tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74070168587778878592024-03-07T13:30:52.631-06:00Confessions of a Rotten Correspondentthe rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.comBlogger732125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-22620981896996619002009-08-20T00:02:00.000-06:002009-08-19T19:26:18.440-06:00two months of excuses - part one<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/V1IowUGTHDk&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/V1IowUGTHDk&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />In typical fashion, I've taken something that looks bad enough by itself and made it worse by dragging my feet. Procrastination isn't something that normally turns up on my (getting longer by the day) fault list, but perhaps I need to re-examine that. I've turned a lot of my personal lists upside down this summer, so it would stand to reason that not everything will be a "positive". Oh, well. It is what it is, and even though I'm afraid you're all going to find my reasoning kind of flimsy, I hope you'll maybe cut me a little slack this one (two? three?) time(s). Even if not for any reason other than the fact that I'm asking really nicely. It's not much, but it's all I've got.<br /><br /><br />Trust me. It has been <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> kind of a summer.<br /><br /><br />My first clue was my wholly unexpected reaction to two of my three kids being gone. One was away for a month and the other for about two weeks between two different trips. I stressed mightily for weeks leading up to their departures and worried that I would be a basket case the whole time they were gone. That was my expectation anyway, and, based on previous experiences, I had no reason to think it would go any other way. So with fear and trepidation I put them each on a plane and headed home to have a nervous breakdown.<br /><br /><br />I can't remember a time in my life when I've had more fun<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /><br /><br />If this summer had a key word to it, one simple tag to describe the whole damn thing, it would be <span style="font-style: italic;">timing</span>. Timing has affected every single aspect of the last few months - for better, for worse, for right, for wrong...for real. The marquis boxing match of the summer featured the heavyweights of Timing vs. Control, and although the fight went the full nine rounds it ended with a pretty spectacular knock-out. I'm not sure anyone believes that a control freak can really change her spots, but I'm officially laying down the gauntlet. I bow to the power of timing, in a way I never would have before. Sometimes the fight just isn't even worth it. And let me tell you right now...that's a hell of a lesson to learn at my age.<br /><br /><br />My kids left town right about the time that I mentally reached the end of my (self-imposed) year of hiding out. Since January 2008 I've gone to work and come straight home. I've kept food on the table and dog bowls full. I've done the kid things I needed to do and avoided the rest. I've done the dishes and the laundry and not much else. I'm still not sure why I felt I had to retreat entirely, but that's exactly what I did. I've turned down social invitations, I've turned down friends, I've turned down men, I've turned down <span style="font-style: italic;">life</span>. I was ready to start living again.<br /><br /><br />And this is exactly where the timing stars start to collide.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com49tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-24255382163371648022009-08-03T12:37:00.003-06:002009-08-03T12:41:48.580-06:00I got some 'splainin to do<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXkFBkwhFLBHIT2Y69U5R1jjW6hrnYKuqKgFzyPcNcHNVDOoUriBVTJRXXFIMkGV1SeXT9aylXtDNdJjUNphJH_jIzQ3O_eeb7-T74xro83t2QDPtL3ItLNbsKUhXjh-d42a5oltX2m8k/s1600-h/splainin+to+do.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXkFBkwhFLBHIT2Y69U5R1jjW6hrnYKuqKgFzyPcNcHNVDOoUriBVTJRXXFIMkGV1SeXT9aylXtDNdJjUNphJH_jIzQ3O_eeb7-T74xro83t2QDPtL3ItLNbsKUhXjh-d42a5oltX2m8k/s400/splainin+to+do.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365809428737934450" border="0" /></a><br />I'll be back in a day or two. I promise. With the full scoop of news.<br /><br /><br />I'm afraid you're all going to find it very...anti-climactic.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-58942119978274064572009-07-02T00:02:00.000-06:002009-07-01T22:50:16.938-06:00hair flips and giggles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGg9Vs89QFkIZr06hHABxdR5VaRMA_WEawUNBY3eb2GRS4i1keZGA1nes36DJJpnkLQqe093xj7NzUPgzn1xDMgMDrdrIIzmXbONz0m6brYKnS9ubd932arUExdopHhqNwkD_xuesNyl8/s1600-h/facts+of+life.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGg9Vs89QFkIZr06hHABxdR5VaRMA_WEawUNBY3eb2GRS4i1keZGA1nes36DJJpnkLQqe093xj7NzUPgzn1xDMgMDrdrIIzmXbONz0m6brYKnS9ubd932arUExdopHhqNwkD_xuesNyl8/s400/facts+of+life.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353719420698141250" border="0" /></a><br />Something really strange happened here last night and I'm still a little freaked out by it. There was a girl. A really stinking cute girl. In my house. Sitting about two inches from Sasquatch in front of the computer. And about every two minutes or so she would flip back her hair and giggle.<br /><br /><br />Sweet Jesus. It took seventeen years, but the day has come. The party is over.<br /><br /><br />My friend Laurie came to pick me up for Tuesday night volleyball and headed toward the bathroom as soon as she walked in. I stood mutely in the living room as she headed past the room they were in, watching as his second mother started to call out a cheery "hey, Sasquatch". She stopped dead in her tracks, looked back at me (still standing paralyzed in the living room) and headed straight to the laundry room - the furthest away room - to quietly have a stroke. I met her there, accompanied by the sound of giggling, and we engaged in a manic mime routine that all boiled down to one pertinent question - WTF?<br /><br /><br />It didn't get any better when we got to volleyball.<br /><br /><br />"You know they're totally having sex right now, don't you?"<br /><br /><br />"Have you had the condom talk lately?"<br /><br /><br />"Funny. You don't look old enough to be a grandma".<br /><br /><br />"You want me to go sneak in the back door and see what they're doing?"<br /><br /><br />It was a long ninety minutes.<br /><br /><br />Today I talked to him about it, knowing full well it was going to be damn near impossible.<br /><br /><br />"So," I said casually, "she's really just a friend?"<br /><br /><br />"Uh huh," said he.<br /><br /><br />"Not a girlfriend, eh?"<br /><br /><br />"She has a boyfriend," he said. "I've told you that".<br /><br /><br />"You told me a few months ago that she had a boyfriend. Things change," I replied.<br /><br /><br />"Well," he said woodenly, "she still has him".<br /><br /><br />Ah. My boy is in waiting game hell. Now I get it.<br /><br /><br />"So she's not your girlfriend?"<br /><br /><br />"Nope"<br /><br /><br />"Is there anyone you're interested in?"<br /><br /><br />"Nope"<br /><br /><br />"Would you tell me if you were?"<br /><br /><br />"Yep"<br /><br /><br />"Would you really?"<br /><br /><br />He looked at me and shot a grin that has become lately become quite fetching. I've seen the way teenage girls look at him, and even though it makes my life flash in front of my eyes, I totally get why.<br /><br /><br />"Maybe".<br /><br /><br />I understand that when they're seventeen you have to take every bone they throw you, and I get that I've been lucky that it's taken this long to happen. But all night I kept hearing the sound of teenage giggling in my dreams...<br /><br /><br />And I know it's just a matter of time.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-54453861208395110082009-06-22T00:02:00.000-06:002009-06-21T21:51:50.473-06:00candle time<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TgvDqoBjVFKfyg-nzngmD_2gm6zcUYVr4Kf_t29HEgMtnTQbDLEhsd-ydP-CNiS98_xQHhtNlPpWgUVGaU_9AkSWJgP0mFX2JTjuZHDj8ZwAXqHfCOS9VfUsHfzh25vp4ytGuVIntXc/s1600-h/ear+hair.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TgvDqoBjVFKfyg-nzngmD_2gm6zcUYVr4Kf_t29HEgMtnTQbDLEhsd-ydP-CNiS98_xQHhtNlPpWgUVGaU_9AkSWJgP0mFX2JTjuZHDj8ZwAXqHfCOS9VfUsHfzh25vp4ytGuVIntXc/s400/ear+hair.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349994174805425986" border="0" /></a><br />Please join me in sending birthday wishes to LFG today. Otherwise known as Larry (his real name) and my confidante, buddy, alter ego and sometimes whipping post for well over half of my life. (Sometimes I'm the whip and sometimes I'm the post. Sometimes he talks such circles around me that I'm not really sure what the hell I am. I'm sure he'd say the same. About the talking circles anyway.)<br /><br /><br />This is one of those "milestone" birthdays, and one which I, thankfully, will not reach for another two years. Not that milestones are bad, exactly. It's just that I've reached my milestone quota for the last year and am not accepting any new applications until January 1st of next year. In the meantime I'm perfectly happy to sit back and comment on other people's milestone moments. That's just the kind of gal I am.<br /><br /><br />I have to say that in reading comments over the last few weeks - as you've all gotten to see us go at each other - that I really love the idea of co-writing a post with him. Maybe a He Said/She Said type thing - describe your relationship in a hundred words or less. No? A thousand? Possibly? (As he said to me a couple of weeks ago while reading a (really long) email that I wrote - "Damn, you're long winded. I don't think I could write that much if I was getting paid by the word.")<br /><br /><br />Well, we all know I can. Without being paid a cent. And I bet he could too.<br /><br /><br /><br />Wouldn't that be fun?the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-17581842571311237462009-06-19T00:02:00.000-06:002009-06-18T23:27:20.573-06:00on track<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPmVX-ixmFfmfigvWlFgFssxzZ2M66pTlcj34uTpV7Uuuj8MPyYz3SMWyLu5kHPPxxWYEorQNdfJr2cerSs5xRmccbUyi0c-dItGvm2t9cJt0FCyC0dzJCy87rx4ja__kCZoKhTRTGfnQ/s1600-h/corner.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPmVX-ixmFfmfigvWlFgFssxzZ2M66pTlcj34uTpV7Uuuj8MPyYz3SMWyLu5kHPPxxWYEorQNdfJr2cerSs5xRmccbUyi0c-dItGvm2t9cJt0FCyC0dzJCy87rx4ja__kCZoKhTRTGfnQ/s400/corner.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348905782559025458" border="0" /></a><br />Sometimes you understand that you're turning the corner as you actually do it. And then there are times when you're a mile down the road and you realize that you don't even remember turning the corner. It's just nowhere to be seen in your rear view mirror - not that you're really looking anyway. The road ahead looks much more interesting.<br /><br /><br />And that's where I'm at. Where I've been for the last several months, as a matter of fact. The last post-marital blow up was, indeed, the final straw, solidified the end of May by one last typical FX trick - a trick that didn't even get a rise out of me, so little did I care. May I take this opportunity to say how thrilled I am that the only reaction these things bring out in me anymore is the sort of bemused detachment that one might feel watching The Jerry Springer Show? I'm even more thrilled that I'm seated in the audience and not sitting center stage. Those lights are hot and they always make my mascara run.<br /><br /><br />My counseling session tonight was just a little on the brutal side, and the themes that came up aren't new at all. What is new is that I'm finally ready to do something about them - have, actually been doing something about them. This is the Summer of the Shrinking Comfort Zone, and, rather that kick and scream as I have before, I'm biting the bullet and just doing it. All my kicking and screaming in the past haven't changed a damn thing, so why not just shut up and get on with it?<br /><br /><br />One kid gone for a month.<br /><br /><br />Another leaving tomorrow for the first of two trips.<br /><br /><br />My relatively new realization that sitting at home on the nights the kids aren't here isn't the best idea. So, kicking and screaming, I've stepped outside of my box, forced myself to engage,even during times the kids are here. I've gone past the point where hiding from the world is helping me, and finally get that I need to bust out.<br /><br /><br />Last weekend was a perfect example. Multiple things stacked on Friday night. Ran like crazy Saturday with out of town friends. A beer driven bitch bash straight out of a chick flick Saturday night. Of course on Sunday I collapsed, but at least I got out into the world and made nice.<br /><br /><br />It may not be obvious to everyone that I've turned that corner. But it sure is to me.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-23735274340434194082009-06-16T00:02:00.000-06:002009-06-15T21:14:33.940-06:00the valium diaries<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRS2LGgSY5_3ASH0dyyBaIseXbVmnhrVWYkauWjYAeu2EmOCRFjFDnEDo4hEHf1VhtWBl2t-vbWDc6aSfM_VuLt7l_HjE5wMEWLJamO2Su66EjUo29pfg1x2JobR2Mv6EqCO9MbYADQ28/s1600-h/valium.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 309px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRS2LGgSY5_3ASH0dyyBaIseXbVmnhrVWYkauWjYAeu2EmOCRFjFDnEDo4hEHf1VhtWBl2t-vbWDc6aSfM_VuLt7l_HjE5wMEWLJamO2Su66EjUo29pfg1x2JobR2Mv6EqCO9MbYADQ28/s400/valium.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347758452052798562" border="0" /></a><br />Thirty six hours.<br /><br /><br />In thirty six hours, Surfer Dude is off on the camp adventure of a lifetime. For four weeks.<br /><br /><br />Thirty six hours.<br /><br /><br />In thirty six hours, I'm going to make Girl, Interrupted look like the Brady Bunch. For four weeks.<br /><br /><br />I've calculated how many days Gumby is going to be gone, too. Between spending time at the lake with the grandparents and going to visit his best friend in Texas and the days in between that he'll spend with his dad, I feel like I'll not be seeing him much at all until we go to California the middle of July. I'll spare you all the hourly countdown - for now - but when he goes, they're both gone. And that leaves me with Sasquatch, who, in typical teenage fashion, isn't home much at all.<br /><br /><br />What the HELL am I going to do with all this free time????the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-52873237523588672362009-06-15T00:02:00.000-06:002009-06-14T22:06:50.232-06:00fighting fires<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIkEyLlNCXDKJfNvB7zKGUMppALHQKknao7QygkaC4rFx_Eq9mADELoGWkzjmOWMPSP0MJgf1_e4Gso_SGLm-ZbX9p5Pent2KYbm4m0M6RWqsXnc_tLGG-udLpDCbhD6V8YIhwoFOTGWM/s1600-h/fire+hose.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIkEyLlNCXDKJfNvB7zKGUMppALHQKknao7QygkaC4rFx_Eq9mADELoGWkzjmOWMPSP0MJgf1_e4Gso_SGLm-ZbX9p5Pent2KYbm4m0M6RWqsXnc_tLGG-udLpDCbhD6V8YIhwoFOTGWM/s400/fire+hose.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347400659973675154" border="0" /></a><br />Picture this.<br /><br />An elderly - and quite demented - gentleman, who evidently had retreated back into his boyhood fantasy of being a fireman. A nurse - sweet, kind, and wholly unsuspecting - who walked into his room to give him a warm blanket. Out of the goodness of her heart, I might add. Whereupon he whipped out his "fire hose" and doused her - but good - as she dodged, ducked, dipped, dived and dodged, trying (<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">futilely</span>) to escape the seemingly bottomless water tank.<br /><br /><br />Her mantra - as she skidded out of the room - sounded just a little demented itself. "It's the only sterile bodily fluid, it's the only sterile bodily fluid, it's the only sterile bodily fluid..."<br /><br /><br />Gee. And I thought I was only a <span style="font-style: italic;">shit</span> magnet.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-60512067561216567402009-06-12T00:02:00.001-06:002009-06-11T22:34:35.098-06:00well, this is different...<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/0gpwgPpswms&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/0gpwgPpswms&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />I'm really sorry. I'm not mad. Or sulking. Honest.<br /><br /><br />It's just that after a year and a half of being blindsided by negative things, I've finally experienced some positive blindsiding. Out of fricking nowhere. And I have absolutely no idea of how to deal with it...the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-78045622914235994932009-06-05T00:02:00.000-06:002009-06-04T21:30:08.664-06:0020 questions<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ01HQ60AD8quAMQ-q1Z7Ewiwyu2LtIH9x_3R43enr14DYYBFkVe_4wA8MMVFtt-GZVFn7k9GSChG5msIk4ffXFNPiwtoY6Z7KHv59GaydnGxMvKVldszoqV5H5ZgsJck3EvhfTKCg5mg/s1600-h/boxes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ01HQ60AD8quAMQ-q1Z7Ewiwyu2LtIH9x_3R43enr14DYYBFkVe_4wA8MMVFtt-GZVFn7k9GSChG5msIk4ffXFNPiwtoY6Z7KHv59GaydnGxMvKVldszoqV5H5ZgsJck3EvhfTKCg5mg/s400/boxes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343680187716058306" border="0" /></a><br />Alright, I'm admitting it. I've boxed myself into a corner.<br /><br /><br />I'm not writing about my kids - because I've done a lot of that lately.<br /><br /><br />I'm not writing about work - because I feel like I've gone to that well once too often in recent weeks.<br /><br /><br />I'm not writing about angst, anger, revenge, karma, payback or any of those other things - because I'm just not in that place anymore.<br /><br /><br />I'm not writing about the day to day battles that we all face - because they never go away anyway.<br /><br /><br />I'm not writing about the factions that I strive to never make feel that I write about them - because, let's face it...some people still care far too much about what I say. Que sera sera.<br /><br /><br />I'm not writing for my future, my dreams, my suddenly evolving- and wholly unexpected- fantasies. Because it's not "safe".<br /><br />So the question becomes this...if<span style="font-style: italic;"> I</span> can't say what I <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> to on <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> blog...what's the point?the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-74890477295478493722009-06-04T00:02:00.001-06:002009-06-03T21:26:16.654-06:00pass the bag<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LgIq8eHV6sAwmqk_Yo_W8XKpj6sJSin9PFBUOtTSDGooEG1d8QV2HrfuPGvAYHv5ATrmeQ00gk8rS6-X9r3WKpTVLI3SKbOMtwWB97o39AngZyJTjAjbWkmzMP5dwU8EEILYULkt3UU/s1600-h/barf+bags.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 374px; height: 323px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8LgIq8eHV6sAwmqk_Yo_W8XKpj6sJSin9PFBUOtTSDGooEG1d8QV2HrfuPGvAYHv5ATrmeQ00gk8rS6-X9r3WKpTVLI3SKbOMtwWB97o39AngZyJTjAjbWkmzMP5dwU8EEILYULkt3UU/s400/barf+bags.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343308552237808050" border="0" /></a><br />I bought plane tickets today for Surfer Dude to go to camp. For a month. In another state.<br /><br /><br />Tomorrow - as soon as I can find a non-stop flight - I'll be buying tickets for Gumby to visit his best friend's family in Texas. For ten days. In another state. Oh, wait. I already said that.<br /><br /><br />Sasquatch is almost never at home during the summer, dropping by only to empty both the fridge and my wallet.<br /><br /><br />For a woman who spends most of her non-working hours in the vicinity of her kids, I just found myself with a whole lotta "me time" this summer.<br /><br /><br />I think I'm going to be sick.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-79653867748561485212009-06-02T00:02:00.000-06:002009-06-01T23:14:34.834-06:00I could have danced all night...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ9ZermbEU5c_l-1Qm5x00zyrpprPsA5qBPCt_K0dqnyRcFd6PY2WRkeU-saWOhxvhZ-dCLUMqrmOZCBg0Mt4ciQ1ZsWGX-r0hvWKLbkX4LncU8hH6DmRZvrJzPyESWUX3Jr4aOGgie2k/s1600-h/ambulance.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ9ZermbEU5c_l-1Qm5x00zyrpprPsA5qBPCt_K0dqnyRcFd6PY2WRkeU-saWOhxvhZ-dCLUMqrmOZCBg0Mt4ciQ1ZsWGX-r0hvWKLbkX4LncU8hH6DmRZvrJzPyESWUX3Jr4aOGgie2k/s400/ambulance.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342594087319896354" border="0" /></a><br />What does any self respecting trauma junkie do after a grueling twelve hour shift in the ER?<br /><br /><br />Well, she does her Fire/Medical ride-along, of course. Designed to give ER staff a better understanding of what goes on "pre-hospital", we're now required to do four hours of time with the paramedics as they respond to calls. I didn't want to give up any precious hours on a day off, so I stacked mine after a regular shift. This could have been really bad, but I lucked out and got the busiest station in town - and an amazing and nurse friendly team to boot. Our town combines fire and medical, which means that if a fire had come along I could have gone out on that run too. Alas, no fires, but can I just say how very much I enjoyed the paramedic end of it? There's something about barrelling down the road at some god-forsaken speed, sirens blasting and cars scattering as fast as possible in your path to satisfy the most blatant adrenaline cravings.<br /><br /><br />Damn. I may be falling over exhausted, but that was a<span style="font-style: italic;"> blast</span>.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-47278466109033422532009-06-01T00:02:00.001-06:002009-05-31T22:29:59.877-06:00branching out<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxOjsDtX67LvNm3gP-yQ1WOLW5bkYqsPWR_O5gVVr_w5U26YGu62YFL6vI6SJooKYQWYm4FJ2RkcI5n1vxtWZRktV9ts6jE7TpplRL9BJE5ZFmijw0QK_0Ae7-vwwUcKDUfJf2vpt1HE/s1600-h/a+limb.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxOjsDtX67LvNm3gP-yQ1WOLW5bkYqsPWR_O5gVVr_w5U26YGu62YFL6vI6SJooKYQWYm4FJ2RkcI5n1vxtWZRktV9ts6jE7TpplRL9BJE5ZFmijw0QK_0Ae7-vwwUcKDUfJf2vpt1HE/s400/a+limb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342192578999241186" border="0" /></a><br />This is going to be a very interesting summer.<br /><br /><br />My folks get here in about a week and a half for a visit, and then in July we'll go home for a couple of weeks. There are not words to say how much I am looking forward to that.<br /><br /><br />One of my kids has the chance to spend a month out of state in a once in a lifetime opportunity. It's not a done deal yet, but he wants to go, and in spite of my angst I simply cannot say no. I want to, but I can't.<br /><br /><br />One of them has been invited to spend some time with his best friend in yet another state. I've been dragging my feet on making the plans (chalk it up to still more angst), but the time has come to put on my big girl panties and just do it. I know he'll have a blast. It's me I'm worried about.<br /><br /><br />One of them is actually contemplating getting a job - in between that summer school session that completely snuck up on him and his physics challenged brain. I wish him luck with this "job", since his list of requirements could conceivably prove daunting to any potential employer. The notion that he would have to be there on time and trained is puzzling to him, and I fully expect that his "dream job" of the summer is going to translate into holding his hand out for cash at the Bank of Mom. Silly rabbit.<br /><br /><br />All three of them are grappling (with varying degrees of success and no small amount of humor) with their father's very last minute announcement that he is moving in with his girlfriend in less than a week.<br /><br /><br />And me? Well, now there's a story. Freaked out about the idea of my kids being gone. Worried over the usual summer logistics. Excited about out of town visitors and trips away. Completely over anything the FX does or doesn't do - except as it relates to my children. Pondering the idea of some actual time for <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>. With a couple of projects of my own up my sleeve. And a very unexpected outlook on the world.<br /><br /><br />Oh, my god...has the sky <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> been this blue?the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-33590350720890221282009-05-29T00:02:00.001-06:002009-05-28T22:54:50.666-06:00the master plan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtUcznadWfpond0EsCbANes0vsFrs_d9YTT7N522TwnyQlTc45bEy-ybhmlCOitB0sXyfFrqrMr3KKEl9TRDE4xMBTGX_hKJTktu4sWBjKGUdmQUCrzZKp8erCdV-ulxB8a9A_ebThiA/s1600-h/triage.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtUcznadWfpond0EsCbANes0vsFrs_d9YTT7N522TwnyQlTc45bEy-ybhmlCOitB0sXyfFrqrMr3KKEl9TRDE4xMBTGX_hKJTktu4sWBjKGUdmQUCrzZKp8erCdV-ulxB8a9A_ebThiA/s400/triage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341084587718103682" border="0" /></a><br />Like almost everyone else these days, my hospital is in the throes of cutting all kinds of "extra" costs. Our department, like all the others, has a census to meet, and if we don't see the number of patients we're budgeted to, then bad things may start happening - like not filling positions when staff leave and other things too awful to contemplate. It's a balancing act. How many people can you see on a daily basis and still have staff standing at the end of the shift?<br /><br /><br />It was a little slow at first today, which was a good thing for us but a bad thing for the census. My boss, whom I'm repeatedly on record as adoring, walked through the unit to take a peek. Not good. We needed people. Lots and lots of people. People crawling out of the woodwork. The sicker and needier the better. We needed to be overwhelmed, running for daylight, praying for our own deaths. And there was only one way to do it.<br /><br /><br />My boss approached the charge nurse and said the magic words.<br /><br /><br />"You need to put RC in triage."<br /><br /><br />Presto. The census was not only met...it was exceeded.<br /><br /><br />Such is the power of a shit magnet.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-5200451657664535172009-05-27T00:02:00.000-06:002009-05-26T22:41:27.489-06:00I made it through the rain<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6IXLb-NShnPkm6eVUToeY-kTpdSydqKNqb3sFCbDFqLGkxaIN2zkPuDSSwf-lAFjNZxIm5NvNJkuhIwOHO3Okdf2W7cc4WfCYwWCYyLFlBXKHgHWo-mJ6VtGez1PdX1EMPg2uuXhHg6s/s1600-h/maryhat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 386px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6IXLb-NShnPkm6eVUToeY-kTpdSydqKNqb3sFCbDFqLGkxaIN2zkPuDSSwf-lAFjNZxIm5NvNJkuhIwOHO3Okdf2W7cc4WfCYwWCYyLFlBXKHgHWo-mJ6VtGez1PdX1EMPg2uuXhHg6s/s400/maryhat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340359098166170146" border="0" /></a><br />I didn't cry. Oh, I teared up a bit (or a lot), but there was no witnessed spillage, which was a good thing because I was the only one among my friends to bring kleenex and I quickly ran short. Nothing at all like the bloodbath that was Gumby's Sixth Grade graduation last year. That, my friends, was brutal.<br /><br /><br />As much as I've made about this being the end of an era, I think part of my fear came from the memories of last year. It wasn't just their teacher - the same one this year - having to turn her back to the audience because she was crying so hard. It wasn't just that I cried buckets that night, both in the auditorium and once I got home. It wasn't even the unbelievable<a href="http://rottencorrespondent.blogspot.com/2008/05/sideswiped.html"> sweetness</a> of Surfer Dude when he saw how emotional I was. No, it wasn't really any of those things. It was uncertainty, it was stress, it was an almost paralyzing fear. I sat there and watched Gumby graduate, knowing that in a matter of days my husband would be moving out and I would be on my own for the first time in twenty something years. I was terrified, and I vividly remember thinking, "If I can just make it through until Surfer Dude graduates, it will be okay. In a year I'll be in a much better place. In a year my life will be <span style="font-style: italic;">good</span>."<br /><br /><br />And all of those things are true. Every morning when I wake up I say a little thank you for where I am today. Every night before I go to sleep I run through my gratitude list, and always on there is the fact that I am where I am now and not where I was then.(And by <span style="font-style: italic;">then</span>, I don't just mean last Spring). There aren't enough riches in the world to make me go back to where we were then, and I'm quite certain I'm not the only one to feel this way. Even my kids seem calm and in a good place.<br /><br /><br />So tonight when I felt the tears starting, I inexplicably broke into a smile. Even though I had teased Sasquatch, threatening to use his shirt as a tissue if the waterworks started, I stayed relatively at ease through the entire process. I sat in a row with my two non-graduating kids (whom I had forced to come) and their father, surrounded by friends, and focused on all the amazing <span style="font-style: italic;">possibilities</span>.<br /><br /><br />It's not an ending at all. It's all just starting.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-54996860338084124572009-05-26T00:02:00.001-06:002009-05-25T22:06:12.288-06:00it's all elementary<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIf_2NwQwt6sQtlH28zcV_laLQ0PbY1vX7kRcnbdSGgd99_jCDP5TWPdjy_ejKRjoTiHEM4fTArU_t3mqgYkg1aurop35I3-CflqLtiMTGJzq1ze4dqDAOmtOSNfWzhaRaEKm__w7m0QU/s1600-h/kleenex.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 395px; height: 344px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIf_2NwQwt6sQtlH28zcV_laLQ0PbY1vX7kRcnbdSGgd99_jCDP5TWPdjy_ejKRjoTiHEM4fTArU_t3mqgYkg1aurop35I3-CflqLtiMTGJzq1ze4dqDAOmtOSNfWzhaRaEKm__w7m0QU/s400/kleenex.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339978420961760338" border="0" /></a><br />Things are crazy busy here right now, so I'm being a big old blog slacker. Nothing is wrong - quite the contrary - it just seems like time is doing nutty things. Like moving at hyper speed, for one.<br /><br /><br />My kids are down to one and two days of school, depending on the kid. Tonight we have a Sixth Grade graduation that is going to be a bawl fest all around, and I'm already trying to steel myself for it. This is for the same kid who just laid down in my bed and asked me to sing him to sleep with his favorite lullaby from when he was tiny. I snuggled up to him and sang (badly, as usual), trying to reconcile the thought of an itty bitty baby with this huge twelve year old in my arms. He fell asleep quickly and I briefly considered getting a jump start on the bawl fest, but I resisted. I have a bad feeling that once the tears start, there's going to be hell to pay getting them to stop. It's the end of the elementary school years, the end of an era...the beginning of so much more.<br /><br /><br />Next year I'll have a high school senior. God help us all.<br /><br /><br />Send me strength. I'm going to need it.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-44538924780700111362009-05-22T00:02:00.000-06:002009-05-21T21:23:29.943-06:00brace for the cure<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9VlSCEfC9TeQlzwVJZfiNVCcjpN8WXZj3l-deaRAFVO29aJ50Ezy_rMNj1BC1SI9p-hHYI_4Prku6I4f9gshGSDdOFzY6zaAHcvOkgcCDjXyucxHvinIuvlpTofREAn6MofQpk7XaJo/s1600-h/aspirin5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9VlSCEfC9TeQlzwVJZfiNVCcjpN8WXZj3l-deaRAFVO29aJ50Ezy_rMNj1BC1SI9p-hHYI_4Prku6I4f9gshGSDdOFzY6zaAHcvOkgcCDjXyucxHvinIuvlpTofREAn6MofQpk7XaJo/s400/aspirin5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338483444420496338" border="0" /></a><br />You can't cure stupid.<br /><br /><br />You can manage it, you can educate it, you can even, if pushed too far, ignore it completely. But you can't cure it. It's a terminal condition. Apparently quite contagious. And far, far too widespread.<br /><br /><br />The patient had woken up with a headache and taken "a handful" of aspirin in response.<br /><br /><br />But wait a minute, said the doc, you're violently allergic to aspirin. It says so on all of your medical records.<br /><br /><br />Well sure, answered the patient, but this wasn't name brand aspirin.<span style="font-style: italic;"></span> It was the<span style="font-style: italic;"> generic</span>.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-59920005947823636452009-05-21T00:02:00.000-06:002009-05-20T21:54:26.104-06:00want ads - part two<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzlDbdmB23ga1veu52wYlM7iXqltUx8k-iV48torFExY7yry7ITSaxOfjFzDh2IxFdiu7-9DRtWnPpSoayPgxayVvNsaSJ5iibWZhjhb5JuE5-w_pZPIFaPoXyjLem6eXzfRGnTo8Bupk/s1600-h/teen+suicide.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzlDbdmB23ga1veu52wYlM7iXqltUx8k-iV48torFExY7yry7ITSaxOfjFzDh2IxFdiu7-9DRtWnPpSoayPgxayVvNsaSJ5iibWZhjhb5JuE5-w_pZPIFaPoXyjLem6eXzfRGnTo8Bupk/s400/teen+suicide.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338120277358172002" border="0" /></a><br />When it rains, it pours.<br /><br /><br />Imagine reading your child's suicide note. Imagine how you would feel as they apologized for how they felt they had let you down, apologized for how they wish things could be different, how they wished they were a better, stronger person, told you things would be better now - now that they weren't here anymore to mess things up for you and the rest of the family.<br /><br /><br />Imagine looking over an itemized list of their belongings, with notes jotted in the margins as to who they would like to receive what. A detailed set of instructions as to what music they want played at their funeral, and, while they're at it, where they would like their ashes scattered. Imagine page after page of details, everything from bank account numbers to internet passwords. All left carefully addressed to you in the sincere belief that they would not be needing any of it anymore.<br /><br /><br />Now imagine holding all of this in your hand as you stand outside the glass door leading to the room your child is in. Your very much alive child, saved by the unexpected return of a roommate, saved from their hell bent determination to stop the screaming in their own head. Is your child grateful for the reprieve? No. Your child turns to the nurse at their bedside and says quite clearly that this isn't over just yet.<br /><br /><br />The nurse is chilled by the deadness in their eyes. She looks over at the parent, standing slumped by the door, tries to catch their eye and convey some sort of mom empathy. They look up from the floor and she meets their gaze squarely.<br /><br /><br />And wishes she had never looked beyond the patient.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-54667506305602646402009-05-20T00:02:00.002-06:002009-05-19T21:44:43.769-06:00lucky numbers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRYtPNdtbF479YojdDIGJyv-YZhARcUULUeJsDDgzJWoi8zG24Kv_FG5INoX1SIBvLEkWEtN6P-d4Lfyk85-67K88a85ZUH_4q-BCGkt3ZN1MEfhDCuT35DMUq7eVp_BSWUS4UHEWUn6Y/s1600-h/powerball.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRYtPNdtbF479YojdDIGJyv-YZhARcUULUeJsDDgzJWoi8zG24Kv_FG5INoX1SIBvLEkWEtN6P-d4Lfyk85-67K88a85ZUH_4q-BCGkt3ZN1MEfhDCuT35DMUq7eVp_BSWUS4UHEWUn6Y/s400/powerball.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337745481631976530" border="0" /></a><br />I bought a lottery ticket on Saturday, and while this may not sound like such a big deal, for me it's really out of character. To tell the truth I bought five of them - all on one Powerball ticket. $5 was the total cost. 150 million was the potential payoff. And what did I get out of it?<br /><br /><br />Well, about 72 hours worth of fantasy, at least as it stands now. I still haven't checked to see if I've won, because I'm having such a good time spending my imaginary winnings in my head. Oh, I know I haven't won the big prize, because our local paper would have gone ballistic over the news of the winning ticket being sold in our town, but who knows? Maybe I won something smaller? Enough to buy a week's worth of groceries? A small Mediterranean island? Something in between?<br /><br /><br />As much as I love the chance to mentally spend money that isn't mine, I hate to throw hard earned cash down the toilet. And let's face it - the lottery is one great big toilet. It's like Vegas with worse odds, so it would take something crazy to make me buy even one ticket, much less five.<br /><br /><br />A couple of friends and I went to Open Houses on Saturday, and ended up running into another friend in the process. One of the houses that was open was one we've been curious about for quite a while, and this was the first weekend it was open to the public. I think half the town was there, and we were all saying some version of<br /><br /><br />I WANT THIS HOUSE. BADLY.<br /><br /><br />I wanted it enough that I went straight to the Kwik Shop and bought five Powerball quick picks. God knows, that's what it would take. (It was much simpler than my friend Laurie's plan for three families to buy the house together and live there semi-commune style. On the plus side, I'm sure there's a reality series there somewhere. One with a big paycheck attached.)<br /><br /><br />Judging by the lack of newspaper headlines, I may have to let the house go. But I might wait a day or so before I dash my hopes completely.<br /><br /><br />What would you buy a lottery ticket for?the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-4085743452498246542009-05-19T00:02:00.000-06:002009-05-18T21:23:08.284-06:00help wanted<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqm0i6Wnvdi-mkntVi2umRAc2Qsp95nML-1Qt_-tlr0PU50dnAOvIoWHig4jr2pexUtxw9icXB2cNTVmVTfF1u1hc63kSFlKzEESokIs7u2io4hKAedgY0Xwi3rInwIBOJoLa18SKnBCM/s1600-h/ads.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqm0i6Wnvdi-mkntVi2umRAc2Qsp95nML-1Qt_-tlr0PU50dnAOvIoWHig4jr2pexUtxw9icXB2cNTVmVTfF1u1hc63kSFlKzEESokIs7u2io4hKAedgY0Xwi3rInwIBOJoLa18SKnBCM/s400/ads.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337370146873071010" border="0" /></a><br />It's time to change careers. Or at the very least to never triage again. Ever.<br /><br /><br />Today I pulled a dead baby out of a car.<br /><br /><br />Yes, you read that right.<br /><br /><br />I. Pulled. A. Dead. Baby. Out. Of. A. Car.<br /><br /><br />While her mom screamed frantically at me to save her child.<br /><br /><br />While I took one look and knew it was already too late.<br /><br /><br />As I ran full-speed into the trauma room cradling the baby in my arms.<br /><br /><br />And participated in a balls to the wall full blown pediatric code.<br /><br /><br />Just on the off chance that we were wrong.<br /><br /><br />All of us.<br /><br /><br />We weren't.<br /><br /><br />It's time to change careers. Or at the very least to never triage again.<br /><br /><br />Ever.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-47215331895124546722009-05-18T00:02:00.000-06:002009-05-17T21:13:46.427-06:00add as friend<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoqhA42-HtK4NNxIUrhWIBwarCRbWfx0jjwB9m_Bp1JQw-owk1Z9kF8m1y9bE_5OPYCSEO_CvlYHsYhPqjz3huynHlet7vEJx53PyTZJs8ghAj2YRPFr84UOwv1Ut6wk3gZb08FLIB_1M/s1600-h/charming.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoqhA42-HtK4NNxIUrhWIBwarCRbWfx0jjwB9m_Bp1JQw-owk1Z9kF8m1y9bE_5OPYCSEO_CvlYHsYhPqjz3huynHlet7vEJx53PyTZJs8ghAj2YRPFr84UOwv1Ut6wk3gZb08FLIB_1M/s400/charming.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336996637053840258" border="0" /></a><br />Ah, the internet. Can't live without it, but it sure can make things interesting sometimes.<br /><br /><br />I now have two people that I'm close to who are both leaving their husbands for someone from their past that they've reconnected with on Facebook. Neither one of them were in untroubled marriages, neither one of them felt loved, or desired, or even appreciated. But, for the sake of the kids - seven between them - they stuck it out, marked time with a man they no longer wanted to be with, told themselves that dreaming of a better future was pointless.<br /><br /><br />Until...<br /><br /><br />Enter Prince Charming. Complete with white horse and escape route. Someone who knew (and even loved) them in a simpler time, before kids and stretch marks and money woes and career setbacks and husbands who were woefully deficient in...well, everything. Someone who loved them before life stomped the optimism out of them, and are able, with a word or a recalled story to take them straight back to that happier time.<br /><br /><br />Pretty tempting, no?<br /><br /><br />I'd be lying if I said I was never tempted by someone else in my marriage. To be perfectly honest, I spent most of my marriage tempted by other people, although I never gave in to that temptation. I always thought I was a terrible person, until the marriage counselor we saw put it in perspective. With a marriage as disconnected as yours, he said, I'd be more surprised if you <span style="font-style: italic;">weren't </span>tempted by everyone who walked by. When your marriage isn't firing on even a single cylinder, you need a pretty active fantasy life just to get through the day. And while I get that wholeheartedly, I still think that the chasm between a fantasy life and actually picking up and leaving for that fantasy is huge.<br /><br /><br />One of these women is a really good friend and one is someone I love dearly. I want this to work out for them, want it to be everything <span style="font-style: italic;">they</span> want it to be. One of them (the really good friend) left when the "fantasy" relationship became physical, and unfortunately for her when she asked my opinion on this she got it. (It's a good thing she loves me for my honesty. Too bad we can't say the same thing for my tact.) The other one (the one I love dearly) is trying to do the right thing and leave before anything actually "happens", but she's still got a really hard road ahead of her.<br /><br /><br /><br />I'm all about the fantasy thing, and I do believe in lasting love, do believe in soul mates, am finally beginning to believe in happily ever after again.<br /><br /><br /><br />But I'd be lying if I said this whole thing didn't make me really nervous.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-28954633410863114082009-05-15T00:02:00.000-06:002009-05-14T21:33:13.792-06:00yeah...right...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwyG0zS_aw3U-a8Dt5cSctJHHqIWRh7uxFCpM1sAFhFxF2CwMtZWWwiqHbPFHN431r_bJaLj99ianVvD_xujXFnUu-1e1ocp-a7J_L74yQX60xO1PckbMZX6K_d2UwdbaP5HECygoXBoM/s1600-h/soccer+mom.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwyG0zS_aw3U-a8Dt5cSctJHHqIWRh7uxFCpM1sAFhFxF2CwMtZWWwiqHbPFHN431r_bJaLj99ianVvD_xujXFnUu-1e1ocp-a7J_L74yQX60xO1PckbMZX6K_d2UwdbaP5HECygoXBoM/s400/soccer+mom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335888240013252866" border="0" /></a><br />Who: You<br /><br />What: One fun thing you plan to do.<br /><br />When: This weekend.<br /><br />Where: Anywhere you want to.<br /><br />Why: Why not?<br /><br /><br />I'll start. This weekend is brought to you by Surfer Dude's soccer tournament. First game was tonight and we got handed our shorts. Second game tomorrow night, and I'm afraid we'll be repeating the shorts routine. Third (and fourth if we qualify...rub a lamp) game(s) Saturday. Team party Saturday night.<br /><br /><br />But the real highlight of my weekend? My baby turns 12 on Sunday.<br /><br /><br />O.M.G.<br /><br /><br />What fun things are on your agenda this weekend?the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-66406753894793348412009-05-14T00:02:00.000-06:002009-05-13T21:45:48.302-06:00it's pinch myself time<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrJH9TJqbRzFIWlDi-GwqPmLP91II0yNxwSofEX0ytPcbT3842L-5JbTNvtH1vL6Z4zDezvPm6ef_dlCMeqQkv_lM4VrkDbksVChOWm4nkokNAHjsEUjNuAP531RRqYadocD1CYAhNl7s/s1600-h/bus.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 341px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrJH9TJqbRzFIWlDi-GwqPmLP91II0yNxwSofEX0ytPcbT3842L-5JbTNvtH1vL6Z4zDezvPm6ef_dlCMeqQkv_lM4VrkDbksVChOWm4nkokNAHjsEUjNuAP531RRqYadocD1CYAhNl7s/s400/bus.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335520574617672338" border="0" /></a><br />Every now and then something happens that gives me hope for the future. Today was one of those days.<br /><br /><br />Sasquatch has, as I feared, been having trouble catching the bus to school in the morning. Surely some of it is summer fever, but with frightening regularity, I get a call at work or hear him stomp in the front door with one of his patented excuses. This is the favorite -<br /><br /><br />"The bus came ridiculously early." (Translation: I was late and it was on time.)<br /><br /><br />But lately I've also been hearing a lot of this -<br /><br /><br />"I was standing right there and the bus went right past me." (Translation: Who the hell knows?)<br /><br /><br />The first couple of times I heard that I quite honestly didn't believe him. But when I kept hearing the same thing - especially when I was at work and helpless to do anything about it - I told him that he needed to call the bus company and complain. He wouldn't do it. Said he was the only person at that bus stop and the driver would know he was the one complaining. If I pushed it he pretty much exploded on me. Then I got the always calming Sasquatch platitude - "Don't worry, Mom. It's fine." (Usually said when it's clearly not fine at <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span>.)<br /><br /><br />But today it happened again, and as he walked back in the door I could hear him talking to someone. It was the bus company, and he came into my room as he stated his case calmly. Said he had been standing right there and the driver had gone straight past him. He didn't blow up and he didn't back down. In the end, they sent another (smaller) bus to pick him up to make his connection, since evidently this driver has a history of this exact same thing. And lo and behold, he got to school on time - and in a decent mood. (This also demonstrates a lot about mass transit in our town, but that's a whole other story.)<br /><br /><br />I told him I was really proud of him, because I knew that he had stepped out of his comfort zone big time. And that he had handled it perfectly and without drama. And gotten to school independently and on time to boot.<br /><br /><br />Could the kid actually be growing up?the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-52610948344610642052009-05-13T00:02:00.004-06:002009-05-12T22:46:48.064-06:00not much more you can say<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxSvhYza_dZItXkreI8g0gE4prB5Zh8ASx5B4pgzTJHaACZ1UsP53Aq3oZAXIo5lTHMDaG1I4hHfMh3IfITpbKkyDq2cJmpFBNka9eVsKE9T-27L9PEBG519JGWYZqJ3c5LzYcFpkvNGs/s1600-h/breasts.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxSvhYza_dZItXkreI8g0gE4prB5Zh8ASx5B4pgzTJHaACZ1UsP53Aq3oZAXIo5lTHMDaG1I4hHfMh3IfITpbKkyDq2cJmpFBNka9eVsKE9T-27L9PEBG519JGWYZqJ3c5LzYcFpkvNGs/s400/breasts.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335163861913710722" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div style="min-height: 14px;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;color:black;" ><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:13;color:black;" > <span style="font-size:100%;">Perfect post for a (late) Bunco night. Thanks for sending it this way, <a href="http://bigbluebarnwest.blogspot.com/">Aims</a>.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">WOMAN'S POEM:</span></span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /></span></div></div> <div> <div> <div> <div> <div> <div> <div> <div><span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:12;"> <span style="font-size:130%;">Before I lay me down to sleep,</span><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);"> </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />I pray for a man who's not a creep,</span><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);"><br /> o</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">ne who's handsome, smart and strong.<br /> One who loves to listen long,</span><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);"><br />o</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">ne who thinks before he speaks,</span><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);"><br /> o</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">ne who'll call, not wait for weeks.<br /> I pray he's rich and self-employed,</span><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);"><br />a</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:130%;">nd when I spend, won't be annoyed.<br /> Pull out my chair and hold my hand.<br /> Massage my feet and help me stand.<br /> Oh send a king to make me queen.<br /> A man who loves to cook and clean.<br /> I pray this man will love no other.<br /> And relish visits with my mother.<br /><br /></span><br /><br /> <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">MAN'S POEM:</span><br /><br /><br /></span> <span style="font-size:130%;">I pray for a deaf-mute gymnast nymphomaniac with</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-size:130%;">big tits who owns a bar on a golf course,</span><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);"><br /> </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;">and loves to send me fishing and drinking.</span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div></div> <div> <p style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);"> </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">This</span><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(31, 73, 125);"> </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">doesn't rhyme and I don't give a shit.</span></p> </div></div></div></div></div></div></div>the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-61881884044191437092009-05-12T00:02:00.000-06:002009-05-11T20:58:43.234-06:00memory lane<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitm_QAm7DDZEAdLZkL82ciC44tL0WAUzIeLIsvOxXZhzqz8ASJ0Cpv_60boKt5Gl1ofb7kNNPcaW38w3N2P1MLdRoFBmTBkRMvX7iiRhUDQ1gt3SO6qspQMqkhv7_tOBwFWGtI59zmiPE/s1600-h/grandma's+kitchen.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitm_QAm7DDZEAdLZkL82ciC44tL0WAUzIeLIsvOxXZhzqz8ASJ0Cpv_60boKt5Gl1ofb7kNNPcaW38w3N2P1MLdRoFBmTBkRMvX7iiRhUDQ1gt3SO6qspQMqkhv7_tOBwFWGtI59zmiPE/s400/grandma's+kitchen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334766289075863298" border="0" /></a><br />Maybe it was Mother's Day, maybe it was something my Aunt Dinah <a href="http://myaimlessinfatuation.blogspot.com/2009/05/happy-mothers-day-to-my-mama.html">wrote</a> yesterday, but I've been thinking of my grandmother all day today. There are a lot of directions my brain can go in when I get her stuck in my head, and today was no exception. Sometimes I think about the road trips from Michigan to Alabama, journeys that I'm convinced helped turn me into the road trip junkie that I am to this day. Then again there's the card games. My grandparents were voracious card players, and I was tossing my coins into the poker pot from a pretty young age. Sitting on my screened in back porch cradling a cold beer makes me think of her, too. I spent a lot of my youth hanging out on a front or back porch with them, although my drink of choice in those days was a bottle of Coke instead of the strong stuff.<br /><br /><br />She used to say that everything bad that happened to me happened when she was taking care of me. There was the fishing hook stuck in my hand, the time I fell out of a car when it rounded a corner right by my dad's store, and, in an amazing predictor of my future coordination, the time I got my head stuck when I hit the power window button as my head was hanging out the car window. She was a worrywart to begin with, but I think I made it a lot worse. Scratch that. I <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> I made it a lot worse.<br /><br /><br />But inevitably I go back to the food. Oh my god could my grandmother cook. Biscuits and gravy every morning for breakfast. Fried chicken. Homemade onion rings. Something she called skillet toast which I ate by the plateful. She did a banana pudding that could make you cry. And every time I would go to visit she would make my very favorite thing - a marinated broccoli and dill salad that gives me goosebumps just thinking about it. She gave me the recipe before she died, and I've made it a few times, but somehow it just doesn't taste the same. I'm a pretty decent cook, but for some reason I have no luck cooking anything that I associate with her. It always tastes just the slightest bit off.<br /><br /><br />But tonight I was grilling burgers and roasting potatoes. Corn was cooking on the stove, and almost without thinking I started making a cucumber and onion refrigerator pickle that she often had in the fridge. I used to eat it until I felt queasy. Just the process of slicing the veggies and putting it all together in the bowl made me feel like she was right there with me. And when Sasquatch came in and attacked the bowl I had to smile. I told him - like she had told me - that they needed to sit for a while before we ate them. And - like me years ago - he kept eating them anyway, telling me they tasted just fine the way they were.<br /><br /><br />In her own words, that would have tickled her to death.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7407016858777887859.post-41170831559494196852009-05-11T00:02:00.000-06:002009-05-10T22:28:31.272-06:00just keep my cup full<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLc1bcXBYmdR0kYXzPAMjFe9FRdfqRYen0kAdTZan_m9ETzQ0SbZXSL3ZaSNKPlbxqkK6ltv27gHfGP4r-eL94vFMTF72mIfEq3fkeEsnlCevgee2P-9-K8ddCiRmx5_jnF0QOPpSZA0c/s1600-h/caffeine.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLc1bcXBYmdR0kYXzPAMjFe9FRdfqRYen0kAdTZan_m9ETzQ0SbZXSL3ZaSNKPlbxqkK6ltv27gHfGP4r-eL94vFMTF72mIfEq3fkeEsnlCevgee2P-9-K8ddCiRmx5_jnF0QOPpSZA0c/s400/caffeine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334418409544528578" border="0" /></a><br />I've realized this weekend that I should trade in my Registered Nursing license for a Certified Drunk Man's Negotiator certificate. All weekend long, but most particularly in the early morning hours of my shifts, I've dealt with the drunk, stupid and unlucky crowd. The fact that this happens in the morning, before I'm fully caffeinated, is a very bad thing.<br /><br /><br />This came home full force when one of my patients threw enough of a hissy fit to go smoke that I finally ended up walking across the street with him so he could puff away outside of the "no smoke zone". I'm tall, but he had at least 6 inches and a hundred pounds on me, and as he regaled me with stories of doing prison time for assault and battery, I realized to my horror that I had led him to the wrong spot and that I was totally off the security surveillance camera radar. I couldn't get him to move, so I rationalized. Oh, well, thought I, at least I'm by the ambulance bay, and if he tries anything one of the rigs coming in will see it. Or a cop. The cop cars come the exact same way. But no. Not a squad car or ambulance in sight. The television image of the cop/nurse/medic alliance actually has a hell of a lot of truth to it, and I knew that someone would save my butt if necessary. Only problem was that there was no one there to even see my butt in the event it should need saving.<br /><br /><br />My drunk and huge guy finally finished his cigarettes and agreed to go back into the unit. And I don't know if the combination of alcohol and nicotine finally caught up with him or what, but he then proceeded to proposition every single woman he saw until I finally got him shipped out to where he needed to go. Called them "hot" and "honey" and asked them if they'd "like a piece of <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span>". He leered and carried on over every female in range. Except me. Me he called ma'am and then shook my hand to thank me as he left.<br /><br /><br />At the time I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be flattered or insulted. Actually, I'm still not sure. It's a rough thing when even a drunk and indiscriminate guy doesn't hit on you. Especially when he just propostioned the male lab tech with the long hair and shapely behind. (And little did he know that that just might have been his best chance at some action all day.)<br /><br /><br />Oh, well. At least he kept his pants on, unlike my first patient of his ilk. And he never asked me to check out his "hidden tattoo" either. Thank god. There was nowhere near enough coffee in my system for that.<br /><br /><br />Weekends are interesting. Holiday weekends are even more so. Some days there just isn't enough caffeine in the world.the rotten correspondenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02704525054720181936noreply@blogger.com14