I like watching you get excited about Plants vs. Zombies.
I like watching you get excited about Little Big Planet.
I like watching you learn to ride your bike.
I like watching you create music with Garage Band and I like your expectant eyes as I listen to your songs.
I like watching you get excited about Swiss Rolls.
I like watching you get focused on designing your levels for Little Big Planet.
I like watching you see the movie in your head and know what you want on the screen.
I like watching you pour creme soda into a stemmed glass and pretend it's beer, even though you don't say that.
I like watching you feel empowered by the things you're able to do, like ride a bike and get on the roof with me.
I like hearing you find words for how you feel and work through those feelings even though it's hard for you sometimes.
I like watching you sleep.
I like watching your hair swish when it's in a pony tail.
I like the way your body moves when you walk.
I like the way you laugh when you mean it and it bursts from you like a surprise.
I like the way you look at me in the morning.
I like the way that you get excited about free things on Craig's List.
I like the way that you want to experience new things.
I like the way that you make my lunches for me.
I like the way that you snuggle me.
I like the way that you get so excited about stuff and how you keep thinking about it.
I like the way that you sing to me.
I like the way that you are concerned with watering your plants and flowers.
I like the way that you laugh when you talk about how the garbage smells.
I like the way that you smile when I come home after work.
I like the way you say "Hi" when you first see me.
I like the way you say "Thank you" after I massage your head.
I like that you make me feel special.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Fun Family
I really enjoy my family.
At work, we’re deciding where we’re going to go for our monthly team lunch. It’s a longer lunch than normal—an hour and a half—and it’s something that I look forward to every month. This month, my team wants to try Chinese food, so it’s been suggested that we go to Pei Wei. Which takes me back to my family.
We have a running bit about the name Pei Wei. Yes, we understand that everybody pronounces it “pay way”, but we feel there’s very little empirical evidence that would prove that’s the correct pronunciation. And most of us (read: all of us except when our 14-year-old is trying to pretend that he’s too grown up to be silly), prefer the pronunciation “pee wee”. It makes us think of stuff and junk and then we giggle. And, of course, once you change the pronunciation once, you have to see if there are other ways of saying those words. “Pie why” is one, “peh-eye weh-eye” is another, I’m pretty sure that somebody (maybe me) has even bandied about “poo woo”. It’s terrifically fun to be silly.
We were talking in the van yesterday about fecal fetish. Used to be people just let their dogs shit wherever. You take the dog for a walk. The dog shits. You both walk away. Now, people carry around bags to pick up the steamy shit and carry it with them. What in the world is that about?! Yeah, I get it: it’s polite to not leave your shit on somebody else’s lawn… but picking up your dog’s shit is just boag. Really. It is. And as we’re having this conversation, it makes me think about somebody in my family saying “fecal matter”, so I mentioned that to the van. They unanimously agreed it was my mother, which it probably was. My father didn’t talk about anything, so I wouldn’t have gotten any words from him. My mother scienced up everything—penis, vagina, urination, erection, ejaculation, politician—these were all proper words that I had to find alternates for—dick, poon, pee, boner, spooge, lying fucktard. And as we all giggled at my mother saying “fecal matter” to me as a youth, I smiled knowing that she would probably laugh along with us were she in the van.
My family pretty much rocks. And I got to help my 10 year old learn how to go down a grassy hill on his brand new bike yesterday. We were hot and sweaty and he did it twice, and it was great to see him achieve that. Yeah, I like my family.
At work, we’re deciding where we’re going to go for our monthly team lunch. It’s a longer lunch than normal—an hour and a half—and it’s something that I look forward to every month. This month, my team wants to try Chinese food, so it’s been suggested that we go to Pei Wei. Which takes me back to my family.
We have a running bit about the name Pei Wei. Yes, we understand that everybody pronounces it “pay way”, but we feel there’s very little empirical evidence that would prove that’s the correct pronunciation. And most of us (read: all of us except when our 14-year-old is trying to pretend that he’s too grown up to be silly), prefer the pronunciation “pee wee”. It makes us think of stuff and junk and then we giggle. And, of course, once you change the pronunciation once, you have to see if there are other ways of saying those words. “Pie why” is one, “peh-eye weh-eye” is another, I’m pretty sure that somebody (maybe me) has even bandied about “poo woo”. It’s terrifically fun to be silly.
We were talking in the van yesterday about fecal fetish. Used to be people just let their dogs shit wherever. You take the dog for a walk. The dog shits. You both walk away. Now, people carry around bags to pick up the steamy shit and carry it with them. What in the world is that about?! Yeah, I get it: it’s polite to not leave your shit on somebody else’s lawn… but picking up your dog’s shit is just boag. Really. It is. And as we’re having this conversation, it makes me think about somebody in my family saying “fecal matter”, so I mentioned that to the van. They unanimously agreed it was my mother, which it probably was. My father didn’t talk about anything, so I wouldn’t have gotten any words from him. My mother scienced up everything—penis, vagina, urination, erection, ejaculation, politician—these were all proper words that I had to find alternates for—dick, poon, pee, boner, spooge, lying fucktard. And as we all giggled at my mother saying “fecal matter” to me as a youth, I smiled knowing that she would probably laugh along with us were she in the van.
My family pretty much rocks. And I got to help my 10 year old learn how to go down a grassy hill on his brand new bike yesterday. We were hot and sweaty and he did it twice, and it was great to see him achieve that. Yeah, I like my family.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Trial Results
The Judge comes into the courtroom and addresses Assmunch and Douche Attorney.
"It looks like you're moving to dissolve joint custody in favor of sole custody for the father. Can you tell my why?"
"Yes, your honor," starts Douche. "We don't actually want sole custody, your honor. We're actually fine with the way things are right now. The filing of that motion is purely procedural, so we don't have to hear that part of the case."
Judge looks at Douche as if he's crazy. Did Douche really just try to throw out his own case?? Judge needs more information.
"Why did you file if you don't want sole custody?" she asks, squinting at Douche, as if to make sure that he's real and not a really thick fart wearing a tie.
"Your honor, we feel that if you allow the other side to testify, you will see that joint custody isn't working in this case and you will award sole custody to the other side. So I wanted to make sure that my man had a chance to get..." ...he tried to find the words and failed... "...a chance."
Judge, again, is baffled. This can't possibly be happening, can it?? So she clarifies again.
"You don't want sole custody?"
"That's right."
"But you filed for sole custody?"
"That's right."
"Because if the other side testifies, your client will not get sole custody?"
"That's right."
Judge, again, stops and allows this utter absurdity to make some iota of sense. Our attorney, aka Ninja Yoda, stops the silence.
"Your honor, this is very unfair. We have spent time and money deposing this man based on this motion. There are some very serious and specific allegations that have been made, and we would ask that the sole custody motion be tried."
Almost before Ninja Yoda has finished speaking, Judge is waving her finger in the air.
"Let's hear it!" She says.
Douche calls my Wife first. Which makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, if her testimony is going to ensure that his client is NOT awarded sole custody, as he told Judge minutes before, of course he would want her on the stand first so that she can present her side of things. You wouldn't want your client presenting his side of things because that might be... logical? No, you would want to call the opposition first. You want to call the people who have the testimony that will ensure your client will not get sole custody. Because your client is completely brain dead and there is, in fact, no case AT ALL that you have to work with and the only thing you're doing is making things hard for Wife and trying to drag her through the mud.
So Wife gets on the stand. Douche asks her about her employment status. She tells him. He asks if she was working at this last place when she first filed to change custody. She said that she was working at that last place when she first filed to change visitation. Douche shot her a long, dirty look, as if she had just thwarted his ever-so-clever attempt to trap her into saying that she was trying to change custody-- which she was not trying to do.
At this time, Assmunch leans over to Douche and whispers something, and I see my name smear across his dry, reptilian lips. Douche says to Judge, "Your honor, I would like to invoke The Rule."
Judge announces, "Is there a witness in the courtroom?" And Ninja Yoda says that there is. And I stand up, and Judge tells me to leave the courtroom and I should not discuss my testimony with anyone or allow them to discuss the case with me. I leave.
I get reports of what followed.
Douche attacks Wife for wanting a tax credit when she's not making enough money to warrant the credit. She responds that, if she had known this, she would not have pressed for a tax credit. Douche hands her a calendar with days X-ed out. He asks Wife to count the days, which are the current number of days Assmunch gets with the boys. Then Douche hands her another calendar and asks her to count the days that she is saying he should be allowed under the standard visitation schedule she is proposing. Wife says, "I'd be happy to count the days for you, but this isn't what I'm proposing." Douche lays into her, trying to get her to admit that she is trying to change the schedule to this Standard Visitation Schedule calendar that Douche has made. As I saw this calendar after the fact, I noticed that it looked almost identical to a calendar that Wife had made the first time we went to court when Assmunch was only allowing her those 4 over-nights a month. It struck me that maybe Douche couldn't actually think for himself. Finally, Ninja Yoda stepped in and asked Judge if this line of questioning needed to continue, as Wife had already answered the question several times. Judge told Douche that he needed to move on.
Douche then produces a list of hypothetical situations in which he wanted Wife to look over them and rate them as to how important it was that these hypothetical situations be communicated to the other parent and how quickly they should be communicated. Ninja Yoda very quickly opposed this, as they were all hypothetical questions.
Essentially, Douche tried to trap Wife into saying things that he could manipulate later. Wife didn't fall into any of his traps. He hammered on her for over an hour. Judge ordered a break.
The trial resumed, and Wife was examined by Ninja Yoda. Ninja Yoda examined her for almost an hour before Judge said that they were going to take a break. She also called counsel into her chambers.
Judge tells both attorney's that they need to settle. "This case should never have gotten this far," she says. She looks at Ninja Yoda. "If your client wants to try this case, she's not going to be awarded the tax break she's seeking because she doesn't make enough money." Judge spins on Douche. "And if YOUR client wants to try this case, I'm going to discover that he's a controlling asshole and I WILL dissolved joint custody, and she [Wife] will be named custodial parent and have sole custody. I don't like control-freaks. They don't work in joint custody. And I'm forcing counseling so that these two can figure out how to talk with each other about this."
So we settled.
Our 10 year old now is going to stay with us from Thursday to Thursday. Our 14 year old is going to stay with us from Friday to Friday. Counseling continues until November 1st, when the therapist will write a progress report. If all is going well, things will stay the same. If Wife is making enough money, she will be granted one child as a tax break. If not, then no tax break. If Assmunch continues to be an assmunch, then joint custody is over and Wife gets sole custody and child support and both children as tax write offs.
Incidentally, it's taken me 4 days to write this. I'm glad the trial is over. I'm glad this story is over. Wife, 10 year old, 14 year old and myself feel better and are noticeably enjoying life a lot more. Our 14 year old rode his bike yesterday and I can't wait to ride with him. Our 10 year old rode down a slope twice without crashing, and I can't wait to do that again. We're all feeling more empowered, happier, more relaxed. Wife is sleeping better. Both boys are able to speak their feelings more, telling us what they want and how they're doing. Everything seems much more relaxed, like our collective lives just sat down on a really comfy couch, propped it's feet up, and sighed into an excellent state of rest. It feels good.
"It looks like you're moving to dissolve joint custody in favor of sole custody for the father. Can you tell my why?"
"Yes, your honor," starts Douche. "We don't actually want sole custody, your honor. We're actually fine with the way things are right now. The filing of that motion is purely procedural, so we don't have to hear that part of the case."
Judge looks at Douche as if he's crazy. Did Douche really just try to throw out his own case?? Judge needs more information.
"Why did you file if you don't want sole custody?" she asks, squinting at Douche, as if to make sure that he's real and not a really thick fart wearing a tie.
"Your honor, we feel that if you allow the other side to testify, you will see that joint custody isn't working in this case and you will award sole custody to the other side. So I wanted to make sure that my man had a chance to get..." ...he tried to find the words and failed... "...a chance."
Judge, again, is baffled. This can't possibly be happening, can it?? So she clarifies again.
"You don't want sole custody?"
"That's right."
"But you filed for sole custody?"
"That's right."
"Because if the other side testifies, your client will not get sole custody?"
"That's right."
Judge, again, stops and allows this utter absurdity to make some iota of sense. Our attorney, aka Ninja Yoda, stops the silence.
"Your honor, this is very unfair. We have spent time and money deposing this man based on this motion. There are some very serious and specific allegations that have been made, and we would ask that the sole custody motion be tried."
Almost before Ninja Yoda has finished speaking, Judge is waving her finger in the air.
"Let's hear it!" She says.
Douche calls my Wife first. Which makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, if her testimony is going to ensure that his client is NOT awarded sole custody, as he told Judge minutes before, of course he would want her on the stand first so that she can present her side of things. You wouldn't want your client presenting his side of things because that might be... logical? No, you would want to call the opposition first. You want to call the people who have the testimony that will ensure your client will not get sole custody. Because your client is completely brain dead and there is, in fact, no case AT ALL that you have to work with and the only thing you're doing is making things hard for Wife and trying to drag her through the mud.
So Wife gets on the stand. Douche asks her about her employment status. She tells him. He asks if she was working at this last place when she first filed to change custody. She said that she was working at that last place when she first filed to change visitation. Douche shot her a long, dirty look, as if she had just thwarted his ever-so-clever attempt to trap her into saying that she was trying to change custody-- which she was not trying to do.
At this time, Assmunch leans over to Douche and whispers something, and I see my name smear across his dry, reptilian lips. Douche says to Judge, "Your honor, I would like to invoke The Rule."
Judge announces, "Is there a witness in the courtroom?" And Ninja Yoda says that there is. And I stand up, and Judge tells me to leave the courtroom and I should not discuss my testimony with anyone or allow them to discuss the case with me. I leave.
I get reports of what followed.
Douche attacks Wife for wanting a tax credit when she's not making enough money to warrant the credit. She responds that, if she had known this, she would not have pressed for a tax credit. Douche hands her a calendar with days X-ed out. He asks Wife to count the days, which are the current number of days Assmunch gets with the boys. Then Douche hands her another calendar and asks her to count the days that she is saying he should be allowed under the standard visitation schedule she is proposing. Wife says, "I'd be happy to count the days for you, but this isn't what I'm proposing." Douche lays into her, trying to get her to admit that she is trying to change the schedule to this Standard Visitation Schedule calendar that Douche has made. As I saw this calendar after the fact, I noticed that it looked almost identical to a calendar that Wife had made the first time we went to court when Assmunch was only allowing her those 4 over-nights a month. It struck me that maybe Douche couldn't actually think for himself. Finally, Ninja Yoda stepped in and asked Judge if this line of questioning needed to continue, as Wife had already answered the question several times. Judge told Douche that he needed to move on.
Douche then produces a list of hypothetical situations in which he wanted Wife to look over them and rate them as to how important it was that these hypothetical situations be communicated to the other parent and how quickly they should be communicated. Ninja Yoda very quickly opposed this, as they were all hypothetical questions.
Essentially, Douche tried to trap Wife into saying things that he could manipulate later. Wife didn't fall into any of his traps. He hammered on her for over an hour. Judge ordered a break.
The trial resumed, and Wife was examined by Ninja Yoda. Ninja Yoda examined her for almost an hour before Judge said that they were going to take a break. She also called counsel into her chambers.
Judge tells both attorney's that they need to settle. "This case should never have gotten this far," she says. She looks at Ninja Yoda. "If your client wants to try this case, she's not going to be awarded the tax break she's seeking because she doesn't make enough money." Judge spins on Douche. "And if YOUR client wants to try this case, I'm going to discover that he's a controlling asshole and I WILL dissolved joint custody, and she [Wife] will be named custodial parent and have sole custody. I don't like control-freaks. They don't work in joint custody. And I'm forcing counseling so that these two can figure out how to talk with each other about this."
So we settled.
Our 10 year old now is going to stay with us from Thursday to Thursday. Our 14 year old is going to stay with us from Friday to Friday. Counseling continues until November 1st, when the therapist will write a progress report. If all is going well, things will stay the same. If Wife is making enough money, she will be granted one child as a tax break. If not, then no tax break. If Assmunch continues to be an assmunch, then joint custody is over and Wife gets sole custody and child support and both children as tax write offs.
Incidentally, it's taken me 4 days to write this. I'm glad the trial is over. I'm glad this story is over. Wife, 10 year old, 14 year old and myself feel better and are noticeably enjoying life a lot more. Our 14 year old rode his bike yesterday and I can't wait to ride with him. Our 10 year old rode down a slope twice without crashing, and I can't wait to do that again. We're all feeling more empowered, happier, more relaxed. Wife is sleeping better. Both boys are able to speak their feelings more, telling us what they want and how they're doing. Everything seems much more relaxed, like our collective lives just sat down on a really comfy couch, propped it's feet up, and sighed into an excellent state of rest. It feels good.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Tomorrow We Go To Court
I'm indescribably anxious and trying to forget it.
Stuff it.
Get rid of it.
Keep going.
At work, I keep forcing myself to focus.
It's not easy.
Our lawyer is happy about the deposition that she got from Dick.
And she says that we should know that the court usually goes with what the guardian ad litem report says.
Which means our 14-year-old stays with us for a week, while our 10-year-old doesn't change at all. No change in custodial parent. Continued therapy.
That sounds really horrible to me.
I know it could be worse.
And I also know that it hasn't happened yet.
And speculating doesn't do any good.
And our lawyer might put me on the stand.
I'm trying to see it as a new experience. Something I haven't done before or had the opportunity to do before, so... it's good to experience things?
I try to take deep breaths.
I try to focus on the Right Now.
It's really, really hard.
I can't even find words.
Just wish it was over.
Wish it never was.
Stuff it.
Get rid of it.
Keep going.
At work, I keep forcing myself to focus.
It's not easy.
Our lawyer is happy about the deposition that she got from Dick.
And she says that we should know that the court usually goes with what the guardian ad litem report says.
Which means our 14-year-old stays with us for a week, while our 10-year-old doesn't change at all. No change in custodial parent. Continued therapy.
That sounds really horrible to me.
I know it could be worse.
And I also know that it hasn't happened yet.
And speculating doesn't do any good.
And our lawyer might put me on the stand.
I'm trying to see it as a new experience. Something I haven't done before or had the opportunity to do before, so... it's good to experience things?
I try to take deep breaths.
I try to focus on the Right Now.
It's really, really hard.
I can't even find words.
Just wish it was over.
Wish it never was.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Work Laugh
I went to talk with Dr. Disney today. He talked with me a little about how people were so hung up on a guy who lived, then died, then, "about 70 years later, we get the first written account of him... Mark, I believe... and then we get other people to write about him, too, but none of them really write the same thing. Then another religion gets born about 500 years later centering around another guy who went out into the desert... It's like, how do you believe any of this? And how are you so certain you're right that you're able to be mean-spirited to people who have a different belief, when your belief system is based on fiction? I mean, I don't know if I should give up Christianity and become a Jew or a Muslim or what?" I suggested that he become a Tree Hugger. He liked that. And I liked him even more for having thought about things and being willing to talk about it with me. It was nice.
Then, we got down to the task at hand.
"Ok, I've got an easy one for you today. I just got this case today and this particular lady has no relevant medical sources. She's allegating..."
At which point, both Dr. Disney and myself erupt into hysterical laughter. The laughter is deep and prolonged, but it's stifled, as there are people working in other cubes around us. In case it hasn't hit you yet, the word I was attempting was "alleging". "Allegating" is not a word... well, it wasn't a word until about 30 minutes ago. It's now a word-- MY word-- and if you hear it, you know that it was taken from me. I get a quarter every time it gets used.
So we laughed, and Dr. Disney asked, "If this person is allegating something, does that make her an alligator?" This renewed our laughter.
After this, we actually did some work.
But that laughter was really cleansing and refreshing. It was needed and welcomed. I really wanted to ask Dr. Disney for a beer sometime, but I didn't. He said, "You just did that on the spot, didn't you? You didn't think of that before, did you?" I told him it was something that just came out. I told him I used to do that kind of thing for a living. He asked if he could see me perform sometime, either live or on YouTube, and I told him I thought I had some tapes of me, but I wasn't sure. I don't want him to see me perform and then not like me anymore. I told him that watching me on video is different from watching me in person: you're missing the atmosphere and the drinks, "...because the more you drink, the funnier I am." He laughed at that a lot, and I told him that I had used that line often, so I hadn't just written that one.
Anyway, I laughed a lot with Dr. Disney today.
Then, we got down to the task at hand.
"Ok, I've got an easy one for you today. I just got this case today and this particular lady has no relevant medical sources. She's allegating..."
At which point, both Dr. Disney and myself erupt into hysterical laughter. The laughter is deep and prolonged, but it's stifled, as there are people working in other cubes around us. In case it hasn't hit you yet, the word I was attempting was "alleging". "Allegating" is not a word... well, it wasn't a word until about 30 minutes ago. It's now a word-- MY word-- and if you hear it, you know that it was taken from me. I get a quarter every time it gets used.
So we laughed, and Dr. Disney asked, "If this person is allegating something, does that make her an alligator?" This renewed our laughter.
After this, we actually did some work.
But that laughter was really cleansing and refreshing. It was needed and welcomed. I really wanted to ask Dr. Disney for a beer sometime, but I didn't. He said, "You just did that on the spot, didn't you? You didn't think of that before, did you?" I told him it was something that just came out. I told him I used to do that kind of thing for a living. He asked if he could see me perform sometime, either live or on YouTube, and I told him I thought I had some tapes of me, but I wasn't sure. I don't want him to see me perform and then not like me anymore. I told him that watching me on video is different from watching me in person: you're missing the atmosphere and the drinks, "...because the more you drink, the funnier I am." He laughed at that a lot, and I told him that I had used that line often, so I hadn't just written that one.
Anyway, I laughed a lot with Dr. Disney today.
Shaving
One of the ladies I work with stopped by my cube because she smelled urine and thought that, perhaps, I had peed in my cube. I'm not even joking. That's the real reason she came into my cube.
She then noticed that I had shaved. These days, when I shave, I use a hair razor and shave myself down to a pretty prominent five o'clock shadow. Why? Because 1. I hate shaving, 2. My job allows it, and 3. It's easy. And when I grow my beard, it's not because I'm actually growing it or taking care of it, I'm just not shaving, which makes my beard grow. So my beard isn't anything to brag about. Just a bunch of pubic hair on my cheeks.
So this lady notices that I have shaved.
"You shaved a little," she says to me. "What made you do that?"
"It's a process I go through," I tried to explain. "I let it grow, then I shave it off when it gets to be too much."
"Why? Do you like to do that?"
"No, I just hate shaving."
She scoffed at that. "Well, I hate shaving, too, but WE'RE not allowed to do that!" And she walked away, weighed down by the societal expectations of being a female.
"That's up to you," I said to her back.
You know what, I feel no sympathy for her. She's making a choice to shave her legs. If she hates it so much, she should stop. But the way she's playing life right now, she can't win: she's pissed if she shaves because she hates it, and she's pissed if she doesn't shave because it's not acceptable for women to do that. No matter what, she loses.
What if she thought about it like this: I have the choice to shave and the choice to not shave. If I shave, I fulfil my societally dictated duties as a female. If I don't shave, I make myself happier. I will choose to not shave and make myself happier. And IF people make fun of me or ask me about it, my answer to them will be "it makes me happier to not be forced to shave."
Or she could think about it like this: If I shave I will make myself happier because I will know that I fit into the standard and I will not be open to ridicule from others. That makes me happier, so I will choose to shave. That way, she can respond with "it makes me happier to shave."
But as it is now, she cannot win. She is pissed she has to shave. She is pissed in not shaving.
Why in the world are so many people so uptight about these things? And there are lots of things we're all uptight about: our lawns, our cars, our clothes, our hair, our fat/thin bodies, our teeth, our friends, our jobs, our homes, our gods, our children, our schooling, our sports teams.
"I like the New Boston Buttfuckers!"
"Well, I like the Blevin Cock Bleeders!"
"You suck!"
If we can just knock off the last sentence, everything will be fine. Or, if we recognize that the last sentence-- "You suck!"-- is a mean sentence intended to degrade you, and it's not spoken by a friend, maybe we wouldn't take it so personally. Maybe we could just blow it off, and blow off the person who said it because, ultimately, how worthwhile are the words of an asshole? If you listen to an asshole, you'll get a earful of farts.
I JUST WROTE THAT!! AND IF YOU HEAR IT ANYWHERE ELSE, YOU KNOW THEY'RE READING ME! I GET A QUARTER EVERY TIME THIS GETS USED!
She then noticed that I had shaved. These days, when I shave, I use a hair razor and shave myself down to a pretty prominent five o'clock shadow. Why? Because 1. I hate shaving, 2. My job allows it, and 3. It's easy. And when I grow my beard, it's not because I'm actually growing it or taking care of it, I'm just not shaving, which makes my beard grow. So my beard isn't anything to brag about. Just a bunch of pubic hair on my cheeks.
So this lady notices that I have shaved.
"You shaved a little," she says to me. "What made you do that?"
"It's a process I go through," I tried to explain. "I let it grow, then I shave it off when it gets to be too much."
"Why? Do you like to do that?"
"No, I just hate shaving."
She scoffed at that. "Well, I hate shaving, too, but WE'RE not allowed to do that!" And she walked away, weighed down by the societal expectations of being a female.
"That's up to you," I said to her back.
You know what, I feel no sympathy for her. She's making a choice to shave her legs. If she hates it so much, she should stop. But the way she's playing life right now, she can't win: she's pissed if she shaves because she hates it, and she's pissed if she doesn't shave because it's not acceptable for women to do that. No matter what, she loses.
What if she thought about it like this: I have the choice to shave and the choice to not shave. If I shave, I fulfil my societally dictated duties as a female. If I don't shave, I make myself happier. I will choose to not shave and make myself happier. And IF people make fun of me or ask me about it, my answer to them will be "it makes me happier to not be forced to shave."
Or she could think about it like this: If I shave I will make myself happier because I will know that I fit into the standard and I will not be open to ridicule from others. That makes me happier, so I will choose to shave. That way, she can respond with "it makes me happier to shave."
But as it is now, she cannot win. She is pissed she has to shave. She is pissed in not shaving.
Why in the world are so many people so uptight about these things? And there are lots of things we're all uptight about: our lawns, our cars, our clothes, our hair, our fat/thin bodies, our teeth, our friends, our jobs, our homes, our gods, our children, our schooling, our sports teams.
"I like the New Boston Buttfuckers!"
"Well, I like the Blevin Cock Bleeders!"
"You suck!"
If we can just knock off the last sentence, everything will be fine. Or, if we recognize that the last sentence-- "You suck!"-- is a mean sentence intended to degrade you, and it's not spoken by a friend, maybe we wouldn't take it so personally. Maybe we could just blow it off, and blow off the person who said it because, ultimately, how worthwhile are the words of an asshole? If you listen to an asshole, you'll get a earful of farts.
I JUST WROTE THAT!! AND IF YOU HEAR IT ANYWHERE ELSE, YOU KNOW THEY'RE READING ME! I GET A QUARTER EVERY TIME THIS GETS USED!
Monday, June 20, 2011
Jiggly and Creaburt
Jiggly (a fake name of one the guys I work with) doesn't like Michael Jackson. Hates him. Creaburt (another guy I work with... but this name is real... no, not really... can you imagine how much a mother would have to hate her child to name it "Creaburt"??... I mean, if you're reading this and your name is Creaburt, I'm sure your mother loved you and was just heavily medicated when it came to naming you... I digress)... Creaburt doesn't like Aerosmith. Or Stevie Nicks-- and Fleetwood Mac by association. Jiggly becomes almost violent when he tells me about how Michael Jackson raped all those children and that's another reason why he hates Michael Jackson. Creaburt just hates Aerosmith and Stevie Nicks... not sure if there's a reason. He just hates them.
I don't think there is a group that I dislike in that way. I'm pretty tired of Santana, but I wouldn't say that I hate the group. Just not a fan. Used to like Lenny Kravitz when I smoked pot all the time because I thought that's what you were supposed to do when you smoked pot: listen to Lenny Kravitz. Then, when I was no longer high, I realized his music was boring. But there are some tunes that are pretty good. I have a hard time with Bob Dylan and Tom Waits. The quality of their voices really is grating to me and I can't take it very long. But even still, Bob Dylan has "To Make You Feel My Love" (that was his originally, before Billy Joel and Garth Brooks covered it, and he did it pretty well), and I even like "Tambourine Man" every once in a while. And Tom Waits has "What's He Building In There?" from Mule Variations. Kind of an interesting piece that's okay. He's also got "Martha", which is kinda sweet, especially his earlier recording before his voice turned entirely into tar-like gravel.
I think that Jiggly and Creaburt should get together and make out. No reason. Just cuz I think it would skeeve both of them out and that would make me smile.
Plus, I'm extraordinarily exhausted.
I don't think there is a group that I dislike in that way. I'm pretty tired of Santana, but I wouldn't say that I hate the group. Just not a fan. Used to like Lenny Kravitz when I smoked pot all the time because I thought that's what you were supposed to do when you smoked pot: listen to Lenny Kravitz. Then, when I was no longer high, I realized his music was boring. But there are some tunes that are pretty good. I have a hard time with Bob Dylan and Tom Waits. The quality of their voices really is grating to me and I can't take it very long. But even still, Bob Dylan has "To Make You Feel My Love" (that was his originally, before Billy Joel and Garth Brooks covered it, and he did it pretty well), and I even like "Tambourine Man" every once in a while. And Tom Waits has "What's He Building In There?" from Mule Variations. Kind of an interesting piece that's okay. He's also got "Martha", which is kinda sweet, especially his earlier recording before his voice turned entirely into tar-like gravel.
I think that Jiggly and Creaburt should get together and make out. No reason. Just cuz I think it would skeeve both of them out and that would make me smile.
Plus, I'm extraordinarily exhausted.
Friday, June 17, 2011
I sure do like my wife
I'm grumpy today.
And my wife is just standing next to me, not really waiting for me, cuz she keeps going. She keeps doing her thing. She's not crowding me, hounding me about when I'm not going to be grumpy anymore. She has accepted my grumpy, and she continues.
She stands next to me without judgement. She doesn't pressure me to stop being grumpy. She doesn't tell me to get over myself. She keeps telling me about watering the flowers and the different kinds of shits she's taken through the course of the day. She doesn't change because I'm grumpy. She stays the same.
She's not annoyed with me. She doesn't whine at me. She is there if I need her. If I tell her I need something, I'm certain that she would do it or get it or be in as quick as she can. But I don't.
The biggest thing: she continues to be my friend.
I'm really glad I married my best friend. I wouldn't want it any other way.
I'm really glad I'm married to my wife. She really makes me happy. She really is my best.
And my wife is just standing next to me, not really waiting for me, cuz she keeps going. She keeps doing her thing. She's not crowding me, hounding me about when I'm not going to be grumpy anymore. She has accepted my grumpy, and she continues.
She stands next to me without judgement. She doesn't pressure me to stop being grumpy. She doesn't tell me to get over myself. She keeps telling me about watering the flowers and the different kinds of shits she's taken through the course of the day. She doesn't change because I'm grumpy. She stays the same.
She's not annoyed with me. She doesn't whine at me. She is there if I need her. If I tell her I need something, I'm certain that she would do it or get it or be in as quick as she can. But I don't.
The biggest thing: she continues to be my friend.
I'm really glad I married my best friend. I wouldn't want it any other way.
I'm really glad I'm married to my wife. She really makes me happy. She really is my best.
I'm grumpy
I'm grumpy right now. I know. "What's changed?" Ha. Ha. Ha. Shut up.
Last week I worked overtime. My caseload was even bigger than it is now. I had lots more to do. Was even further behind than I am now. They told me, for overtime, I was supposed to work 6 of my own cases and then work 6 cases from other people's caseloads. It's pretty standard to do this. If you're really caught up, you work 12 of other people's cases. But they thought I was half-way caught up that week.
This week, I'm in a better position than I was last week, but nobody has stopped by my office to tell me which cases from other people I'm supposed to work on. So I go to my supervisor and ask him, hey, what's the protocol for working overtime when I'm not given a stack of other people's cases. He then gives me this long and intense speech about how I should be thankful for this opportunity and use it to get my caseload down. He tells me about how my cases are too high and I needed to work to get them down. He tells me about how I've got a lot of unread stuff that I need to get to, and that I should use today to get my numbers to zero. I tell him I understand that, and I start to explain that last week I was given other people's cases and I was in a worse position than I am now, so I was wondering why I wouldn't be given cases when I was in a better position, but he cut me off to tell me that I had been told to stop putting notes in my cases and aggressively take the next step on cases. I told him that I haven't put a note in my cases since I was told about it the first time. At this point, I'm feeling like #1- I'm not going to get anyone else's cases, and that's why I came into his office in the first place, and #2- I got a surprise lecture about something that I didn't really need, and #3- my supervisor is a dick. So I leave his office. He didn't get it. And I hope he gets herpes.
Last week I worked overtime. My caseload was even bigger than it is now. I had lots more to do. Was even further behind than I am now. They told me, for overtime, I was supposed to work 6 of my own cases and then work 6 cases from other people's caseloads. It's pretty standard to do this. If you're really caught up, you work 12 of other people's cases. But they thought I was half-way caught up that week.
This week, I'm in a better position than I was last week, but nobody has stopped by my office to tell me which cases from other people I'm supposed to work on. So I go to my supervisor and ask him, hey, what's the protocol for working overtime when I'm not given a stack of other people's cases. He then gives me this long and intense speech about how I should be thankful for this opportunity and use it to get my caseload down. He tells me about how my cases are too high and I needed to work to get them down. He tells me about how I've got a lot of unread stuff that I need to get to, and that I should use today to get my numbers to zero. I tell him I understand that, and I start to explain that last week I was given other people's cases and I was in a worse position than I am now, so I was wondering why I wouldn't be given cases when I was in a better position, but he cut me off to tell me that I had been told to stop putting notes in my cases and aggressively take the next step on cases. I told him that I haven't put a note in my cases since I was told about it the first time. At this point, I'm feeling like #1- I'm not going to get anyone else's cases, and that's why I came into his office in the first place, and #2- I got a surprise lecture about something that I didn't really need, and #3- my supervisor is a dick. So I leave his office. He didn't get it. And I hope he gets herpes.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Personal Giggle
I sit here and listen to Don Henley sing "This is the last worthless evening that you'll have to spend", and I'm immediately transported to my college days when I created my own lyrics to just this line of the song...
This is the last mirthless pigeon that you'll have to shoot.
That line, written by me, made me laugh out loud on a regular basis.
I always think of that line when I hear that song.
It makes me giggle, still.
Why is the pigeon mirthless?? And who is shooting pigeons? And why do they care if the pigeons are mirthless? And then I imagine a pigeon opening the door of his one bedroom apartment in the side of an old tree. He's wearing a bowler and his leather briefcase has corners that are well worn and scraped. He is not smiling. And even though his tough day at the office is over, he still can't find a little joy in coming home and being able to put his talons up. He lifelessly takes his hat off and tosses it towards the hat rack in the corner. The hat falls to the floor, missing it's mark by several feet, and the pigeon sighs in failure. He can fly but he can't get his hat to land on the rack. Cool pigeons can get their hats to land on the rack. Indiana Jones can get his hat to land on the rack. But not this pigeon. He is not a cool pigeon. He goes to the window to see if there is anything out there. Any hope at all. He sees the operational end of a double-barrelled shotgun, as it deafens him only for the smallest of moments. His window shatters and he is almost instantly reduced to a red mist of pigeon blood and homeless feathers, dangling in the air, recently detached from their host, then they fall to the floor of the apartment. Outside the apartment, a little boy starts to cry quiet tears of remorse, saddened that he has murdered this pigeon in the window of his tree-apartment. I come up to this little boy, a little boy I have never seen before nor do I know his first name. Nor his last name. Nor his parents. Nor do I know of the school he attends or anything about this strange little person other than the facts of his recent murderous rampage. I put a conciliatory arm around his slightly-sweaty tee-shirted shoulders, and I lean almost too close to his ear, as the music begins to waft through the fall afternoon, and I sing to him...
This is the last mirthless pigeon that you'll have to shoot.
He turns to meet my face, and smiles. And as we gaze into each other's eyes, the MTV viewing audience at home believes we might kiss each other. But instead, a gospel choir appears behind us, complete with break dancers who have Kid 'N' Play haircuts, and we dance and sing the breakdown section of Lionel Richie's "All Night Long (All Night)": "Com molita sed e mo ya, hey gombo gombo! Wi tu parti oh way oh, oh jumbo ya! Com molita sed e mo ya, hey gombo gombo!!" Maybe the shotgun fires randomly, wounding a choir member in his robed leg, and even though part or all of his leg gets blown from his body, he gives no indication of pain or of stopping the revelry. Because this is truly the last mirthless pigeon that you'll have to shoot. And that, that has made all the difference.
You're welcome.
This is the last mirthless pigeon that you'll have to shoot.
That line, written by me, made me laugh out loud on a regular basis.
I always think of that line when I hear that song.
It makes me giggle, still.
Why is the pigeon mirthless?? And who is shooting pigeons? And why do they care if the pigeons are mirthless? And then I imagine a pigeon opening the door of his one bedroom apartment in the side of an old tree. He's wearing a bowler and his leather briefcase has corners that are well worn and scraped. He is not smiling. And even though his tough day at the office is over, he still can't find a little joy in coming home and being able to put his talons up. He lifelessly takes his hat off and tosses it towards the hat rack in the corner. The hat falls to the floor, missing it's mark by several feet, and the pigeon sighs in failure. He can fly but he can't get his hat to land on the rack. Cool pigeons can get their hats to land on the rack. Indiana Jones can get his hat to land on the rack. But not this pigeon. He is not a cool pigeon. He goes to the window to see if there is anything out there. Any hope at all. He sees the operational end of a double-barrelled shotgun, as it deafens him only for the smallest of moments. His window shatters and he is almost instantly reduced to a red mist of pigeon blood and homeless feathers, dangling in the air, recently detached from their host, then they fall to the floor of the apartment. Outside the apartment, a little boy starts to cry quiet tears of remorse, saddened that he has murdered this pigeon in the window of his tree-apartment. I come up to this little boy, a little boy I have never seen before nor do I know his first name. Nor his last name. Nor his parents. Nor do I know of the school he attends or anything about this strange little person other than the facts of his recent murderous rampage. I put a conciliatory arm around his slightly-sweaty tee-shirted shoulders, and I lean almost too close to his ear, as the music begins to waft through the fall afternoon, and I sing to him...
This is the last mirthless pigeon that you'll have to shoot.
He turns to meet my face, and smiles. And as we gaze into each other's eyes, the MTV viewing audience at home believes we might kiss each other. But instead, a gospel choir appears behind us, complete with break dancers who have Kid 'N' Play haircuts, and we dance and sing the breakdown section of Lionel Richie's "All Night Long (All Night)": "Com molita sed e mo ya, hey gombo gombo! Wi tu parti oh way oh, oh jumbo ya! Com molita sed e mo ya, hey gombo gombo!!" Maybe the shotgun fires randomly, wounding a choir member in his robed leg, and even though part or all of his leg gets blown from his body, he gives no indication of pain or of stopping the revelry. Because this is truly the last mirthless pigeon that you'll have to shoot. And that, that has made all the difference.
You're welcome.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
When Life Gets Messy, Think...
This will make a good story when it's over. I'll be able to entertain my friends and family by recounting how I made it through a really tough time, and even though there were some bumps, I kept going until I reached this moment now, when I'm able to tell you this story and you and I can share a smile and laugh about how bad it was then and how much better that makes it now that we're no longer in that toughness.
Let's Help People... Psyche!
In the 1920s, if thunderstorms trapped a family inside their car on a public street, the majority of Americans would have the attitude of "Let's go and help that family now!"
In the 1980s, the majority of Americans would have the attitude of "Don't talk to strangers, you don't know where they've been!"
In 2010, the majority of Americans would have the attitude of "Get the video camera!"
I find this trend disheartening, although not too surprising. If an individual helps enough people, sooner or later one of those people will take advantage of him, which will naturally lead him to the thought that he cannot be taken advantage of if he doesn't help people. He would have to be really self-aware and fight against the reaction to continue to help people.
We as a nation aren't very self-aware, at least not self-aware enough to look at our actions and notice that we're actually making things worse. Not helping the family makes that family less likely to act compassionately in the future, and thus we breed a nation of people who feel as if no one is looking out for them and they should not look out for anyone else. In fact, if there is an opportunity for self-profit in somebody else's suffering, it's not only accepted, but rewarded. I give you America's Funniest Home Videos as proof, a television show almost exclusively devoted to laughing at people who fall, set themselves on fire, get run over by snowmobiles and generally get hurt while people who could help them watch them suffer from behind a camcorder. And at the end of the show, monetary prizes are given. "Here, have some money for finding somebody who is hurt and showing us how they are hurt."
Please ask yourself if this is the lesson you would like your children to have when you are crippled and needing health care. If it is, don't do a thing. You're well on your way to allowing your nephews to win $1,000 from your public humiliation.
In the 1980s, the majority of Americans would have the attitude of "Don't talk to strangers, you don't know where they've been!"
In 2010, the majority of Americans would have the attitude of "Get the video camera!"
I find this trend disheartening, although not too surprising. If an individual helps enough people, sooner or later one of those people will take advantage of him, which will naturally lead him to the thought that he cannot be taken advantage of if he doesn't help people. He would have to be really self-aware and fight against the reaction to continue to help people.
We as a nation aren't very self-aware, at least not self-aware enough to look at our actions and notice that we're actually making things worse. Not helping the family makes that family less likely to act compassionately in the future, and thus we breed a nation of people who feel as if no one is looking out for them and they should not look out for anyone else. In fact, if there is an opportunity for self-profit in somebody else's suffering, it's not only accepted, but rewarded. I give you America's Funniest Home Videos as proof, a television show almost exclusively devoted to laughing at people who fall, set themselves on fire, get run over by snowmobiles and generally get hurt while people who could help them watch them suffer from behind a camcorder. And at the end of the show, monetary prizes are given. "Here, have some money for finding somebody who is hurt and showing us how they are hurt."
Please ask yourself if this is the lesson you would like your children to have when you are crippled and needing health care. If it is, don't do a thing. You're well on your way to allowing your nephews to win $1,000 from your public humiliation.
God's Shoes
My 10-year-old had some friends come over last night as we all stayed close during a severe rain storm that blew over trees and downed power lines. We sat in our living room, talking with each other when my wife noticed the Friend had shoes that have separate compartments for each toe. One brand name of such footwear is Five Fingers, as there are five little places for your toes to fit individually. My wife got a little excited when she saw Friend was wearing these.
"Do you like those shoes?"
"Yeah, they're great," responded the 12-year-old Friend. "They actually help you run faster and jump higher."
"Really," my wife has genuine interest in her voice. "How do they do that?"
"Because God created our feet to work best without shoes. That's why we were born without shoes, because he created our feet to work best without them. He never thought of shoes in the way that we've made them."
He stopped.
I'm not sure why he stopped.
Friend has a mild stutter, and maybe he was trying to catch his words before they got away from him.
Or maybe he was realizing that he had no fucking clue what he was talking about.
Whatever the case, he stopped. And there was enough of a pause in the conversation for me to lightly insert myself in my lovingly comical yet undeniably truthful way. A way that allows you to see that you're completely and totally full of shit, while still being able to laugh at just how full of shit you are. At times, it's my mutant power.
"So God was baffled by shoes?" I asked. The room gave a light titter of laughter. I pushed, as Friend was smiling at that comment. I stepped into the impersonation of a baffled God. "'Oh, no! They've created shoes! I don't know what to do!'" Friend gave an obligatory laugh while the rest of the room smiled at my simplification of the Bullshit Friend was trying to pass as Truth.
"No, he wasn't baffled. But because Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge, that's why we know about shoes. God never intended for us to know about that stuff, and if Eve hadn't eaten that apple, we wouldn't need to know about it. So that's why that happened."
I let him off the hook, as the point of his story was not to defend the willful ignorance of the people he was parroting. The point of the story was to tell my wife about the shoes that help you run faster and jump higher. Because they're made like God made our feet... with toes.
And that's why they are God's Favorite Shoe (soon to be a marketing tool for the brand).
"Do you like those shoes?"
"Yeah, they're great," responded the 12-year-old Friend. "They actually help you run faster and jump higher."
"Really," my wife has genuine interest in her voice. "How do they do that?"
"Because God created our feet to work best without shoes. That's why we were born without shoes, because he created our feet to work best without them. He never thought of shoes in the way that we've made them."
He stopped.
I'm not sure why he stopped.
Friend has a mild stutter, and maybe he was trying to catch his words before they got away from him.
Or maybe he was realizing that he had no fucking clue what he was talking about.
Whatever the case, he stopped. And there was enough of a pause in the conversation for me to lightly insert myself in my lovingly comical yet undeniably truthful way. A way that allows you to see that you're completely and totally full of shit, while still being able to laugh at just how full of shit you are. At times, it's my mutant power.
"So God was baffled by shoes?" I asked. The room gave a light titter of laughter. I pushed, as Friend was smiling at that comment. I stepped into the impersonation of a baffled God. "'Oh, no! They've created shoes! I don't know what to do!'" Friend gave an obligatory laugh while the rest of the room smiled at my simplification of the Bullshit Friend was trying to pass as Truth.
"No, he wasn't baffled. But because Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge, that's why we know about shoes. God never intended for us to know about that stuff, and if Eve hadn't eaten that apple, we wouldn't need to know about it. So that's why that happened."
I let him off the hook, as the point of his story was not to defend the willful ignorance of the people he was parroting. The point of the story was to tell my wife about the shoes that help you run faster and jump higher. Because they're made like God made our feet... with toes.
And that's why they are God's Favorite Shoe (soon to be a marketing tool for the brand).
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
YOU MISERABLE LITTLE WHORE!!!
I HOPE YOU DIE ALONE AND WRINKLED FROM A CLOSED-HEAD INJURY!!!!
EAT MY LIQUIDY SHITS, FUCKSTAIN!!!
I HATE YOUR GODDAM GUTS!!!
I HATE YOUR GODDAM GUTS, YOU MOTHERFUCKING BITCH!!!!!
YOU SHOULD BE BURNED IN A GODDAM FIRE PIT WITH CHARCOALS AND LIGHTER FLUID!!!
FUCK YOU BITCH!!
I'm super tired of your fucking bullshit, bitch! I gave the fucker a light, and that allows him! I spent approximately an hour preparing all the goddam forms so that the goddam case could be adjudicated, and then you send it back to me, telling me the fucker is goddam a medium?! First of all, that doesn't change anything! The fucker still is going to get his check! Nothing has changed except that I have to spend another hour fixing my portion of the case paperwork! So, because you have some kind of cactus up your twat, you have decided that it's not good enough to give him a check, but we have to give him a check AND make me work twice as hard as I need to, for no good reason! YOU SHOULD BE MURDERED WITH A RUSTY RAKE IN THE HEAD!!
stupid
you're stupid
i hate all your diseases
i wish they would take you all
you're just lying and you're a waste of space
something else could do better with your flesh sack
like a tree
or a rock
or a stream of blood from all the sickness
you're stupid
he she it is stupid
people suck
and all people are stupid and suck
The Web Helps You Connect With Old Friends
Ok, so I was thinking about re-connecting with you. When I had a Facebook account for a month, you were, like, the only person I thought, oh, I'm not annoyed that you've tried to reconnect with me. And in that month, I got about 98 friend requests, and I was getting really tired of ignoring everyone. So I got rid of my Facebook page. And I didn't respond to you before I got rid of the account.
Now I've tried to get back in touch with you. I tried to access your Facebook page and guess what? You've set it to a private status that prevents me from even sending you an email. So I Googled you. You have a Linkedin page. So I checked that out, thinking I would send you an email through Linkedin. That website wanted me to "upgrade" (read: pay) so that I could send an email to you. Eh. Not gonna do that. So I returned to Google. You've got a Twitter account. I tried to send you an email through that website, and you know, you've got that one set to the same privacy status as your Facebook page, making it impossible for me to send you and email.
At this point, I don't want to get back in touch with you. I'm sick and tired of trying. And you have no idea, because you're so worried about, I don't know what, people contacting you. So fuck off. I used to like you, but now I hate you. You're a piece of pee.
Not really all of that harshness. But I was pissed that I couldn't send you an email. Shit.
Now I've tried to get back in touch with you. I tried to access your Facebook page and guess what? You've set it to a private status that prevents me from even sending you an email. So I Googled you. You have a Linkedin page. So I checked that out, thinking I would send you an email through Linkedin. That website wanted me to "upgrade" (read: pay) so that I could send an email to you. Eh. Not gonna do that. So I returned to Google. You've got a Twitter account. I tried to send you an email through that website, and you know, you've got that one set to the same privacy status as your Facebook page, making it impossible for me to send you and email.
At this point, I don't want to get back in touch with you. I'm sick and tired of trying. And you have no idea, because you're so worried about, I don't know what, people contacting you. So fuck off. I used to like you, but now I hate you. You're a piece of pee.
Not really all of that harshness. But I was pissed that I couldn't send you an email. Shit.
Monday, June 13, 2011
How In The World...?
He yells and screams about how she berates him.
He states this is why he won't communicate with her.
He is asked for an example.
He responds with, "You don't know, you weren't there, you wouldn't understand."
He is, again, asked for an example of how she berates him.
He cannot give one example.
He says that he didn't come prepared.
He is reminded that he was told to come prepared so specific examples could be addressed.
He denies that he was told that.
He is reminded that all of this is not the point. The point is not each other. The point is the care of the boys.
He says that he is not legally obligated to tell her about who is taking care of their children in his absence.
He says that he is not legally obligated to tell her about medications for the children, or doctor's appointments, or troubles they are experiencing while in his care.
He is asked why he doesn't share this information with her.
He says that he doesn't have to explain himself to her.
How is this good for the children?
And why has this been such an incredibly hard battle?
This isn't a script or fiction.
This is factual.
I wish that he could be locked away in a prison for the criminally insane, as that is what he is.
He states this is why he won't communicate with her.
He is asked for an example.
He responds with, "You don't know, you weren't there, you wouldn't understand."
He is, again, asked for an example of how she berates him.
He cannot give one example.
He says that he didn't come prepared.
He is reminded that he was told to come prepared so specific examples could be addressed.
He denies that he was told that.
He is reminded that all of this is not the point. The point is not each other. The point is the care of the boys.
He says that he is not legally obligated to tell her about who is taking care of their children in his absence.
He says that he is not legally obligated to tell her about medications for the children, or doctor's appointments, or troubles they are experiencing while in his care.
He is asked why he doesn't share this information with her.
He says that he doesn't have to explain himself to her.
How is this good for the children?
And why has this been such an incredibly hard battle?
This isn't a script or fiction.
This is factual.
I wish that he could be locked away in a prison for the criminally insane, as that is what he is.
The Text I Just Received
Me (to my wife): Please tell me you're ok.
My wife (to me, edited): He lied and lied and LIED!!! about me and I didn't get to defend myself! I had an email example for almost everything he threw out and when he realized that he just started making shit up! I think [the therapist] got it and recognized that he was blaming and distracting and didn't focus on my reply because that isn't the point of why we're there. The boys are the point. She asked [him] what areas we should communicate about and he kept going off on tangents about why he wouldn't communicate with me and she kept bringing him back and he kept going off on tangents so she asked me and I said school, health, and well=being. She agreed with all of those and added one more that I can't remember right now. Basically, she said that the expectations I have of communication from [him] are entirely appropriate and continued to explain to [him] why every time he argued why he shouldn't communicate with me. She told me I should cut down on the wordage in my communications (which I have already done) and to avoid you statements (which I already do). She told [him] that, IF he really is concerned about the boys and IF he wants everything he does to be in their best interests then he MUST communicate with me about these things. I specifically asked about dr. appts, illnesses, medications, girlfriends/fiances/wives (she was particularly adamant about that being shared information), stress, emotional states, teeth falling out, school progress - ALL of which she agreed wholeheartedly SHOULD be communicated about freely! There wasn't anything I (or [he]) mentioned that she thought didn't need to be communicated about. [He] got into wanting to set boundaries and talked about how inappropriate it was for me to come into his home or got to the boys' bedrooms when invited by them. She was visibly disturbed by that from him and said we would address it next time.
My wife (to me, edited): He lied and lied and LIED!!! about me and I didn't get to defend myself! I had an email example for almost everything he threw out and when he realized that he just started making shit up! I think [the therapist] got it and recognized that he was blaming and distracting and didn't focus on my reply because that isn't the point of why we're there. The boys are the point. She asked [him] what areas we should communicate about and he kept going off on tangents about why he wouldn't communicate with me and she kept bringing him back and he kept going off on tangents so she asked me and I said school, health, and well=being. She agreed with all of those and added one more that I can't remember right now. Basically, she said that the expectations I have of communication from [him] are entirely appropriate and continued to explain to [him] why every time he argued why he shouldn't communicate with me. She told me I should cut down on the wordage in my communications (which I have already done) and to avoid you statements (which I already do). She told [him] that, IF he really is concerned about the boys and IF he wants everything he does to be in their best interests then he MUST communicate with me about these things. I specifically asked about dr. appts, illnesses, medications, girlfriends/fiances/wives (she was particularly adamant about that being shared information), stress, emotional states, teeth falling out, school progress - ALL of which she agreed wholeheartedly SHOULD be communicated about freely! There wasn't anything I (or [he]) mentioned that she thought didn't need to be communicated about. [He] got into wanting to set boundaries and talked about how inappropriate it was for me to come into his home or got to the boys' bedrooms when invited by them. She was visibly disturbed by that from him and said we would address it next time.
The Second "Therapy" Session
There's this heart-flutter that happens when I know He is coming over or will be dealing with my wife. It's not good. It's like a shot of adrenaline keeps being pumped into my chest. My skin tingles and the teeth in the very back of my mouth feel like they're being scraped by razor blades. The base of my skull has jagged nails inserted into the soft nerve sack that is my central nervous system. My stomach is upset and hungry at the same time. There is no comfort.
There is nothing I can do.
There is nothing I can do to help her. She must deal with Him on her own. She must go to the therapy session with the man who wants to hurt her. And she must do it without me. Without anyone.
My imagination starts to run away with thoughts of Him going into a crazy fit when presented with his own dementia and psychoses, at which point he pulls out his gun -- which he carries on his person at all times because, oh, let's say his world is just that dangerous and deadly that he must arm himself as if he were living in the wild west -- and blows away my wife, followed by the counselor, followed by himself.
One of my co-workers told me that these were signs of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). I guess I'm not surprised. I've only been living with this violent, aggressive, abusive, psychotic and delusional criminally insane ex-husband for three years. My wife has been dealing with it for almost 16 years. Our boys have had it for their entire lives.
How does it happen that someone like this is allowed to do this to people? And I'm certain they aren't the only ones. This kind of abusive, I feel certain, happens every day to good people just like the people in my family. There is no regulation on who can become a father. There isn't an easy way to prove that abuse is happening unless there is an injury. So my boys and my wife have to be visibly injured before criminal action can be taken against this beast.
But this is how my head gets away with me.
Just because my wife is meeting Him in the counselor's office today and I haven't heard from her yet doesn't mean she's dead. Doesn't mean he's killed her. Doesn't mean she's even hurting. It's only been 30 minutes.
There is nothing I can do.
There is nothing I can do to help her. She must deal with Him on her own. She must go to the therapy session with the man who wants to hurt her. And she must do it without me. Without anyone.
My imagination starts to run away with thoughts of Him going into a crazy fit when presented with his own dementia and psychoses, at which point he pulls out his gun -- which he carries on his person at all times because, oh, let's say his world is just that dangerous and deadly that he must arm himself as if he were living in the wild west -- and blows away my wife, followed by the counselor, followed by himself.
One of my co-workers told me that these were signs of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). I guess I'm not surprised. I've only been living with this violent, aggressive, abusive, psychotic and delusional criminally insane ex-husband for three years. My wife has been dealing with it for almost 16 years. Our boys have had it for their entire lives.
How does it happen that someone like this is allowed to do this to people? And I'm certain they aren't the only ones. This kind of abusive, I feel certain, happens every day to good people just like the people in my family. There is no regulation on who can become a father. There isn't an easy way to prove that abuse is happening unless there is an injury. So my boys and my wife have to be visibly injured before criminal action can be taken against this beast.
But this is how my head gets away with me.
Just because my wife is meeting Him in the counselor's office today and I haven't heard from her yet doesn't mean she's dead. Doesn't mean he's killed her. Doesn't mean she's even hurting. It's only been 30 minutes.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Funny Things From My Work
There’s a woman here with no neck. I’m not sure if her shoulders are too high or if it’s her head fat that’s dripping down just below her ears, but she really has no neck. And you never see her turn her head. Why? No neck.
There’s a woman who must answer your question, even though you never ask her. I just went to her department and had a question for the woman who was right in front of me. From about 20 feet away, this other woman started to answer. Loudly yelling across the office. And the answers she was yelling had already been answered by the woman in front of me about 5-10 seconds prior to the yelled answer, so there was a Grand Canyon echo effect happening with this woman who absolutely needed to answer my question, even though she wasn't asked. Do you think she is that desperate for attention or is it a need to be right or to feel helpful that makes her do this thing? I don’t know.
My supervisor is constantly grumpy. And he knows it. When he was first introducing himself to my group, he told us that he had been told by “everyone” that people think he’s mad or upset all the time. “I’m not mad, that’s just the way I am.” Yet he continues to not smile, laugh, engage in personal conversation. He does not answer your questions without insulting you for asking the question first. “As you’ll remember from training…” is one of his favorite beginnings to a sentence. Of course, if I HAD remembered from training, I probably wouldn't be asking. He shaves his forearms. Some co-workers of mine saw him during overtime hours in the summer and he was wearing shorts. They expected him to have shaved legs, but he didn't. Why would you shave your forearms and nothing else?
One of my 19 bosses is senile. Not like, “oh, he can’t remember where his keys are, how cute.” No, this guy is like, “he’s urinating in the fax machine.” But he’s really nice. He smiles a lot. I guess, if I couldn't remember how shitty my job was, I would smile a lot, too.
My friend from work walked into my office, without knocking, and poured the left-over water from his personal coffee pot on to my carpeted floor. “I just had some extra water,” he said to me, and then left. Hysterical!
A doctor of psychology and a man of… oh, I dunno… let’s say 87 years, just told me about how he used to be a really good pitcher. I told him I was not very good at baseball, and he started telling me about how he used to play on all-star teams in high school and college and he was quite good. I had talked with him before, but I had never seen him light up quite like he did when he was talking about how a gentleman from his childhood neighborhood who he called “Whitey” Robinson taught him how to throw curve balls and sliders. They called him “Whitey” because he had a full head of white hair. If you play baseball, you never have a real name. You have a name other people give you. Whitey, Babe, Mr. October, The Mick, Lefty, Satchel, Pee Wee, Duke, Dookie, Poopy, Pee Pee, Piece of Shit, and Vagina Mittens. If you have one of these names, you’re a baseball player. Or a pornographer.
There’s a woman who must answer your question, even though you never ask her. I just went to her department and had a question for the woman who was right in front of me. From about 20 feet away, this other woman started to answer. Loudly yelling across the office. And the answers she was yelling had already been answered by the woman in front of me about 5-10 seconds prior to the yelled answer, so there was a Grand Canyon echo effect happening with this woman who absolutely needed to answer my question, even though she wasn't asked. Do you think she is that desperate for attention or is it a need to be right or to feel helpful that makes her do this thing? I don’t know.
My supervisor is constantly grumpy. And he knows it. When he was first introducing himself to my group, he told us that he had been told by “everyone” that people think he’s mad or upset all the time. “I’m not mad, that’s just the way I am.” Yet he continues to not smile, laugh, engage in personal conversation. He does not answer your questions without insulting you for asking the question first. “As you’ll remember from training…” is one of his favorite beginnings to a sentence. Of course, if I HAD remembered from training, I probably wouldn't be asking. He shaves his forearms. Some co-workers of mine saw him during overtime hours in the summer and he was wearing shorts. They expected him to have shaved legs, but he didn't. Why would you shave your forearms and nothing else?
One of my 19 bosses is senile. Not like, “oh, he can’t remember where his keys are, how cute.” No, this guy is like, “he’s urinating in the fax machine.” But he’s really nice. He smiles a lot. I guess, if I couldn't remember how shitty my job was, I would smile a lot, too.
My friend from work walked into my office, without knocking, and poured the left-over water from his personal coffee pot on to my carpeted floor. “I just had some extra water,” he said to me, and then left. Hysterical!
A doctor of psychology and a man of… oh, I dunno… let’s say 87 years, just told me about how he used to be a really good pitcher. I told him I was not very good at baseball, and he started telling me about how he used to play on all-star teams in high school and college and he was quite good. I had talked with him before, but I had never seen him light up quite like he did when he was talking about how a gentleman from his childhood neighborhood who he called “Whitey” Robinson taught him how to throw curve balls and sliders. They called him “Whitey” because he had a full head of white hair. If you play baseball, you never have a real name. You have a name other people give you. Whitey, Babe, Mr. October, The Mick, Lefty, Satchel, Pee Wee, Duke, Dookie, Poopy, Pee Pee, Piece of Shit, and Vagina Mittens. If you have one of these names, you’re a baseball player. Or a pornographer.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Take It Back
They are waiting to take it all away from you
They take your money so that you can have a phone, a home, transportation, food
They take your free time so that you can get a job later to pay for the phone
They take your self-esteem so that you're easier to control
They take your ability to think for yourself so that you won't question
They take your free time so that you can get a job later to pay for the phone
They take your self-esteem so that you're easier to control
They take your ability to think for yourself so that you won't question
When are you going to take it back?
when They take your taxes?
whey They take your job?
when They take your house?
when They take your children?
when They take your freedom?
when They take you?
when They take your taxes?
whey They take your job?
when They take your house?
when They take your children?
when They take your freedom?
when They take you?
They take it from you because you let them
They will not take it from you if you stand up to them
When will enough be enough for you?
Or are you going to be content to sit there and let them take it from you?
take all that you have to offer to the world, all that you are
They will take you if you let them
Don't let them
there are more of Us than there are of Them
there are more of Us than there are of Them
when we decide that Freedom is more valuable than Wealth
We Win
When We decide, together, that the American Dream will not die because we took action
We Win
We Win
When We decide that no one is more important because of the size of their bank account
We Win
We Win
When We decide to stop listening to the lies from everyone else and start listening to our experiences
We Win
We Win
We Can Win
but will We choose to
or will They convince us to do nothing while they take it from us?
but will We choose to
or will They convince us to do nothing while they take it from us?
The United States Has The Best Health Care In The World
I wonder how many people you would have to ask before you got somebody to say that they had a positive experience with their health insurance provider. I know my mother has. She is about as militant about health insurance as she is about anything else-- which is to say, she will raise her voice in defense of the health insurance system. She's had positive experiences with them, and she's not afraid to tell me about it. And she feels that she would not be able to have the kind of care she received were it not for her health insurance. She feels taken care of.
So if I exclude my mother, I wonder how many people have had positive experiences with their health insurance provider.
Here are some of my personal stories regarding health insurance. When my wife had a sudden onset of crippling stomach/side/back pain, our insurance company told us to drive 30 miles to an emergency room, rather than drive the 3 blocks to the hospital emergency room in our backyard. Once we drove the 30 miles (about 30 minutes), we waited in the waiting room for almost six hours before we were seen. My wife endured pain that prevented her from standing straight for six hours without explanation. Once she was seen, she was given pain killers almost immediately, then she had pictures taken of the painful area on her body. The doctors suspected a kidney stone, and they wanted films to prove the existence of the kidney stones. The first picture they took, they screwed up in taking (somebody moved, or something like that), so they had to take a second picture. The second picture was not covered by our insurance, as only one picture was needed to prove the existence of kidney stones. That one extra picture which was not covered by our insurance company and in no way was the fault of my wife: $300. This represents about two weeks worth of food for my family. And we didn't have a choice about spending that money. On our tight budget, the hospital and health insurance company made that decision for us. My wife got on a payment plan, and over a year later, paid the hospital bill, allowing my two boys, my wife and myself to eat. If they screw up your pictures when they develop them at Rite Aid, they pay for the pictures. They don't make you pay for pictures that were developed incorrectly. That would be laughable. But, in our world, what's laughable at Rite Aid is Good Business for our Great American Health Insurance Companies.
How about this latest story: my mother offered to have her shrink take a look at the doctors my health insurance company covers to make a recommendation as to who might be able to give me the best coverage. This service is NOT provided by the health insurance provider, even though it would be a very helpful service, as it would help the sick get to the doctors who could best provide care for them. But I'm certain this service would decrease profits, which would increase health insurance premiums, and you don't want your health insurance premiums to increase, do you?? I didn't think so, says the voice of Big Brother. So I look up mental health care providers covered by my health insurance company. Turns out, if I want that kind of specialized treatment-- you know, a mental health counselor-- I would have to drive to another city about 3 hours away from my home. So my choices are to not receive care or to clear my schedule of at least 6 hours, as that's the drive time there and back. This six hour clearing doesn't include the actual appointment, which, no doubt, will start right on time and end right on time. No waiting, no fuss-- oh, wait. It will be my first time there, so there will have to be paperwork filled out. That's another hour, at least. So 7 hours, and I haven't even been seen by a doctor yet. So we're talking a missed day of work, which is providing for this health care, so if I miss too much work, I won't have a job providing health insurance anymore.
I wonder why we believe this system is the best we can do? I have to believe it's out of fear. Fearful that she would not be provided the positive experiences she's already received or that her level of care would fall, my mother wants to remain the same in regards to our current health insurance system. And I don't think anyone can blame her. If it's not broke, don't fix it, right?
In my head, though, it is broke. It's really, really broke. Think about a family road trip in a really large passenger bus. There is one seat on the bus that gets adequate temperature control and has cushioned seats, making the road trip bearable, maybe even nice. Every other seat on the bus, however, has loose springs sticking out, broken air conditioner vents, windows that won't roll down, and you're sitting next to Big Fat Bobby Bo Jim, who just ate a jalapeno burger and hasn't showered since 1983. And everyone on the bus is sitting next to Big Fat Bobby Bo Jim. He's just that fat. Would you consider that to be a working, functional bus? If you had another choice, would you take it?
Is it possible that our health care system is broken? Is it possible there is something better? Is it possible that we could ALL get care for our health? As if, say, that were a national value-- the health and maintenance of that health for all members of the nation? That all members of our country could be cared for by the country that we love and care and pay for? Is it possible that we're not doing something because we're afraid to? Is it possible that other people are trying to stop this kind of change because they are sitting in that one good seat on the bus?
Is it possible to change?
So if I exclude my mother, I wonder how many people have had positive experiences with their health insurance provider.
Here are some of my personal stories regarding health insurance. When my wife had a sudden onset of crippling stomach/side/back pain, our insurance company told us to drive 30 miles to an emergency room, rather than drive the 3 blocks to the hospital emergency room in our backyard. Once we drove the 30 miles (about 30 minutes), we waited in the waiting room for almost six hours before we were seen. My wife endured pain that prevented her from standing straight for six hours without explanation. Once she was seen, she was given pain killers almost immediately, then she had pictures taken of the painful area on her body. The doctors suspected a kidney stone, and they wanted films to prove the existence of the kidney stones. The first picture they took, they screwed up in taking (somebody moved, or something like that), so they had to take a second picture. The second picture was not covered by our insurance, as only one picture was needed to prove the existence of kidney stones. That one extra picture which was not covered by our insurance company and in no way was the fault of my wife: $300. This represents about two weeks worth of food for my family. And we didn't have a choice about spending that money. On our tight budget, the hospital and health insurance company made that decision for us. My wife got on a payment plan, and over a year later, paid the hospital bill, allowing my two boys, my wife and myself to eat. If they screw up your pictures when they develop them at Rite Aid, they pay for the pictures. They don't make you pay for pictures that were developed incorrectly. That would be laughable. But, in our world, what's laughable at Rite Aid is Good Business for our Great American Health Insurance Companies.
How about this latest story: my mother offered to have her shrink take a look at the doctors my health insurance company covers to make a recommendation as to who might be able to give me the best coverage. This service is NOT provided by the health insurance provider, even though it would be a very helpful service, as it would help the sick get to the doctors who could best provide care for them. But I'm certain this service would decrease profits, which would increase health insurance premiums, and you don't want your health insurance premiums to increase, do you?? I didn't think so, says the voice of Big Brother. So I look up mental health care providers covered by my health insurance company. Turns out, if I want that kind of specialized treatment-- you know, a mental health counselor-- I would have to drive to another city about 3 hours away from my home. So my choices are to not receive care or to clear my schedule of at least 6 hours, as that's the drive time there and back. This six hour clearing doesn't include the actual appointment, which, no doubt, will start right on time and end right on time. No waiting, no fuss-- oh, wait. It will be my first time there, so there will have to be paperwork filled out. That's another hour, at least. So 7 hours, and I haven't even been seen by a doctor yet. So we're talking a missed day of work, which is providing for this health care, so if I miss too much work, I won't have a job providing health insurance anymore.
I wonder why we believe this system is the best we can do? I have to believe it's out of fear. Fearful that she would not be provided the positive experiences she's already received or that her level of care would fall, my mother wants to remain the same in regards to our current health insurance system. And I don't think anyone can blame her. If it's not broke, don't fix it, right?
In my head, though, it is broke. It's really, really broke. Think about a family road trip in a really large passenger bus. There is one seat on the bus that gets adequate temperature control and has cushioned seats, making the road trip bearable, maybe even nice. Every other seat on the bus, however, has loose springs sticking out, broken air conditioner vents, windows that won't roll down, and you're sitting next to Big Fat Bobby Bo Jim, who just ate a jalapeno burger and hasn't showered since 1983. And everyone on the bus is sitting next to Big Fat Bobby Bo Jim. He's just that fat. Would you consider that to be a working, functional bus? If you had another choice, would you take it?
Is it possible that our health care system is broken? Is it possible there is something better? Is it possible that we could ALL get care for our health? As if, say, that were a national value-- the health and maintenance of that health for all members of the nation? That all members of our country could be cared for by the country that we love and care and pay for? Is it possible that we're not doing something because we're afraid to? Is it possible that other people are trying to stop this kind of change because they are sitting in that one good seat on the bus?
Is it possible to change?
People I Wanted To Be
Spider-Man
Mikhail Baryshnikov
Jerry Lee Lewis
Steve Perry
Eddie Van Halen
Clarence Darrow
Jim Carrey
Wolverine
Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise's character in Mission: Impossible)
Rocky Balboa
Tony Hawk and Rodney Mullen combined
Lindsey Buckingham playing "Big Love" in The Dance concert
Eminem
I don't want to be any of them anymore.
Now I just want to be me.
Whoever me is.
Mikhail Baryshnikov
Jerry Lee Lewis
Steve Perry
Eddie Van Halen
Clarence Darrow
Jim Carrey
Wolverine
Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise's character in Mission: Impossible)
Rocky Balboa
Tony Hawk and Rodney Mullen combined
Lindsey Buckingham playing "Big Love" in The Dance concert
Eminem
I don't want to be any of them anymore.
Now I just want to be me.
Whoever me is.
...not quite the man...
and she yells out his name
laying on blame
that he's not quite the man she created in dreams
Monday, June 6, 2011
Paper Route
My wife has been working overnight shifts as a newspaper delivery person for the past week.
She says that that job is a pretty good one. "Not great, but good." Some of the pluses are that there is no boss hanging out over her shoulder yapping at her, there is no traffic on the roads, she doesn't have to deal with too many other people, the people she does have to deal with are nice, and the quicker she does her job the quicker she is through for the day. It allows her time to pick up the boys from school as well as teach her art classes.
I got to go with her on her route the past 3 nights and it was kinda fun. Sunday's paper, however, was a little bitch, as we had to put in all the ads and TV guides and all that extra bullshit that comes with the Sunday paper. Took us almost 3 times as long to do Sunday's paper as it normally does. But even with that, it was good to spend that time with her. Even work time is good time with my wife.
Working overnights like that make you feel off during the day. You feel like you're walking through water. You're muscles have to work extra hard to function. Your eyesight is a little blurrier. It feels like you're constantly waiting for your job to start so that you can go to bed. Waking up feels like the beginning of waiting again.
It's good that she's not teaching classes now. This time will give her the opportunity to get used to these new hours and once she's accustomed to this schedule, she can add on more to her schedule.
It does, however, mean that both of us are sleeping alone most of the night. I stay awake until she leaves, then I fall asleep (sorta), then she comes home and sleeps for about an hour (sorta), then I get up for work and she keeps sleeping (sorta).
I love my wife and I miss her at night. Even though I'm not awake, I'm aware that she's not there. I suppose, however, if there HAS to be a time when I need to be without my wife, while I'm asleep is about as good a time as any. That, or when I'm away at work myself.
I'm really glad that she has this job, and I'm really glad that she likes it as much as she does, and I really like that it's bringing in money for our family, and I look forward to the days when we have enough money so that we don't need to work this paper route anymore.
She says that that job is a pretty good one. "Not great, but good." Some of the pluses are that there is no boss hanging out over her shoulder yapping at her, there is no traffic on the roads, she doesn't have to deal with too many other people, the people she does have to deal with are nice, and the quicker she does her job the quicker she is through for the day. It allows her time to pick up the boys from school as well as teach her art classes.
I got to go with her on her route the past 3 nights and it was kinda fun. Sunday's paper, however, was a little bitch, as we had to put in all the ads and TV guides and all that extra bullshit that comes with the Sunday paper. Took us almost 3 times as long to do Sunday's paper as it normally does. But even with that, it was good to spend that time with her. Even work time is good time with my wife.
Working overnights like that make you feel off during the day. You feel like you're walking through water. You're muscles have to work extra hard to function. Your eyesight is a little blurrier. It feels like you're constantly waiting for your job to start so that you can go to bed. Waking up feels like the beginning of waiting again.
It's good that she's not teaching classes now. This time will give her the opportunity to get used to these new hours and once she's accustomed to this schedule, she can add on more to her schedule.
It does, however, mean that both of us are sleeping alone most of the night. I stay awake until she leaves, then I fall asleep (sorta), then she comes home and sleeps for about an hour (sorta), then I get up for work and she keeps sleeping (sorta).
I love my wife and I miss her at night. Even though I'm not awake, I'm aware that she's not there. I suppose, however, if there HAS to be a time when I need to be without my wife, while I'm asleep is about as good a time as any. That, or when I'm away at work myself.
I'm really glad that she has this job, and I'm really glad that she likes it as much as she does, and I really like that it's bringing in money for our family, and I look forward to the days when we have enough money so that we don't need to work this paper route anymore.
Toss
moving
under water
every move is extra straining
seeing
under water
blurry senseless visions draining
wrap it up
throw it out
turn around and start again
tuck it in
pitch it out
keep driving to an end
it's where i am
not for good, not for bad
it's what is now
not forever, not for long
it's what i've got
it's what i have
and i can let it go
if i can
when i can walk away
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Dude's In The House
I just wrote a rhyming email to my wife, where the last two lines were, "That rhyme is strong. Just like my dong." It made me giggle and I hope it made her giggle, too.
And then it hit me-- she's the only lady in our house of 3 dudes. And we three dudes aren't girly dudes, either. We fart and pick our noses and all of us clog the toilets and have to plunge and our feet and pits stink and we belch. Loudly. A lot.
And I thought, maybe my wife would enjoy a little more estrogen around the house.
Then I thought about her last belch. It shattered windows. Our roof suffered internal damage. The dog died. And we don't even have a dog.
I think she's okay.
And then it hit me-- she's the only lady in our house of 3 dudes. And we three dudes aren't girly dudes, either. We fart and pick our noses and all of us clog the toilets and have to plunge and our feet and pits stink and we belch. Loudly. A lot.
And I thought, maybe my wife would enjoy a little more estrogen around the house.
Then I thought about her last belch. It shattered windows. Our roof suffered internal damage. The dog died. And we don't even have a dog.
I think she's okay.
A Letter To Teachers
Dear Teachers,
Please stop teaching my child about sex. It is filthy and dirty and my child is too young to hear about things like that. I hate to bring this up, also, but sex was a punishment given to Adam and Eve by God, so I have a hard time believing my child will grow in his education being taught about God's Punishment. Please stop teaching about sex.
Also, since I'm here, please stop teaching my child about economics. Maybe you've heard, and I don't want to step on your toes here, but "money is the root of all evil", and I don't want my child that close to evil roots. And Jesus turned over the vendor tables in the temple because he didn't believe in economics. So please stop teaching economics.
You know, history shouldn't be taught to my child, either, while I'm thinking about it. There is so much violence in history. The Nazis were really horrible, and lots of Christians were eaten by lions, and that kind of imagery shouldn't be taught to my child. Jesus actually said that we shouldn't listen to the teachings of the Old Testament now that he was here, so he was in favor of throwing out history, too.
Math was just really hard, so stop teaching math.
And stop teaching religion, physical education, music, art, foreign and domestic languages, social studies and science, as these things are really pointless and just waste my child's time. I don't want anything to shift his focus from going to a good college so he can get a good job. Please stop teaching these things as well.
If you could just teach the Bible and football, that would really be best, not only for my child, but for our country. Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, which is the Bible's endorsement for football, as Jesus had to touch down on Lazarus while saying a Hail, Mary for Lazarus to pass out of death and rise up from the end zone, where we all did a victory dance.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Sarah Palin
Please stop teaching my child about sex. It is filthy and dirty and my child is too young to hear about things like that. I hate to bring this up, also, but sex was a punishment given to Adam and Eve by God, so I have a hard time believing my child will grow in his education being taught about God's Punishment. Please stop teaching about sex.
Also, since I'm here, please stop teaching my child about economics. Maybe you've heard, and I don't want to step on your toes here, but "money is the root of all evil", and I don't want my child that close to evil roots. And Jesus turned over the vendor tables in the temple because he didn't believe in economics. So please stop teaching economics.
You know, history shouldn't be taught to my child, either, while I'm thinking about it. There is so much violence in history. The Nazis were really horrible, and lots of Christians were eaten by lions, and that kind of imagery shouldn't be taught to my child. Jesus actually said that we shouldn't listen to the teachings of the Old Testament now that he was here, so he was in favor of throwing out history, too.
Math was just really hard, so stop teaching math.
And stop teaching religion, physical education, music, art, foreign and domestic languages, social studies and science, as these things are really pointless and just waste my child's time. I don't want anything to shift his focus from going to a good college so he can get a good job. Please stop teaching these things as well.
If you could just teach the Bible and football, that would really be best, not only for my child, but for our country. Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, which is the Bible's endorsement for football, as Jesus had to touch down on Lazarus while saying a Hail, Mary for Lazarus to pass out of death and rise up from the end zone, where we all did a victory dance.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Sarah Palin
We Should All Be Pro-Life!
There's a lot of debate about Pro-Choice and Pro-Life these days. The big one recently is to clearly and LEGALLY define when life starts, so that all fetuses (feti?) can be given the same rights as all living persons and abortion can once and for all be illegal.
Let's just clear things up right now.
PRO-LIFE IS ABSOLUTELY GREAT!
And I think that we should clearly define when life starts so that we can fight to protect each and every life God has placed on this Earth.
I believe that the Pro-Life movement, however, is shooting itself in the foot. Nobody is going to believe that you really believe life is worth protecting if you don't, actually, protect life. So, for instance, your pro-life arguments are completely full of shit if you protect one life and not another. If you actively fight to kill something, you're not really pro-life, are you. No, you're not. So here's what we need to do to make people understand that Pro-Life is the ONLY way to go!
First, we need to outlaw abortion. Abortion is a form of killing, and killing ends life, so abortion fits into the pro-life statement that All Life Is Worth Protecting. So abortion goes. And to make sure people know we're serious about protecting life that is currently in existence and not just the life that is living in a mommy's tummy, once those babies are born, all Pro-Lifers will adopt unwanted babies, so that we KNOW those babies lives are protected by somebody who cares for life. All babies who would've been aborted because their mother was raped, those babies get immediately adopted by a Pro-Lifer. All babies who would've been aborted because their mother is too poor to provide a decent or healthy life for that child, those babies are adopted by Pro-Lifers. And then they care for the mother who was too poor to care for her child by paying for her college degree, making her a more viable candidate for A Good Life, as college grads live longer lives than non-college grads, and we're all about protecting life. By outlawing abortion, we also make in unnecessary to kill the doctors who are killing the babies. Two lives saved with one simple act!
Next, we outlaw bug spray. It is a poison which kills life, and it needs to go. We're All About Protecting Life, People!
Next, we need to outlaw the death penalty. Yes, some might argue that these violent criminals have given up their right to life by committing violent crimes, but that doesn't change our view that ALL LIFE IS WORTH PROTECTING! So we end the death penalty and put all criminals in prison for life.
Next, we need to outlaw guns. Guns are designed to kill either humans or animals, and they need to go. Look, if we don't stand behind our beliefs, people will think we're full of shit and not worth listening to, so we gotta do away with guns. No More Killing!
And the Armed Forces: gone. No more army, navy, air force or marines. No coast guard. No more bomb makers or tank manufacturers. They are all in the business of killing people, and life must be protected.
We gotta do away with radiation and chemo therapies for cancer victims, as cancer is a living thing, and... you guessed it... life must be protected.
Killing animals must be outlawed. So no more meat for food. And killing plants must be outlawed. So no more plants. All food must be synthetic, made completely from man-made ingredients. We will all live on protein bars and Twinkies.
The people who are currently alive, they must be protected, so all of them must be brought up to an economic level which would afford them a life worth living. All homeless and indigent people across the globe will have a Pro-Lifer pay for his or her house and meals until he or she is dead. We Pro-Lifers will not be called hypocrites and liars! We mean what we say! There is plenty of money and resources on this planet for every living person to have a home and food which sustains them. Hey, we protected them at birth, we need to continue protecting them once they have left mommy's tummy.
Finally, death must be outlawed. We are so serious about protecting life that we will demand it continues even after it naturally leaves. People who die will be strung up to medical machinery and kept alive through the financial participation of us Pro-Lifers. Facilities will be built to house these living corpses-- creating jobs, I might add-- and caretakers will be hired-- more jobs-- and space will be made for these living dead on the moon-- Welcome Back, Space Shuttle Program and more jobs!-- as we will quickly run out of space on the surface of the planet. All people will enjoy immortality, as we make sure that every human, young and old, living and dead, fulfills their God-given Right To Life!
Amen.
Role Models
Our 14-year-old posed a question to the family last night at dinner. He asked who my role models were.
My wife was the first to respond positively to this question. She gave a little gleeful yelp, and started with her role model: my mother. She said that my mother was somebody she had always wanted to be like when she grew up. My wife had mentioned this desire to be more like my mother at other times, and although I wasn't surprised by her answer, I hadn't thought about it in a while, and it's always nice to hear such high praise from the woman you love about the woman who raised you.
Our 10-year-old awkwardly started pointing at me. 14-year-old and my wife grumpily were asking him to stop pointing and say what he wanted to say, but because they were speaking over each other (not to mention our 10-year-old had his entire hand in his mouth and looked like he was trying to pull his lips to the back of his head), they didn't hear him say that his role model was me. I spoke for him. "He's pointing at me. He's saying that his role model is me." Our 14-year-old looked at our 10-year-old at that point, a little dejected. My wife picked up on that one. "Did he steal your thunder a little?" she asked our 14-year-old. He nodded, and my wife continued, "Why is your step-father your role model?" Our 14-year-old's face lit up. "Because he's done a lot of things that I want to do and he's eaten a can of frosting. And he's fun." Our 10-year-old agreed with these reasons for me being his role model. These answers brought lots of laughs from my wife and myself, as well as the boys.
It's one of the best things: sitting around, talking with my family, about random stuff like this. It's really wholesome, refreshing, and replenishing.
What never was said last night was who my role model was. This happens often. Somebody will ask a question of me and then answer it for themselves before I have a chance to answer. I find it cute and frustrating, but it's not something I care enough about to make a big deal over. Our 14-year-old has very mild Asperger's, so telling him that he's asking me a question and then answering it for himself might discourage him from being social, and being social is something that he's working hard to become more comfortable with. So my mentioning of minor social faux pas isn't, in the grand scheme of things, for the greater good. Our 10-year-old loves talking and could talk all day without rest... and sometimes he does. One day I will mention to him that he's asked me a question and hasn't wanted an answer. But that day isn't today. And it won't be tomorrow. My wife's nickname (which I gave her) is Shiny, because she's easily distracted from everything. It's one of the many things that draws me to her. I like being able to talk to her about a potential birthday gift and discuss how she might feel about it and then distract her with, let's say, a jingling set of shiny keys, and she will completely forget about our birthday gift conversation, making the gift a complete surprise when she opens it. This quality in her also makes me feel really smart, as I'm able to follow her multiple streams of thought when we talk without skipping a beat. It's important to me that my spouse make me feel good, not just in what she does for and to me, but in her being who she is and that fitting with who I am. My wife fits me really, really well.
I sat there last night trying to think about who my role model was. My first thought was Wolverine from The X-Men. But I kinda poo-pooed this thought, as he wasn't somebody I really wanted to model my life after. He's a hero and helps people and is loyal and has super powers, but he doesn't behave in a way that I think betters the world sometimes. He acts too much like me sometimes-- grumpy at the idiots he has to deal with and slice with his claws. Why do there have to be so many idiots?!
No, I wanted to be like somebody who is kind, loyal, strong, caring, supportive, funny and heroic. And I realized that my role model is my wife. I don't know anyone as kind as she is. She spent money so that our boys could have gifts to give their abusive father/her abusive ex-husband for his birthday and Christmas. She did this until he sued her for sole custody of the boys without reason, which is another quality I like about her: her kindness has limits and can be taken advantage of only so long. She has never said a bad word about anyone to anyone, except for me. I'm the only person she trusts with her "mean" feelings, which she always feels guilty for having. She remained loyal to her marriage for 12 years, even though she was the only member of that union who was actively trying to make it good. She has fiercely fought for her children and their happiness, even at her financial and emotional expense, because she believes they should be listened to and have a say in making their world better. She stood up to her parents when they told her that she and I had been secretive about our relationship. She was strong enough to divorce her ex-husband and stand up to her parents and protect her children with those two parties trying to hurt her and them, and she did this alone. She supports me, my mother and step-father and her children in all that we do. She makes me laugh more than George Carlin and Eddie Izzard combined. And in these ways, she's a hero to her children and myself. Something that I've come to realize, as I have a major hero complex, is that heroes often don't get recognized. Like the public at the beginning of the movie Hancock, heroes are often shunned, or they remain hidden so that nobody knows they are there. My wife champions her students, her children, her husband, her in-laws and all those she cares about on a regular basis.
My wife is my role model.
My wife was the first to respond positively to this question. She gave a little gleeful yelp, and started with her role model: my mother. She said that my mother was somebody she had always wanted to be like when she grew up. My wife had mentioned this desire to be more like my mother at other times, and although I wasn't surprised by her answer, I hadn't thought about it in a while, and it's always nice to hear such high praise from the woman you love about the woman who raised you.
Our 10-year-old awkwardly started pointing at me. 14-year-old and my wife grumpily were asking him to stop pointing and say what he wanted to say, but because they were speaking over each other (not to mention our 10-year-old had his entire hand in his mouth and looked like he was trying to pull his lips to the back of his head), they didn't hear him say that his role model was me. I spoke for him. "He's pointing at me. He's saying that his role model is me." Our 14-year-old looked at our 10-year-old at that point, a little dejected. My wife picked up on that one. "Did he steal your thunder a little?" she asked our 14-year-old. He nodded, and my wife continued, "Why is your step-father your role model?" Our 14-year-old's face lit up. "Because he's done a lot of things that I want to do and he's eaten a can of frosting. And he's fun." Our 10-year-old agreed with these reasons for me being his role model. These answers brought lots of laughs from my wife and myself, as well as the boys.
It's one of the best things: sitting around, talking with my family, about random stuff like this. It's really wholesome, refreshing, and replenishing.
What never was said last night was who my role model was. This happens often. Somebody will ask a question of me and then answer it for themselves before I have a chance to answer. I find it cute and frustrating, but it's not something I care enough about to make a big deal over. Our 14-year-old has very mild Asperger's, so telling him that he's asking me a question and then answering it for himself might discourage him from being social, and being social is something that he's working hard to become more comfortable with. So my mentioning of minor social faux pas isn't, in the grand scheme of things, for the greater good. Our 10-year-old loves talking and could talk all day without rest... and sometimes he does. One day I will mention to him that he's asked me a question and hasn't wanted an answer. But that day isn't today. And it won't be tomorrow. My wife's nickname (which I gave her) is Shiny, because she's easily distracted from everything. It's one of the many things that draws me to her. I like being able to talk to her about a potential birthday gift and discuss how she might feel about it and then distract her with, let's say, a jingling set of shiny keys, and she will completely forget about our birthday gift conversation, making the gift a complete surprise when she opens it. This quality in her also makes me feel really smart, as I'm able to follow her multiple streams of thought when we talk without skipping a beat. It's important to me that my spouse make me feel good, not just in what she does for and to me, but in her being who she is and that fitting with who I am. My wife fits me really, really well.
I sat there last night trying to think about who my role model was. My first thought was Wolverine from The X-Men. But I kinda poo-pooed this thought, as he wasn't somebody I really wanted to model my life after. He's a hero and helps people and is loyal and has super powers, but he doesn't behave in a way that I think betters the world sometimes. He acts too much like me sometimes-- grumpy at the idiots he has to deal with and slice with his claws. Why do there have to be so many idiots?!
No, I wanted to be like somebody who is kind, loyal, strong, caring, supportive, funny and heroic. And I realized that my role model is my wife. I don't know anyone as kind as she is. She spent money so that our boys could have gifts to give their abusive father/her abusive ex-husband for his birthday and Christmas. She did this until he sued her for sole custody of the boys without reason, which is another quality I like about her: her kindness has limits and can be taken advantage of only so long. She has never said a bad word about anyone to anyone, except for me. I'm the only person she trusts with her "mean" feelings, which she always feels guilty for having. She remained loyal to her marriage for 12 years, even though she was the only member of that union who was actively trying to make it good. She has fiercely fought for her children and their happiness, even at her financial and emotional expense, because she believes they should be listened to and have a say in making their world better. She stood up to her parents when they told her that she and I had been secretive about our relationship. She was strong enough to divorce her ex-husband and stand up to her parents and protect her children with those two parties trying to hurt her and them, and she did this alone. She supports me, my mother and step-father and her children in all that we do. She makes me laugh more than George Carlin and Eddie Izzard combined. And in these ways, she's a hero to her children and myself. Something that I've come to realize, as I have a major hero complex, is that heroes often don't get recognized. Like the public at the beginning of the movie Hancock, heroes are often shunned, or they remain hidden so that nobody knows they are there. My wife champions her students, her children, her husband, her in-laws and all those she cares about on a regular basis.
My wife is my role model.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Very Important Person
You're the most
The Most Important
Very Important Person
You're my VIP
My VIP
So you should VIP
All over me!
Let your golden VIP
Rain down into my mouth
I'll drink up all your VIP
That comes from VIP-ness.
And if you were Professional
You'd be a VIPP
From M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-Tee-Hee
VIPP in my pants
VIPP in my bed
VIPP on my ice cream
VIPP on my mustache
VIPP around my back yard
VIPP very softly
VIPP in the pool
VIPP-I-PP-E-I-E-I-Oh No!
Don't VIPooPoo
Your VIPP
Can't you see, see
You've got the hugest VIP-ness around!
Beat me down with your VIP-ness!
Get it swollen and engorged!
Smack around your VIP-ness!
The source of your VIPP!
You scream
I scream
We all scream
For your golden VIPP!
The Most Important
Very Important Person
You're my VIP
My VIP
So you should VIP
All over me!
Let your golden VIP
Rain down into my mouth
I'll drink up all your VIP
That comes from VIP-ness.
And if you were Professional
You'd be a VIPP
From M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-Tee-Hee
VIPP in my pants
VIPP in my bed
VIPP on my ice cream
VIPP on my mustache
VIPP around my back yard
VIPP very softly
VIPP in the pool
VIPP-I-PP-E-I-E-I-Oh No!
Don't VIPooPoo
Your VIPP
Can't you see, see
You've got the hugest VIP-ness around!
Beat me down with your VIP-ness!
Get it swollen and engorged!
Smack around your VIP-ness!
The source of your VIPP!
You scream
I scream
We all scream
For your golden VIPP!
Kicked In The Nutz
I'm too gutless to move forward.
It's sorta like that book Flowers For Algernon where the retarded guy was happy, but then he got smart and realized that other people were making fun of him, and then he went back to being retarded, except now he was unhappy because he knew that people were making fun of him.
...well, OK, it's not quite like that.
But, used to be, I was a really great actor. I was a great improviser. I was a great musician. I was a great performer.
Then I got my confidence kicked in the nuts, and I stopped performing.
After "stopping", I was in a musical in New York. I was okay.
I was in a movie recently. I wasn't good.
I stop myself from performing with other groups here in town because I'm scared. I'm scared of being thought less of. And right now, there's not much less to think of about me. I'm not doing anything.
Well, I guess I sang a couple of times with a buddy of mine. We sang in our store. That seemed to go over well, but that was in a retail store, not a performance venue. When we went to a coffee house, we were okay. Then we went to a bar, sang two songs, and slaughtered everyone. Then we went back and completely bored everyone. Ourselves included. We haven't been invited back.
My mother is supportive.
My wife is supportive.
And yet, I make up all kinds of different excuses as to why I can't perform: I'm too tired, I haven't written anything, I don't want to perform with people who aren't professionals, you can't afford me. And probably, they're all to cover that I'm scared. I'm scared to find that I don't have "it" anymore. That I'm not as powerful as I once was. That I'm weak and I won't be able to get my strength back. That my wife won't think I'm funny, and that will mean that she doesn't love me anymore and we'll get divorced. Or our boys won't think I'm funny, and then they won't want to live with us at all anymore, and then Dick Lick will take them away and sue us for child support and we'll lose the house and the cars and have to live in a box. And yes, I guess this is a real, palpable fear of mine. I know it sounds outrageous and unrealistic, but I'm not ready to laugh about it because it's still a real possibility in my mind: this is something that might happen.
I remember seeing a friend of mine get kicked in the dick by a horse when we were at summer camp together in 5th grade. His nuts got pummeled, and he stood there for, like, 8 years, just looking at me, not moving, his eyes so huge they covered his entire face. It was like he was scared to move for some reason. That's how I feel. If I move, I might actually feel the pain from the horse kicking me in the dick, or I might realize that my balls have exploded inside my pelvis, or that my hips have exploded out my ass. I'm going to stand perfectly still and do nothing and, in that way, I'm going to still believe that I have a pair and can actually be considered a man.
PS... that friend who got kicked by a horse, he was rushed to the hospital. Didn't come back to camp. Much later in life, he became a famous swimmer and wrote a book about swimming. So I guess he's okay. I don't think he has any children.
It's sorta like that book Flowers For Algernon where the retarded guy was happy, but then he got smart and realized that other people were making fun of him, and then he went back to being retarded, except now he was unhappy because he knew that people were making fun of him.
...well, OK, it's not quite like that.
But, used to be, I was a really great actor. I was a great improviser. I was a great musician. I was a great performer.
Then I got my confidence kicked in the nuts, and I stopped performing.
After "stopping", I was in a musical in New York. I was okay.
I was in a movie recently. I wasn't good.
I stop myself from performing with other groups here in town because I'm scared. I'm scared of being thought less of. And right now, there's not much less to think of about me. I'm not doing anything.
Well, I guess I sang a couple of times with a buddy of mine. We sang in our store. That seemed to go over well, but that was in a retail store, not a performance venue. When we went to a coffee house, we were okay. Then we went to a bar, sang two songs, and slaughtered everyone. Then we went back and completely bored everyone. Ourselves included. We haven't been invited back.
My mother is supportive.
My wife is supportive.
And yet, I make up all kinds of different excuses as to why I can't perform: I'm too tired, I haven't written anything, I don't want to perform with people who aren't professionals, you can't afford me. And probably, they're all to cover that I'm scared. I'm scared to find that I don't have "it" anymore. That I'm not as powerful as I once was. That I'm weak and I won't be able to get my strength back. That my wife won't think I'm funny, and that will mean that she doesn't love me anymore and we'll get divorced. Or our boys won't think I'm funny, and then they won't want to live with us at all anymore, and then Dick Lick will take them away and sue us for child support and we'll lose the house and the cars and have to live in a box. And yes, I guess this is a real, palpable fear of mine. I know it sounds outrageous and unrealistic, but I'm not ready to laugh about it because it's still a real possibility in my mind: this is something that might happen.
I remember seeing a friend of mine get kicked in the dick by a horse when we were at summer camp together in 5th grade. His nuts got pummeled, and he stood there for, like, 8 years, just looking at me, not moving, his eyes so huge they covered his entire face. It was like he was scared to move for some reason. That's how I feel. If I move, I might actually feel the pain from the horse kicking me in the dick, or I might realize that my balls have exploded inside my pelvis, or that my hips have exploded out my ass. I'm going to stand perfectly still and do nothing and, in that way, I'm going to still believe that I have a pair and can actually be considered a man.
PS... that friend who got kicked by a horse, he was rushed to the hospital. Didn't come back to camp. Much later in life, he became a famous swimmer and wrote a book about swimming. So I guess he's okay. I don't think he has any children.
23 Days
23 days until we go to court.
23 days until something happens.
As it is, nothing has happened except that Fuck has increased his bullying.
He has filed for sole custody without any reason, evidence or provable case.
Our attorney is baffled that his attorney is allowing this to continue.
She believes that his attorney is milking Fuck, trying to get as much money from him as possible.
That, or they are both monumentally stupid.
In either case, it's disturbing that this kind of behavior takes place in our world.
I try not to think about it.
But my hands still get charged with electricity. They are tingly with my anger and anxiety.
I try to vent it.
But it doesn't ever get out of my system.
Something brings it back, either me or some new piece of information.
Right now, they boys are happier than they've been in quite some time.
They don't know that Fuck is pushing for sole custody.
They don't know that he's trying to sue us for money that he has never asked for and has refused when we've offered it.
They don't know that he's not listening to them.
They don't know that he's told the court that our 14-year-old isn't mentally capable of deciding where he wants to live because of his severe Asperger's Syndrome. I fear that, one day, our 14-year-old will discover his father has said this about him, and it will crush him that his father used a falsified diagnosis as the reason for ignoring what his son has stated time and time again.
And even though the boys would care if they did know, what they're aware of right now is that Fuck is not yelling at them anymore.
He's not making their lives harder anymore.
And that's good for them.
And that makes me feel good on some level.
But it makes me super uncomfortable, knowing that it could come back at any time. Knowing that it WILL come back at some point. And even if he was to get everything that he wanted from this court settlement, which he simply cannot, this peaceful time in his life will end. At some point, the boys will ask for something or say something or behave in some way that isn't appropriate in his crazy world, and then they will, once again, be victims to his insane mood swings and abuse. It will not be better. It's a disguise for the court. A lie while people are looking.
I've got to trust our lawyer.
I've just got to.
It's too much for me to handle or think about if I don't.
And my mother made a good point to me yesterday at our weekly lunch: I can't take care of everybody all the time. I take on far more responsibility for those boys than I should sometimes, because I feel the need to make up for their father's failings. I want them to know that they are valuable people in a way that their father should be doing but never has. That's not my responsibility. It is my responsibility to take care of myself. Like a lifeguard, I have to guard my life first so that I'm able to help others. No matter what I do, it will not change the fact that those boys have an abusive father who lies and manipulates them to their own detriment. I will never be able to change that.
Those thoughts don't help me, either.
I've just gotta trust our lawyer.
And think about it being "over" in 23 days.
Please, let it be over in 23 days.
23 days until something happens.
As it is, nothing has happened except that Fuck has increased his bullying.
He has filed for sole custody without any reason, evidence or provable case.
Our attorney is baffled that his attorney is allowing this to continue.
She believes that his attorney is milking Fuck, trying to get as much money from him as possible.
That, or they are both monumentally stupid.
In either case, it's disturbing that this kind of behavior takes place in our world.
I try not to think about it.
But my hands still get charged with electricity. They are tingly with my anger and anxiety.
I try to vent it.
But it doesn't ever get out of my system.
Something brings it back, either me or some new piece of information.
Right now, they boys are happier than they've been in quite some time.
They don't know that Fuck is pushing for sole custody.
They don't know that he's trying to sue us for money that he has never asked for and has refused when we've offered it.
They don't know that he's not listening to them.
They don't know that he's told the court that our 14-year-old isn't mentally capable of deciding where he wants to live because of his severe Asperger's Syndrome. I fear that, one day, our 14-year-old will discover his father has said this about him, and it will crush him that his father used a falsified diagnosis as the reason for ignoring what his son has stated time and time again.
And even though the boys would care if they did know, what they're aware of right now is that Fuck is not yelling at them anymore.
He's not making their lives harder anymore.
And that's good for them.
And that makes me feel good on some level.
But it makes me super uncomfortable, knowing that it could come back at any time. Knowing that it WILL come back at some point. And even if he was to get everything that he wanted from this court settlement, which he simply cannot, this peaceful time in his life will end. At some point, the boys will ask for something or say something or behave in some way that isn't appropriate in his crazy world, and then they will, once again, be victims to his insane mood swings and abuse. It will not be better. It's a disguise for the court. A lie while people are looking.
I've got to trust our lawyer.
I've just got to.
It's too much for me to handle or think about if I don't.
And my mother made a good point to me yesterday at our weekly lunch: I can't take care of everybody all the time. I take on far more responsibility for those boys than I should sometimes, because I feel the need to make up for their father's failings. I want them to know that they are valuable people in a way that their father should be doing but never has. That's not my responsibility. It is my responsibility to take care of myself. Like a lifeguard, I have to guard my life first so that I'm able to help others. No matter what I do, it will not change the fact that those boys have an abusive father who lies and manipulates them to their own detriment. I will never be able to change that.
Those thoughts don't help me, either.
I've just gotta trust our lawyer.
And think about it being "over" in 23 days.
Please, let it be over in 23 days.
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