Tire-Gate...

So far 2010 has been all about Tiger-Gate and the myriads of women he's fucked.

Let me tell you, Tiger has nothing on Tire-Gate...

This past Wednesday night as I left work I noticed my van was making a funny noise. I was yakking away on my phone, talking trash to a guy so I didn't pay it much mind. By the time I'd gotten off the interstate I was pretty certain that the dull roar that was slowly getting louder and the sluggish pull of my steering indicated I was developing a flat tire. No biggie, I'd had a slow leak for a while and have an air compressor at home. The closer I got to home, the more I prayed ohGodpleasejustletmemakeithome.  I make it home, get out and examine the tire... which is um... flat... and uh, smoking. Holy fuck.

I go into the house, Dad is finishing up dinner on the stove. I said I have a flat tire. He says no problem I can fix it.* I said yeah but it's not only flat, it's smoking. The tire is done for and I need the spare put on. He says yeah but it's no problem.*

*Let the record show that whenever my dad says "No problem" this indicates that we are indeed about to have a very big problem.

Dad says he will simply blow it up.
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Before I can continue I need to explain something about my dad. You know those men, those fathers that are handy with tools, can fix relatively minor problems around the house, change the oil on the car and do those basic "manly" things?

My dad is not that man.

My dad is more like this. If it doesn't involve duct tape or Gorrilla Glue he can't fix it. Well, he can't fix it properly. There's a difference. My father is the man that will fuck up the simplest repair and spend gobs of money doing so, only to eventually have to admit defeat and call a professional to repair all the shit he fucked up plus the original repair. That is my dad and I love him anyway...
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Getting back to the tire. Dad said he'd blow it up. He gets the air compressor, attaches it to my tire, turns it on and voila! The tire begins to fill up with air. I went inside to check on the kids and about 5 minutes later Dad follows. He takes off his coat, fixes a plate of food and a salad and sits down to eat.

Then I heard the explosion.

Le fuck? Perplexed, I looked out the front door and see my tire, if possible, FLATTER than before. I turned around and yelled in disbelief "YOU LEFT IT ON?!" "You sat down and ate and left the thing on?!"

He said "No problem*, I'll just put the spare on. Won't take but a minute."

It took longer than a minute. It took the rest of the night... the following day... and most of today.

So, first he had to locate my jack and spare tire. Found those except the part of the jack that you use to get the lug nuts off, well dad had fucked that piece up the last time I had a flat tire. He bent it almost beyond recognition. Anyway, he got the spare out and propped against the car. The attempt to get the lug nuts off did. not. go. well. At all.  Dad blamed the mechanics and airguns. I thought they were called air wrenches but what do I know, being a girl and all. At this point I mentioned that we could simply call a tow truck and have someone put my spare on. Dad says no, I can do it. It is at this point that silent pleas are flung heaven-ward by me.

Dad tried and tried and could not get the nuts off the van. He leaves, goes to Wally World and comes back with not one but two wrenches ($25 & $35 dollars respectively) to attempt to get the nuts off. 30 minutes later he comes in triumphant. One lug nut has been removed. He holds the wrench up as proudly as an Olympic torch bearer. Then he says except, um, I can't get the nut out of the wrench. Quoi? Sure as shit, the nut is jammed in the wrench. Of course the other extensions on the wrench don't fit my tire at all so... let's leave that till morning and try and work it out.

4:30 Thurday morn: Dad is outside still struggling to get the lug nut out the wrench. He gives up and tries to use the fucked up wrench from my jack. Doesn't work. I get the kids up and ready for school. Dad drives the kids to school and drops me off at work. He says that he's going to buy a compressor and air gun (wrench, I corrected) "since this is a problem we'll always have." I timidly point out that you know, we could call a tow truck and spend about $75 and be done with it. No, he says, he can handle it.

Quarter of nine that morning my girl friend calls me at work asking have I heard the news? No, what? EVERYONE that left out the front gate yesterday got flat tires. Hoards of angry worker are rushing the police department at work because the tire spike strips malfunctioned and slice people's tires to ribbons. We're talking hundreds. She tells me call the police dispatch and give them my info and the government will reimburse my costs for repair. Jubilant, I call my dad with the news. "Go ahead and call the tow guy", I said. No, he's getting the compressor and other stuff.

Fuck.

3pm he gets my kids from school. 345 he gets me from work. The entire way home I hear about this fucking compressor and all that's wrong with this brand new equipment that he has no idea how to use. All evening he grumpily tried to get it going. All evening he failed at said task. At one point he got it going and tried to remove the lug nuts. Nope. He comes in and declares disgust and defeat and sits at the table brooding. Suddenly his face brightens and he announces that he thinks he knows what he did wrong:

I had it in reverse.

*facepalm*

Tries it again. DOES NOT WORK. More grumbling and raging, equipment brought back into the house, I'm going to bed, door slams.

Fast forward to this morning: Dad announces he will try again and if he can't get it he'll admit defeat and call me to have someone remove the tire.

By 10am he called me to admit defeat and have someone remove the tire, natch. I call a company close to my house, kindly gentleman answers and says sure thing, I can do that. It'll cost $45. Mr Tow Guy comes to my house, removes the tire in 2 minutes,

Infuriated... Indignant... Indecisive...

In the 1950s my father went to a Catholic school specifically for blacks in the inner city. He grew up during the Civil Rights era, never participating, only observing. Based on what he observed, he formed his own opinions on race relations.

In the late 1970s thru 1991 I attended Catholic schools. I learned that there was a special month dedicated to Black History by watching an episode of the Cosby show one Thursday night. I believe it was Theo that had to write an essay about the Civil Rights movement and did a piss poor job of it and the grandparents ended up schooling him on it. I sat enthralled. There was no mention of this stuff in my history books at school. There was a token picture of Martin Luther King somewhere but aside from being shot dead and making a speech about a dream I really had no clue about history, slavery, Civil Rights, black power, black inventors, nothing. Far as I knew the only significant black in American history was Crispus Attucks and I didn't learn his race until nearly 8th grade. It wasn't until I graduated from Catholic school and entered a public high school that I really learned that, oh my fuck, there's an entire MONTH dedicated to us. Albeit it was the shortest month in the year but dude... in the libraries I learned about Benjamin Banneker, Phyllis Wheatley, Malcolm X, George Washington Carver, and so many more. Then I learned about local blacks like Bill Robinson, Arthur Ashe, Maggie Walker, John Mitchell, Jr. The more I learned the more I became incensed that WE, my people, my ancestors, were left out of so many books. After all the struggles and accomplishments, blacks couldn't even get a fucking paragraph in a textbook.

Fast forward to the present...

My daughters, yes both of them, now attend Catholic school. Jaalyn has attended this school since she was 4 years old. She is currently 9.

Not once has Black History Month been acknowledged at that school.

Not. Ever.

I asked the principal about it. Why didn't she mention a new person each morning before prayers commenced? They do it for all the saints on the feast days and the even read a short history of that person. The principal replied that she usually leaves that sort of "thing" to the individual classroom teachers. It's more of a Social Studies kind of "thing". And she admitted that when she taught third grade she never "got around to it" until March.

I blinked.

And then I mentioned that March is actually National Women's History Month.

I wasn't sure I even heard her correctly. I didn't want to hear her correctly. Because... That. Is. BULLSHIT.

What the fuck? Seriously what fucking year/century... I mean WHAT?! The goddamned President of the fucking United States is fucking BLACK. When he won the election last year it made fucking HISTORY.

How can... let me pause because I'm getting heated...

I simply don't understand it. The school my girls attend is pretty diverse. Way more diverse than the schools I attended. Often there were two blacks in my classes; me and Georg (no -e, just Georg). We were like pepper in the salt shaker you know? Very evident, very obvious, very awkward. But my girls' school has more black students, black teachers, Asian students, ESL kids, Hispanic and Latino children. The bulk of the student body is still White, but when you look out at the sea of cherubic faces every shade of person is represented in some way. Yet...

No one celebrates it.

I can't tell you how insanely angry this makes me. It's not just about Black History, Women's History, Asian-Pacific or whatever. It's about education. It's about the fact that I pay money for this education and not just a little bit, I pay a LOT of fucking money all year long. I pay because I want my kids to have a better education than the public schools can provide. I pay big bucks for that privilege. But when shit like this happens, I feel like I'm getting a raw deal. Because they are not teaching my child as much as they could. Hell as much as they should.

My daughter already gets angry when she notices toys specifically marketed to white children or the token black person in some of her favorite shows. She has a very loose concept of what racism consists of and understandably despises it. The kids in her class are very bright, very inquisitive as all children are at that age. Their minds are the proverbial sponge primed for soaking up succulent morsels of knowledge...

And all their school give them is vinegar.

I could do something about it. I did bring the matter up with Jaalyn's teacher but I got no results. Well, that's not entirely fair. She told me there just hasn't been time to teach it. Okay, that's understandable with the snow days, parent/teacher conferences and so on. Now, I'm no professional teacher but I do know that dropping facts to kids in a fun manner can take oh I don't know... 10 minutes max? I'm not asking for a dissertation. I'm asking for acknowledgement. I'm asking that they try.

So like I said, I could do something about it. I could volunteer and teach the kids myself.

The question is should I?

Urpy...

Blargh...

Saturday night:  I awake with a start in the middle of the night to find my daughter, Jaalyn, just staring at me. Annoyed I asked what on earth was the problem. "I'm hot." I was angry at first but then I looked at her eyes and then her flushed cheeks, called her over to feel her forehead and reached for the thermometer...

101.1... fuck.

I get up, give her motrin and get back into bed. I tell her that if she's not sleepy she can play on her laptop or watch a movie on netflix. About 5 minutes later I hear gurgling and then the eruption. How she managed to vomit all over herself, the bed, the blankets but not the laptop I'll never know. She's crying, scared, unused to the process of throwing up. I talk her through each convulsion, trying my best not to blow chunks myself (Note: chicken ravioli with alfredo sauce and broccoli are quite repulsive when regurgitated.). When it seems that her stomach is calming down I dash downstairs for towels, warm wet washcloths, sheets, etc. I get her cleaned up and by the time I begin stripping the bed she's already back on her laptop, chuckling at a game she's playing, buck naked to boot. After I change sheets I slip a fresh tshirt over her head, put her back to bed, and settle back down to try and get some sleep. 20 minutes later I'm awakened by movement in the bedroom. It's Jaalyn again, this time holding her panties in two fingers of one hand. Poor kid. Two new major experiences in one night: Vomiting and sharting. Another cleanup...

Sunday: I spend most of the day doing laundry, washing hands, washing everything Jaalyn's touched, cooking bland starchy food to combat Jaalyn's diarrhea and praying desperately that Trinity doesn't get the same virus. By the evening Jaalyn's able to eat normal food and keep it down. Her fever breaks during the day but returns that night.

Monday: I keep the girls out of school. Jaalyn, because she still has a fever. Trinity because I suspect she's incubating the virus and I don't want to expose her classmates to it. Fast forward to Monday night... Trinity sits up in the middle of the night and vomits... and then vomits again... and again... and again. Fuck.

Tuesday: I keep the girls out of school another day; Jaalyn's fever hasn't been gone for over 24 hours, don't want to expose her classmates to the virus either. Trinity is just miserable. To be three and unable to fully understand what's happening and why is frustrating to her. She doesn't want to eat for fear of throwing up again and doesn't want to drink anything either until I introduce her to ginger ale.

Love at first sip.

By mid-morning my stomach is doing it's own do-si-doh and a trip to the bathroom confirms that fuck, I've got it too.

By the evening it's evident something's not quite right with my dad. He claims it's his sugar levels, they've been running high for several days. Then he starts stumbling and bumping into things. I leave the room and come back to him seated in a corner at the kitchen table with is head laying on his arms, school boy style. He says he's really beginning to feel lousy. I tell him go to bed, I'll finish dinner although the smells of the food make me gag. Jaalyn's the only one able to eat a normal dinner. Dad went to bed and slept for 5 hours and then announced that yep, he's got the virus too.

Wednesday: I manage to haul my aching carcass out of bed and take Jaalyn to school. I come home and lounge on the couch with Trinity allowing the tv to babysit for another day. I don't feel too badly about this though because I notice with the new shows on Nick Jr. she's actually learning things and repeating them throughout the day. Now after a long nap we both feel much better, although Trinity I believe is trying to milk this illness for all the hugs, kisses and ginger ale she can.

Back to work and civilization tomorrow. I hope.

Promises...

*sigh*

Yesterday I said I'd write more often. I looked forward to the task because after writing I almost always feel better about whatever's bothering me. Today, it's a chore. Writing means thinking; thinking means worry (for me) and I've done my best this entire weekend to just try and slow my brain the fuck down.

I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if I have the adult version of ADD because I have those moments where so many thoughts crowd my mind that I cannot focus on any one thing in particular and any attempt at doing so ends in failure. This is especially true at night or when I have something pressing to do. I become forgetful to the point of ridiculousness. More than once I've actually been in the middle of saying something and while speaking I'll completely blank out and forget entirely what I was talking about. It's insane.

So this weekend I've done my best to not think. To relax and calm my mind. Saturday was a bust and most of Sunday was too but today?

Bliss.

The girls entertained themselves with minimal fighting between them and I was left to my own devices. I had remote in hand and watched the History Channel nearly all frigging day. I've proclaimed before that I'm a history nut and on President's Day I'm in heaven watching... well, The Presidents. When I wasn't watching that I watched American Pickers on the History Channel website or else I perused other mundane material. Completely vegged out. I felt guilty at first, because it just seemed wrong, for whatever reason, that my kids played without me. But, they were fine and only sought me out if they needed someone to make a decision or to ask permission to use something.

All in all it was a lovely, boring day.

Soon though, I'll have to address all those dark thoughts lurking in my mind. Anyone reading this blog is aware of how unhappy I am with the direction my life is headed. I need to make changes but I procrastinate and refuse to address the issue. Why? *shrug* I don't know really. Maybe it's because there are certain aspects of my own character that have caused the massive fuckups recently; maybe it's because I hope the problems will go away on their own if I ignore them long enough. Or maybe I'm hoping to get a magic pill from one of my doctors that will make all the hurt, anger, pain and indecisiveness go away for good.

Or maybe I'm just lazy. I dunno. Right now I'm too tired to think on it (surprise).

I'll pick it up again in the morning.

Emoting...

One of the things I dislike the most about having a public journal/blog is the fact that I always hesitate before writing what's truly on my heart. In the back of my mind there is always the fear that someone, somewhere will judge me, take things out of context or criticize. That's part of the reason I stopped posting daily/weekly.

However, I feel that writing enhances my thought process and helps me deal with little issues here and there. So I've made a promise to myself to continue to write, to try and write daily because I miss it. And I miss its soothing effects on my person.

That said, I wish sometimes that I could simply stop emoting. It's one of those things I typically characterize as being distinctly feminine and I firmly believe that it's a weakness. I can't stand getting emotional about things that don't involve my children. That type of emotion, the maternal kind, is okay. I can deal with that. That overwhelming, all-consuming, powerful love, wistfulness and occasional sadness of parenthood. That, I can tolerate.

What I hate is the other emotions that come with day to day living and contact with other people. On this day, of all days, I hate being reminded of love. I hate feeling sorry for myself because, lo, I have no one to love me. The ultimate slap in the face was finding out my suspicions about my kids' father were true. He is seeing someone, it's serious and he's thinking about making her a permanent fixture in his life.

That is a good thing. I am happy for him. He's always been the type to need another person to feel complete. He's not entirely a bad guy so, yay for him. But... it bothered me. Not in the sense that I'm jealous of his girlfriend. God forbid. I don't love him, don't want him, thank God daily that I had the sense not to marry him. It's just... it's that he was the least likely person I thought would find a mate. It bothers me that everyone else can find a special someone, while I get other women's leftovers (i.e. married men).

That thought gave me serious pause. That pause caused considerable pain. Somewhere in that mid-chest region, around that foreign object I keep forgetting I have otherwise known as the heart. I did have to ask myself, why not me? What am I doing wrong that I cannot get a single decent man in my life? For a long time I've always thought I was single by choice... hm. Seems I'm not exactly choosing it anymore.

What's my problem?

Is it really me? Or is it them?

I was once told by a former friend that because of the way I carried myself and the way I spoke that I'd never be attractive to black men. I laughed her comments off at the time and called them ridiculous. Absurd. She claimed that I acted as if I didn't need a man and black men in particular need to feel needed. Plus I spoke "like a white girl" and that intimidated black men and intimated that I felt superior to them.

I still think that's a load of bullshit.

Fast forward to the early part of last year and I was just in casual conversation with a married lover and he commented that the type of man I sought would never be found (for the record I said I desired a man that was intelligent, stable and would love me for me. I think I may have put in a few minor particulars that I can't recall at the moment but those were the top things I sought...). I asked why; he responded that I intimidate men too much. Just by being me. He said the way I carried myself was with the attitude of "I don't need you". I said well, I don't need a man. And I still feel that way. I don't need a man to feel complete. But I'll come back to that statement in a minute. Mr. Married Friend stated that that was exactly the problem. He said a man needs to feel needed otherwise he figures why bother?

*cue chirping crickets*

Hm.

So after that I went to another friend (another former lover but very close friend) and asked him the same questions... and I received the same fucking answers. What. The. Fuck. Seriously? I need to be practically desperate to pull a dude? A black man in particular? Getthafuckouttahere.

Look, I would love to have someone special in my life. I'd love to give every ounce of love I have in my cold, black little heart and have it reciprocated. In the relationships I've had in the past, all of which have been long standing, I was a great girlfriend. I was a great wife when I was married. This isn't just my opinion, all of my exes said the same thing. They really had no complaints and our relationships fizzled because of other reasons (like finding that one boyfriend was a psychotic, married, stalker or discovering that he wasn't man enough to handle responsibilities [that was baby daddy] or merely discovering that we were no longer suited for one another). So I really thought I was prime girlfriend material.

*cue the crickets again*

Evidently, I'm wrong.

As far as needing a man... please. I don't need a man. Yes, I'd like to have a good man but I won't be all miserable and on suicide watch (yeah, I've had some friends that were like that) just because I don't have someone with a three piece set at my side. Having a good man is like... It's like cooking a tried and true recipe and one day you add a different ingredient and it adds a whole new flavor to the dish. The dish was fine without the new ingredient, but better with the addition.

That's what I want. I don't feel incomplete. But I'd enjoy having an accompaniment.

Which brings me back to baby daddy and the new girlfriend. Again, I'm not jealous that she has him. Good Lawd she can take him (preferably far, far away from here... like Tanzania). I'm jealous that he gets the joys of the single life. That he can go out and date, whereas I'm either in the position of taking the kids with me or locating a sitter. He can go spend his money on himself. I spend my last dimes on the children. He can go out to places where singles congregate. I get the PTO and kiddie birthday parties. I think I'm more upset at the gross disparity in our lives than the actual outcome.

I wish... a lot more than I care to admit... I wish that I could devote more time on me. On cultivating my interests, maximizing my appearance, on being young and single. But I can't, or rather I can't seem to focus on that right now. Right now, as always, the focus is on the girls. And that's okay. That's my chosen lot in life and I enjoy it. But then natural feelings like the ones I'm experiencing now creep in and I start to resent things... people... my own children.

That's worrisome. I feel, as always, that I have the better part of the deal because I have the kids, I have all their experiences. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't experiencing burnout. That frightens me terribly. I don't like resenting my girls and I don't like not being able to fully enjoy them.

And truthfully, I'm not really sure how to deal with it or change it. I'm open to suggestions though.
NDVYXJF2NZP9

And So It Ends...

Originally I was going to write about the passing of time, observing how my life has changed, has it changed for the better or worse, have I grown, etc.

Nope. Changed my mind.

Instead, I write about what's really on my mind. What I've really been wanting to write about despite fearing what others would think when they saw how I felt.

As anyone who reads this, or has ever read this or read my Blackplanet page, or anyone that even knows me at all... pretty much everyone knows how I feel towards relationships, men, marriage and the like. Recently there were a few that I thought would change how I felt; make me see the error of my ways and all that jazz. You know, make me see how fucking wrong I was about love, life, men and everything.

Bull-fucking-shit.

I've come to the conclusion that I am not relationship material. I simply am not. I can't deal with the emotions of the heart, the games of the mind, the bullshitty-ness of it. The fleeting happiness of being with another person just isn't enough to make it worthwhile in my opinion. Love fucking hurts like hell and I don't see why I should continue to subject myself to the pain like some sort of martyr.

Love isn't easy, relationships aren't easy. I know, I get it. It takes work. This time, like so many others I was willing to try. I was willing to make it work. I really thought I wouldn't get hurt, that I'd have this awesome ROI kinda thing going on... except...

Except that it didn't work out that way. Heart's broken. Again. FUCK.

I said it wouldn't happen.

I said I'd give myself those daily pep talks. The ones that state that I don't need a man/deserve the best/worth so much more. All lies. All bullshit. All dreams shot to shit.

AND I hurt. Fabulous.

So now what? Pick up the broken heart pieces and keep on looking? Dust myself off declare that this one little incident won't define me or deter me from future loves?

Nope. I plan to sit in the corner, lick my wounds and be a total bitch about it. I plan to be totally emo about it, channel my inner 14 year old girl and have a good cry. And once I've aired out my feelings and gotten past this fucking weakness, this sickness, then, I'll pick myself up, dust myself off and become that Ice Queen again.

Because after all, being the man hating, ball busting, bitchy Ice Queen doesn't get me hurt. I can cover my heart and all those weak emotions until there isn't even the smallest nugget of feeling left.

And I'll be just fine.

Just fucking fine.

I wasn't wrong in my initial assessment of men, relationships and marriage. There's nothing wrong with any of them in particular. They simply are not for me. Not at this moment in time. Perhaps not ever.

And that too, is just fucking fine.

Hate...

I hate the county I live in with a passion.

I hate the barely disguised racism.

I hate the county administrators.

I hate the back hickwater asshats in charge around here.

I hate that you have to pay a membership fee for the priviledge to join the eletrical co-op when there is no choice in joining because they are the only electric supplier around.

I hate the fact that I have two separate water bills.

I hate that when I mail the bills, they mysteriously never make it to the payment office and if I pay in cash they don't give out receipts. I got a notice today that my water has been turned off. I called the office last week and spoke with a woman who told me my bill amount and the days to come pay it. I went in last Wednesday and paid. Today when I got the notice on my door that the water was off, I called, spoke with the same woman and she denied speaking to me last week or giving me any information. She stated that if I want my water back on I need to come pay the bill in full plus reconnection fees today before close of business. I don't have it. I won't have it until Friday.

I hate that for all the good in my life, there's so much shit that keeps fucking it up. Shit that's so bizarre and rare that if it happened to anyone else I'd laugh at the incredulousness of it all.

It just doesn't stop.

When I Was A Child, Part II...

When I was a child I loved video games. I mean they boggled my little mind. I can still remember the first time I played Pong, Donkey Kong (before he was named), Pacman, Double Dribble... man so many great Atari games. I used to sit silently at my best friend's side as we snuck behind her two older brothers' backs and played their Atari. I sucked at all the boy games like Double Dribble, although I vividly recall putting together an awesome team with my fav players, Dr. J and Larry Byrd among others and I kicked Kim's ass that one time. I kicked ass in Pacman too and for the longest time my dearest wish was to be tall enough to play the arcade version. The plight of the vertically challanged. To tide me over until I was tall enough, Santa brought me the arcade tabletop version of Pacman. Later Santa brought my daughter the tabletop version of Frogger... but my Pacman was better.

The wonderment of video games never ceased to amaze me. I wanted to know how that tiny machine could come up with so many variations that it seemed no sequence ever repeated. I never had an Atari of my own but when I got my very first Nintendo system I was ecstatic. I'd played one earlier that summer at a youth center my parents sent me to during the daytime so my dad could sleep uninterrupted (he worked at night). We were only permitted to play about 3 minutes at a time because there were so many kids but those three minutes were magical. When I got my very own for Christmas you'd have thought I died and went to heaven. I played for hours throughout Christmas vacation, often calling my friends on the phone and we'd play together and share secrets. I remember playing so often I'd dream about the game at night.

Those dreams were magical. I'd wake and the game that I'd played a million times before would always seem new again. I'd imagine what it was like to travel those weird, distant lands and how it would be if the game were ever made into a movie (and oh my hell didn't that Super Mario Bros. movie suck ass when it did come out?!). I never tired of the adventures even after I received a multitude of other games I still came back to my favorite Mario games. Although I wanted other systems, my parents never bought me another except for a gameboy for which I begged and pleaded. I used to borrow my boyfriend's Super Nintendos, Sega Genesis, etc. I'd actually prolong the breaking up process just so I could hold onto the games for a little longer.

One thing that few people know about me is that I STILL love video games, probably for the same childish reasons. I hate that what I grew up with is now considered "vintage". I still have my original Nintendo 8 bit that I received for Christmas all those years ago. Still have to blow into the cartridges and wiggle them a bit to get them to work, just like I did back then. I still don't have an Atari although I'm always on the lookout for an original; I refuse to buy the new/vintage model. I still want a Super Nintendo. I have a Sega Genesis, Nintendo 64, and Playstation 1 and 2. I have no interest for some reason in the Wii, nor the Xbox 360. Well, I've seen and heard nightmare stories about the Xbox and that was a turn-off. I also still have my original Gameboy somewhere, a gameboy color, and several Nintendo DS along with my favorite game: Super Mario Bros. DS. Quelle surprise!

And I still have my tabletop Pacman. I lost the back for the battery compartment decades ago but it still works with 4 C batteries and some duct tape.

Now, I'm rediscovering the playstation 2 games I used to love with a passion like the Tomb Raider and Mortal Kombat series. The father of my daughter's best friend gave me about 25 "adult" games that I've become enamored with of late. Currently, Jaalyn and I are playing Bully. I shouldn't have let her see me playing it but it's such a wickedly fun game.

Games are my refuge these days. My stress level is so high that I feel like not just giving up, but running away and never returning. There's nothing like a good ole violent video game to make you forget about your own troubles. And I find myself doing the same thing I did as a kid; dreaming about the games, wondering what it would be like if the game were reality. Some things never die I guess.

When I Was A Child...

When I was a child I was extremely shy and nervous. I could cry at the drop of a hat and shut it off just as quickly. I was so shy that I felt embarassed calling my father "dad" or "daddy" and always referenced him as "my father". Mom's coworkers used to openly tease me about this and frequently made fun of my speech. To them, it was unnatural for a black girl to speak like white people. They guessed that it came from the white private school. I hated to be the center of attention of mom's friends and the teasing had a profound effect on me that sticks to this very day. I still feel uncomfortable in the presence of blacks when my speech is like the whites.

When I was a child I used to cower in a dark closet in my room, eyes tightly shut, praying to God, Buddah, the spiders in the corner to please let my parents stop fighting. Please stop my father from hitting and beating my mother. Please stop my mother's screams and antagonizing. Sometimes it seemed like she wanted him to hit her. She'd goad him on with ridiculous taunts and smart remarks. When things became quiet I'd come out of my closet and lay on my bed feigning sleep so that neither of them would come close to me. I'd open my eyes when they left my room and stare up at my Rainbow Brite canopy and dream of running away. For years I kept a suitcase packed and ready along with a hand drawn map of where I'd run to. I figured I'd run to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts or maybe to my school which seemed just as big as the museum to me. I got the idea from reading the book From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. I loved that book but hated the ending where Claudia and her brother went home. But like Claudia I began to save my money so that I could at least afford cab fare or bus fare to the museum. Once, I slipped out of the house and walked down the darkened street as my parents fought in the house. Amazing that nothing happened to me. I vaguely remember being worried about dangerous murdering men, the Briley brothers, because they frequented the house directly behind ours. But even then I knew that they didn't mess with little girls. I remember meeting one of the Briley brothers once; he was nice to me, said I was a pretty little girl. Funny, I hadn't thought about that in years. Anyway, that night I'd made it a good distance down the street before my conscious kicked in regarding my mother. What would happen to her if I weren't there to step in and stop my father? Would he blame her if I went missing? Probably. And then he'd take more anger out on her. I remember looking one way down the street into the darkness and looking back at my house... and I turned and went home. They never knew I was gone. And they were still fighting.

When I was a child I wanted to be a nun. The only thing that stopped me from taking up the vocation was that I knew my desire to be a mother was stronger than the desire to retreat into a cloister. But the idea of being a nun seemed safe. You were protected, fed, clothed and life was orderly. You knew exactly what you had to do, when to do it, and no matter what you were guaranteed that slot in heaven when you died. I craved the order, the quiet, the peace. I wanted to be taken care of and I didn't want to worry about bills being paid, being successful in life, dealing with boys/men. I wanted a life where it was expected for me to be subservient. Where my belongings would be so few that I would never have to worry about a mess again. Where it was impossible to fail at your mission in life. Pray, live, die. Perfect. The problem with becoming a nun? To my knowledge there were no black nuns. It wasn't talked of back then when the nuns tried recruiting and they ignored my queries. So, I kept that desire in my heart and swallowed my disappointment.

When I was a child and I learned about the Civil War and slavery I wondered what the former slaves thought just before they were freed and how they felt about freedom afterwards. Back then our history books didn't give us that information or any indication that there were slaves that actually prefered to remain captive. That there were some blacks that felt that slavery was right and natural and that there were some blacks that were too fearful of failure and indeed felt that freedom meant that they would in fact fail. As a child I sat and thought that perhaps slavery wasn't so bad if you got one of the good guys to be your master you know? To me it seemed to be not quite so bad because at least you knew what you had to do in order to survive. You worked, hard, but you were taken care of. You never had to worry about money or lack thereof; food; other vagaries of life. None of that mattered because you were kept too busy to be concerned with anything else. Happiness wasn't expected. You did what you had to do and then you died.

When I was a child I wished I could go back in time and live in any century other than now. Centuries ago lines were drawn, men were men, women were women and that was that. Men had roles and responsibilities and they did them. Women had their separate roles and responsibilities and they performed. They were subservient and allowed themselves to be cared for by the men. Despite my growing feelings for women's lib, this appealed to me. No worries. Worries fell on the man's head, not the woman's. God knows in my young world I had enough to worry about.

When I was a child I enjoyed nature so much. I loved playing with my best friend Kim next door but equally magical was those few afternoons that I had alone. It amazes me how quickly I'd forgotten those magical times. I had a ton of toys always. My father would buy me practically anything I wanted. I guess out of guilt but who knows. But on those days when I played alone, I didn't need the toys. I'd be happy with a stick and leaves, water and mud, and whatever else I could find outside. I'd been feeding stray cat, Kitty, and she stayed pregnant so there was always a litter of kittens around. There were spiders, crickets, and grasshoppers to catch; ants to watch as they marched on the sidewalk and up and down the tree trunks (later I'd find my magnifying glass and test that whole sun-frying-them-on-the-pavement theory.). Or I'd chew some gum and leave it's sugary goodness on the pavement and watch as they'd first converge and then stick in the middle of it. I'd study them and note how the first few fools got stuck and the others would come, look, and simply take a hunk of gum from the outer edge and retreat back to the anthill. They didn't care about fallen comrades, only survival. I'd make mud pies, or "fish" in the swollen clogged up gutters in the backyard, hunt for birds eggs, or my favorite springtime activity: sitting on the ground beneath the big japanese maple tree in the front yard and gazing up into the sky watching the squirrels, the clouds, airplanes, etc. I'd lie there and dream. I'd dream of flying, of my future, or escaping my life entirely. I'd think on how wonderful it would be to live in nature, in the wild, answering to no one, failing no one, dependant on no one... except yourself.

As an adult, I wish for that simplistic joy I had in nature. It's all but evaporated. The fear of failure still lingers... no, lingers isn't the right word... it's not strong enough to reflect the way I truly feel about it.

I fear failure. Not personal failure, just failing my kids. Which I suppose means that if I have a personal failure I do fail them as well.

I hate that.

It's That Time Again...

Time for colds and illnesses and viruses of every sort to filter into our lives and bring us crashing to our knees. Last week it was Jaalyn and she was only mildly hit with a sinus infection, a terrible bout of coughing and brief low-grade fever.

Two nights ago it was Trinity. 101 degree fever, coughing, diarrhea, sore throat. My heart aches to see her unwell. Times like this make me angry at her father, who hasn't called to even see how she's faring. There are times when he throws it in my face that I have the luxury of having the children all the time. As if it's all sunny and rosy and happy days. Well, there are those days, but then there are times like now when she's moaning in her sleep because the fever and virus are coursing through her body and giving her no peace. Times like now when I feel her forehead, temples and soles of her feet praying to God that her fever has broken. I try not to disturb her as I check her, disguising my probing with kisses, backrubs and stolen moments. In the night I wake constantly, nearly every hour, to check her, feel her, medicate her and beat her.

I don't mean beat her as in abuse. I have to beat her back as she takes her breathing treatments to break up the congestion in her lungs. To somehow force her to take bigger gulps of medicated air in hopes that this gunk in the lower left lumbar will dissipate.

You see, Trinity has pneumonia... again.

My mom thinks, well at least she's hinted that this is my fault. That somehow I've neglected to bundle the child up against the cold and wind and rain... that somehow I've failed both my kids. That's just my mom being her usual toxic self. I suppose in a way she's right though; I mean in the late night hours I wonder the same thing myself.

Healing...

I'm healing in more ways than one.

Healing my body...

I just had surgery to repair an umbilical hernia. Over the years stress and pregnancy have created a cacophony of minor health issues here and there: cracks in my pelvic bone, slipped discs in my vertabrae, post partum depression, hi aortal hernias, etc.

One Saturday in September after a grueling day of shopping with the kids and being on my feet for 12 hours straight, pushing an umbrella stroller with a bockety wheel that I hate with my nearly 50 pound three year old in it, lifting, lugging, pushing, pulling. I came home sore. My entire body was wracked with pain and the area all around my belly was rock hard. It hurt to even stand upright, completely still. I could not lie down flat in bed. Sleep that night was impossible. All day that Sunday I "took it easy" (i.e. only doing laundry, breakfast, lunch and dinner for the kids) and that Monday I felt better but thought maybe I should go get checked out. Imagine my surprise when my doctor announced that I had a hernia the size of a small grapefruit and refused to allow me to leave his office. I was rushed to the nearest hospital to meet with a surgeon who yawned and said my doctor overreacted, that my hernia was only the size of, say, the opening of a soda bottle. Very little, was his description.

Still the solution was surgery, which was scheduled for the first week in October. An awful experience all around thanks in part to my parents, the anesthesiologist and some other memorable moments best forgotten. The surgeon had to eat crow and admit (after surgery) that my doctor had been right all along, the hernia was huge and required much more repair than he'd thought. It took a very large piece of mesh to repair the hernia and I had a nearly 6 inch gap between my abdominal muscles and he took it upon himself to repair them by fusing them back together.

Ouch.

Two days after surgery I came down with a horrendous sinus infection that swelled the entire left side of my face and caused the most wretched pain ever. Having no one to drive me to the doctor, I drove myself and after waiting a long time to see the doctor I promptly face-planted into the nearest wall as I attempted to walk back to the examination room. Did I mention my doctor's office is nearly an hour from my home? Scary ride back indeed.

Long story short (too late) I'm still recouperating from it all. I don't go back to work for another two weeks.
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Healing emotions...

I think everyone has had a moment when they evaluate the friends they have and determine whether they truly are friends or simply fair weather friends. Single parents have or rather, should have support systems of friends and family that they can count on in any situation.

I do not have that. I don't think I've ever had it. During the preparations for my surgery and throughout all that happened after my surgery I am certain that I have perhaps three friends that I could possibly count on in an emergency. Everyone else... I just don't know.

I do know that the realization that the people I called friends are in fact not, cut me quite deeply. I can't really describe why. But I can say that my already diminished circle of pals is now definitely whittled down to a trio.

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Healing spirits...

During September I had an epiphany. Suddenly, I knew "what I wanted to be when I grew up." I know the exact path I must take to obtain my goal, how long it will take, and I know I'll be successful. And as soon as all this was revealed to me a calm settled over me. I don't know. It's like I feel like I can dare to dream, to hope, to have goals once more. An absolutely weird feeling of peace has descended.

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Healing heart and body...

Still working on this one. I think, for now anyway, that my problems in the lack-o-love department stem from *drumroll*, ME.

Profound, I know.

My self esteem and overall spirits have been abyssmal to say the least. My lack of confidence in my personal appearance destroys any confidence anyone else would have in me too. And the lack of confidence isn't from my weight or clothes or anything like that. It's my teeth. They are rotting in my head, well the few that I have left. I put everything before getting them fixed. It's costly and painful and my God I wish I could smile with confidence. I wish that this shit wasn't hereditary and I wish people would believe me when I say it's hereditary and not think that I'm bullshitting them. It's not because of a lack of dental hygiene; my parents, aunts and uncles on both sides of the family have the exact same issue. We're considered lucky if we can keep most of our own teeth without major intervention to the age of 40. I am 32 and oh hell, I'll be able to keep most of the bottom row but the top is just gone beyond hope. I hate my teeth and the troubles they bring. I am terrified of dentists to the point that I have to have a tranquilizer prior to seeing them otherwise I can't sit in the fucking chair in the waiting room let alone that monstrosity they examine you in. This fear stems from a long list of terrible, rough dentists over the years. (I once had a dentist who I would LOVE to name here that tried to remove a crown without anesthesia with pliers. I had blood running down my face and pooling in my neck and he said that I was behaving like a baby and that if I didn't stop screaming he'd REALLY hurt me. Rotten fucking bastard.)

Anyway, that's my big confession. The elephant in the room that everyone wants to talk about.

My teeth.

Yo-yo-ing...

There have been lots of good times lately. And an equal amount of bad times. Despite this I am doing well. I stopped taking my prozac; I felt I didn’t need it and had no reason to rely on it. The doom and gloom and despair that had hung over me since giving birth to Trinity had lifted. I only occasionally felt that familiar feeling drape over me, usually when it was getting close to the time that my period arrives. So, completely normal, no?

No.

Ulcers and hernias have returned with a vengeance. Most nights I don’t sleep because the pain and pressure keep me writhing. There is no comfortable position. There are no magic drugs. There is no magic cure.

*sigh*

It’s stress of course. What else could it be? Stress from the pressures of daily living. Keeping my head above the water, aka “debt”, fighting with the girls’ father, just… a lot. Writing used to be my outlet. I wish it worked so easily now as it did then. I’ll try to reinforce the habit again, not just for therapy, but because of my love for it.
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Today, while shopping for groceries, I saw a man. I’d seen him in produce, bumped into him again in dairy. Big dude, beautiful brown skin, cap set back on his close cropped hair, triangle of a goatee. Tall. And big… I adore big men. Skinny men do nothing for me, but big men… ah. I love them. Bellies and all. There’s just something so sexy and attractive about the way they carry their weight, the way you can snuggle under their arms on the couch, and cushion your head on their massive chests when lying in bed.
Anyway, this guy was insanely sexy. I went across his path - because no one stands between me and my hazelnut coffee creamer - and he spoke to me. A deep “Hey… how you doin’?” I looked him in his brown eyes and said hi back, “I’m good and you?” and hoped he’d say more. You know, ask for my number or continue the conversation.

Nothing. I got my creamer, turned around and he was gone. Wow. Now there’s a blow to the ol’ ego. I continued to shop and chat with Trinity who was sitting in the front of the cart but my thoughts wandered. Why did he lose interest? Is it my teeth? Am I that ugly? Fat? I bet it’s because I’m fat. God, I’m such a fool to think anyone would ever be interested in me, fat as I am and ugly to boot. Why bother even coming out of the house? I should stick to my usual shopping areas, usual shopping times, midday when other moms are about, not paying anyone any mind except their bald, bawling babies in their cars eats in the cart…

For a while, I couldn’t stop myself from tearing my own esteem and confidence to shreds while simultaneously wondering what the fuck was wrong with me that I was visibly hurt and agonizing over this guy that previously hadn’t existed to me 15 minutes earlier. I mean, yeah, I normally do beat myself up, but not like that. But then it hit me:

My period… coming soon.
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It’s things like what I wrote above that make me realize how lonely I truly am. I don’t feel I need a man to complete me and I don’t necessary want to be in a relationship. I’ll be the first to admit I’m a commitaphobe or whatever you call people that are terrified of anything deeper than a friendship. But there are times when I miss having someone around. Not necessarily men, because women… an entirely delectable subject altogether. But I miss having a man sometimes. The largeness of him, the scent of him, the heat that resonates from his body. The heady aromas of cologne mixed with the freshness of soap from his shower and wave grease in his hair. The sexiness of a thin necklace or bracelet resting on his skin. Gentle mustache hair tickling my neck as he nuzzles me. Huge, powerful hands that dwarf my own and that gently caress my body, possessing every crevice, gently resting on the curve of my hip. Kisses down my spine, my chin, my breasts and beyond.

Intellectual conversations, heated political debates, mutual appreciation of music and art, laughter and love, sensuality and sexuality all melting into…

Him.
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Another birthday has come and gone for me. Another month or so where I sit and reflect on my life, now, past and future. I don’t regret the past. Ever. I’m not anxious for the future either. Too many shattered hopes and dreams. I don’t dare dream again. I have no hopes. I exist, here, now.

But then I think of my children. How my every waking breath is for them. Every blessed moment. Every dime I make, step I take, decision, everything is all for them. Have I lost me? Probably. At this point I think I am too far gone to find me.

But there is something about birthdays that makes you realize how much or little you mean to those of value in your life. And with each passing year my heart grows a little colder with the knowledge that I don’t mean shit to friends. It’s not that I expect parties or gifts or money. Just simple acknowledgement. You see, for others, my friends, family… whoever. I make an effort to let them know that they matter. To me, to everyone. And I don’t always do it in a way that’s best reflected through money. I take the time to figure out what would be most pleasing to that particular person and find ways to express congratulations, happiness, whatever to them. For one girlfriend who was celebrating a birthday at a time that I had very little money I found a couple of books by her favorite author at a bookstore on clearance and I got her a card. Inside that card I enclosed a brief letter of encouragement because she (like me) is always putting herself down and never realizing how truly valuable she is as a person and a friend. It made her cry. That was years ago and she tells me that even now when she’s feeling down she pulls out that letter and it makes her cry all over again and see herself in a different light. That same friend was the only person to really make me feel special this year on my birthday. No one else bothered. No one else cared.

First time in 32 years that I didn’t have so much as a cake for my birthday.
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I’m not trying to whine. Really. I’ve got problems but my issues are minor compared to so many others. I realize that. But it doesn’t stop me from wishing a little and wanting just a little bit more happiness in my life. I wish to God that I didn’t have to take prozac even occasionally. I wish I weren’t so afraid to dream. I wish I had someone to hold me tight (if only for one night, heh). I wish that someone would understand that sometimes it’s so fucking hard to keep putting one foot in front of the other and that you do it because you don’t know what else to do. Not because you want to or have to.

Because you just don’t know anything different.

Untitled...

Updating...

I'm still here.

Still hanging in there.

But...

Not as depressed... Yeah, scary right? Been a long ass time since I've not written about depression, depressing thoughts, oh-my-God/oh-woe-is-me shit.

I'm actually feeling pretty good on the regular now. And it's not due to medication either because it's rare that I remember to take it. I dunno. Maybe God shined His benevolent light on me. Maybe I'm too busy with other activities to even become depressed. Maybe, just maybe, I just got sick and tired of it and said No More.

Let's go with that last one.

I'm on a healing road to wellness. I'm gonna try and drop some weight for real and get out some aggression at the YMCA. I'm back in school and I'm really enjoying my classes. I decided to double major in History and Psychology and I have a renewed interest in my classes. I'm not going to school for my job, I'm going to school for ME. The fact that it'll likely help get me promoted on the job is just an afterthought. I'm obsessed with my grades and thus far I've been maintaining a *drumroll* 4.0 GPA.

The girls are happy and healthy and spoiled fucking rotten. Jaalyn has gotten straight As on every single report card that's come home and is sailing right along into the 3rd grade this August. She's a dork like her mother and has requested that I purchase her third grade textbooks on Ebay so she can study them over the summer and be ahead when she goes back to school.

Trinity will be 3 this coming Sunday. Unfuckingbelievable. Time flies.

I've gone on a... um.. how to put this? Well, I've gone on a sex strike. No more sex with married men, period. No more convenience sex. I really just got fed up with getting short changed. I deserve better. Those dude's wives deserve better. Not every man out here is a lying, cheating sack of shit. It's just that all the dudes I ever come into contact with are lying, cheating sacks of shit. Some day, one day I'll meet my guy. Hell, I may even meet my gal. I'll probably write more about this another time. Right now I just can't get my words together to describe the hows and whys of why I did what I did. All I can say is that I've never felt better about any decision I've made recently than I did that one.

I have really decided to try and focus a little bit more on me. The girls take most of my energies and so does my dad. But I've been trying to take time out each month to do things that I alone enjoy. Tours with the history museum, visiting other museums, bookshops, festivals, etc. I'm going to try and mingle more not with the intention of finding a mate, but simply to enjoy other people's company and learn more. There's a vast world out there for me to explore and so far all I've discovered is a sliver. So my interest in other things has overshadowed that awful depressing feeling I had. I still have some bad days but they are far less frequent than before. I still have a lot of personal issues to work out, but things will fall into place in time.

My mom is still bat shit crazy, still annoying as fuck, still doing her best to keep my spirits low and keep me under her thumb. I turn a deaf ear to her, write in my journal in my purse and keep it moving. I will not let her get me down. It's a crabs in a barrel thing with her I think. Then again maybe she's just a mean hateful woman that's become bitter in her not quite old age.

My dad still worries me. He lives with me full time now and yeah I do feel cramped and smothered sometimes but I feel it's for the best. Deep in his heart I think he thinks so too. He's come to rely on me to provide happiness for him and I just cannot do that. He's depressed, I was depressed you can imagine what kind of household this was. But... I've gotten him a membership to the local YMCA as well so hopefully he'll take advantage of it and maybe even meet a nice lady there. He needs to feel loved and appreciated just like any other person and he needs someone to kick him in the ass and get him back on the road to happiness. I'm just not that person and it took a lot for me to realize that.

But all in all, things are lookin' up.

Just taking it day-by-beautiful-day.

Repetition...

I am honestly sick and tired of writing about depression. I feel that there's nothing more that I could possibly write about it. I wish it would go away but it never does. At least, it doesn't go away for very long before something triggers its inevitable return.

If I'm not depressed about money (and it's usually money), then I'm depressed about my weight. If not my weight, then life in general. If not life in general, it's back to money issues. Ugh, so many fucking money issues. Always. I work to live, live to work and it's like there is nothing in between except this irritating factor called consciousness.

I hate money. I hate not having it. I even hate having it because I never have enough of it to do the things I need to do. And I don't want to do extravagant things. I just want to pay my fucking bills. I don't want to live above my means, I just want to live period. In this economy I am extremely thankful for my job. I'm lucky and blessed and I know it. But damn damn damn it's still fucking hard to make ends meet. I give and I give and I swear I can't give anymore. Morning, noon and night I sit and worry and fret. The worry causes me to eat, which causes me to gain weight, which further sinks me into the abyss of depression and self loathing.

I'm sick of it all. I'm at the point (again) where no mom should ever tread. The point where you really give serious thought to giving up your kids to someone else in hopes that they can do a better job than you can in providing for them. I just don't know what to do anymore. I'm so tired of weeping, waking with sore and swollen eyes and telling everyone "Oh it's just allergies." Bullshit. I'm knocking my head against a brick wall trying my damnedest to find a way around it, under it, over it, ANYWHERE but where I am now.

I just don't know what else I can do.

And then I think of people like the Spohrs and GB and I look at my kids and wonder how blessed I am, that I shouldn't complain, I shouldn't be ungrateful, that I'd give up a week, month, year of my life if it meant those two families could have that much more time with their precious babies. I look at my two and think that I have to do this, I have no choice, they deserve a mom that can do the best that she can to better their lives.

But sometimes I feel I just can't do it. I feel helpless and hopeless. Always. No amount of Prozac takes away the feeling. And truthfully, something that I'll admit here and nowhere else... I'm developing a habit with the pills. Oh not the prozac, that does nothing really. But combined with percocet, oxycontin, hydrocodone, codeine, anything else it numbs me so that I can't really focus on my problems. It gives me dreamless sleep and peace of mind. I don't overdose, up my dose, combine or anything like that. If I feel that one drug loses it's effect I'll go off it for a week, two and try something different afterwards. Guess it's no worse than people that smoke weed to put themselves in another place and forget their problems. I could never understand why people got high.

Now I do. And I hate that I understand so fucking well.

Humbled...

I was all set to write about my sorrows. Bitch about my weight, the ills of life, woe is me...

And then...

I read this...

Which led me to this...

After which I read this, this, and this...

And by the time I sat down and viewed this I was in tears...

Nothing matters anymore. All the shit I would've complained about and whined about; all the injustices and things weighing heavy on my heart... none of it matters. My heart could explode for all the sadness I feel for these two families.

I sat and I stared at my two beautiful blessings and thought of how crushed I would be if... if... if the unthinkable happened. Never to stroke their hair again, breathe in their lovely scents, hear their laughter, feel their hugs.

My God.

We Interrupt This Brief Moment Of Optimism...

I'm bringing negativity back.

I can't help it. It's like everything in the cosmos is against me. I just don't understand it. When tough times hit I just ride the waves through it all because I know the trial(s) are only temporary, it could be worse, etc. But a large part of me looks at things on a spiritual level and I'm just like oh my God what the hell do you have against me?

There's a running joke among us religious cynics that the quickest path to a miserable life is to become a Christian. Because the better you are as a person the worse your life becomes, hence the term Christian Martyr. I was taught, just like everyone else that you do unto other as you would have them do unto you; You reap what you sow; God honors the good and despises the bad.

I just don't get it.

I Resolve...

Doesn't the whole idea of making resolutions for the new year just suck? It's like some sadistic form of setting yourself up in advance for failure and disappointment for the next 365 days.

Resolution #1: Be more positive

Yeah, so, um... 2008 wasn't exactly the year of sunshine and rainbows for me. My overall attitude stunk and I hated that. My friends hated it. My mother hated it (but I didn't and still don't care). I used to be the one with the positive outlook. Actually, I still am when it comes to other people. For my own situations it's been straight pessimism and that should stop. I have always treated others better than myself.

It's time for fair treatment. I can and will be more optimistic, more positive but I absolutely refuse to be fucking chipper.

Resolution #2: Be Patient

Again, normally I am patient. Times of stress bring out the absolute worst in me. The kids wear on my already frayed nerves and I morph into a shrieking demon of terror. Even as the words spew from my lips I'm shocked at my own tone of voice. Every parent has days like that, I know. But my days are becoming more frequent.

Patience also isn't my strong suit when setting/achieving goals either. I want things done right now. I do not want to wait. I do not want others to "help" me. I want what I want when I want it right. NOW.

Case in point: I'd like a companion, male or female, in my life. Now. But it's just not happening. And upon reflection... that's most likely a good thing.

Resolution #3: Humor

My mother once remarked that the most unusual things seem to happen only to me and she sardonically suggested I write a book about it. Well, she's right (please don't tell her I said so because I will never hear the end of it). The thing is instead of taking the negative approach to it, I ought to highlight the humor of the situation the way I've normally done in the past.

Exhibit A: Disasterous holidays are a habit for me. Dinners I prepare for holiday meals are no exception. Let the record show that under normal circumstances I am a good cook. However, three year or so ago on Thanksgiving day disaster struck. Water would not flow to the kitchen sink (for the life of me I can't remember what happened to cause that), so all water for boiling potatoes, washing hands, dishes, meats, etc had to come from the bathroom sink or tub; the ceiling in the kitchen just to the right of the sink exploded from a water leak that I'd been complaining about to maintenance for about three months but they refused to admit was there despite this growing bubble in my kitchen ceiling. So, heh, I guess that is what caused the pressure to go kaput in the kitchen sink. Add to that mess that I blew up the ham. That's right. Blew it to bits. No idea how it happened or why it happened. I remember using one of those baking bags that I'd used hundreds of time before. Cut slits in the bag, flour it, insert ham and tie it loosely. Blam. Now granted I was upset. But the entire situation was so damned funny. I mean who blows up a ham?!

And this Christmas... sigh. Really, I blame the turkey. The bird was cursed from the start. My mom, the woman that grosses like 70k a year took not one but FIVE turkeys from a local church that was giving them away to the poor. I was appalled and disgusted as were the people she gave the turkeys to. I may be struggling financially but I would never, ever take food from the needy. As a matter of fact despite it all I regularly toss extra non-perishable items into my grocery cart to donate to the Daughters of Charity so that they can distribute it to those less fortunate. So when mom showed up glowing at the thought of pilfering 5 frozen birds to give to herself and a few family members I was upset but figured eh, she thinks she's doing good so I'll cook it anyway.

Ladies and gentleman, the turkey caught fire.

Twice.

I have no idea how it happened. Turkey is supposed to be the leanest meat next to fish right? Evidently the bird was a fatty one and the drippings rolled off the foil tent and onto the burners below the rack. The second time the bird caught fire I got pissed off, turned off the oven, put out the flames, aired out the house, beat the ever-loving-crap out of the smoke detector, and let the bitch sit in the oven overnight. I was so mad I couldn't even bear to take it out. The next day I tossed it into the garbage and went to Food Lion and bought another. It turned out beautifully. Best bird I've baked in a long time. It was so lovely I wanted to take a picture of it.

But still... how the hell?

Resolution #4: Take out the trash

Literally and figuratively. I want the negatives out of my life. That means negative thoughts, negative actions and negative people. I've made this resolution before and I did gain ground a little bit in 08. This year I plan to purge big time.

And all this clutter and bullshit in the house? Going. Out. NOW.

Resolution #5: Make Me Over

Not only do I need a character makeover, I need a physical one too. I need to lose weight, eat healthier, become more active and have some pride in my appearance. With that pride comes confidence which has been a stranger of late.

I have a 5 month short term goal to get into physical shape. I plan to race and complete the Susan G Komen Race For The Cure on May 9th of this year. I've lost relatives to breast cancer and a close friend has been battling it for about two years now. I can... I WILL do this.

If you are in the area, join me. We can huff and puff together for the cause.

And... I've got to fix lunch for the kids so I'll continue this later.

Thank you Christ the Christmas holidays are over. I stopped pretending long ago to enjoy the holiday season. I absolutely detest them now. I keep up a front for the kids and that's about it. This year was no exception, it sucked hot sweaty donkey balls.

Anyway, I've been trying to rejuevenate my sagging spirits by listening to music**. Which worked wonderfully until I picked up Beyonce's latest cd. Now I stan for B; I loved her music since her Destiny's Child days, faithfully bought every album, and dutifully spawned two little stans for her... well not for her but you get the idea. But when I listened, I mean really listened to If I Were A Boy it made me sad. (You can peep the lyrics here) Sad that the song wasn't as strong as it could've been; sad that I knew what she meant; sad that dammit I DON'T HAVE A MAN and this was just a reminder that most guys are still steaming sacks of shit (not that I'm bitter.. heh).

I've always been perfectly happy with my little girls. Whenever the usual comment comes that I should try for a boy my response is that I wouldn't know what to do with a boy and I'd probably be so hard on him I'd make him gay. But in reality, if I had a boy I would treat him the same as I do my girls - I'd raise him to be a strong individual and I wouldn't want him to be anything like the rotten rascals I've encountered. I wouldn't want him to repeat my mistakes and I'd want him to be respectful and cherish women.

So after listening to If I Were A Boy, I figured I'd rewrite it to reflect how I'd feel if I had a boy...

If I had a boy,

Distance...

So...

I took a little vacation from blogging. That's not entirely the truth but it'll do for now.

I hadn't realized people were still checking up on this blog. Hadn't realized people still cared. Some do; most don't.

Half a year since I wrote last. I didn't stop writing, I just stopped writing here. I've dozens of abstract thoughts, angry rants, depressing missives scattered throughout my house on scraps of paper, in notebooks, on both my home and work computers.

So much has happened and so much has changed. I have changed.

I've lost my joy, lost my zest. I've become gray (grey? always got the two confused). Aside from the kids very little matters to me. I've developed medical problems galore; I've one of those rolling backpacks that I haul with me everywhere just to carry all my medications. A med for ulcers, a med for pain, a med for migraines, a muscle relaxer for back spasms and a sprained knee; countless other medications to counter the side effects from the others. I've a pill to sleep, another to keep me awake; one more to give me a mental "boost"; another for excess stomach acid.

It's nothing new. I've been at this point before. Times when I was so stressed I'd come home and just lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling or simply roll over onto my stomach and cry. Finances, stress, drama. I'm sick of it all. Jaalyn and Trinity get me through each day. At night, my assortment of prescription pills make me sleep and keep me from dreaming. Even in my dreams my worries haunt me. On the rare occasions I do dream in drugged sleep the dreams are so hilarious that they resemble a really bad sitcom. And then... when I wake and shed the thick veil of sleep that shrouds me and I once again pick up my usual packages: Stress, worry, anger and bitterness are my garbs of late.

I hate feeling like that. I hate being that way. The medications my doctor prescribes don't make my financial struggles end, they don't make the weight fall away. All it does is mask what's just beneath the surface.

At times, I feel the whole world is against me. I'm torn because I know I am blessed in so many ways: healthy kids, a good job, roof over my head, etc. And yet... bad things continue to happen. Unusual what-are-the-odds type of things. I try to remain positive. I try to keep my head up.

I'm tired. Of trying. Of everything. Of everyone.

All I want for Christmas is...

Peace.

I've been a bad, bad girl.

It's been quite a while since I've posted anything. No real reason for me taking a hiatus other than I just didn't feel like writing.

No, that's not entirely true. I did feel like writing. I just didn't because I'd received some, ahem, constructive criticism (read: I don't like how you write and what you write and my God you're angry and obviously have unresolved issues...) and... well, I just felt too self concsious. I'm intensely critical of anything I do and writing is no exception. I can't tell you the number of zeros I received as grades simply because I refused to turn in my papers because I deemed them unworthy. Rather take the F than hand over what I considered imperfect. Not to say I haven't written because I have dozens of files on multiple computers, my rantings of day to day activities and emotions.

And now I'm rambling... the point is I haven't written here in a long time.

Not much has happened

Still here...

I'm still here.

Still hanging around. Thought about posting. Thought about writing... and then... I just wouldn't. Much has happened but I just figured "Why bother?". I was sick of writing the same drivel, the same whining, the same sadness. Probably as sick as you are of reading it (all 4 of my readers that is).

Things haven't been all bad; pretty good in fact. My birthday came and went, Jaalyn started the 2nd grade, my dad moved in with me and has been a HUGE help in so many ways that I'll be indebted to him for probably close to the next two lifetimes.

Trinity has entered the terrible twos. To see the words in print makes it seem like no big deal. But... despite having had a child before this time around toddlerhood is taking on an entirely different form. I swear I honestly expect the child's head to start spinning around and spewing forth strawberry kool-aid. I've no idea what happened to my sweet baby. She's turned into the spawn of... well it seems harsh to call your own kid the spawn of Satan so I'll go for the next closest comparison HER FATHER.

Trin will be sweet, loving and cherubic but if she doesn't get her way the tantrums begin, the fists flail, tears flow, her posture stiffens, angels weep, mountains move and the world ends. Okay the last three don't happen but you'd think so.

I wish...

Or The Most Abstract Post Ever. Well, from me anyway. Which isn't exactly a change from the norm when I read back through the archives of this blog.

I wish I could devote more time and energies to the hobbies I love.

I wish I were a child again and could look forward to my birthdays with glee instead of realizing it's another day.

I wish I could stop the clock some days so that I can savor the rapidly disappearing baby in Trinity.

I wish I could turn back the clock some days so that I could relive those first few years with Jaalyn all over again.

I wish, GOD how I wish, my mother weren't so fucking mean. And manic. And depressing.

I wish she wouldn't depress dad so much and push his buttons on purpose.

I wish dad wouldn't vent his frustrations to me so vehemehently that it makes me cry later when I'm alone.

I wish my baby daddy would just fucking do right.

I wish I didn't feel lonely as often as I do.

I wish this post didn't sound just as sad as I feel. (there's a story behind my mood, will share another time).

I wish Bush & Co. hadn't fucked the economy so bad while taking care of all their "people".

I wish I'd lived out that political dream I had as a kid.

I wish it would rain and rain and rain.

I wish my friend would come back.

I wish the retarded people in this county I live in didnt treat me as a dirty colored girl and respected me as a hard working woman and mother of two.

I wish I could be just a bit more frivolous.

I wish, sometimes, that my morals and ethics weren't so strong.

I wish people would stop telling me I "act" old.

I wish that I didn't feel sad so often and that medicine takes it away so easily.

I wish more people would see the real me instead of objectifying me.

I wish I didn't think so much at night.

I wish I could move just one more time.

I wish I could get two more kittens.

I wish I had a truck so that I wouldn't have to rely on others to transport big things for me.

Earlier today I received an anxious call from my gem of a landlord. The water utilities had been cut off effective this morning because of an outstanding bill due in May. The bill was only $54 and I mailed the payment and used a money order. Apparently the payment never made it because, lo, water cut off. So long story short (too late) I drove way out yonder and paid the bill at the county treasurers office. Pay on the first floor, go upstairs to have services restored. When I arrived in the room only one clerk was available and she was helping an elderly woman regarding a faulty meter of some sort. Once the pleasant exchange was completed and I stepped to the window the clerk's face clouded over and her tone became nasty. Now I had the paid in full receipt, listing the property, the amount paid, the name on the account and so forth. She read the paper and asked me the same information that was on the paper. I replied with the appropriate answers and this woman then proceeded to loudly lecture me about paying bills late and did I know I still had a balance of $50? True, the bill wasn't due until next Friday but I had better pay it on time or I'll be back in her face begging for a reconnect.

I said nothing at first. Then I simply said okay, thank you. And I left. But the entire exchange left me feeling dirty. And pissed. As much as I hate to admit it I absolutely detest the area I moved to. So many backwater hick, literal trailer park trash sucking their teeth and all but muttering Nigger under their breath. I am so sick of the bullshit. The white people I come in contact with are for the most part racist as hell and the blacks are just as ghetto as the people in the projects in the city; only they're worse because of the country hick-ness added to their trifling ways. Either race simply stares at me as I approach and I can feel their gaze burning holes in my back when I retreat.

I'm not saying people where any better in the city I left. More diverse, yes. More tolerant, definitely. But you come in contact with trash and sleaze in every corner of the earth. The only difference between where I am now and where I was before is that in the city, I knew the places to avoid the foolishness. There were fewer instances out outright racial discrimination and places you could go to avoid the... i don't know. The dirtiness of it all? I dunno. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Richmond was no different than this county. Maybe I was oblivious. Maybe I'm being sensitive.

I don't need a damned title...

Almost 2 months since I made a post. Eh. What's to say? Not much has changed really. Still tired, still financially struggling (but who isn't?) still existing...

I'm sick of myself complaining, but really what else is to be done at this point? Why bother to complain (but you know I will anyway)? I'm just point blank burned the fuck out. I'm sick of everyone and everything and I just don't care who knows it.

You know I was listening to this syndicated talk show a while back and the topic for the hour discussed single parenting, moms in particular. A woman pyschologist said that the worst thing for any mom is to get to that point where you feel like you want to run away and never come back... Even though we all know that the feeling/emotion is temporary the implications behind that thought were deeper and more troubling. Because for a mom to get to that point implies that she's overwhelmed, pushed beyond her limits and needs a break. It implies more importantly that she doesn't have the support she needs to endure. And that's where I am now. It's not as if I've never been here before. I vividly remember the same feeling from the days prior to Trinity's birth. I'd been going strong for about 3 years since Jaalyn's birth, day in and day out, through all her sicknesses, milestones, appointments and plays and all of the drama from my failed marriage and her father's bullshit.

And then one day I snapped.

I loved my daughter more than life itself but the thought of having to spend one more day worrying, planning, cooking, cleaning, providing... just the responsibility of it all. And the fact in itself that I was doing it ALL, alone. It wasn't supposed to be that way. It wasn't fair. Everyone else got to go about having fun, spending money on themselves and doing what they wanted to do to attain their goals. And here I felt I was being held back, not necessarily by parenthood, but by my own restrictions set in place to put my child's needs and desires before my own. Just plain old parental overload.

And that's where I am now. I'm just worn out being the only responsible one. The only one to problem solve. To look for summer care, summer clothes, attend parent teacher conferences, schedule doctor's appointments and provide constant stimulation and entertainment. Cooking meals, worrying, monitoring medications, and that's just the things involving the children. I also have the added stress of worrying about my father's worsening depression and anxiety as well as my mother's deteriorating mind. I'm stressed and I'm overloaded and overburdened. Trinity's going through separation anxiety again, typical for her age, but the fact that I can't take two steps away from her without her bursting into tears is wearing on me. I am constantly trying to evenly spend time with both girls, separately if not together, and the constant strain is killing me.

And it's not as if this is a crisis of great proportions, because it's not. It's just that. I don't know, I wish... I wish for lots of things. Sometimes I wish I could be frivolous, get my hair done, get a new dress and feel like a woman instead of a frumpy mom. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to worry about money so much... or my parents... or anything. I wish I could be a little bit selfish and do for myself every now and then.

But I can't. It's my lot in life for now. It won't always be this way I know. But it sure gets hard sometimes to keep on trudging on, day in and day out and looking out the window in hopes some multi-syllabled person would come along and whisk me away from all my troubles.

Respect Mah House...

So. This marks the end of the much anticipated (by me if by no one else) Memorial Day weekend. The last government holiday until July 4. And it blow donkey balls.



I'm sitting here sipping on a Corona that I'm not supposed to have, you know since I'm fat and all on this diet bullshit. And for the first time the entire weekend I'm alone. Kinda. The girls are in another room playing happily until one of them begins a fight and then the Mom-meeeeeeee!!! breaks out.



*sigh*



I'd really been looking forward to the long weekend. It was my chance to blow off some steam and relax and not be bothered by anyone. If I wanted to clean house I could do so; If I wanted to just go outside and play with the kids I could've; If I just wanted to sit around butt naked and chant hymns this was my time to do so.



Didn't exactly work out that way.



First there was the dadster coming over uninvited to spend nearly all of the weekend planted firmly on my couch. I managed to hint that perhaps that's not such a great idea this weekend since you know, I wasn't exactly in the mood for company and it knocked his four day visit down to two. He went home early Saturday morning; by that afternoon we were back at his house because he'd told Jaalyn that I'd bring her by so that they could garden. What was supposed to be a 2 hour thing turned into a 6 hour thing. I was so sleepy I could barely drive. Thinking that I could call a friend to talk to so that I could stay awake on the drive home I reached for my cell phone and... no phone. I'd left it at my parents' house and I was not about to turn around and get it. So Sunday my dad decides to bring me my phone. So sweet. He brings the phone; baby daddy shows up; kids are hungry and whining and I'm cooking a dinner I hope to God I can stretch somehow. Mom arrives because she just knew we were plotting a cookout with the intention of not inviting her and is full of bitchiness and mean comments from the moment she entered the house. I spent the entire evening in the kitchen and by the time everyone cleared out and went home... it was bedtime for me and the girls.



Today was the one day I'd hoped to sit back and chill. I had things to do of course, primarily the unfavorable task of washing the girls' hair and braiding it up. Who shows up on my doorstep unannounced but baby daddy and his brother. So today was a bust too (though I did get the hair washed).



All this is so fucking annoying because everyone knew that I'd wanted to be left alone this weekend. And everyone chose to disregard my wishes. That's what really gets to me. See here's the thing about ME: I am extremely polite when it comes to other people. I respect your wishes, I respect your house and unless you're doing yourself harm I mind my business and stay out of yours. I'm not going to offer assvice; I call before visiting. If I do call I'm calling at decent hours of the day, not late at night and I don't call just to say "hi"; I'm calling with a purpose. If I am in your house, I don't wander and poke around into your stuff; if there are people there that I don't get along with I refuse to argue in your house or make a scene. I respect your place. I respect your space. I respect you. Period.

I don't ask for much. I want to be respected in the same way I respect others. Problem is, NO ONE respects a goddamn thing I say. I'd feel terrible if I were to do the shit people pull with me. And I'm tired of it. This weekend I was more than pissed, I was hurt. Because it became so very, very clear to me that despite my saying that desperately needed this time alone to think, to restructure and just bond with my kids no one gave a shit what I thought. Only what they think, feel and desire matters.

But how to deal with it? How to put an end to it?

Hm...

My God, I am so tired.

Not for the usual reasons, i.e. everyday life/too much stress/work/kids/errands, but simply because I didn't sleep well. Because I have a housepest, er, I mean houseguest. My dad, whom I adore and love deeply, has invited himself to my house for what appeared at first to be an extended visit.

Do. Not. Want.

He's being nice. The idea is that since he's retired he'll stay with me for several days and help me finish unpacking and cleaning and will take over the cooking for a few nights. He stocked my freezer full of meats, delivered a jar of his special, secret barbecue sauce for future use, and attempted to entertain the kids so that perhaps I could get a moment of peace. (Didn't work.)

And that my friends, is about the extent of what he can do. Not being hateful, just being real.

Let's put aside my total dislike of overnight visitors for a second, because that's purely a personal flaw. See, the thing is that in theory the things I mentioned above are about the extent of what he could do. The house isn't dirty, per se, and in need of a deep cleaning; it's CLUTTERED. I can be totally upfront and honest and say that the dirtiest things in this house are the bathtub and the kitchen. The tub because, well duh, high usage there. And the kitchen because I will openly admit and scream from mountaintops that I hate doing dishes. I love to cook, but I hate cleaning up. This is a carryover from childhood when my mom, who also hates to do dishes, would have me wash all the dishes long before I was able to even see into the sink. She'd take a kitchen chair and turn it backwards so that it would lean against the sink, take a garbage bag and tie it around me under my armpits and tell me to get started. And if they weren't clean to her satisfaction, back they ALL went into the water. And if they still weren't clean? Or she just didn't want to be bothered with me? Again, I'd be washing. I remember being small, about 4 or 5 and hearing the story of Cinderella and thinking hey that's me! Except I don't have evil stepsisters or a stepmom. My birth mom does this to me. I actually used to pretend that I was this ugly princess and that if I washed the dishes perfectly perhaps my prince would come to rescue me and then when we'd kiss I'd be transformed into this beautiful (white, because that's all I ever saw in my fairytale books) princess and we'd live happily ever after... with a maid. The end.

So, yeah. Cooking, I love. Dishes, not so much.

Anyway, point was that anything beyond that scope of cleaning my dad can't do. And I'm not being bitchy or super anal about this unpacking thing either. See, I'll be at work and he'll be here and unless he calls me for every single thing he unpacks, he won't know where to put the shit. Hell, I'm here everyday and I don't know where to put the shit. This has been a big part of the whole unpacking problem. There is little to no storage in this house. The attic was long ago converted to a second floor and all that remains are two Trinity sized doors that lead to the HVAC systems, so I can't chunk stuff in there. The closets are shallow and super small as is the cabinetry. There is no closet in the upstairs bathroom and while I do have a shed and have stashed many unopened boxes in there, I discovered birds and vermin also nest in there so, eh, not exactly a place for long term storage. But there literally is no place to put my stuff.

What I really need to do is purge. And this is something dad REALLY can't help me with because the man is an insufferable packrat. Things I tried to throw away in previous moves he'd bring right back into the house saying I ought to keep it, it's really nice, he didn't want someone else to get it (?), and so on. Want to know how bad he is about my purging? This last move he snuck stuff back onto the moving truck and didn't tell me until we unloaded the truck here at the house. We ended up unloading several boxes and bags I'd left at the dumpster in the apartment complex along with 5, count 'em, FIVE bags of garbage that were definitely meant for the dumpster. He was shamed enough to carry the bags of garbage with him when he left since I hadn't yet set up trash service here.

So there you have it. Too little space and too much stuff. Stuff that I could give away, sell, whatever. But it takes time to do it and my problem is that rather than take the time, I spend it with the kids. And the rare moment I have to myself, I spend, um, with myself. (NO, not that way! Get your mind out the gutter!) Relaxing and running errands.

And now, tired as shit and looking like hell, I've got to go shower and attempt to look like something human and carry on with this day.

Hopping On The 'Zac Track...

I finally went to the doctor on Monday.

Yup. After 3, almost four, weeks of diet and consistant exercise along with careful monitoring of my blood pressure and weight it appears that I'm a major physically unfit fuck up. Instead of losing weight on a steadily decreasing meal plan, I've gained 7 pounds. Instead of my blood pressure being unsually low (which is normal for me) I'm in the pre-hyper... hyper... yeah well it's pre-high blood pressure. Couple that with major anxiety attacks, overwhelming sadness and listnessness (is that a word?) a trip to the doctor's was long overdue.

And, in a nutshell, I hate my doctor. I hate him for being somewhat honest with me. For telling me that I'm fat, I eat too much (on a 1300 calorie meal plan, imagine that), I exercise too little and if I don't put an end to it all and change my lifestyle I will end up in the exact same state as all the other unhealthy black women in America. Fat, black and dead before I hit 60. So he told me eat as little as possible, work out as much a possible and my blood pressure will decrease naturally. As I gain weight my blood pressure will rise; as I lose it should fall. He said I'm too young for medication and too healthy to not work out more than I do.

And he prescribed Prozac.

I haven't gotten my prescription filled yet. No real reason why. I'm not afraid to take it, more like I simply don't think it'll work for me. I've tried so many anti-depressants/happy pills all with horrible side effects. The nausea inducing, throat constricting, non-eating/gorging, super horny side/zero sex drive effects. I feel so close to the breaking point from all the usual stressors that just adding a new element is like asking for trouble. Yet at the same time, I feel I need it. I've been sad... sadder than sad, for way too long. I'm developing a dependancy on sleeping pills, more because I enjoy a night of sleep without dreams than any actual need for the pills. I've been addicted to them before when I was in my teens and seeking a way to escape my turbulant home life. But I beat that addiction. I realized early on how close I was coming to overdosing and kicked the habit cold turkey. And while I don't feel like I'm in danger of becoming addicted again, I'll cop to enjoying a peaceful, non thinking sleep.

Speaking of which. I'm sleepy now. To the point of not being able to effectively form sentences. So I'll end this missive for the night and pick it up in the morning.