It's All Connected

It's All Connected

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Wil Wheaton, Matthew Dow Smith, and a New Car! Did I Win the Lottery?

So much to tell you!  I feel like a kid on crack, I'm all hyped up and have no idea where to start all of the goodness that has happened lately.

Most of that was completely sincere, there was really only a little sarcasm involved.

So, last weekend, Jero and I went to The Emerald City Comic Con (I can hear you laughing, you know?  You all just wish you were as awesome as us!)  Oh, wait, I think I have to back up a little.

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.  Beep.

So, the week before the Con, I had to get a new car.  This is how that all went down.  I was a hundred bucks away from paying off the VW (adios Vasil) and Jero made the suggestion that while we could still get any money for it, we should trade it in.  I would normally feel really bad about the idea of trading in a car with the type of oil leak mine had without disclosing it first, but we were taking it back to the same lot who sold it to me that way to begin with.  So, meh, car karma is a total bitcharoonidoonie.

How do I know it's a bitch?  Well, just thinking of looking at cars made Vasil totally crap out on me.  The day we were going to the lot, the check engine light came on and it began to die at every stop light.  Seriously?  Fate is one fickle, fickle...for my safety I think I should stop insulting the powers that be.

So, I had my eye on a Jeep.  I had talked about it at work, explaining that it would be nice to try and get a car I actually wanted rather than whatever I could get into.  I have missed our Jeep terribly since we got rid of it, and I thought, I only drive eight miles a day, gas mileage isn't really that big of an issue for me.  Plus, having a car big enough for the puppies would be handy again.

Monday rolls around, I leave my car at home so Jero can clean it out while I am at work, and I take his Toyota to work.  When I get there, I show my coworker the picture of the Jeep online.  She listens to me go on and on about it, then she looks at me and winces.

Me: What?  Do you know which one I'm talking about?  Is there something wrong with it?

Her:  I already have a deal working on it for my son.

I handled it well.  I wanted to freak out.  She wasn't even considering the frakking lot it was on on Friday.  That rig wasn't even a blip on her radar.  Now, if you know me, you know that I have a hard time with this person.  She scares the crap out of me and I really avoid confrontation with her.  I told her that I guess I would have to look at the others I had in mind first.  She then kept telling me to just go look at it.  Whoever got into it first would be the deserving person.  I kept telling her that if she had a deal working on it, I was not about to take it out from under her.  She then tried to quietly call the lot and put it on hold.

Things only got worse when Jero showed up that afternoon and told me that once again, my trade-in had gone belly up and I HAD to find a car that day.

I did find another Jeep.  It was gorgeous.  Seriously the most luxurious car I have ever been in.  It was the same price as the other one, slightly older, with less miles.  But it was a V-8.  I may only drive eight miles a day but that means I'd kill about a gallon of gas a day just going to and from work.  I am totally a girl when it comes to car shopping though.  I fell in love with that sucker and I wanted it.  The lot, however, wouldn't work with us.  They basically wanted half down and that just was not going to happen.  I stiffened my upper lip and strode out of there with my head held high.

And two tears silently rolling down my cheeks.

We drove to another location for the same dealership (the one holding the other Jeep for my coworker) and I began to realize I was not getting into an SUV.  I ended up getting a great deal on a Saturn station wagon (because station wagons are cool) which is nearly TARDIS blue.  And once again the car karma fairy came down and bit someone in the ass.  Hard.

My coworker's son is still fixated on this Jeep.  It is in terrible shape mechanically and the dealership doesn't even know what's wrong with it yet.  I have not told her about the other Jeep.  She was in such a hurry to screw me over that I will let her make her own bed.  I feel slightly evil, and a bit bad about it, we'll see how long I hold out before I tell her to check out the other one.

Okay, onward.  I was going to post a picture of the new car, but it's now dark outside.  Poop.

So, last weekend Jero and I went to the Con.  I had only just decided to go.  The day fee wasn't cheap for us, and food in Seattle is so expensive.  But, I really wanted to see my nieces and nephews and get away from Spokane and any obligations for 48 hours.

We wanted to get there in time to hear Wil Wheaton speak.  However, it took us 40 minutes to go .2 miles.  You did notice that decimal right?  Point two miles.  So, we ended up getting our badges just in time for his lecture to be full.  Three thousand people heard him speak, apparently!  Wowsa.  I don't know how I feel about knowing that I am not the only woman my age who has been in love with this man since we first laid eyes on Gordie in Stand By Me.


We walked around Artist's Alley for a while.  Jero had his portfolio evaluated by a man who decided to tell me to support Jero in quitting his job so he could do art full time.  I smiled on the outside.  I would gladly support Jero financially, without hesitation.  I know how talented he is.  I am the one who gets livid when he's undervalued for work he is asked to do by people.  I am the one telling him that his time is NOT free, and he is one of the best artists out there, so he better start feeling like one!  But, I also like to not be homeless.  I make good money for Spokane.  But I am still not quite at 40 hours a week.  There are no extra jobs out there for me to supplement with.  Jerk.

Ha!  Maybe I let that guy get to me a little.  I just wanted to scream at him that he already makes money with his art.  Telling someone to quit their job is ridiculous in a time like this.

On the up side, he kept telling Jero how talented he is.  As a matter of fact, that was the consensus with everyone who saw his portfolio.  They love his lines, they think his original work is compelling and interesting. You know, all of the things I have known since I was 15.  Way to finally catch up, World!

After a snack, and sighting two amazingly well done Klingon, a really bad Spike and Buffy, and about fifty Cat Women dressed in the sluttiest, worst versions of her EVER, it was time to get in line to meet Wil Wheaton.

I quickly made friends with the ladies behind us who, like me, were letting their 12 year old nerds show.  I hassled a young gentleman dressed as a strikingly awesome version of the Doctor (Matt Smith) that I had seen all day into letting me take his picture.


I mean, seriously the best Doctor at the Con.

I then got to see Wil Wheaton go into the men's bathroom.

I'm just going to let you all soak in that awesome for a little while.

Oh, yeah, he was with the Weasley twins!

I just stopped typing to clap and squeal.

When he emerged from the restroom, the girls behind me and I started to cheer and applaud.  What did Wil Wheaton do?  He didn't keep walking thinking we were all a bunch of freaks, he turned around and TOOK A BOW!

I swear, that man is so damn cool.

We waited in line for about two hours before getting to meet him.  I was actually shaking when I bought one of his books to have him sign.  His wife laughed.  I said something that made him laugh but I can't remember what it was because all I could think was, I just made Wil Wheaton laugh!  Then the 12 year old inside of me fainted and had a wet dream.

Then Jero handed him this:

This is Sheldon as Batman, Leonard as Robin, and Wil as The Joker

My honey seriously rocks.  Wil Wheaton called it awesome.  Twice.  

By the time we finished talking to him, I was just stupid with giddy.  

We went back up to hand out more of Jero's portfolios, and that is when we had one of the best experiences of the Con.  We actually stood and talked to Matthew Dow Smith for over an hour!  

If you do not know who he is, I will tell you, but then you just better know his name from now on.  He draws for the Doctor Who comic (he does a whole hell of a lot more than that, so just check out how hard he rocks on his website).  He might just be one of the neatest fellas I have ever met. 

He was so down to Earth, funny, and very modest.  He considers himself not to be an artist.  Ahem.  He's wrong.  Jero and I were talking about him the next night on our way home, and we both wish we could see the world from his unique perspective.  

He gladly accepted one of Jero's portfolios (even asked him to sign it) and then gave Jero the best advice he had gotten all day.  Told him to find his own niche.  He loved Jero's character for a comic he's been working on called Freaks, and told him he needed to find a way to see other things from that unique point of view.  He then told us that comics will not make you rich, so draw what you love and stop when you don't love it anymore.  

Just so cool.  

We met a lot of really awesome folks that day, and Jero got some really good feedback.  He's always been great at networking, but it was fun to be along for the ride.  

I have more to post about the beauty of my nieces and nephews.  But I think I better wrap this one up with the abbreviated version of blowing out a tire about 70 miles from Spokane.  

We limped home at 30 MPH because the new car only has a doughnut for a spare, and got home around three in the morning.  My alarm went off at six.  Fun times.  

It was worth it to meet the people we got to meet, see my family for the first time in years, and spend some alone time with the love of my life.  

It's always hard going to Seattle.  I always let someone down by not being able to see them.  But there are only so many hours in the day, and Jero and I spend so many of ours here, sharing a space with my mom, that I don't think I would have changed a thing about how the weekend turned out.  The day at Con was just for us.  To geek out together and pimp him out to some awesome guys (that came out more wrong than it sounded in my head) was what we needed.  I think I will end this with a picture of the coolest costume there.  

Listen up, slutty nerd ladies, this is how you dress for Con.  It's not about being one of a hundred Poison Ivy "look-a-likes" with your bums hanging out of fishnet stockings.  Though kudos to the one gal in the awesome Harley Quinn get up.  She was hot.  She was also clothed.  But this gal:

That's right, she's a Weeping Angel.  Don't blink.

knows how to do the Con right.  Please ignore the white thing on my nose, if you get closer it is just sunshine. Which once I saw her, I was walking on.  Jero insisted on putting me in the picture.  Ugh.  But holy hell, she was so cool!  

Hug those babies, feed those artists, and whatever you do, DON'T BLINK.

By the way, don't tell Jero this, but I fell asleep during our leisurely ride home, and may have had a tiny dream about Wil Wheaton being my boyfriend.  We were on a date and eating blueberry pie.  

Sunday, March 25, 2012

What a Load of Crap

I don't know when my issues with poo started.  I never had a scary experience as a child or any such thing.  But I do have this strange issue with poo particles.

Let me explain first by saying that poo particles are the tiny pieces of poop either left places by people's hands, feet, butts, or by flushing.  I could continue to go on, but then you all might think I am crazy for how many ways I can come up with poo being spread about.

I have a strict rule that the seat is always down when you flush, that hands are ALWAYS washed.  And I will call you out on that (pardon my pun) shit if we are in a restroom together and you do not wash your hands.  I don't care if you are a stranger or not, that is just wrong.

I already have a huge issue trying to figure out in what order to do things in a public bathroom, because I don't want to exit the stall with my pants undone, but I don't want to touch the button on my pants until I wash my hands either.  Or the waistband.  Have any of you ever thought about how gross those two things must be?

I think I have already posted about this.  Because I remember having to say that I know that poop is everywhere.  I do.  I just like to minimize it's existence in any way I can.

With all of that said, I now have another issue at work.  They have now closed our bathrooms to the public.  I know what you are thinking, "but, Sara, isn't that a good thing?  Doesn't that mean less stranger poop?"  You wouldn't be entirely wrong, even though it is an office building and there are a good number of employees, but the number of poopers hitting those seats every day will be less.  The issue is that now they are locked, now we have a key.

A poop key.

Let me say that again, a POOP KEY.

I am a freak.  I will always make sure that this key does not go into the stall with me.  But I don't think the average Joe or Joann will really think about it.  They will bring it into the stall, use the bathroom, then pick the key back up BEFORE washing their hands.

Oh my God, my heart is beating so fast just thinking about it.  As a matter of fact, I got sick with a stomach thing I have not had an issue with in MONTHS last week, and now I'm starting to wonder if someone's poop is to blame.

Son of a bitch.

I would say that I could just try to not use the bathrooms at work, but I do work two ten hour shifts a week, so that might be a little hard on my bladder.  I am so screwed.

Hug those babies, wash those hands, and for Christ's sake, limit the poo!

I'm Doing the Roxbury Guys Head Bob Right Now

I have been seriously missing from the Internet for a little while.  Not even checking facebook or even playing Bejeweled.  I don't know why I do this, usually it has to do with an overwhelming feeling of needing to be social.  Or more accurately not being able to be that social.  Responding to comments and facebook messages, emails and IMs starts to get really exhausting to me and so I pretend I am in high school and the Internet does not exist in my house.  Remember those days?  Those relaxing yet seriously lacking in information days?

Anyway, the reason I am saying that is to say that I may over post today.  I have had a few things in my head and thought, well, why the heck not?  I can sit here on my porch and type away!  No need to waste the sunshine or the urge to write!

While reading some of the posts I have missed while away, I read this little post by Red, and it got me to thinking.

What is love?

I had already been thinking about love because of this couple that came into my work a couple of weeks ago.  They are regular customers (as in they renew their tabs at our office once a year) and I remember meeting them for the first time last March.  He is ill.  I am not sure what is wrong.  But he is wheelchair bound, has difficulty speaking and cannot write.

He seemed much worse this year than last.

His wife cares for him.  She is so delicate and loving, attentive and sensitive to his needs.  You may be thinking, this is the saddest thing EVER, Sara, just stop writing.  But the thing is, as sad as it is that she will lose him soon, the humor in which they deal with their situation is SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL!  

He informed me that he doesn't expect to be around after the end of the summer, and then he asked me what she would need to do in order to change their car into just her name.  I laid out their options.  Explaining that whichever way they went, the process should be fairly simple for her, but that in any case we would need a copy of his death certificate.  We then moved on to other subjects.  One of which being that the voting commission did not approve the X he used as a signature.

Wife:  They didn't like your X?

Husband:  Nope, said I needed to have it witnessed.

Wife:  That was a damn good X.

Husband:  I know.

Wife:  Did they want it bigger?

Husband:  (laughter)  We better go.  So, when I am gone, you'll have to (more laughter) bring in my headstone for her to see.

Wife:  How about your ashes?

Husband:  You should accidentally spill them on her desk.

Me:  Yes, you should try and make it as uncomfortable for your title clerk as possible.

Wife:  Should I spill it in an X?  Then we can give I shouldn't say it.  (she leans in and whispers) A blow job?

We all three bust up laughing.  I can feel the heat rising to my forehead.

Husband:  That is a good color on you, sweetheart!

Me:  Oh.  My.  God.  My face hurts from laughing.

As they leave, I start to cry.  It was just the most beautiful showing of true love I have ever seen.  It got me to thinking, would Jero and I hold on to our inappropriate senses of humor in the same situation?

I got to thinking then about something someone once said to me about love.  He told me that I didn't know what love was.  That I was just constantly searching for a father figure.  I remember being really upset by his words, and carrying them through years of my life wondering if he was right.

You see, this man was an old friend and an old boyfriend.  We met in grade school and dated on and off for years.  When I was about 20 I told him that I loved him.  We were not dating at the time, just really close friends.  He responded with the above words.

I realized, years later, that he was lashing out because he was worried about hurting me by not loving me in return.  Thing is, I think I would have handled that better than going years thinking I had love all wrong.  I kept thinking that there was something wrong with me because I often developed those types of feelings for my friends.  Male or female.  Gay or straight.  I often found myself wondering about what a romantic relationship might be like with the people I had built a close bond with.

I dated a few women in my late teens, and had one boyfriend the first year out of school who I knew to be gay.  He had just broken up with his long time boyfriend and I think the time spent together and the familiarity became very comfortable for us both.  I have never been one to discriminate based on sex or sexual preference.

I know being physical is a big part of grown up relationships.  We are all driven by our instincts, after all.  But I also believe, like in the case of this couple in my office whose physical relationship has obviously drastically changed, that a romantic bond can be built and later maintained without sex in a conventional sense.

I find it so soothing to think that when Jero and I get old we will have the ability to surprise each other in different ways that do not necessarily have to do with the bedroom.  I love the idea that we will always be able to make each other laugh.  That we will continuously be able to find new topics to discuss.

Without Jero, life would be so BORING.  Who wants that?  And were he different than he is in any way, I don't know if I would be able to call him my best friend.  That type of connection takes the perfect storm of traits.  To be able to find a physical attraction, I must first find an emotional one.

I guess that makes me one giant girl.

The whole point of this was to say, what do you think is YOUR most important foundation for a soul mate?  We are all different, and I am not nearly naive enough to think that everyone out there will agree with this.  Maybe that ex of mine had it right.  Maybe I didn't know what love was.  For him.

Hug those babies, find laughter through tears, and enjoy every damn moment you can.  

Monday, March 12, 2012

Who Have I Become?

I started this post a couple of weeks ago. It is not going to be funny, and I wasn't going to post it at all. Then I read a post by my awesome reader Red, and found that I need to stop being afraid of what the truth may do to others, or myself. My family reads my blog, well, my big sister and her daughter, and I always worry that if I share how I am feeling about any of this I may hurt our relationship. Thing is, this has nothing to do with her or anyone else. I chose to do what I am doing and it is on nobody but me. So, with that said, on to what I need to say.

Today started out horribly. This post is going to be extremely personal. I completely understand if you stop reading now, or feel so uncomfortable later you decide to avoid my blog like the plague. I have decided, however, that I need to have a place to say these things or else things like this morning happen and I find myself so disgusted by my actions that I no longer want to know me.

Can I unfriend myself on facebook?

I woke up this morning, took my shower, got dressed and tested my blood sugar. I then realized that the reason it took me nearly forty minutes to do those things was because I had a blood sugar of 30. For those of you who don't know, I should be running between 80 and 180. For those of you who do know, I'm sure you're thinking, "good grief, girl, how did you not know you were that low?"

Thing is, when you have juvenile Diabetes and were diagnosed at such a young age, you tend to lose the ability to gauge your own sugar levels. I often feel great when I'm running 70, and horrible at 130. My body just doesn't understand that running 70 may feel good, but it doesn't leave me much time before I'm so low I can't function.

Normally, a sugar level that low would keep an average Diabetic from doing anything. They'd be on their face, babbling like an idiot, needing someone to help them feed themselves. But because I can't tell when I'm low, I just felt slightly low. Except for the fact that my temper was out of control.

I have always said really mean things when I'm low. I can hear myself, and in my head I am screaming, "shut up, you stupid ho!" But my mouth just keeps going.

I have been having serious issues with my current living situation. I feel extremely resentful of having to take care of my mother. I understand this makes me sound like a horrible person. I feel like a horrible person. But I do think there are some circumstances that make my feelings somewhat valid.

I raised myself. A lot of the time I raised myself while taking care of my mom. My dad died when I was ten. My brothers and sisters were out of the house and it went from a family of eight to a family of two.

My mom then had to work a lot to support me, and later, when she was dating, she often wasn't home for nights on end. I either took care of myself or stayed with a string of friends who basically saved my life.

She would leave cash or blank checks for bills. I'd ride my bike to the grocery store and buy what I could carry. My sister stayed at the house for a short time, and it was the first time in years that I felt like I was surrounded by my own family. Not that my friends's families didn't make me feel loved and accepted. They absolutely did, but it's different when it's not your home. It's not the same when you're sleeping on a couch or a floor or sharing a bed with your friend.
I would even take family vacations with my friends and their families. Anything so I wouldn't have to be alone.

Sometimes, my mom would plan a party for her friends and then not show up. I'd be left with a bunch of middle aged women, playing bunko in my living room while I played hostess instead of my mom. None of them ever offered to help me, none of them ever asked if I was okay.

I'm not saying my mom didn't love me. She did. I know that. I just think she had no clue how to be a single parent.

Often I am told that I was spoiled, never having a curfew, never being grounded, getting a car before I graduated. The thing is, there was nobody there to enforce a curfew or grounding, and I had to be able to get myself from one place to another. I wasn't spoiled. I was abandoned.

These things are not exaggerations. I even had my own rooms at some of my friends' houses. That is how often I was there. One family built me a room, bought me a bed and dresser, clothes and shoes. School supplies. I was like a foster child without being a part of the system.

I love my mom. I do. But I feel so angry that I am being expected to give up my privacy and the time a couple has when they are young to bond and connect because she has nowhere else to go. I get so angry that she can't get her shit figured out and be an adult. I had to grow up so young. I want and deserve to spend my thirties focused on my family and my future.

You all might be thinking, "but why can't you do that? Why can't you focus on yourself?"

Sometimes I can, sometimes the drama is not so extreme. But most of the time, it's like raising a teenager.

Most of the time she sulks around the house if we haven't bought her diet pepsi. Most of the time she spends days on end without taking a shower. Most of the time she can be so mean towards me and about my life I spend hours in my bathroom crying.

Well, this morning, she came downstairs in the middle of me getting ready and said something snarky about my home. I lost it.

She went upstairs and I started screaming at the ceiling. I was so angry. I was crying and yelling. Telling the kitchen ceiling to just get the fuck out.

I give a friend a ride to work everyday. I am still so ashamed that this happened in front of her. I am so sorry, Em, for you having to be a witness to my stress on numerous occasions.

So, this is where I stopped writing the post. I decided I wasn't going to publish it and thought it best to just pretend it didn't exist.

I was so worried that day at work. Terrified to come home and face my mom. I was sure she heard everything and that there would be WWIII waiting for me. To my surprise she didn't hear a thing. I suppose it's possible she pretended not to hear a thing, but she isn't really that type of person.

I know she has nowhere to go. I know she cannot take care of herself even if she should be able to.

I know she loves me.

I know that I will only get my own life once she is no longer alive.

That feels disgusting to say. I have lost a parent. I know what that loss feels like. The hole it leaves inside a person. Thing is, I think that a part of me might be relieved when it happens.

Her depression is so bad. She has said that she has nothing to live for. She does not see her children or her grandchildren as anything special. Maybe she can't. Maybe the depression is just too deep to see through. I have experienced that before. It is so sneaky, and then so persistent.

I don't want to judge her. But I do. I really do. I know how that sounds, because I judge me for judging her. Ha! What a cycle. I want her to TRY and get better. I want her to WANT to get better. But she has been this way for nearly 22 years and I know that she won't.

She is so good at hiding it for short periods of time. She goes to see her other kids and she cooks and does dishes. She gets up at decent hours and takes showers every day. She doesn't sneak cigarettes in their houses or tell them they look dumpy in their clothes. That their hair is flat and dull. She smiles and laughs. She acts like a grandma.

I wish I got to see that person for myself or my son. I wish she would pretend with me for a month, a week, a day. But I haven't seen that mom in over two decades.

Because of this I find myself so angry. I want my life to be mine again, but I feel so guilty wanting that because I know what that means for her.

Every family has it's own unique dynamic. In my family, I have always been the fixer. I took on that role myself. I embraced it. It is nobody's fault but my own that I am now stuck with it. The problem is that it leaves little time to fix me.

I have worked so hard to come back from the last nine years. The loss of my son, the death of my marriage, the depression and anger that took over my life. I finally found happiness. I found a life and a way to build a family (strange and blended as it may be) and a career that I am good at. I found myself beneath all of that darkness and I pulled her out into the light.

Did you ever watch Joss Whedon's series Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Well there's this point where Buffy has come back from the dead (no spoiler alert necessary when it's been over five years right?) and she has a hard time dealing with the harshness of life after the beauty of heaven. I feel a little like that now.

I found this peace and then a grenade went off. But then I found that there are multiple grenades set to explode at random intervals and I just don't know how to predict them. I'm not smart enough to figure out what to say or what not to do. I am living in a mine field.

It's exhausting.

That's it. I am just exhausted. I say everyday that I just can't do it anymore. I can't keep taking the abuse. I don't deserve it and my fiance most certainly doesn't. But what else do I do? If left on her own she would have been dead two years ago. She would have killed herself with fast food, cigarettes and sweets. What kind of person would I be if I just left her like that?

What kind of person am I that I sort of want to?

Wow. I said it. I really said it. I am crying as I type. Sitting on my back porch so my dogs can run free in the yard, the sun shining down on me. My fingers typing away and my eyes are clouded with tears.

I am a terrible human being. Where is my compassion? Where has my empathy gone? I know a lost person when I see one. It takes one to know one. I have been that lost in my life. I understand now how I lost my dear friend back then. This is no good to be around every damn day.

I don't know how to end this post. I guess I just needed to say it out loud so I could stop feeling like such a fraud. When I had to take her to the hospital after falling down my stairs, the nurse kept telling me what a good daughter I am. Thing is, I am not that good. I do it because I feel I should, not because I want to.

I really wish I wanted to.

Hug those babies, show them love, give them a true feeling of home but don't you judge those old enough to want something of their own. It's only natural. At least it makes me feel better to think it is.

Friday, March 9, 2012

Idiocracy Coming True Would Scare Me Less

So, I don't normally post about television shows. Unless you are one of my Facebook friends, then you'll see that my status updates have a lot to do with Dr. Who (which I will never find annoying or wrong in any way). But I have to talk about this week's episode of Survivor.

Oh yeah, ahem, spoiler alert.

Last night, Jero and I went to bed completely livid about what happened this week. I am normally not a person who really cares what happens on reality television, I watch it mainly for the joy of seeing how being in front of a camera changes the personalities of people. My favorite for the last few years has been Rachel from Big Brother. I find her fascinating. But, I could not find any way to redeem the actions of Colton on this season of Survivor.

One of the other contestants tried to say he was being painted in a bad light. Basically accusing Jeff of making this guy look like the complete douche I truly believe he is. Tarzan (no joke) got really emotional about it being a race issue. But what I wish someone would have said so that little creep would have been voted off was that he was not ragging on Bill because he's black, he was picking on him because he's poor.

Colton sat there and told Bill to "get a real job", referring to Bill being a struggling stand up comedian. I am so confused. Are actors not "really" employed? And how many actors have to write their own scripts? Comedy is hard work! Bill tried to say that it was a difference of upbringings (basically defending the jerk who doesn't like him which I found very classy) that made Colton not like him, which began a discussion about race because Bill is black and Colton is white. Colton then said that he may have gone to an all white private school, but he has many black people in his life. When Jeff asked him who, Colton GIGGLED and said, "my housekeeper".

Wow. I mean, just wow.

He then continued to chastise Bill for what he does for a living. Saying he should not depend on the kindness of others. I am not sure how being a comedian is depending on the kindness of others. I guess Colton can be mad that he depends on the humor of others, which is possible since the little creep has little of it himself. In a previous episode, Colton said, "I am a republican, I do not believe in handouts."


I know I am being totally judgemental here. But, Colton is gay, how can you believe in a party that does not believe you should have the same rights as everyone else? I just don't understand how you can get your mind to work that way. Just because you are rich and gay doesn't make a damn bit of difference to those who think you don't deserve the same happiness as heterosexuals.

ALSO (wow this soap box has gotten tall) he's a college student! What does he know about a "real job". Not that college isn't legitimate. Because it is. But for those of us who were unable to pay for a higher education, it is also a luxury. In this day and age, paying the bills and supporting yourself and/or your family needs to be the top priority.

I think this hit me especially hard because I had already been having a hard time with this new generation of kids who think they are entitled to everything without giving anything. They believe it is their right to go to college, to have a good paying job because they have a degree, to retire in their sixties and have social security waiting for them in their golden years. They come into my office and bitch about $15 for emissions, or $24 for new license plates. $60 dollar tabs, sales tax, the state parks asking for $5 donations. They look at me and say, "this is all about you getting more money". Well, not really, because I don't see any of that money, but actually YES IT IS.

A government doesn't run itself. It costs money to run a state, and when 40% of the population is going to lie about where they live to avoid emissions or pay lower sales tax, well, somebody has to pay that difference.

Shit ain't free but it does roll down hill.

I have never lived above the poverty line. My dad died young and I pretty much raised myself and my mother since the age of 11. I had a brief period of time when I was on welfare. I did depend on the kindness of others. My son and I would have starved to death if it weren't for the food bank. But I didn't expect any of that. I did not believe that kindness was owed to me. I was just grateful is was there for my family when we needed it.

I worked hard to educate myself enough to feel as if I can keep up with most of the smarty pants people in my life. I had my first job in junior high. I do not expect to retire. But that's okay.

I just don't understand this generation of people who think they are owed something just because they were born. I really don't understand why a parent would want to raise their child to believe that they are entitled to whatever they want. Why not teach your children that dreams are attainable through hard work and determination, but they are not a right? Some people will work hard their whole lives and still not reach their dreams. But I find those people far more inspirational than those who barely work at all and have everything handed to them.

Ugh. Anyway. I know, I have completely rambled on about some whiny little punk I could actually care a flying frak about. But it's not just him. I mean, he is a total dill weed, don't get me wrong, but there are so many out there just like him that I am honestly worried about the future of our nation. These are the future leaders of America, folks.

Don't you wish their parents had taught them to work hard and pay it forward? I do.

Hug those babies, teach them to appreciate what they have without becoming complacent about it, out wit, out play, and out last.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

If You Could See My Face, You'd Think I Love Meth

But I don't. No really, I don't even really know what meth is, but from what I see on crime dramas, the totally scared and elated look on my face right now probably sums up meth. Minus the thinking there are bugs beneath my skin.

Great, now I feel like there are bugs beneath my skin.

So, basically, I am so happy to have a new reader who does not know me in "real" life. But, it is SO MUCH PRESSURE! I find myself purposefully going to Wal-Mart or the bus plaza just so I may experience something funny to write about.

Obviously, this has not worked since I haven't written anything in forever. But I logged on today to see that I had missed a crap ton of Red's blogs on Doesn't Speak Klingon and in one of these I was sweetly nominated for a Liebster Blog Award. Now, Red then goes on to explain the foundation of the the German word, but let's face it, I took three years of Spanish and think that if I tried to order dinner in Mexico I'd end up getting sold into white slavery*. Red explained that these are the blogs you love to love. But they need to have less than 200 followers.

I have linked to Doesn't Speak Klingon, which is one of the requirements of my award. I enjoy Red's blog because it often makes me laugh, has a wit which I find lacking in today's society, and is also quite intelligent. Seriously, why Red reads my blog which contains words like "meth" and "VD" in the titles, I don't know, but I am too grateful and touched to look that gift horse in the mouth.

Sadly, I do not follow a whole lot of small blogs. I know, I'm a stupid bitch who doesn't deserve this award. I want to follow more blogs, but I'm just too damn lazy! What with nearly going blind, taking in my mother, working, and trying desperately to finish George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire Series, (which I believe my kindle adds to while I sleep because I still have half of the most recent book to go and it still isn't winter) there just isn't enough time.

I need a Tardis.

So, here's what I suggest. Go to Red's blog, read a bunch, and then go to the blogs recommended there, because I am just not educated enough to nominate or recommend any other small blogs out there right now. But, I plan to take my own advice, so I will be slightly more qualified here very soon.

I just want to thank Red, again, for reading. And thank all of you. I know I can ramble, and I know I can get on a soap box from time to time. But I really do try to share the things that I find profound (and profoundly hilarious) with ya'll whenever I can.

Hug those babies, support the blogs you love, and for God's sake, ask Mr. Martin to get on with it already!

*But I guess, according to my friend, Emily, who believes that there is A LOT of white slavery out there, that I would need to be at the zoo. The zoo is a dangerous place folks. Beware. **

**I don't actually know the statistics about getting kidnapped and sold into white slavery while at the zoo compared to being anywhere else. I am just going on word of mouth here. Please don't sue me, zoos of the world.

Friday, February 10, 2012

I Don't Know How You Roll or Jesus

A customer called my office today, the following conversation is nearly verbatim.

Me: Downtown Auto Licensing.

Customer: Yeah, I have a question.

Me: Okie dokie. I may have an answer.

Customer: So, it has to do with changing* your tires.

Me: ...

Customer: You know, like when you have to chain** up when you go over a pass?

Me: Well, this is the department of licensing. I don't think I can help you with that particular problem. But I'm sure there should be a phone number or some information on the website for the Department of Transportation.

Customer: Well, I looked online and that's how I found your phone number.

Me: Maybe Les Schwab?

Customer: You really can't help me?

Me: (severely rolling my eyes) I really can't. I can help you renew your tabs, transfer a title, replace your plates, but I definitely cannot help you with any tire questions. I'm sorry.

Customer: Typical government agency.

Me: We're privately owned and operated. I'm just a cog. I really am sorry. Good luck.

Customer: Fine.

I was honestly speechless. Was I meant to find him a phone number for the DOT? Tell him how to change his tires? Because I can do that, but I don't know if chains are currently required on any of the passes because I live in Spokane, and haven't been over the pass in a very long time.

I said yesterday that I was the President of Pissing People Off Inc., maybe today I became the CEO.

Honestly the strangest question at this job to date. Though, I do have a theory as to why I have been making everyone so angry this week.

So, on Tuesday, I went to the bathroom at work and found a little scripture card sitting on the toilet paper holder. It looked like a business card, and though I wasn't about to touch it because, let's face it, I am totally afraid of stranger poo particles, I did lean in to read it. When I realized what it was, it sent my heathen little mind a whirling.

I was so curious as to whether somebody accidentally left it in the bathroom stall and wondered if they were bummed about no longer having it. Then I thought, what if it was given to somebody and this is what they thought of it. Leaving it in the bathroom because they did not want to take it home. Of course, my brain also wondered if it was left there on purpose by the religious fanatic who is also a genius because everybody has to pee at some point. This is the perfect distribution technique! You have the odds in your favor of reaching the largest number of workers in our building PLUS our customers, AND you don't have to deal with the looks of annoyance from devil worshipers like me***. Brilliant. This may be how I advertise for my chicken sacrifices from now on.

Everyday I went into the same stall to find the card still sitting there. Today, I started cackling in the bathroom (which frightens others FYI) because I really wanted to just throw the card away but I was superstitiously afraid of being smote. I wonder if that's why nobody else had thrown it away either? Who wants to toss out the word of God? Sounds just as stupid as trying to throw away a Ouija Board. That's just asking for unwanted trouble, twelve year old me!

But, after pissing off my millionth customer of the week, I decided that it was due to not picking up the card and putting it in my pocket. Or, better yet, passing it on to others. It was like a potty chain letter. That's just wrong, folks. The bathroom should be a curse-less place.

So, the moral is, just keep your eyes closed in a public bathroom, it's safer for everyone that way.

*He may have said chaining.

**This is about where I wondered if he had previously said chaining.

***I am not actually a devil worshiper. That's just silly. If I was going to worship anything it would be leprechauns, or genies. Something that's going to give me the maximum reward for the smallest price. The devil wants souls, while leprechauns just like to play hide and seek (mostly hide) and genies just need a little touch. I can totally do those things for fame and riches.

Hug those babies, chain those tires (or don't, I don't know), and wash your hands.

Monday, January 9, 2012

It's Like Getting Black Out Drunk But Without the VD

I know I mentioned that I had the first of my eye surgeries, but I don't think I told you about it. I'm sure you're probably thinking (because I know you so well) that's because I don't remember it. Truth is, I do.


The thing is, you are not actually supposed to remember eye surgery. They give you this handy little thing called a waking sedative, which is basically like the date rape drug but less rape-y. The waking sedative makes sure you are awake, feeling most of what's happening, but you don't remember anything later. Also, they basically break your eye spine so you are completely paralyzed.

Okay, fine, eyes don't have spines and only my right eye and part of my face was paralyzed. What they really do is give you a shot just below your eye that causes one of those moments like you see in horror movies where the person is lying on the autopsy table but they aren't actually dead but they can't let anybody know because they're paralyzed and we as the audience hear them screaming inside their head. You know, one of those moments? Which is pretty much exactly like breaking your eye spine.

This shot is pretty much the only thing I don't remember.

Apparently I didn't learn my lesson from years of experiencing information as passed on by somebody in Wellpinit, so when my nurse practitioner told me I'd be having surgery on the 27th, I took that as meaning I was having surgery on the 27th. What I should have taken from her statement was that I was going to spend hours having my eyeballs continuously dilated so aliens could shine bright lights into them and probe my nether regions.

Fine, there was no nether region probing, as far as I can remember. I did lose a little bit of time, so the jury is still out on that one.

See, the Spokane Eye Clinic is smarter than I am and decided they wouldn't just take the word of a reservation nurse practitioner that I was going blind. So, they wanted to run every test known to man, then tell me exactly the same thing I already knew, THEN tell me how expensive all of this was going to be, all with the end game of scheduling a surgery I thought was already scheduled.

I have to interrupt here to say that the doctor was afuckingmazing and did everything he could to help me out. He heard that the tribe wouldn't pay for any of this so he told the billing lady to only charge me the Medicaid rate. Then, when I told him that I thought my surgery was happening that day, he said, "we can do it today if you want. It doesn't take very long, I can do it on my lunch break!"

I went back and forth between thinking he was the most amazing doctor EVER and wondering why he was so keen on taking a laser to my retina. Maybe it was a new laser and he was dying to try his new toy. I don't know, but it was a little sketchy.

I said that would be awesome because I couldn't really afford to take more time off work and he said that was no problem, I just had to have another test done first. So, I went and had my right eye dilated again so they could take more pictures of the hamster inside my skull. I think they might be stalking him. I was then taken upstairs to the surgery center for the procedure.

Now, this is where things started to go a little wrong. They didn't know exactly when the doctor was taking his lunch, so they dilated my pupil for the THIRD time that morning to make sure, "it was nice and open for him". That's where things got slightly more rape-y, but just for that one moment.

Then, they put in my IV and put a big X over my right eye to signify where to point the laser I guess. If that wasn't enough of an indication as to which eye needed lasering*, they covered the other eye with a clear plastic disk that had a bunch of little holes along the edges.

Me: Hey babe, do I look like a cyborg?

Jero: The masking tape holding it on makes you look more like a Wal-Mart cyborg.

Me: Rude.

Then came the guy with the needles. Now, I remember him introducing himself to me, and I do feel bad that I have no idea what his name was. Can you imagine having the job where nobody remembers anything you've said? Oh yeah, I work in customer service, I have that job too. He put the waking sedative into my IV and for a short time that is all I remember. I don't remember the needles in my face (which because he's a big baby about eyes, Jero can't even tell me how big the needles were). I don't remember repeatedly calling him Pokey. And I most certainly do not remember telling Jero to take this:

Resistance is futile!

because I apparently needed a picture for my blog because, "I'm a blogger".

I am so embarrassed. I do not actually think I am a blogger. I think I basically keep an online journal for my seven readers. One of which is often present for most of what I write about. But the date rape drug also gave me delusions of grandeur. Which makes it much better than the actual date rape drug. That and the absence of rape.

I think the surgery is meant to happen shortly after the shots, but the doctor wasn't there yet. So, by the time they took me into the procedure room, I was pretty much aware of what was going on. I still couldn't move my eye, but I do remember every second of the lasering.**

I remember that the nurses job was to hold my head in place because when your eye is immobile, your first instinct when seeing six lasers shooting at your eye is to turn your head away. I wanted to tell her it is never okay to push the head down, but I didn't think she'd admit to getting it in front of her boss.

For the next twenty minutes I experienced what I can only explain as a tattoo on your eyeball. But not the beginning of the tattoo, more like the end where it feels like someone keeps scraping your bad sunburn. BUT ON MY EYEBALL. About the time I started crying from both eyes, he said he was almost done. If I could have nut punched him I would have, but that damn nurse was still holding my head against the bars. I should have boob punched her and then nut punched him, but I honestly didn't think of it until right now.

Next time, sadists, next time.

Once done, they taped my eye closed because it was still paralyzed and they didn't want it to dry out, and sent me back out to the torture chair. Then they told me that I would be in a significant amount of pain soon and it would be a good idea to take some Tylenol. Seriously? I didn't even get one Vicodin for all of that?

Jero and I got home and I tried to eat lunch. About that time someone starting drilling inside my skull and my appetite was pretty much ruined. I have never had a migraine before, but I'm pretty sure that's what I experienced that day and a handful of times since.

After the paralysis wore off, I was able to take off the tape, to have the fun of serious double vision. Though I did enjoy playing the Is-That-The-Real-Thing-Or-The-Double-Thing Game. Most often than not, I should have switched my answers and I would have been right.

The next day started with the migraine still being extremely annoying and me thinking that he had screwed up somehow and made me worse. Do you remember that episode of King of Queens when Doug finds out that Carrie has hated all of his gifts so he decides to get her Lasik surgery for her birthday, but he uses the guy that he has a coupon for and it goes really wrong? That was what I thought had happened. I kept thinking, no wonder he gave me the Medicaid rate, he gave me the coupon worthy laser treatment!

My vision took about a week to get back to normal, and even now if I look too far up and right the migraine comes back. I get to do it all again in February but I'm hoping this time I won't remember a thing. I prefer my blackouts complete thankyouverymuch.

Also, I still think I may have been abducted by aliens and/or probed. Think about it, it's the perfect ruse for those aliens. "Waking sedative" my ass.

* says lasering isn't a word. I say they are stupid.

**Okay, now it sounds like an M. Night movie. The Lasering. Only it wouldn't suck as hard as his last movie because at least there'd be lasers and not just pissy plants.

Hug those babies, don't drink anything you've left unattended, and watch out for UFOs.

Not for Heavy Petting

Yep, folks, I am officially blogging from work. I feel both slackerish (it's totally a word) and a little like I did the first time I pocketed a lipgloss from Fonk's Petstore as a kid.

Wait, is there a statute of limitations on shoplifting lipgloss? If there is not, then I am only guessing how that would feel. Ahem. Moving on.

So, the reason I am writing this at work is because I could not let this go untold to as many people as humanly possible. It is so good that I also could not wait until I got home from work to tell you all about it.

Conversation just overheard between my coworker and one of our customers:

Coworker: That $5 Washington State Parks donation, donate or opt out?

Customer: Well, I'm going to tell you, I got caught at the park. I was asked to pull my trousers up because there was no heavy petting allowed. I said, 'isn't that what the parks are for?' and the officer said, 'no, they are for recreating*.'

This is then followed by stunned silence throughout our office. I would like to say that this was a random customer who we never have to see again, but he is actually a regular. He is also not a young man by any means. I tried to make a joke out of it by saying, "I'll make sure to let the Parks know that if they only allowed heavy petting they'd get a lot more donations." But he didn't think it was funny because he was completely serious.

He walked out and all three of us began laughing. I was already logging onto Blogger and as my coworker says, "can you believe he just told us that?" I was saying, "oh, I am totally blogging this right now because there is no way I'm not sharing it with the world!"

I know, "the world" is awfully narcissistic of me and completely inaccurate, but it's the sentiment I am trying to display here.

So, here's my question, did you donate to the State Parks on your last tab renewal? If not, would heavy petting being allowed in the parks have changed your mind?

*So, according to, recreating can be used in this manner. I didn't know that, but it can, which makes this footnote pretty silly. So, just ignore it.

Hug those babies, teach them to love our State Parks, but don't let them near the crazy old guy with his trousers down.

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Before the Candles Went Out, I Wished for a Better Tomorrow

Due to the fact that I had eye surgery that day and am still experiencing some residual effects of migraines and tired eyes, I did not talk about my kidlet turning 11.

For those of you who haven't seen him in a while, you would be amazed at how unbelievably tall he is. It makes no sense whatsoever because I am a midget and his sperm donor wasn't much taller, but he is nearly as tall as I am!

Right now he is sleeping on my love seat because he woke up at an extremely painful hour and could not get back to sleep. This seems to be happening a lot lately, and I am a little worried he has inherited my tendency for insomnia. But what has me feeling all mushy mommy is that even with how big he has grown, he still manages to make himself as small as he did when he was a toddler while sleeping. Curled up in the fetal position, it is easy to still see my baby lying there.

He isn't though. He has gone through so much this last year. Enough to need a therapist. I worry about him every day. Wondering what I can do, with the time I have, to help him through this phase in his life. I cannot imagine how confusing his situation is. I am three times his age and I am baffled by it every day. What must his mind be thinking about his complicated family dynamic?

I wish he were still going to St. Luke's for therapies. I wish he had an occupational therapist helping him with his fine motor skills and a physical therapist helping him use his right side the way he should. I wish I had control over such things, or even a say at all.

Sometimes I feel like the world around him is leaving him behind. Content with him being where he is now for the rest of his life. I feel that I am the only one who has dreams of him advancing enough to be independent as an adult. To live on his own, to fall in love, to have a family, to go to college. I want to see him graduate before he is 21, have a date for the senior prom, have his choice of colleges.

I guess all of that sounds superficial when you think that we almost lost him nine years ago. That he wasn't supposed to ever walk or talk again. But I can't help but want more for him.

I would like to think that is a normal wish for a parent to have. I know he will have a difficult time. I know he will experience bullying like even Jero and I won't understand. I know that he will have the hormones of a young man but may not have the mental capacity to make those decisions as an adult. I know all of this, but that doesn't mean I refuse to hope for something better.

We all want our babies to have lives like we never had. We all wish the world to be at their fingertips. A world full of happiness, fairness, justice, peace. We all want those things. Right?

I know that there are people out there devoted to disability advocacy. Who will continue to fight for the rights of children like Kel. But I also know that there are also cruel people out there who think that the only response to something different is devastation. I remember fighting for the kids in our school who had disabilities. Protecting them when boys would try to get them to lift their shirts or drop their pants. I remember that I was the only one. What if my son doesn't have a person like that? What if nobody in his school is brave enough to stand up and be a protector?

He has come to that delicate age where almost all children have an unbelievable meanness in them. Where they will now decide whether to continue to grow that cruelty or shove it down and choose a path of kindness and empathy. Sadly, too many choose to bully.

I know that even a full time parent can't protect their little ones from bullies all of the time. My coworker told her 11 year old to pop her bully in the mouth. The thing is, I don't believe in that either. I believe she did her child an injustice by not going to the school and demanding the suspension of said bully. I believe that if we can't be our children's bullet proof vest that we need to remove the bullets from their world.

When our children have the guts to speak up about being bullied, or seeing another child being bullied, we, as the adults in their lives, need to have the guts to do something about it.

I watched this episode of Extreme Home Makeover recently (it was a repeat) that was about a mom whose 11 year old son was being bullied and he hung himself. I can't imagine the life that child had at school that would make him think that was an answer to his pain. I believe every adult in that school and the parents of those bullies are responsible for the death of that young boy. I believe they failed him, and they failed those bullies.

It scares me to death. It scares me to think that my son is the same age. That we live in a town where being different is not embraced, and children as sensitive and caring as my kiddo are easy targets for hatred.

I am pleased as punch that he has grown another year. That he is a terrific speller and continues to amaze me with his kindness and courage as well as his ability to just know what the people around him need. I hope that through therapy and our time together that he will feel he has plenty of adults to turn to. Most of all I hope that we, as his advocates, do not fail him.

His birthday was a small one this year. I made a lopsided cake, as usual, and we celebrated with our little family. I don't know if he especially liked his birthday gift, but when I decided to give him my old iPod, he seemed to perk up. I had wanted to get him an MP3 player for Christmas, but surprisingly the tribe sent him one instead. Except it broke the next day. Because I spent that extra money on some new clothes for him, I decided to give him mine. He has a hard time with a little bit of big brother bullying at home, and he needed a private way to check out for a bit.

He will have a tough adolescence, I know this. I guess we all did/do.

Please, talk to your kids about bullying. Let's make sure they understand that the bullied have NOTHING to be ashamed of. That they are not the ones doing anything wrong and it is perfectly acceptable to tell an adult. It doesn't make them a snitch or a tattle-tale, it makes them strong and confident. And let us also make sure that our kids understand that bullying is NEVER acceptable. There is never a reason to treat another person with anything less than respect and kindness. Let's let them know that if they bully, there will be severe consequences. If we shrug it off as "kids will be kids" how will they ever learn that this is a real threat to our children?

Maybe if we all band together to stop bullying, we can also take a collective deep breath and find something else about our kiddos to worry about.

So, Happy Birthday to my baby (because he always will be even when he's officially taller than me)! And here's to many more birthdays to come for all of our babies.

So, hug 'em, support 'em, and teach 'em compassion!

Friday, January 6, 2012

I'm a Little Bit Angry, You're a Little Bit Rock and Roll

Being a diabetic sucks.

There, I said it. I don't say it very often because, well, 1) it's all I've ever known and 2) there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

There is no cure, though promises were made to the contrary to a baby me three decades ago. Honestly, I don't see a cure happening anytime in my lifetime. Mostly because of television commercials talking about advancements in medical science making it possible for you to go from Jean-Luc Picard to Wesley Crusher in one month*. I'm not sure why medical science should be spending it's time on such trivial things as hair loss, but that's the way this world works.

If you can't tell, I'm a bit depressed about my disease today. There are certain things that most juvenile diabetics have in common. A need to over-achieve, hopeless loyalty, and extreme discipline are some of the better qualities most have, but one of the most devastating is depression.

I have been working really hard to get my health back on track. Falling into that discipline was easier than I thought it would be. But the frightening realization that I was experiencing my first side effect of the disease has helped me keep my eyes on the prize. I am down from smoking a pack a day to four and a half cigarettes yesterday and so far one and a half today. I have a quit date of a week from Wednesday but I don't like to think about it. It causes a bit of anxiety.

I know many of you have to be thinking, why not just quit now, are a few cigarettes a day really worth it? The answer to that is, yes they are. At least right now. On top of everything else I am trying to do, those few smokes a day (and a wonderful thing called Wellbutrin) have kept me from committing murder on numerous occasions.

I have been keeping really tight control on my sugars. Maybe a little too tight. Normally, I would want my sugars to be between 80 and 180. I have been trying to keep mine below 120. I guess it comes back to that discipline.

Most people don't understand what it means to take care of yourself when you have Juvenile Diabetes. They think all it takes is to cut out sugar, sweets, soda. God, if it were only that easy. You see, go into your kitchen, open your fridge, pull out your milk. See on the nutritional guide where it says total carbohydrates? Yep, even milk is an issue for me.

Fruit, yogurt, some veggies and even some meats are as well. It is very difficult to find anything that doesn't have carbs in it. Now, I'm not allowed to cut them from my diet completely, but I do have to account for every single one of them. There is no such thing as a free carb for me. To be honest, if any of you are trying to count "net carbs" or "digestible carbs" you are all fooling yourselves. Carbs are carbs folks. Yes, things like milk or fruit are better carbs than cake or candy, but that is because of the sugar. Carbs are carbs, no matter how creative companies get with their packaging.

Now, imagine a home where every meal is made from scratch. Where there aren't those handy little guides to tell me how much insulin I should be taking for my homemade spaghetti. It's been a bitch to keep such tight control, and this is a lifetime thing. I haven't always been good about testing, but worrying if I am taking too much or too little insulin has always been an issue.

Here's why I am so down right now.

I made a nice meal Wednesday night. Ham with a homemade glaze and a seasoned veggie medley. After Googling carb values for carrots, potatoes, horseradish and brown sugar, I gave myself what I thought was the proper amount of insulin. While eating my dinner, I could feel my sugars dropping. I had Jero grab me another piece of bread and butter, to no effect. I ate some peaches, nothing. I remember saying I was scared. I remember telling Jero that something was really wrong. Next thing I knew, I was lying in my bed with my mom hand feeding me some fruit. I had a sandwich in my hand and was refusing to eat it. I do not remember going to the bedroom. I do not remember the massive amount of applesauce I ate. I do not remember being combative about the food they were trying to feed me.

My mom and Jero saved my life that night. I have not had an insulin reaction like that since I was a very young girl. My blood sugars were apparently in the thirties for quite some time. I ended up going into work late the next day because I felt like I had been hit by a bus full of pixie sticks. My sugars were sky high and my eyes hurt along with just about everything else in my body. My stomach was rolling because I simply do not eat that way.

I still don't know where I went wrong. I still don't know how I bottomed out so fast. All I know is that I AM PISSED.

There is just no way to keep things like that from happening. It's going to happen. I'm trying to keep my sugars at a rate I would have difficulty keeping them even if I was on an insulin pump. I am so damn stressed out. I am quitting smoking, trying to lower my cholesterol, and living in a house where I have had no personal space for over two years. Supporting my mom has become so financially burdening that I never know how we are going to pay our bills let alone support my disease. The lack of privacy is hard on Jero and I. And I am angry.

I am at war with myself all day long. I am angry that nobody gets it. Angry that after the last time I mentioned my eye surgery I got responses about "asking for help" and "doing this to myself". Angry that my diabetes takes over six thousand dollars a year just to maintain WITH INSURANCE. Angry that I can't find support out there because I have a job. Angry that my home isn't my home and nobody seems to understand that I just want some time to myself. Angry that I have to postpone our wedding for an unknown amount of time. Angry that I have to apply for service after service with the goal of being denied so that I can qualify to have my next eye surgery paid for. All of that anger? Well, it leads to guilt. The guilt? It goes straight to depression.

The depression makes me angry. It's a vicious cycle and I am just so overwhelmed.

I think some of that anger has come from fear. When I was young, those lows never really worried me, they were just part of being diabetic. Just the normal response of my body to swimming, P.E., riding my bike, my dad's death, my SATs. My body has never responded well to stress. It's just...normal. But that night scared the shit out of me. I find myself so insulin shy that the easiest response is to just not eat. But I have to eat, and I am, but I'm all jumpy, which leads to the anger, guilt and depression.

I love my mom, I don't want to feel so resentful.

There is another side to that though. It's the side that wonders how a woman can see what this disease has done to me since I was a baby and still eat her way into it herself. People make jokes all the time, or lightly say, "I'm sure I'm pre-diabetic", and it infuriates me. It feels like a personal bitch slap. Like, oh, this disease is no big deal, I'll just eat another cookie, la di da. So, the resentment isn't just about my lack of personal space, or the fact that I can't just be by myself for a little while, it is also about her and TOO MANY OTHERS choosing to have a disease I have been waiting 30 years for a cure for.

Okay, I have vented and wasted your time for too long and I don't really feel any better. I know the comment I made about type 2 diabetics is going to get some nasty feedback. I do know that not all type 2 diabetics choose this or have done this to themselves, BUT many of them do and have. That is just the plain truth, and if I have offended you, well, I'm not sorry one bit. If you have the rare type of Type 2 Diabetes that was not caused by poor diet and exercise, I was not talking about you so get your panties of that wad and relax. Stress isn't good for us remember?

If you ARE one of those diabetics who continues to do this to yourself, do me a favor and hand over your health insurance to someone with cancer, Parkinson's, MS or one of the million real chronic illnesses that are causing people to go bankrupt all over the country. Because I honestly feel that the studies into your type of Diabetes are just as silly as the ones focusing on male pattern baldness.

I am now stepping off my soap box to go prepare my bucket for cleaning the eggs off my car that are bound to be there tomorrow.

Hug those babies, eat a pickle (they are a diabetic free food) and don't hate me forever.

*Come on fellow nerds, that was one SWEET** Star Trek reference.

**Pardon my pun.