I finished one of the books I received as a Yule gift: American Gods. It's a fascinating read, and I highly recommend it. One of many powerful paragraphs that caught my eye is this:
"She has power, true, but it's hunger-magic, cunt-magic. It has kept her alive in this land for so long, but for everything else she uses her sharp eyes and her mind, her height and her presence."
So much is said and unsaid in this paragraph that it makes me shudder every time I re-read it.
Back in my college days, as we wended our way through post-modern feminism and feminist philosophy, I was often lambasted for my fundamental denial of the feminist position as valid. The only thing that feminism has served to do, I argued, is seperate women from their inherent power base. Feminism - early, modern, or post-modern - has taken everything away from us and given us nothing in return. We have willingly - excitedly, even! - given up our power as a Mystery and chosen to become grounded and mundane. I could go on and on about what we, as a gender, have sacrificed and how those sacrifices have poisoned our culture, but it is something earthier that compels me here.
Cunt-magic. How long has it been since I practiced it? I can't say for certain, but I know that it's been so long that I can't remember the last time. Seems that I, too, have forgotten my power, have denied my Divinity. Apparently, I, too, have relied on my mind and presence to dictate my actions and to control my little eco-sphere. I, too, have squelched the power of my hunger so often and so thoroughly that I am surprised when it emerges and have to take a few moments to recognize it for what it is. I've been brainwashed - again! - without even realizing it!
The good news is that I'm pretty sure it's not too late. I still remember when just the thought of sharing my gifts was a source of joy; I still remember when sex was a ritual of amazement and hunger, when I fed my soul as eagerly as I fed another's. Sitting here typing, I'm fairly certain that I remember how to work that magic; I'm sure that the Mystery is even now awakening and clawing its way out of the shallow grave of subversion in which it was subconsciously interred.
Hunger-magic. Cunt-magic. Stand aside and kiss my ass, Dr. Laura. I'm bringing out the big guns.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
My Only Talisman
My son is currently in the Police Academy, having been hired by the limping agency built to protect America's Finest City. For many years, San Diego Police Department was the vanguard in this area: fantastic training, full-or-better staffing, a good Chief, and a great reputation for service and civility. Now, after the City's financial crisis (due to criminal mismanagement), the agency is horribly understaffed and losing more officers every day. Now, the officers of this once-revered agency are the lowest paid in the County. Now, the ratio of officers-to-citizens on any given shift is approximately 1:1500. To put this in perspective, the police department of the city in which I live has a ratio on any given shift of approximately 1:7.
My son, perhaps not fully aware of the danger these facts represent in reality, is so excited to start work. And he will be a very good officer, of that there is no doubt. He is smart, capable of making good decisions under pressure, and he genuinely loves people.
Many years ago, when I first allowed his natural curiosity about firearms to blossom and started bringing him to the range with me, he greatly enjoyed the beauty, functionality, and raw power of my treasured Springfield Armory 1911 A-1 .45 semi-auto. As a matter of fact, he and the weapon have always seemed perfectly matched. Come to find out, SDPD allows their officers to carry .45s on duty (my Department does not).
So, when considering what gift to present to Steven this year at Christmas, the answer came as obvious, fitting, and right. Unfortunately, it didn't get to be a surprise, as Steven announced a few months ago that he was going to buy himself a .45. I told him that it was unnecessary, as he would soon have a trusted friend in his armory. He, of course, was stoked.
In October, his mother (MSU's ex), who is not thrilled about Steven's current career choice, cornered me at Sandy's bridal shower and stated, "So, you're giving Steven a gun." It was a challenge, of sorts, or so it seemed from her tone and stance. And I, not sure what she wanted the outcome of this conversation to be (did she want me to change my mind? Did she want to intimidate me into withholding my gift? Did she want me to say something to ease her mind about the whole thing?), nodded affirmatively and simply said, "Yes." A look of dark rage crossed her face before she turned and stomped out of the room, leaving me confused and feeling a consuming pity for her. She is not a warrior, she is not a sheepdog. She runs from the sound of the guns. She will not - ever - understand. And I think she may be angry at me because she believes that it is my influence that has inspired Steven to walk this path. Her fear for the safety of her son obliterates her knowledge of who he is. It is not I who made him so, but I think it may be easier for her to believe that it was.
On Christmas Eve, though it was not necessary, I stripped and cleaned my treasure - the best of my modest armory! - for the last time. This task I undertook with heart and soul, infusing my fierce love for my son into each moving part and polishing the exterior steel with every ounce of righteousness and courage I could muster. I allowed my hands to move steadily and unthinkingly in their work, as they have so many times before, so I could focus all of my strength and all of my faith into the creation of a talisman so functional that it need not ever be overtly used. And as I lovingly returned the 1911 to its silicone-infused storage bag and placed it in its lock-box for its journey, I gave my treasure my last instructions: be always true.
Then I wrapped it in festive paper and tied the keys to the lock on the ribbon.
As if Christmas wasn't weird enough already, I cried big, gulping sobs when Steven opened his gift. Sandra, incredulous, asked, "What's wrong?" And all I could say was:
"It's my favorite gun."
She shook her head and looked at her husband, perhaps hoping he would be able to shed some light on her step-mother's sudden bizarre behavior (please keep in mind that this may have been the second or third time in her lifetime that she has seen me shed tears). I took a deep breath and tried to explain. I told everyone about the short and strange conversation with MSU's ex that day back in October, and shared my feeling that Sandra and Steven's mother seemed to be angry with me and was projecting all her fear and frustration onto this powerful, yet inanimate, object. With information gleaned only from her stance, tone, and eye contact, I felt that she saw my gift as more than just an acceptance of Steven's choice to become a law enforcement officer in one of the most dangerous and understaffed Cities in the nation; she saw it as an encouragement, as my blessing, as my cheerful wave to the Grim Reaper who she obviously feels is waiting greedily for Steven's advent onto the streets. I honestly believe that she feels my gift seals the deal.
At this point, Sandra was still looking at me in a rather bemused way. Still crying, I said, "Okay, I'll get to the point."
The point is, I wasn't able to explain to their mother why I made the decision I made. It would have been just as easy - and less a sacrifice! - had I let Steven buy his own duty weapon. I wasn't able to explain to her that I am not giving Steven a gun, I'm giving him the best that I have. I'm giving him my only talisman, a charm that he has held often in circumstances of joy and the jovial psuedo-competition of the range. I'm giving him the thing that has been, since the first day he held it, an extension of his body, of his will. And with it, I'm giving him a simple prayer and invocation: May you always have time to decide justly. May those decisions always be righteous. May the tools you have be sufficient unto the evil you encounter. May it never be necessary for this instrument of my love for you to clear leather in the line of duty, but know that when it does it will be always true.
"That's it," I said helplessly. "I'm giving him my favorite gun. I'm giving him the best I have."
And perhaps I was able to telepathically relate my feelings, for Sandra smiled and nodded her head. Maybe she'll be able to explain it to her mom.
My son, perhaps not fully aware of the danger these facts represent in reality, is so excited to start work. And he will be a very good officer, of that there is no doubt. He is smart, capable of making good decisions under pressure, and he genuinely loves people.
Many years ago, when I first allowed his natural curiosity about firearms to blossom and started bringing him to the range with me, he greatly enjoyed the beauty, functionality, and raw power of my treasured Springfield Armory 1911 A-1 .45 semi-auto. As a matter of fact, he and the weapon have always seemed perfectly matched. Come to find out, SDPD allows their officers to carry .45s on duty (my Department does not).
So, when considering what gift to present to Steven this year at Christmas, the answer came as obvious, fitting, and right. Unfortunately, it didn't get to be a surprise, as Steven announced a few months ago that he was going to buy himself a .45. I told him that it was unnecessary, as he would soon have a trusted friend in his armory. He, of course, was stoked.
In October, his mother (MSU's ex), who is not thrilled about Steven's current career choice, cornered me at Sandy's bridal shower and stated, "So, you're giving Steven a gun." It was a challenge, of sorts, or so it seemed from her tone and stance. And I, not sure what she wanted the outcome of this conversation to be (did she want me to change my mind? Did she want to intimidate me into withholding my gift? Did she want me to say something to ease her mind about the whole thing?), nodded affirmatively and simply said, "Yes." A look of dark rage crossed her face before she turned and stomped out of the room, leaving me confused and feeling a consuming pity for her. She is not a warrior, she is not a sheepdog. She runs from the sound of the guns. She will not - ever - understand. And I think she may be angry at me because she believes that it is my influence that has inspired Steven to walk this path. Her fear for the safety of her son obliterates her knowledge of who he is. It is not I who made him so, but I think it may be easier for her to believe that it was.
On Christmas Eve, though it was not necessary, I stripped and cleaned my treasure - the best of my modest armory! - for the last time. This task I undertook with heart and soul, infusing my fierce love for my son into each moving part and polishing the exterior steel with every ounce of righteousness and courage I could muster. I allowed my hands to move steadily and unthinkingly in their work, as they have so many times before, so I could focus all of my strength and all of my faith into the creation of a talisman so functional that it need not ever be overtly used. And as I lovingly returned the 1911 to its silicone-infused storage bag and placed it in its lock-box for its journey, I gave my treasure my last instructions: be always true.
Then I wrapped it in festive paper and tied the keys to the lock on the ribbon.
As if Christmas wasn't weird enough already, I cried big, gulping sobs when Steven opened his gift. Sandra, incredulous, asked, "What's wrong?" And all I could say was:
"It's my favorite gun."
She shook her head and looked at her husband, perhaps hoping he would be able to shed some light on her step-mother's sudden bizarre behavior (please keep in mind that this may have been the second or third time in her lifetime that she has seen me shed tears). I took a deep breath and tried to explain. I told everyone about the short and strange conversation with MSU's ex that day back in October, and shared my feeling that Sandra and Steven's mother seemed to be angry with me and was projecting all her fear and frustration onto this powerful, yet inanimate, object. With information gleaned only from her stance, tone, and eye contact, I felt that she saw my gift as more than just an acceptance of Steven's choice to become a law enforcement officer in one of the most dangerous and understaffed Cities in the nation; she saw it as an encouragement, as my blessing, as my cheerful wave to the Grim Reaper who she obviously feels is waiting greedily for Steven's advent onto the streets. I honestly believe that she feels my gift seals the deal.
At this point, Sandra was still looking at me in a rather bemused way. Still crying, I said, "Okay, I'll get to the point."
The point is, I wasn't able to explain to their mother why I made the decision I made. It would have been just as easy - and less a sacrifice! - had I let Steven buy his own duty weapon. I wasn't able to explain to her that I am not giving Steven a gun, I'm giving him the best that I have. I'm giving him my only talisman, a charm that he has held often in circumstances of joy and the jovial psuedo-competition of the range. I'm giving him the thing that has been, since the first day he held it, an extension of his body, of his will. And with it, I'm giving him a simple prayer and invocation: May you always have time to decide justly. May those decisions always be righteous. May the tools you have be sufficient unto the evil you encounter. May it never be necessary for this instrument of my love for you to clear leather in the line of duty, but know that when it does it will be always true.
"That's it," I said helplessly. "I'm giving him my favorite gun. I'm giving him the best I have."
And perhaps I was able to telepathically relate my feelings, for Sandra smiled and nodded her head. Maybe she'll be able to explain it to her mom.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
I'm Dreaming of a Wierd Christmas
It was such a strange Christmas this year. Still good, but very strange.
First, the Holiday Sing. This is my goofy annual holiday party where I make Hot Buttered Rum to get everyone lubed up and then make them sing Christmas carols with me. And it's a good time every year... kids everywhere, folks who would never have the chance to meet otherwise striking up meaningful conversations, and lots and lots of joyful noise.
The difference this year was that "the gang" was invited.
Which wasn't really a problem... except that the Las Vegas chapter showed up at 5 pm. Then some other folks showed up right after. Then a bunch of kids showed up (at least the kids helped finish the prep). The party wasn't even supposed to start until 7, but by that time most of the food was already gone. Which was weird.
Then, later, the gang hijacked my party and used it as a forum to induct the latest prospect. Again, it wasn't really a problem because it happened late in the evening after many of the guests had gone home. However, no one bothered to ASK me if it would be okay, especially considering that there were several people from work also at the party. And I had specifically told MSU that a condition of the gang being invited was that there were to be NO COLORS. It's apparent that that little tidbit somehow got neglected in the invitation process. Which was weird, but not really... considering.
Here they are, basking in their victory, after successfully commandeering my party. If only a few of them could take over so easily, imagine what they can do when all together????
But I got over it.
My eldest and her husband took my youngest from the party and kept her until Christmas. It was REALLY weird not having her around.
Christmas Eve I worked all day and was the Duty Officer to boot. The high point of the day was when I decided to clear the floor - I called down to Reception, told them that I was taking EVERY unit's duty, and told everyone still on the floor to go home. It was rather late in the day, so no one gave me too much trouble about it... and it felt like such a gift to see their eyes light up when I said "I've got your duty, go on home." So I had the entire floor to myself for 30 minutes until close of business. Totally weird.
When I got home, I found that Tamara was with her ex-boyfriend's family and wouldn't be home until the wee hours of the morning. Isabeau was still with Sandy and Jon. And Brittany went with her family. So it was just MSU and I on Christmas Eve, which was perhaps the weirdest part of the whole holiday... we didn't know what to do with ourselves, he and I. We just sort of milled about aimlessly, missing the kids. It was almost a relief to go to bed. This was about the time that I hatched a rudimentary plan to just blow off Christmas next year and take the family on a trip instead. Which was a weird thing to think.
Christmas morning, Tamara was the only one here. We had decided to do our family Christmas after the trip down south for dinner, so Sandy wouldn't have to mobilize at the butt-crack of dawn. We did our stockings, but again it was so strange without all the kids here. MSU's sister called to impose upon us for something at the last minute, which forced us all to rush to get ready and make a side trip before arriving at Grandma's at 11 to open presents there before moving on to MSU's ex-wife's house for dinner. Yes, you read that right. At Thanksgiving, she decided to have Christmas at her house. Her exact words were, "It's about time I did my part." Not in a position to argue, we all agreed she could have Christmas at her house this year. Which was... well... weird.
So, presents and egg nog at Grandma's, where we would normally stay for dinner and fellowship. Upon arriving, I realized that I had forgotten that my niece and nephew were in town and had awkwardly forgotten gifts for them as well. In a chaotic, unorganized flurry, gifts were opened and we all prepared to once again travel to another location. Christmas started to feel like a work day: rushing around, not sure if I've remembered everything, and trying desperately to fit every necessary event into a finite amount of time.
Off to MSU's ex's we went. She had obviously bitten off more than she could chew with this rather ill-concieved plan, and was noticably un-festive when we arrived. Despite the fact that she didn't have to cook anything (everyone else brought the whole dinner, including the ham), she managed to make whatever drama she was feeling the focal point of the day. Which, of course, was decidedly unholiday and pretty damn weird. We hurried through dishes, more presents, and a rather insincere holiday toast before once again packing up the car and heading out.
Back to our house we went. By the time the kids arrived to celebrate our Christmas and open gifts, everyone was tired, cranky, and already ready to get back in the car and go home. Gift opening was once again chaotic, with no rhyme or reason to it (which means I didn't get pictures and was unable to monitor what gifts came from whom so thank you notes go to the right folks), and I started sobbing when my son opened my gift to him, which I will explain as well as I can in the next post. Of course, everyone thought my inappropriate display of emotion was weird.
Then, suddenly, the house was empty again. My children were gone. It was very, very weird.
And I can't help but come back to the idea that perhaps a family trip next year would be better than this horrible rushing around. With what I spent on Christmas this year, we easily could have taken a nice trip to Idyllwild or the Redwood Forest, even Disneyland. Yes, it would be weird... but after this year, I have redefined the word.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
New Family Photos!!
We haven't had a new family portrait taken in a LONG time.
And still haven't. I took these with the timer. :-)
A la Familia!
And still haven't. I took these with the timer. :-)
A la Familia!
Monday, December 24, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Out of Nowhere...
... it just happens. A moment of grace. I try to take the time to memorialize each one, because they are so rare, so glorious, so unexpected, and so very treasured.
MSU: Gang meeting. Gone until at least 10:00pm.
Tamara: Movie night with friends. Home very late.
Isabeau: Sleepover at a friend's house. Home tomorrow.
Which left me with Brittany, and I had planned to get her to help me do some last minute prep for the Holiday Sing. But...
Brittany: Called into work. Home at 9:oo.
And there it is. At least four hours of blissful solitude. The silence in this house right now is positively ethereal. I can make what *I* want for dinner. I can do anything... or nothing.
Today I am grateful for unexpected solitude.
MSU: Gang meeting. Gone until at least 10:00pm.
Tamara: Movie night with friends. Home very late.
Isabeau: Sleepover at a friend's house. Home tomorrow.
Which left me with Brittany, and I had planned to get her to help me do some last minute prep for the Holiday Sing. But...
Brittany: Called into work. Home at 9:oo.
And there it is. At least four hours of blissful solitude. The silence in this house right now is positively ethereal. I can make what *I* want for dinner. I can do anything... or nothing.
Today I am grateful for unexpected solitude.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Twice in One Day? She Must Be... Home
Update: It's after noon and I am still in my robe. I have absolutely no inclination to dress further than this.
Update: Thanks so much, those of you who have asked about my ongoing gastroenterological issues. I went to the Primary Care clinic on Friday, and was actually seen by MILITARY STAFF, which was a nice change. The doctor took a lot of time with me, we talked about ALL of my symptoms (even the ones that don't seem related or make much sense), and I had several vials of blood drawn for tests - CBC, cancer screening, test for h. pylori which is a bacterial infection that often causes ulceration of the stomach. I was referred to the Naval Medical Center for an upper GI (yuck) and colonoscopy (double yuck), which has been scheduled for January 15th (the earliest appointment available). I''m taking that whole day off from work too, even though I'll probably be finished and on the raod by 10:00 am... I just don't think I'm going to be in any shape to excercise patience with humanity after being invaded with cameras through two of my most prized and protected orifices.
Doc said that it sounds like an ulcer with a small chance that there might be a tumor or some other kind of lesion. She gave me "Nexium," which is "the little purple pill" that is advertised on some TV stations. It is supposed to inhibit the production of stomach acid and has actually also been proven to help heal existing ulceration of the stomach and esophagus. I was stoked and made the mistake of trying to eat like a normal person for a couple of days after starting the medication. Apparently, my trouble does not rest solely with acid production or ulceration, because the Nexium does diddly-squat for the pain and pressure I feel after eating even a tiny amount of food. But a girl's gotta eat, so I keep trying. I still have a lot of body fat to burn, so I'm not really worried about caloric intake at this point. Ha!
I tired to call yesterday to get the results of my labwork... If I have that h.pylori infection, I want to go back to get the antibiotics as soon as possible. After spending about twenty minutes on the phone trying desperately to say whatever the magic phrase is to actually be allowed to leave a message for my doctor (what an unreasonable request!!!) I finally was able to leave a message for the Triage Nurse, who is supposed to call me back within 72 hours. No matter that I could feasibly bleed to death in that time. But I am guessing that THEY would have called ME if the mysteries of my blood had revealed something to be concerned about or requiring further action.
So, for the time being, I'm back to square one. Barely any food, lots of pain and pressure, no information, and no sleep.
Update: I got all the Christmas wrapping finished! Well, at least the gifts that are available to be wrapped are wrapped. There is still a bit of shopping to do. Nothing like the last minute to ensure that our friends know we care about them by thoughtfully selecting their gifts! Ha!!
Update: For some time, I thought it was only the toilet in my bathroom that's possessed, but new information has surfaced that indicates that the entire room is possessed. I wish whatever entity it is would do some cleaning every once in awhile instead of just flushing toilets and opening cabinets. Hey, how about dumping some Ajax in that bowl before you flush it next time, Howdy??? Once you get that cabinet open, why not just put some of that crap on the counter away before you scuttle off to Purgatory to wait until it's time for your next toilet-flushing session??? Just a thought. I can't decide if I should do a house-cleansing or try to teach it how to use the bowl brush.
Update: Thanks so much, those of you who have asked about my ongoing gastroenterological issues. I went to the Primary Care clinic on Friday, and was actually seen by MILITARY STAFF, which was a nice change. The doctor took a lot of time with me, we talked about ALL of my symptoms (even the ones that don't seem related or make much sense), and I had several vials of blood drawn for tests - CBC, cancer screening, test for h. pylori which is a bacterial infection that often causes ulceration of the stomach. I was referred to the Naval Medical Center for an upper GI (yuck) and colonoscopy (double yuck), which has been scheduled for January 15th (the earliest appointment available). I''m taking that whole day off from work too, even though I'll probably be finished and on the raod by 10:00 am... I just don't think I'm going to be in any shape to excercise patience with humanity after being invaded with cameras through two of my most prized and protected orifices.
Doc said that it sounds like an ulcer with a small chance that there might be a tumor or some other kind of lesion. She gave me "Nexium," which is "the little purple pill" that is advertised on some TV stations. It is supposed to inhibit the production of stomach acid and has actually also been proven to help heal existing ulceration of the stomach and esophagus. I was stoked and made the mistake of trying to eat like a normal person for a couple of days after starting the medication. Apparently, my trouble does not rest solely with acid production or ulceration, because the Nexium does diddly-squat for the pain and pressure I feel after eating even a tiny amount of food. But a girl's gotta eat, so I keep trying. I still have a lot of body fat to burn, so I'm not really worried about caloric intake at this point. Ha!
I tired to call yesterday to get the results of my labwork... If I have that h.pylori infection, I want to go back to get the antibiotics as soon as possible. After spending about twenty minutes on the phone trying desperately to say whatever the magic phrase is to actually be allowed to leave a message for my doctor (what an unreasonable request!!!) I finally was able to leave a message for the Triage Nurse, who is supposed to call me back within 72 hours. No matter that I could feasibly bleed to death in that time. But I am guessing that THEY would have called ME if the mysteries of my blood had revealed something to be concerned about or requiring further action.
So, for the time being, I'm back to square one. Barely any food, lots of pain and pressure, no information, and no sleep.
Update: I got all the Christmas wrapping finished! Well, at least the gifts that are available to be wrapped are wrapped. There is still a bit of shopping to do. Nothing like the last minute to ensure that our friends know we care about them by thoughtfully selecting their gifts! Ha!!
Update: For some time, I thought it was only the toilet in my bathroom that's possessed, but new information has surfaced that indicates that the entire room is possessed. I wish whatever entity it is would do some cleaning every once in awhile instead of just flushing toilets and opening cabinets. Hey, how about dumping some Ajax in that bowl before you flush it next time, Howdy??? Once you get that cabinet open, why not just put some of that crap on the counter away before you scuttle off to Purgatory to wait until it's time for your next toilet-flushing session??? Just a thought. I can't decide if I should do a house-cleansing or try to teach it how to use the bowl brush.
Taking a Stand
Well... not really. It's a minor defiant act at best.
I called in sick today. I am really sick, and have been for a while. But generally I try to power through minor illnesses because taking time off means having to go back even more behind than usual. But not today. Today I am invoking my right to stay home when I am not feeling 100%. Today I am invoking my right to using sick time for mental health. Today I am rebelling against a society that pumps OTC medication so we can ignore the signals our bodies graciously give us and go to work when we are SICK. Today I'm taking care of ME and everyone else can just bugger off.
Until the kids come home, anyway. But that's hours from now!!
I called in sick today. I am really sick, and have been for a while. But generally I try to power through minor illnesses because taking time off means having to go back even more behind than usual. But not today. Today I am invoking my right to stay home when I am not feeling 100%. Today I am invoking my right to using sick time for mental health. Today I am rebelling against a society that pumps OTC medication so we can ignore the signals our bodies graciously give us and go to work when we are SICK. Today I'm taking care of ME and everyone else can just bugger off.
Until the kids come home, anyway. But that's hours from now!!
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Reminded
My job as a parent is not to shelter my children from the harsh realities of life. My job as a parent is to prepare them for those realities. Doing my job correctly and consistently means that my children will deal with sorrow, conflict, fear, and failure in ways just as appropriate as the ways they deal with joy, abundance, and success. It's a very difficult job, because it means that I have to allow them to be hurt. I have to allow them to fail. I have to allow them to face their fears and conquer them, no matter how many times it takes. I have to allow them to know the truth. And I have to answer unbelievably difficult questions, wipe away tears of shame and sorrow, tend to cuts, abrasions, contusions, broken bones, and head trauma, and bite my tongue completely after the magic words "Use your best judgment" have already left my mouth.
Recent blog discussions have reminded me about the day I knew that I didn't have to "parent" my eldest any more.
In September of 2001, I became really, really ill. It started with back pain and the next day blossomed into a shuddering fever. MSU was traveling that week - to Florida, if memory serves - and I had a Internal Affairs investigation going on at work and really couldn't take time off. I figured I must have hurt my back somehow, and didn't think much of it until I came home from work that second day and fell into a sleep akin to coma without even a second thought for my children (then 11 and 3 - my eldest was already living on her own at that time and my son was staying with his mother), who were left on their own recognizance for the entire evening. The next day, at about noon, I realized that I could no longer understand what people were saying to me. I could see their mouths moving and hear their voices, but I couldn't comprehend what it all meant. That was when I realized I was really sick.
I don't remember driving to the Emergency Room, but I did. I don't remember if I had to wait in the waiting room for the prerequisite three hours before being taken back to a bed. I do remember laying on the bed and shivering uncontrollably. The corpsman assigned to me kept piliing on warm blankets, but I couldn't get warm. I remember that the blankets were so heavy on top of me that I could barely move. People kept coming in and out, looking at the clipboard with my information on it, and muttering. Men and women in khaki uniforms kept trying to make me touch my chin to my chest (I couldn't without excruciating pain that cannot be described. I've had babies, y'all, and childbirth can't touch this on the pain scale). I remember being rolled onto my side and being held down by several people, then a bizarre radiating sensation in my back (lumbar puncture, I found out later). All of these memories are somewhat obliterated by the encompassing confusion and pain that was the status quo for this day and several thereafter.
A Captain came in to see me, which confused me even more. The Naval Medical Center San Diego is a teaching hospital, and it's rare to receive care from anyone above the rank of Lieutenant. She began giving instructions to the small battalion of people who were in my little space, and I was concentrating very hard on her. I remember she said, "Quarantine."
She came to my bedside (which had turned into the E-ticket ride due to my uncontrollable shaking) and told me (several times, until I understood) that I had meningitis. She told me that I could not be allowed to leave. And suddenly my brain worked just fine, because I had kids that needed to be picked up from school and daycare and I couldn't be quarantined. I told her so.
And I will NEVER, EVER forget what happened next. In that haze of sickness and confusion, the next few moments were crystal clear and happening in slow motion. The Captain turned to a nurse and said, "Look at the records and get the address. We'll have to call HHSA to have someone take the kids to Polinsky."
And I was out from under my 17 blankets in a heartbeat, staggering toward the door. People were restraining me (not too difficult, given my condition), and I was screaming, "Give me a phone! Give me a phone or I swear to God I'm walking out of here!" In retrospect, this day represents the pinnacle of my murderous potential - can you imagine? Of course, they would have been justified in using force to stop me, which again wouldn't have been very difficult. But the fact is, MY KIDS AREN'T GOING TO POLINSKY. Over my dead body, y'all.
They brought me a phone, and I managed to dial my eldest daughter's number, but was unable to speak coherently to her. I gave the phone to the most trustworthy-looking corpsman that was restraining me. I trusted in him and in all Higher Power. I had to.
Of course, I don't know the course of events after that except by hearsay. What I do know is that Sandra picked up the kids, rearranged her schedule so she could care for them and for our animals, found a way to get in touch with John even though she had NO IDEA where he was or why, contacted my mother, and made time to bring the kids to the hospital everyday to see me. She laughed and smiled and made fun of me with the kids while I was trapped in the "baby koala room" (quarantine), held the family and the house together for two days until John was able to get home, and parlayed as my advocate with medical personnel. Somewhere in the middle of this she made arrangements for someone to substitute for her class, take care of her home and animals, and rearrange all of her priorities. All this at the tender age of 21.
What I didn't know at the time is that the corpsman I trusted to give her the information about the kids told her that I was dying, and in fact only had hours to live.
She didn't wallow in fear and grief. She didn't cry - well, not until much later - or dither about in confusion. She took quick, decisive action, notified the appropriate people, and stepped up to the plate to help any way she could while enlisting others to fill in the gaps. She did it by herself, with no parental guidance whatsoever, because MSU and I were both incommunicado for those first days. She did it without lying to her younger siblings, and managed to tell the truth without scaring them.
It wasn't during those five days in the hospital that I knew, because I was pretty much incapable of knowing anything. But I remember my relief when she picked up the phone, because I knew that one way or another, she'd take care of it. And when I found out later that she had taken care of it under the strain of believing that I was dying right in front of her eyes, I knew.
With Sandra, at least, I've done my job.
Recent blog discussions have reminded me about the day I knew that I didn't have to "parent" my eldest any more.
In September of 2001, I became really, really ill. It started with back pain and the next day blossomed into a shuddering fever. MSU was traveling that week - to Florida, if memory serves - and I had a Internal Affairs investigation going on at work and really couldn't take time off. I figured I must have hurt my back somehow, and didn't think much of it until I came home from work that second day and fell into a sleep akin to coma without even a second thought for my children (then 11 and 3 - my eldest was already living on her own at that time and my son was staying with his mother), who were left on their own recognizance for the entire evening. The next day, at about noon, I realized that I could no longer understand what people were saying to me. I could see their mouths moving and hear their voices, but I couldn't comprehend what it all meant. That was when I realized I was really sick.
I don't remember driving to the Emergency Room, but I did. I don't remember if I had to wait in the waiting room for the prerequisite three hours before being taken back to a bed. I do remember laying on the bed and shivering uncontrollably. The corpsman assigned to me kept piliing on warm blankets, but I couldn't get warm. I remember that the blankets were so heavy on top of me that I could barely move. People kept coming in and out, looking at the clipboard with my information on it, and muttering. Men and women in khaki uniforms kept trying to make me touch my chin to my chest (I couldn't without excruciating pain that cannot be described. I've had babies, y'all, and childbirth can't touch this on the pain scale). I remember being rolled onto my side and being held down by several people, then a bizarre radiating sensation in my back (lumbar puncture, I found out later). All of these memories are somewhat obliterated by the encompassing confusion and pain that was the status quo for this day and several thereafter.
A Captain came in to see me, which confused me even more. The Naval Medical Center San Diego is a teaching hospital, and it's rare to receive care from anyone above the rank of Lieutenant. She began giving instructions to the small battalion of people who were in my little space, and I was concentrating very hard on her. I remember she said, "Quarantine."
She came to my bedside (which had turned into the E-ticket ride due to my uncontrollable shaking) and told me (several times, until I understood) that I had meningitis. She told me that I could not be allowed to leave. And suddenly my brain worked just fine, because I had kids that needed to be picked up from school and daycare and I couldn't be quarantined. I told her so.
And I will NEVER, EVER forget what happened next. In that haze of sickness and confusion, the next few moments were crystal clear and happening in slow motion. The Captain turned to a nurse and said, "Look at the records and get the address. We'll have to call HHSA to have someone take the kids to Polinsky."
And I was out from under my 17 blankets in a heartbeat, staggering toward the door. People were restraining me (not too difficult, given my condition), and I was screaming, "Give me a phone! Give me a phone or I swear to God I'm walking out of here!" In retrospect, this day represents the pinnacle of my murderous potential - can you imagine? Of course, they would have been justified in using force to stop me, which again wouldn't have been very difficult. But the fact is, MY KIDS AREN'T GOING TO POLINSKY. Over my dead body, y'all.
They brought me a phone, and I managed to dial my eldest daughter's number, but was unable to speak coherently to her. I gave the phone to the most trustworthy-looking corpsman that was restraining me. I trusted in him and in all Higher Power. I had to.
Of course, I don't know the course of events after that except by hearsay. What I do know is that Sandra picked up the kids, rearranged her schedule so she could care for them and for our animals, found a way to get in touch with John even though she had NO IDEA where he was or why, contacted my mother, and made time to bring the kids to the hospital everyday to see me. She laughed and smiled and made fun of me with the kids while I was trapped in the "baby koala room" (quarantine), held the family and the house together for two days until John was able to get home, and parlayed as my advocate with medical personnel. Somewhere in the middle of this she made arrangements for someone to substitute for her class, take care of her home and animals, and rearrange all of her priorities. All this at the tender age of 21.
What I didn't know at the time is that the corpsman I trusted to give her the information about the kids told her that I was dying, and in fact only had hours to live.
She didn't wallow in fear and grief. She didn't cry - well, not until much later - or dither about in confusion. She took quick, decisive action, notified the appropriate people, and stepped up to the plate to help any way she could while enlisting others to fill in the gaps. She did it by herself, with no parental guidance whatsoever, because MSU and I were both incommunicado for those first days. She did it without lying to her younger siblings, and managed to tell the truth without scaring them.
It wasn't during those five days in the hospital that I knew, because I was pretty much incapable of knowing anything. But I remember my relief when she picked up the phone, because I knew that one way or another, she'd take care of it. And when I found out later that she had taken care of it under the strain of believing that I was dying right in front of her eyes, I knew.
With Sandra, at least, I've done my job.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Attack of the Hormones from Mars!!!!!!
Here is yet another post that contains way too much information...
Two days in a row now - yesterday and today - I was just sitting at my desk at work, doing mundane work-related tasks, not thinking about anything but work, when BAM!!! I was overcome by overt, extreme sexual arousal. I'm not just talking horniness, here. I mean full-blown, everything-is-suddenly-swelled-up-and-sensitive, even-the-friction-of-my-clothing-is-excruciatingly-pleasurable, just-on-the-verge-of-orgasm arousal. And from there, it was just a hop, skip, and a jump into FantasyLand, which of course only made matters immediately and urgently worse.
WTF??????
I've had an attack of The Hornies at work before (who hasn't??), but this is something really new and different. I mean, just-on-the-verge-of-orgasm arousal is obvious!! To everyone!! And my only choices were 1) stay in my cubicle and hope for a moment of privacy to compose myself, or 2) walk through the maze of cubicles and people to the restroom and hope for a moment of privacy to compose myself. Because the obvious solution to the problem was - obviously - out of the question. And, God help me, if someone had touched me they'd have gotten a whole lot more than they bargained for.
So again, WTF???? Is this some new and "exciting" symptom of encroaching menopause? Has my body's betrayal escalated from merely submitting to gravity to now actually having sex without me?? Has my poor, overtaxed brain finally snapped and succumbed to some little-known (and evidently exhausting) mental illness? Or is my little brain just working out some stress the only way it knows I'm going to respond to for sure????
Anyone else ever have this experience? I am truly mystified.
One thing's for sure... I'm wearing black clothing again tomorrow!!
Two days in a row now - yesterday and today - I was just sitting at my desk at work, doing mundane work-related tasks, not thinking about anything but work, when BAM!!! I was overcome by overt, extreme sexual arousal. I'm not just talking horniness, here. I mean full-blown, everything-is-suddenly-swelled-up-and-sensitive, even-the-friction-of-my-clothing-is-excruciatingly-pleasurable, just-on-the-verge-of-orgasm arousal. And from there, it was just a hop, skip, and a jump into FantasyLand, which of course only made matters immediately and urgently worse.
WTF??????
I've had an attack of The Hornies at work before (who hasn't??), but this is something really new and different. I mean, just-on-the-verge-of-orgasm arousal is obvious!! To everyone!! And my only choices were 1) stay in my cubicle and hope for a moment of privacy to compose myself, or 2) walk through the maze of cubicles and people to the restroom and hope for a moment of privacy to compose myself. Because the obvious solution to the problem was - obviously - out of the question. And, God help me, if someone had touched me they'd have gotten a whole lot more than they bargained for.
So again, WTF???? Is this some new and "exciting" symptom of encroaching menopause? Has my body's betrayal escalated from merely submitting to gravity to now actually having sex without me?? Has my poor, overtaxed brain finally snapped and succumbed to some little-known (and evidently exhausting) mental illness? Or is my little brain just working out some stress the only way it knows I'm going to respond to for sure????
Anyone else ever have this experience? I am truly mystified.
One thing's for sure... I'm wearing black clothing again tomorrow!!
Monday, December 10, 2007
A Short Rant
I have a foster child. "Foster" in the truest sense of the word, as she is staying with us not because she doesn't have parents of her own, but because she needed a safe haven in order to succeed. She has a mother and a father (they are divorced), and as far as I know, her mother continues to collect child support from her father regardless of the fact that the child hasn't resided with her since late August. None of that cash is being kicked down to us.
I'm not complaining! Though I didn't realize that we would be expected to be responsible for her in every sense, she really is a joy to have in the house. And since I've been responsible for everything from visits to the doctor to transportation to verbal judo with the school counselors on her behalf, I have come to feel very, well, motherly toward her.
She recently announced that she wanted to have her navel pierced. She is 17, and cannot have the procedure without parental consent. Being the not-so-proud owner of a navel piercing scar from a navel piercing gone horribly awry, I tried to talk her out of it. I showed her the scar. I showed her statistics about how many people get horrific infections from navel piercings, and how difficult it is for them to heal. I told her horror stories about getting the rings caught on waistbands and shower scrubbies. You'll note that I'm using derivatives of "horror" a lot with regard to this topic. For good reason! I hoped she would change her mind. She didn't.
And at the end, I forbade it. I told her that she would be able to get her navel pierced on her 18th birthday, if she so desired, but that I would not authorize it beforehand.
MSU just called and told me that her mother had called him and "authorized" the navel piercing and that he is taking her, as we speak, to "see about that."
Anyone else wanna dupe me today? Apparently it's pretty easy!
I'm not complaining! Though I didn't realize that we would be expected to be responsible for her in every sense, she really is a joy to have in the house. And since I've been responsible for everything from visits to the doctor to transportation to verbal judo with the school counselors on her behalf, I have come to feel very, well, motherly toward her.
She recently announced that she wanted to have her navel pierced. She is 17, and cannot have the procedure without parental consent. Being the not-so-proud owner of a navel piercing scar from a navel piercing gone horribly awry, I tried to talk her out of it. I showed her the scar. I showed her statistics about how many people get horrific infections from navel piercings, and how difficult it is for them to heal. I told her horror stories about getting the rings caught on waistbands and shower scrubbies. You'll note that I'm using derivatives of "horror" a lot with regard to this topic. For good reason! I hoped she would change her mind. She didn't.
And at the end, I forbade it. I told her that she would be able to get her navel pierced on her 18th birthday, if she so desired, but that I would not authorize it beforehand.
MSU just called and told me that her mother had called him and "authorized" the navel piercing and that he is taking her, as we speak, to "see about that."
Anyone else wanna dupe me today? Apparently it's pretty easy!
Friday, December 07, 2007
I Am Duly Chastised
Advice from Eric Francis to me (see below). How crappy do you think I feel now about trying to put MSU on a gang budget???????
Basically, you have everything going for you. But in order to feel the wealth and abundance that are available, you need to let go of any attachments you have to scarcity and poverty. If you feel like you are lacking, you will be unlikely to notice the wealth, both spiritual and material, that is available. If you feel like you must withhold, you will be unlikely to share in the generosity that is available at this moment. Don't take too long to make up your mind about whether this is really true. You have done plenty of intense pondering the past week or so, and you have broken the issue down to its most basic philosophical tenets. But these are not idle or academic theories you are working with; the question really amounts to whether your relationships benefit everyone involved. You must insist that they do, and be ready to receive what comes to you as a result.
Basically, you have everything going for you. But in order to feel the wealth and abundance that are available, you need to let go of any attachments you have to scarcity and poverty. If you feel like you are lacking, you will be unlikely to notice the wealth, both spiritual and material, that is available. If you feel like you must withhold, you will be unlikely to share in the generosity that is available at this moment. Don't take too long to make up your mind about whether this is really true. You have done plenty of intense pondering the past week or so, and you have broken the issue down to its most basic philosophical tenets. But these are not idle or academic theories you are working with; the question really amounts to whether your relationships benefit everyone involved. You must insist that they do, and be ready to receive what comes to you as a result.
Today I Am Grateful...
... for much needed rain.
... for an extremely safe car with new tires and transmission and brakes systems that are customizable to wet weather.
... for my dogs, who desperately needed snuggle time this morning and would not take "no" for an answer.
... for co-workers who know where to find a "What Would Chuck Norris Do?" poster.
... for a timely phone call that gives me a good reason to leave the office this afternoon.
... for MSU's company Christmas party that will allow me several hours of quality "me-on-me" time this evening.
... for fascinating friendships that continue to grow in exciting ways.
... for the efforts of my children to keep the kitchen clean... without being asked!
... for two hours of uninterrupted work this morning.
... for the leather coat that my mommy gave me that still - after all these years! - smells like her.
... for an extremely safe car with new tires and transmission and brakes systems that are customizable to wet weather.
... for my dogs, who desperately needed snuggle time this morning and would not take "no" for an answer.
... for co-workers who know where to find a "What Would Chuck Norris Do?" poster.
... for a timely phone call that gives me a good reason to leave the office this afternoon.
... for MSU's company Christmas party that will allow me several hours of quality "me-on-me" time this evening.
... for fascinating friendships that continue to grow in exciting ways.
... for the efforts of my children to keep the kitchen clean... without being asked!
... for two hours of uninterrupted work this morning.
... for the leather coat that my mommy gave me that still - after all these years! - smells like her.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Self-Control for the Hormonally Challenged
Things I wanted to say today - and didn't!!! Yay me!
"Hey D----, I'll move that stuff when MY BOSS tells me to do it. You can bitch, moan, and whine until the fucking cows come home and I'm still not going to take directives from you. So, for the time being, you can go ahead and shove all those case files as far up your fat ass as they will go."
"C------, if you make one more snarky, divisive comment in my class I will use something you've done for every example I give for the rest of the day. I'll start with that embarrassing little incident on the range a few months back and my grand finale will be the time I made you cry in D-Tac. How's that for divisive, you smarmy little ogre??"
"Ya'll don't mind if I just curl up in the fetal position on the floor for a couple of minutes until the Kung-Fu grip of my Raging Uterus from Hell eases up a bit? Thank you!!"
"GET AWAY FROM MY ROCKSTAR!!!!!!!!!!"
"S----, I really appreciate this whole little seduction scene you've got going in your mind, but you better get the fuck out of my space. Firstly, I wouldn't fuck you with my dog's cunt; and secondly, I'm about to start projectile vomiting because the combination of that cloying drugstore cologne you've bathed yourself in and your crypt breath is giving me vertigo."
"Now that you've let the whiny, lazy, incompetent one get her ludicrously demanding way once again, is it my turn?"
"So, basically you're saying that you're getting paid twice as much as I am, but you don't know how to do your job, so you'd like me to immediately drop what I'm doing to clean up this fiasco of liability that you've ignorantly created before someone else finds out about it. Is that about right?"
"Hey P--!!! Kiss my ass!!!"
"Hey D----, I'll move that stuff when MY BOSS tells me to do it. You can bitch, moan, and whine until the fucking cows come home and I'm still not going to take directives from you. So, for the time being, you can go ahead and shove all those case files as far up your fat ass as they will go."
"C------, if you make one more snarky, divisive comment in my class I will use something you've done for every example I give for the rest of the day. I'll start with that embarrassing little incident on the range a few months back and my grand finale will be the time I made you cry in D-Tac. How's that for divisive, you smarmy little ogre??"
"Ya'll don't mind if I just curl up in the fetal position on the floor for a couple of minutes until the Kung-Fu grip of my Raging Uterus from Hell eases up a bit? Thank you!!"
"GET AWAY FROM MY ROCKSTAR!!!!!!!!!!"
"S----, I really appreciate this whole little seduction scene you've got going in your mind, but you better get the fuck out of my space. Firstly, I wouldn't fuck you with my dog's cunt; and secondly, I'm about to start projectile vomiting because the combination of that cloying drugstore cologne you've bathed yourself in and your crypt breath is giving me vertigo."
"Now that you've let the whiny, lazy, incompetent one get her ludicrously demanding way once again, is it my turn?"
"So, basically you're saying that you're getting paid twice as much as I am, but you don't know how to do your job, so you'd like me to immediately drop what I'm doing to clean up this fiasco of liability that you've ignorantly created before someone else finds out about it. Is that about right?"
"Hey P--!!! Kiss my ass!!!"
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Beating a Dead Horse
If you think you're sick of this topic, imagine how I must feel.
It's 11:32 am, and instead of being at work I am home. I'm home because my youngest puked at school, and puking at school means instantaneous parental mandate to retrieve said child. MSU called me about 90 minutes ago to advise me that the school had called him as the Chosen One for the day. Confused as to why he would be calling me instead of going to get the little pukemonster, I asked him if he was going to get her. He said "I don't have any PTO (paid time off)."
My kids are my priority, definitely. And I don't mind going to get them at school when they are sick and should be home. But I'm very, very far behind at work right now, I was out of the office yesterday and will be out of the office tomorrow and have several pressing matters that really can't wait because then they stack up on other pressing matters until the whole thing is unrecoverable. In other words, today wasn't a good day for a surprise.
MSU asked, "So can you leave to go get her, or what?" "Well," I replied, "it's not a good day for me to have to leave. Is there any way you can use sick time to get her?" To which MSU snapped, "I TOLD you. I don't have any PTO. If I leave it'll be without pay. And I KNOW you don't want THAT."
(I'm pretty sure that whole sentence meant something completely different, but that's another topic.)
Just at that moment, I was hit with an understanding that I hadn't previously been privileged with: John works for an organization that allows vacation time and sick time to accrue into and come out of ONE "account," the PTO cache. I have seperate sick time and vacation time. He does not. And he foolishly, recklessly, and sophomorically used up all his PTO without even once thinking that HE might get sick... or *I* might get sick... or his MOTHER might get sick... or one of our CHILDREN might get sick, thus doing the intelligent thing and saving back AT LEAST 8 hours of PTO for a contingency.
Where did the PTO go, you ask? Three guesses, and the first two are just for show. That's right - it went to "MANDATORY TRIPS WITH THE GANG." Am I counting wrong (math was never my strong suit)? I'm counting TWO parents in this family, not one. Perhaps I just haven't mastered the "new math."
Last night, MSU was up until the wee hours trying to get a cheap airfare to Las Vegas for next weekend for another gang fiesta. The cheapest airfare he could find was $130. "Honey," I said, "it's a bad time for an unexpected expense. And I'm going to need your help next weekend because there are some conflicting activities and we have to get ready for the Holiday Sing the following weekend." MSU said,
(wait for it)
"It's mandatory. You'll need to change your plans or ask Damian and Laura to help you. Hey, wait a minute... why don't you just come with me??"
I didn't respond. Not because I was demonstrating a heretofore unknown level of self-control, but because I honestly was rendered speechless. I should have made the Sign of the Horns at him, but I just retreated quickly into the bedroom and the sancuary of mindless sleep.
The point of all of this is that I feel like I'm in one of those B movies where things just keep going down the most ridiculous story line possible and you're forced into suspension of disbelief because the characters are surprisingly well-acted. What next?? Who knows! But I guarantee that it will be almost excruciatingly ludicrous!!! And the thing that is most troubling is the fact that it has been MSU who has been harping at me about going to the doctor, and telling me I have an ulcer, and yelling at me to reduce my stress at work and/or go out on stress leave, and whining at me because I'm in pain and exahusted and really grouchy at the end of the day and he consistently fails to realize that the biggest contributor to my stress level IS NOT WORK.
BUT... MY HERO HAS ARRIVED.
RT, partially in jest, presented the idea that I allot MSU a gang budget. I give MSU a monthly gang allowance, and leave managing it to him. If I take this to the next level (this part of the plan is still being fleshed out), it might be possible - and even reasonable! - to give him both an allowance of money AND time. No rollover minutes, though. I think my initial proposal will be $100 per month and 80 hours per month and we can negotiate from there (though I don't think I'm going to budge much on the cash).
Anyone wanna take bets on how he's gonna react? I'm putting my $20 in the square that says he's going to be so incensed at being "treated like a child" that he'll refuse to even talk about it and I'll be forced to move all the money into my "emergency" account so he can't access it out of spite. Anyone have a different position?
It's 11:32 am, and instead of being at work I am home. I'm home because my youngest puked at school, and puking at school means instantaneous parental mandate to retrieve said child. MSU called me about 90 minutes ago to advise me that the school had called him as the Chosen One for the day. Confused as to why he would be calling me instead of going to get the little pukemonster, I asked him if he was going to get her. He said "I don't have any PTO (paid time off)."
My kids are my priority, definitely. And I don't mind going to get them at school when they are sick and should be home. But I'm very, very far behind at work right now, I was out of the office yesterday and will be out of the office tomorrow and have several pressing matters that really can't wait because then they stack up on other pressing matters until the whole thing is unrecoverable. In other words, today wasn't a good day for a surprise.
MSU asked, "So can you leave to go get her, or what?" "Well," I replied, "it's not a good day for me to have to leave. Is there any way you can use sick time to get her?" To which MSU snapped, "I TOLD you. I don't have any PTO. If I leave it'll be without pay. And I KNOW you don't want THAT."
(I'm pretty sure that whole sentence meant something completely different, but that's another topic.)
Just at that moment, I was hit with an understanding that I hadn't previously been privileged with: John works for an organization that allows vacation time and sick time to accrue into and come out of ONE "account," the PTO cache. I have seperate sick time and vacation time. He does not. And he foolishly, recklessly, and sophomorically used up all his PTO without even once thinking that HE might get sick... or *I* might get sick... or his MOTHER might get sick... or one of our CHILDREN might get sick, thus doing the intelligent thing and saving back AT LEAST 8 hours of PTO for a contingency.
Where did the PTO go, you ask? Three guesses, and the first two are just for show. That's right - it went to "MANDATORY TRIPS WITH THE GANG." Am I counting wrong (math was never my strong suit)? I'm counting TWO parents in this family, not one. Perhaps I just haven't mastered the "new math."
Last night, MSU was up until the wee hours trying to get a cheap airfare to Las Vegas for next weekend for another gang fiesta. The cheapest airfare he could find was $130. "Honey," I said, "it's a bad time for an unexpected expense. And I'm going to need your help next weekend because there are some conflicting activities and we have to get ready for the Holiday Sing the following weekend." MSU said,
(wait for it)
"It's mandatory. You'll need to change your plans or ask Damian and Laura to help you. Hey, wait a minute... why don't you just come with me??"
I didn't respond. Not because I was demonstrating a heretofore unknown level of self-control, but because I honestly was rendered speechless. I should have made the Sign of the Horns at him, but I just retreated quickly into the bedroom and the sancuary of mindless sleep.
The point of all of this is that I feel like I'm in one of those B movies where things just keep going down the most ridiculous story line possible and you're forced into suspension of disbelief because the characters are surprisingly well-acted. What next?? Who knows! But I guarantee that it will be almost excruciatingly ludicrous!!! And the thing that is most troubling is the fact that it has been MSU who has been harping at me about going to the doctor, and telling me I have an ulcer, and yelling at me to reduce my stress at work and/or go out on stress leave, and whining at me because I'm in pain and exahusted and really grouchy at the end of the day and he consistently fails to realize that the biggest contributor to my stress level IS NOT WORK.
BUT... MY HERO HAS ARRIVED.
RT, partially in jest, presented the idea that I allot MSU a gang budget. I give MSU a monthly gang allowance, and leave managing it to him. If I take this to the next level (this part of the plan is still being fleshed out), it might be possible - and even reasonable! - to give him both an allowance of money AND time. No rollover minutes, though. I think my initial proposal will be $100 per month and 80 hours per month and we can negotiate from there (though I don't think I'm going to budge much on the cash).
Anyone wanna take bets on how he's gonna react? I'm putting my $20 in the square that says he's going to be so incensed at being "treated like a child" that he'll refuse to even talk about it and I'll be forced to move all the money into my "emergency" account so he can't access it out of spite. Anyone have a different position?
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
In Other News...
Update: I went to my Primary Care Clinic today, as my efforts to access my healthcare continued to fail despite numerous resources. I filed a complaint, seeking action, that the PC website, 411, and the NMCSD website had all not been updated with the new appointment access number for the clinic. The receptionist actually rolled her eyes at me. No matter.
No one could see me today, as this clinic apparently no longer takes walk-ins regardless of their status. And though my symptomology dictated "acute care," there were no "acute" appointments available until January. Sort of made me wonder if the definition of "acute" had changed. Anyway, I was able to access another clinic (even less convenient to me than my regular clinic) and get an appointment for the 14th of this month. Which will work just fine. I've survived this long!!
Update: I didn't get promoted again. And even though there has been plenty of movement in the Department, none of my transfers have been granted. The most recent promotee is a friend of mine and actually has a position currently that I would be interested in if I could assimilate my FTO duties into it, but when I presented this idea to the Deputy Chief, she was less than enthusiastic. I may submit a transfer for that position anyway, just to escape my current position. However, I don't want to bite the hand that feeds me nor do I want to jump from the frying pan into the fire.
Aren't colloquialisms fun?
Update: MSU is driving me insane. Not necessarily with anything he's actively doing, but more with what he's refusing to acknowledge. "No, honey, I can't go on that ride with you all... we have kids and they have activities that you INSISTED that they participate in and SOMEONE has to get them there." "Sure, honey, I can write you a check for $178 for the Shaver Lake trip and another $210 check for your "patches," but I can't write a check for the deposit for the Yuma Prison Run trip because we have kids and bills and a mortgage and a trip to Japan that was promised our soon-to-be-graduating daughter and a finite amount of money coming in. Yes, I know that means you might not be able to get your reservation. Yes, I understand that this is a "mandatory" trip. Maybe you should augment our income by working a couple of per diem shifts in the OR at Grossmont?" Insert MSU's indignant rage at the suggestion here.
Update: My 17-year-old daughter is having more and better sex than I am. And that's just wrong on so many levels.
Update: I have a new crush! Oh, it's been so long since I was actively crushing (see original post here) that I had forgotten what a magical and portentious thing it really is. This crush is sooooooo much better, though. This one is actually worthy of the intensity of "crushing." Yes, I know how juvenile and goofy I am. I'm a passionate person, so gimme a break already!!
Update: I think I'm addicted to Diet Rockstar. Two o'clock rolls around and I can feel that monkey squirming around on my back like he's on fire. Lucky for me no one thinks to monitor that soda machine down in the cafe (it's been mentioned by several people that I probably shouldn't be augmenting my natural spazziness with "organic" speed). I've got my connection, baby. And I know the Coke Man comes to fill the machine every Tuesday.
mmmmmm. Diet Rockstar.
No one could see me today, as this clinic apparently no longer takes walk-ins regardless of their status. And though my symptomology dictated "acute care," there were no "acute" appointments available until January. Sort of made me wonder if the definition of "acute" had changed. Anyway, I was able to access another clinic (even less convenient to me than my regular clinic) and get an appointment for the 14th of this month. Which will work just fine. I've survived this long!!
Update: I didn't get promoted again. And even though there has been plenty of movement in the Department, none of my transfers have been granted. The most recent promotee is a friend of mine and actually has a position currently that I would be interested in if I could assimilate my FTO duties into it, but when I presented this idea to the Deputy Chief, she was less than enthusiastic. I may submit a transfer for that position anyway, just to escape my current position. However, I don't want to bite the hand that feeds me nor do I want to jump from the frying pan into the fire.
Aren't colloquialisms fun?
Update: MSU is driving me insane. Not necessarily with anything he's actively doing, but more with what he's refusing to acknowledge. "No, honey, I can't go on that ride with you all... we have kids and they have activities that you INSISTED that they participate in and SOMEONE has to get them there." "Sure, honey, I can write you a check for $178 for the Shaver Lake trip and another $210 check for your "patches," but I can't write a check for the deposit for the Yuma Prison Run trip because we have kids and bills and a mortgage and a trip to Japan that was promised our soon-to-be-graduating daughter and a finite amount of money coming in. Yes, I know that means you might not be able to get your reservation. Yes, I understand that this is a "mandatory" trip. Maybe you should augment our income by working a couple of per diem shifts in the OR at Grossmont?" Insert MSU's indignant rage at the suggestion here.
Update: My 17-year-old daughter is having more and better sex than I am. And that's just wrong on so many levels.
Update: I have a new crush! Oh, it's been so long since I was actively crushing (see original post here) that I had forgotten what a magical and portentious thing it really is. This crush is sooooooo much better, though. This one is actually worthy of the intensity of "crushing." Yes, I know how juvenile and goofy I am. I'm a passionate person, so gimme a break already!!
Update: I think I'm addicted to Diet Rockstar. Two o'clock rolls around and I can feel that monkey squirming around on my back like he's on fire. Lucky for me no one thinks to monitor that soda machine down in the cafe (it's been mentioned by several people that I probably shouldn't be augmenting my natural spazziness with "organic" speed). I've got my connection, baby. And I know the Coke Man comes to fill the machine every Tuesday.
mmmmmm. Diet Rockstar.
Monday, December 03, 2007
TriCare Prime to the Rescue!
My family has military healthcare. Which, generally, has been a real blessing. I pay $460.00 PER YEAR to insure my family. That includes free prescriptions and no copays.
The downside is that, living in San Diego, it's pretty tough to actually access my healthcare system because of the number of active duty and retired military living here. Going to the Naval Medical Center is an all-day affair, because it take HOURS to find parking. Making an appointment for non-urgent care is something that has to be planned months in advance. And God forbid you have an emergency! The only time I didn't spend four hours in the waiting room of the ER was when I appeared with meningitis and was whisked immediately to the quarantine room. I once asked for a suture kit while waiting in the ER with one of my children... it truly would have been easier to just do it myself (they didn't give it to me).
They do the best they can, and I'm usually impressed with the quality of care I receive. It cost me $17.00 to have each of my children (and that was with the services of midwives, not doctors). If we need immunizations, we can just walk into the clinic and get them. I can access mental health systems, plastic surgery, rheumatology, state-of-the-art oncology, drug and alcohol rehabilitation, mammography, and every other specialty you can think of only 30 minutes away and without a referral.
Until last week.
As mentioned in a comment, I've been troubled with gastrointestinal distress lately. As mentioned, MSU is a former Navy Corpsman, Operating Room Technician, and Diver Medic. MSU is pretty sure I have an ulcer. I blew him off until about a week ago, when I presented with a classic and scary symptom of a bleeding peptic ulcer. Which, of course, can kill a person. Which, of course, gave me the motivational boost I needed to actually get myself checked out and stop assuming that the problem would solve itself once things at work changed a bit.
I called the appointment line for the TriCare clinic that is assigned as my Primary Care Provider and was surprised when it just rang and rang and rang. No message, no queue, no tones or a "disconnected" recording. I tried several times with the same result.
Next, I went to the website and attempted to make an online appointment. No appointments were available. Apparently ever.
Then, I linked over to the Naval Medical Center website and looked for clinic information that way. The telephone number they had on the NMCSD website was the one for the clinic BEFORE they got the number that is now, evidently, defunct.
Then, I called Information. They gave me the number I had tried first. So, of course, I tried again. Same deal: just rang and rang and rang.
So, Wednesday evening, after work, I am going to drive to the clinic as a walk-in. I haven't been as a walk-in since my active duty days (active duty in uniform always get priority), but I figure if no one can get in touch with the clinic for an appointment, I'm a shoe-in to be seen right away.
WTF??
The downside is that, living in San Diego, it's pretty tough to actually access my healthcare system because of the number of active duty and retired military living here. Going to the Naval Medical Center is an all-day affair, because it take HOURS to find parking. Making an appointment for non-urgent care is something that has to be planned months in advance. And God forbid you have an emergency! The only time I didn't spend four hours in the waiting room of the ER was when I appeared with meningitis and was whisked immediately to the quarantine room. I once asked for a suture kit while waiting in the ER with one of my children... it truly would have been easier to just do it myself (they didn't give it to me).
They do the best they can, and I'm usually impressed with the quality of care I receive. It cost me $17.00 to have each of my children (and that was with the services of midwives, not doctors). If we need immunizations, we can just walk into the clinic and get them. I can access mental health systems, plastic surgery, rheumatology, state-of-the-art oncology, drug and alcohol rehabilitation, mammography, and every other specialty you can think of only 30 minutes away and without a referral.
Until last week.
As mentioned in a comment, I've been troubled with gastrointestinal distress lately. As mentioned, MSU is a former Navy Corpsman, Operating Room Technician, and Diver Medic. MSU is pretty sure I have an ulcer. I blew him off until about a week ago, when I presented with a classic and scary symptom of a bleeding peptic ulcer. Which, of course, can kill a person. Which, of course, gave me the motivational boost I needed to actually get myself checked out and stop assuming that the problem would solve itself once things at work changed a bit.
I called the appointment line for the TriCare clinic that is assigned as my Primary Care Provider and was surprised when it just rang and rang and rang. No message, no queue, no tones or a "disconnected" recording. I tried several times with the same result.
Next, I went to the website and attempted to make an online appointment. No appointments were available. Apparently ever.
Then, I linked over to the Naval Medical Center website and looked for clinic information that way. The telephone number they had on the NMCSD website was the one for the clinic BEFORE they got the number that is now, evidently, defunct.
Then, I called Information. They gave me the number I had tried first. So, of course, I tried again. Same deal: just rang and rang and rang.
So, Wednesday evening, after work, I am going to drive to the clinic as a walk-in. I haven't been as a walk-in since my active duty days (active duty in uniform always get priority), but I figure if no one can get in touch with the clinic for an appointment, I'm a shoe-in to be seen right away.
WTF??
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