The 13th Apostol

Baby it's Cold Outside

Sleet and ice lasted all through the night. Fully prepared to awake to a cold darkness from snapped power lines. Not yet anyway. Round two is on it's way. Schools are closed, snow accumulations expected of up to 8 inches.

Tuesday it was 76 degrees.

I am opening the store come hell or high frozen water. People in this town are insane. If it's treacherous to drive, they drive. They drive and shop.

And I have a a 4x4! A penis if you will.

While I know this post is anti-climactic for the official last day of NaBloPoMo, I'm just grateful I finished.

Holy Crap, All I Own Is a Biker Jacket

Umm...

Can you say canned goods and pipe wrapping ?

Finally, exoneration for the flamboyant purchase of that stupid four wheel drive.

The Last Time I Had Lights On My House

What was happening in the world the Christmas I was Al's age .

Over Slept

I hate emotional hangovers.

One

We are well into day two of the Christmas light extravaganza, and while I have de-escalated since last nights manic/rage-a-thon fest, I'm flat out making better choices today.

Last night, after hanging 10 out of 75 feet of lights, Rainman packed up his trusty ladder and went home. Assured in his mind, of a job well done.

Al had passed out from exhaustion on the couch waiting for Mad T.V. to come on, so I picked up my child and headed up the stairs. Exhausted myself from the emotional binge I'd been on for the last 12 hours.

When on my way past the picture window by the front door, I noticed some blinking. I stopped, Al in my arms, and looked out. Not our 10 feet of lights. Hmm. Weird.

I climbed the stairs, then down the short hallway to Al's room. There it was again, a blinking. Again I stopped with child in arms...where was the blinking coming from? I looked out the window in the upstairs dormer for a long time. I could see the  residual light of something blinking, but not the blinker.

Tucking Al in bed, I turned down the lights in his room and stood perfectly still........................blink..............blink.....blink, blink, blink, blink.....blink.............blink........................blink...

Those of you familiar with Bi-polar bears, will appreciate the calm with which I turned, exited my child's room. Not a peep did I make, while maneuvering the stairs in total darkness, save for the obscure yet goading beacon.

Once at the bottom,  again checking out the picture window,  to no avail. The madness settling in, a constant roar in my ears now. Where was the blinking emanating from? None of the immediate neighbors are blinkers. For that matter,the ones on the block that are blinkers weren't home.

Had I finally gone over the edge? Had my career as a Mall Carnie taken it's toll on my synapses?

I went outside to look, because, well because I'm crazy.

Out to the middle of the front yard I went, refusing to look at anything but my happy feet, knowing a Serial-Christmas-decorator-person was hiding in the bushes, luring me with his blink, blink, blinky thing.

I turn to face the house.

There on the 10 feet of Icy Crystal Twinkle C9's that Rainman managed to get hung, was one lone blinker. Blink, blink, blinking.

One.

And while at this juncture I'm convinced I'll personally spend Christmas in a padded room. I have been able to foot the bill for Al and his father to do something they may never have gotten the chance to do otherwise.

The man is a social leper, a failure as a father in society's eyes, screwed me on child support again this month, yada, yada, yada.

I think this is what is meant by being the bigger person.

Amazed the arms around me are so big.

Why?

As I write this, Al's father the autistic chemist, is hanging the 75ft of Icy Crystal Twinkle C9's I purchased at Target this afternoon.

It's been dark for two hours.

This ordeal started at 7:30 this morning, with me thinking somehow this year would be different than last. It has been, it's been worse.

I am now the proud owner of one 7 and 1/2 ft. Pre-lit artificial Ashville Pine, one 6ft. tall illuminated Christmas tree, (the kind that looks like the Dillards Xmas Logo) one mechanical lighted Buck (side to side head motion, not up and down) and one Crystal Freakin Snowman (hat and scarf included)

I caved. You don't understand the pressure! I'd show you a picture of the pressure, the trees, buck and snowman...but I spent all my money on the trees, buck and snowman so no camera for Apostol this year. (also six electric window candles, and a fancy 22ft. extension cords with three heads in one)

The zenith came while at Lowe's.

Al, the Whirling Dervish he becomes once we enter any home improvement store, is spinning like a top while chanting "Green! Green! Green!" because Katie's house has blue lights, and Cole's house is all white lights...His Majesties must be green or Jesus may not have a Birthday after all.

A what? Huh? Waddaya mean Birthday?

Never mind.

So there I am,  squatting on the floor of Lowe's trying to use my 3rd grade math level, with Rainman on the phone, and my phone almost dead because it's so old it wont hold a charge, but wait! Let's spend money on the most vulgar display of consumerism instead, want to?

The more urgency in my voice, the slower Rainman talks...as if to intentionally make me crazy. He then says, at least I think he said this, my phone was beeping so much with the low battery signal there's no telling what he said for certain...

"All    the    neighbors    have   Icicles   on   theirs."

Each family kicks off the Holiday Season in their own unique way. Some have traditions of watching certain Holiday movies together, others participate in specific religious ceremonies, while still others may go ice skating, or simply out to dinner as a group.

Today, in the traditional Apostolopoulos family way, I kicked off the Holiday Season by losing it in Lowe's.

And I quote:

"Who gives a fuck what kind of lights the God*(%#!^  neighbors have! I just spent a shit load of money on stupid mechanical animals for the front yard and I am not going to ruin it by putting cheap assed icicles on the house!"

It was about this time I glanced up and saw my neighbor who lives caddy corner, standing 10ft away from me.

You know, the one with the mechanical reindeer and cheap assed icicles.

God is so funny.

The Holy Day of Apostolmas

This post was supposed to be titled "Times like these I wish I were still Bulimic", but of course I fell asleep from a L-Tryptophan induced coma and didn't post. The Tryptophan myth is ridiculously overused this time of year, lending much abused discussion to the complex carb/protein combo inside my gut.

My Biker friend Jerry just came by on his Harley. The neighbors caddy corner are installing lighted mechanical reigndeer. Why is it I feel like a square peg at this moment?

This Holy Day began like any other Holy Day of Apostolmas, with millions upon millions of devoted followers awakening before dawn for a moment of silence followed by the shopping serenity prayer.

Then began the festivities, sharp at 5a.m., with full security to escort worshipers to their appointed positions of worship. Apostol herself overslept a wee bit. Something like two hours, but that paled in comparison to the two hour wait outside the Apple store on the lower level.

Can you say "Sellabunchadamnhappyfeet?"

It never ceases to amaze me the kind of crap people will buy when in a feeding buying frenzy. I had mothers buying their damn kids slippers two sizes too large...BECAUSE. I had grown men, when told the last pair I had in their size was pink , say "That'll work, I'm only wearing them at home!". I had couples buying for yet to be conceived children...and the smallest size we carry fits a four-year-old.

The two seventy something women from Poland, who bought matching pairs in all black and strutted off down the mall workin it.

The woman on her second round of Chemo from Adrenal Cancer, whom I told I dug her haircut. She bought everyone in her family a pair of the elephants ...so they wouldn't forget.

The soldier who leaves on Sunday, but couldn't say where. He bought NASCAR  for his Mom and had me ship them to her "She loves Kevin Harvick ...plus, her feet always get so cold now that Dad's gone."

These Mall Memoirs, these lives intermingled, criss crossing in a whirl of anticipation,  jubilation, hope and me.

Myself as a hub, a cog.

There's nowhere else I'd rather have been, on my 42nd Birthday...Amen.

Yeah, Another Gratitude Post

At midnight, after I handled the deaf girls break down over the tarp that covers The Happy Freakin Feet display, Al and I went to the grocery store.

We decided our Thanksgiving dinner would be one of choice, and not tradition. At least until I get paid next week.  Neither one of us are that excited over Turkey, so we got Gouda and Feta cheeses instead. Triscut crackers, sugar cookies, and some egg nog.

The explosion of neighborhood activity lasted late into the night, as the competition to outdo Not-a-mom and Not-a-dad has begun. If lights were in my budget, I'd show them how The Greeks decorate for Christmas! Oh, po, po, po, po,!

That's Greek for "If Jesus comes back this Christmas, He will see my house first!"

Randy and Jerry to the East, who have been together for like twenty six years are in the lead. With lights all then way down the driveway. Al loves their 'Son' Bo who is a non-barker except when warranted, compared to Not-a-parents two ankle biters, who bark at the wind.

He wants a puppy for Christmas, and about forty million toys. I'm just trying to pay bills. I've forgotten about trying to buy this house. I can't even put lights up for him. I was going to go buy a big fake tree on Friday morning, but she needs me there to work as soon as the mall opens.

Oh hell no, I'm not going there. It's Thanksgiving, and tomorrow is the Holy Day of Apostolmas.

My Gratitude runs so deep. So what if we can't put up fucking lights? What are the odds we'd even be spending Thanksgiving in this amazing house, in this amazing neighborhood?

How far we are from the days in the Hood. The days of fear and shame. How far we have been carried from the pain and loss. Who cares? So what? So there's no lights on this gift of a house.

My God. Where was I only four years ago? Hanging a strand of lights across the arch from my living room to my dining room in that duplex in the Hood. The crack infested neighborhood, the meth monsters all night long, up and down the street.

That Thanksgiving I served food till I dropped at The Classen Club. The heart broken, the homeless, the hopeless gaining hope. Then I cleaned and cleaned until I was too exhausted to feel sorry for my damned self. Aching for my son, knowing I could never win against a system so corrupt.

How did I have the strength to let Athena go?

We will be grateful this year, Al and I. Grateful for all the blessings in our life. Our home, his health which is holding swimmingly, for our Feta cheese, Satan The Cat, Cooper The Hamster.

But mostly, after all we've been through, we'll be grateful another year for each other.

Some day he'll know maybe, the choice I made in order to get him back to me. Someday, just because that's the law of the Universe...he'll hate me, think I'm stupid and boring.

For now though, I'm still the most beautiful, smart, funny, wonderful mom in the world.

I can live with that...and be grateful for it.

Wordsmithing

Because this woman and her husband are young, and had no idea what they were getting themselves into.

Because the manufacturer has their Christmas paid for.

Because there's one born every minute, and I'm grateful it's not me... this time.

Because in my life, I've been a 'Taker' more often than a 'Giver'.

Because last year at The Mall, I learned I could sell a drowning Eskimo a glass of Ice water...and have them thank me for it.

Because I no more have control over these events, the positioning of human lives, than I do the wind.

Because I am shameless in my old (er) age, realizing I'm more like my father every day. A Word-smith, a Horse trader, a herder of consciences. Corralling even the stodgy and maimed into being penned and petted.

Because if there is such a thing as reincarnation, I'd like to think myself a master hawker, selling Dr. Bartholomew's elderberry elixir to ease the troubling melancholia, er...feet. Just one teaspoon every night for thirty days, and you'll be guffawing like your old self...or my name's not Apostol Apostolopoulos.

Because it's Thanksgiving Eve, it's just Al and I, and it feels good to make a difference.

We Are One You Know

That last post was a direct result of eight hours on my feet yacking at people, and forcing them to try on giant furry animal slippers in the middle of a mall. Which is curiously easy for some strange reason.

Once a crazy lady drops to her knees in front of you, and tells you to take your shoe off, it's a little hard not to. Call it fear, call it confusion...their brain is just doing what it's told to do, while at the same time attempting to register what is happening.

"Did this woman on her knees, just tell me to...Oooh, these are the most comfortable slippers I've ever had on my aching mall walking feet in my life I'll take two pairs and one for Uncle Billy who's in a Home!"

Some just want to talk about Uncle Billy in The Home, and that's all right too.

We are all the same, all just want to be heard, need to be loved, know someone cares. We are all afraid of dying, have financial fears, long to connect.

As I watch us go by hour after hour, I'm struck by the similarities, how bold they are this time of year...we wear them on our faces, the pace we walk, the tone in our voices.

We are all the same, and that's good to remember.

Service work rules!

Why Does Thanksgiving Only Get 15 Minutes of Fame...Literally

Picture if you will a 30 ft tall inflatable Santa, with a crack pipe in his hand, accompanied by a half dozen lighted god-forsaken candy canes. Got it?

Now, picture it in my next door neighbors yard. That's right, Grim has a twisted cousin from South of the border named Santos, er...Santa. See, well, you can't exactly, because that crappy camera I was using to document my life,  first of all wasn't mine, and second of all, wasn't so crappy now that it's gone. It was best for all involved, trust me.

As I was bitching, Not-a-mom, and Not-a-dad are definitely on their game this week, as they have beaten the entire block, NO, the entire edition at decorating for Christmas. Sorry other religions, but I'm from Oklahoma,  a Jew lived here once, but the Baptists ran him out. (I hate this place, I hate this place, I...)

As I type this post, Not-a-mom and Not-a-dad are decorating the fucking tree. I know this because as Al and I tried to pull into our driveway we couldn't help but miss the mark due to the glare from Santa's crack pipe.

I do not hate Christmas/SorryotherreligionsbutI'mfromOklahoma, but I'd like to get through Thanksgiving and The Holy Day of Apostolmas first. (which BTW is Friday)

I'm certain I have no idea where our stupid tree is. As in, we fled from the lord so quickly, moved into a house so big, and all the other excuses I use to rationalize my ADHD/Mad Cow disease.

Maybe for Apostolmas I'll buy us a new one...after I get off work that is. The Mall opens at 5a.m., and Apostol will be there, working at the Happy Freakin Feet kiosk, on the biggest shopping day of the year, at the biggest Mall in the city.

I have arrived.

In response to "My Most Prized Possession":
The spine of an antique horse saddle

My Most Prized Possesion

Seek and Ye Shall...Continue To Seek

I'm acutely aware of my loneliness this holiday season. Aware of the fact Al and I have no one but each other again this year. That's no ones fault but my own. My inability to let anyone in long enough to establish a close relationship makes it impossible.

I admire those who have this intimacy. I want it, used to try and achieve it. The end result of my attempts at intimacy was always someone getting hurt. So I quit.

Al has never known a family, never had a father, never had Grandparents...he doesn't know that he's missing anything. This seems normal to Al.

I am missing the world of it all. I am full with guilt and grief over choices I've made and losses in my life.

Last night, Al's little friend went with us to church. My never ending quest for the right God has landed me lately at one of the wealthiest churches in the city...with a huge "experience" for children.

Katie is seven, the same age as Athena.

We are driving North on the parkway, past the lake and out to the countryside...the kids are burping their ABC's in the back seat and cracking up. I crack up, then start to burp my ABC's.

We are laughing, driving North in the dark, following the red tail lights to God. I pray it's a different God this time.

It's not, it's always man made.

Afterwards we stop at McDonald's for Joyous boxes of food.
They  are laughing, fighting, somehow Al's shoe ends up outside...

I want my daughter. Want to know her like they promised. Want my children to have each other like they promised. Want my crappy cards to fucking be acknowledged. Want Athena in the back seat with her brother. Want Al to know that God didn't let it happen, man let it happen, I let it happen...therein lies the problem.

i-rony

The reason I was fired from The Evil Empire ... is the reason I'm the number one Happy Freakin Feet salesperson at the Oklahoma City post.

My big fat Greek mouth.

Alright,  there's only two of us...and the other gal's deaf, but hey.

(This image is perplexing, concerning, even angst provoking )

Twelve Years Ago

Almost twelve years ago exactly, I helped my Father slip gently from his life. All sixty-four years of existence on the big dirt ball we (some) call mother, were profound and generous.

He, my father, was a proud and complex man. Never tiring of his children, their antics or ability to demand his undivided attention at the most inopportune times.

Cowboy,  in the oldest sense of the word. Wearing a red cowboy sash about his neck, leather bolo, worn dark from the oils in his skin of the same, chaps - pointy toed black Lama's, always a white hat...he was a good guy Daddy, and he was God.

What are you supposed to feel when God dies?

Mama's mind left, and he could've gone too. He stayed. Sleeping next to the memories  for another ten years, before what was left followed suit.

He sprinkled her ashes somewhere...no one knows. It was sacred, between them, with no room for froth or bows.

He adored her till the end.

She couldn't remember where she knew him from...but the sound of his voice would bring tears to her eyes.

Twelve years ago at this precise moment, my father was leaving. Preparing to join a woman who's mind was sharp and clear.  Preparing to leave my brother and I alone to face a world we knew nothing about surviving in.

Apostol Sells Happy Feet While Bloggers Get Amnesty

In other news:

Amnesty (from the Greek amnestia, oblivion) is an act of justice by which the supreme power in a state restores those who may have been guilty of any offence against it to the position of innocent persons. It includes more than pardon, in as much as it obliterates all legal remembrance of the offence.

Oopsy, My Greek is Showing

A hierarchy (in Greek: Ἱεραρχία, it is derived from ἱερός-hieros, sacred, and ἄρχω-arkho, rule) is a system of ranking and organizing things or people, where each element of the system (except for the top element) is subordinate to a single other element. A hierarchy can link entities either directly or indirectly, and either vertically or horizontally. The only direct links in a hierarchy are to one's immediate superior, or to one of one's subordinates. However, indirect links can extend "vertically" upwards or downwards via multiple links in the same direction. All parts of the hierarchy which are not vertically linked to one another can nevertheless be "horizontally" linked by traveling up the hierarchy to find a common direct or indirect superior, and then down again. This is akin to two co-workers, neither of whom is the other's boss, but both of whose chains of command will eventually meet.

In other areas...

Buy Happy Freakin Feet Yo!

Say Thank you

Things I have been kind enough not to discuss over the last two weeks per m. kennedy's day 14 post:

Religion. My never ending search for God.

Politics. We just can't afford the anxiety.

My neighbors. They really are cartoon characters.

Al. He has just about had enough of Mom's blogging bullshit.

The Ugly Side of NaBloPoMo

This post is not funny, I'm just too hungry, angry, lonely and tired (yes I am) to come up with anything. Not that you expect me to be funny, but life can be overwhelming so much of the time , so if I'm not mistaken, those who can make the world a little brighter have an obligation to do so.

I'm up against a mountain, the mountain being my life and the utter mess I have single handedly made of it. At 42 I am going to work tomorrow at a kiosk in the mall that sells animal slippers. Not as the owner, business partner, or manager...as an employee.

I'm scared to death I can't handle it. Obviously a call center was just too much for my professional-woman-of-the-year-ass, because who the hell gets fired before they make it out of training?

I have spent some time in my life asking the question "Where do I belong?" Which is always followed up with, "Why can't I be like other people?", which leads to "No one loves me." and then finally "Fuck it." Which is Greek for  "I'm not even going to try, if there's a chance I'll fail"

Failure = misery, misery = death...and there you have it, if I can't do it perfectly I wont do it at all.

Humility = a sincere desire to seek and do God's/The Universe's/Creator's etc will.

God's will is for me to sell furry animal slippers at the mall this Holiday season...

Sell furry animal slippers...perfectly. 

The Holy Day of Apostolmas

The holy day of Apostolmas (not to be confused with the holy day of Leslymas) is fast approaching (the anniversary of the day I graced the world with my presence) We are now ten days (10)  away from a day which some cultures consider a day of fertility.

Apostolmas is celebrated by wearing an azure blue piece of felt, shrouded about the head during the daylight hours of Apostolmas. For those of you familiar with Apostolmas, you know it is a time of great joy, great feasts (followed always by great purging) friendship and camaraderie.

Please join me at 8:00 a.m. central time on November the 24th The Holy Day of Apostolmas, for the standard twenty minutes of silence, followed by crank calls to local politicians.

Apostol be with you.

Apostol Reviews (lip syncs) Mental Illness - Her Own

While it seems as though I'm making fun of mental illness, don't get me wrong...I am. If I didn't I'd probably have checked out a long time ago. Humor (and meds) is my way of coping, but not everyones.

If you are suffering from untreated depression, or any combination of a depression based illness, my question for you is why aren't you on the phone right now making an appointment with a QUALIFIED Doctor instead of reading my stupid blog?

On a lighter note... I got a job. I start on Wednesday. I'm working at the mall at a kiosk selling animal slippers. I get to wear fuzzy pink bunny slippers while I  hang out at the mall, and talk to tons of people all day.

Is there a better job? I don't think so.

Apostol's Random NaBloPoMo Review #4 "Mom's The Word"

Carpool Tunnel is Sirius

My battery went dead on the crappy camera, lucky you.

You have no idea the amount of pain I'm in typing these words.

Carpal Tunnel is a very serious disease, er, disorder...disease whatever, it hurts. I almost think I need to go to the E.R. for some Demerol...yeah, I'm pretty sure this is a "10" on the pain scale.

"Mother, is that you?"

Is it a slip, you know, if you neeeed pain killers to blog?

I type, blow ashes, type, blow ashes. It's a mess.

It should be charged up just in time for this evenings edition of "Blogs on The Edge"  Mommy blog reviews you don't want to miss.

Apostol's Random NaBloPoMo Review #3

Apostol's Random NaBloPoMo Review #2

Apostol's Random NaBloPoMo Review (attempt #1)

Hi My Names "Al's Mom"

What's with all the tweaker Kniting Bloggers out there? Am I just completely missing the boat? Who has the patients to sit still and knit?

What is wrooong with meeeee?

Why, (and I really want an answer here God)  am I so different than all these other women?

I'm not slamming anyones blog, because believe me, after reading some of these my self esteem is even more in the bidet than before...I'm no writer, I'm just some broad who throws words together.

But, and I mean BUT...what is the dealio with the secret womens knitting, child rearing, mini-van driving society? I want in. I'll sell my 4x4. Come on? Please?

Your all so, so happy...spunky, your spunky too. You knit, and spunk, while being happy. You post pictures of your happy soon-to-be-knitting children and pets, who model your knit wear.

You are my hero's, because I could not sit still long enough to knit Cooper The Hamster a scarf. Someone would get hurt, it is far too slow a sport hobby for me.

I could be your mascot, or a poster child for what happens to those who are unable to knit.

Just let me in,

I'll bake cookies brownies.

I Had To...

adopt your own virtual pet!

Reality

My kingdom for a custom header...and some help with this damn installation...

Have you seen my kingdom?  Well then.

Childish Things

HE was in the other room with my child laughing and playing, my child who kicked another child last night, not ten minutes after HE arrived two hours late ("I forgot it was Thursday")

HE is unable to see how his behavior affects Al, that the deadline for the scholastic book club order was today, and the child support check,  all $127.00 of it, is M.I.A. again. 

I have a job interview on Saturday.

Someday it won't matter whether or not HE functions, remembers, agrees, participates, cares, grows up, is in denial, is out of denial, tells the truth, goes the distance, can find his ass with both hands, says thank you.

Someday, the years he stole from me tearing me down will be a blur. For now they are crystal clear, and he is Al's father in the same breath.

I hate him for what he has done.

Al loves his father, because I,  I am a liar.

Return of The Giants

My favorite Brit Jonathan Beckett of Life and Times fame, has written a rather racy, and somewhat erotic piece about Moleskine. Jonathan muses:

"The Moleskine notebooks have something of a history - they were “the legendary notebook of Van Gogh, Chatwin, Hemingway, Matisse and Céline“. Perhaps through owning and using one I might stand on the shoulders of such literary giants, and channel their talent through my pen."

I started wondering what those literary giants, and others would say about this medium of ours if they returned today? What might they be inclined to write in blogs, given the opportunity?

Create with todays technology,  Say Ernest out to Sea with his Mac book Pro, Frida and Diego at opposite ends of The Blue House, each with Photoshop and Dreamweaver...

Gauguin telling his Islanders to hold on while he re-booted, Van Gogh ordering Oxycontin from off-shore Pharmacias, Klee and graphics, Picasso and fractals,

And all the while,  apprenticing under a mommy blogger from Toledo. Ending sentences with smilies, what would Emily Bronte's text message to Matisse read like...

"henre wats up? R U goin out 2 nite? call me l8tr; )"

Could the giants function at all without us? Would they love or hate our current state of technology? Would Virginia Woolf know the same freedom of expression the mommy blogger from Toledo knows?

Do we take for granted the ability to express in full, the ease with which we exercise our first amendment rights?

I can't imagine my world without this communication form, this art medium. We have tapped into something so expansive, the possibilities for growth are endless. I suspect the giants, if returned in full regalia, might feel likewise.

One can only ponder whether or not there'd be shoulder-standing upon their arrival, and in light of technology, who would be the standee?

It's The Little Things

Pieces of Me In No Specific Order

                         I'm half Greek, half Irish.
Yes, I cook Greek food...wicked Baklava.
I live in one big beautiful house, with the coolest eight-year-old I've ever met.
I lost him once, but found him again. It took a year.
His sister is a different story.       
Five years ago I was living in my broken down Honda Civic, then I moved into public housing with all the crack heads.     
Crack heads are afraid of the mentally ill.     
I was born on Thanksgiving Day 1964.     
I thoroughly enjoy picking long gooey buggers, and popping zits. (mine)
I've never bought anything on credit.     
I am determined.     
I lost my virginity at 16, in my bedroom with my parents in the other room.     
My mouth consistently overloads my ass, thinking before I speak write takes discipline.
I am undisciplined.
I used to be very fat, 356 lbs. worth of very fat.
I lost it by not eating so much.     
I am disciplined.
My Mother held a MA, EdS, and an EdD.
My Mother had early onset Alzheimer's, and at 56 shot herself in the head with a .41 caliber revolver.    
I was there.
I have a younger brother. We don't talk.     
I am an artist.    
I smoke way too much.    
I hate that so many of these begin in "I".    
I will be very wealthy one day.     
I will help the ones I cannot help today.    
I have lost everything, twice.
I am blessed beyond words to have this life I live.     
At 30, I held my Fathers hand as he died, giving back to him some of the strength he had given me throughout my life.
I am a survivor. By Grace I land on my feet.    
Everyone has a story, and if we take the time to listen we can change lives by our very presence in that moment.
I've been writing since I was five-years-old, keeping journals since I was six. What does a six-year-old write about? The same thing a 41 yr old writes about, their experiences of course.   When I was eight, I wanted to move to France, live in the Lighthouse at Cap d'Antibes , and paint.   When I was nine I got my period, and fell in love with David Cassidy and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
If you don't like me it will probably bother me a lot.

What are some of the pieces that give you character, that make your writing good?

In Honor of National Crazy-Liar-people Day

Did you vote? I did. Almost wish I hadn't. The only part of it I feel good about is the sticker, which Al is now wearing on his forehead.

I love Oklahoma, hate Oklahoma politics. Not real thrilled about the Religion around here either, but let's not play the crazy card just yet. (My apologies people of Earth, the image is of Oral Roberts)

I exercised my right, and don't you know when I explained to Al that it used to be a law that women couldn't vote, he looked me square in the eye and said..."What's frog phlegm?"

I keep saying I'm getting rid of the cartoon network, but it works better than Ritalin did, and...he's not stoned all the time.

It's Apostol's Birthmonth!

Here we are at day seven of NaBloPoMo, and while this event has done a great deal towards erasing the black shadow that hangs over the month of November...it's residue still remains.

Not only is November a time when we remember a fallen leader , vote for new ones, eat willie birds , then run out and shop our consumer asses off...

November is also my Birthmonth.

I decided Birthdays weren't nearly enough when I was a child. One day. What a rip off, you people should be celebrating the greatness of me all month long...hence Apostol's Birthmonth.

Getting others involved in my celebratory tactics has always been challenging. People feel usually as if I'm being greedy, selfish, egotistical. I tell them, "You too may have a Birthmonth if you so choose."

Think of the things we celebrate monthly: Black History, Womens Rights, Gay Pride, Surely my Birthday deserves an entire month long celebration? What would the world be like had I not been born? What drastic diffenences would there be in our civilization without me...without you.

We don't spend nearly enough time observing, celebrating, the uniqueness of ourselves. I'm sorry if I offend thee, but damnit it's my Birthmonth.

With that said, November is also a time when for whatever reason, planatery alignment, whatever...really crappy stuff happens in my life. So while I'm running around saying "It's my stupid Birthmonth" my car is usually breaking down, or I'm getting kicked out of my house, people die, all kinds of really bad shit goes down.

I'm not saying there's a correlation between the two, you know, me being an egotistical ho-bag and the bad ju ju...but it sure makes one wonder if the whole Birthmonth experiment isn't such a grand idea after all.

This year, I'm going to test my theory right here in this venue, and we shall see what befalls Apostol in the month of November, because after all...It's my Birthmonth!

Tornado's and Large Litter's of Kittens

Nightmares about tornado's, and litter's of kittens.

Those were my phobia's as a child. That should tell you something about what type of child I was...neurotic. And while the Tornado's,  especially considering the fuct  godamn I can't type worth ashit this morning   - especially considering the fact I live in Oklahoma, are pretty realistic...

The litter's of kittens, well, that just screams crazy-ville. The weren't just any old litter of kittens, oh hell no, man...they were these litters of like HUNDREDS of kittens...all needing food, some almost dead because they weren't cared for...and somehow in the dreams, I was supposed to take care of all these baby kittens, which of course I couldn't because there were so many...but don't you know I tried.

Well, wasn't that deprtessingh - SEE, crap, I need to go back to bed...have a nice kitten drea,...WTF!!!! I'll post when I cvan find the keys.

The "Scream Guy" Cometh

We woke up yesterday morning to another nightmare starring The  "Scream Guy" . This all began about nine months ago, when a friend of mine was over working on a project with me. While she and I were brainstorming, Al and her daughter were watching television. You can figure out the rest.

The "Scream Guy" has been with us ever since. Whenever we get a little visit from  said "Scream Guy" even bathroom breaks must be accompanied by mom, broad daylight maneuvers are no more safe than nightime...and to be quite candid, I'm really pissed off at The "Scream Guy" at this point. I have tried visualization techniques, I have triend having Al yell at S.G. to go away, I have prayed over him, I have suggested renting the movie and watching it together, since it's always worse in our minds . This brought on some hyperventilating, so I backed off.

I finally succeeded in getting Al out of the house and dislodged from my ass yesterday. I'm not sure what they're doing, but as long as no small explosives are involved and I know where the cat is,  it's fine with me .

"Al, sweetheart, let me take a picture of you...you know, not being in the house up my ass."

 

 

"Hey Al?"

"What Katie?"

"Is that The "Scream Guy" I see over there in the bushes?"

"Maaaawwm?!"

"Al honey, you know on a level The "Scream Guy" is not real...go there, use the force. Do not give this power to make you miserable any longer. You can do this honey, you can take back your life now! Are you with me kid?

"Uh huh."

"Oh come on buddy, just try OK?"

"Come on let's Pinky Pact...Say it with me... "I Al", "I Al" "Refuse to give The Scream Guy any more power over my life" - "Refuse to give The Scream Guy any more power over my life." "I will use The Force, I will use The Force...to kick his butt, to kick his butt...I am not alone. ...I am not alone."

"See buddy, that's all there is to it, all you have to do is take back your power. Do you feel better?"

"Um, yeah...I DO feel better, The Scream Guy no way is stronger than The Force...The Scream Guys really a weenie, and mom, mom, hey mom you know what...The Scream Guy is a bully too and a poop head, yeah a poop head. Mom is The Force God?, can I be The Scream Guy for Halloween next year,  I want a peanut butter and jelly, can I  go play on Katie's trampoline?

"Um, maybe...sure, OK, and as long as her mom or dad is out there. I'm glad your feeling better.

(20 min. later)

"Al, why haven't you gone to play on Katie's trampoline yet?"

"You know."

"No... I don't know."

"Mom?"

"What honey?"

(Using air quotes)

"The Scream Guy"?

Coffee Mate Ginger/Brussel Sprout Creamer

Maybe it's the Bi-Polar thing, maybe it's a touch of Pre-Holiday O.C.D, but I've been pointing and clicking since 5:30 this morning...all in the name of a fucking banner color.

Obsessing about WebSafe vs. ReallySafe color palettes is not my idea of fun, especially when I need to focus on obtaining realistic logistically positioned, part time  seasonal employment, lest Santa be exposed as a fraud perhaps a year too soon. The challenge is to cease the pointing and clicking...three hours later, success!

I have fluid addictions to feed, failing to mention in that post one that's not only costing me $3.96 a day, but over the last year added ten pounds to my tiny frame, in places so vile I promise not to go there... Coffee Mate Caramel/Vanilla Creamer.

Surely normal people don't go through a 32 oz bottle of this crap a day, and Christ knows what's actually in it, because the shit never goes bad. I bought a bottle of one their limited edition flavors last Christmas...something like Ginger/Brussel Sprout, God-awful stuff. Left it in the back of the fridge, you know, next to the jar of Pace with the fur on top - that I repeatedly open, look at, then put BACK in the fridge.

So last Summer I miscalculated the amount of Coffee Mate Caramel/Vanilla creamer I had left, minus the number of hours left before Al woke up and I could go to the store to purchase more.
So I reached in the back of the fridge, checked the Pace, then grabbed the almost full bottle of Ginger/Brussel Sprout creamer. Seven months later... still fresh.

I shudder to consider the preservatives... that's all I was leading up to, It's NaBloPoMo for the love of all written things, and (big finish)... my ass is numb.

West Side Story Revisited

I'm kinda going to miss the Pepto Bismal pink banner. Not too sure how I feel about the green, but when all your pathetic unemployable mind is capable of doing, is to change the color ... your limited.

I was fired yesterday because I can't keep my mouth shut about environmental/humanitarian issues, couldn't comprehend their data entry system,  one of the trainers and I had some personality conflicts, i.e. she wanted me the hell out of her class, and I wasn't going to quit, so she fired my ass.

I did my best, I'm not a robot. There are individuals who are robots...they may have my position.  They will flourish, basking in the glow of all things William Sonoma.

I made a pot of Chili last night, played with the cat, did laundry, hung out with Al after I picked him up from school, and I loved every fucking minute of it. I slept like a rock, no crazy dreams. I am not cut out to run that race.

The moms, and one dad, who wait outside Al's school every afternoon for their kids,  fall into two categories. Either they are able to be there when their ball of limitless, unharnessable energy comes bounding out the doors because they live to the East of the school, and are therefore wives of Doctors Lawyers, and Indian Chiefs or...they live to the West of the school, and are therefore unemployed Butchers,  Bakers, and Candle stick makers.

Either way, they get to be there when their kids get out of school. They stay with their own kind, in little groups, and you'll never see a Butcher talking to a Dr.s wife...not really talking, maybe "Hi, howarya?" but thats all.

So I was back again today after a week long hiatus, to hang with the parents outside the school doors, waiting for Al to come barreling out and jump into my arms. I couldn't be more serious, my kid does this every day, like an old B&W movie, Al runs and jumps into my arms. Sick I know, but what can I do, smack the shit out of him "Get away from me, and stop being so happy to see me ya little trophy! " I don't know about the Indian Chiefs wife, but I'm sure the Lawyers wife would frown on that little retort.

As I approached the groups today, all were atwitter and abuzz, meaning all kinds of high drama had occurred, over a hideous sub who threatened to drag children by their hair, made some stand against the wall, and caused one of the Doctors wives daughters to (with thick Hungarian accent...think "Green Acres")  "Have so much distress, she could not do her spelling!"...

To think I sacrificed this kind of chaos to try and earn a living...what, am I crazy?

Apparently both groups, (on separate sides of the walkway) were ready to string the Principal up by her fallopian tubes for not only hiring this substitute teacher , but having her return the following day...per contract.

In light of the recent events concerning my mouth and it's largeness, I opted (painfully so) to observe from the sidelines. Not that I'm a big drama queen to begin with, but just the same I didn't have all the facts yet. Heaven forbid I blurt out some off the wall comment about recycling to a multi billion dollar corporation (Did I mention I even shared with the trainers in front of the entire class I once picketed Victoria's Secret for failure to recycle? Oh yes I did. Now will you let it go for the love of meatloaf! The food, not the person. Will I ever get out of these grammatical marks I can't remember the name of?)

I could resist no more, and before I knew it was regaling the day to day adventures of dealing with "Educators" within traditional public schools, and confirming that yes, this woman should be stopped. The sad fact of the matter is she won't be. She will no longer be welcome at our school, because regardless of what side of the sidewalk we stand, we will not tolerate it. The principal will not stand for it, but has an obligation to honor the two day contract with the woman, as we are still operating under the public school system even though we are a Charter school .

What these parents were feeling, was what I felt for the previous two school years. Outrage, helplessness, shock, that a teacher could treat short people so cruelly. One bad day, one crappy substitute...yeah, she hurt some kids feelings, but the good news is it stopped. They wont have to experience it every day until their self esteem is non-existent, they have no desire to learn anymore, think they're stupid, ugly, and well...stupider than all the other kids.

Until their mom has to pull some quick moves to relocate...to a school so magical, so fabulous, that one bad day, one crappy substitute...turns the whole place inside out. Man I missed those parents this week.

I know your wondering which, you know...group I hang out with at the door? I'll tell you, the title of my blog speaks so loudly right now. I'm in the "Wives of Doctors, Lawyers, and Indian Chiefs" group, but I'm really an unemployed Candle stick maker.

Shhhhhhh, or I'll soap-box you about recycling. 

Castro Here I Come!

This is my son, my eight-year-old son. This is what he was for Halloween.  (Just go with it)

My child has large testicles. That's truly an understatement after last Springs Olsen Twin  incident.

For the record, I'm not in denial. I love my child more than anything else in the whole wide world...maybe that's why he picked me to be his mom.

He is his own person...

you don't get any more  beautiful than that.

Who Shot The Bird?

...I got fired.

No... seriously, I just got fired after I asked too many of the wrong questions. I didn't even make it out of training.

I'm so happy I could cry! In fact I am crying. I am crying my eyes out because I never have to step foot on that coliseum sized complex again! I'm disgusted by everything this company supposedly stands for!

I know, let's send out 50 billion catalogs every five minutes, and NOT use recycled paper! That will keep anyone from noticing all the slave labor we exploit when we contract with international vendors! (hence, asking all the wrong questions)

You know this company, hell you shop in their stores, on their e-commerce sites...They have targeted kids, teens, the uber-cool thirty-somethings...and yes, your Grandparents to boot! Cool shit, bad business, unethical business tactics? Yeah, that's the one.

One word of advice to the Turkey Day weary up and comers...

Think twice before you order that Free Range Willie Bird this year folks...who knows, "Organic" may just be a word someone in marketing threw in.

I said maybe.

I Want People to Not Give Me "The Look" When I Tell Them I'm a Blogger

I am a writer.

I am meant to write and nothing else. I can't do anything but write. This is who I am, it's not just something I do. Writing, however poorly I may do it, is what sustains me. It is my REASON.

Each of us has a reason, writing, blogging is mine. I am miserable without my reason.

I'm unable to grasp the concepts at work, unable to remember the sequence in which data is entered, confused easily, get lost in the system constantly, know I'm not stupid, but can't for the life of me figure out the POINT to most of it.

I want to throw up.

I want to quit.

I want to hold my kid all night long.

I want someone to hold me all night long.

I want to get paid for my reason.

I want to not whore myself out for another's reason.

I want people not to give me "The Look" when I tell them I'm a blogger.

Mostly, I want to be true to myself, in all that I do, in all that I say, in all that I am.

I am a writer.

All Hallows Eve in Suburbia

Let me tell you what it's like living in a good neighborhood on Halloween.

Let me tell you, because it's something I haven't experienced since Al's Dad and I were together. He was a baby then and I lost Achilles that Halloween night, hit by a car as a direct result of Al's fathers negligence.

Since his father and I ended our relationship, and he evicted me in civil court. Full with posting the court order on the master bedroom door, I have gone from sleeping in my broken down Honda Civic, to living in the projects at the base of our illustrious state capital, to this...

A neighborhood so enchanted, so full of charm and character that parents brought their children here to Trick or Treat from all over town. Not since I was a child have I experienced something so magical.

I bought five bags of candy Reese's of course, and were down to Al sacrificing his personal loot in the spirit of All Hallows Eve. (pretend there's a picute of Al here. No time to upload, you know...the work thing)

I am emotional as hell over a bunch of Trick or Treaters, fridgid cold and out on a night not safe for man nor beast. I am emotional as hell over working 40 hours a week again, missing Al's award ceremony at school yesterday, the one in which he was presented a special honors award.

I am torn just like every other parent who makes the sacrifice. I am angry my writing is so empty, so flat. I am angry I am already adding up the fucking money in my head, paying bills with what I've earned. Angry I've been bought once again.