One of THOSE Posts…

This was going to be one of those typical posts, apologizing for being absent, shouting about our fabulous news, and mentioning a couple of funny and/or touching moments at work.

Not this time. Right now, that stuff is going to have to wait.

Right now, I need to vent, and I need to vent BIG TIME.

My daughter is in a relationship with someone I do not know very well. The first time we met, he did not leave me with a good impression. Quite the contrary, but I was willing to wipe the slate clean and give him another chance. She offered up excuses and said he apologized, so I let it go.

But I waited, and watched, and listened, and as I waited, I watched red flags pop up and I listened to all the alarm bells in my head go off, one after another.

My daughter is living with a man who is not divorced, but then, neither is she. They are both separated from their spouses and neither shows any intention of getting back with their respective spouse. Fine, I’m in no position to judge, nor do I care to. I am not without sin in that regard.

But my visits with my daughter are becoming fewer and farther between. There is always something that keeps her away from me, and that something is always him. He always has some reason that she can’t come visit, and when she’s here, he’s calling her. Sometimes multiple times. Now they’re talking about moving away to another state.

I’ve read enough Ann Rule to know where this could go.

This evening, I called her and she said there was a box she wanted to get. I could hear him in the background asking what box and that they didn’t have a place for it and I could tell he was getting agitated. She asked if I could store it in the garage for her, and I said she could, but could she come by on Monday to sort through it?

She asked him if she could use their van so he could drive himself to work and she could come visit me after I got home. He didn’t like it, so he said the two of them would be down after work.

Knowing it would be futile to protest his presence, I said that would be fine and our conversation was over. Did I mention that the evening before, we’d been on the phone and someone was playing with the extension? I don’t have an extension phone at my house, so it was happening at hers. When I mentioned it during the conversation, all of a sudden the sounds stopped.

Anyway, after our more recent conversation about her coming over to sort through the box, she called again and Tam answered the phone. She brought me the message that the box would be picked up by a friend going through town so my daughter and the bastard would not be coming to the house after all.

I have not seen my daughter in quite a while, thanks to my change in work hours. I liked it last school year when we could visit for 30 minutes every day after work. I miss her terribly. My annoyance at the change in plans made itself known and I called her right back (they have caller ID, so she answers it when my number comes up. He knows better).

“So, I don’t get to see my daughter on Monday? Why the hell not?” I asked her. I tried to sound like I was kidding around, but I don’t think she believed that for one moment. I could hear him in the background saying they were just “too poor” to put that much gas in the car to come to the house. Here’s where I call bullshit. They carpool, but she drops him off on her way to work, and she works in a school not far from my home. On more than one occasion, he has managed to get a ride to their place from a co-worker, but for some reason, that doesn’t work when she’s at my house.

I said I was very disappointed that we wouldn’t get to see each other and she suggested that we could visit if I picked her up and brought her here.

I have no problem with that. I’m even going to suggest she stay for dinner. The beauty of this arrangement? I call the shots as to when she goes home. I’ll take her home when we’re done visiting, not when he says we’re done visiting and since her cell phone isn’t working, he won’t be calling.

So, asshole, listen up: If you’re going to try and come between me and my daughter, then you’re going to run into a problem… me. You have one chance to prove my gut instincts about you are wrong and if you do, then I’ll play nice. Otherwise all bets are off and I’m calling on the Dragons. It’s a steep price to pay, but not when it comes to my children.

Survey Says...

Ok, here's the beef: I AM SICK TO PIECES OF GETTING SURVEYS.

Seriously, I cannot go to a store without being handed a receipt and a plea to "take the survey and give [them] all 10's, because anything less than 10 is failure," or the piles of emails I get asking me to take "five minutes" of MY time to fill out THEIR survey. And they all want 10's.

Wut???

 Don't ask me to give you a 10 and tell me anything less is failure. That's total bullshit.

Hello! I DO NOT GIVE 10's ON SURVEYS!

You know the old adage, "No one's perfect," right? Well, neither is any shopping experience I've ever had. Sometimes the music is too loud, or there are children running amok. Sometimes it's hard to find what I want, and harder still to find someone to help me. That doesn't mean my shopping experience was horrible, it just wasn't "perfect."

Perhaps my definition of "perfect" is different than theirs, because I've always thought "perfect" meant "without flaws." The friendly cashier may have been a pleasure to deal with in the checkout line, but that does not make a "perfect" shopping experience if I've had to shout over the in-store music or hunt through aisle after aisle because they've rearranged the damn store AGAIN and I can't find shit. That makes me cranky, and cranky means NOT PERFECT!

So, no, you will not get a 10. Sorry. If you have to beg for a "perfect" score, then you're already not doing something right.

The New Job

So… yeah… the new job. Wow.

Having worked in middle school Special Education for three years, I kind of figured I’d seen a good portion of what happens in the “Adaptive” education classes. Screaming fits, thrown objects, outbursts of eyebrow singeing proportions, and simply genuine out-of-control behavior. These were special needs kids who didn’t have a better way to communicate. I get that, I’ve had days when I envied their ability to just let it all hang out.

I changed diapers, hand fed breakfast and lunch, and attempted to coax some kind of academics out of my students. I liked it, but after too many lifts from a wheelchair, my shoulder had had enough and I had to shuffle off to a different program. HR said, “we have something at an elementary school, are you interested?” Sounded good to me. Smaller kids, no lifting 120 lbs from wheelchair to changing table.
“I’m in,” I said.
“Ok, your new assignment is in the AB room.”
“Wait, not special ed?”
“No, this is a new program.” She told me the name of the teacher I’d be working with and I jumped at it.
“Awesome! I’ve worked with him briefly before and he’s wonderful. Thanks.”

AB stands for Adaptive Behavior. That’s not what I call it, but we’ll go with the official title, m’kay?

Three days of school. That’s all we’ve had so far, three days. In that time I’ve had a student accuse me of being a female canine of low intelligence, remind me that my derriere is on the large side, insinuate that I perform incestuous acts with my maternal parent, and my favorite, informing me and the rest of the people in the room (including my new principal) that my female genitalia move rapidly in a strong breeze. Either that or when I walk, I’m not sure. It was hard to listen after the first part because laughing is not an appropriate response to such behavior from a student. All I could say was, “Ok, but you still have to do your math.”

But damn, it was funny. So, it either flaps in the wind or when I walk. I never realized it, but then my hearing is so damaged from the previous assignment that I probably just never noticed it.

Well, if the first three days are any indication of what I’m in for, it’s going to be an interesting year. I have a feeling that by the end of my time at this job, on my last day, if any student calls me “bitch,” I’ll probably just look at them and say, “That’s Ms. Bitch to you, kiddo.”

Saying Good-Bye to Summer

Damn. We’ve hit the last weekend of summer break and the new school year looms. Looms, I tell ya, looms. Looms like a big…looming thing. Looming… llloooommming.

Sigh

Ever feel like you’ve been sidelined by the Universe, only to discover that things have been busy lining up for something unexpected and rather awesome? It’s kind of been like that round here. Let me ‘splain, m’kay?

As the new school year loomed, things started going a little sideways. I got a letter assigning me to a new school and I was delighted. To say I was ready to move on would be an understatement. Between the scars on my arms and the ones on my psyche, the thought of staying there one more year was more than I could handle.

Then I got the call saying there had been a change and I was going to go back to that classroom. I was devastated. After mulling it over, I decided the best thing for me to do was plead my case to HR and hope for the best.

Before I continue with my story, I’m going to tell you Tam’s story. Don’t worry, it will all come together, I promise.

Tam has been working for the district for as long as I have (maybe even longer, I don’t remember). Anyway, she’s frequently passed over for promotion because the woman who is in charge of her department does not like her. She makes no bones about it, ridiculing and harassing my partner on a fairly regular basis.

Last year, when Tam’s kitchen manager returned after a nearly year-long medical leave, Tam was forced from the kitchen she loved and shuffled off to a place managed by an idiot. An idiot who is a pet of the mean woman who doesn’t like Tam, an idiot who seems to enjoy getting people into trouble by talking behind their backs, even when what she’s saying isn’t true. Saying it was a rough year on my sweetie would be an understatement. It was a toxic environment.

Recently there was an opening for kitchen manager and Tam applied, feeling fairly optimistic about getting the promotion. After all, she had the seniority and the proven skills to do the job.

Not to sound like sour grapes, but she is pretty sure there was some cheating going on during the test. One of the applicants came in to the test ten minutes late, finished fifteen minutes later and left. The test was very hard and the other two in there took the entire hour with neither of them finishing. Both were familiar with the duties of kitchen manager, both had successfully managed kitchens in the regular managers absence, yet neither got the job. It went to the one who came in late, sat behind the proctor and away from the others, and finished early.

I don’t have to work in a kitchen to know that something smells fishy here.

Next on the list of things that are happening… we’re moving forward on the purchase of the shop. Our plan had been that we would get our loan and she would leave that horrible kitchen and go work the shop while I stayed back and continued to work at a steady job until the debts were paid down as much as possible. Two years is what we’d been thinking. I’d drive to the coast every other weekend to help out and see Tam during the school year, then spend more time there during the summer. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be worth it.

On another note, my youngest still doesn’t have a job. He’s recently applied to be a housecleaner for a large franchise of maid service providers. Forgive me when I say, “NOOOOO!” He’s so desperate he’s willing to do this. I admire his desire to get a job, but, no… I’ve done that job before, I know what it’s like and I hated every damn minute of it.

I got a call telling me that I’m going back to the school where I started, a school where, despite some of the people there, was my favorite school. Elementary age kids. Of course, I’ll be in the “BD” classroom. BD stands for Behavior Disorder (although they’re calling it something else now, I just can’t remember what it is). It will be an interesting year. Fortunately, the teacher has been doing this type of class for years and I’m really looking forward to working with him. I think I can handle a couple years working there. It will be a nice change from working in a room where the teacher is still so new, she’s not sure how she wants to run the room.

Tam learned that a position for which she can transfer laterally opened up at HER old school, the one she loved best. She’s going to talk to someone about that on Tuesday when the district opens after the holiday. After we talked about it, she said she could certainly handle working another couple years there, no problem.

Which leaves us with who’s going to run the shop?

It looks like my son will have a job for a couple years.

Thank you, Universe. It’s been a long and very interesting climb up this hill.

Good-bye, summer. Hello future. 

Entertaining Spiders

Lest you get the wrong impression and think I find spiders to be at all entertaining, I can assure you that is not the case. Not at all. Nope. No way. Rather, I find them to be creepy multi-legged monsters that have absolutely NO DAMN BUSINESS being IN my house.

Outside? Well, that’s a whole new ballgame, and one that I will just leave alone. At least for this post. 

Anyway, we’ve been mucking out the living room of Chez Chaos. It hasn’t been done since Tam moved in and was long overdue even before she got here. Lots of things had piled up in corners, on level surfaces, and shoved under furniture. Eddies of piled crafting supplies mingled with magazines and books on various subjects. Some of it was there on purpose, most of it wasn’t.

Lots of dust, animal fur, and pieces of daily living that just found their own little piece of paradise and stayed put, well out of the reach of a dust mop, broom, or duster. Mainly because dust mops, brooms, and dusters aren’t used with much regularity around here. We’re a little on the casual side when it comes to being tidy.

Ok, I’m a slob and she puts up with me. Happy now?

Back to the story.

We’d been cleaning and moving things around for a couple days and were enjoying a quiet evening of rest and internet when what to my wondering eyes should appear, but FUCKING SPIDER-ZILLA racing across the floor. It stopped at a barrier of cords used to power the vacuum cleaner and seemed to be confused. I’m not sure why, after all, it was large enough to macramé the cords into a lovely hanging basket for my fern. But there it sat long enough for me to announce the presence of such a creature. I believe my exact verbiage was “HOLY SHIT!” I jumped up, stuffed my feet halfway into my sandals and proceeded to entertain the beast (as well as Tam and Li’l Red) with the song and dance of my people.

It sounded a lot like, “AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!” stomp. Stomp-stomp! AAAAYYYYYEEEE!!! STOMP!STOMP!STOMP!!!!! and looked even more ridiculous.

The little huge bastard had the gall to RUN TOWARD ME, avoid my lightning-fast feet, and duck under the entertainment cabinet. I would have had better luck if I’d been wearing better shoes; shoes that did not have straps flapping around my ankles just begging some long-legged arachnid to grab on and take a jog up my leg.

Yes. Despite all my efforts the spider got away clean while it, and my family, had a good laugh at my expense. However, even though the monster had taken cover under the cabinet, we three humans spent the next several minutes sitting around with eyeballs the size of ostrich eggs. My cat, on the other hand just sniffed and turned away as if saying, “Silly human, THAT’S not the way to treat a snack.”

It was after we’d all had a chance to relax and return to our regularly-scheduled activities of doing very little, that I happened to glance over to the wall above the entertainment cabinet. Up near the ceiling was the dreaded beast, just chilling and waiting for an encore.

I had to oblige, but this time I used a prop. The vacuum with the long attachment was our big finish.

I think.

Because the next day, while Most Minor Minion was over, and after he’d heard the story, he came up to me and said, “Wow, there’s another monster in the living room.”

“If it’s on the couch, then that’s no monster, that’s Li’l Red.”

“No, this one’s on the floor near the vacuum hose. It’s really big, too.”

“The hose?”

“No, Mom, not the hose.”

“Is it alive?”

“The hose?”

“No, Son, not the hose.”

“Oh, the spider. Yes, it’s most definitely alive.”

I approached with caution to find a rather spectacular specimen that was either the same size or a slightly larger version of the one I danced for the previous evening, I couldn’t quite tell. It looked a little rumpled and I wondered if it had spent the night rummaging around in the dust and other room detritus in the canister. But I didn’t care. I turned on the vacuum and… and… oh, god… The spider was so large, I heard AND FELT it tumble up the hose and land in the belly of the machine. At least this time I think it’s really dead, with all that banging around it did on the way in.

Believe me when I say, “fuuuuuuuck, that was gross”

My Day on Drugs

I had to have an MRI the other day, but never fear, the good doctor prescribed a lovely anti-anxiety pill for me to take in order to keep me from freaking the hell out while stuffed like a 52 year-old sausage in a vibrating, hard plastic casing.

Seriously, it was so… I can’t… Ok… wait… deep breath…

They asked me what kind of music I wanted to hear. They asked me this after telling me that it was going to be a tight fit and then they strapped me down. All I can say is, “hell yeah, happy pills” because they’d have had to use duct tape and a baseball bat if I hadn’t been drugged.

So there I was, securely Velcroed to the table while trying to decide what I wanted to listen to besides the thrumming and bumping of la machine.

“Do you have any Jethro Tull?”

“Yes!” the lovely technician said, “But it’s at home.”

“Oh. Can you go get it?”

“No,” said the unlovely technician.

“Um, Enya?”

“Sure!”

So, Orinoco Flow sashayed through my ears while they put me in the tube. It was a tight fit and I’m very thankful for the pill, considering the tube was so close to my face, I couldn’t focus on it.

When it was all said and done, and they were pulling me back out, my arm (the one they strapped in place) got caught on the lip of the machine and I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Um, can you move a little to your right?”

“Maybe. I know I could if I was listening to Jethro Tull.”

“You planning on staying in there forever?”

“I’m moving! I’m moving!”

I finally got out and sat up. I vaguely remember being happy. The technician handed me a plastic sack.

“Here’s your bra. You can put it back on right over here.”

“Nope. I’m gonna skip that part. Probably couldn’t do it anyway. Too complicated. I’ll just take it home like this.”

“Do you want a wheelchair?”

“Naw, I’m good, but I could use some directions, because I appear to have no idea where I am at the moment.”

“That’s part of my job,” said the helpful technician as she led me away. I remember a hallway, a door and some people. Tam was there to take me home, but first we had to find our way out. Apparently, I was ready to do some exploring. Tam was not. We passed the admission desk and I remember the woman saying, “Enjoy the rest of your medication!”

I assured her I was doing exactly that. There was laughter. Tam later said she told me to enjoy the rest of my VACATION!” Whatever.

Tam said I talked to everybody, waving and having a great time. We got to the car and I asked if she wanted me to drive. She said no. She also said I was having a hard time trying to figure out how to get into the car. Evidently I had the same difficulty getting out of the car once we got home. Something about my bra caught on my shoe.

There were people at the house, but I can only believe Tam when she tells me that I was visited by all three of my children. Then there was the part where I took the bird from her cage and fell asleep. Said bird promptly took to grooming me, walking all over me, picking at my ears, my hair, my shirt, squawking in my ear. Tam took a picture.

I don’t remember a thing.

Then my mother called while I was in a state of semi-consciousness. Something about a website “for the computer,” in case I didn’t know how the hell to get to a website. Now, I know I’m technologically impaired, and it is especially problematic when I’m drugged, but cut me some slack, woman, even stoned out of my gourd I know what a friggin’ website is and how to get to one. Sheesh.

There was another nap and a lot of slow moving. I don’t know when everybody left (although I do know Most Minor Minion took off the next day) and I have no idea what happened that evening, but I do know I survived my MRI.

And you know what? I have another pill for “just in case.” Just in case of what, I don’t know, but I guess that’s not important. Maybe I’ll use it on the day we sign our lives away for the shop.

Fun-n-Games

This week has been one for the therapist, let me tell you. It started out pretty normal, then Tam got sick. Really sick, like coughing up a lung, running a temp kind of sick. It was loverly. So very loverly. She’s such a delight when she’s sick. Calm, cool, quiet.

I’m going to hell for lying, aren’t I?

Anyway, while my darling was busy finding new and interesting ways to die, someone (and that would be me) had to do SOMETHING with all the stuff we’d bought to put up. We’ll start with the 20 or so pounds of plums for jelly (ok, maybe 20 lbs is a bit of an exaggeration, but I got 25 half-pints of plum… stuff (because I couldn’t find a recipe and it didn’t all set, so I’ll have to do it over, but I’m going to wait until winter when heating up the entire house doesn’t cause the floor to melt under my feet).

Oh, yes, that kind of week indeed.

Then there was the 40lb box of beans. 40. Pounds. Of. Beans.

Spawn came over and helped me put up 25 pints of dilly beans (oh, YUM!) yesterday, then I wrangled three more quarts of the dilled lovelies and one gallon bag for the freezer. After that was all done, Thing showed up and I chopped up three pounds of jalapeno peppers for a treat I call candied peppers (they’re like bread and butter pickles, only sweeter and much hotter). But I made a slight mistake and only got five pints out of it, so I used the sweet brine on some garlic and pearl onions. Then in a stroke of genius, I filled the last pints with the leftover (sweet, spicy, tangy, and delicious) brine which I will later (in the winter months) make pepper jelly. Let me tell you about pepper jelly, when it’s right, it’s amazing on cheese, chicken, veggies, old sneakers… you get the idea, it is some bad-ass stuff and I love it.

Anyway, I’ve been canning for the past three days in some of the hottest weather we’ve had all summer. And I’m loving it, except for the part where I’m too tired to edit.

But the other thing that’s been going on is this pain in my shoulder. I hurt myself at work and I’ve been going to occupational therapy for it. It’s not working. The doctor said I need an MRI. Doctor is a sadist because she doesn’t think the open MRI’s do a good enough job, so she wants me to go in for an enclosed MRI.

Not. Good.

This old dyke has some major issues with claustrophobia and simply thinking about being shoved headfirst into a long metal tube and closed in there for who-the-hell knows how long makes me panic. Doctor pulled the “nice” card and prescribed an anti-anxiety pill to take one hour before my appointment.

You know that part of my life where I’m in my kitchen and canning everything that doesn’t move? Guess who forgot to go get her happy pill? Cue the “crazy attack” where I send my sick wife to the drug store to pick it up for me because I cannot leave whatever I’m cooking to do it. Yay, she got it. If she hadn’t, it would have been difficult to get me into the tube.

“Ok, Karen, we’re going to roll you into the tube now. Oops! Put your arms down, please.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can, just put them down.”

“Fuck you. I’m not going in there without a pill.”

“You’re being one right now, Karen.”

Last, but certainly not least on my list of things to do sooner rather than later, is look into financing for our shop. After a lot of talking to the owner and discussions between ourselves, we’re going to do whatever it takes to get that shop and get the hell out of the jobs that are killing us. Somehow, I need to come up with a very large sum of money (which will mean a lien on the house again, but oh, well) then we’ll be free to move into a better phase of life, mainly where neither of us is beaten, pinched, scratched, spit on, bitten, choked, scorned by supervisors, cheated out of a promotion because a supervisor doesn’t like us, or the usual litany of crap on the job things that make people want to get on the rooftop with a slingshot and a large supply of turds and just cut loose.

It’s a dream and one that I think we’ll be realizing sooner than either of us thought. I just need to sell a few thousand copies of my book, and we’ll be there!