates EVERYTHING, leaving nothing that existed before undestroyed. Sitting smack-dab in the middle of the totally new construction that emerged out of the utter annhiliation of everything-that-was and then asking one's self "what was I thinking?" has to be the epitome of postmodern observational angst.
And realizing that something or someone that, at one time, was important enough to be the catalyst that fueled a universal explosion is NOW someone I'd barely glance at on the street (much less willingly destroy everything in my life for) must be the epitome of regret.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Digital Re-Mastering is My Friend
This song was written by Bruce Springsteen, but Manfred Mann's Earth Band had a hit with it while The Boss was still choking it out (literally - this was before he finally had some vocal training)only in live shows. Manfred Mann's Earth Band, with their lead's signature and exceptional vocals, covered quite a few Springsteen songs during the 70's and even though I've always been a fan of Big Bruce, most of MMEB's covers did the songs so much more justice than their original writer could ever do.
For YEARS I searched for a useable album with this song on it. From the very first moment I heard it (I think I was 14), I LOVED it. And for so many years I was rendererd into a grateful blob of blubberiness every time some random DJ dug into the B-sides and blew the dust off this track - as you can probably imagine, it didn't happen very often. But I never forgot.
Thanks to digital remastering, now I can hit my iPod and listen to it over and over and over. Life is a marvel. AND... not long ago a sort of strange bunch named "The Disco Boys" remixed this amazing song and made a fun dance track out of it.
This video is from 1983. :-)
Princess cards she sends me with her regards,
Oh, bar-room eyes shine vacancy
To see her you gotta look hard
Wounded deep in battle, I stand stuffed like some soldier undaunted
To her cheshire smile I'll stand on file
She's all I ever wanted
You let your blue walls stand in the way of these facts, honey
Get your carpet baggers off my back
Girl give me time to cover my tracks
You said, "Here's your mirror and your ball and jacks"
But they're not what I came for
Oh I came for so much more
And I know you that too
And I know you know that's true
I came for you
I came for you
I came for you
For you, for you
I came for you
Crawl into my ambulance
Your pulse is getting weak
Reveal yourself all to me now
While you've got the strength to speak
'Cause they're waiting for you at Bellevue
With their oxygen masks
But I could give it all to you now
If only you could ask
Don't call for your surgeon
Even he says it's late
It's not your lungs this time
But your heart holds your fate
Don't give me my money back
Don't want it anymore
It's not that nursery mouth I came back for
It's not the way you're stretched out on the floor
I've broken all your windows
And I've rammed through all your doors
Who am I to ask you to fight my wars
And you should know that's true
You should know that too
I came for you
I came for you
I came for you
For you, for you
I came for you
Don't call for your surgeon
Even he says it's late
It's not your lungs this time
But your heart holds your fate
Don't give me my money back
Don't want it anymore
It's not that nursery mouth I came back for
It's not the way you're stretched out on the floor
I've broken all your windows
And I've rammed through all your doors
Who am I to ask you to fight my wars
You should know that's true
You should know that too
I came for you
I came for you
I came for you
For you, for you
I came for you
For YEARS I searched for a useable album with this song on it. From the very first moment I heard it (I think I was 14), I LOVED it. And for so many years I was rendererd into a grateful blob of blubberiness every time some random DJ dug into the B-sides and blew the dust off this track - as you can probably imagine, it didn't happen very often. But I never forgot.
Thanks to digital remastering, now I can hit my iPod and listen to it over and over and over. Life is a marvel. AND... not long ago a sort of strange bunch named "The Disco Boys" remixed this amazing song and made a fun dance track out of it.
This video is from 1983. :-)
Princess cards she sends me with her regards,
Oh, bar-room eyes shine vacancy
To see her you gotta look hard
Wounded deep in battle, I stand stuffed like some soldier undaunted
To her cheshire smile I'll stand on file
She's all I ever wanted
You let your blue walls stand in the way of these facts, honey
Get your carpet baggers off my back
Girl give me time to cover my tracks
You said, "Here's your mirror and your ball and jacks"
But they're not what I came for
Oh I came for so much more
And I know you that too
And I know you know that's true
I came for you
I came for you
I came for you
For you, for you
I came for you
Crawl into my ambulance
Your pulse is getting weak
Reveal yourself all to me now
While you've got the strength to speak
'Cause they're waiting for you at Bellevue
With their oxygen masks
But I could give it all to you now
If only you could ask
Don't call for your surgeon
Even he says it's late
It's not your lungs this time
But your heart holds your fate
Don't give me my money back
Don't want it anymore
It's not that nursery mouth I came back for
It's not the way you're stretched out on the floor
I've broken all your windows
And I've rammed through all your doors
Who am I to ask you to fight my wars
And you should know that's true
You should know that too
I came for you
I came for you
I came for you
For you, for you
I came for you
Don't call for your surgeon
Even he says it's late
It's not your lungs this time
But your heart holds your fate
Don't give me my money back
Don't want it anymore
It's not that nursery mouth I came back for
It's not the way you're stretched out on the floor
I've broken all your windows
And I've rammed through all your doors
Who am I to ask you to fight my wars
You should know that's true
You should know that too
I came for you
I came for you
I came for you
For you, for you
I came for you
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Tip of the Iceberg
Here is a brief and NON-comprehensive example of why hiring illegal aliens is not economically productive for the State of California
You have 2 gentlemen..."Joe Legal" and "Joe Illegal". Both men have families consisting of two parents and two children and live in
"Joe Legal" works in construction, has a Social Security Number, and makes
$25.00 per hour with payroll taxes deducted..."Joe Illegal" also works in
construction, has no Social Security Number, and gets paid $15.00 per hour cash
"under the table".
Joe Legal...$25.00 per hour x 40 hours $1000.00 per week , $52,000 per year
Now take 30% away for state and federal tax
Joe Legal now has $31,231.00
Joe Illegal...$15.00 per hour x 40 hours $600.00 per week, $31,200.00
per year
Joe Illegal pays no taxes...
Joe Illegal now has $31,200.00
Joe Legal pays Medical and Dental Insurance with limited coverage for himself and 3 dependents:
$1000.00 per month
$12,000.00 per year
Joe Legal now has $19,231.00
Joe Illegal has full Medical and Dental coverage through State-funded (wait, I’m sorry, TAX-PAYER FUNDED) medical programs and local
clinics at a cost of $0.00 per year
Joe Illegal still has $31,200.00
Joe Legal makes too much money is not eligible for Food Stamps, welfare, or WIC
Joe Legal pays for food:
$1,000.00 per month
$12,000.00 per year
Joe Legal now has $ 7,231.00
Joe Illegal has no documented income and is eligible for Food Stamps, welfare, and WIC
Joe Illegal still has $31,200.00.
Joe Legal pays rent - in the ghetto and in a place where his children share a room - of
$750.00 per month
$9000.00 per year
Joe Legal is now in the hole
minus (-) $1,769.00
Joe Illegal receives a $500 per month Federal rent subsidy and is eligible for Section 8 housing.
Joe Illegal pays rent:
$300.00 per month
$3600.00 per year
Joe Illegal still has $27,600.00
Joe Legal now works overtime on Saturdays and gets a part time job after
work, allowing him a higher tax bracket and
$20,800.00. Joe Legal’s tax bracket is now 40%, making his total gross income $72,800.00 per year and his tax liability $29,120.00. Starting over, Joe has:
$43,680.00 net income – $12,000.00 per year medical and dental insurance
$31,680.00 - $12,000.00 per year food
$19,680.00 - $9000.00 per year rent
Joe Legal now has no time with his family and $10,680.00.
Joe Illegal has nights and weekends off to enjoy with his family.
Joe Legal
Legal pays for his children
$1.40 per day x 2 for 142 days per year
$397.60 per year.
Joe Legal now has $10,282.40.
Joe Illegal
Joe Illegal still has $27,600.00.
Joe Illegal
Joe Legal
Joe Legal and Joe Illegal both enjoy the same Police and Fire Services, but
Joe Legal paid for them and Joe Illegal did not. Joe Legal and Joe Illegal both must pay for vehicle registration, vehicle insurance, fuel, vehicle maintenance, utilities, family clothing, telephone service, school supplies, household items, and “unexpected” expenses. Joe Legal must pay higher vehicle insurance because his mileage is higher, higher fuel costs because his usage is higher, and higher maintenance because the wear-and-tear on his vehicle is higher.
Obviously, this is only the tip of the iceberg. Don
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Brief but Costly Stint into Gambling Addiction
What the readers want, the readers get. Thus, the embarrassing explanation of my cryptic comment two posts ago:
I LOVE going to the casino. The casino, with its bright lights, frenzy of activity, random shouts of joy and sorrow, and free drinks, is a veritable wonderland to my little ADHD brain. For many years, I'd go to the casino once every four months or so, play penny slots for several hours, and come home plus or minus about $30 each time - which was well worth it for the entertainment value.
Then, several months ago, the most dangerous thing imaginable happened. I won. $7000 + bucks, playing a $1 machine with a minimum $10 bet. Three days later, I won about $1600 doing the same thing. I set aside $1500 to pay property taxes with, purchased and installed new tires for my car and finally got the maintenance done that it needed, bought a new washing machine and computer, and had some left over to throw at bills and such.
Then, a friend called and told us that she needed help. She lost her primary employment and had to move out of her apartment. She wanted to buy a small toy hauler to live in, but couldn't qualify and didn't have a down payment. We tried to get the loan for her, but weren't able to qualify either. The brightest idea of all hit me: I could take the approximately $2500 I had left over from my winnings (which included the property tax money) to the casino and would CERTAINLY be able to win enough for a cheap toy hauler, especially if I played the "big investment" machines like I had been doing. Of course, I would also come home with my original $2500, too.
Well, you can guess how that turned out. Not only did I lose the whole $2500, I also lost about $1000 out of our checking account trying to "win it back."
I can hear you groaning, you know.
And then I was REALLY in trouble, because I didn't want to have to tell MSU that I had lost the money, nor did I want to tell him that we wouldn't be able to cover our mortgage that month. That's when I sold my guns. And after selling my beloved guns and paying back the checking account and paying the property taxes, I had a little bit of money left over. Which, of course, I took to the casino.
Okay, enough with the groaning already!
And, yes, you guessed it: I won about $1200 with that money, but I didn't take my winnings and run. I was convinced that I could turn it into even MORE money. So convinced, in fact, that I lost the $1200 in winnings, the money I started with, and more of our mortgage money.
That's when I took half of the money out of my Employee Savings Account, an account I set up in order to save money each month to pay our property taxes. And after I paid back the checking account again, I...
had some money left over.
You know, pounding your head against the computer desk is uneccessarily dramatic. You could get your point across equally well by just pointing at me and laughing.
This time, I lost it all. ALL of it. And there was no magic I could pull of that was going to allow me to avoid owning up to what I'd done.
BUT WAIT! My 401(a) account!!! (I'm guessing that many of the blogs from the past few months are starting to make a little more sense now). I "borrowed" money from my own retirement - from "Old Daughter" - and was able to cover the most pressing of the bills. But so many more had to go unpaid.
I couldn't keep MSU out of the loop any more and 'fessed up to the whole thing. Needless to say, he was less than happy with me. He's forbade me to set foot in a casino ever again (which means that I killed one of my own fun pasttimes with my own stupidity). And we are still recovering, but we ARE recovering. Not quickly, and not without a lot of sacrifice (and guilt and remorse and self-incrimination).
Money is an issue at my house because I am an addictive idiot.
Hi, I'm Daughter of Night, and I'm a gambling addict. (Hi Daughter!!) It's been 34 days since I last gambled, and I am trying to reanimate my dessicated finances.
I LOVE going to the casino. The casino, with its bright lights, frenzy of activity, random shouts of joy and sorrow, and free drinks, is a veritable wonderland to my little ADHD brain. For many years, I'd go to the casino once every four months or so, play penny slots for several hours, and come home plus or minus about $30 each time - which was well worth it for the entertainment value.
Then, several months ago, the most dangerous thing imaginable happened. I won. $7000 + bucks, playing a $1 machine with a minimum $10 bet. Three days later, I won about $1600 doing the same thing. I set aside $1500 to pay property taxes with, purchased and installed new tires for my car and finally got the maintenance done that it needed, bought a new washing machine and computer, and had some left over to throw at bills and such.
Then, a friend called and told us that she needed help. She lost her primary employment and had to move out of her apartment. She wanted to buy a small toy hauler to live in, but couldn't qualify and didn't have a down payment. We tried to get the loan for her, but weren't able to qualify either. The brightest idea of all hit me: I could take the approximately $2500 I had left over from my winnings (which included the property tax money) to the casino and would CERTAINLY be able to win enough for a cheap toy hauler, especially if I played the "big investment" machines like I had been doing. Of course, I would also come home with my original $2500, too.
Well, you can guess how that turned out. Not only did I lose the whole $2500, I also lost about $1000 out of our checking account trying to "win it back."
I can hear you groaning, you know.
And then I was REALLY in trouble, because I didn't want to have to tell MSU that I had lost the money, nor did I want to tell him that we wouldn't be able to cover our mortgage that month. That's when I sold my guns. And after selling my beloved guns and paying back the checking account and paying the property taxes, I had a little bit of money left over. Which, of course, I took to the casino.
Okay, enough with the groaning already!
And, yes, you guessed it: I won about $1200 with that money, but I didn't take my winnings and run. I was convinced that I could turn it into even MORE money. So convinced, in fact, that I lost the $1200 in winnings, the money I started with, and more of our mortgage money.
That's when I took half of the money out of my Employee Savings Account, an account I set up in order to save money each month to pay our property taxes. And after I paid back the checking account again, I...
had some money left over.
You know, pounding your head against the computer desk is uneccessarily dramatic. You could get your point across equally well by just pointing at me and laughing.
This time, I lost it all. ALL of it. And there was no magic I could pull of that was going to allow me to avoid owning up to what I'd done.
BUT WAIT! My 401(a) account!!! (I'm guessing that many of the blogs from the past few months are starting to make a little more sense now). I "borrowed" money from my own retirement - from "Old Daughter" - and was able to cover the most pressing of the bills. But so many more had to go unpaid.
I couldn't keep MSU out of the loop any more and 'fessed up to the whole thing. Needless to say, he was less than happy with me. He's forbade me to set foot in a casino ever again (which means that I killed one of my own fun pasttimes with my own stupidity). And we are still recovering, but we ARE recovering. Not quickly, and not without a lot of sacrifice (and guilt and remorse and self-incrimination).
Money is an issue at my house because I am an addictive idiot.
Hi, I'm Daughter of Night, and I'm a gambling addict. (Hi Daughter!!) It's been 34 days since I last gambled, and I am trying to reanimate my dessicated finances.
Monday, July 06, 2009
in Which I Continue to Continue to Fail
Back in March or April, my middle daughter T announced that she would be moving out of our home and in with her boyfriend in "a couple of months." At the time, I pretty much blew it off. She didn't have a job, a car (much less a driver's license), or any money to speak of. The only bill T has ever been responsible for is the money she owes me for her cell phone - which is on my plan and gets paid by me whether or not she gives me her share. Which she generally takes her time about doing AND has never done without reminding or prompts from me.
In mid-April she upped the ante and announced that she was DEFINITELY moving out in May. Her boyfriend's parents had purchased a home and were unable to make the payments on their own. They requested that their son move back home and help by paying rent. He agreed. Between the two of them, they cooked up that T could move in also and they could share the $500 rent his parents were charging him. Of course, this seemed a CAPITAL idea to T! At this point, I not-so-subtly reminded T that she didn't have a job or a car or a license or any money or any practice with any real responsibility. I reminded her that she is a college student and that college is important, much more so than living with her boyfriend and trying to make ends meet when she has a home FOR FREE. I reminded her that if she felt she needed "responsibility training," she was more than welcome to pay rent TO ME, as well as her share of food, and utilities. She was also quite welcome to do something completely new and different and stop treating my house like a hotel by cleaning up after herself, pitching in for household responsibilities, and cooking twice per week. I reminded her that she hasn't EVER paid her share of the cell phone bill on time, nor has she ever paid it of her own volition. I reminded her that she and her boyfriend, despite being "in love," have no commitment to each other. I reminded her that she would not only have no place to go should their relationship crumble for whatever reason, she'd also have no way to get there.
She said, "I'll get a job, Mommy." As flabbergasted as I was, I was not rendered speechless and I can assure you that the conversation went downhill from there.
She DID get a job. Part time. Minimum wage. Around the corner from our house, which is approximately 40 miles from the house she'd be moving to. And her boyfriend moved out of his apartment on May 1st and promptly found himself with no place to go, as escrow hadn't yet closed on his parents' new home. Three guesses where he ended up staying, and the first two don't count.
After five weeks of boxes stacked in my living room and the two of them eating all of my food (which I refused to buy more of until they were gone), using all of my laundry detergent (which I refused to buy more of until they were gone), only occasionally lifting a finger to pitch in with the house and that only with stern admonishments, and spending the little bit of money her boyfriend was saving on rent instead of saving it, they finally moved in with his parents. And by the time that happened I was no longer upset or freaked out because my baby was moving. At that point I was pissed, resentful, aghast, and incredulous. At that point it was all I could do to NOT take her key, slam the door, and say "good riddance." Of course, I wouldn't have had the chance to do that anyway, because they moved all of their stuff out one day while I was at work and didn't say goodbye or even leave a note. Due to the fact that I could see the floor in my living room again, I deduced that the deed had been done.
I thought to myself, "Well, she's gone. Ok."
The next day, there she was. Sitting on the couch with her laptop. I said (most intelligently), "What the fuck?"
She said, "I have to work, so "J" dropped me off on his way to work."
I said (get ready for this one), "What the FUCK?"
She, having the grace to be somewhat taken aback, said, "We have to do it this way. I don't have a car. I'm trying to get a transfer to the ___________ Market up there, but I'll just have to hang out here before and after my shifts until that happens or I get another job."
Not wanting to allow the stream of vulgarity poised in my throat to emerge, I exercised the better part of valor and walked out in the backyard for a while. When I came back in, she was gone, but the plate she had used to eat the rest of the leftover pizza and the pizza box itself remained on the counter to remind me of my complete and utter failure as a parent.
The next day, there she was again. And last night, too. Last night, I finally asked her if she planned to cotninue this arrangement indefinitely. She again advised that she really didn't have a choice because of her lack of transportation other than her boyfriend, which of course had to revolve around his working schedule. Which prompted me to ask, "then why, in God's name, did you think you were ready to move out? Why, for Heaven's sake, did you move all your stuff out of here knowing full well that you would be spending JUST AS MUCH time here as before? Why on EARTH did you think your dad and I would accept this situation?"
I always ask three questions in a row. It drives MSU and the kids nuts, but I cannot help it. On the very rare occasions when I have asked one or two questions, the responding family members always wait expectantly instead of answering, assuming that another question or two is being formulated for rapid-fire.
T, being the non-confrontational entity that she is, rarely chooses to engage me. Instead, she'll give blanket statements as answers to questions or won't answer at all. She also contorts her face into this benign mask of earnestness which is so profoundly different from her usual facial animation that it infuriates me to no end and FEELS like direct defiance even though she isn't saying a word. I find myself escalating these conversations in an effort to get some kind of REAL reaction out of her, some kind of insight or recognition or inroad. Usually, I will escalate it too far and get tears for my efforts... but still no real information. Yet another way I have failed as a parent for T, one of legion.
This time was no exception. I honestly can't remember anything she said. Every response was so non-committal, so nonchalant, so benign-mask-of-earnestness that I could barely see through the haze of my fury. My misdirected, unjust, and completely misplaced fury.
It's ME I'm furious at. Not her. ME. Because she's my baby and I'm enabling this ridiculous behavior. Because I tried to be a conscientious parent and succeeded in raising a entitled, spoiled, unrealistic, lazy, and presumptuous sponge (she also happens to be talented, generous, extremely witty, and creative, but that's beside the point). I'm mad at myself because I fear that this ludicrous situation will drive a wedge between myself and T that will eventually create an uncrossable abyss. Hell, that wedge was probably there already.
I'm incensed with my own failure to teach my daughter how to protect herself. I'm outraged at my own inability to protect her FROM herself. And most of all, I'm ashamed of my sudden and all-encompassing surety that maybe I should just change the locks and LET HER GO.
In mid-April she upped the ante and announced that she was DEFINITELY moving out in May. Her boyfriend's parents had purchased a home and were unable to make the payments on their own. They requested that their son move back home and help by paying rent. He agreed. Between the two of them, they cooked up that T could move in also and they could share the $500 rent his parents were charging him. Of course, this seemed a CAPITAL idea to T! At this point, I not-so-subtly reminded T that she didn't have a job or a car or a license or any money or any practice with any real responsibility. I reminded her that she is a college student and that college is important, much more so than living with her boyfriend and trying to make ends meet when she has a home FOR FREE. I reminded her that if she felt she needed "responsibility training," she was more than welcome to pay rent TO ME, as well as her share of food, and utilities. She was also quite welcome to do something completely new and different and stop treating my house like a hotel by cleaning up after herself, pitching in for household responsibilities, and cooking twice per week. I reminded her that she hasn't EVER paid her share of the cell phone bill on time, nor has she ever paid it of her own volition. I reminded her that she and her boyfriend, despite being "in love," have no commitment to each other. I reminded her that she would not only have no place to go should their relationship crumble for whatever reason, she'd also have no way to get there.
She said, "I'll get a job, Mommy." As flabbergasted as I was, I was not rendered speechless and I can assure you that the conversation went downhill from there.
She DID get a job. Part time. Minimum wage. Around the corner from our house, which is approximately 40 miles from the house she'd be moving to. And her boyfriend moved out of his apartment on May 1st and promptly found himself with no place to go, as escrow hadn't yet closed on his parents' new home. Three guesses where he ended up staying, and the first two don't count.
After five weeks of boxes stacked in my living room and the two of them eating all of my food (which I refused to buy more of until they were gone), using all of my laundry detergent (which I refused to buy more of until they were gone), only occasionally lifting a finger to pitch in with the house and that only with stern admonishments, and spending the little bit of money her boyfriend was saving on rent instead of saving it, they finally moved in with his parents. And by the time that happened I was no longer upset or freaked out because my baby was moving. At that point I was pissed, resentful, aghast, and incredulous. At that point it was all I could do to NOT take her key, slam the door, and say "good riddance." Of course, I wouldn't have had the chance to do that anyway, because they moved all of their stuff out one day while I was at work and didn't say goodbye or even leave a note. Due to the fact that I could see the floor in my living room again, I deduced that the deed had been done.
I thought to myself, "Well, she's gone. Ok."
The next day, there she was. Sitting on the couch with her laptop. I said (most intelligently), "What the fuck?"
She said, "I have to work, so "J" dropped me off on his way to work."
I said (get ready for this one), "What the FUCK?"
She, having the grace to be somewhat taken aback, said, "We have to do it this way. I don't have a car. I'm trying to get a transfer to the ___________ Market up there, but I'll just have to hang out here before and after my shifts until that happens or I get another job."
Not wanting to allow the stream of vulgarity poised in my throat to emerge, I exercised the better part of valor and walked out in the backyard for a while. When I came back in, she was gone, but the plate she had used to eat the rest of the leftover pizza and the pizza box itself remained on the counter to remind me of my complete and utter failure as a parent.
The next day, there she was again. And last night, too. Last night, I finally asked her if she planned to cotninue this arrangement indefinitely. She again advised that she really didn't have a choice because of her lack of transportation other than her boyfriend, which of course had to revolve around his working schedule. Which prompted me to ask, "then why, in God's name, did you think you were ready to move out? Why, for Heaven's sake, did you move all your stuff out of here knowing full well that you would be spending JUST AS MUCH time here as before? Why on EARTH did you think your dad and I would accept this situation?"
I always ask three questions in a row. It drives MSU and the kids nuts, but I cannot help it. On the very rare occasions when I have asked one or two questions, the responding family members always wait expectantly instead of answering, assuming that another question or two is being formulated for rapid-fire.
T, being the non-confrontational entity that she is, rarely chooses to engage me. Instead, she'll give blanket statements as answers to questions or won't answer at all. She also contorts her face into this benign mask of earnestness which is so profoundly different from her usual facial animation that it infuriates me to no end and FEELS like direct defiance even though she isn't saying a word. I find myself escalating these conversations in an effort to get some kind of REAL reaction out of her, some kind of insight or recognition or inroad. Usually, I will escalate it too far and get tears for my efforts... but still no real information. Yet another way I have failed as a parent for T, one of legion.
This time was no exception. I honestly can't remember anything she said. Every response was so non-committal, so nonchalant, so benign-mask-of-earnestness that I could barely see through the haze of my fury. My misdirected, unjust, and completely misplaced fury.
It's ME I'm furious at. Not her. ME. Because she's my baby and I'm enabling this ridiculous behavior. Because I tried to be a conscientious parent and succeeded in raising a entitled, spoiled, unrealistic, lazy, and presumptuous sponge (she also happens to be talented, generous, extremely witty, and creative, but that's beside the point). I'm mad at myself because I fear that this ludicrous situation will drive a wedge between myself and T that will eventually create an uncrossable abyss. Hell, that wedge was probably there already.
I'm incensed with my own failure to teach my daughter how to protect herself. I'm outraged at my own inability to protect her FROM herself. And most of all, I'm ashamed of my sudden and all-encompassing surety that maybe I should just change the locks and LET HER GO.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
F... M... L...
So, money has now officially become an "issue."
I can't figure out exactly what's changed. Last year at this time we had pretty much the same bills and basically the same income. Our circumstances haven't changed very much, but it seems that our available income has dwindled away to nothing. Last year at this time I had enough. This year, with no discernible changes, I don't.
True, after MSU got hit by Stupid Should-Be-In-Jail-But-Isn't Girl, we got behind on some things because he missed so much work. And we never really got "caught up." My brief but costly stint into gambling addiction cost a pretty penny, but I thought we had recovered. And there still is no insurance settlement forthcoming and we still don't even know how much it will be so there is no way to plan. $20 grand? $100 grand? Less? More? Nothing? We don't know.
But what it comes down to is: money is an issue.
And now I have to decide what gets paid and what doesn't.
Sigh.
I can't figure out exactly what's changed. Last year at this time we had pretty much the same bills and basically the same income. Our circumstances haven't changed very much, but it seems that our available income has dwindled away to nothing. Last year at this time I had enough. This year, with no discernible changes, I don't.
True, after MSU got hit by Stupid Should-Be-In-Jail-But-Isn't Girl, we got behind on some things because he missed so much work. And we never really got "caught up." My brief but costly stint into gambling addiction cost a pretty penny, but I thought we had recovered. And there still is no insurance settlement forthcoming and we still don't even know how much it will be so there is no way to plan. $20 grand? $100 grand? Less? More? Nothing? We don't know.
But what it comes down to is: money is an issue.
And now I have to decide what gets paid and what doesn't.
Sigh.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Today's Goofy Fantasy
In an homage to David, today's goofy fantasy revolves around winning the lottery. I have my ticket, which potentially (I love that word and everything it brings to mind) represents $68 million dollars should the numbers printed upon it match the numbers drawn from the mysterious number generator hidden somewhere in Sacramento. Granted, $68M ain't no $200M, but it's still more money than I could spend in a lifetime - unless my habits drastically changed, of course.
As I ponder such an astronomical number, I also ponder how I would handle the first few days after verification of my win. When asked (yes, I ask people this question), most people say they wouldn't come to work the day after seeing their numbers drawn on TV or pulling them up on the Internet. Those people, in my opinion, aren't skeptical enough about the wacky way things work in California, even though all of them are having the same experiences as I am living in this bassackwards state. I would have to call in sick the day after, in order to not burn bridges in case the Lottery thing is really just a scam. On this sick day, I'd take my ticket to the Lottery office and have it verified.
Having won a significant amount on a "scratcher" last year, I already know that once you turn your ticket in to the Lottery office, it takes six to eight weeks to receive the money. I'm guessing that it might even take longer to receive funds in the exhorbitant amount that we are discussing today. So the decision THEN would be whether or not I continue to go to work while I wait for my winnings. Which of course I would, because the Lottery thing could STILL just be a scam.
So, there I'd be, going to work every day while I wait for my $68M to arrive. And another dilemma then presents itself: when should I put in my notice? Because I HAVE to put in my notice and do everything the right way so I can get the retirement money I've worked for all these years. Sure, it would be very tempting to put in my notice right away, because I have a window: six to eight weeks. If I put in 8 weeks notice, then I would even have time to train a replacement! The rub: I think I'd really have to wait until I had the money in my hot little hand before I gave up my steady, albeit meager, stream of income.
So, there I'd be, 10 weeks later, with $68M in the bank and still working because I waited to put in my notice. 10 weeks later, I'd be training a replacement, doing retirement paperwork, and acquiescing to requests to wait "just another couple of weeks" before bagging ass because that's the kind of milksop pushover I am. I'd be doing this while MSU and my kids would be out having fun and spending my winnings.
At this point in my fantasy, I always give up because it's not even fun anymore.
LOL.
As I ponder such an astronomical number, I also ponder how I would handle the first few days after verification of my win. When asked (yes, I ask people this question), most people say they wouldn't come to work the day after seeing their numbers drawn on TV or pulling them up on the Internet. Those people, in my opinion, aren't skeptical enough about the wacky way things work in California, even though all of them are having the same experiences as I am living in this bassackwards state. I would have to call in sick the day after, in order to not burn bridges in case the Lottery thing is really just a scam. On this sick day, I'd take my ticket to the Lottery office and have it verified.
Having won a significant amount on a "scratcher" last year, I already know that once you turn your ticket in to the Lottery office, it takes six to eight weeks to receive the money. I'm guessing that it might even take longer to receive funds in the exhorbitant amount that we are discussing today. So the decision THEN would be whether or not I continue to go to work while I wait for my winnings. Which of course I would, because the Lottery thing could STILL just be a scam.
So, there I'd be, going to work every day while I wait for my $68M to arrive. And another dilemma then presents itself: when should I put in my notice? Because I HAVE to put in my notice and do everything the right way so I can get the retirement money I've worked for all these years. Sure, it would be very tempting to put in my notice right away, because I have a window: six to eight weeks. If I put in 8 weeks notice, then I would even have time to train a replacement! The rub: I think I'd really have to wait until I had the money in my hot little hand before I gave up my steady, albeit meager, stream of income.
So, there I'd be, 10 weeks later, with $68M in the bank and still working because I waited to put in my notice. 10 weeks later, I'd be training a replacement, doing retirement paperwork, and acquiescing to requests to wait "just another couple of weeks" before bagging ass because that's the kind of milksop pushover I am. I'd be doing this while MSU and my kids would be out having fun and spending my winnings.
At this point in my fantasy, I always give up because it's not even fun anymore.
LOL.
New Blog!
I created a new blog: www.werideourown.blogspot.com
I've been wanting to expand into some sort of motorcycle-based internet business, but haven't been able to figure out what sort yet. I figured starting the blog and seeing if there was any interest might spark ideas about what's needed, especially for women riders.
I also wanted to try AdSense, just to see if having the links available as resources would help folks rather than me having to research everything. I figured the ads might also give me ideas for postings (comparison shopping, relevance of certain sites, etc.). Of course the cash incentive is a good thing, but considering that *I* never click on ads, I seriously doubt anyone else will, ha ha.
Of course I would love to have input regarding topic ideas and discussions... I'm actually really excited about this (which might be misguided), so I want to make it good and perhaps expand it from a blog into something else.
Yay!
I've been wanting to expand into some sort of motorcycle-based internet business, but haven't been able to figure out what sort yet. I figured starting the blog and seeing if there was any interest might spark ideas about what's needed, especially for women riders.
I also wanted to try AdSense, just to see if having the links available as resources would help folks rather than me having to research everything. I figured the ads might also give me ideas for postings (comparison shopping, relevance of certain sites, etc.). Of course the cash incentive is a good thing, but considering that *I* never click on ads, I seriously doubt anyone else will, ha ha.
Of course I would love to have input regarding topic ideas and discussions... I'm actually really excited about this (which might be misguided), so I want to make it good and perhaps expand it from a blog into something else.
Yay!
Monday, June 15, 2009
In Which I Continue to Fail
I really can't be in denial any more: I'm horrifically depressed. It's not a "phase" or being hormonally challenged. I'm honest-to-God depressed. So everything I think and feel is suspect, and that includes everything I write.
So much for disclaimers.
Earlier, I was embroiled in an online forum-type conversation about bikers being pulled over by police and field interviewed (photographed, asked about affiliations, etc.). Lots of bikers, Club-affiliated or not, have had similar situations. I reminded folks that we have rights. I reminded folks what they are. I provided advice on how to exercise rights and still be compliant with officers. I advised people that law enforcement officers are allowed to lie to people in order to gain compliance and information. I clearly stated that law enforcement will absolutely exploit a person's ignorance about their rights. Not because we're assholes. But because the deck is TOTALLY stacked in the citizens' favor.
Even with all this information handed to them, practically on a silver platter, they ignored it. The last post said something like, "Go along with the program and let them take your picture, etc. I got this from state troopers." Which, of course, was not necessarily in conflict with MY information (which was qualified by situations, severity of any lawbreaking, etc.), but was in essence negating the points I had tried so carefully to make. My points = big picture. Going with the program = not big picture. Fine.
And it IS fine, because it's not my problem. These are just more folks I can take advantage of when I need information that they might have. Good for me and my brethren in blue.
But in the bigger scope of things, it's just more fuel for my "I'm terrified of what this society is becoming" fire. Because what really happened on that forum today was something far more sinister than it appears. The message on that forum NOW, after all posts have been posted, is this: Don't, under any circumstances, find out for yourself what the laws are, what your rights are, and what you can and can't do when at risk for being detained. Even though the information that has been posted on this site JUST TODAY is in direct conflict, DON'T find out what the truth is. DON'T have any doubt or questions. DON'T research your rights by any means! Don't EXERCISE your rights by any means! ALLOW yourself to be documented as a gang member even if you aren't, because knowing your rights and standing by your rights might mean an INCONVENIENCE to you! Please, throw the other members of your Club under the documentation bus so YOU don't get a citation or arrest that YOU earned by breaking the law in the first place.
That's what *I'm* getting from it, anyway. And it's terrifying.
Because, really, knowing the laws, your rights, and your civic duty is YOUR responsibility as a citizen. Exercising these rights and responsibilities is what makes us FREE. Refusing to demonstrate the responsibilities and THEN choosing to waive or even NEGATE your rights is unfathomable. Unconscienable. WRONG.
And apparently, the new American Way. This is EXACTLY how we end up sacrificing more and more of our rights every single Election Day.
I'm just sayin'.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Random Thoughts of a Fevered Mind
I suppose I SHOULD have titled this post "Random Thoughts of an Unmotivated Mind." I have a butt-ton of work to do here in my office, but the events of the morning have erased any and all desire to do it. Not to mention that the moment I showed up in the hotel for my weekend trip, I manifested a horrid, snotty, balloon-headed virus that kicked my ass all weekend and continues to rub my face in the dirt now.
I thought it was a phase, or perhaps a mild depression... but it turns out that I really don't like my job any more. I'm horrified on a daily basis by the malice that is perpetrated on the innocent (and sometimes not-so-innocent). I'm disgusted by a society that actually ENCOURAGES parents to abdicate their most important role. I'm incensed at the amount of time and money that is spent on people who are not only in this country illegally, but refuse to follow the basic rules of the place they wanted to be so badly that they had to break in. And I don't have much time with the kids anymore, the very people who I entered this field to work with. I have plenty of report-writing time... more than enough ridiculous Judicial demands time... an overload of deadbeat, whiny, drug-using parent time... lots of red-tape, jump-through-the-hoops-for-the-whim-of-my-Supervisor time... more time than humanly possible spent on the phone with schools who can't wait to pass the buck... but I have very little kid time. And the kid time I DO have is rushed and of little quality.
Disturbingly, lately I'm finding that I'm not really enjoying the little bit of kid time that I do have. Mostly because I'm realizing that, these days, I don't like the kids much more than I like their parents. Kids are like the canaries in the coal mines. And in case you haven't noticed, the times they are a-changin'.
The point is that I've been wracking my brain, trying to come up with something that I can do that will allow me to spend more time with my family, pay my bills, and offer SOME semblance of fulfillment. I've thought of a couple of Internet-based businesses, but the chances of success are slim. I have to get something going, though, because the California budget issue is going to get a LOT worse before it gets any better and next time I might not survive the cut. I'm looking at a pay cut for sure as soon as our contract is renegotiated this month. Hanging around for another ten years just to earn a retirement - that's in the toilet right now anyway along with the rest of the stock-market based world - is starting to sound downright masochistic rather than fiscally responsible.
I used to think I was working for the betterment of our society. I've since realized that I am actually CONTRIBUTING to its demise, because I am locked into a system that frowns upon independent thought and action. I used to think that the gifts I enjoy - and am so blessed to have! - meant diddly-squat if they weren't shared in service to others. I'm feeling stingier now, wondering if I've squandered the best of what I've been given in the protection of people who don't WANT to be protected, in the service of others who don't want help. How many days have MY children suffered and gone without something vital because I gave the best of what I had to this never-ending parade of irresponsibility that files in and out of my office? How much of MY life-force have I spent on those who hate me for reasons even they don't fully understand? How much of my love and light have I left on ghetto doorsteps, in smelly institutions, in back alleys and front rooms filled with filth, on shackle keys and spit socks, hoping it would be just enough to help a lost soul find a different, less difficult path?
And how much of ME is gone because of it??? A little? Some? ALL?
I feel so very empty.
I thought it was a phase, or perhaps a mild depression... but it turns out that I really don't like my job any more. I'm horrified on a daily basis by the malice that is perpetrated on the innocent (and sometimes not-so-innocent). I'm disgusted by a society that actually ENCOURAGES parents to abdicate their most important role. I'm incensed at the amount of time and money that is spent on people who are not only in this country illegally, but refuse to follow the basic rules of the place they wanted to be so badly that they had to break in. And I don't have much time with the kids anymore, the very people who I entered this field to work with. I have plenty of report-writing time... more than enough ridiculous Judicial demands time... an overload of deadbeat, whiny, drug-using parent time... lots of red-tape, jump-through-the-hoops-for-the-whim-of-my-Supervisor time... more time than humanly possible spent on the phone with schools who can't wait to pass the buck... but I have very little kid time. And the kid time I DO have is rushed and of little quality.
Disturbingly, lately I'm finding that I'm not really enjoying the little bit of kid time that I do have. Mostly because I'm realizing that, these days, I don't like the kids much more than I like their parents. Kids are like the canaries in the coal mines. And in case you haven't noticed, the times they are a-changin'.
The point is that I've been wracking my brain, trying to come up with something that I can do that will allow me to spend more time with my family, pay my bills, and offer SOME semblance of fulfillment. I've thought of a couple of Internet-based businesses, but the chances of success are slim. I have to get something going, though, because the California budget issue is going to get a LOT worse before it gets any better and next time I might not survive the cut. I'm looking at a pay cut for sure as soon as our contract is renegotiated this month. Hanging around for another ten years just to earn a retirement - that's in the toilet right now anyway along with the rest of the stock-market based world - is starting to sound downright masochistic rather than fiscally responsible.
I used to think I was working for the betterment of our society. I've since realized that I am actually CONTRIBUTING to its demise, because I am locked into a system that frowns upon independent thought and action. I used to think that the gifts I enjoy - and am so blessed to have! - meant diddly-squat if they weren't shared in service to others. I'm feeling stingier now, wondering if I've squandered the best of what I've been given in the protection of people who don't WANT to be protected, in the service of others who don't want help. How many days have MY children suffered and gone without something vital because I gave the best of what I had to this never-ending parade of irresponsibility that files in and out of my office? How much of MY life-force have I spent on those who hate me for reasons even they don't fully understand? How much of my love and light have I left on ghetto doorsteps, in smelly institutions, in back alleys and front rooms filled with filth, on shackle keys and spit socks, hoping it would be just enough to help a lost soul find a different, less difficult path?
And how much of ME is gone because of it??? A little? Some? ALL?
I feel so very empty.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
If Wishes Were Horses...
... beggers would ride. So my mother used to say, anyway. I thought it was kind of a cool saying when I was a kid, but now I realize it's just a fancy way of saying "sucks to be you and there's nothing you can do about it."
I really wanted to blog today. I have a lot to say. I wish I had time. But you know what they say about wishes....
I really wanted to blog today. I have a lot to say. I wish I had time. But you know what they say about wishes....
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Journey of the Mind
Last Friday, with the support of a steadfast wingman, I rode Fenris across the Coronado Bay Bridge. Twice.
Those of you who read this blog with any regularity probably know what a monumental event this was for me. Over the past 18 years or so, the Bridge has become the personification of a series of events that coalesced in my mind to create a psychological Black Hole. As a result, I haven't visited the lovely town of Coronado - my old Navy stomping grounds! - in over 15 years. For just as many years, I couldn't even LOOK at the Bridge, much less contemplate crossing it, without having something akin to a panic attack. The last time someone in my riding crew mentioned a trip to Coronado, the blood drained from my face and I almost passed out (which forced the issue to be dropped rather rapidly).
This post from many months ago tells about the events that lead to my psychological Black Hole (sorry, I don't know how to do the embedded link thing):
http://daughterofnight.blogspot.com/2007/05/haunting.html
Anyway, I DID it. I cried and almost puked, but I DID it.
And the moral of the story is: never underestimate the power of a good wingman. Courage only got me part of the way.
Those of you who read this blog with any regularity probably know what a monumental event this was for me. Over the past 18 years or so, the Bridge has become the personification of a series of events that coalesced in my mind to create a psychological Black Hole. As a result, I haven't visited the lovely town of Coronado - my old Navy stomping grounds! - in over 15 years. For just as many years, I couldn't even LOOK at the Bridge, much less contemplate crossing it, without having something akin to a panic attack. The last time someone in my riding crew mentioned a trip to Coronado, the blood drained from my face and I almost passed out (which forced the issue to be dropped rather rapidly).
This post from many months ago tells about the events that lead to my psychological Black Hole (sorry, I don't know how to do the embedded link thing):
http://daughterofnight.blogspot.com/2007/05/haunting.html
Anyway, I DID it. I cried and almost puked, but I DID it.
And the moral of the story is: never underestimate the power of a good wingman. Courage only got me part of the way.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
BEWARE - Hostage Situation
When I began employment with the County, I had the option of contributing into a separate tax-deferred compensation plan to help save for retirement. I chose the 401(a) plan. I could only afford to pledge the minimum contribution, but figured that it would be SOMETHING to augment my retirement whenever that time rolled around.
First, let me begin by stating that the money in the 401(a) account is MINE. There is no employer contribution. It’s MY money that is invested in the way that I dictate.
I can not request distribution of MY MONEY unless I am terminated from County employment. I can not request distribution of MY MONEY for rollover into another retirement account unless I have been terminated from County employment. I can request a loan of MY MONEY from MY ACCOUNT, but must set up a payment plan ON TOP of my regular contribution to pay MYSELF back MY MONEY and must pay MYSELF interest on MY MONEY to the tune of prime +2%..
W.........................T...............................F..............................?????????????
Friday, April 10, 2009
Here We Go Again
Here are some suggestions for answers to question that might tempt a lie:
1) It's none of your business.
2) I'm sorry, that's too personal.
3) I'm not going to answer that question.
I find it horrifyingly humorous that people thisnk it's RUDE to say "it's none of your business" when asked a question that they don't necessarily want to answer for whatever reason, but find it perfectly acceptable to LIE when the answer to the question is, in fact, none of the questioner's business.
WTF, people??????????????
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Ode to My P229 SAS DAK
You are one of the most beautiful things I have ever had in my possession. Ah, as it is with such things, my grasp upon you was fleeting and exhilarating.
You were my primary duty weapon, and though I hoped you would never be called upon to leave your leather nesting place at my side, I was always glad you were there. Your weight and sleek concealability were comforting; your superior craftsmanship depended upon. Your breathtaking beauty was consistently noticed and commented on whenever you were visible. Those who chose less costly and ultimately inferior weapons coveted your surety, reliability, and sheer deadly grace.
Today, my former partner crossed my hand with much-needed silver in order to make you his own. As I reassemble your majestic - and oh so simple! - parts for the last time, I am both bereft at the loss and thrilled that someone who will truly care for you and appreciate you as the amazing machine you are has taken you into his very competent hands.
Be always true, my Beauty. Be always true.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Inspired by a Friend
One of my friends is struggling with a crisis of health and wellness. She is stronger than anyone I know; strong enough, even, to ask for help. Strong enough to accept it. And strong enough to be honest about what is happening to her and within her and make no excuses nor amends. She has inspired me throughout this period of crisis, because I cannot imagine being as strong, honest, and courageous as she has been.
As she wends her way through the treacherous maze of health care provision, she has commented on the pervasive unprofessionalism of some persons. Keeping in mind that these are people who have sought a career in health care presumably because they care about people and want to help them, it's mind-boggling to hear the stories of just how callous people can be. And in the midst of this maze of disappointment and passing-the-buck, my friend passed along a simple concept that stopped me dead in my tracks:
"All cruelty comes from weakness."
It seems simplistic, sophomoric even. But I've thought about it over a couple of days and have realized that it's not simple at all. This one phrase, used as a mantra as my friend has had to do, holds such potential for healing and forgiveness that it's almost revelatory. Myself, having struggled my entire adult life with a "Messiah complex," am seeing this as a form of redemption and exemption that has eluded my efforts to date. Instead of responding to someone's sudden and unprovoked cruelty with a surety that their lashing out must somehow by my fault and therefore something I must make personal efforts to address and "make right," I can recognize such attacks as a personal flaw and thus completely out of my realm of control, influence, and responsibility. This "simple" concept holds untold and unknown freedom for my psyche, for my soul.
Similarly, often I have been puzzled and overcome by my youngest daughter's occasional cruelty, an angry and vicious part of her that seems so incongruous with her generally sweet and sensitive disposition. I have been unsuccessful at efforts to curb her tongue in this regard, probably because the focus of my efforts has been on the words coming out of her mouth rather than the fundamental weakness that fuels them. After all, what is "weakness?" Can't it be argued that the source of all "weakness" is fear? And in the case of my youngest, my miracle baby, her innate sensitivity might just be the breeding ground for the fear that paralyzes her spirit and allows the toxic vomit of cruelty to spew from her lips in all directions but one.
Perhaps my friend's insightful mantra can touch my baby's fears as well. Perhaps this "simple" concept is the tool I've been looking for to help my daughter accept her vulnerability and capitalize on the empathy it affords her rather than lashing out at others when she fears their judgment.
Directing the spotlight of cruelty = weakness upon myself, I realize that the concept applies to my own way of dealing with the world when I am hurt, frieghtened, and/or angry. In confrontational situations, must I be so weak as to resort to unfounded cruelty when I'm not getting my way? Do purposeful and active attempts to hurt another soothe my own pain, or do they only result in further suffering for both myself and the other involved person(s)? Can I remember to exercise my strength in situations that frighten me, instead of sinking to the level of my weakness and fear??
I think I can. I think I must.
All cruelty comes from weakness. The source of all weakness is fear. Abolish fear from my life and weakness and cruelty go with it. It's a very compelling proposition, yes?
Thank you, Jen. Even in crisis you manage to touch those around you with light and love.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Divorce Proposal/Settlement
Dear American liberals, leftists, social progressives,
socialists, Marxists, et al:
We have stuck together since the late 1950's, but the
whole of this latest election process has made me realize
that I want a divorce. I know, we tolerated each other for
many years for the sake of future generations, but, sadly,
this relationship has run its course. Our two ideological
sides of America cannot, and will not ever agree on
what is right, so let's just end it on friendly terms.
We can smile, chalk it up to irreconcilable differences, and
go our own way.
Here is a model separation agreement:
Our two groups can equitably divide up the country by
landmass each taking a portion. That will be the difficult
part, but I am sure our two sides can come to a friendly
agreement. After that it should be relatively easy! Our
respective representatives can effortlessly divide other
assets since both sides have such distinct and disparate
tastes.
We don't like redistributive taxes so you can keep them.
You are welcome to the liberal judges and the ACLU.
Since you hate guns and war, we'll take our firearms,
the cops, the NRA, and the military. You can keep Oprah,
Michael Moore, and Rosie O'Donnell (You are, however,
responsible for finding a bio-diesel vehicle big
enough to move all three of them.)
We'll keep the capitalism, greedy corporations,
pharmaceutical companies, Wal-Mart, and Wall Street. You can
have your beloved homeless, homeboys, hippies, and illegal
aliens. We'll keep the hot Alaskan hockey moms, greedy
CEO's, and rednecks. We'll keep the Bibles and give
you NBC and Hollywood .
You can make nice with Iran and Palestine and
we'll retain the right to invade and hammer places that
threaten us. You can have the peaceniks, and war protesters.
When our allies or our way of life are under assault,
we'll help provide them security. We'll keep our
Judeo-Christian values. You are welcome to Islam,
Scientology, Humanism, and Shirley McClain. You can also
have the U.N. But we will no longer be paying the bill.
We'll keep the SUVs, pickup trucks, and oversized
luxury cars. You can take every Subaru station wagon you can
find. You can give everyone health care, if you can find any
practicing doctors. We'll continue to believe health
care is a luxury and not a right. We'll keep The Battle
Hymn of the Republic and the National Anthem. I'm sure
you'll be happy to substitute Imagine, I'd Like to
Teach the World to Sing, Kum By Ya, or We Are the World.
We'll practice trickle down economics, and you can give
trickle up poverty your best shot. Since it often so offends
you we'll keep our history, our name, and our flag.
Would you agree to this? If so please pass it along to
other like minded liberal and conservative patriots, and if
you do not agree, just hit delete.
In the spirit of friendly parting, I'll bet you ANWAR
which one of us will need whose help in 15 years.
Sincerely,
John J. Wall.
Law Student and an American
AND
Daughter of Night, Patriot
P.S. Also, please take Barbara Streisand & Jane Fonda.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Honeybee Crisis
Here is a segment (divided into two parts) from "60 Minutes" about the strange and ongoing disappearances of vast numbers of honeybees. You've probably heard some scattered talk about the disappearing honeybees, certainly not as much as one would think for something so very important.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Stimulus Q &A
This year, taxpayers will receive an Economic Stimulus Payment. This is a very exciting new program that I will explain using the Q and A format:
Q. What is an Economic Stimulus Payment?
A. It is money that the federal government will send to taxpayers.
Q. Where will the government get this money?
A. From taxpayers.
Q. So the government is giving me back my own money?
A. Only a smidgen.
Q. What is the purpose of this payment?
A. The plan is that you will use the money to purchase a high-definition TV set, thus stimulating the economy.
Q. But isn't that stimulating the economy of China ?
A. Shut up.
Hey, let's keep that money here in America!!! Spend it at a yard sale, or go to a baseball game. Spend it on prostitutes, beer and wine (domestic ONLY), or tattoos. I'm fairly certain those are the only businesses left in the United States.
Q. What is an Economic Stimulus Payment?
A. It is money that the federal government will send to taxpayers.
Q. Where will the government get this money?
A. From taxpayers.
Q. So the government is giving me back my own money?
A. Only a smidgen.
Q. What is the purpose of this payment?
A. The plan is that you will use the money to purchase a high-definition TV set, thus stimulating the economy.
Q. But isn't that stimulating the economy of China ?
A. Shut up.
Hey, let's keep that money here in America!!! Spend it at a yard sale, or go to a baseball game. Spend it on prostitutes, beer and wine (domestic ONLY), or tattoos. I'm fairly certain those are the only businesses left in the United States.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
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