If you haven't read about my daughter's best friend's mother, the whore of the Northeast AKA Cathy, you may be a little lost with this one.
Quick catch-up: Cathy dumped devoted husband of 7 years to have hot sex with some bum even though she had two young children who LOVED their dad. Even though dad loved her. Cathy didn't care. Hot sex was at stake after all! Years later, Cathy regrets it as "hot sex guys" are also not good with money, are angry, violent, drunks, or all of the above.
About a month ago, Cathy had her latest man arrested. Reason? He was drunk and trying to beat her in front of the kids. Ex-hubby comes to save the day. Police come to take bad boyfriend away, and yada yada yada, end of story. (Although Cathy still talks to him over the phone because well, that's Cathy!)
Two weeks pass and Cathy starts seeing new guy. She tells me, "I had a waiting period. I didn't want to jump into anything." I've had vacations longer than two weeks, but okay.
New guy "seems" like a good guy. He's ugly, BUT he's loaded. Cathy wanted someone loaded. She wants OUT of the trailer park she now inhabits because she canNOT pay her bills. Well, she could, but she prefers using her money at the mall.
Anyhow, new guy has kids. Within 3 days, he was introducing his children to Cathy's children. Within a week, he was taking Cathy out almost every night and began taking her children out as well ... miniature golf, movies, whathaveyou.
After 7 days, Cathy sleeps with man while her children are at their father's. She even spends the night ... even though Ugly Rich Guy has small kids at home. URG tells her he loves her and she says, "Not now." See, Cathy loves his home, his money, the outings and such, but she doesn't love Ugly Rich Guy.
OK, I don't get sex after on week, but it's a faster paced lifestyle out there now. Sure, she's older than I am and he's older than her, but yeah, they just needed some loving.
Another week passes and he's taking Cathy and her daughter on a mini-break. THIS weekend he's taking Cathy's daughter to the mall to buy school clothes because she didn't get enough in the beginning of the year. It's been a month. He's NOT her dad, he's NOT her mom, he's NOT a stepdad. Heck, he doesn't even live with Cathy.
Is it me or is this seriously rushing it? I mean, I'm a prude, I've established that so I'd like to know. What do YOU think?
If you were separated/divorced, what's a proper waiting period? If you meet someone, how soon do they meet the kids? How soon before new someone takes your kids out? How soon before you sleepover and vice versa? How soon before he starts supporting your children?
Just curious. Answer honest, but answer. I like to put my finger on the pulse of Blogdom ever so often.
Have a good one!
(P.S. Still doing stellar on the health front. Lost 3 pounds in just 3 days. Water retention, but I'll take it)
Well, it's my second day. I did 60 minutes of cardio this morning. I didn't feel like it, of course, but I did it!
The only other thing to comment on is my mother is really missing my dad, but having a ton of guilt over yelling at him while she cared for him. He was a big man and his legs kind of gave up. She had to try and lift him. When he wouldn't help, she would yell and now it's playing over and over again in her head. I don't know how to help her or what advice to give. I tell her he's not upset with her and a bunch of other things, but I'm not really helping. I guess this is something you just can't fix.
On a happier note, it's Lost day. I finally get to catch up on last week's episode (the season premiere). I hope it's a good one!
Bounce, Jump, Lift, Crunch, Pass Out ... Nyuk Nyuk Nyuk
First, let me just say, this lady is not me. Although her shell is lovely, I find her form freakishly, well, freakish. Look under her if you can pull your eyes away from her bizarre stance. That's the Urban Rebounder, a new jazzy-named piece of exercise equipment that's nothing more than a mini-tramp with a bar (not shown in pic because her leg would have crushed it, I'm sure).
I saw some Olympic runner using it on TV. She spoke of keeping injuries down while helping you speed up. It's just a trampoline for Galloway's sake, but she sold me. The lunges, the jumps, the crazy running breaks, the perfect form, bulging muscles ... unlike other infomercials, this one spoke to the runner in me and then promptly yelled, "Buy me and get back to racing, Slacker!"
But holy mother of Nike, my form was comical at best. My lunges were more like mini-pounces ... like a fledging kitty. I was breathing like a crank caller within 2 minutes. I was officially sweaty after 3. After 5, I wondered how long I could continue with breathing, sweat, and sore legs.
Let's just say, I endured. I kept it up for 30 minutes and then started in on weight training. From chest to biceps and triceps. I moved into abwork then stretching. Oh blessed stretching!
I didn't actually pass out, but hey, it could happen! At least the Rebounder would keep me from clunking my head. Unless I passed out and just kept hopelessly bouncing back and forth from it to ceiling, like some nightmarish cartoon. Only in Three Stooges Land, I guess.
Still, I'm proud of myself. Here's to a new day! I just need to keep making it my best, then wake up and do it all again tomorrow. (except for that passing out part)
If You Think Holding Hands is All in the Fingers, Grab Hold to the Soul Where the Memory Lingers ...
In the last few years, I've been called a lot of things. Online, a majority of them range from prude to bitch, although I was called a frigid Nazi not too long ago. That's one of my favorites! I rebuke the Nazi part. Just because I'm German doesn't mean I'm totally insane or even that I make a wicked streudel. Well, scratch that argument.
Let's get back to the frigid deal. When I was younger, oh, say about from the ages of 13 through 16, I was rather ho-ish. Slutty, in fact. Not slutty in the "oh, I made it with the whole football team" type of way or, "oh, I'll take a gangbanging in the bathroom at prom for $200, Alex." I was slutty in the way of wearing micro-mini skirts with high heels. Having sex at 13 kind of slutty. I wasn't a saint. If you read me, you know I lost my virginity at 13, but I didn't continue to have sex with the same boy. Mainly because, well, if you read the "Last American Virgin" story of my youth, why would I keep giving it to him?
Still, if I went to a party alone, I ended up either in a make out session with a stranger or with a new boyfriend completely. In addition to this, on top of always dating a boy, I always dated a girl at the same time. It's like I couldn't have just one person of the opposite sex to keep me busy, I had to claim a girl for my very own as well. Claim, like property. Secretly, of course.
Sure, it looks bad. It reads bad, but did I mention ... I never enjoyed it? Dating a girl was just swell until she tried to force me into the bedroom. Then it was an awkward, "Ahem, I ... a ... yeah, I need to go home. You stay there. No reason to cry. OK, fine, cry! I'm leaving!"
Then it happened, one of my exes from middle school came back to town and everybody was buzzing about him. Girls I hadn't spoke with in years came up to me chanting, "He's back! James is back!" I acted majorly cool at the time about it. I waited to see what he looked like before acting the fool.
Even though a good 5 years had passed since I last saw him, I knew him immediately when I spied him myself. Just from the back of his head. I shouted to him. He turned in the crowd and my knees did indeed go weak. I believe he had a light shining down upon him. I didn't pursue. Instead, I walked back to my locker area, found the girls who found all of this so interesting, and in no uncertain terms, told them to give him my number the following day in class, which I jotted down on a piece of scrap paper.
That was pretty much it. The next day he called, the day after that, we went met up after school, we were going steady a few minutes after that. Kind of a, "Let's just pick up where we left off type of deal." He was gorgeous, but needed some tweaking. We looked like brother and sister. Well, brother and sister in a house where mom shopped mainly for me. Maybe I just wanted to date myself.
For the first time ever, my teen body actually craved sex. All the time. I still wasn't getting anything out of it, but when James and I were together, we had sex. Sex behind trees, sex in his bedroom, in cars, in parking lots, in tents, at friend's homes, in parked campers. Three times a day. Minimum. We didn't have to actually know the person to have sex in their vehicles and I didn't care if people knew how often I had sex with him. I still had a girlfriend, heck, I couldn't give that up, but as it would turn out, she really started falling for James. Half of the school started falling for him. The slutty half, much to my dismay.
Yeah, after I tweak him, get him a better haircut going, pick out his clothes, take him from hillbilly to hottie, he now has fans. And being a scumbag, he wasn't the type to say no to anyone, whether they were friends of mine or not. Whether they were good looking or not. Hmmm, I don't believe he even knew how to say no. So, in short, he cheated on me a lot. At least every weekend and thus began our sick cheating tug 'o war, although I'm sure I let him get away with it for the first year. No, I did let him get away with it. I actually knew how to say no, just not to him. Go figure! I was sick in love, after all.
Still, I'll be honest. Years have passed and I'm a grown woman. 34, to be exact. Put aside James' abuse, his obvious need to have sex with many a girl, his stupidity, his average penis and average technique to go along with it, I still look back on this time and blush. I still look back and say, "Aha! I was a nympho! I see no prude when I look there!" But I'm here solidly in my thirties and yeah, a matriarch. Not entirely frigid, but quite possibly tepid. I wouldn't have sex in my OWN car now. Even if it weren't new and I didn't mind messing it up.
I still had the flu. I still had a fever. Still coughing, still dead tired, still sad, but I still went to The White Stripes concert lastnight. The ride there was uneventful. I knitted, put on make up, knitted some more. The children did homework. We played all The White Stripes CDs in chronological order on the trip, which was my suggestion even though my head felt like a hive of bees had found a home inside of it.
We passed Brighton and I said, "Hello, Brighton!" My kids thought I was nuts and the explanation of, "Mr. Schprock told me to give a wave when we passed," didn't make me sound any more sane. Still, I didn't forget!
Right when we get out of a tunnel, which oddly enough looks like the one used in "I, Robot", my husband took the first parking garage he could get. I don't have a picture of me begging and pleading for him to go up further. I don't have a picture of me lecturing about "how far away we are" or of me hoofing it God knows how long to make it to The Opera House in Boston. I can tell you I looked pale, mean, sweaty, and disheveled.
After our 30 minute walk, my throat, chest, and head were ready to just find a bench and pass out, but hubby switched our tickets (due to a seating chart error, the Opera House gave us better seats). When they seated us, however, we were in the first row of the balcony section. I told my husband, "This isn't right, we were closer with our other tickets. We were in the left section by the stage. He firmly disagreed.
I was too hot to argue. Parched isn't a word to describe my thirst. Sandpaper-throat, however, might do the trick. This could only be made worse by the wanton female Bostonites behind us who found it necessary to kick each of our chairs with every twitch, which would have been all right, but apparently they all had Turret's.
The opening act? I think he was on drugs and forgot he was performing for a crowd. He kept playing the same song over and over again then would add, "ooo ooooooo" in for some strange effect. I told my daughter, "We're back at the campsites in Maine listening to Slim & the boys again." Finally, in need of another hit, Opening Act Guy stopped and the roadies came out to set up for The White Stripes.
I can say two things with complete certainty ... it took forever (about 45 minutes) and Jack uses mini-Jacks as roadies. They dress in black suits with black shirts, red ties, and his signature black hat. It was like seeing gothic Oompa Loompas.
FINALLY, Jack and Meg come out ... about 8:45pm (concert started at 7:30). (not my photo, but this is exactly what he looked like once jacket and hat came off) Jack's in all red except for a black jacket and hat. Meg's in all black. They look rather small from where we sat ... like a minature TV, but "You got a reaction, you got a reaction, didn't you," lurched out of Jack's throat and everyone stood cheering. And everyone kept standing ... during the whole thing. Concerts are for the young and fit, my friends.
I'm looking at my children, wondering what they think of their first rock concert. My son has already seen BB King. They both look a little starstruck. No singing, no moving, just watching. My husband is thoroughly enjoying all of Jack's many guitar breaks. That man can use a slide, let me tell you!
Then at a little before 10pm, these Bostonites push into our section and tell us we're in their seats. There were a whole row of them. I was on the outside so didn't say a word, I hopped over to my husband and told him instead. He is irate, looks at ticket stubs, demands to see other stubs, then stomps out to get one of the people who seat you, hopefully the same woman who sat us.
And lo and behold, we WERE seated wrong. We WERE close to the stage. So, with only about a half hour (or less) left of the concert, we're whisked off to our real seats, and only have to fight with about a dozen more Bostonites (one who slapped my husband on the back and said, "I'll let you through, but don't step on my feet again" ... and if you know my husband, this could have meant the other guy left with a broken nose, but he kept calm and even laughed in his face), ushers, and the like. It took 15 minutes to actually solve seating problem so we spent 15 minutes standing in front of the seats we should have had all along. The seats that afforded us the view of people on stage where you can see their face, mustache, skin, sweat.
My son thoroughly enjoyed the last 15 minutes. My son equally enjoyed Boston. In fact, if I hear, "How much do I need to make to live comfortably in Boston," one more time I will go deaf.
Peak moments of the night:
- Children seeing two bums for the first time. One who told me I had beautiful hands. Another who was playing a flute for money. My son said, "It takes courage to be poor. You have to do it publicly." Being a Republican I said, "It takes more courage to be rich and overcome obstacles, work hard ..."
- Jack and Meg during "Red Rain" - these two have perfect communication with each other. Meg watches Jack during the whole show and knows exactly what to do just by a shoulder shrug, or guitar raise. It's uncanny.
- Meg in black leather pants. First time in a long time I've seen a woman and thought, "I need to lose weight because I need those pants!"
- Jack bringing Meg out from behind her drum set at the end of the concert and saying, "My sister and I thank you." Then a bow. Now, they're not brother and sister, but in fact divorced. You wouldn't know it though. She waved "hi" to the crowd below her, but was so obviously scared of them that Jack led her away. So I get a startling revelation: "Meg has panic disorder and stares at Jack during the concert because the crowd overwhelms her. She NEVER looks at the audience for a reason!" I don't know. At the time it seemed like a peak moment. (again, not my pic .... swap white tee for black, plus put a large white flower at Meg's throat)
- Husband driving home because he knew I just wasn't alert or well enough to do it.
Low moments:
- Husband acting like Olympic sprinter while walking to The Opera House
- Husband acting like maniac while in Opera House (all 4 times)
- When asking children if they're ready to be rock stars, getting no answer from daughter and a solid "no" from son who is still trying to figure out how to live in Boston on a cop's salary
I left Boston, I waved good-bye to Brighton (am I nice or what, Mr. Schprock), and then kept falling asleep all the way home where Drusilla was waiting to run outside into my open arms and then the driveway to take a much-needed piss. My bed felt like a cloud!
- See Europe - Run a marathon - See the Great Pyramids - Finish my home, including all landscaping - Sail with my husband - Finish the book about my family - Play with my grandchildren
7 things I can do:
- Play guitar - Sing (pretty much anything ... from rock to R&B) - I can play the flute - I can knit - I can garden/landscape - I can read 4 books at one time - I can read people's emotions and/or thoughts when they are around me
7 things I cannot do:
- Write my name in urine in the snow while standing up - Tolerate one-on-one situations - Walk by elderly people in the store (etcetera) who need help and not do something for them - Listen to rap for any length of time without getting a headache - Sky dive - Happily sit in a room full of spiders - Say no to anyone who asks me for something face-to-face
7 things that attract me to another person:
- Chasteness - Purity - Good listening abilities (not waiting for you to shut up so they can go on about themselves) - Plain jane appearances (for men and women) - Sense of humor - Intelligence, but on those who don't think they really are ... I can't stand arrogance - Kindness
7 things I say most often:
- "Sugar me timbers." (I know it's "shiver", but I always say this) - "Oh, fuckadoodle!" or "Cockaboodie!" - "Oh, who gives a fuck?" - "Oh my Lord." - "Drrrrrr!" - "Where's the remote?" - "I mean it, guys, it's time to pick up." (my kids must hate that one)
7 celebrity crushes:
- Tommy Lee (Good God, why? He has zippo traits that I like.) - Heath Ledger - Andy Farmer (the dude on "While You Were Out") - Rachael Ray (the 30 minute meal cook) - James Marsters ("Spike" on "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel") - Jack White of The White Stripes (now that he's chunky) - Jack Black (unless he's skinny)
Every blogger I would have tagged has already been tagged. To be fair, I will list them.
- Bill - Scott - Mrs. T - Melody - Mr. Schprock - Sheri - Jenbeauty
Yesterday I had my husband withdraw some money for my father and mother's headstone. I borrowed money on my life insurance to pay for it because my mother is officially broke. I know I have been complaining about the 'business' of dying a lot lately, but again, the headstone/marker industry is just another area that is a total disgrace.
We encountered one place that didn't even ask about why we needed a headstone, but started right in on the pricing. She just assumed the old broad with me wearing an oxygen tank needed a headstone, stat! Another place wouldn't give prices before it described the "quality" of their granite and carvings versus other memorial stone companies. My mother and I said it was more like shopping for furniture than a tombstone.
Thank God I'm being cremated. I even told the headstone guy this. He's rattling on about quarries, granite quality, granite cutting, and the like and I say, "I'm being cremated so all of this is lost on me. If you can guarantee your stone and do what my mother wants without screwing me in the process, we're good."
I was not a nice person to deal with at all. I'll admit it. I'll also admit I gulped at the price. The company owner gave me a break, but still ... did you know headstones start at a thousand bucks and go up from there? I sure didn't. I guess I'm not stone-savvy. (Also, all funeral services and headstones are going up according to Tombstone Dude. By spring, it will be at least 20%. Just thought I'd pass that along.)
I was already feeling a head cold coming on and had zero patience with the whole ordeal. We're trying to get the particulars of the headstone's design down while the owner is running down all the physical complaints he's had over the years, his near death experience, his five bypass surgeries. I didn't care and didn't even feign caring. He started jabberjawing and I just looked away. My mother said he couldn't take his eyes off of me the whole time. Had I known that, I might have slipped him the bird or said, "This is not impressing me. I'm not a f*&^ing doctor, Pal."
My head cold turned into a full blown body cold. Something's wrong with me from head to toe ... body aches, chills, fever, cough, phlegm, itchy eyes ... a never ending plethora of ailments. Still, I am looking ahead and not eating junk. Usually when I'm ill, I crave the worst foods on the planet. I still am, but I won't be eating them. I will not cave to sesame chicken or a hot fudge sundae. Although both of them sound absolutely delish right now.
On a related note, Tombstone Dude sent my mother home with a stake to put in my father's grave ... to mark it for the company. A wood stake with my father's last name on it in red Sharpee. I can't describe the face she made when he handed it to her because, well, it's just wrong, but being a funny gal she said, "Watch out, vampires!" I said, "Calm it down, Buffy." Bypass Buck didn't get it. Lord knows he had enough ears for 3 heads, but he couldn't hear much over his own inane chattering.
Anyhow, tomorrow my husband, the kids and I are going to Boston to see The White Stripes concert. I don't feel like going at all. I wanted to cancel all together after my dad passed, but the family still wants to go and my husband isn't adult enough to watch the kids by himself. Let alone drive home in the wee hours of the morning. Hubby has a tendency to nod off when he's tired. Lucky for him, his wife is an insomniac. I love the guy, but he's a kid at heart, after all.
So, here's hoping I feel at least 50% better by tomorrow. Here's also hoping I don't have a new stalker who sells tombstones. Blech! At least with his heart track record, I can definitely outrun him.
I am totally revamping this blog and just wanted to give everyone the heads up. After everything that's happened recently, I am putting my main focus on good health. I want my blog to reflect my purpose a bit more. Plus, I'm just plain sick of looking at the old one.
I hope everyone is having a good start to the week.
I wanted to thank everyone again for your condolences concerning the passing of my father on September 12th. Thank you Mrs. T for the flowers, which are still thriving, and KBMeow, for the card. I haven't had any desire to really be online or read blogs, but I am feeling better now that the funeral is over. I even took a credit card and did some shopping for the home online. God knows why, but I felt better after I did it.
I wanted to really tell everyone a few things they should have ready/or know if a death occurs and a couple things which happened to me during this time.
First, make sure you have at least two mourning outfits in your closet at all times, for the WHOLE family. Make sure they are respectful, dark, and completely ready to be worn. (meaning they're your size now ... not 20 pounds from now ... and wrinkle-free)
Death never announces when it will come and after it hits, the last thing you want to do is search for an appropriate outfit. Trust me, I just went through this, as did my mother, sister, son, and daughter. Due to renovations, I could only find one black skirt. I should have had everything ready. Believe me, it will help because it seems such a small part, but when someone you loves passes on, you don't want to end up at Macy's searching for something to wear. And you DON'T want to show up at the viewing and funeral in a red t-shirt with dirty jeans as one of my mental and distant uncles did. Red should never be worn to a funeral. Period. Dirty jeans ... isn't it obvious?
Secondly, if whenever possible pre-plan your arrangements or at least write them down somewhere where they are safe and can be easily found. This means actually being specific, going to a funeral home, choosing color, model, yes, all the macabre stuff your loved ones will need to deal with if you don't. My mother, siblings, and I had to plan everything ... right down to the color of the casket, design of the book for signatures, prayer cards, etcetera and so forth.
I just don't think this is a good position to put anyone in at all. You're grieving and picking out the strangest things, like liners and cloths, which will go inside or a tie to put on the body itself. Your brain can hardly wrap around any of it. My family just "did it" and didn't get too absorbed in the details. A fact, which will cost you hundreds later on.
Don't forget, death is big business. Everyone who is in this industry makes money from your loved one's death. My father had lost his life insurance when he was 70 (just 3 years ago). NEVER have TERM life insurance! My father had enough of a savings account to cover his funeral expenses until my mother spent a lot of it during his illness. Yes, rather foolishly and haphazardly. She still could pay in cash for the funeral, but could not afford a headstone. I am now taking money out against my own insurance policy to pay for it. Do you see how things like this could be hard for the family?
If you don't have life insurance, get it and make sure it isn't term life, which I found out only pays out 3% of the time. 3%!!! If you have the money saved, bank it, and make sure there is some type of provision not to touch it until your death.
I know these things sound harsh, but everyone you will encounter who will make money from the death of your loved one will be trying to maximize their own accounts. Flowers are outrageous. While you could spend $50 any other time and get a nice bouquet for a friend, a funeral spray from the children of the deceased is 3-4 times that amount. Easily. If you live in a big city, just expect to pay even more than that. Then there's the flowers from the grandchildren, and so on.
Don't forget about a funeral home. They will charge you hundreds just to pick up the body, over a grand to store it, hundreds to have your viewing in their facility, hundreds more for the funeral, the casket, dressing, cosmetics, embalming, a fee just for the pleasure of using their facility (hundreds), and yes, you will have to see each and every cost if it isn't pre-planned.
The biggest part of all about any of this is the funeral. My father was not a religious man. My mother chose to have the minister from a town my father loved speak for him. The minister did not know my father. Even though I had written a eulogy, the minister put it aside so that he could lecture all the grieving on saving their soul, making sure they accept Jesus Christ as their savior, and so forth. It was like a service on Sunday. At one point he even pointed to my father in the coffin and said, "If he could talk, he would say HE'S RIGHT!"
At another point he looked at the eulogy I had written (which was on the podium) and said, "Beth says her dad went ahead to build a house for his family, but God has ALREADY built his home IF he accepted Christ into his heart." Mind you, he paraphrased what I wrote, it was the first part of a line that turned into a paragraph. (this ties in to two paragraphs below)
Instead of crying, we were all looking at one another, simply aghast. I told my mother NOT to go with a stranger just because of the religious aspect, but when you're grieving, you just do what you think is right quickly, without thinking. When the minister finished, before anyone even made a move, the funeral director told everyone to head to their cars, but I looked at my husband (who was to read the initial eulogy if the minister did not) and John jumped up and said, "Wait, I have a few things I would like to say about Pete." The funeral director tried taking the podium away, but my husband grabbed it from him and said, "I do better when I lean." I was 16 years old all over again and I knew he was going to save the day AND me.
I was crying so what I remember my husband saying most in the beginning was, "IF Jesus is helping Pete build a home, Jesus is getting a lesson in carpentry." My father was a carpenter and an electrician. My mother started crying and my husband went on to say, "Unequivocally, without a doubt, he loved his wife." This really got my mother crying. John then said, "And I can say he liked everyone in this room because if he didn't, he would've told you so. You wouldn't be here because he would have said you were a goddamned fool." Well, everyone nodded to that.
He went on to say personal things and almost broke down when he looked at my dad and said, "I revered this man" and "this man taught me my work ethic". He told everyone just how hard my father worked, what he learned about money, and that he never knew him to step foot in church one day of his life, but he said the Lord's Prayer every night.
It was just beautiful. Afterwards, right when my husband finished, a car alarm went off. It was odd, but we were all shaken up, not thinking about it until one of the guests whispered to my husband, "That's YOUR alarm." And my husband said, "I didn't even lock it." My husband NEVER locks our car and never engages the alarm. So, he said this and my mother said, "That's my sign. Pete liked what you said."
After that, everyone kept telling John how much it meant to him that John did that, spoke about my dad's life, instead of lecturing about saving their souls. I don't think I've ever felt so sad and so moved, proud, just a whirlwind of things in my life.
I know this is a jumbled mess. Most of you don't really know me, my father, or my family. I just hope everyone understands how important insurance, pre-planning (right down to what will happen at the service), or some kind of savings are for your family. You don't welcome death by planning for it. My father believed this was this case as does my mother. This is when the children have to step in and pre-plan. You will all be deciding on it after if you don't, when you're in no shape to do the job. It is much better before when you can think clearly.
I apologize for this my ramble, but hope whoever reads it takes it seriously. I thank everyone again.
Hi, everyone. My father passed away yesterday at 6pm after being in the hospital for a little over a week. I don't have time or the energy to read blogs or reply here, but I wanted everyone to know where I was.
I'm doing well and my mother is coping as well. As anyone who has lost someone close to them knows, the first few days after are busy with all of the necessary details of funeral homes, flowers, and food.
I'm Only Happy When it Rains, I'm Only Happy When it's Complicated.
"Ugh, the sun." These are the words I uttered while leaving the hospital this afternoon. A female smoker in the designated smoking section (place where smokers are openly jeered at by non-smokers) looked at me as if I were past midnight on the crazy clock. I had this epiphany while watching her diligently blacken her lungs: "Huh, some people actually LIKE the sun." It was moving, for me at least.
My father had a new nurse and doctor last night. Neither of them had any idea who my dad was or what his physical condition was like to look at. I imagine the chart notes must be sloppy because they both panicked. A 101 temperature had him packed in ice and a call placed to my mother to come sign a 'DNR' form. This is what I was told by my mother.
Mom called my 42 year old brother (the bum who lives at home) to have him get ready to be picked up at work (because he doesn't have his own car) so they could go to the hospital together. On the way, my mother calls my big sister then me. Of course, I'm dead last in the panic chain. I think it's because: one, I don't panic and two, I don't acknowledge my mother's panic. I'm a panic-free zone, which is no good for a panicker. They want all the panic they can get. I'm talking about panickers who panic just for the sake of panicking. Say that 5 times fast.
Anyhow, mother calls and tells me my dad is on last leg, she's racing to hospital to sign DNR so they can kick his last leg out from under him if he should truly start to wobble. New dilemma ... my husband is on the road about one and a half hours away, I have two children, it's 10pm, they both have school in the morning. So, I do what any non-panicky person would do, I hang up with her and call rational 3rd floor nurse. 3rd floor nurse cannot corroborate mother's story. Dad is NOT on last leg, but has a lower blood pressure, higher respiration, and a fever of 101, which has been the norm.
Hmmm ... "So, is all that bad or just something my mother made into an issue for no reason at all except her early senility?" Nurse is stuck in catch-22. If dad is not really on last leg, mom is nuts. I hear his hestitation and then say, "My mother has a flare for dramatics. As a matter of fact, anything you tell her, including something like husband didn't eat dinner will become major trauma. Not eating dinner equals had stomach pumped or anorexic or refusing all meals or wasting away. See what I mean?" The nurse says, "Aaah, then that could be what happened." Good enough. Sane person said so.
Still, I stay up until the cock crows, get the kids ready for the first day of school, drop them both off at school (at two separate times since they have different school hours), and head off to the hospital.
This is where I was when this tale began, but I need to back up a bit. Let's go back into my father's room. He's having more tests and the gods must need a good laugh because they put my second oldest brother (the bum), myself, and my sister together at one time. This is the food equivalent to oil, water, and vinegar before emulsification. A floater, a bottom feeder, and a base (yes, that's me, I'm the base ... the spicy vinegar that leaves a definite taste in the mouth).
My brother is a lot like Ru Paul ... if Ru Paul weren't so pretty, so independent, or had such great cheekbones, an actual career, his own car...
OK, forget it, my brother is nothing like Ru Paul. He's a bottom feeder. Always has been, always will be. In the four years since my father's heart attack, he's managed to have my senile father (not sarcasm, but documented in medical chart) sign over his home and all his personal possessions for a dollar. Everything my father worked so hard to build now belongs to a son who hasn't paid rent in his life. Oh, and I do mean everything ... even the kitchen sink!
My mother was behind all of this and had two motivations:
1.) Keep it a secret from Vinegar, the base (that's me, remember) 2.) Make sure it's rock solid legally
I found out completely by surprise. While looking up my own tax records in the court house, I came upon my brother's. "What? Brother's? This cannot be! He's never owned anything in his ..." But wait, there it is, my parent's address with my brother's name all over it yet with a couple provisions of his own:
1.) All taxes will still be paid by stooge parents living in the home 2.) All upkeep and all bills will be paid by stooge parents living in the home
Yes, my friends, can you say "hooked up"? I know you can!
Am I bitter? Hell, yes! I don't care about the home and the belongings. My dad worked hard for little, but the lies I was told. Yeah, those still eat away at me. That I found out on my birthday 3 years ago. Oh, didn't I mention that? Well, yes, it was my birthday AKA Halloween. They gave me my own holiday. Neat, huh? Then my brother ruined it by being in that tax computer!
BUT, I got over myself. I got over the lies. When I'm needed, I'm there. When my mother was hospitalized, I slept in her room all night because she doesn't like being alone in strange places. When she came home I bathed her, brushed her hair, dressed her ... all those things you don't think you'll ever be doing to your own mother. And during the day? I watched my dad. Made his meals, cleaned him, fixed his hair, cut his toe nails, wiped his ass after he shat, held his penis so he could urinate into a porta-john potty. All those things you never thought you'd be doing to your own father ... and never wished on your worst enemy.
I consider 'auto-pilot' my best defense. Any crisis and I'm sailing on a smooth, placid ocean ... completely impervious to the screams around me. Auto-pilot. It's a way of life. If it's not, it should be.
Let me also add this: my brother and mother are like the evil stepsisters in Cinderella. They plot behind my mother's other children's backs ... a lot. All the plotting is to somehow get my brother ahead. How to give him money, how to pay the bills after the parents are gone, how to buy him a new computer for his unbelievable gay porn collection without anyone noticing. (Hey, he might have ONE thing in common with Ru Paul!) Oh, it's a busy life, my friends!
I know all of this. Know it like I KNOW it's Drusilla behind me snoring. I don't have to look. She's there, that's her deviated septum I'm hearing, yet why am I shocked to find out just 45 minutes ago that my mother recently gave my brother Power of Attorney as well? Selling everything they had for a buck to the Bottomfeeder wasn't good enough, she had to give him total dominion over their lives as well. And once again, as only a wicked stepsister could do, she kept it a total secret! Until, she got in panic-mode and slipped up in front of the Floater (my sister, don't forget) and said to the doctor, "My son will have to look at this DNR. He has Power of Attorney."
As I said, I learned this new fact out about 45 minutes ago when the Floater called to tell me "the latest news" with evil stepsisters. And once again, it isn't the stuff or the money or the total domination or control or whatever. I've never wanted any of it because quite frankly, I don't have enough room for my own crap ... I can't take in more, but it's the fact no one is told. Another lie to put on the growing pile.
My mother once told me, "I'd like just to be loved until I die and then it can all come out and you can hate me then." Were saner words ever spoken? Oh, I'm sure Charles Manson has uttered a few, but come on ... "I'd like to be seen as a good person until I die and I'm not around to be worshipped anymore THEN the pedestal you put me on can come crashing down ... but only then, you selfish biotch." Hey, maybe that's just a little bit of genius.
Only thing is ... real people, a real daughter has to sift through the truth while she's grieving over the loss to find out once again, my mother is a whack. My mother in fact is a whack schmuck.
Dear Mom,
I already know you're a whack schmuck. You don't need to prove it to me anymore.
Or maybe you just feel bad about all the lost dogs roaming around after the hurricane. While it isn't a top priority for some, I found something everyone can afford that's even giving an incentive.
The CauseCollar is just $3.00, which includes all shipping and handling. Two are just $5.00. That's just plain cheap, let's admit it, BUT all the funds from now until September 30th go to the Hurricane Katrina animals who need rescue and medical care.
Even if you've already given, I thought the small incentive and the small amount was a great way to help out these animals.
No, animals are not worth more than people, but a dog IS man's best friend.
When I have time to watch TV, I've been watching reports regarding the hurricane, rescue efforts, etc. So many of these people were worried about their dogs. (they can't take them on the bus with them) I'm glad groups are stepping up to help make sure they are safe and have a home. I think the owners would be also.
Drusilla the Pug says, "Woof!" and I just say thanks!
Thanks for all the previous replies to my poll. I appreciate them!
I've been a bit busy because my dad was put in the hospital. He had a major heart attack 4 years ago and never quite recovered. He also has been deteriorating ever since.
My mother has been his full-time caretaker. My father needs to be fed, changed, and all the rest of it like a child. He cannot lift himself or help in almost any way.
I've been going during the day to help with lunch. My dad doesn't want to be alone, but doesn't actually talk. Yesterday he said to me, "Don't leave" and that was it. Then he just held my hand. My father never held my hand, not even as a little girl.
In minor reading news, I finished The Time Traveler's Wife a few days ago and started The Voyage plus am still reading my Irving stuff. This is all at night and I'm tired so am not reading much.
I liked The Time Traveler's Wife. It's no A Prayer for Owen Meany, but it wasn't the same old tired love story.
Hey, everyone. If you drop by, could you answer just a couple quick questions about blogging? I'll make it easy. Just put two letters down for your answers.
Here we go. Only two, so it won't hurt:
1.) I prefer: a) Blogs that have a different story about the past daily b) Blogs that talk about the here and now
2.) I prefer: a) Blogs that are short and sweet, to the point b) Blogs that are long and flowery, like short-long stories
I had to fill up today and it cost $50.00. I wasn't even on empty and it cost $50.00! That's 5-0 dollars. I don't even spend that much for a pair of sneakers. In fact, I buy two pairs for that price. I mean, 50 bucks? I can get groceries for a week at the po' sto' for 50 bucks.
Gas is $3.31 here and I was happy to find a place at $3.11. Happy?!? I remember when gas was .99 cents and I was peaved when it went over a buck. Peaved at over a buck. Yes, I'm repeating myself, but this just isn't sinking in.
Will be hibernating 6 days a week and venturing out one. That's it ... that's all I can do! I can't afford to do otherwise.
