The 13th Apostol

Cross and Crown Mission...Christ is There Right Now, if You Hurry You Can Catch Him

Yesterday, I walked right back into the Barrio for the first time in two-and-a-half years.
God literally turned my truck around in the middle of 10th street, leading me up to the steps of a great and powerful place.

There is magic, healing, Christianity happening in Oklahoma City, right under our noses.
I have found the place where Jesus would go if he came back today.
Some people would say these healers are crazy. Before  you do that, read their blogs ('Staff' on their home page), go down and talk with them...see the ancient walls, hallowed as any I've ever seen.

Walk past the faces, the mothers with newborns, they look you square in the eyes. The old men, waiting their turn in prayer, the teenagers wrestling on the floor of the youth center...this is holy stuff.

This is the holy stuff I've spent the last year searching for...cutting check after check to make the Non-Specific Mega Church more mega, mega-er. Sitting in on power P.R./Marketing meetings with Pastors who, if a someone was tele-ported into the scene from a land far, far away, the teleportee wouldn't have a clue these people were involved with a church, let alone Christian Pastors.

My heart has been heavy, with one disappointment after another by these trusted servants, these leaders. From bold face to blatant...all in the name of saving the lost.

So I left the Mega's, and went to a neighborhood church.
Other than having trouble staying awake, a common theme, I felt all right about it.
That is until I looked around the sanctuary and realized I was sitting in a full box of Peach crayons.

In all honesty I think Jesus would be so sad coming back, seeing what's happened.What WE have has done with His instructions...and it's no wonder were all falling on our butts.
We talk about all this love, but treat each other like holy hell, the rest of the world see this, then we wonder why they aren't responsive to our proselytizing.

I don't want to hear how your church does this and that, helps so and so, blah, blah, blah...I'm weary with excuses for the body of Christ.

I felt the Holy Spirit for the first time in, well... maybe ever yesterday. The action of love was fully present in this mission. I can't begin to express the profound impact meeting these modern saints had on me.
In saying that, in calling them modern saints, I can feel my neck heat up in fear. Fear I've crossed an invisible line of blasphemy somewhere in the sand of my imagination... the end result of this year long quest for the true Christianity: Fear.

No longer will I tithe on-line.
Is that even tithing?
Does just clicking a mouse do anything other than offend a passionate Lord?
Yes we are to give, the more we have, the more of an obligation we have to our fellow man.

Not the church.

Who are these people kidding?
They were kidding me...
When was the last time I got my hands dirty? When was the last time I honestly, faithfully, lovingly dropped to my knees in the dark of the night and wept for my life, the lives of my children?
If all I have to do to receive absolution, is go to a Virtual World as my alter ego and type in my "Sin" in a glass house, then life really is just a game isn't it?

My question is, who's throwing the virtual rocks?

I commented on a Mega Church Pastors blog one time about his front page bio, in which he regales the joys of meeting his wife for lattes as one of his favorite pastimes.
I informed him, as a single mother, I could feed my boy and I for five days straight for the price of that famous latte. Not comfortably, but we wouldn't starve. Apparently this "Mega Man" believed my comment unworthy of rebuttal.

Am I the only one wondering what's wrong here, when the Pastor of a major Urban city's Mega Church, where the homeless could be a city themselves...shows his self absorption so mightily?

Yesterday afternoon saved my behind spiritually, made me, will make you, recall the true meaning of our lives as a Christians...it's not to worship God by tithing online...it's love our neighbor PERIOD.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with tithing online or buying $6.00 coffee drinks (if they're in your budget). The problem arises when we believe our lives are somehow more blessed and faithfilled, than those who's budget omits lattes' in lieu of the following:

one loaf of bread,
one dozen eggs,
one 1/2 gallon of milk

2nd Grade Valentines Day Angst

(Conversation between Al and I while filling out Valentines for his class)

Al - "This ones for Stevie, I'm her 'Back-up Boyfriend'."
Mama Rose - (me) "What do you mean 'Back-up Boyfriend honey?"
Al - "Well, in case she breaks up with James, then I get to be her boyfriend, you know...back-up?"
Mama Rose - "Who's James?"
Al  - "Number 22" (pointing to the list of 2nd graders in front of us)
Mama Rose - "Your not too thrilled about #22 are you honey?"
Al - "He always finishes his work and takes it up to Mr. H's desk before anyone else...always! I don't even have my name written, and there goes James, flying past me.
Mama Rose - "So James is the smartest kid in your class?"
Al - "Uh huh."
Mama Rose - "And he's got your girl?"
Al - "Uh huh."
Mama Rose - "That's gotta suck honey."
Al - "It's so not fair mom, no matter what I do, I'll never be as smart as James."
Mama Rose - "Do you think that's why Stevie likes James, because he's so smart?"
Al - (voice on the upswing) "The only reason James is her boyfriend and not me, is because he did more gross stuff than me."
Mama Rose - "Break it down Al."
Al - "Stevie picked James because he sat in the mud longer than me. I was tired of being muddy and got out, then that's when Stevie said "OK, James, your my boyfriend, and Al, your my back-up boyfriend...if I'd just sat in the mud longer, Stevie would've picked me."
Mama Rose - "There's a difference between smart and intelligent, and from what you've told me, your much smarter than James."
Al - "Mom, I said he finishes his work first every time, every single time!"
Mama Rose - "You also said he sat in mud longer than you."
Al - "So?"
Mama Rose - "So... why did you get out of the mud?"
Al - "Because it was gross."
Mama Rose - "That's pretty smart Al."
Al - "So... James is intelligent, but not smart enough to get out of the mud.
Mama Rose - "Otherwise known as common sense."
Al - "So what does that make Stevie?"
Mama Rose - "Brilliant."

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?

Wasted Away Again in Rationalizationville

I'm going back to work on Monday, for the first time in almost a year.

I'm really concerned about this place falling apart without me here. I mean what about the cat for Christ's sake? Or the mailman, I always say hi to him, like clock work...we have this hi-saying thing, you know stuff like that's important to ones mental health. This is where you ask me (if I had my comments on) how well is that working for your mental health?

Who will chat with the Car hops at Sonic every day, I mean every day?! These young ladies count on my words of wisdom in their lives...sort of a Car hop mentoring program I've established, (501 (c) (3) status pending) offering humor and support in lieu of much needed tips.

Hey, some things are worth more than money.

What I'm most concerned about, other than who will sit at this monitor and worry about money all day...is this damn NaBloPoMo  (crap that's hard to type) I mean I'm finally doing something here, finally participating in something communal, and I'm probably going to be so emotionally distraught from the above mentioned concerns and pure physical exhaustion, that I won't be able to post.

Isn't that funny Wilma, she's going to experience reality... ten bucks says she caves the first week...you in?

You don't understand how sick I am. To me, NaBlo Fussy's gig is a good reason not to take this job, but then Dolly Parton's birthday is also. "Sorry, can't accept your job offer, It's Dolly Parton's  birth-month"

That image will wake me up tonight. Go back and look at that again. Now it will you too.

This blog saved my life, and that's not an exaggeration. (Mmmm, yes it is)

When I started writing posts back in April, I was  trying to deal with some big losses in my life.  Out of  fear of facing the pain, I quit writing about those losses, and have gone a different direction with this blog entirely. (or all it takes to heal from life-shattering events,  is writing 3 0r 4 posts about it in a blog)

So basically, you get to watch me dance around my issues until my head implodes or Al graduates from High School and moves out. Then and only then, will I be in a position to commit to the necessary histrionics involved with unearthing the bodies of the dead, I thought I'd hidden so well.

What does my baggage have do do with starting a new job on Monday?

Absolutely everything...when you live in Rationalizationville.

Much Ado About Blogging

NaBloPoMo  kicks off next week, and just in the nick of time Maggie's  book arrives! WooHoo! God I hope that check clears.

If you don't have this book, you better get Santa on it quick before there all gone. Maggie Mason is brilliant in her descriptive of everyday do-ables, making the reader (you) feel as if she, and she alone, cared what you had for lunch today...

I was a hard sell, a hold out, while the rest of the blogging world romanced Ms. Masons prose. Even sideways -ing a time or two. My ego got the best of me, for I surely needed no silly book to help me come up with idea for posts! (Said the woman who has her comments turned off)

What I'm learning out here, is that big egos don't survive or succeed. For months all I did was write posts and read three blogs, rarely even attemping to find new ones I liked. I was stuck in a zone, neither comfortable nor 'un'...simply stuck. Maggie's book does one very important thing. It nudges you out of your zone.

Throughout her book, just like Mighty Girl , Maggie pays respect where respect is due. "Linking" to other blogs in hard copy. Maggie is polite, funny and genuine, as she climbs...taking time to reach a hand out and say "Welcome."

My amends are from the heart, as I stroll down my own memory lane with Ms. Mason as my guide.

Very nice work Maggie!

Is  it me, or do I look like Steven Tyler?

OMG I do look like Steven Tyler, and before he got Sober too.

This is bad.

 

The Moderation Myth

I'm in one of those moods you get in, when you feel so festive you even light candles in the bathroom.  It doesn't exactly count for me since, among cigarettes, Sonic cherry slushes (Route 44-er's), Starbucks quad, grande, caramel, breve, latte's and soup (pretty much all soup) - I am addicted to candles.

Did you notice most of my addictions are fluids? Weird. But the candle thing seriously is a problem, I go through a filter a month in my HVAC unit's, and at my old place it was such a junker, I had soot on the walls from all the candles. Can you imagine my lungs? (like the cigarettes have competition now)

I've tried to not burn so many candles, but it's honestly depressing without them...maybe I'm a witch? Huh? No. Well I think it stems from when I was soooooo poor, all I had to make me feel better were candles. I could light that scented wax, and drift away to some cabin in the mountains, or pretend I wasn't soooooo broke.

It's a "Homey" feel, as my dear dead mother used to say. Everything that wasn't God damned catastrophically life shattering, was "Homey". Black or White. Glorious or It's the end of the fucking world. Those were my childhood options.

Sometimes I know I've gone too far with the whole It's-almost-Halloween-so-I-can-burn-willy-nilly, idea. Like this morning I woke up, and could smell the burnt wax in my nose...I'd fallen asleep with a few tea lights burning. Just a few. Eleven, but they're tea lights, they have the little safety tins so candle addicts don't burn themselves up.

Throughout my life, I've often wondered what moderation feels like. Does it hurt? Do you sweat the first few days...or experience flu-like symptoms? What about others, can they tell you are in moderation, do you look a certain way, all non-virginal and shit? Can you operate heavy machinery in moderation, or jog...no, wait, what about Yoga in moderation what about that?

At 42 I'm almost convinced I'll never experience moderation of any kind. I'll just file it away with that good old vaginal orgasm I've read so much about. But just in case, you know, that I'm wrong...I think I better get Baptized again.

Black or white.

Glorious, or it's the end of the fucking world.

Ode to a Trophy...

Thursday's evenings are Al's dads. This is a new "Big person" thing I implemented in an attempt to salvage what was left of the relationship I've been trying to destroy, by demanding his father participate in The Mer's financial rearing. I do not however have to enjoy it.

Now in addition toThe Sea Monster's  sporadic Sunday's, I get to learn to keep my opinions to myself on Thursdays also. The rules are, I am not allowed to ask T.S.M to do any hardware oriented, software compliant, could-you-please-hang-the-300 lbs-Gothic-mirror-while-your-here-kind of stuff.

Last night we both failed miserably.

Sigmund arrived, Firewall in hand, ready to roll..."I am Firewall Man, come to protect the family...Aarrg!"   Apparently this firewall thing is the equivalent of having a rabid Pit Bull at your side as you surf the wild blue net...or, a Chastity belt, I'm undecided. And seeing as how it's software he installed while I wasn't looking,  I'm thinking it may be the later.

The large picture window in my office looks out to the front, something I've come to accept as a blessing, as this way I am able to work and still keep an eye on my child, the moving target . Last night there was a moment, albeit a short lived one between his father and myself.

We watched , our hearts full of love and admiration, as our son rode his little bike around in circles in the drive, then, checking both ways just like I'd taught him, he rode across the street to Katie's house to see if she could play.

Me - "Isn't he beautiful?"

Sigmund - "Yeah, our trophy's all grown up." (yes he did)

Me - "He's so free...look at him just dancing up to Katie's porch."

Sigmund - "Yeah.  Oh, it looks like Katie can't play"

Me - "Oh, poor little guy, but he's so beautiful, just look at him go...dancing, running so fast, so free...I guess he's coming home"

Sigmund - "Yeah, and he's got ADHD...  ran right past his bike all the way home."

The evening progressed into an attempt to install wordpress, while The Mer yelled from the living room..."Is anyone going to watch this Halloween movie with me?!"

"In a minute...it only takes five minutes to install!"

As I carried my sleeping child up the stairs at 2 a.m., I thought to myself "Nothing on God's earth is meant to be this difficult...period."

Then I slept on the couch, and dreamed of men with technical know-how beyond my wildest imagination...with ADD.

Gargoyle = Paperweight

So... I was having a bad day, and was just now at the Abercrombie & Fitch site, visa in hand ready to make myself feeeel better. When out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of the water bill peaking out from underneath my Gargoyle.

Now keep in mind, I've already been to Borders yesterday, and then Target this morning, where I actually succeeded in making a purchase. Then 30 minutes later once clarity had returned,  took the velour camouflaged lounge pants back for a full refund ...because it is after all Target.

The Abercrombie & Fitch thing was a progressive decline from Old Navy...I need Jeans you see, and I'm an odd fit, er, shape. I have never had an expensive pair of jeans in my life. I realize that to the average woman $70.00 is not an expensive pair of jeans. I am not your average woman.

When I was fat, I could only wear men's jeans. Levi's 501 button fly size 48 x 30. Yes, I was bigger around than I was up. Hysterical, but not really. So it wasn't until I was down to 145 lbs. that I purchased my first pair of women's jeans - Old Navy sz 12.

I'm now a size 6 or 4, or 2, or 7, or 5 ... I have little to no butt, and or hips. And in the last two years I've obtained this, this, this gut thing. It's gross, but well, I'm way too lazy to do anything about it, so I'll just look a few months pregnant instead.

The two stores that can occasionally fit me, are the above mentioned two. Old Navy is hit or miss, while Abercrombie is dead on every time. I also hate to shop, which is another reason I need jeans so desperately. I am the only female on this planet who hates to shop. Why?

Is it some throw-back from the years when I dwarfed your average Linebacker? Is it residual trauma from dressing room attendants exasperation at my inability to accept the fact I was no longer a size 6x...to the point of ripping seams with my adorable, yet furiously chubby pre-pubescent arms?

Or perhaps it's got nothing to do with the EXPERIENCE and everything to do with the funding of the event. When your a single parent, the very last thing there's money for is Abercrombie & Flippin Fitch jeans.

And even though they ARE the absolutely ONLY jeans my stomach hangs over comfortably. And while I'm all for those moms who can pull the money for a pair of Madison low rise destroyed flares out of her ass...I (long sigh)...am not one of them.

How old will I be when The Mer is in Graduate School?

Work with me on this visual here, K?

A sixty five-year-old woman, wearing a pair of those...not bad, huh? Yeah, real bad your right. Some dreams must die my friend, some dreams must die...

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."

"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.   

Bi-Polar Bear

I am a died in the wool bi-polar. no really.

so over the last year, these meds i've been taking for the past four years...mood stabilizers they call them, well they just haven't been stabilizing my mood quite as well as before.

as in freaking out over the lid being left off the butter...by me. as in sleep? who needs sleep? i am sleepless person! i can survive on 3-4 hours a night just fine...as long as no one leaves the lid off the butter.

i was a bi-polar kid...of course no one knew it then, so i just spent my whole life thinking there was something wrong with my brain from birth. i finally got accurately diagnosed in my late 30S.

so the meds haven't been working as well, and she, my doc, puts me on an additional "mood stabilizer" to help them all work harmoniously together...

this week,  i'm coming back from picking al up from school, and i start to get dizzy, blurred vision, so i immediately think "carbon monoxide" and roll down the flippin window...it helps thank god, and we get home fine.

how in the hell did my car get a carbon monoxide leak? probably from the triple digit heat ...something melted inside somewhere, just like the console and the headliner...

i forgot about the leak, until the next time it happened...same time of day...in the car...a carbon monoxide leak! so i called al's dad, because he's just bizaar enough to know about these things...

"i'm driving the car and i think there's a carbon monoxide leak...no, i know there's a carbon monoxide leak...i had a vega ...remember vega's? well, i had one once, and it had a carbon monoxide leak that felt the same way...what do you think?"

(al's dad) "did colors get brighter before you got dizzy? they say that happens."

"it's carbon monoxide marc, not acid! i don't know...i said i'm driving the vehicle right now...i...why am i so dizzy...my vision is all blurry...sort of crossed"

"maybe you shouldn't be driving."

"shouldn't be driving?! well who in the hell else is going to take al to edmond, hmmm? who else is going to do all five million things that must be done that require driving, hmmm? my life doesn't just stop because of a carbon monoxide leak marc, my life must go on, and if you were a full-time parent you would know this. and while were on the subject...why haven't you fixed the damned gate on the side of the house like you said you would two weeks ago, hmmm? all i ask is for a little help doing the things that i can't do...so that i can do the things i can do...you just don't get it do you? so now i'm driving a damned suv with a flippin carbon monoxide leak that i can't afford to fix...and your response is "maybe i shouldn't be driving"...when are you going to grow up?

i ended the "conversation" at this point...it was getting a little to difficult to rant and drive while being dizzy...

that evening it dawned on me, i might want to read the insert on the new meds just to see what it was i was taking. this reading of medical literature in any form is something i try to stear clear of today, as i am somewhat of a recovering hypochondriac...but i read this time just to be sure, you know, about the carbon monoxide leak.

apparently there is no carbon monoxide leak...imagine that.

it's a toss up for now...and the blurry vision is resolving itself slowly...

i'm still sitting here with black hair...because one morning i decided it made perfect sense. my relationships are almost non-existent at this point...at least until i settle down. it's too difficult to get close to people when you live on a ceiling fan...

On Selling Out

A woman and her daughter, about 12-years-old, came to my door last night.

They were selling candles to raise money for the daughters dance troupe to go to Africa.

That was the story anyway...sorry, I'm one of those recovering street people.

Regardless, it was a good story, andI bought a candle for a "Donation" of $4.35...a cheap, Dollar Store candle, they'd wrapped tulle around, and tied with a ribbon.

I then asked for conversations sake, what school the girl went to. The mother, a beautiful, black woman, who spoke the white mans English as well as Newt Gingrich himself, said:

Oh, she doesn't go to school, I home school her...have for five years now.

We ended up talking for the next hour about everything from what's happening in congress, to what passes for education in this country.

In my more radical days I'd have labeled this woman a "Sell out", but today, after living in this world as a single woman with a child, I get it, get her...and her survival techniques are admirable.

I don't care if she's going door to door selling candles in a white neighborhood...I guess I care about the fact I'm living in an all white neighborhood. Maybe that's why my neighbors haven't said hello to me yet...maybe that's the damn problem...why they don't wave when I do...

Maybe I'm the damned sell-out?

I sat there talking to her feeling as though my Herculean efforts to ensure Al attend the number one Charter school in Oklahoma City, were  half-assed at best...and after JUST having returned from his open house...being blown all but away by the staff,  faculty, and curriculum.

Now I'm standing on my section 8 front porch, in an all white neighborhood, feeling like a sell-out.

Hmmm.

Do you have to live in the Transcontinental melting pot in order to write seriously?
It's apparent I have to move my office, as I fear if I must look at these manicured lawns one more day I will lose ALL of my creative flow...

I'm a sell-out. Holy crap, I'm a sell-out. 

No More "Grey's Anatomy" Al

Where in the heck did THAT post come from?

Momentary dealing of issues always throws me off balance...I'd just as soon weed the damn garden...eh, hem...

The first day, of the second year, of the second grade, was a complete success. At least that's my interpretation of Al's mood. Good. Asked for squash for dinner.

What am I writing about?

I just now asked Al if anything unusual happened today that I could write about, and his response was "Recess was really short." Hmmm.

Last night as we are watching "Grey's Anatomy"...my one-week-into-his-eighth-year-old-son says out of no where...

"I can't wait until I have another erection."

It's rare that I'm speechless, or even thrown off by anything my kid says or does...but you have to admit, there's really no where to go with that one, but crash into the I-just-got-embarrassed-by-my-kid-talking-about-an-erection abyss.

My response, because I know your just dying to know how I handled this little scud missile, was: (and I still can't believe this was the best I could do)

"Well honey, you have them every morning when you have to go tinkle."

Seriously, that's what I said. Jesus, my kid now knows for certain his mother's a moron. He just looked at me, like the baby bird looks at you in "Are You My Mother?" "...he just looked and looked..."

You see, this is exactly how it starts, why there's a stupid communication gap between us and our kids...because we say stupid things when were on the spot, then blog about it instead of going to the source.

Squash. He hates squash, but will she cook it? Let's find out...

Honey, what do you want for dinner tonight?

Squash.

Honey, you don't like squash.

Yes I do, I had it at Shanti's and LOVED it. Squash, I want squash.

It's 6:38 p.m., and that f-ing squash has been in the oven for almost two hours. I've used half a tub of Country Crock and enough Greek seasoning to bring Zorba back from the dead...the damn thing still isn't done.

I don't cook well. I know, a Greek chic who hates to cook...well whatever, YOU cook for a lifetime full of ungrateful men...then we'll see who likes to cook.

Oh poh, poh, poh, poh, poh, poh!

It's Greek. The English translation is:

"You don't love me. I am the most Codependent human alive. I will literally die unless I control everything within a 50 mile radius. You don't love me.

Apparently, there was some confusion about what squash is... exactly.  Al was under the impression squash was another food all together...of course I'm not given this information until immediately after the first bite just now.

I don't think I'm going to let Al watch "Grey's Anatomy" anymore.

Al Makes a Powerful Decision

First  day of school.

Thank you JESUS.

After all the power struggles between myself and his 2nd grade teacher last year about holding him back...

Al is doing 2nd grade again.

I left the final decision up to him.

I pray to goddess I'm doing the right thing here...it's a catch 22, but if it gives the little guy a chance to be a real leader for once, I  have to try.

Last night while Al was in the tub, I was telling him about the summer he was three.  It was then that he started asking to go to school.

He would pack my backpack with folders, writing tablets, pen and pencils...and stand at the front door watching the kids walk down the street to the neighborhood school.

Three. Turning Four that August.

He was already reading phonetically, and was beginning the basics of math...so I thought, why not let him have half a day of Pre-K?

That year school started early, August 17th or so, and the backpack he picked out was bigger than him..."Rugrats" with wheels, because he was just soooo tiny, so precious in his little navy khaki shorts and white oxford shirt...

Al loved school from day one, the Pre-K teachers were very good, and every evening I got a re-cap of the mornings events. The decision to let Al start Pre-K two weeks after tuning Four seemed like a good one.

Then there's the chapter I don't tell...

On Friday evening, the start of the Labor Day weekend, at exactly 5:15 p.m., two Oklahoma City police officers and a DHS Case Worker I'd never seen before, knocked on my door.

They presented me with an emergency pick-up order for Al, signed by the Judged two weeks prior.

The allegations were as follows:

• Al was left unattended in the yard, as witnessed by neighbors. (never)

• The anti-seizure medication I was taking incapacitated me to effectively parent (same medication I take today)

What I now know happened, due to  "Moles" within the Department, is the Foster mother per case workers suggestion, made bogus referrals on me in order to halt the return of my daughter Athena.

Al was taken by police  car, to the shelter at the juvenile center, where he was held for two weeks while they tried to find a placement for him. He was not protected from older children at the shelter, I'll let you figure the rest out.

The state immediately moved to terminate my parental rights to both of my children, based on failure to correct the condition which led to the removal of my daughter at birth...which was my daughter testing positive for benzodiazapines prescribed by my physician...and domestic strife.

2+4=5

Every 30 minutes for two weeks Al called me crying "Come get me mama." But I couldn't. Never in my life have I felt such rage and helplessness. "Come get me mama, I want to come home."

During Al's stay at the shelter, he was taken to the emergency room twice for a bilateral ear infection. Once with a temp of 105 degrees...because my worker, a woman who places her love for Satan above anything else, refused to believe Al was sick..."He's faking, he just wants to see you, that's all."

The entire time Al is in the shelter, I'm gathering evidence to show the pick-up of Al was not only bogus, but unethical as hell. I have letters from Doctors, neighbors, teachers, daycare providers, clergy, it just goes on...a huge stack. I have random U/A's I'd been getting on my own...I have tons of evidence because I was trying to get my daughter home.

Now the bastards had both of my children, and I was too poor to fight them.

In the end they won, a year later I gave up my rights to Athena and they returned Al no questions asked... on their end anyway.

The year Al was gone from me left a mark on his soul, taught him I could not protect him from the kidnappers of the world, the cruel grandfathers, icy social workers.

He spent a year in a Head Start program, and daycare...with his free time alone at the end of a trailer in rural Cleveland County...

The two years Al has spent trying to 'catch up' emotionally have been hard...we all wish on a level we could return to play doh, blocks, nap time and show and tell...but Al seemed to need it more than others.

I screwed up.

I should have let him re do Kindergarten when he came home, but I was trying to put as much distance as I could between us and the events of the year before.

We live and learn...and know our children survive our screw ups. We are good parents. You are a good parent.

"He's faking...he just wants to see you."

You do the math. You are a good enough parent, and you can survive this...whatever it is.

I guarantee it.

 

Summer Winding Down...

We've had my friends daughter hanging out with us all week, and I've gotten to experience what it would be like with both my children here.

Life's fucked up sometimes.

Like the missing piece of the puzzle,  my friends daughter fits somewhat cockeyed, but still fits.

She is me as a kid, climbing backwards over the couch, arms and legs flailing about, all the while chanting "I'm bored, I'm hungry, I'm bored."

Nothing much holding her attention for very long, and as long as she can move freely from one thing to the next...she's just fine, and she is always just fine.

No fears guys, take it easy.

Yesterday we all went to the pool. I turned them loose and watched them go.

Now Mer-boy is used to being the king of the pool, the kid has a fan club for gods sake...life guards taking turns oohing and ahing over his cute-ness...but my friends kid, well she has some abandonment stuff going on.  Like I said...me.

I fully expected her to be glued to my side...she was not. By the time we left, the guards were cooing over them both, and I had only seen them up close and personal when they needed money for food.

This week has been good for them, as I am always within ear shot enough to let them both know they are not alone...yet alone enough to have autonomy.

What would it have been like with Athena?

Life, yes it's fucked up sometimes...but it just is what it is, and we have to accept sometimes the unacceptable. I don't know how to tell you to do this, I just know I want peace of mind more than I want to be right today. 

Every day at 12:30, all summer long, the CASA (Court Appointed Special Advocate) on our case, comes to the pool and swims laps. He swims laps, then sits and watches children.

Every day, all summer long. I have never spoken to him. I have nothing to say to a man who repeatedly lied about me. Who's bias and prejudiced cost me my daughter, who failed repeatedly to have my children's best interest in mind, and most heinous of all contributed to the cover-up of my daughters disclosure of sexual abuse at the hands of the foster family.

So he sits and watches. Al and I. The other children. He sits and watches every day...alone. A man tormented by his deeds I suspect, as he seems somewhat unwell in spirit.

I fear each and every soul involved in our case will meet a similar fate, for the angst of evil is a powerful angst...one that forbids restful nights, deep relationships, and meaning to it all in the end.

They took my daughter only...I still feel joy, sleep like  a rock, watch the sun rise with my eyes closed...feel passion, it's coming back little by little. They did not take my soul.

Honestly, I enjoy seeing him lost and vacant, disconnected and alone. It feels good to the dark side, the dark side likes it.

Al and I drove passed the old house last night for  the first time since we moved.

Slummy weed eated the garden.

It's all gone,  down to dirt...nothing, just bare.

Doesn't even look like anyone lives there.

Not anyone human.

So we live our lives the very best we can...and I believe from my own experience, that it does even out if you do the right thing...but you have to TRY also...take that action, don't just sit around accepting crap.

Go get yourself some MORE. It's yours to begin with. You got it when you were born...go get it back.

Write letters, do your research, ask questions...find the answers.

Then eat a peach.

Happy 8th Birthday Al!

Eight years ago this precise moment, I was being told my one-hour-old Al had something seriously wrong with him...but they didn't know what...exactly.

I had held him briefly, before he was Medi flighted to the NICU at Children's Hospital, where he would spend the next week...his tiny body full of needles and tubes, his only companions, a stuffed forest green frog and a tiny "Goodnight Moon" Bunny.

The last eight years have been turbulent to say the least...miraculous at best. Never does a day pass that I'm not filled with gratitude and awe over this little life that has changed mine so.

Taking me from a life of pure self-centeredness, to one of constant selflessness...till I'm howling at the moon over the complicated task of Mac and Cheese.

I was not meant to be a mother, not by any stretch of the imagination. No, I was meant to die a horrible medicated death, in some strange place, with some strange people...but I didn't.

Because when I could not love myself, as they demanded I do in order to recover...I could without question, love Al.

My love for this child built bridges.

To self.
To a God.
To others.

He is stronger than I, smarter than I, more flexible, less fearful...he will do great  and abundant things with his self-love...

Touch so many lives with his truth.

He's no "Christ Child", just my little boy...running tanned brown in cut-offs through the house saying "Love you mom" as he whirls past. A fist full of  dogeared Yugio cards in one hand, his new  goggles and snorkle afixed to his head,  long sun-bleached blond hair in his lapis eyes.

Where was I?

NICU (blink) 

My Life is Proof. Dang!

How does something like this happen, that we go from living in the hood two years ago...to living on a street, in a neighborhood, where I've always dreamed of living?

The other houses on the street are old colonial...ours needs the most work. Bring it on!

What is this all about? I'm not special, I'm just a mama, tryin to raise my kid.

Lots of mama's don't make it out of the hood...in fact, most don't...so why me, why us?

How come I made it off the streets and someone else never does?

If you'd have told me five years ago, when I was sleeping in by broken down Honda Civic, that I would persevere and end up sitting where I am right now this moment...I'd have strongly suggested you smoke another rock.

I am a volatile, emotionally unstable, hormonal, creative, passionate about a few things, stubborn, mama bear, who puts child first till I forget I exist too much.

I am immature 90% of the time, look after I leap, scare most men away, pray to Jesus only when it's bad, then forget all about the dude, and if I can do this any one can.

READ: If I can do this anyone can. Fact. My life is proof. You do not ever have to settle for less than you are worth, and you are worth everything.

The 'Greek' Alphabet

In the next year I will:

• Get paid handsomely to write
• Buy Al the guitar lessons and puppy he's wanted since last summer
• Own more than one good bra
• "Tithe" consistently in some fashion
• Lose the guilt
• Be a friend
• Have a friend
• Quit smoking
• Start smoking again
• Quit smoking for good
• Remember the Alamo

When the life you believe is under control, gets suddenly, and wickedly torn into the truth...my suggestion is to face it, stand your ground, do what you can to make things better...and then eat a peach.

The people who truly enjoy your company, will only do so if you are yourself...whether it's the lady at the Chanel counter you only see once every six months, but laughs genuinely at your "You-ness". The friend you've had forever, but only hang out with when he's not in a relationship. Or the child you carried and raised by yourself, who wants you to 'perform' for his friends, and thinks you are the funniest damn thing in the world...

It's all about YOU.

Finally.

How to get from point 'A' to 'B' is easy if you know your alphabet. You just do what comes next, allowing life to uncomplicate as you sing...

"A-B-C-D-E-F-G...H-I-J-K...LMNOP...Q-R-S-T-U-V...W-X...Y-Z"

Before you know it, the problem is HUGE! Freakin HUGE, as in I have to move tomorrow, Slummy's breathing down my neck (ewww) calling every day now!  There is no way I'm going to have this place packed tonight...and how am I going to load a U-haul by myself, HUH? There's no way I'll qualify for the new house...I'm gonna have to work sixteen jobs, leave Al in over-night daycare again, "Nightcare", it's NIGHT-care, and he'll join a gang...a day night-care gang!

"A-B-C-D-E-F-G...

Stupid. That was just stupid...H-I-J-K...LMNOPeeeeeeeee

Mer-boy Has a Moment

Do ya think I have enough crap on this blog?

So we're at the pool today, Mer-boy with his shiny new day-glo orange ring thing, and lavender  Speedo Jr. goggles...the old ones got " borrowed" and failed to get returned.

The little guy OWNS that pool man, I'm telling you...the Life guards don't even blow their whistles at him when he does his little, fox trot- jog- but not quite a run- thing...all the while the other poor swimmers are getting blown, like it's inauguration day at 1600 Penn, circa 1998! (or whatever year that was) 

I look up, because some shrieking has distracted me from my obsessive Classified Ads search, and way down at the "Deep" end (4' 10") are approximately 4 or 5 pre-teen females, being "Chased" by Mer in his day-glo orange ring thing.

There's Mer-boy, with zinc in a "T" across his face... war paint style...moving with the speed and grace of a drunk duck...and this cluster of girls, just screaming bloody murder.

They let him get only sooo close, then shriek...and swim...shriek...and swim.

The life guards, their age appropriate male counter parts...are watching, mouths agape, from their perches, in a combination of incredulity, disdain , and... judging by the clinched fists of one...impassioned envy.

The Mer is in Heaven.

That is of course, until he got wounded...then everything changed.

And I didn't hear him crying because I was on the phone with "the donor", trying to convince him to fix my stupid car so I wouldn't take a contract out on his stupid LIFE...

So by the time The Mer gets to me, he's sobbing buckets over a scratch on his leg, left by one of the girls 13 inch long nails...but what I get goes something like this:

"mmmmm (as he's hobbling towards me) mmmMMMMWWWWAAA!!!...SSSHHE SCRATCHED ME IT BURNS IT HURTS I NEED A BAND AID I'M NEVER GOING SWIMMING EVER AGAIN AS LONG AS I LIVE I HATE THIS POOL I HATE THOSE GIRLS I'M HUNGRY I WANNA GO HOME I DON'T WANNA MOVE AWAY FROM MY FRIENDS I WAS CRYING AND YOU DIDN'T COME...EVER!!!!

If I could have put him back in my womb at this point I would have.

I settled for wrapping him in a towel, placing a band aid (if your a mama, there's no need to ask) gently on the scratch... once I found it, unwrapping the half-eaten bean burrito I'd smuggled in  from last nights "Bueno Fest", and letting Mer sob in my arms until he knew I was there RIGHT THIS MOMENT...because that's all any of us has really.

Within minutes the gaggle was upon him...asking all the appropiate questions of Mer...
Was he all right? What had happened? Would he be leaving...or returning to 'swim' with them?

He hasn't mentioned his 'wound' since.

A "Good Mother" I Am Not

"Good Mothers" don't take risks..."Good Mothers" don't push the envelope..."Good Mothers" do not under any circumstances, when living on Welfare...in Section 8  rentals, TURN DOWN a really great house because they found something... even better.

Not when you have two weeks and counting, and the odds of getting into the LEASE/PURCHASE you just found are about a Gazillion to one.

Good Mothers choose safety over desire, convenience over challenge, security over...point received.

I am not a "Good Mother"...this new bit of truth about myself must reside along side the insanity issue still in debate...and the realization that I...I am, as hard as it is to believe, knowing my former self...an envelope pusher.

If we don't go after what we desire...especially as mothers, we teach these little creatures to see us as less than the passionate, creative, WORTHY human beings that we are...which in turn is a reflection on them, being parts of the whole, in some twisted Freudian menagerie.

And yes, we may end up living in our friends pool cabana for the next few months if this doesn't fly...but isn't that better than taking the safe, high road every time?

Who am I if I don't try?

...I'm living in a HOUSE and not a CABANA, that's WHO...

Sacrificial B.S.

How in the...what in the...I don't...I can't...Whoa!

The house is a disaster, I'm in a war zone of lego's and boxes of junk we have no business moving any where.

My creative flow is all but zapped from my loins, amidst the wreakage of two years worth of not being able to throw away shampoo bottles.

Because...you know, they have a little left in the bottom.

How many hours of my life have been wasted, standing by the bathroom sink, coaxing the last drop out of up-turned bottles...precariously balanced on top of one another's kissing necks...

The same fate is met by any beauty, and or bath product I purchase over $5.00. Sad...just sad.

And I blame Mer-boy's inability to let any toy move on to greener bedrooms, on the lovely state of Oklahoma's five-year interference in our lives. Oh yeah.

I would rather eat glass than move.

This fact can only be made more intolerable by the vacancy in my minds eye, concerning just where we will move...two weeks, two days, and counting.

I have managed to create, by the skin of my hair...an adventure to take for the Mer-boy. He is now excited, enthused, and all around exuberant concerning the upcoming "Adventure"...

Packing 'special' items not to be lost...backpacks full to the brim of remotes for long lost cars, pieces of hot wheels track, Copper The Hamster's see thru ball, and a myriad of items only an almost eight-year-old could treasure.

My 'special' items consist of merely my child...growing at the speed of light.

I miss him.

Fear and stress taking center stage to our nightly silliness...the things we sacrifice...in the name of sacrifice.

The Welfare Snob

Here's the deal...I'm a snob. I hate to admit this fact, but I am...a big fat snob. The thought of moving ANYWHERE that individuals find it appropriate to leave their trash cans at the curb all week long, thus forcing repeated trips to the street to deposit ones rubbish, makes me ill.

I find cars parked in that same street, let alone facing the WRONG direction, a sign of plain laziness, not to mention the dangers this presents for any children that might attempt to play outside.

I'm a snob...on Welfare. I'm mortified by the utter lack of care people have in their homes. You don't have to be wealthy to care for your home, or yourself. I've been doing this rental house search thing for over a week now, and the conclusion I've come to is this:

We are a nation of apathetic slackers who point the finger and blame rather than step up and clean the car parts out of the front yard.

I'm looking at properties in such hideous stages of disrepair I'm not even sure they're livable. In neighborhoods so invested with drugs you can smell the sulphur when you exit the car, so riddled with crime I wouldn't feel safe VISITING let alone LIVING there.

This is my America. This is your America. This is Al's America.

Why? Because no one gives a hamster's ass. These are the dream homes of the post world war two baby boom, abandoned to no one in particular. These are the real casualties of Urban Renewal...left on someones doorstep with a note that says "Please find me a flippin home"

I am stuck between worlds, lost in a concrete jungle town that boasts 74 Sonics and as many Pentecostal churches. The clock is ticking...I'm running on empty, and America the beautiful for amber waves of grain... does not give a crap.

When All Else Fails...Read About Black Holes and Quantum Physics?

I am not a religious woman. In fact, some of my more conservative, fundamental friends... all one of them, even call me an Atheist. Yet in my attempt to explain the pain and loss in this life to Al, I've found myself veering towards the fundamentalist version of a "Slippery When Wet" sign.

The loss of Cooper The Hamster on top of the impending loss of his home, friends, backyard, bedroom, blah, blah, blah. On top of the loss of his dad, on top of the loss of his sister, on top of the loss of his mother for a year-which proved to him, he says, that God did not exist- has just about done Mer-boy in, regarding any belief at all in an omnipotent being of light.

I am methodical, logical, and had it not been for science and the invention of ovulation detector kits, am convinced I would not have become a mother. It was my will that made it so... not any airy-fairy supernatural occurrence deemed a "Miracle" by my 'one' friend.

Then, just when I'm certain the sphere of spiritual enlightenment is all but closed to myself...a hamster restores not only mine, but Al's faith also. In what exactly I do not know...but we gots da feva! Can we get a hallelujah?... Hallelujah! Can we get an Amen?... Amen! Can we get a...

Cooper The Hamster has returned!

Right through the same hole in the kitchen he exited through 24 hrs ago. Frazzled, tousled, and definately looking as though a common house mouse had had her way with him...but returned none the less.

The hole dear readers...leads into the backyard. The HUGE backyard, swarming with predators able and willing to consume a naive , provocatively dressed young hamster on a hot mid-western summer's night.

And yet...

they did not.

 

Cooper The Hamster's Last Ride

So Al...being Al, was packing his toys by color and functionality, and playing with Cooper The Hamster at the same time. When out of the blue, as things in our life ALWAYS come...he had to poop. Twenty minutes later I hear Al scream, in this blood curdling, helter skelter way, that every mother has nightmares about hearing, but usually never has to experience first hand. "Mom!...C...C...Cooper's GONE!!!!"

OH SWEET MOTHER OF GOD, COULD IT GET ANY WORSE?

Seems that while Al was packing, Cooper The Hamster was sitting in Al's Bratz car. Nature called and the only preventative measure my son took was telling Cooper he'd be right back...While Al was reading Readers Digest, "Mia and Miguel" came on, prompting a speedy finish and a long forgotten Cooper The Hamster in the girlz convertible.

It wasn't until I was trying to get Al to locate his Flip (as in Flop) so we could get out the door to his Dr.'s appointment...that Al noticed the abandoned vehicle...

The flood gates opened, and it hasn't stopped since.

A week's worth of holding it in, set loose by a hamsters dash to freedom while wearing a pink sparkly scarf and six inch boots.

The Tao of Shit...Er Crap

In a song by "The Cowboy Junkies", the title of which I can't recall, she says (paraphrased no doubt)

In times of crisis a man falls back on what he knows best,

a thief to stealing, a...crap, I can't remember the stupid lyrics...

Watever. The point she's making in the song is, when shit get's bad we resort to whatever behavior wer'e the most familiar with. Lying, cheating, stealing...it's human nature. Truth. Deny it and I'll call you a liar. Lack of faith in times of crisis is nothing new, hello, even Jesus was ...well,...asking why? If you go there. Lately, people are telling me "Just have faith it's all going to work out." Um... I didn't have it to BEGIN with, now your telling me I should? Oh, OK. It's that belief in a pupeteer like god that concerns me...you know who you are...as if god has nothing better to do that sit on her IKEA loveseat pulling strings! If I do this, than god will make that happen...or if I don't do...you get it. I don't have that type of faith, sorry folks. I'm happy if that works for you, but please keep it away from me.

My faith, if you will, involves shit rolling downhill. It involves human nature, reaction to crisis and nothing more. It's about what I choose to do with what's presented to me. It's about side-stepping, if at all possible, the next load of shit.

If you will please, two possible scenarios

Scenario #1 "Is that a load of shit coming towards me...I can't tell, maybe it won't hit me...maybe it's not shit at all, maybe if it IS shit, it doesn't smell too bad. ...but I'm still not sure it's shit, and besides, it's definately not MY shit so it can't hurt me...karmically speaking. I'll just wait here and see if it hit's me..."

Scenario #2 "What the...is that a load of shit coming towards me?...I don't care who's shit it is...it's time to MOVE MY ASS OUT OF THE WAY!

There you have it. My kind of faith. Faith that I will know better the next time. That is, if I survive todays shit- storm.

It doesn't have to be an IKEA, It could be a Valentino...

It's An Illusion

Of late, the story of the little creature clinging fiercly to the rocks at the bottom of the stream has come to mind...apparently I am a clinger...clingon...Klingon. I cling...to just about anything that's bad for me, yet familiar, consistent, and THERE. Oh yes...it's gotten better by all means, but still...I'm a clinging little creature...and this over-priced, poorly finished rent house I sit in... are the rocks.

What's downstream? Who cares! I have these crappy rocks I'm clinging desperately to, leave me be! Nothing could be better than these crappy rocks...nothing I say, now GO AWAY!

So cling... See ya.

Is this how I want to live? No, but I'm afraid. Maybe I'll just let go a little. Nope. No way. My crappy rocks are EVERYTHING I HAVE. Hmmm. Where are all those other creatures going?

Come on...come with us...it's better if you let go...ride the current!

Ride the current! Are they crazy, we'll all be crashed against the rocks and killed! Those creatures are nuts...how can they take such risks with their very lives ... how can they let go without KNOWING what's downstream!

Hey...maybe they're right...maybe these crappy rocks AREN'T all there is in the world...maybe it's just an ILLUSION? I won't know unless I try...

So the little creature timidly released his grip on the crappy rocks...and was instantly smashed to smitherines, dying a horrifically painful and excrutiatingly slow death .. . At least that's how I remember the story.

...maybe I should read that book again.

"Illusions" Quotes

Paraguanian Rituals

So I spend the morning looking at all these CRAPPY rent houses, fuming because I'm not able to BUY a decent house, and blaming everyone from Slummy to the cat...again, yes it's back to being the cat's fault.

Mer-boy is begging to go swimming, and I'm crashing back into the black, but concede due to the REAL transmission slipping all over God's green earth during the rental search. Is this REALLY my life? Yes...so suck it up sista.

Upon arrival at the pool, the vicinity of which I'm beginning to detest with the aplomb of...I don't know how to use that word..aplomb. So when we get there, the 14 yr old Life "Guard" tells me, "We don't open until 12:00 today"...(it was five freakin minutes till.)  Mer-boy and I sit in the car for five minutes, the entire five minutes I utelize to rant about the democratic process being sadly amiss at the PUBLIC swimming pool...who's public?
One glance in the rear view at Mer-boys  eye's rolling Kate Hepburn style over the ceiling of the tranny-slippin REPUBLICAN Sport Utility Vehicle I just HAD to have, told me I'd jumped the sanity mother ship.
Fine.
We go back to the entrance and the last thing I want to see is anyone I know who is HAPPY.
What do I see?
Not only is it someone I know who's HAPPY, but someone I know who is CHRONICALLY happy...ALL the time. (I hate redundancy) "Oh hey girl what's UP! How are you! Hey Al!  We're having Raines Birthday Party! Wanna party! (!!!!!)
Mer-boy is at the kids cake before I could get through the gate...trying to stick his finger in the side THROUGH the box. To make it worse...it was a BRATZ cake, but he held back with only minor squeals of delight.

I mentioned something BRIEFLY about my housing situation, waving a newspaper in front of her happiness...desperately tryng to come up with a good enough excuse to forego any participation myself with the damn happy people.
Wrong move..super happy girl at that point starts taking ACTION in the sense that she can fix, with her happiness, what I alone in my bleak, black, bitter, (just happened that way, the bbb thing) state cannot.
Either someone dropped something, or the sound barrier was broken, but I saw an opportunity and took it...making my escape to the chaise Oklahoma Parks and Recreation has embelished with my name to match the butt indentation. Within an hour the place was aswarm with party-goer's and guardians, of which I knew most if not all...from a life pre Al's return from Foster care. Choosing to sit alone and wallow in my bbb, rather than spread about my contagion... or visa versa.
In certain regions of Paraguay, they call this bizaar form of flagellation... "Seelf-Peet'ay."
So glad I'm not in Paraguay.

The Investment-Property-Previously-Known-As "Home"

Maybe that last post wasn't appropriate, but I'm just about fed up with assholes... So The Slumlord finally returns my call this morning, it went something like this:

Slummy- "You have to be out in 30 days, I've already talked to an attorney and I have every right to do this."
Dummy- "Is there any other solution besides uprooting my kid?"
Slummy- "No, your kids not my problem-you have 30 days."
Dummy- "There has to be another option, how fair is it to let your personal problems interfere in our business agreement?"
Slummy- "Because it's MY HOUSE!!!" (It's MY TOY!)

After the call ended and I threw-up, I sent out a general e-mail to about twenty of my friends, briefing them on my situation and detailing my specific housing needs in the hopes that I might be able to find a place within the limited time frame. It's incredibly difficult when you are sec 8 to do this in 30 days. Toss a child with limitations into the mix and the other factors in our life...and it can seem impossible...without calling in the troops. So I did. I never used Slummy's name, nor did I refer to him as "Slummy" at any point.  In fact, the only reference to him at all was "My landlord and his wife are getting a divorce and he has decided he wants to live in our house. we have 30 days to find a place. This is non-negotiable."

Tonight Slummy calls me again:

Dummy- "Hello"
Slummy- "I WAS going to give you until the first of September, until I got a phone call a little while ago."
Dummy- "Whaa-at are you talking about?"
Slummy- "I'm talking about you putting my personal business on the computor. Not cool. 30 days!
Dummy- (in my head) Did he just say "on the computor" ?
Dummy- "Do you want me to forward you a copy of what I e-mailed?"
Slummy- "No, I know what you said, you said 'my landlord', that's enough. 30 days, OUT!"

What am I supposed to say "Hey everyone I need some help because...I just really want to move quickly!" It's not my job to keep his secrets. He made HIS personal business MY personal business when he chose to kick us out of here, all I did was ask people for help with MY damn personal business.

He really believes he's that f-ing important.
"I WAS going to give you till Sept. 1st..." that's crap I hear Al and his friends say to each other. "I WAS going to let you have my blue eyed shining dragon card, but since you didn't play with me at recess, now I'm not going to."

... I should never have moved in here, I should have known something was very wrong with this man from the moment I saw those blue kitchen cabinets. I mean no one paints anything that color...except maybe a carousel.

Happy Thanksgiving!

It's Thanksgiving Day again. What the hell is she talking about now?

Last Thanksgiving Day, which incidentally was also my birthday, my Slumlord pulls up in his Jaguar while my truck is in 73 pieces in the driveway so my neighbor could try and revive it one last time, and informs me he's giving me my 30 day notice.

Seems he and Mrs. Slumlord are getting a divorce and, well, I keep the place so nice and all-he is going to move in here.

No I'm not kidding. Lucky for Al and I, The Slumlords made up, started a new business together, and everything's been peachy ever since...until today.

Are you going to tell me the SOB couldn't have waited until AFTER the 4th of July to drop this bomb on me and my kid? Are you going to tell me the SOB couldn't go uproot some tenant without a child? Or buy a f-ing house of his own? Hell no, not when he can be a bully.

Weak bastard.

I had some friends come get Al so he could watch fireworks, because I'm just not in the mood for some reason. I feel so beat. I know there are people we can stay with, but that's not the same as having a home you raise your family in.

These tears, shit I feel as if I've failed this child in so many ways. That I would tolerate this man's shit for two years just to keep my son in a good neighborhood. I don't want to post this, but if I don't I'll keep it all to myself, festering.

Why this hurts so much is because I trusted the man, I believed he would never do this again. I naively believed if I did all the right stuff, good stuff would happen. I was actually going to approach him about selling me the house, doing a lease-purchase so I could keep Al in this area.

What a jack ass I am.

I don't know how to do any more than I am. If I knew how, I would.

If Al's dad would pay some child support, if I could get my credit clear enough to qualify for a home loan, if, if, if. This is just STUPID. Shut-UP already! Ya whiner.

(Post-post: I posted this, then pulled it, then posted, pulled, posted, pulling won-I left and went to watch the night- sky match my insides, but ended up talking politics, and green chili's with the Minister and friends.

The reason I'm re-posting (?) is that when I returned to the-investment-property-previously-known-as-home, I had a comment about one of the multiple 30 second posts from earlier this evening. It's not always going to be cute Al stuff, it's not always going to be my smart ass crap, life sucks sometimes a whole helluva lot. It just seems sometimes like its never ending, especially when your in it.

Is that a meteor?

 

Took Al to the local

Took Al to the local public pool yesterday, and had I not been so self flippin conscience there would be pics, but I was and theres not. So he's got his pink Bratz floaties on and he can't understand why no one will play with him! I'm dyin trying to coax him out of them. Not happening.

He becomes indignant when the lifeguard informs him he cannot go down the super slide with the floaties on. The pink Bratz floaties. He marches over to me, with his little pink wings wagging and says "Mom, (Now remember, he's as big as a cell phone) those big guys over there won't let me go down the slide." ON POINT ---What big guys honey, where, which ones, show me...

After awhile Al wagged over to where I was working on my melanoma, and sat on the chase with me, claiming kids were "bullying" him. Would someone turn that spot light off, I'm getting ready to act like a hard ass here, I need to concentrate on my lines...
"Look buddy, If your going to wear the floaties, you have to understand what they represent to all these kids who aren't wearing them. They represent a time in their lives when they were less independent, less able to make their own choices, still clinging to their moms and or dads for security. Floaties are a symbol of dependency to them Al, while in all actuality floaties help you to be more independent, these kids don't get that yet, their time spent wearing them is still too fresh in their minds. So if your going to wear them, you will be wearing them alone, got it?"
(See how I totally avoided the pink, and the Bratz thing, smooth huh?)

Al wagged off with his head hanging, and I regreted sobriety for a nanosecond, wanting to run him down, scoop him up, and yell at all the little "bullys" and the "Lifeguards" too because wasn't it THEIR fault? See what I mean about innocent bystanders. I mean how in the hell do we let our children go without it killing us in the process?
Thirty minutes later when I went outside the fence to smoke (like a leper, but that's another post entirely) I'm seaching for Al to let him know my exact coordinates, but can't find him. I CAN'T FIND HIM, I see the pink Bratz floaties on the side of the pool, but no Al anywhere! "Al!" "Al!" "Al!" When one of the little "Bullys" comes up to me and says (This kills me, the ma'am part, really) "Ma'am, your little boy is in the pool" and points to Al-in the pool-playing and having a good time-sans pink Bratz floaties!

What was I saying an hour ago: "Floaties represent a time when they were less independent, less able to make their own choices, still clinging to their moms for security. Floaties are a symbol of dependency, while in all actuality floaties help you be more independent."
Hmm, I wonder if these things would fit me?

Ironically enough, when Athena quit

Ironically enough, when Athena quit screaming, so did I. What I'm going to write about takes much courage, but I'm writing, I've decided for the one person who might read this who needs to know they can survive whatever it is they are facing at this moment. On Memeorial Day Weekend five years ago, I was living alone in project housing on the city's East side. My first section 8 place aquired for me at the hands of the case worker after my childrens father and his brother formally evicted me in civil court. I had spent two months on the street, one month sleeping in my broken down Honda Civic outside an A.A. clubhouse on the Northside, before getting into the projects. The eviction was in part a direct result of my screaming, the other was their shit and their blogs, not mine to tell. I had nothing but the few items I'd been able to put in my car when I left, and it would be three years before some of my belongings started to trickle back to me at his pace. We were never married, so I had no legal rights to my property. Add to that a formal eviction and it was complicated. My apartment was on the forth floor of the forth building closest to the railroad tracks, and the constant flow of trains after 10:00 p.m. was something I never got used to. I had previously loved the lonesome sound of a train at night, but now in light of my experiences surrounding that time in my life, a trains whistle can pull it all back as vividly as if it were happening right this moment. Al was with his father, and honestly I can't remember if it was his father's doing, or DHS, or a sick combination, but Al was not allowed to see me except once a week at the supervised visits with Athena. Once a week they would all come to my empty apartment in the projects for one hour. Once a week the case worker, the foster grandmother, Athena, Al, and their father would come there because I had no car. Athena would not leave the foster grandmother's lap, the case worker and foster grandmother would make fun of their father to me behind his back, Al would try to play with his sister then go find a toy and play by himself, their father would spend the visits trying to get Athena's attention in front of Al, and I would sit there internalizing all of it. Week after week this went on and each time we went to court, progressively skewed versions of these visits and ineractions were relayed in the court reports by the case worker, supervisors, service providers and the foster mother. I was in court ordered counseling with a therapist who believed whole heartedly in Gestalt when you'd lost everything that made life worth living. Needless to say our therapeutic relationship was one based on lies, for when the state has control of your children's destiny, the last thing you want to do is be honest with people who are reporting directly to their captors. The average human being has a breaking point. A point at which they must make the madness stop or so they believe. Some reach it sooner than others, and some, as in the case of concetration camp survivors, amazingly never reach it. Mine came on Memorial Day Weekend in 2001, with a knock on the apartment door next to mine and an indroduction to project housings #1 passtime, the only substance known to man that will drown out the midnight trains, and midnight pains.

After DHS took Athena, I

After DHS took Athena, I spent three months in bed, waking up only to scream. Not anything in particular, just 'throw your head back could a sister get a shot of haldol' kind of screams. The screaming didn't accomplish much, for the first time in my life, but I think it kept me from blowing my brains out. So I would scream, sleep, wake up in the same nightmare I'd fallen asleep in, scream some more, then go back to sleep. I don't recomend this technique for losing baby weight, but it was pretty successful nonetheless. I can't begin to express the amount of self-control it took to have the weekly supervised visits with Athena, and not scream during them. I believe it was in part because my daughter was doing it for me. Screaming in the same uncontrolable fashion as I during every single visit for the first year of her life. The case worker was at a loss, saying she'd never experienced this in 20 years with the department. (20 yrs! Jesus H.) Athena's screaming promped the visits relocation on multiple occasions, in an effort to "Stop the screaming baby". Once, after we had moved them from our house, to DHS, back to our house, back to DHS, and then to a counseling service providers office, the neighboring businesses filed formal complaints with the Department, because of the "Noise from the screaming baby". I remember knowing my daughter was trying to tell me something, tell me, tell them, this was wrong. She needed her mother, needed these people to go away and leave us alone together, everyone to go away and let her be in my arms alone. No case worker, no foster mother, no father who didn't believe in either of us, no scared little brother who at the hands of his father was subjected to this insanity every week for two and a half years. Everyone go please, and leave me alone to hold my daughter. They never did. Eventually Athena did stop screaming, I don't recall exactly when, sometime around her first birthday. What was left in it's place was far worse than the screams, what was left was a little girl with a flat affect, who, until the day I signed away my parental rights...I'd never heard laugh.