Monday, April 30, 2012

Sitting (not so) pretty...

To sit pretty means you're comfortable.

In what...?

your chair?

On your fat azz...?

I take it more to mean comfortable in your skin.

And these days (meaning today, right this very minute, and I'm hoping, that me, being my overly dramatic self, will have you understanding, duh, what the frick I, note to self, way, way, way, too many commas make for a very, very difficult and hard to understand, and potentially, grammatically incorrect text, yo) I am not too comfortable in my skin.

It's not my skin so much as it is my "skin"..understand?

So what has me down?

I am soooo glad you asked, nothing like a caring friend to see a person through a hard time.

When warranted, I like to dig deep down into my "issues" and try to figure out what the hell is up my ass.

Well, I can name about a dozen (or 12) things at least.

But none of them are anything other than wild hairs.

Wild hairs can create problems and wreck havoc for sure.

I once had one stuck in the middle of my areola.

Seriously... a wild hair.

I'd cut someone's hair and the sharp, newly cut hair made it's way down my top and plunged itself right into my boob.

Like a planted tulip arching toward the sun it stood straight up and out of my left breast's areola.

It was painful...

Shortly after my work day had started I noticed that every time I reached for something, or moved a certain way, I got a stabbing feeling in my chest.

(not my chest...really)

At that time, thankfully, I could still see up close.

So after a very personal examination of my breast in the bathroom stall at work I discovered a hair that didn't appear to have grown on my body.. however, IT was stuck in my body.

It creeped me out.

The only saving grace was that I knew for certain that the hair was clean.

It was a slight consolation.

And so I guess that that is the message I will take for myself today...

Okay, so you've got (someone else's) sharp, newly cut hair, stuck in the middle of your nipple...

but things could be worse...

Thursday, April 26, 2012

When a total evacuation is in order....

On Wednesday I was up for my yearly large in-tes-tine review.

In case you are in the dark about colonoscopies I'll tell you a few of the details...the day before the test the lucky s-o-b getting the test eats a liquid diet.

Eat a liquid diet... cruel in the sense that liquids aren't chewable.

I need to chew when I eat, so slurping could never, ever be considered "dinner".

That means that on Monday, the day of my "last supper", theoretically speaking, I should be mowe'n anything that ain't mowe'n me...

Well, a novice may think that that is the smart thing to do,

but for one who has had more colonoscopies than I care to talk about (unless I run into an intense case of writer's block, then anything becomes fair game)

I'd like to say that you should stop eating about a week or two before the procedure.

Sips of water don't count...have as much of that as you wish.

All kidding aside,  the amount of cheese I'd eaten in the last week had me fighting the urge to have a panic attack.

No worries though... I've come to learn that you could eat a Cadillac and the "prep" will take care of it... I promise. 

As a matter of fact, you could eat two.

It seems I get smarter each and every time I get ready to have one of these procedures.

On Tuesday I begin to wonder how is it that they instruct a person to take 4 laxative pills in one gulp...FOUR (F-O-U-R times the recommended dosage)... how "safe" can that be?

I prayed for iron kidneys as I down the pills... (I pray not to perish, perched on the "ring"... good gawd)

Next up was the self-made poisonous Gatorade... (I didn't care which color I chose, but if you have a fondness for Gatorade I suggest you choose a color you would never, ever drink under normal circumstances, because once this baby is done and over with you won't look at that sports drink the same way ever again)

The instructions said to pour an entire 238g bottle of Miralax into a 64 ounce container of Gatorade.... (a 238g sized bottle of Miralax is the dosage for 14 day's worth of unclogging a back-door operating system..14 days worth, to be consumed over the next 3 hours)

To put this into a more horrifying perspective, you could conclude that if you were using this product according to manufacture's directions you would be using it over a 336 hour period.

Add to that the 4 day's worth of laxative pills...  (I'm here to tell you (confidently) that you could also eat an SUV with that Cadillac and your colon would be pure as driven snow for the look-see the next day.)

To the owner of an over active imagination (or someone claiming to have even an iota of common sense) 18 day's worth of laxative products meant to be used over a course of 432 hours but instead used over an 8 hour period could be called nothing less than a Kamikaze mission...

Scared shitless...ahhh, now I get it.  

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Chillaxin in the U-Scan line....

Lots of  early, early mornings I find myself running up and down the aisles of my favorite (not) grocery store Kroger's frantically pulling items from the shelves and tossing them into my style.

Why in the hell am I grocery shopping before 7am?

Good question, and I'm glad you asked.

It's mostly because I'm terribly unorganized and I'm married to a guy who changes his diet almost daily often.

Just when it seems like we are in a comfortable routine of ham/cheese or peanut butter/jelly sandwiches he has to go and switch things up.

(comments about Daddio going to the grocery store his-self... hahahahahahahha.... Understand that Daddio and I are alive and well and living smack dab in the middle o' the 1950's over here at Casa Koby-Cleaver)

I love him dearly and while I complain about his quirks and tendencies and blame all my early morning grocery store trips on him, I'm normally buying crap for work too.

This morning while racing toward the stop sign at the end of my block I notice two birds playing.

The birds waltz, dip and dive, their synchronized wings painting the sky.

Suddenly they swoop toward the ground where they tumble around for a second or two.

A roll in the street, a bird-ly courting.... (wink wink)...

As I pull to the stop sign they take a final dive, the lust struck sky dancers oblivious of their proximity to the front end of my car.

I had no idea that I'd struck one until I looked in my rear view mirror.

DAMMIT, dammit, dammitalltohell.... ohhhhhhh ooooohhh it hurt my heart so to see that little bird lying still in the road.

Pulling into the Kroger's lot I wasn't in the greatest mood....

Blood and bird feathers and thoughts of a mate-less bird weighed heavily on my murderous heart.

When I was done gathering my groceries I discovered that I was expected to be my own cashier and bagger this fine morning.

My local Kroger store does not believe in having bona-fied cashiers on the floor before 7:30 am... if you need to shop before then sucka you'd better have loads of extra time on your hands..there tends to be all sorts of complications in the process of morphing into that role when you're sentenced to the U-Scan and are a novice cashier such as myself.

My eyes and the tiny code stickers on the two bananas I was hoping to purchase weren't on the same page and I was forced to choose "picture" to identify what was what.

I confidently clicked on a picture of a bunch of bananas.

A screen filled with bananas popped up.

There were at least six different types to choose from.

Six different kinds of bananas.

My nostrils flared, then snorted.

My right foot pawed and scraped at the ground.

Suddenly, someone was crying and screaming about being a bird killer.

A bird killer who knows jack about bananas.

I sucker punched the machine, tore my coupons into confetti, and ate my money.

My virtual breakdown helped a ton.

It's a therapy I use often when I'm out of time and waiting patiently for the world to (once again) right itself.

(in this case the U-Scan cashier to get over and help me figure out which strain (classification? species?) of bananas I had)

On the drive home I saw the tiny bird body in the road and I curse my hard bumper and the stupid careless bird and the passage of time in the morning and wish I could have a re-do.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Apologies.... who are they really for?

I think we've talked before about an odd personality quirk I possess.

Well, one of many, I guess.

This particular one has me keeping things real.

Of course, real, as I see it or feel it.

So if I've gifted you, (be it with my time or a cupcake or even a huge chunk of my heart) I want you to be completely overly over the top thankful and demonstrative of the fact that you are overly over the top grateful and thankful and stunned and just really seriously tickled half to death...

yeah, sick (and a bit odd), sigh... I know.

The same thing if you've wronged me.

I'd like for you to be downright down on your knees begging for forgiveness, wanting to be pardoned, excused, trying with all your might to make things right.

that's just how I feel

Now, with all that explained, I'd like to explain that that is exactly how I believe myself to behave in similar situations..

In other words, I don't expect you to do cartwheels of joy over gifts from me or kiss my arse for 17 minutes straight after breaking my heart without expecting me to do the same for/to you should a situation requiring these actions arise.

But how you take my heartfelt, and totally sincere offerings is really up to

Of course it is.

So who really has control here?

Is it really even about control?

I'm not sure and I really never gave "it" a thought...

until yesterday.

One of my loveables who may or may not have been the catalyst that started the cluster fluck that nearly took down Thug High was having a really bad day yesterday.

She has, for most of her time with us, been the "golden girl".

She's heard us talk out loud about her "different-ness" and her likeability factor.

She's one of my favorite loveables of all time (and yes, if you're some oddball track keeper I DO say that about almost all of them at one time or another....your point is???)

Anyway, this chicky baby is one of my all time favorites... and she has taken a fall from grace.

Well, she has and she hasn't.

I mean, after you've been on this earth a minute* or two you come to know that people act like total assholes on occasion and you expect to forgive them and move on and not hold a grudge.

(I'm using the word "minute" referencing The Urban Dictionary's definition of the word which means "a very long time")

And that they would afford you the same courtesy.

Kiss kiss make up and move yer azz forward.

So after a lengthy emotional tug of war my bff loveable admitted to me that maybe, just maybe, she needed to apologize to some of the staff for how she acted and how her actions may have spurred or started all the trouble of the past week or so.

I wholeheartedly agreed that if she felt the need to apologize than that is probably what she should do.

The crack up is that after she made that determination (the process which was much like a long laboring, all natural, vaginal breech birth) she said "but if the staff doesn't take my apology or if they say something that makes me mad or pisses me off, I may not be responsible for how I respond, I may go "OFF" on them.

I may explode and do something I regret".

Okey-dokey then...

So WHO exactly is the apology for...? I wonder, first to myself, and then aloud.

And why exactly are you giving it?

Questions I often don't ask myself before I go into apology mode.

For me, I guess I just act on emotion.

I feel bad I wronged you and I want to make it better.

However, what if I go into apology mode and you totally bite me like a snake, do I (or should I) bite you back?

Take it as my just deserts...?

Lick my new wound(s) and move on?

Forgive (when initially I was the forgiver and now I must be the forgivee...??) and forget?

Ohhh brother...

"Are you sorry?" I ask

"Figure out what you are sorry for" I advise.

"and then sincerely apologize"

"What if they don't take the apology?" she asks.

"I don't think you can control how they'll react" I answer.

"It's a chance that you have to take, but you don't have to take it" I say, hoping she gets it.

Later, I think long and hard about this conversation and still I have no idea how to answer the question that doesn't seem to have an answer.

Who exactly is an apology for...?

The one who gives it or the one it is given to.....?

A question that may not have an answer.

What comes first the chicken or the egg...?

Do stairs go up or down?

If one synchronized swimmer drowns, do the rest drown too?

If someone farts in the woods and there is no one around to hear it, is it still funny?

Okay, I'm done now.

My brain is threatening to explode.

Monday, April 16, 2012

Is there a big rock I can hide under...?

Last week was one of the worst I've ever had working with my loveable thugs.

So much so that I almost changed their names to those miserable bastar.....s

I was so proud of myself and my coworkers for deflating an "issue" that was brewing.

It had been simmering for days and was threatening to blow.

To allow it to blow would probably result into some kind of riotous conditions that would be hard to control.

Yes, it was worse than that bad.

On Wednesday, the staff did an intervention and when the day was almost done the loveables had kissed and made up.

During the peacemaking talks the hard work the loveables were doing toward making things better made me so proud I choked up while I was talking to them about it.

Like civilized human beings they were using words to solve their problems. This time there were no cuss words, puffed out chests, or fists.

I should have known it was too good to be true or to last for long.

Before the day was over so was the truce.

On Thursday all hell broke loose.

We had cuss words, puffed out chests and fists.

We also had cups of hot coffee flying through the air and hitting targets which then blew up.

If I were a betting person I'd bet that a wick was lit last Thursday and that all weekend long it did a slow burn which simmered (and more than likely was stoked and kept alive by that horrible and awful social networking bullying tool, Facebook) and today we will see the results of that.

I'd rather have my hemorrhoids sawed off and then cauterized with a soldering iron than go to work this morning and deal with all the drama (and the possible fisticuffs).

For a (self proclaimed) peacemaker, this shit takes the freakin cake.

On a lighter note,

Make this picture larger and take a good look at this goofy pooch.

The cheezy grin has keep me laughing every time I think of it.

She is my grand-dog, Ruby girl.

(What she lacks in good looks she makes up for in personality.)

(Googie thinks she's the cutest dog ever...  giving credence to the saying "a face only a mother could love")

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Billy Jack(ie).... A tale of one tin solider, writes away

 Mr Posner: You're makin' a mistake.
 Billy Jack:  I've made 'em before.

When I was a tween-ager I fell in love with a movie charachter named Billy Jack.

If you held a gun to my head and demanded me to tell you exactly what it was that Billy Jack did to earn my undying admiration I'd have to tie up my loose ends real quick like..(just sayin)..

I don't remember much about the movie, just that I went out of the theater after watching it feeling somehow different.

Maybe it was the first time I figured out that one person could make a difference.

And the fact that he was really nothing more than just some random goofball, big hat wearing, kung-fu cowboy movie "hero" made no difference to me, I just loved everything about him fighting for his causes(').

(a tid bit from Wikipedia about Billy Jack)

Although marketed as an action film, the story focuses on the plight of Native Americans during the civil rights movement. It attained a cult following among younger audiences due to its youth-oriented, anti-authority message combined with the then-novel martial arts fight scenes which predate the Bruce Lee/kung fu movie trend that soon followed.[4] The centerpiece of the film features Billy Jack, enraged over the mistreatment of his Indian friends, fighting a gang of racist thugs using various hapkido techniques.

So how in the hell can a movie that focuses on the plight of Native Americans during the civil rights movement have anything to do with a buck-tooth, flat chested 12 year old from Dearborn Heights Michigan...


My point is to bring your attention to unlikely folk hero's, one of which, it appears, I've become.

You may remember that not too many months ago I poured my heart out in a post about a horrible experience I had at my favorite (not) grocery store, Kroger's.

It involved some horribly insensitive (rude and obnoxious) treatment from an upper store management (big)head(ed) honcho.

My experience, just like the Billy Jack movie, had a villain who wished to make life miserable for people who were just trying to make their way in the world.

Trying to get a donation.

Trying to earn flow to pay the mortgage and their Netflex accounts...

Little ol regular guy.

The villain of my story, who shall from this moment forward be referred to as "the man" (even though "the man" in my experience is more like a witch with a "b") seems to have quite a supreme power trip goin on.

There are people who are scared to talk to me when I shop there.

They look at security cameras to make sure "the man" isn't watching.

Is a modern day Hitler-esque type personality alive and well and managing my local grocery store...?

How sad...


I believe that the true determination of a person's character is made evident by the way they treat animals, children, servers at a restaurants, and people they may be "in charge" of.

Yes, bosses, supervisors listen you treat your work staff like crap?

Your underlings, like underthings stuck to the souls of your shoes....?

You may intimidate, daunt, browbeat, bully, tyrannize, scare, terrorize, frighten, dishearten, unnerve, subdue, bulldoze (thank you Dictionary) the "little guys" who work under you, but you don't scare me.

(well, those in charge of me at my job do, but this (masterpiece) blog post is not aimed at them)

I have a certain 1st Amendment Right coverin my ass and I'm currently shopping around for a really neat black 10 gallon cowboy hat (the better to block the camera(s)....

I'm armed (and should be considered dangerous) at all times with a thick pad of paper and a good ball point pen (Billy Jack black, of course) and I ain't asskered to use it.


Tuesday, April 10, 2012

May I please speak for many in Detroit and say "I'm sorry".

Well Detroit was all over the news again today...people all over the country saw the same shameful thing.

A hacked road sign that called a dead child a nig*er.

I wasn't there when the child, Trayvon Martin (a 17-year-old from Miami Gardens, Fla) died, so I have no idea why he was killed...?

How it happened?

Was he the aggressor?

The victim of an overzealous neighborhood vigilante...?

The courts will be deciding that, I guess.

Either way a boy is dead.

And a mother mourns.

As for me,  I'm ashamed of the person(s) who choose to make a mockery of the whole sad situation and in the process made the "D" look pretty bad.

A boy is dead and his mother mourns and an entire people are insulted.

Trouble after trouble that's what that's called.

Emotions are raw and people will react and where will that get us?

The wrongness of it on every level is nothing short of pathetic.

A boy is dead, and some continue to hurt him and his.

And as a mother, a human being, that hurts me too. 

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Ride the stair......(you idiots)

I was a really good kid saddled with unusual siblings.

Susan (my sister, the one who doesn't read this blog) and our brother John were a bit on the odd side.

A little too smart for their own good some people liked to say.

I was not as book smart nor as easily entertained (ADD) as the two of them and often found myself thinking up all kinds of stuff to do to ward off childhood boredom.

Anything to make a chore easier or more fun.

Susan and I would wash the dishes in the bathtub after we'd played baseball with the leftover mashed potatoes.

(Sorry Marmie, just to let you know, we always "caught" the mashed potato ball)

We'd haul all the dishes in the bathroom and fill up the tub, it was an awesome plan, we could both wash at the same time.

( I shudder now to think of the possibilities of what else may have floated around with the dishes in that deep tub).

In addition to dressing up boring chores we also had John to help keep the doldrums at bay.

We'd think up all kinds of horrible practical jokes to play on him.

Hold him down and put makeup on him.

Torture him as only sisters can do.

As book smart as my siblings were they both lacked true common sense.

Evidenced by their love of a game that was nothing but horribly dangerous.

Stair-surfing is nearly as stupid as downhill skiing.

The minute Marmie shut the front door the two of them would drag a mattress to the head of the basement stairs and they would ride it down.

Like moth(s) to flame(s) they had neither clue nor care about their mortality.

Be it a fatal roll-off crash or Marmie discovering the shenanigans that went on when she left the house for an hour or two.

They were playing with fire, but the lure of the thrill was stronger than the fear of punishment.

Today while exploring the wide world of Pinterest I came upon something so neat it made me wish Susan (you know) read my blog so that she could see it too.

I would email it to her but she doesn't read her email.

I could probably phone her and let her know to read my blog or check out her email.

I'd do that, but she doesn't answer her phone either.

(Believe it or not, I don't think it's personal)

(slide dowwwwwn for the image)


Tuesday, April 3, 2012

What's new pussycat...?

My darling dear Marmie told me the other day during a lengthy phone convo that she felt I needed to find something new and exciting to do.

"You are tiring of your blog" she said.

"I can tell because you haven't been writing very much" she continued.

She knows me well enough to know that every couple of years I have a need to go on a new adventure.

Explore the great... whatever.

Learn a new trick, become consumed by a new passion, re-birth myself.

But if my truth be told I dearly love writing this blog.

And I love my readers even more.

And I and this blog are going nowhere.

I mean we aren't leaving (I know it's going nowhere...tragically evidenced by the absence of any kind of notice or contact from the Blogs of Note people, which no longer exists or maybe I've been blocked..??)

I appreciate the readership I have (more than words can convey).... however, all this writing is technically nothing more than free therapy for me.

Times when I don't much like my life I can go back and read and know that moments viewed through baby poop colored glasses are truly few and far between.

And rarely last longer than the time they took to write about them.

I can't remember what I ate for dinner yesterday, but I can look back to a year ago and remember shopping for a mother of the bride dress for Googie and Trouble's wedding all because of this blog.

Or I can remember Bear threatening to leave me and move away to go to school.

(That one is quite funny to re-read. And it's probably saved his life and limb on occasion. I find myself getting perturbed often with his non-stop eating, his kindly filling and refilling of my dirty clothes hamper, his Cheetos fingerprints all over the remote control... and his never ending request "hey, yo, could you pick me up some good face soap"...for the record, I think he may be snorting it.)

It's nice to remember how much I thought I was going to miss him...because when he did go away,  I missed him. I missed him worse than terribly.

Thanks for the visit...see you soon.


Monday, April 2, 2012

Well bloody hell.....

Currently there are 14 loveables in our Day Treatment program... 14 loveables, that's a whole lotta loveables in one place at one time.

In the past when we've had that many all at once day after day after day there would be times that if given a choice I would have picked spiffin up my bikini line (blindfolded and using a pair of antique needle nosed pliers) over going to work and dealing with them

This time though the whole group of them are pretty okay.

We've got the usual dynamic of more male than female youth, but enough female youth to add some spice to the boy's days.

Spice in the form of fighting over the boys we do have and boy ohh boy do those girls fight.

Just like regular high school they gather in cliques and stab each other in the back with horrible words and opinions.

Assumptions plus poor communication skills equal nothing but a big ass bunch of drama.

The male youth are so different. They don't normally exclude or gossip.

They can gather in groups of three and no one gets their eye scratched out.

Or their heart broken by betrayal of one of their own.

I've become each of the girls "one on one" adviser,  their closest confidant... a position I relish and treasure.

The problem is that there is only one of me.

Yesterday (for about the fourth time this week) I heard five different voices whisper "I need to talk to you"...

 "so and so did such and such"

 "and she is such a you know what"

" and today I am talking with you know who"

" and she says that she wants this and that "

 and on and on and on and on and on and on it went....

Till I'm ready to scream (Rodney King style) "CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?"

Smack dab in the middle of my work day I had to leave and go to my dad's to learn the procedure of putting his life saving antibiotics into a pic line in his arm.

The training had me dog paddling in deep, deep, dark water.

So much so that it was hard to breath.

(seriously, is it any wonder that I totally get these young girls and their overly dramatic dramatics..?)

How freakin ass hard can this process be? I thought, as I drove to his home.

Well it is that freaking ass hard.... but I will learn (you can train a monkey to do most anything, right?).

So when I got back to work (and work it is folks with this many loveables at one time) I was feeling mighty stressed.

And, as usual I was being asked to solve the problems of the females of the world...

pssssssssssst...."I need to talk to you"...

"so and so did such and such and she is such a you know what and she thinks I'm dating you know who and she says that she wants this and that"

"and please make her stop...either that or I'm going to hit her. Or maybe I'll slice her, or maybe I'll just, I don't know, but something has to happen or I'm going to explode."

"and you know I black out when I explode and I have no idea what I'm doing when things begin to go black"

And so as I stand elbow to elbow with them washing dishes and listening to their problems and seeing no end in sight I start to sneeze and then my nose begins to bleed...


A stroke?

A stroke of genius is more like it...

Suddenly me and my dripping nose becomes the focal point.

The girls take a break from their cat fight and the boys from all areas of our kitchen gather to ask "what happened"...

They all want to know who hit me...

Keeping a straight face I blame one of the bigger loveables... "he didn't like what I was saying" I fib as I mop up my bloody face.

Like hitting a bee hive with a baseball bat instantly the place is all abuzz...

Laughing my immature rear off I tell them I'm kidding and that no one really laid a fist upon my anything....

I call off my frenzied pit bulls and we resume cleaning our dishes... chattering about all kinds of things, none of which are drama filled.

Who would have thought one small bloody nose could work such magic?

Instantaneous damage control.

I spend an inordinate amount of time overworking my peacemaking brain trying to figure out ways to get these loveables' attention onto more appropriate subject matter when all they want to do is pick at one another.

I try so hard to sway negative conversations and trouble provoking actions that I've never given it much thought about how really simple a solution could be...

Until today when I had an ahhh-haaah moment and realized that I'm really only a couple of bucks and a United States Postal Service delivery away from some peace.

I can hardly contain my giggles.