The 13th Apostol

Indigo's Dragon's Eye

It's Just a Damn Field Trip

I chaperoned a 2nd grade field trip to the Oklahoma Museum of Art yesterday. These were the best behaved bunch of kids I've ever seen...including mine. They were actually interested in what we were seeing, blown away by the history of the artifacts, knee deep in amazement at their tiny part in the universe, their speck in the cosmic dust.

OK, maybe that was my take, but the kids dug the stuff too.

"Temples and Tombs" Treasures of Egyptian Artifacts from the British Museum, are on loan here through November. Although Mer-boy was somewhat disappointed there were no mummies, he was still enthralled by the "Vibrating stuff" mom. Huh? My kid feels things vibrate, yes, he's one of those.

Unfortunately no cameras were allowed in the exhibit, and even though I could have shot a few at slow speed...I chose to honor the big black dude following us around...the one without a wedding ring whose name tag said Issac. Sup I.?

So anyway, we had a grand time at the museum. We also toured again, the Chihuly exhibit, which unbeknownst to me, The O.M.A. has now purchased for like 15 Mill. (I don't know how many zeros that would be) I'm sure it was a close race...Fix the roads in this fucking town, or buy a bunch of glass. Hmmm?

I love the glass, want to BE the glass, but come on, do we really need this exhibit, when we have amazing local artists capable of the same work? Sorry, I know I'm like the only one who feels this way in this religiously dysfunctional city, and the children need to be exposed to the arts, but we have the arts right here, right in our own backyard.

What could have been achieved had that 15 mill been poured into funding the local artists in this community, the children who, by demographics alone, will never have the opportunity to pick up a paint brush, the schools who's art programs have been all but cut?

I want Mer-boy, and his peers to be enriched through the visual and performing arts as much as the next parent does, but we need to pour our money into cultivating whats right here, into these young minds so full of creativity and vision for what can be. If we  encourage them to 'draw outside the lines', keep them as far away from The Box as possible, for as long as possible...we can grow our future, change the misshapen geography of this state permanently, and obviously for the better.

Why is it, that the individuals in positions of power, are the least likely to use that power in a positive way? In a way that will truly impact and alter the lives of others for the better?

The exhibit is glorious, stunning, breathtaking. But so are our children. The Dosen took every opportunity to place a price tag on each piece she could, never failing to note each items "Worth" ...I listened to the  'Oooh's  and 'Aaah's  at every figure, curious as to the comparison one might make as  a small child.

Here's an idea:  On every major board, corporation, foundation, etc., install a former welfare recipient. Preferably a mother, educated, with children.  A voice, that's all.

See, I can't even go to the museum easily.

Of Vacuum Living Little Brothers

I have this brother. This brother who, for the past oh, ten of fifteen years has pretended he doesn't have a sister. Namely me.

Now for the most part I've learned to live with this well, as he's not necessarily my type of person. In fact he's a real jerk,   but he's still my brother so I "Love" him. He turned on me during the darkest part of my life, the blackest time a human being could go through...he turned and walked away.

He has met my son twice.

He lives in a vacuum.

He chooses his path.

I must honor it.

Yesterday, in an attempt to pursue my "Gift" of writing, I emailed my brother asking for some help networking. He is in the industry, and has built an impressive business on his own. In the email, I gave him some history, some personal information regarding my circumstances...

His reply was cold and pathetically uncompassionate, as powerfully successful males usually are. I was hurt deeply by his remarks concerning my life, hurt by the subtle comparison he made between ours, but hurt mostly by my own stupidity and lack of self care.

My brother is the only family I have. Had. Now I go forward, not nearly as concerned about how my actions, and words might affect his career. Now, from this point I go forward alone, full with a writers zeal, unwilling to restrain my pen or tongue. Now, perhaps, the full words can form pregnant sentences without his shadow rampant in my head.

Censure is a writers cancer. Censure, whether self inflicted or otherwise, can bastardize the most humble of prose. Censure can only fertilize failed marriages, angry children, dead-end jobs, and uncompassionate, powerfully successful males.

Andrew

Last night, in the middle of an exuberant mood and while talking to a friend I hadn't spoken in depth with for the last week, I am delivered the news of suicide amongst us.

Now I am falling and the walls are twisting in that macabre Dali-esq way they do, when your world tilts oh so slightly, and the colors slip out of focus. Because suddenly there is no air in my lungs and my child is too far away from me...because suddenly I am 21 and I can't seem to register the brain all over our doberman is my mother's brain...

The news was only the first, as it seems my absent unwillingness to participate in all things social, organized, or spiritual the last two months, cost me the privilege of being at his memorial service on Sunday...I did not know.

What makes us choose, as is rightfully ours, the grand exit, the final bow of our own making? What divine turn of conscience drives our inner knowing, and leads us through that tunnel of sacrifice alone? How bad is bad, when we come to a place so isolated, so disconnected from our true selves that we stand alone and choose, by right?

I can't say one more word, one more fucking word that would make it any different for him. God damnit...when we suffer alone, when we exist in turmoil, in pain so excruciatingly difficult to bear...but we don't reach out, don't say a word...because we are so brilliantly accomplished at hiding ourselves from each other.

Toxic on My Space

So I'm setting up my page on My Space this weekend, and I happen across the page of an old friend. A woman who in her younger days babysat me through my pregnancy with The Mer, and was there when he was born...six months in to her own pregnancy at the time.

Toxic Goddess Cera is her pseudonym, and standing a 5"11" I'm thrilled she's found an outlet for her wuthering heights. Goddess and I have shared some turbulent times, her struggles pale not in comparison to mine, as her sorrow has taken her far away from me. Away from the reminders of a life neither one of us lived very well.

A woman who tried desperately to reach back to me, and pull me forward after the loss of Athena. I was having nothing to do with any of that. Do I wonder what our lives might have been like had we chosen healthier, loved less, cried more, forgiven the past? Not until this precise moment, as I have an innate ability to block whatever causes discomfort completely out of my mind.

During my pregnancy with Mer-boy, I was the most creative I've ever been. I took photographs of The Goddess randomly throughout. She is beautiful at least, and glorious at her very best. I told her then,  "You will create your destiny like fire"...and then I lost myself in cloth diapers, and the crack heads stole my camera gear...

A large part of us dies when we have our children, I'm uncertain how this happens. I think maybe it's so we stay with them, not running off to join the circus, or riding off into the sunset with a cowboy on a stallion. So we stay and love them, like nothing else in the whole wide world, because we've forgotten about the camera gear and the crack heads, forgotten we used to sleep on the banks of the lake all night long and watch the sun rise, forgotten we were ever angry at our old lives for not being what we expected them to be, and...it's OK. 

"Normies" Inherently Know This

Al and I were just doing this manic housecleaning thing, once every couple of years I get energy like I just did a big old...er, like a younger version of myself. Today was that day. Maybe all that human being juice had something to do with it.

I made a half-assed attempt, and sabotaged the effort from jump since I waited to do it last, at cleaning my office. Realizing I was near collapse, and Al didn't need the added trauma, I settled for going through the 9,000,000 business cards I've accumulated over the last six months. It makes me feel better that I don't have one yet. You know, looking at other peoples business cards voyeurism...huge influx into treatment centers over this. Quick high, easy to conceal...

I came across a card a woman, an acquaintance of mine gave me at the pool a few months back. Obviously I failed to examine the card, or I wouldn't be writing this post. I don't know where this came from, but it's good, and couldn't be more aptly delivered into my life than this precise moment.

The objective, the function of developing a spiritual relationship with life is to explore ways of living that work better than the ones which have resulted from limiting belief systems that have so impacted the course of human history.

Unless your life is happy, fulfilling and working just as you want it to, then it is important to look for alternate ways to do life, a different set of rules to play by.

It is important to become aware that it is possible to stop being a victim of life not being what we want it to be, in order to start changing our relationship with life into one that works better for us each individually.

Human Being Juice

Like a good crazy mother, I forgot the damn camera yesterday. I have no record, except in my minds eye, of my child's first Fair. Which was incredible.

I'm welling up as I write this, partly due to hormones, but mostly due to this enormous love affair I have with my boy. My minds eye  is good enough, perhaps better, as I will hold it there tightly so not to lose it packed away in some dusty box with all the other "Memories" I've taken...

If he never gets to another fair, if for whatever reason this should be his only...it was the absolute best.

The Space Needle, The Ferris Wheel, Bumper Cars with your crazy mother at the wheel, screaming like a banshee at the other drivers, candy apples, cotton candy, corn dogs, winning games fair and square, and winning games cause your mama can flirt, just he and I and the stiff Oklahoma wind howling down the Midway...and about 600 other folks who decided they better  get there before it ended.

Of course there's always a negative influence to the fair, always things you must protect your child from...the chain smoker in line next to us, who insists they have a cold, the man who dragged his little boy the length of the Midway, not stopping until he spotted a cop, the mother who screamed at her kid "You little FAGOT, I wish you were dead!", ...man, I got it good.

Just the effects that being surrounded by that many human beings in such a short amount of time can have on a person, it's overwhelming, draining, sorrowful, heartbreaking, exhilarating, ...and I love it. I'd forgotten how much I love that juice, the juice I get from massive amounts of human beings.

I could be a Carney just fine, minus the hustling people out of their money part.

Juice...human being juice...I'm so weird.

The Great State Fair of OK-Lahoma

Could I get some "Happy Thoughts" please, as The Mer and I are on our way out the door to The 100th Anniversary of The State Fair of Oklahoma

Can I get a Yi-Haw?! (My God, I'm tired already)

Another Stupid Metaphor

These are the roses in the garden. They came back after I pruned the shit out of them last month.

I'm pretty amazed at how this property thinks it's Springtime...after sitting here since January through the triple digit heat all summer and nearly being dead. I hate that I'm letting myself love this place.

MySpace and a Good Billy Club

Let me just say:

I would rather eat glass than work in a call center.

With that said, see that picture of me on the right? The one where I look pissed off? Yeah, that one. My entire morning has been devoted to trying to manipulate the stupid thing so I can upload it onto" My-stupid-Space" or to those of you more socially adept...MySpace.

I've decided through absolutely no persuasion from anyone but the little man in my head, to put up a NETWORKING page on MySpace in the hopes that some poor fool will want to pay me for what I do best.

Shut-UP already with the indecent oral sex thoughts. I have NEVER in my life ...OK, that one guy. But he LOVED me. OK all guys...but I wanted them to LOVE me.

What just happened there?

I was talking with another recovering used-to-shoot-meth-but-now-I'm-a-soccer-mom last night, about how we fit squarely into round holes regarding our children's social circles. AKA our kids friends parents. Weird.

The weirdest weirdness we can imagine is visited upon us each time we must face a group of more than two of them. Er, us.  The conversation made me start thinking (after Grey's Anatomy of course) about why they are the way they are, and we are the way we are. A simpler version is...the differences between us.

I wouldn't change one thing about my life. That's the truth. It's made me who I am, and mostly I like me, except for that toe thing. Weird toes, anyway, I thing my friend likes herself also. I know she does, it shows in her kid.

It always shows in our kids. Al wears a yelling on him, like an navy blue turtleneck in August. Yikes, Al's mom totally yelled at him, man.

When I see these moms who don't like themselves, i.e. I'm not going to bash anyone, you know who you are, I ache. I ache for them, their kids, their lives just neurotic as hell...because they can't get real. Can't say "Hi, I'm a fuck-up too, I fed Carlos french fries for dinner three nights in a row because...I don't know why, just because I was too fucked up in the head NOT to. "

So there's this "Thing" this Sunday. I hate "Things". I volunteered for this "Thing" at Mer-boys open house. Mainly because I got there late and by the time the sign up sheet got passed around to me, all the good "things" on the sheet were taken. Now I'm directing traffic at the "Thing" on Sunday, because I was late to the open house. Shit.

I'm taking a billy club and a flash light. Abuse of power, rock on! Anarchy Rules!...no, wait, that's all wrong. Whatever, I'm in charge of SOMETHING for God's sake...I need that now like warm milk at bedtime.

 

Mer-boy's Got it Bad For His P.T.

"So let me get this straight...if I get worse, we spend more time together?"

There is No CEO of Love

My friend Larry got his heart stomped on again...by the same woman.

The same woman he was going to marry a few months back, decided she "didn't know what love was"...and ran away, leaving my friend Larry devastated.

Recently...as of the weather changing oh so slightly, Larry's previously betrothed  reneged on her running, and came bounding back into Larry's waiting arms.

We heard no more from Larry for a while.

Then again, well...you can probably guess what happened.  That's right, she split again. She "doesn't know what love is"..

For the record nor do I know what love "Is", but for my friend Larry, I can certifiably tell him what love is not, because when I get scared of my child  I don't run away...and there are plenty of mothers who do.

Sid and Marty Kroft Family Reuniun

Sweet mother of God, WHY is he here? What have I done to deserve this vexation? I'm a "Good enough" mother...I do my best. And yet, here comes the only human being on the face of Terra firma known to make my cranium contents explode through  my left nostril. Of course he didn't call first, why give me an opportunity to not answer the phone?

Odd isn't it, how I love The Mer more than I loved Leif Garrett, circa 1972, and yet his father...well, remember "Sigmund and The Sea Monsters"? Sid and Marty Kroft show, same era. The Mer's dad...The Sea Monster.

Maybe that explains "Mer-boy"? Hmm.

Conversation overheard just now, as The Sea Monster is trying to help Mer get to the next level on "Sponge Bob-The Yellow Avenger":

Mer-boy- "Dad, did you really used to live in Japan?"

The Sea Monster-"I made a gadget and when it got to Japan it didn't work, so I got to go live  where the gadget lived so I could fix it when it broke."

Mer-boy-"What was it like?"

The Sea Monster-"And all the women are this tall, have black hair and look the same. Oh, and you can buy Vodka on every street corner in soda pop vending machines."

Mer-Boy- "Mom and I watched "Kill Bill" last night."

Blogging + Masturbating =Blasturbogging

Sometimes I like to go back and read through my old posts, sort of a combination of blogging and masturbating.

Blasturbogging, masturblogging, yeah that ones better...masturblogging. So I did this just now, a little masturblogging, and boy is my hand tired. (i had to) And what I discovered is what every blogger must eventually find out about themselves...If I'd known how bad I sucked in the beginning, I would never have continued to humiliate myself this way.

Now I just don't give a crap. (read she's full of shit) Not like I have a corporate position in limbo due to publishing my radical, alternative lifestyle on the Internet. Oh no, it's worse. Last night as I was lying in bed stressing about the cartoon commitment, it dawned on me why the other moms at Mer-boys school may have been giving me that look, and drawing their young nearer to their bosom as I approach each day after school.

Why after nearly a month of seeing these women daily, Monday through Friday, not ONE of them has bothered to ask me anything about myself. Not one. Not even a "Do you work?" or a "Are you married?", perhaps a casual "Is Al your only child?", but hell no...nothing. The self-centered bitc--wait a sec, I thought...they don't NEED to.

When I joined the PTA, the head PTA person, I'll call her "The Ringleader", had me join their Google group. I swear to God, I just layed there and broke out in a cold sweat, at the realization that they...each and every PTA member, had a red carpet invitation right smack dab here.

No, they most likely didn't, I'm just the kind of person people feel the need to shield their children from...happens all the time. I break out in show tunes in line at Target, wouldn't you? As far as the lack of interest in my personal life...hell maybe I'm just a freak they don't want to talk to, in any case it made me think about how anonymous I might want to be from now on.

I of course mean Ringleader lovingly.

John Wayne School of Parenting

I spend an inordinate amount of time stuck in this "Office" wishing I had a Power book, ibook, or hell for that matter, an Acer from PC Club...but I don't, not yet. The time away from Mer-boy , separated by the distance of what seems to him like a football field, has weighed heavy the last few days.

So last night as I was tucking him in, I made a promise I may soon come to regret. One that means the world to a small fish-like-child...but may in fact push me right over the edge of motherhood.

We are watching cartoons together at 8:30.

Not just any cartoons, but the Saturday Morning All Star line up.

I'm not maternal by nature, and parenting is always done John Wayne style if possible..."Pardner, you better do your homework...or else." imagine the mentality it takes for one, large, dirty, cowboy, type individual to sit down and watch cartoons with a small child...I said imagine.

I would rather eat glass than do this. Rather vacuum out the Pathfinder. Rather weed eat. Rather ANYTHING, than sit in front of the TELEVISION with a kid who knows every theme song to every cartoon made, every jingle to every commercial shown while watching every cartoon made...anything.

"Is it 8:30 yet?"

At this juncture I'm tempted to pull the old he-can't-tell-time-worth-a-crap-yet-so-tell-him-it's-still-7:00-trick...but I don't.

"Almost honey."

Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in the guilt of letting him watch so damn much T.V. while I'm in here on my LOVER...perhaps. And perhaps it's just as simple as I hate television, therefore Mer-boy loves it, is addicted to it, Betty Ford type shit. Goes into convulsions if he misses one of "His shows". Hard to watch, but what can I do? His disease is stronger than my recovery.

"Is it 8:30 yet?"

"Deadbeat Dads"... Just a Myth Anyway

$61.15. That's the current balance with U.S. Hell-ular. Can I get an Okie-fied "Hell yeah!" Gonna sleep like a bambino tonight, but first...

Let me tell you some of the thoughts I had over the last few weeks of stressing the F out over this flippin bill:

• Sell plasma
• Sell Mer-boys plasma
• Sell Mer-boys dad's plasma
• Kill Mer-boys dad
• Forgot about the plasma idea
• Fly a sign on I-40 and Meridian Ave.
• Have Mer-boy fly a sign on I-40 and Meridian Ave.
• Kill Mer-boys dad
• Forgot about the sign idea
• Hit random churches with Mer-boy in a wheel chair
• Kill Mer-boys dad
• Kill Mer-boys dad
• and last but not least, kill Mer-boys dad

Mainly because he finally paid the $127.00 in child support last month (the same week I filed formal contempt charges), I chose to let him live.  I'm nice too. Unfortunately the other Evil Empire  sent it to the old address because they have such bright promising individuals employed in their ranks, they are unable to update  files correctly. They must all hang out here .

The State Office of Finance policy prohibits forwarding of child support checks, Medicaid reimbursement checks, TANF checks, basically anything a family might be dependent on for survival-they make sure it doesn't get to you. Regardless of how many times you contact  them and tell them you have moved give them the new information, and assure them through various humiliating methods of identification that yes, you are in fact yourself....because Christ knows the number of fraudulent child support checks being written every month has reached epidemic proportions.

Sometimes Life Is so Beautiful, it Catches You Off Guard

When I lay down in bed every night, my thoughts are consumed with the "Am I crazies?"

I consistently ask for "Signs" always followed up by "and please make sure dear universal goodness, being, energy, thing...that I can SEE them."

This week, the last two days, has been enough for me to keep moving in the direction I'm going.

All any of us really need is someone cheering us on, saying atta-girl, atta-boy, atta-hamster, you can do it.

I made this "Deal" with the above mentioned universal, goodness, being, energy, thing-about a year ago now.

That deal was as follows:

Give Mer-boy and I a new life, one that replaces the past torment, disease, and loss...and I'll spend the rest of my life helping your other babies, er whatever we all are.

I'll be damned if the UGBET didn't keep their end of the deal, while I promptly forgot...or have I?

If we can touch ONE life, make ONE life better, through whatever means possible...we are a success.

ONE life, that's all.

The UGBET, I can live with that.

Thank you Angela.

The Evil Empire Part 2

If you've been following this blog for anytime now, you know that there are things about my life that are, well...weird.

Two weeks ago I shared with all two of you, about my unfortunate circumstances with "The Evil Empire" .

Most recently I was whining about it yesterday afternoon. (Just scroll down, I'm tired)

So this morning I get an email from a sista blogger, and fellow welfare mama "Welfaremum" , informing me Mer-boy IS going to the Fair...end of subject..

Apparently you don't argue with the mum...eh, hem.

Last night I prepared two weeks worth of itemizing 18 pages of my U.S. Hellular bill, in the hopes that the impending return phone call to "Aaron" the managing supervisor person guy at U.S. Hell Headquarters in Geneva would turn out differently than the previous 22.

I was vacillating back and forth between begging for mercy, and threatening with the ACLU when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Aaron (mumble) the (mumble, mumble) with U.S. Cellular, and I'm (mumble)  but we (mumble) calls (mumble)"

"Aaron, I'm sorry I can barely hear you, your breaking up bad."

"Is  this better, can you hear me (mumble)"

"Uh, yeah, some."

"Good. As I was saying, I've had an opportunity to go over your bill (right) and also to review your history with U.S. Cellular, including the last two weeks. (huh?) I agree with you this doesn't fit the pattern of your calls, and we had several other customers have the same thing happen last month, so I'm taking off all but your basic rate and the three text messages you made.

"Ma'am, are you there? Hello, ma'am?"

Survivor (not the show...or the band)

I am an amazing mother.

I am a survivor.

You don't get through your mother's suicide, boyfriends murder, best friends abduction and (fill in the blank), eating yourself up to 350 lbs. then battling anorexia,  the kidnapping of your newborn by the Gestapo, and then the "G" coming back for the other two years later as ransom for your rights to the first...and NOT be one.

I'll come back later and tell those stories, because they are important and tell you more about who I am and why I'm here.

I believe we can get through anything as long as we don't give up.

I wont go into gory details, but she shot herself, in the head, with me right there. An intimate moment no doubt. I turned and ran. I ran for several years, until the alcohol, men, and food, finally caught up with me.

The point I started out trying to make was this: we are all capable of making it through anything hard, everything hard, no matter what it is that's causing the pain...it's going to get better if you hang in there a while. Me too.

I'm whining about mediocre bullshit, when I have so much to be excited and happy about.

So I don't have Athena with me. That sucks a lot...a whole lot.

But it doesn't have to distort and discolor all the beautiful glorious sights in my view. I'm not trying to go all supper-freak-preachy on you, just bear with me all right?

We all came into this world with everything we needed to survive. We came in intact and whole, not damaged and screwed up. Not addicted and heart broken, not selfish and corrupt.

We came in just fine.

What changed?

Nothing.

You are the same precious creature you were the day you got here. You are equipped with all you need to get through everything that comes your way. Everything.

There have been great tragedies in my life, but I did not quit. I did not give up, settle for less, accept the unacceptable.

I've kept going, and some days are crappy as hell...but there's always another one tomorrow, more opportunities to screw up and grow up...as long as I make right choices.

Shut UP!

I'm sick of looking at myself.

Not in general, just on the front of this worthless-won't-ever-get-any-readers-blog.

I can't write. Who the hell am I kidding? I suck.

Bad few days.

Sick of being poor, sick of all the struggle, sick of having to tell Mer-boy "no" all the flippin time.

Physical therapist wants to see him three times a week now.

Winter will be hard on him this year, and I can't afford to buy the necessary rugs to put in this place.

I guess i shouldn't have even TRIED to write yet, but i was ready to start kicking Satan (the cat.)

It just gets hard when he's hurting or we  have to go down to that hospital, when I'm reminded he's getting worse every day...I stay strong for him, but inside I'm screaming, at night when he's asleep I'm pacing...stressing...

The state fair starts this weekend, Mer-boys never been. One because we've never had the money to go when the fair came around...ever. Hard to believe. And two, because I don't want to put him in a wheel chair yet.

This year isn't any different damnit.

Traditional employment is out of the question with a child who has so many Dr.s appointments, and now  P.T. THREE TIMES A WEEK.

I'm just down, it'll pass, always does.

This blog, this great idea about how i was going to make a way to get off welfare by BLOGGING!

Whatever.

I'm about over giving these people $15 a month for  modules I can't figure out how to use.

Come Oct 7, my phone service will be suspended for  non-payment of $450.00 worth of phone calls i didn't make, but can't prove...then it will go to collections, on my credit report that I'm trying to clear  up so we can buy this house.

I give up.

To My Daughter

Dear Athena George,

I miss you.

Love, mom

"Two Men on Meth" Attempt Feng Shui

I spent the day yesterday rearranging the furniture that "Two Men on Meth" (the "moving company" I used last month) had ceremoniously, as to completely piss me off for being such a stressed out, demanding, psycho bitch, dropped sporadically around my home.

I'm still finding broken shit.

Last week I had to take my bicycle of all things in to be repaired.

How do you break a bicycle moving it?

Two men on meth.

These guys were throwing shit, running with couches, carrying beds on their backs...it was ugly.

They got me moved though. You know it's desperate times when you have a deadline, and the only guys you can find to help are flippin HIGH. My life. Anyway.

So yesterday I decided to empower myself and move the shit to make the place more homey, you know, not have a couch blocking the front door type thing.

Mer-boy was directing, and somewhat anxious, because he knows from past experience these attempts at home improvement usually end up in a screaming match.

Me vs. the cat, me vs. the wall, me vs. the non-specific, inanimate object of my choosing.

Basically, I scream. Stress out, and then the house gets left half finished in whatever I was doing.

One year it took three weeks to get the Christmas tree up, start to finish. I decided after that to pursue Hasidic type faiths.

I had a strategy yesterday though...a plan four weeks in the making.

First, I would slide rags under the feet of the couch to make it glide smoothly across the newly finished REAL hardwood floors. (breathe girl breathe)

Then I would load the heavy assed antique steamer trunk onto a blanket to achieve the same effect.

Next, the monolith of a dining room table left behind by the stalker (which reminds me, that vpo is about up) will have to be slid on the oriental rug beneath it, to whatever destination(s) I decide.

Brilliant right?

The moving part worked swimmingly... the feng shui part, not so swimmingly-ish.

Anyone who knows me, knows I am very sensitive to, how can I say this...placement of objects, yeah that's good. I'm sensitive to the placement of objects in my home.

Some call this anal retentive, while others call it enlightened.

Needless to say, when the architecture is resistant to my enlightenment, there's very little I can do, and my frustration builds.

At this point,  Mer-boy took the cat, a vase, a small house plant and went outside to play.

After five hours and two lost toe nails, I finally achieved feng.

The shui is waiting for someone to help me hang a 200lb. Gothic mirror.

While I still don't know how I could ever qualify for for this place, and deep in my heart pray to the spheres there's a home and hearth angel just waiting to bestow countless blessings in her department on my fam...I must make it mine, at least temporarily.

For however long we are here, as hard as it is to look at it that way, I am a rooty person. Home is an important part of who I am, my life, my safety, creativity, spiritual health.

It's been two years since I had a "Home", because of my experiences with Slummy, (Slumlord) I never unpacked all the way. Now I'm unable to because we may have to move in the next few months.

If I could whore out my writing somehow...just a way to make some money doing what I love beyond all things material.

Write ebay ads for Christ's sake...anything!

"Hogwart's College of Dentistry" Ch 3

I may have failed to mention, I had a root canal yesterday.

Nitrous oxide and I don't get along. Oh, don't get me wrong, at the time I'm sitting in that chair, mask on my pathetic, quivering face, nitrous and I are good buddies.

It's the after effect that I'm talking about here, as in last nights post...WTF?

Sorry, but even I couldn't decipher my message to the masses. I'm certain it was one of salvation. I usually think I'm a messiah after nitrous.

It's the weekly trip to "Hogwart's College of Dentistry" , that's enough to bring any welfare mama to her knees. Five hours trapped in a chair, being attended to by individuals who READ about Lennon being shot in their high school history books.

Each year brings a new student assigned to me.

Yes I said year, this ordeal started in '03 when Hogwart's first accepted me as a patient after a previous year on the waiting list. So hell yes I'm going to make the damn appointment.

Yesterday marked the first appointment of the '06 school year at Hogwart's, and subsequently, student #5 (two dropped out after dealing with my claustrophobia for an entire semester)

We shall call this student "Bob" because that was his name. Bob was a transfer student from Utah...yes, Bob was a Mormon.

I said MORMON.

In making polite conversation with "Bob", oh wait I don't have to use the parenthesis any more...with Bob, I found out, not like I didn't already have an inkling, that there are almost 3000 Mormons in the greater Oklahoman City area.

Dang.

So Dr. Bob, because he is sorta one, gets ready to use the nitrous.

Let me stop right here and give you some history.

I have an incredibly high tolerance to all things Caine, as in nova, coca, and, well, that's it. I also have an incredibly high tolerance to nitrous oxide...as in my previous students have all been like "It's up as high as it can go...I can't believe you don't feel it?"

Truth. I'm not just trying to get a freebie here, I really cannot feel it.

They've all had to learn the hard way, or rather I'VE had to learn with them the hard way, how to drop the oxygen levels in order to achieve the desired effect.

Well, Mr., Doctor, Bob, Mormon  was having none of THAT nonsense let me tell YOU.

He was all "It's at 50%  nitrous, I'm just not comfortable with any more than that, I've never had it this high on anyone before"

For the love of Pete man, crank that shit up, or get away from me with that drill!

Dr, Bob Mormon kept coming at me saying "Can I start now, do you feel it?" and i kept saying "Um, no and NO!"

We were doing this sado/masochistic dance thing that went on for a good hour of our special time together...until FINALLY, out of sheer frustration, Dr, Bob Mormon cranked the nitrous up to 80% and dropped the o2, promptly knocking my ass the F- out.

I awoke to my completed codependent self patting the good doctor on his arm, and telling him I was fine, and it was going to be fine. (You could tell by the look on his face he had failed his creator on some level)

The thing I've seen in the past three years at Hogwart's College of Dentistry, is  there are some students destined for greatness in the field of Dentistry...while others, you just worry really about their futures.

In the halls outside,  as we were  discussing my next appointment, Dr, Bob Mormon said he was going to do some more research on my problems with nitrous...see what he could look up about it before my next appointment.

I just smiled and said "Hey Bob, one thing about people, we all aren't in books...K?"

He just looked at me as if I'd said Jesus visited Santorini afterwards.

I have a lone bumper sticker on my SUV that reads "Dog is my co-pilot", but I didn't mention that to the good doc. I need to be out the next time he drills.

No, I don't have a dog,  I'm a genius aren't I?

Isn't my reflection cute? All the neighbors are out making love to their lawns, and there's Apostol, taking pictures of her bumper sticker in her pajamas, because it has absolutely NOTHING to do with this post. Nothing.

This is why my ranks are so low and the Fug girls have George Clooney giving them pedicures.   

Bigfoot Sighting in Oklahoma City

For a while now, you may have noticed my posts have been worthless, boring, empty banter about nothing whatsoever of value.

Hitting an all time low with the last one, I decided it was time to extrapolate a bit on my recent state of mind.

Not well folks, not well at all.

Here's the deal:

I am STILL on welfare, as a most beautifully written post by brownfemipower  touching on two of the issues in the forefront of my mind lately, aptly describes.

My dear friend "anonymous", who's life and lies to self and his betrothed, I fear will cost him just that.

One does not just "Get over" being trans, or queer, or bi, or a republican. Some things you just ARE...end of story, or is it?

Decisions I've made in my life, some have left unalterable consequences in my path... for a very long time. A very long time.

Some, have harmed others so severely, I will for many years in the future be attempting wreckage clean-up on several levels.

I'm committed to this clean-up process, this healing process.

We screw up. Badly at times. We hurt people we love and wish we'd never done the ill deeds. I'm talking here about human conditions type screw-ups, not malicious, psychopath type screw-ups...although those can be addressed also, at a later date.

No, what I'm talking about is what separates us, dissects our everyday interactions with each other, what delves past the surface b.s. into the dark.

When I go to sleep at night, millions of people I've never met, have met but can't remember, or met and forgot, play through my head.

If I'm lucky, I fall asleep quickly. If I'm not I lay there trying to place these images, these individuals, these memories.

My belief is strong, stronger than any, that we are all related. Part of one massive organism...this collective unconscience. That we are meant to be together, not so much in sexual relationships, as in emotional union.

Emotional, howling-at-the-moon-naked, union...and this is good, even better than ones desire to be loved by another, is ones desire to love ones self. Wholly, unabashedly, exquisitely, in love with you.

Non-narcissistically, that defeats the purpose, but fully, like a child loves themselves. Children see the world as merely an extension of themselves, their place in the world has no boundaries...they are the world, their caregivers, creatures, objects, they become all they take in.

This innocent self-indulgent merging, is all but brain washed out by the 3rd grade in institutionalized educating, and 8th grade in home school educating. Pre-frontal cortex activity takes over...and regardless of the environment, the child/young adult will dis-connect from the world in which they live and are a part of.

When a parent tries to control their child's behavior through discipline, i.e. spanking very young children, under the guise of love, or withholding privileges of a teenager, under the guise of respect...the lesson learned is not the lesson intended.

What's achieved, although it may take a generation before the results are apparent, what's achieved is disparity, and a belief system that requires a see saw in all human relationships. With more times than not, the child/adult being the one on the ground.

Whatever the reason is that you don't listen to your child, I don't care, start the next time they speak. Take time to connect with the human being you brought into the world or hand-picked into your life.

They have something important to tell you.

IT'SNOT Appropriate

Warning: I'm going to talk about buggers.

Ever since we moved in to this house, exactly one month ago this weekend, I have been experiencing something (sinuously speaking) that can only be described as, well...gross.

I am at a loss at who the culprit of this rather unpleasant stickiness is, fearing a combination of the 30-year-old Cottonwood, and perhaps (gasp) a growing black substance amidst the sheet rock and mortar.

Knowing I myself am not the only one affected, brings my concern to an all new level. As Al has been snoring like boyfriend #29 did. No, that was #17 who snored like an apnec Sasquatch, #29 was a rock star. Or was #29 the Chef?

Not until we lay our heads at the end of the day, does this breathing difficulty take center stage. During daylight hours, the bugger issue (bugger, not bigger) is at hand, er...finger.

Buggers, of such an unusual consistency, I would be hard pressed to say I was not in a foreign climate somewhere. Buggers, unbeknownst to me, my child was experiencing also. That is until I mentioned, at dinner of course, my regret at having trimmed my nails back so harshly.

"Mom! You too? My buggers are...well, my buggers are...different than they used to be!"

The look on my child's face, tone of voice, tilt of his head, told me he had been experiencing a degree of anxiety over this subject for some time, and that in sharing with him my own psychic disturbances regarding my sinus cavernosus, I inadvertently confirmed his dread that he, and now we, were dying of a rare and incurable disease.

One that leaves ones buggers the same consistency as the adhesive substance used to attach ads on the front of the Yellow Pages.

Al is over-joyed to know he, and we, are not (hopefully) on the road to purchasing the farm. However the afore mentioned problem has still not been addressed.

Ah-chew.

No Grey Poupon For Me

See that.

Bitch is goin back. Why?

I waited until both Al and Satan were asleep, right? Rolled her out carefully...swept the floor all clean first, didn't want my baby getting dirty.

Slowly I rolled, anticipating the full array of brilliant hues...fuchsia, magenta, deep chocolate brown...

when out of NOWHERE comes this ungodly color, (can't even show it on film, this isn't an adult site) someones attempt at humor no doubt, a hideous shade of early '90s MUSTARD yellow.

Look at the colors here...at any point would any sighted person say "Gee, mustard yellow would be a nice accoutrement."?

Oh the deception, betrayal, and humiliation of returning yet ANOTHER rug...all over mustard yellow. I grieve the loss of what will never be, not with this rug anyway.

The search continues, amidst a plethora of over-priced, poorly made, BORING carpets in my price range.

Am I to spend a winter on bare wood? Feet and back aching, as I toil day in and day out...working to care for my poor son...alone? Hmm?

Whatever.

Target on-line has like five million rugs...hope I can get my money back, Al has a fascination with tearing price tags off shit. I found part of it in his mouth...

Man...mustard, that just sucks bad. What luck. Oh well, at least it's Target...

I once took a coffee maker back that was six months old. Quit working properly because of all the hard water build-up. Cleaned it up, took it back, and said "I don't know what's wrong with it." Got a brand new one.

I know it's wrong, but will it get me fucked up? I doubt it. I hope not. Gosh, will it? What if it does? Shit, what if it does? Man, over lying about a coffee maker to Target...that would suck. Shit.

Man.

Shit.

Maybe mustards not so bad.

Pink Argyle is Heavy

I'm crazy, right? Just so we all agree I need to take this rug back to Target and get my money back...right?...

...right?...right?

Come on I love this rug!

I know you can't see it very well, but I didn't want to take it out of the wrapper...you know, just in case it scared the cat or something.

Can't have it scaring the cat.

I love this rug!

I've been watching this rug since MAY, when the price was...sit down...$189.00...can you believe it hasn't sold in four months?

It's gorgeous, you can't really tell though huh? Sorry, I can't risk it, not just yet. Maybe later tonight when it's dark, and Satan's (The Cat) asleep.

I love this rug!

It's been on the shelf at Target just waiting for me, and I was just waiting for the price to come down...today it finally happened! A whopping ___ in savings (you have to fill in the blank, I can't do percentages, sorry) down to $69.00...Come to mama!

I love this rug!

I thought it was a typo or something on the sticker, so I draaaged my baybay to the scanner six isles over. Did you know you can't just scan an item? No, it like has to be lined up just right, going a certain direction, a certain length away.

Pink argyle is heavy.

I love this rug!

...I hate this rug.

"Cops" in Suburbia

We have a cop that lives two houses down, so last night as I was working in my office and saw the cruisers in front of the house...thought nothin of it.

Until that is there were like FIVE of them.

WTF.

I'm from the hood y'all, this suburbia thing's new to me... so I head on out the front door to see what's up. The neighbors across the street had positioned themselves to make it appear as if they were relaxing on their front porch, but no, I'm all like (yelling no less) "Hey! What's up with the cops?"

It was about this time one of the cops (a really cute young one with jet black hair...a young John Travolta, circa "Saturday Night Fever") opens the back of one of the cruisers, and out comes one the neighbors husbands in cuffs.

While young Travolta is putting the dude in the back of another cruiser, all I can think, because I'm from the hood, is "Ah Hah, I knew he wasn't just energetic and shit...no one mows their lawn at 2:00 a.m. because they really love horticulture"

I forget some people are just plain crazy...not everyone's strung out.

By this time I've gotten more coffee (red Starbuck's mug) and I'm on the front porch across the street blowing the neighbors cover...loudly. I'm Greek, I can't help it.

I'm all "What happened, I missed it?"

They said, I shit you not, this is what they said, they said, well, it was HER actually, he was trying to hide behind a newspaper...She said, "I don't know...I try not to get in to other peoples business." 

My reply..."Well I do, want me to go ask?" and I acted like I was going to walk over there and...ASK!

She then said, because she doesn't know I really would have, "I think it may have been a domestic or something, she (the poor dudes biotch wife who doesn't know you only call the cops on a man if you FEAR FOR YOUR LIFE, ...NOT because he called you a fat whore) had told me they were having problems lately.

I look over at this point and there she stood...not a scratch on her.

Now I'm going to point out a few things here for those of you who don't get it....

Five cruisers, seven cops, all white, response time-five minutes.

Three years ago, in the hood, same scenario...

One cruiser, two cops, one black one white, (both eating a sandwich) response time-a week and a half.

Now you get it?

I left, I was out of coffee anyway. As I was walking back across the street, the cruiser with  crazy-possibly-strung-out-wife-beater-neighbor-dude in it, pulls away.

About 30 minutes later, my I-don't-get-into-other-peoples-business, neighbor is seen comforting the alleged victim in her front yard.

The up-side to all of this, is Al can basically run free like he's never been able to before. Three years ago I couldn't let him play outside at all, for fear he'd get shot, run over, abducted, (that hasn't changed) or any number of hood-like things.

These homes are close enough together that I could yell and my neighbors would hear. Good thing I'm not in a relationship huh?

Wonder if Travolta's married?

Maybe she'll bail her hubby out and they'll do the typical vicious cycle of Domestic violence...leading young Travolta right into my waiting arms...

I really need a job.

Shiny Happy People Holding Starbuck's Mugs

My god I'm shiny.

I haven't been the same since the incident with the ceiling fan blade...just hard to get out in public. Literally.

I try to smile, (see) but it's not the same.

I mean LOOK, I'm a damn freak. Starbuck's mug carrying, ceiling fan blade in head, shiny, FREAK.

Eat!

Rampant Napping Allergy inThe Midwest

This is the cutest damn kid I've ever seen...who IS he? My god he's so photogenic, he must have an absolutely drop-dead gorgeous mama

What's that? You say he does, but she's talented and only slightly over-bearing also. Good God man!

I must meet this family, provide this child with and opportunity to reach his dreams by giving his mother a job...one where she will write  and learn how to do what she already does well, even better.

This child will have all the opportunities as my own children had. His mother will see to it by working hard (from home of course, so she can be there for him as he needs her)

Yes, yes, this family will do fine for my next cultural experiment on welfare demographics.

Bartholomew, go get them...muahahahaha!

The above excerpt is why I don't take naps during the day...evah.

The deal about Oklahoma City being one of the top ten best cities in the United States to live, you know, well that's a bunch of prairie chicken shit.

It doesn't count if your on welfare, single, trying to raise a kid, OH HELL no it doesn't count, not if your a drop out and have no way to get back into school, no no no NO it doesn't count if you really want to work, but the system has set things up so you may the fuck not.
Again, I should not nap...I wake up really cranky.

And speaking of crank, according to the neighbors...you guessed it, I'm living in yet ANOTHER renovated dope house. Sheesh, is this a sign? Am I meant to go back out?

Hey, that's an idea.   

"I was doing just fine till I moved into yet another renovated dope house...maybe the fumes from the years of dope cooking were in the paint and the wood floors...it's been seeping into my pores ever since I moved in. Yeah, I know I'm responsible for my own recovery, but I had no mental defenses...it was being absorbed  into my skin and I di-int even know it, therefore I cannot be held responsible."

With the way I've been acting lately...it might just be an IMPROVEMENT.

I'm so kidding.

U.S. Hell-ular Strikes Again

Where in the world have you been dear 13?

Fighting The Evil Empire of Cellular domination and control.

Why, whatever are you talking about?

What I am speaking of should not fall on fragile ears, lest the evil ones infiltrate the passageways of thought, choice and blue-tooth compatibility.

Let no man, woman, or Pre-teen, be held responsible for technological malfeasance...let us all be treated with dignity and humane communications...let humans have, what is to further more be known as "The final say" regarding disputes involving any and or all computerized billing procedures.

Say I, the woman who used 3983 minutes OVER my 1000 (plus nights and weekends) minutes during a time span of ten (10) days, a time span which also included my move, the day of which, I apparently did nothing but talk on the phone from 6:47 a.m. to 8:15 p.m.-non-stop, to everyone in central Oklahoma.

My normal $58.00 phone bill, which has been paid on time every month for the last two and a half years...skyrocketed, almost over night, to a whopping $448.23

...and there is nothing I can do about it...

...because the computer says I used the minutes...it is so.

$448.23 (4983 minutes) all calls that are only two and three minutes long.

I've been lucky I guess, in that I've never had anything like this happen to me...the problem is, well, there's a couple. One, I don't have the money to pay it if they force me too, Two, I'm in the process of clearing up my past credit from being with whatshisname, and cannot-absolutely cannot have anything new added to it...I need my non-traditional credit here, which is bills paid on time...this is important to my future.

And three, I DIDN'T USE THE STUPID MINUTES!!!!

I don't know how to handle this crap...the FOUR supervisors I spoke with today, all told me the same thing... it won't matter if I go through and highlight the calls, and they do an "In House" investigation...

It won't help...I still have to pay it.

How did that newbie, who had to get the kid in the neck brace from "16 Candles" to hawk their goods, get to be a corporate giant?

By having customers like me pay their bills every month, that's how.

Good for the kid in the neck brace, and good for the newbie...but obviously not good for me.

Hey, what if all the U.S. Hell-ular customers refused to call anyone for a week, you know, really took advantage of the "Call Me" minutes...what the heck would happen to the kid in the neck brace...what's her name anyway, isn't she the ugly Arquette sibling or something?