Today's Rant

What the hell is it with the words on the ass thing?

I noticed a lot of my students have phrases or sayings on their butt: bootylicious, baby doll, shake your tailfeathers, etc.

My top hated one: available.

Now, I realize that Chief Slacker would be thrilled. He's been asking for women to wear buttons to announce if they are taken. I believe he'd be satisfied if all women who WERE available wrote it on their ass. Assuredly, he's looking there, so he'd find it!

I was staring at this woman's ass and she had AVAILABLE written across it. I pondered...available? How so? YOU are available? Your ASS is available? Or, this space is AVAILABLE for rent? Or should we just replace the word available for DESPERATE?

I have come to a decision. NOTHING shall be written across my ass, drawing more attention to it than it already gets. Like I need to give a man a reason to stare at my rear end *snort* It was suggested to me at school, however, that it'd be a GREAT way to make the guys write down homework assignments: paste it to my ass. Still, I'm not going to do it. No way.

Well...ok, I'm broke. Maybe I should just rent my ass like a billboard. What do you think I can get for it? Haha!

Jerome, Part II

(Part one of the Jerome story was written on July 18th, 2005…if anybody missed it and wants to see it...)

After the wisdom teeth incident, Jerome’s whole attitude towards me shifted. He seemed to look forward to seeing me. He was able to truly communicate with me about his needs. The facility allowed him to have two pairs of shoes, so he wanted his second pair, and he had a special request. Done! He also told me about all of these hair care products and other stuff he needed. Well, crap. I’m Whitey McWhite girl when it comes to African-American hair care products, so I made my friend Sheryl come with me to the store to pick out the items needed. Sheryl’s my friend who laughed her ass off at me when she told me she got a perm and I looked at her, confused. “Perm? But…it used to be kinky and now it’s STRAIGHT!” Apparently, for A-A hair, the idea is to straighten it, so that’s what a perm means. Only white folks think perms mean curl the hair. Anyway, the next visit I saw him I brought more McDonald’s, his shoes, his hair care products, and candy. Since I didn’t have my stuff searched (privilege of being DSS), I stuffed extra snack products in his shoe box. Please nobody give me a lecture about breaking rules. Bite me. He was 16 and growing and STARVING…if you saw how skinny he was, you’d have done the same thing.

Excited about all of his purchases, he let me hug him good bye. I thought all of the staff there would pass out cold when they saw Jerome LET me touch him and then HUGGED ME BACK. I felt great! I was getting somewhere with the boy who was supposedly hopeless! I ran back and told the other workers what happened. The older workers who had had Jerome on their case load scoffed at me, not believing that he hugged me.

I then found out that he had been made to repeat a year of school at the DJJ facility and it was boring him. This pissed me off, but I could never secure the school records that said he passed his last year (conveniently, these records were lost…sheesh). He OBVIOUSLY knew the materials. Jerome had an IQ of 114. That may not seem impressive to you, but that’s solidly in the “I can do it” range, especially for a foster care kid. He also had street smarts and cleverness. Slowly, he became so bored in school he didn’t want to do the work AGAIN. Sigh. I tried to convince him to care. Often, it was a losing battle. He would tell me, “Kira, you don’t get it. In the hood, a man moves his arm, you gotta figure out if he’s pulling out a gun, and you got a short time to figure it out. Guns are just a part of my life. Not schooling.” I told him earnestly that my vision for him was that he didn’t live in that kind of neighborhood…that he went to college…that he got a great job and had a wife and family and never had to look over his shoulder constantly again. He looked at me sadly. “That’s for other people, Kira. Half my relatives are in jail. Some are into drugs. Others, I just don’t know where they are. Even more died in a shooting or something. That life is not mine to have.” It was hard to convince him that he had alternatives, but I never gave up trying.

Another turning point day came when I visited him at the facility during recreation time. I didn’t mean to do that as it meant he wouldn’t get to go outside and play ball or whatever for the time. They dragged him in and put me in a new room, waaaay back into the facility. I had never been placed in this room to talk to my foster kid before. It had sofas and lounge chairs and tables in it. Apparently, it was some kind of common area for the boys. Well, we chatted intently for about an hour, and then…suddenly…the guards let in about 50 teenage boys, sweaty and shirtless, into the room. Alone. They had forgotten I was there!!!!

See, I tear up when I remember this incident because…it so clearly demonstrates what a good person Jerome was deep inside…this boy that so many said couldn’t be saved and was so worthless.

I was 26 yrs old, pre children, and probably looked about 22. I was the SOLE female in the middle of about 50 hormonal teenage boys who didn’t get to be around women under 40 at the facility. I was immediately surrounded. If I screamed, nobody would have heard…we were at the back of the building through several locked doors. There were no guards. I was, quite frankly, nervous as they started getting closer and closer in their circle, shouting out, “Who’s the hottie? That’s your worker, man? She’s fiiiine!”

Jerome stood up and did this silverback ape thing, told them all to fuck off, that I was HIS worker, right, and if they touched me, he’d kill them. They didn’t quite back off all the way. There was a showdown as I stood next to Jerome, totally uncertain what to do. He then did this chest strut thing wherein he bumped other guys to show his dominance, and they grumbled and backed off…sort of. They didn’t get their eyes off of me. Jerome took me by the arm (THE BOY WHO WOULD NOT TOUCH OTHERS EVER GRABBED MY ARM!) and escorted me out of there, elbowing and cursing at all the boys who still tried to get closer to see if they could catch a grope of the only young female in the place. He pushed his way through dozens of boys until we went to the locked door. He pounded the shit out of that door, growled at the others repeatedly while we waited for the guards, and then hugged me good bye again as the guards—very embarrassed as they realized the huge error they had made by forgetting me back there—took me out of the facility.

Wow.

We laughed, we joked, we teased. He opened up to me. His DJJ social worker told me she was stunned how receptive he was to me!

But then my year wound down. I was getting an ulcer. I couldn’t sleep. I was eating constantly as a salve for the emotional wounds that were left raw from this job. I couldn’t help most of my kids. They put me on call to take intake calls for abuse and never trained me to sort through them, so I was always stressed when I was on call. I wasn’t even PAID for on call work either. I aged considerably in my one year as a foster care worker. Some people are meant to do this work, but most of us just can’t!

It was a rough decision, but I knew I had to quit or I would lose my mind. I didn’t want to leave my kids behind. The parents, sure, but the kids? Oh God. No, I didn’t want to do that. I had no choice though. I was dying inside.

I remember the day I told him that I had to leave, and why. He threw his head down on the table and sobbed.

Oh, man. The guilt…I’m crying now myself…

I told him I’d write to him and I did, but he never answered a single letter.

I even started up the “become a foster care parent” process with the goal in mind that my ex and I would take him in when he got out of jail at 17. My ex, for all I complain about him, was totally sympathetic to the situation and agreed to go through the hoops to take Jerome in. However, a miracle happened…an unplanned one. I became pregnant. We had decided to have two children, starting two years from when I actually had Ariana. It was the nicest surprise I think I’ve ever received. However, this put aside the “take Jerome in” plan. We had a tiny house and Ari would take up the extra room, plus I knew I couldn’t handle being pregnant and working full time AND being a foster mom. With regret, we stopped the foster care parent process.

But then it gets worse.

My ex was a prosecutor for the state. He never knew Jerome’s full name because that would have broken confidentiality laws. However, since we were contemplating the foster care parent thing to get him, he certainly knew a lot about Jerome’s background. He called me up one day when Ari was about 2. I wasn’t pregnant with Jared yet. Jerome would have been 19. Time stood still at that phone call:

“Kira, is Jerome’s full name X X X?” he asked.

My heart sank. There’s only one reason why my prosecutor husband would have asked that question.

He told me the rap sheet on this fellow who shared Jerome’s name. It matched perfectly. It was Jerome. He had been arrested for armed robbery. No one was hurt, but yes he used a gun to hold up some people at an apartment and steal their stuff (along with a ‘friend.’). My ex was hysterical. Jerome had NO idea that it was MY HUSBAND who had been assigned the case to prosecute him. The ex was torn between keeping the case and having control over the case’s outcome or getting rid of it so he didn’t have to be the one to send Jerome to jail. The evidence was too strong. He kept the case.

The night that Jerome’s case came to trial, the ex and I sat down numbly after Ariana was tucked into bed. For armed robbery, the penalties were severe. At 19 years of age, he would be in jail—even WITH parole for good behavior—a minimum of 39 years. His life was over before it even started. A perfectly good boy. A perfectly good heart and brain. All…flushed down the toilet of life as he sat now in the big house, forever.

Yes, I think of Jerome every single day. I struggle with myself…I HAD to leave that job or I’d die, but by leaving that job I killed Jerome. I was the only person in the seven years he was in DSS to be able to reach him, and I left. I can’t tell you how that feels.

And maybe today, with my students, that might explain why I get so protective of them and drain myself dry for them. I can’t do another Jerome. It's almost like I can make up for him somehow if I just bend over backwards for him...sigh. Whatever jail you are in today, Jerome, I still love you and think of you.

Smart Ass

I can't help being a smart ass. I don't know why; it's just a firmly established trait for me.

Jared's four year old class has a reading program. I have to sign a permission slip so that he can bring a book home a night to read. The slip asks for Jared's gender, race, and birthday. Then it asks for my gender, race, and birthday. I filled out gender and birthday normally. Then, for race I put "human."

Why did I do that? Precision in language. We are all part of the human race. As far as I'm concerned, there's nobody who is capable of handwriting that form who should put down anything other than "human." However, since I'm aware that it's a government funded program, I understood they probably need my child's ETHNIC background for all of their precious statistics. So, I starred both "human race" answers and footnoted it: "Jared's ethnic background is caucasian, primarily European and Mexican/hispanic; however, his race is human."

I think I'm still cranky from the alcohol poisoning I tried to give myself Friday night...hmmm....

Amanda and Angie ATE MY PIE!!!!

I think sometime around 3a last night I guaranteed them that would be my next blog title. It's true! They DID eat my pie! I made a chocolate pie that my mom always called French Silk Pie, and it's terrific. It's not French, but Alex loves it anyway! Amanda made a terrific pasta dish (as Amanda stated, how can you fail with cheese and ham?), and we ate tons of cheese, bread, and dessert products to boot. It was a great chick night out. Yes, I drank too much. Strangely, so did they! Amanda bought limoncello, Angie bought orangecello, I brought port, buttershots, and several bottles of wine. We did not finish it all off. A theme of the evening was, "Let's get WAAAAY more than we need!"

Yesterday and today has taught me many things:

1) Sometimes, when Amanda drives, it's just best to close your damn eyes.

2) Thoughts of cookies and stuff to eat and drink that goes with cookies can make a woman forget all about her heat press.

3) Don't take three hungry women who love food and pull them through two really nice grocery stores. If you do, you will end up with chocolate cookies, godiva truffles, cannolis, an extra bag of rolls, more cheese than you can eat, mousse de canard, and all sorts of items that caught the eye...all for ONE meal...

4) Once you're drunk, it just SEEMS like drinking more is the right thing to do, even knowing you'll pay the next day.

5) Orangecello is good, but I think I prefer limoncello.

6) Camcorders make incriminating evidence all the much easier to provide.

7) Angie thinks port looks better on her boobs, whereas Amanda thinks food looks better down her cleavage. Two women, two different uses for tits! Facinating.

8) The easiest way to confuse Angie is to remove the cold water faucet handle from the shower.

9) Amanda has a hell of a drive into work every day and she really DOES live in bumfuck nowhere. I will never complain about my commute in her presence since she can legitimately bitch slap me then.

10) Three out of three women believe that there's such a thing as too small and such a thing as too big!


In all actuality, I learned a hell of a lot more than I have put up here. However, I'll keep the rest to myself.

...until the videotapes surface, and then I guess everybody else will know too!

Frothing Raging Anger

I have a student. We shall call her student Z for her privacy, and soon you shall see why.

I had Z in fall of 2003 for an English 101 class. Z is sweet, always with a big smile, and positively gorgeous. If I were to leave Alex for a woman, it would be a woman who looked just like Z: curvy body, strawberry blonde hair, big luminous eyes, and a sexy smile. We talked a lot here and there after class because we had a fair bit in common. Connecting to a student like that happens. Here it is, two years later and I've not had another class with her, but I usually get to see her maybe twice a term. She'll stop by and chat with me and I'll catch up on her life.

Today she came in to see me in tears.

Today she told me that she needed my help.

A person, another student at Premere, put something in her drink a few nights ago and sexually assaulted her. It was a person she considered a friend. The police are involved. She had hair samples taken so they could test her for the drugs and did the whole rape kit, etc. She wants to finish up her degree...but Rapist Pig Dog is a student at Premere, remember? She did the right thing and informed security. They tried to look up his class schedule, but they had difficulties finding it. Could she be so lucky and the assault charges made him drop out of school?

Regardless, she is scared. What if this man comes after her at school for pressing charges? Or tries something again?

She came to me.

ME.

5'2" me. No martial arts background. Sits on her ass. No exercise. I became the one who was to protect her. I walked her to her classes today. I told her that I hoped we found RPD so I could kill him. She laughed, having NO doubt I could and would.

She's right though. Smart girl. It's not height nor fighting background nor weapons that really make the difference...it's the spirit inside being strong enough to know what has to be done and doing it, no matter what, period. I talked to her about all sorts of things as I walked her to classes, including an incident in my own life which will never be told on this blog. She reached out to me so she deserved to get all the comfort from me she could get.

And I warn you fucker, if you come near her, there will be nothing left of you to throw in jail. Z knows it. That's why she asked me, and not some 6'4" athlete boy nor a female weightlifter to escort her. She knows I CAN and WILL do the job...and am dying to do it. Go ahead. Sucks to be you because I also have a student whose rich ass family is so wound into the police that I wouldn't be having reprocussions from it either. This student has already taken out two fuckers like you himself, and I know he'd make sure that if I took you out, I'd get a thank you rather than any problems or hassle.

I got your back, Z. I got your back. And a shoulder to cry on to boot.

The Memorable Moments of Our Lives

When you look back on the landscape of your life, what do you see that stands out the most? The days or moments that are the sharpest? Why are they so vivid? Do you even know half the time?

Memories always fascinate me. In the end, all we really have are memories...and if we are very lucky, someone to share them with.

There are tons of moments that stand out in my life, and sometimes the moments expand into whole days. One of these days I find a hard time explaining to anybody why it was so damned important. But I'll try.

When I was 14 and 15 years old, I felt very lonely and depressed and out of place in the world. I think that most teenagers go through a phase like that at some point or another. Then...I exited the dark, dreary forest. On my 16th birthday, I had a fantastic party that rocked the whole house. I was always the freak of the school, yet...everybody showed up to celebrate for the party whom I invited, PLUS they brought friends! What a zoo! After midnight and people started to leave, 27 girls stayed behind to spend the night at my house. Some of these girls were not girls I ever thought would end up wanting to stay at my house for a birthday party of mine. It made me feel good. I woke up with a strange feeling...yes, it was happiness. I remember only getting two or three hours of sleep, and when I woke up, the house was still dark...dawn's first lights trickling through the windows. I remember walking between the passed out bodies of girls here and there, grinning, staring at them. I remember looking up at a piece of art my parents have and cracking up (then taking a picture of it) because one of my friends had mischievously stuck a cigarette in the bird's mouth. The house was quiet. The shift had happened. It was years before I felt the nagging pull of depression again.

But the real event happened after that point. The truly memorable moment happened not at that party and the revelations it gave me, but that summer. I had gone out to a dear friend's beach house to help them paint and also enjoy the water and sand. We'd had a full morning of painting the deck, then had the afternoon to do as we would. Lunch was great. A swim in the ocean was fun. The hot tub had drained all the energy out of us, and we sat in two hammocks in the shade, swinging back and forth, talking about life, sipping coca colas. When I finished my can, I stomped on its middle and it stuck to my heel. I remember hanging my foot out over the hammock and feeling the stickiness on my skin from some of the coke...the breeze cooling my body...humming with contentment...totally at peace. The moment lasted a full hour, rocking back and forth in the hammock, barely talking now as she seemed to melt with me into this Other Realm where all was good and beautiful and joyous. I kept thinking, oh my, all is right in the world! It's so vivid that I can call it up in a heartbeat and drift back. My god. I just can't explain why this day was the best day of my life until that point. I'm at a total loss. Nothing HUGE happened. But...it felt like all my little cogs fit into the wheel of the universe with perfection that day and nothing was out of place. Perfect symmetry.

I have about 9 other significant moments that stand out almost as turning points in my life for one reason or another. I'm sure none of you are surprised that two of them involve the birth of Ari and Jared. I might end up detailing more later. It feels nice to relive them as I type, actually...

Insomnia

I have resigned myself to four hours of sleep. Sigh.

It used to be that I had insomnia nearly every single night. That'd be the year before I finally managed to move out. I expected it. I occasionally took generic Benadryl as a sleep aid at my pharmacist's recommendation. She said that it was non-addictive and totally fine to take nightly, plus it was the active ingredient in Tylenol PM which already worked for me (and was a hell of a lot cheaper as generic benadryl, too). If I took no medicine, I had no sleep.

Well, the night that I moved out the insomnia disappeared. Imagine that. Since then, I usually get a few nights a year wherein I'm wacked out and can't sleep for some reason, but I can always point to a reason if I try. This week it's simple: cold meds. I've taken sudafed many days in a row during this cold which is, thankfully, now over. However, I know what sudafed does to me. For the next couple of nights, I'll have problems with sleep unless I turn to Mr. Benadryl, and I also will be prone to anxiety attacks. Ug. Unfortunately, sudafed is what keeps my nose clear so I can teach...which I am required to do even when sick. Well, if I were so sick I couldn't get up I'd call in, but otherwise, technically, we're not paid if we don't show up. The joys of adjuncthood! Plus, I hate other teachers contaminating my classes. Chuck could probably go in there and my students might accept him, but other than Chuck, I can't think of any teacher on campus who is enough of a sarcastic geeky smart ass to fill my shoes. And when we miss, SOMEBODY typically has to replace us for the day.

SO! Here I am. I've been awake since 430...it took me forever to get to sleep to begin with, and it was just a couple of hours and now I'm awake for the night. Do you want to know what really frustrates me? Alex isn't here. The last time I had a sleep episode, I woke up the poor sleeping Alex, had my way with him, and then was able to fall back asleep. Oddly, he did not mind being used in such a fashion...haha! A lot of people would be like *snort go away I'm sleeping, bite me snort snort roll over back to sleep*. Awww but not my martyr Alex! Although disoriented and confused until he became fully awake and realized what was going on, he was SUCH a good sport about it! I read a study once that said that women after sex became more alert and awake, and men became more sleepy. It's something to do with the hormones each gender release post-orgasm. Well, count me as the freak again then because if I can't sleep due to anxiety or worries, if I have sex, then I'm relaxed enough to pass out at that point. Therefore, it's wonderful to have an understanding man who will allow me to uhh...well...yeah...and then...um. Yeah. Thanks, Alex! You rock! HAHA!

Actually, now that I think about it, I'm just glad his libido matches mine. Ever been in a relationship wherein you wanted more sex than him/her, or less sex than him/her? It can create a lot of tension and frustration. Add that to the top ten list of compatability issues!

Ok, well, I might as well re-read The Dream of the Rood now since I'm covering that in English Lit I today...would have been easier to, an hour and a half ago, ravish Alex and go back to sleep, but NO! I have to wait another two weeks until he's over here! *grumbles*

My Daughter, Imp

I always tell lots and lots of stories about Jared. That's due to his age, I believe. He just does more funny stuff right now than Ari does, but hey, that does NOT mean Ariana didn't do some funny stuff when she was a lot younger, too!

Remember, the price to pay for intelligent children is that they torture you.

So, here's the set up: I'm 8 months pregnant. I'm working as a nanny for friends of my Ex while 8 months pregnant (taking care of a 6 month old baby) and watching after my 2 and a half year old little girl. Then I come home and do everything around the house. My exhaustion knows no bounds. Nothing like waking up at 630a to get child breakfast and in the car, drive 45 min to the house, nanny all day long, drive home, get there at 630p...be expected to make dinner, clean up the kitchen, do laundry, pack lunches for everybody for the next day, etc. Weeee!

I was so tired this one night that there was no way I was going to give Ariana her bath. The Ex decided to do it. To be fair, he did most of the baths for Ari while I was pregnant...at least after the first few months. I kept telling him though: you cannot leave her in the bathroom. You have to WATCH her. She is not even THREE yet...she could drown! But the Ex would pace downstairs to watch something on TV, I would scold him until he went back upstairs grumbling, and all the while I felt like maybe I should be the one upstairs because I didn't want my child to drown. Accidents happen. On this night, I REALLY fussed at him. Ariana could have heard from the bathroom. I told him, "Look, you think she's fine up there but she could die! It's not safe. You can walk out of there to grab a towel and return, but you really can't leave her alone for longer than that." He grunted at me and decided to fuss at ME and tell me what a hyperactive imagination I had and how I should just shut the fuck up. But then, feeling guilty, he stomped upstairs.

I heard the following: "OH SHIT!!!!!"

I ran upstairs!

Ok that's a lie. I waddled upstairs! (8 months pregnant...come on)

"Never mind, never mind!" the ex fussed.

Ariana had pulled the plug on the bathtub...and then, with an inch or two of water still in the tub, sprawled herself out flat on her tummy, eyes closed, to look as if dead. It looked wholly realistic! The ex REALLY thought for a few moments there that his daughter was gone! Mind you, the girl was two and a half years old here and thought this one out.

Needless to say, the Ex never left Ariana alone in the tub again (well, not until she was old enough to shower instead!).

The end!

Taking Out the Garbage

I live in an apartment complex. I used to live in a house deep in the woods. The house was cute, but I admit freely that I missed being able to have pizza delivered or to "run" to the grocery. Folks, we are talking OUT IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE. As in, when Ariana was three years old, she woke me up excitedly because a bear was tossing our garbage can across the yard. We also had frequent sightings of wild turkey and deer, plus a racoon who toddled across our porch every night (eventually with babies, too). Therefore, when I finally had a job and could move out of the house, I did. The Ex loved the house more. I like hiking and I like nature. I don't like nature tossing my garbage can across the yard, however. I'm not an irrational nor an unfair human being, and the only reason that I should keep the house over him when he valued it so much more was spite. It just made more sense that he keep the house and give me my half of the equity instead.

Today, while I gathered up the garbage, I chuckled to myself because I remembered some exchanges around the time that I had announced to my Ex that we were over, through, fini, end of the line, thankyouverymuchhaveaniceday. Yes, truly, when you can sit around and laugh about aspects of the dissolution of your marriage, you KNOW you've come a long way.

I remember the first absolute words out of my Ex's mouth when I told him in no uncertain terms: this is it. I want a divorce. I had grumbled about one before, but I never told him for sure that I had thrown in the towel. This day, I made it clear. I was sitting down in a chair when I told him, and he was standing up near me. He's a tall man (especially since I'm incredibly short) and really, it felt like he was looming over me...but in a very non-threatening way. He looked rather lost, actually. My jaw was jutted out determinedly, and there I was spelling it out for him: D-I-V-O-R-C-E! What was his first reply? His mouth dropped open. His eyes flew wide. He looked like he was at a loss for words. Then, he finally managed to say...

...BUT WHO WILL DO MY LAUNDRY???

Now, I am very proud of myself. I did not laugh in his face, making a bad situation worse. It tempted me greatly. I suppose if I told my Ex today about how amusing I found that, he'd state he was joking when he said it. Folks, let me insist to you that I know my Ex very, very well (like, I met him when I was 16 and I'm 35 now). He was NOT joking. THAT is why I was trying so hard not to laugh! He wasn't losing a wife...he was losing a nanny and a maid! In fact, throughout the entire week afterwards, I heard him mumbling related things like, "I will have to go to the grocery store? I will have to pay the bills? I will have to pack my own lunch?" Yes, yes, yes. Nobody tell me that I was his mother at that point. I'm well aware. Hindsight is 20/20, after all. For the entire time we were married until I moved out, the Ex did a total of five (5) loads of laundry. Why did he do ANY laundry when I was so slave worthy to do it typically? Well, each time it was related to me being gone visiting family or whatnot and he had no choice. He never packed his lunches for work. He never wrote a check nor paid any of the bills nor even knew what our bills were or the amount I dished out each month for our mortgage.

He unloaded the dishwasher one (1) time in the entirety of my years with him. That includes the time we lived together while engaged, too (I was 22 when we were engaged). I had flown out with a little infant Jared to visit friends in Seattle; Ariana, three years of age, had stayed home with her father. I came home and was shocked to find that the dishwasher that I had started running before I left was unloaded! How, I pondered? The Ex never USED the kitchen except to heat up a frozen pizza or grab a drink (to be fair, he also occasionally came in there to pull out meat from the freezer to grill out...he's good at grilling). How would the Ex know where anything was besides a) the cups b) the plates c) the silverware or d) the bbq tools? But not only was the dishwasher empty, the items that were once inside were now in their rightful place! Stunned, I asked him how he knew where everything went...he mumbled at me. I asked again. He mumbled again, looking embarrassed.

Apparently, his three year old daughter told him where everything went. After all, SHE had helped me unload the dishwasher before! I was proud of her. She even knew where to stick odd items like the cheese slicer. That's my girl!

There were several things in the house that were considered the Ex's job. I can list them off for you. A) grilling out, should we want grilled out food; b) taking out the garbage to the dump (a pain to do since there is no pick up in the woods...you DRIVE the garbage to the dump); and c) starting up the fireplace in the winter. There you go. EVERY OTHER THING you can list off for the house or running a household I did. Note this list. It becomes important.

Back to the garbage. So, as I drag out my bags to take to the dumpster, I start laughing because I remember what happened at the end of the week after I announced my intent to leave and get a divorce. After mumbling over and over and over again all these things I did that he'd have to do, finally he realizes...he's not helping his case at all. He tells me, well, then you'll also miss what *I* do in this house! I raised an eyebrow at him (my left one...that's how you know I mean business. I have a little mole I'm very fond of over my left eyebrow, and if I raise that eyebrow, it almost makes it seem like the point on an upside-down exclaimation point! haha!). I asked quietly, "Really? Like WHAT do you think I'll miss you doing?" He replied triumphantly, "You'll have to take the garbage to the dump on your own! Load it up in the car, throw it in the dump, every week to two weeks like I do!" I laughed.

"Dear, you realize the apartment complexes have dumpsters, right? I don't have to haul my garbage anywhere. And if I buy a house in town, the garbage men do that for me if I take it to the curb."

"Oh," he replied, looking much like a puppy that had been kicked, slinking off. And once again, I was quite proud of myself because I managed not to continue to laugh. I'm good like that...sometimes.

So yeah. For the record, I'm cool with taking my garbage out all by my big girl self. Somehow...somehow...I manage!

Pretty Good Mood!

You know what? Even though I'm still getting over a cold (do you know how much it sucks to teach with a sore throat?), I'm in a pretty good mood tonight!

First of all, I've had several students email me just to let me know how excited they are to have me as a teacher, and that they will see me in the Writing Center with their papers so I can help them after class become better writers. Yay! We only had one class for each class, and I guess the tweaking I did to my introductory lecture WORKED. I had five alert, attentive classes full of students. Well, ok, one person gasped as if I were a horrible blasphemer, destined for hell, after one quip I made, but hey! I live in the South! That's to be expected. But on the whole, I wanted to make sure my students understood how badly I desired to help them learn...and I think I managed. Hopefully, it'll make the semester a good one.

Second of all, I had a nice afternoon with the kids. I loaded myself up on cold meds and took them to a movie, since it just isn't fair to tell two kids who are well and energetic to stay inside the apartment all day and not move. We saw Valiant, which ended up being pretty cute.

Third of all, I needed a second pair of jeans. I have two pairs of size 2's and two pairs of size 4's, but they do not fit anymore. They gather dust in my dresser drawers. I have one pair of 8's that I have now worn so much that they are getting tattered looking. I'm too old for the grunge look, so I sighed and realized: as much as I hate buying any more 8's, I'd better do so. I went to Gap, and they had a pile of jeans on sale. I found one pair I liked because they are ankle length (which means they're regular length for midget me!)...but there were no 8's. I pondered for a while, staring at the 6. Ariana egged me to try them. I buckled...and my god...they FIT! How the hell did I lose a pant size? I don't own a scale, so I honestly just go by what fits. My metabolism is one fucked up muther. It's another reason why I don't diet. I can diet steadily and lose no weight. I can eat twice as much as usual and drop pounds like mad. The ONLY factor I have found is steady is that if I'm depressed, I lose weight. So, I haven't figured out how this happened...maybe it's the cold combined with the stress of starting up school again? Hell, I shouldn't overanalyze. 'Course, Alex will be here in two weeks which will instantly make me so happy I'll gain the weight back instantly...haha! Oh well. I like the jeans though! (Note: if you are thinking I'm skinny due to these small sizes, I'm not...I'm a midget. It's not like we're talking a tall model wearing an 8. It's more like one of the oompah loompahs wearing a size 8).

Third of all, I found this delicious looking sangria mix on clearance at Williams-Sonoma! AND! A really cool wine guide, cheap!

Fourth of all, I stopped into the Borders Express, newly opened, in the mall. There was a guy there--a store clerk--who was extra helpful. I managed to get all sorts of discounts and bargains thanks to his assistance and his willingness to bend the rules (for instance, it was student day and all students were to get 20% off of every book they purchased...I told him I was a teacher, not a student...he said, well, you look young enough to be a student, so you can have the discount! haha! Good salesman, eh?). I can't believe the steep discount I got on the books I purchased. Plus, he gave juice and cookies to the kids. Rock on!

Ahhh it's just been a good day, sore throat or not. Only thing that could make it better is in France right now, but hey, even that will change soon!

As Jezzy would say: YAYNESS!

Oh...oh...oh OH OH OH OH YES YES YES!

Why am I so excited?

See for yourself:



Buy One Get One Free.

Publix.

South Carolina.

Until Tuesday night!

OH YEAH, I'm clearing out that freezer space to make room for a stock of all sorts of flavors RIGHT NOW!

Computer is Fixed!

Yay! I can't believe how reliant I am on this damned machine for entertainment. It's been awful. *sniff*

Ok, so, since I was indeed bored (except when on the phone with Alex), I then thought about the 10 most significant signs you are bored:

1) You decided to clean off the paneling and tops of your washer and dryer.

2) The batteries in your rabbit died.

3) You decide to randomly mix alcohol and products around your home, resulting in the now famous "Popsicle dacquri"

4) You examine your pet's teeth for plaque. Repeatedly.

5) So, if I crawled around the floor like a baby, what things would I find my children had tucked under the furniture?

6) See how much more organized these coupons are now that they are filed by expiration date?

7) You go through all the links on your blogroll three times in a row when nobody's posting.

8) How many candles lit in the living room casts as much light as the overhead bulb?

9) Wow! If I really try my best, I CAN eat an entire Publix Key Lime Pie by myself in 24 hours!

10) You spend so much time in your bed that you start contemplating moving the refrigerator next to it.

*****

Jared's thought for the day:

I saw six police cars in the short distance from Jared and Ariana's school and our apartment. I remarked upon this to the kids, and Ari asked me why so many police were out and about. I replied, "I don't know!"

Jared then responded solemnly as he stared at a driver cutting somebody off, "I think it's because people around here just don't know how to drive."

HAHA!

Snarl! Snap! Anger!

Sigh.

For those of you who were wondering where the hell I've been the last couple of days, I am sad to report...nowhere fun. Sunday night was the last night that my computer worked. *cries*

It's now in the shop. I expect that it should be fixed by tomorrow because when I called them today and talked to them, they said they felt it would be done by then. I hope.

I am doing this quick post at the library as I run around doing exciting errands on my last day before I start up classes. Yes, exciting! Things like...getting the battery replaced on my car! Woohoo!

Anyway, if any of you are sending me emails too, now you know why I'm not responding. I'm sorry. You have no idea how lost I feel without my computer. Sure, my ex might have had addiction problems, but let's be honest: so do I. My addiction has a name, and I call it, Internet!

Hope y'all are doing well, and I'll be back when I can.

The Sunday of Sloth

Yep folks, this is it. It's my last Sunday before school starts this Thursday, and I have errands to do the rest of the week in preparation. I haven't had the kids this weekend. I have had nothing to grade. The house is already clean because...I haven't had the kids this weekend. Yeah, I should get some syllabi all set up for the five classes I am to teach, but I figure I'll do that while I'm waiting for my car tomorrow (time to do a lot of maintenence stuff to my car...timing belt, etc...yes, I will be broke when they are done).

So many options to just be as lazy as possible! It's very hard to choose.

Thus far, what I've done this weekend has largely been eat, sleep, talk to Alex on the computer, talk on the phone, drink alcoholic beverage, read, and go to the grocery. It'll probably be some variant thereof that I do today.

My cat has suggested to me the Old Cat method of relaxation today. That means that I sleep nearly the whole day and get up only to use the bathroom, move to a new location to sleep, or eat. He likes my bed, the sofa, and my feet at the computer stand. I draw the line on the carpet by the computer stand, but I can do the sofa or bed.

After reading the first five City Hunters (old Japanese manga from decades ago, but good shit!), I also have the Ryo Saeba method of doing nothing in there. I like Ryo's style. He can eat as much food as three people. He spends his waking hours trying to grope, feel up, and screw the opposite sex. When he sleeps, he sleeps in the nude, sprawled all over his bed, snoring, hands in inappropriate places, and is impossible to wake up unless you do something like wave a porn magazine under his nose. Yup, gotta love Ryo. He has that lazy ass stuff down PAT!

Other methods of being lazy today might mean more action, but more fun as a result. I live in South Carolina, so buying more alcohol is not an option today. I remember my daughter once asking me why there were no alcohol sales on Sunday but it was ok for the rest of the week. We were in the grocery, staring at the darkened beer area, and she had wanted to know why the lights were out. I told her. She said, well, if you can do it the other six days, why is it bad today? I said, well, some folks think you shouldn't drink on Sunday in particular because it's supposed to be God's day and I dunno, maybe there's some sort of fear you'll go to church drunk or not show up to church if you had too much alcohol. She laughed. "That doesn't make sense!" she told me loudly, much to the disgust of the older woman ahead of us. I made the older woman far less happy when I responded, "Yeah. I mean all it does is make the alcoholic have to plan ahead!" Anyway, the more action but more fun thing means something like...leaving my house right now to fetch a Sunday paper and some krispy kreme doughnuts. Ahhhhh! Or later on eating something out. Wait, that doesn't sound right. I mean, eating FOOD at a RESTAURANT or something. It means I'd have to shower and actually put clothes on, but hey, showers feel good and that would fit in with the whole do-nothing, feel-good plan.

Or maybe I'll do a great bubble bath, bowl of ice cream, and a good book! And light up candles around the house!

If Alex were here, I'd have a whole host of other options available to me right now. Sigh.

So, now it's all about figuring out HOW I want to do nothing constructive on this last Sunday before classes.

Sex

Amanda and I have decided that there should be one line added to the definition of sex: lasts longer than 20 minutes.

Ok, so by this definition, several people I know are still virgins. Isn't that grand???

Can You Imagine?

Ok, picture this: you are having a dinner party. You are in the kitchen getting prepared, and you are chatting with a few guests as you dice and chop. Cleaning your knife (since you know good knives always have to be washed by hand and NEVER put in the dishwasher), you then put it back into your knife block, which looks like this:



How many people do you think would then stay for supper?

I stared at this picture long and hard when I was sent it a while back via email. I kept wondering, well hell, if the message really IS what it seems...why isn't there a knife slot where the crotch goes? Is that because only women have slots there?

*ponders*

Ok, maybe I need more sleep. My mind has gone off the deep end again.


*****

Added note:

Alex finally has his document so he can get his visa! WOOHOO! Now he just has to get his appointment at the American Embassy (they are slow) and he'll have his visa. Oh, Alex, I can't wait!!! Sans toi je suis rien qu'une coquille vide...

Limoncello Part II: The Mourning

There is a significant chance that I will eliminate this post when the limoncello goes out of my system. BUT!!!! For NOW!!! Here it is.

Today, we mourn for my waist.

Once upon a time, I was in high school and I had a 21 inch waist. Then years later, at 27, I had Ariana and the waist went to 23 inches. Then I had Jared. It went to 25 inches. That measurement cannot get smaller even if I do the anorexic thing and lose too much weight. Trust me. I tried that path since Jared. Sigh.

What does "Kira with a 21 inch waist" look like, you ask?



There. *sobs*

Today is a funeral for my waist.

When I was 13 and had stopped growing/looked very much like I do today except now I'm older, my mom used to stare at me and say, "Kira. You know that celebrities remove their bottom rib to get a waist that small, right?" I was preening. I felt GOOD. Tiny waist, big ass! I rock!

Even after Ariana when I just went up to 23 inches, I remember having to have a mole removed from my back because it was questionable, and the dermatologist was astounded. I laid out on the chair, waiting for the nurse to fetch the doctor, drifting in and out of the nap zone. My daughter was with my best friend so I could do this proceedure, and I was perpetually low on sleep. However, the doctor coming in and shouting, "MY GOD YOU HAVE A TINY WAIST!!!" woke me up. I laughed. I felt flattered. I preened more. Tiny waist, I love thee!

But then...my son came. My son is worth a thick waist. Trust me. However, the fact remains that now I have a more normal waist. I read an interesting research study that stated that having girl babies didn't add much thickness onto waists, but boys DID. This left me intrigued as to how absofuckinglutely tiny ANGIE'S waist must have been before she had M, because damnit, that girl has a small waist compared to her bust and butt. (Angie, forgive me, I'm intoxicated and mean that in the MOST flattering of terms! Truly!).

So, tonight in a limoncello haze, I salute...my waist! No matter how much weight I lose now (I know that even 99 lbs won't bring you back!), you'll never come back to me again.

I loved you. You were hot.

I miss you.

Please come home.

Thanks!

Guilt: the Universal Language!

Two religions known to man are set up explicitly to use effectively the Power of GUILT. One is Judaism. The other is Catholicism. Since I was raised in a Catholic household with 11 years of Catholic schooling, I am very proficient in the language of Guilt. I can speak it fluently and translate it with ease. There are moments this talent is effective. Sometimes, saying it forthright doesn't bring quite the right amount of shame and action that the appropriate twist of GUILT will. It's all in the delivery!

I have mentioned to you guys that Alex has a much younger sister, Kate. Kate turns 15 this month (on the 18th). I love Kate to death. She hangs on my every word when we speak, and it flatters my ego. Kate is basically a good kid who has had quite a few bad circumstances make her occasionally take on a bad decision. However, on the whole she tries to please and she wants to be a "good girl."

Alex is very aware that I disagree with over half of what his mom and his dad think to do with Kate. Or not think to do with Kate. I've probably discussed these major issues with his mom a dozen times. I've yet to meet his dad, and believe me, I'm ok with that! But he has no idea what he's doing either. When Alex's parents divorced, he seemed thrilled almost to never support Kate or James financially as a way to get back at Alex's mom. Let's hear it for using your own flesh and blood as pawns! WOOHOO!

Anyway, Alex came back from taking Kate to the movies a few weeks ago, and he was very distressed. They walked there, of course. In Europe, people use their FEET to go places instead of their CAR. Remarkable idea, yes? Well, Kate told him as they were heading to the cinema, "Wait, go slower, my feet hurt." Why did her feet hurt? Because she decided she couldn't wear her sneakers with her dress and so she wore her flip-flops...the only other shoes she owned. That's right. Kate owned exactly two pairs of shoes, and one of them hurt her feet.

Alex told me and I was, quite frankly, horrified. TWO PAIRS OF SHOES? AND ONE HURT HER FEET??? How could a parent do that to her child? Well, I knew what to do with some other of that money my brother Ken sent me, eh? I went out and bought her three pairs of shoes: another pair of sneakers, a pair of small heeled white slip ons, and a pair of black slipper like shoes. I looked up her size for America, found some great sales, and then insisted that she open up the box the second she received it rather than wait for her birthday. I had already found some fantastic earrings for her for her birthday on clearance, and those were wrapped. Therefore, she still has something to unwrap on the 18th.

I told my sister--she is the fashion queen, and so is her middle child, Chiara--about Kate's shoe issue. Rose was horrifed and said that Chiara believed that homeless women had two pairs of shoes. Or Ugandans. No wait, she added, never mind, I think Chiara believes that people from Uganda get THREE pairs of shoes! Haha!

Well, this simple action triggered the biggest guilt reflex that I've seen her folks indulge in yet. GO ME!

First of all, Alex's mum collapsed into tears screaming about how I must think she's a bad mum because Alex told her that I was "horrified" that Kate had only two pairs of shoes. Yes, I was horrified. She claimed that if she knew, Kate would have had more shoes. I believe her. Alex's mum likes to shop. However, it shows Alex's mum's particular issues that she was so self-absorbed that she didn't know the status of her teen's shoe collection. What kind of mother is not AWARE that her daughter has only two pairs of shoes, and one of those pairs hurts? Poor Alex had to deal with his mum crying all over the place, including eventually in the bathroom, all curled up and upset. He tried to calm her as best as possible.

Then, his dad got testy. He proclaimed that it was stupid for me to send shoes all the way from America. Kate informed him that a) it was her birthday present b) it was sweet I wanted to take care of her and c) how else was she to get the shoes she needed?

Boom, Kate gets two more pairs of shoes from her dad.

Then after the shoes arrive in the mail, I see her get a bathingsuit from her dad, a dress from her mum, etc, etc. I was just laughing my ass off at how Kate was cleaning up! And today her mum tried to buy her a pair of shoes but Kate said, no mom, I actually HAVE enough now. HAHA!

See? The French speak "guilt" very well! Hmmm. Since the country used to be Catholic, I guess they are primed for it!

Teaching Schedule

Amanda and Angie know that Premiere prefers to give you your teaching schedule the day before classes start. My boss told me last year (when she became my new boss) that she wanted to change this system because she knew how agitating it was for the teachers. However, all she managed to do for last year was improve on "day before" with "week before."

However, the impossible has happened! Yes, a week ago, I was given my schedule! I asked for six classes and was given six classes. Unfortunately, though, the only way she was able to arrange it at first made it so that I would have to put the kids in after school care for four days a week (just not Fridays) instead of two days. This meant an extra $36 a week. Which means for that sixth class, the first hour and a half, approx., out of my three hours paid per week would go to child care. Bullshit. I'll just pick up some more Writing Center hours and we'll manage. I'm not picking up my kids late more than twice a week. That's why I TEACH. So I can SPEND MORE TIME WITH MY KIDS. Well, that and because I'm damn good at it :)

So I'm going to "go light" this term! Yes, that's right, ONLY five classes, just like the full timers, rather than six classes! I just won't know what to DO with my extra time.

One of the wonderful things that my new boss also does is she understands that I am THE ONLY PERSON ON STAFF WITH A BRIT LIT DEGREE OF ANY SORT, let alone early British Literature. Under my old boss, she gave the English Lit I class to a teacher who, although usually good, was crappy at this one class because she felt that she knew nothing about the era and made the kids teach the class way too often (this is the feedback the kids gave me...it was Cinder, for those of you in the know). She did not want the class. But old boss didn't want to give the English Lit I class to a brand new teacher/adjunct. So she made the teacher who didn't want the class teach it, and made me NOT teach it. HELLO? Fortunately, the new boss immediately rectified that situation. Enrollment is now up in the Eng Lit I class because of the common knowledge that I'm the only one to teach it, too! Some of my former students will even take it as an elective. That's mighty brave, considering how much reading is required of the course.

Let me make this clear: I LOVE TEACHING THAT ONE CLASS. It makes the whole week worthwhile for me. I drift back into that era, and I always get a few great students who are taking the class because medieval/renaissance history intrigues them, or because they really love British lit. We have intense discussions about everything! We all learn from each other! I go in happy; I come out happy! If I won the lottery tomorrow, I'd want to drive out there just to teach that class. Well, and maybe a 102. I like literature classes in general. I just can't "do" modern lit is all. I made that clear with my boss: I CAN do American literature or modern literature if she desperately needs me to do so because I can analyze anything, but it would require a hell of a lot of background research and I wouldn't feel like the best candidate. My style of literature background means that I'd be happiest teaching English Lit I or World Lit I, the former way more than the latter.

My schedule has made me happy. I "only" teach five classes. Two of them are 155's, the easiest to grade! One is my English Lit I class! And the other two are the hated Freshman Comp of 101, but this is the FIRST fall semester I've only been forced to teach two of them, so wow, victory for me! Do you see all the exclaimation points!!! That is due to my excitement over this great schedule!!!

Ok, so none of this means anything to anybody except Amanda, Angie, and Innana. Oh well...

...just be happy for me, ok? :)

It's All Relative

Today we are talking about Alex's family! So, we will start with a picture of Jared riding on Alex's head in a train station in France:




Ok, so I find myself in an odd position with Alex's family.

I seem to be their mother. But I guess it's ok, because he is their father too.

Let me explain.

Alex's dad is a jackass. In fact, quaintly, his name is Jacques so I call him "jacqueass." I don't even have time to list off why he's rotten. Just take my word for it. Hey, Alex hasn't spoken to him willingly in years. That should tell you something.

Alex's mom is a special case. God I love her. She TRIES, poor thing. But...she's not the sharpest pencil in the pencil box. She can't see past today. Her attention span is that of a gnat. Her sense of responsibility is missing, and although we've hunted for it in the lost and found, we've yet to recover it. I'm pretty sure that her deficiencies are due to her own mom being drunk a lot when she was pregnant with Alex's mum. Alex's mum was born a week early because Alex's grandmother fell down a flight of stairs due to inebriation. Yay. So, I cut her slack. She tries her best, and I can't ask for more.

Alex's brother James has a bad temper which he inherited from his father. However, unlike his father he tries to control it. James is smart and funny and cute (he gets that from his brother), but he is more of a private person and more subdued than Alex. Alex became like James' father due to the age difference and the lack of a real dad in the house when growing up.

Alex's sister Kate is flighty like her mom, but hell, that's been her role model. I can't figure out if some of her issues are environment, alcohol (Alex's mum didn't drink during pregnancy with her boys, but did with Kate, who was an unexpected pregnancy), or genetics. Or just being a teen girl. Alex has been the father figure for Kate, too.

I always am surprised when I see how much his family cares for me and puts me on this pedestal. It makes me nervous. It's high up here, and I'm afraid I might fall. Example: Alex's mum won't discipline Kate for something. Alex decides to do so instead, as per usual. She complains about the issue....like a teen girl would...all the way until Alex says, well, it's what Kira would do if she were here. Snap. She follows what he says. HUH??? Or another example: his mom feels like she's had some issues that might be behavioral or might be medical, she's not sure. Does she want to discuss this with her family doctor? No. Family? No. Friends who have known her for years? No. She tells Alex, I need to talk to Kira and see what she thinks about this....HUH??? Third example: I talked to Alex's mum in the kitchen of their apartment about things she should consider doing for Kate and about Kate. She hung on every word. Even her damned BOYFRIEND sat there nodding like a puppet. "Yes, yes, exactly. Yes, that's right. That's exactly right," he said in his limited English, which distracted me enough from my babbling that I almost couldn't continue.

I'm the youngest of four kids. Everybody always told ME what to do in my house. Suddenly, it's almost like I'm in charge when I'm over there...and even sometimes when I'm not! I'm awestruck. Why do they love me so much??? Why do they value my opinion so much??? I mean shit, last time I was out there, I caught his mom in what I perceived to be the right mood and SUCKED HER DRY of information she would have NEVER given her children about certain key elements of the family past that I KNEW Alex always wanted to know. He was thrilled. He thanked me later. But, apparently, nobody had ever been able to do that save me. WHY? I'm stunned.

Most people have issues with in-laws. My issue is that "they all love me, respect my opinions, listen to me, and am happy Alex has me."

Amazing. That doesn't mean we all don't frustrate each other--I'm a very forthright, dominant type of personality that can be infuriating at times; Kate is a teen girl, need I say more?; James still has his temper surface sometimes and can stubbornly take a side and not back down even when he's wrong; Mum is flighty, has no impulse control, and concentrates too much on pleasing her boyfriend rather than being a mum a lot of the time. Well, Alex is perfect (except for the snoring), so there's nothing to list off for him...haha! Still, I just am stunned. I love his family, and his family loves me than I ever thought in-laws COULD love me. This is good, right?

What Happens....?

...when a boy spends way too much time with his sister and his mother, you ask?

Why, let me show you!



That'd be my son acting as little red riding hood there, with his big sis as the sugarplum princess. I know the difference for my son's two main favorite drag outfits. This one is little red riding hood because he wears the crown thingy instead of the cat ears. Cat ears means he's doing "Princess Kitty." Oh yeah. We sure as HELL have that female thing going on.

Jared has seen his mom do great things and his dad be a slug. Therefore, he decided he'd rather be a girl, he told me. I said, well, then you get to kiss boys. He shuddered and said, never mind, I'll be a boy. There's no doubt in my mind the boy prefers girls. Boobies and thick long hair are his two favorite things in life. And he's overly fond of his penis--very male trait. But there ya go, the reprocussions of being surrounded by competent females day in and day out.

Think I can use this as one of those embarrassing moments for Jared as a teen?

Replacement for song below

Woopsie! I realized after reading WordWhiz's comment below that she SO did not appreciate my ex's talents in the artistic sphere...haha! So, I dug through my stuff and found a replacement for her.

This poem was written by the infamous Bellybutton. Amanda nicknamed him, and you just have to trust me that the nick is completely appropriate. Anyway, he's actually had a couple of poems published, so when he tossed this one off to me in like ten minutes (yes, he composed it while we were talking), he apologized that it was "not that good." Excuse me? Not that good? It reminds me of Alex apologizing to me that, since for his scholastic career he's had to write in French, that his English writing skills are 'bad.' You guys have seen his writing at this point...I don't think any of us would think his English writing skills are bad!

Ok, without further ado, the replacement poem for WW:

Last night sitting under stars
I dreamt of you under moon's glow
And thought of what you mean to me
As the fire's flames flickered low
I dreamt of time spent in your arms
Of the passion rising in your eyes
Shining like the twinkling stars
Set like diamonds in velvet skies
I dreamt of your kiss upon my lips
Of drawing your face so near to mine
I longed for your breath upon my cheek
Sweet whispers from my heart to thine
I ached with the need to have you close
To spend time locked in love's embrace
To feel your warmth rush through my body
To tell you I love you face to face
For words alone cannot express
The ways in which I love you so
And so I must sit under the stars
And dream of you under moonlight's glow

I think it is lovely!

Oh, and in case you are wondering, "Kira! Alex reads this blog, why are you posting up a love poem from a former flame?" Well, he knows all about my entire past and doesn't care. He's just not the jealous type. Besides, he's very aware that, in the end, he won, so that's all he cares about...haha!

*****

Ok, so I made this lovely gorgonzola, cream, and wine sauce over pasta dish earlier in the summer. It was great. I remember tasting it and thinking it was great. But, the night I made it, I got very sick. The end result was that I puked it all up. So, I made it tonight, and I KNOW it smells good. And I KNOW it tastes good. But I just can't eat it without feeling nausated....sigh. This sucks. I hate how sometimes whatever we ate or drank when we get sick becomes a forbidden item to consume in the future. I know it's biologically sound (how else do we learn not to try certain plants and animals than that we get sick after eating them? seems logical to me), but it still sucks.

Per April's Request

I had posted on Jezzy's blog a comment that involved showing the lyrics to a song my ex used to sing to me...frequently. He mostly sung it to me because it always had me cracking up so hard that I could barely breathe. I admit it was exceedingly clever. Whatever other faults my ex might have, he was extremely creative and pretty damn smart. Anyway, the original to the song, for the non-US audience, is this:

My country,' tis of thee,
sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing;
land where my fathers died,
land of the pilgrims' pride,
from every mountainside let freedom ring!

Ok, now Rob's version:

My cunty tis of thee!
Sweet land of ecstacy!
Of thee I sing
Land where my sperm have died!
Land where they all have tried!
To put a baby inside!
Of Kira Lee!

(Lee is my middle name)


April/Gimpy saw my comment on Jezzy's blog and told me I should post it here. So, there we go! haha! Enjoy!

Shocking!

So Jared wakes up. He tells me sleepily--after he returns from the bathroom--that his testicles are shocking him. Boy, that's gotta suck.

He lifts up his nightshirt. Yes, my son prefers to sleep in a nightshirt than in boxers or something really "manly." And?

"LOOK!" he tells me, then he touches his nuts and gets an amazed look on his face. "Whenever I touch them, they shock me!"

Having never owned balls, I truly have no idea what he's talking about. He wants me to 'come see' them, and so I inspect his scrotum, looking for signs of...I don't know...a jellyfish clinging to his nuts? A drowsy wasp? A teeny tiny hairdryer that is on and also a droplet of urine creating conductivity for a shock? Uhhh... Really, my Knut Knowledge is limited to what makes a guy moan. An older guy. Who is not related to me. And is in my bed for sexual purposes.

You know, it's so much easier with a girl. Ariana never asks me questions about Vagina Lore that I can't answer. We've talked all about periods, pubic hair, childbirth--the whole gamut! She's got a funny outlook on some of the issues. For instance, apparently pads are band aids for your bleeding vagina. HAHA! *snort* But, we've got the same equipment. When Jared starts talking to me about how if he touches his nuts they shock him, what do I do? I can't very well say, then don't touch them. He's MALE. He HAS to touch his testicles. If he doesn't, he will perish. At least, that's been my experience with all males I know. They have to restablish contact with their crotch periodically to make sure it's all still there.

It's not the first time I had problems with the male/female issue. When I potty trained my son, he kept sitting down to pee. Ok, well, to start, first of all he was very bummed when he found out that Potty Training involved NOT A SINGLE DAMN TRAIN. We still made train noises when he was in the bathroom though, and that became our little joke. But, see, at that time his dad was really out of it, so there was no male showing him how to stand up, whip it out, and shake. He wanted to sit down like mommy. I kept thinking, my god, can I get a male friend to stay with me for a while and pee around him? Haha! I had to teach him how to shake it afterwards, which made me feel odd because shouldn't a guy teach him that? He eventually picked up on standing up to pee.

And then there was the shaving. A friend of mine gave my son a shaving kit, a play one. It had a can of foamy soap, a plastic razor, a mirror, and a brush (shaving brush). My son promptly sat in the tub and shaved his...LEGS. Oopsie. I then told Alex and my dad: let my son watch you shave!!!! Please!!!! That helped. He now realizes that unless he wants to be a professional swimmer or biker, shaving his legs is not necessary.

Back to the tingly nuts: well, apparently it went away all on its own. He walked up to me a moment ago, lifted up his nightshirt, grabbed his crotch and said astonishedly, "MOMMY! They don't SHOCK me anymore!" And then he ran off.

Gah, what's a woman to do?

It Takes a Week to Process

A few posts back, I posted the Girlfriend's Code. I still believe in that and abide by it; however, I also realized the main issue for me in the case that was described was not the "I don't want to hear about sex with my ex" issue.

It's the loss of another friend that worries me.

Why do I say "another" friend? Well, my best friend was once a woman who is married to my ex's brother. I know she still loves me. I know she understands why I left. And I also know that, because she is married to my ex's brother, her loyalties are with her husband. And that very fact makes life difficult for her.

We used to get together at least once a month with the kids and have a great time. Now that I'm on my own, I've seen her a total of four times in two years. There goes my best friend. It hurts.

Maybe I'm a total retard, but...I just don't want to lose any more friends to my ex. Sigh.

Bah, sometimes it takes me a week to process this shit and find out the REAL cause of an issue.

Spices in the Cabinet

I was putting together a Chicken Curry this morning for later, and I realized I was just about out of turmeric. Turmeric was a spice I bought when my friend Gav was visiting, a Brit who can really cook Indian terrifically well. He left, and I missed Indian food, so I taught myself how to do a few dishes. It's not something I often cook, but it's just about the only 'style' of food that I cook that needs turmeric. Same with the garam masala. Or the cardamom pods.

Herbs and spices should be kept fresh. I know this. I know that you should rotate out any spices/herbs left to face the elements, opened, after six months because they tend to lose potency. But, what about those spices that I don't use so much? Seems like such a waste to buy a container of something only to throw the bulk of it out six months later! We just NOW got a place where I can buy some, not all, herbs/spices by bulk so I can buy what I need. Fresh Market has it in baggies, but big ones. Earth Fare has some bulk spices, but not a lot. I can freeze spices to add life, but my freezer is tiny and I live in an apartment. The ex got my spare freezer because he has room for it. He would gladly give it to me, but I don't have a place to stick it. You know, that doesn't sound right...

So, some of these spices I open up, use, and keep for longer than their prime. I can't help it. I just tend to add extra to make up for their lack of ooomph. Some spices, however, get rotated frequently because I just use them THAT much. It all depends on the style of cooking or what type you do. I can tell you right now what spices get used regularly besides salt and pepper: oregano, chili powder, thyme, cumin, bay leaves. I guess I also use a fair bit of rosemary. I never worry about any of those losing potency because I use them very regularly. Then there's things like the cream of tartar that I keep around for a grand total of two (2) things I make, and not often at that. Bah.

I use dried spices because they are easier to store, of course, but I have to say that I use way more fresh cilantro, basil, and parsley than I ever do dried. Hell, I won't even buy dried parsley. Nasty shit. Fresh basil, though, is soooo superior to the dried product that I really should throw out my dried basil jar. It must be three years old at this point. Brrr.


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Today's MSN Quote of the Day, courtesy of the deviant freak herself!

Amanda says:
honey, food and dildos are staples at amanda's house

href="http://dailyslacker.blogspot.com/">Chief Slacker

What the Hell, I'm Still Awake

Bah. Still no sign of tiredness.

Anyway, what I was pondering now was the "it's all relative" syndrome of dating. I think that it's human nature to try and compare like objects to see similarities and differences. Therefore, a man or woman will often think of their new significant other in light of previous significant lovers: "Jeff loves to do gardening with me, which I love, and Frank never did that" ; or, "Mary understood I needed private time in order to recharge, but Judy smothers me," etc.

Sometimes, it's not fair to compare a previous love with a current one. Shouldn't each individual stand on his or her own? And it gets uncomfortable when the emotional baggage created from the previous relationship carries on unfairly to the next. That is, maybe two people have the same actions, but their reasons for doing so are very different. Yet, you judge them on what you already know from a previous person.

Other times, comparison enables you to see a pattern that you know you either need to break or want to run from.

I think one of the most frustrating things a friend can witness is another friend coming out of a fairly abusive or awful relationship. It's bad just all on its own, but then the fallout is frequently bad too. The individual then approaches his or her next relationship with, "well, at least he doesn't beat the tar out of me, so I think I can cope that he calls me a whore!" or, "sure, he calls me thirteen times a day and makes me check in constantly, but at least he doesn't ignore me completely like Z did!" Sigh. I can think of a couple of my friends right now who are suffering through a relationship or marriage simply because in comparison to what else they've known, it's not so bad. Yet I worry for them constantly because I KNOW it's pretty damn bad.

Hell, I even did this myself to some degree. The worst boyfriend of my life, Jim, came right when I was 20. See, basically, the ex and I had dated for four years and I realized we were spinning wheels. So, I told him we needed to break up. We still ended up seeing each other that year, but I also ended up seeing about five other people...haha! One of those guys was a fellow named Jim. Jim was ten years my senior, and he seemed very friendly and fun. He turned out to be a Gigantic Hopping Penis. Ug. Not even sure I want to go into all of this, but...let's just say he did the full range of asshole behavior, including forcing himself upon me sexually when I clearly said no, playing mindgames, calling me foul names, obsessively watching every second of my day and calling me at 2a, 3a, and 4a in a row "just to make sure" I was still at home since I wasn't with him, etc. Yeah, that's enough so you get the idea *shivers, then tries to forget* In retrospect, I realize that I put up with more than I'd want to put up with in the future simply because...I was so grateful that whomever was not Jim. Jim became my benchmark. If things got "as bad as Jim," then I knew with certainty it was time to go. If things weren't as bad as Jim, well then, maybe I just need to try harder!!! Hence, I think I had things go out with my ex a bit longer than I should have.

There is somebody here who regularly reads my blog whom I really DO feel did the same thing. She knows who she is ;) In comparison to husband #1, #2 wasn't "that" bad, so she put up with a bit more shit than most folks would ever expect a woman to put up with. I read back on her blog to see her basically make posts on a similar topic: yes, #2 does this and this and it's awful, but really, he's not so bad because he's not doing this and this TOO, which is what #1 did.

I think it's human nature to just do the similarities and differences comparison with our previous loves and current love. I don't think we can help it. But the lesson I learned from comparing my horrible awful vicious situation with Jim to my ex is...

...I deserve the best, regardless. And so do you. Crap is crap. It doesn't matter if there is just a handful of crap on the bottom of both your shoes, it still stinks to high heaven. Yeah, in your past you can think of a man or a woman who walked all over you, and you KNOW you won't go THAT low again, but why should you put up with satan's son just because he's not satan himself? Do you see my point?

Ok, that's enough deep thoughts for 6a...haha!

Blogquiz: Drinking!

I woke up at 4a and can't get back to sleep. Woe is me. Good thing school hasn't started back up, or I'd be miserable today! And no, today's topic has NOTHING to do with why I woke up...haha! I just have periodic insomnia issues, unfortunately, and they intensify under stress.

So, here's the deal: I am going to type out a couple of questions, and I would love it if you, the reader, answer them in the comments. I'll answer them myself too, of course. I chose this topic because I thought that most people have enjoyed alcohol at some point and time in their lives. Sometimes, if you are like my ex, you've enjoyed it TOO much as well!

1) How much alcohol does it take for you to get rather intoxicated?

2) What kind of a drunk are you (happy, depressed, angry, oblivious, etc)? Can that change depending on circumstance?

3) Ever do something while intoxicated that you absolutely KNOW you would have never done sober?

4) Favorite kind of alcoholic beverage?

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Ok, now my answers:

1) I am a lightweight, although not as light as I used to be. I used to get buzzed good and hard off of ONE drink. That's right...ONE. Now it takes two to three. I'm relieved that my tolerance level has gone up because now I can have a glass of wine with friends at dinner and drive home without fear. I seriously used to not be able to drive after only one drink, and so I couldn't drink anything anywhere at any time unless somebody else was driving! It takes about four drinks now for me to be really roasted.

Hey, I'm a midget, of course my tolerance is low. haha!

2) I am the world's most happy drunk. Very little will change this situation too...unlike my ex who starts out happy, but if any teeny tiny thing triggers him, he's viciously angry. If I am feeling a little sad and drink, I still flip into happy drunk mode. If I am totally depressed, I know better than to drink. It just makes it worse. I think I've made the mistake of doing that twice now. But, otherwise, I'm always in a happy mood and joke around like crazy.

3) Unfortunately, yes. I believe the incident in question my friend Terry (who reads this blog but never posts) should remember clearly. He was one of the two guys who told me to strip nude and dance like Aphrodite to the music....*coughs* I was at my last year at Duke, if I recall correctly. I don't recall correctly much more of that night, though. Yeah, I was that roasted. Welcome to college days! haha!

4) I prefer wine, usually dry reds, but dry whites are good too. That's my primary favorite. My favorite liquor is limoncello. I love chick drinks, brandy, tequila, and vodka a hell of a lot too, but I definitely drink wine far more than anything else. I very much was into the whole "glass of wine with dinner every night" thing in France...that works out so well if you can match the wine with the food! Yum!

All right, I'm still not tired. Damnit.

Anyway, answer away in the comments if you wish! I'm just a nosy woman! haha!